A/N: Hello everyone! Welcome to my latest story. It's a crossover between my two favorite detective shows. Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries and BBC's Sherlock. A little bit of knowledge from each show wouldn't go amiss, but not necessary. And I'll try to keep the spoilers for Miss Fisher to an absolute minimum, but as this starts in the last episode of season 3 there will be some.

I have been low-key writing this story for months and in my mind it is finally read to show itself to the light of day. It is a work in progress, so don't expect regular updates like with my last two stories, but I do have three chapters done, so hopefully it won't be too erratic. There is quite a bit more to go, including the scene that started me on actually writing the story. Of course the idea sprung from the thought while watching Miss Fisher, "What if the English government who saved Phryne's life in the war was Mycroft?" and it went from there.

Expect the characters of Sherlock to be altered in some ways as they are put in a time that is not their own.

Also this story is more about how the murder affects the live of those surrounding the death than any kind of mystery. And it is johnlock through and through.

*Australia, just outside Melbourne circa 1929*

It had been a hard year for lady detective, Phryne Fisher. Moving from England to Australia, getting the man who murdered her sister, Janey, to confess to the crime, uncovering the biggest police corruption in Melbourne's history, and finding out that not everything was what it seemed with her family and their fortune, this knowledge having arrived in the form of her father visiting from England.

That last one was particularly taxing on her. But its consequences reached farther than Australia. Phryne's mother had written her father, the Baron of Rich, Henry Fisher, that if he wasn't on the last boat that season to England when it arrived at its destination, she was going to end their marriage. Which Phryne had whole-heartedly agreed with. Only her father had the bad luck to have been kidnapped and missed the boat, making it for the first time in his life to not be his fault.

And because her father happened to be liar, a cheat, and a scoundrel, any telegrams from him would have only sounded like more lies and excuses. So Phryne did the only thing that she could think of, she offered to fly him back to England. Thereby getting him to her mother before the boat arrived and avoid catastrophe.

The roar of the aeroplane had just started when a car pulled up on the little strip of road that Phryne Fisher was about to use as her runway. Phryne, a dark-haired woman, wore her hair in a neat bob, her soft complexion warmed by the bright yellow outfit she wore.

"Jack," she whispered. Phryne jumped out of the aircraft and started walking to the car, her father protesting the whole time. Just as she got a few feet from the aeroplane, a stern-faced man in a suit, trench coat, and fedora got out of the car. He was built on strong, sturdy lines, with just a hint of mischief in his blue eyes. She started running toward him and he began to run to her as well. They slowed to a stop in front of each other and just smiled for a moment.

"You're going to fly all the way to England in that?" Jack asked, nodding to where her father sat in the passenger seat of the aeroplane.

Phryne looked back, "It's the only way I can make sure he'll get there."

"For god's sake, what if this thing takes off?" her father yelled.

Phryne looked back at Jack and with a flirtatious tilt of her head, said, "Come after me, Jack."

He cocked his head to the side, "What did you say?"

"It was a romantic overture," Phryne explained.

He smiled, "Say it again."

"Come after me, Jack Robinson," she said, breathless.

He pulled her to him and kissed her.

They ignored her father's complaint, "When you two are quite finished..."

As soon as they pulled apart, Jack sighed, "I always feared another man would sweep you away from me," he smiled and winked. "I never thought it would be your father."

Phryne grinned at him, "There's a whole world out there, Jack. He's the least of your worries."

She broke away from him and ran back to her aeroplane. Jack gave a small shake of his head as he watched her fly off into the sky.

*Meanwhile in England*

Mycroft Holmes was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a pinched expression and thinning auburn hair. His blue eyes were piercing and far too knowing.

He had inherited the family estate, Undershaw, when his older brother, Sherrinford, had died in the Great War, as the papers had taken to calling it. It suited his purposes well enough.

Though he had shocked the locals when he had made his former secretary, Anthea Barclay, his bride. Of course she had been his secretary during the war in which they both worked for the Home Office and was probably even more blue-blooded than he was. But all they had heard was that she had been his secretary and that was the end of it. Anthea was a dark-haired woman with deep brown eyes and a curvy body. She was also the sharpest mind Mycroft had encountered outside of his family.

He was just grateful that the war had ended before Sherlock could enlist. There were some things that Mycroft would move heaven and hell to protect Sherlock from, and war was on the top of that list. Sherlock was now in his twenties, but still retained the gangly figure of his youth. His pale blue eyes and his curly mop of brown hair made for a striking contrast between the two brothers.

The war had thinned out a lot of the crowd but still there were plenty of useless people to hang around like beggars at the feast. People like Mary Morstan and her ilk. The Morstans were new money, her father having invested in the clothing company that would go on to make the uniforms for the soldiers. Mary had several swains, men who were out to refill their own family coffers when they hadn't fared as well as her family had. Mary Morstan was pretty young thing. Blonde. And in Mycroft's opinion, far too shrewd for her own good.

She seemed to have two favorite hangers-on, though. David Lancaster, the second son of landed gentry and Dr. John Watson. And despite their appearances being quite similar; short, blond, blue-eyed men. David was closer to her age, while John was older, almost twice her age, having been a doctor during the war.

Mary smirked. She was getting closer to her target and this silly game was going to get her one step closer. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy tennis. She did, but it would better if John was playing David instead of Sherlock, but with John's war injury he didn't have the mobility to play the game.

The fact that he was taking care of Sherlock's rackets and being a general ball boy, was galling.

"David!" Sherlock hissed, and Mary was forced to turn her attention back to the game.

David sneered. "Got to be a little faster, mate."

"That was very nearly my face," Sherlock snapped.

David just shrugged and picked up a spare ball. He winked up at Mary and she giggled into her lemonade.

David had gone for the face deliberately. That was the one thing they shared, their hatred of one Sherlock Holmes. But they were there on his sufferance. It was Sherlock who had wanted the tennis courts and because Mycroft would do anything for the twat, only the best would suffice.

She watched the game for a moment or two before there was a loud clatter and harsh curse, "Damn my leg!"

It was Sherlock's serve but instead of taking it, he stopped the game and went to help John. She sauntered over and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"It's okay, sweetie," she said, smiling gently. "I'll get this, you go play."

Sherlock stiffened at her touch, but did as he was told.

She crouched down and began helping John straighten up the rackets and put them back into the bag. "You don't have to do this, you know. You could just come watch the game with me."

John blushed furiously. "I like to be helpful."

She sent the bag down. "Come on, let's get you some lemonade at least."

John dutifully followed her with a sigh. He hated when his injury acted up, and being forced to sit on the sidelines was irritating when he had been a part of the rugby league before the war. He chafed against the implication that he wasn't good for anything but drinking lemonade.

John got his lemonade and turned to watch the match. It had gotten quite heated and David and Sherlock were fiercely sending volley after volley over the net. Finally Sherlock hit a drive so hard that it left a divot in the court, and David had to duck to avoid the ricochet.

"Hey, old boy!" David protested. "That was hardly sporting!"

"Coward," Sherlock snapped.

"Game. Set. Match," Mycroft said, from atop the high chair in the center of the sidelines.

He climbed down and went to refill his drink.

"Neither one of you were sporting," Mycroft scoffed. "If this had been a real match, both of you would have been thrown out."

"Mine was just a joke," David insisted. "Sherlock's could have done me serious harm."

"Yours would have, too," John growled. "You probably would have broken his nose at the least."

Mary swatted at John's arm. "Oh come now, John. We all know that Sherlock is too good of a player to let a shot like that hit him."

Sherlock had mixed feelings about that statement. On the one hand, she complimented his playing, but on the other she had taken David's side.

John laughed. "I suppose that's true."

Sherlock's insides turned cold as John smiled back at Mary. He watched as the two of them continued to speak. Mary flipping her hair and giggling, John leaning in and touching her arm as they spoke.

There was a sudden, deafening crunch. All talking stopped.

"Sherlock!" John called out.

Sherlock looked down. The racket that he had been holding after the match was broken in two, completely shattered. The splinters and strings had torn up his hands, staining them red.

He looked up at Mary and she felt a chill run down her spine. He cared nothing for the carnage that was his hands and racket, it was her that he was imagining broken and covered in blood.

And then it was gone. Mycroft and John coming between them, breaking eye contact.

John worked to bandage the wounds, and Mycroft tried to get Sherlock to say something. After John finally finished, Sherlock murmured that he was fine and strolled off. Leaving a very shocked group of people.