Converse, Convergent

Prologue

'Get out.'

Sherlock flopped into his chair, not bothering to remove his rain-drenched coat. Water sluiced against the windows of 221b, and the dim afternoon light made the flat look washed out and empty, though it was more occupied than it had been in a fortnight. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples, shutting out the cloying smile of the man sat facing him.

He'd chosen John's chair on purpose, Sherlock was sure of it.

'Now now, brother dear, that's no way to speak to the only person who can tolerate you in such a mood. Your little tantrum has been the scourge of Scotland Yard since you got home from the hospital, and I felt compelled to come and speak with you, for fear of a strike. Though it wouldn't be necessary if you'd just pick up the phone.'

He tried to sound threatening, but couldn't quite summon the emotion. 'Mycroft, I don't want to play whatever game you have for me. I don't need help, especially not from you, so just... get out of my flat.'

'If it's the bullet wound making you irritable, I can have Inspector Lestrade give back some of the morphine...' He leaned forwards, peering closely at Sherlock and steepling his fingers. 'Though of course, it isn't that pain you've been trying to stave off, is it? It's the pain of abandonment. Of... sentiment.'

Sherlock bristled, 'Shut up.'

'All this moping around, it's ridiculous. You can't possibly blame Doctor Watson for wanting a holiday, after all that's happened? The two people he cares for most, and he finds out that they've been lying to him for months -'

'I said shut up.'

'- and he doesn't even know the woman that he married, he probably resents you a little for figuring it out, though obviously he knows it wasn't your fault -'

'Mycroft, if you don't stop talking right now -' The man's borderline-pitying expression set his nerves on edge.

'Surely you can forgive him for wanting a few weeks away from London to come to terms with it, Sherlock? A little time away from-'

'What? From me?' He leaned forwards, mirroring his brother, eyes narrowing. 'He had two years away from me, and I from him; and in that time he single-handedly managed to find and marry one of the most lethal assassins in this city.'

Mycroft put up his hands in surrender. 'All right, Sherlock, no need to get defensive. I didn't come merely to talk about how selfish, morose and childish you're acting, or to tell you to stop inflicting your loneliness on others, or -'

'Do you take lessons on how to be obnoxious?'

'I came to ask you to investigate something.' Sherlock scoffed, but Mycroft continued, 'It isn't so much a case as... a thing of interest. In fact, I think that its nature will be of interest to you, specifically.' He took a thick yellow file from inside his jacket.

'That's a personnel file. FBI, if I'm correct? So when you say its 'nature', you really mean its human nature. Is this some kind of twisted attempt at... at throwing me back into the goldfish bowl?'

'No, Sherlock, because contrary to your long-standing belief, not everything revolves around you. If I could only do this myself, believe me I would, but the chains of responsibility keep me tethered to this island.' He mock-sighed. 'This is an American case, and I just wouldn't be able to bear the lack of kettles...'

'Let me guess, some boring political scandal? Suspected kidnapping of a some fat-cat's brat? Some killer with an 'unknown' motive? No thanks.' He stood, the not-worth-my-time attitude he used so liberally with his clients falling into place as he shook his coat dry.

He stepped past Mycroft, fully intending to shut himself in his bedroom until he left, but the man held out the file, on the front of which was a picture. Sherlock couldn't help but glance at it, curious about what, or who, was so interesting that they would encourage his brother to speak to him for the first time since he declared his forced alignment with Magnussen.

The striking photograph caught and held his attention, and he reached out to take it, unable to resist. The man in it stared straight into the camera, his grey-blue eyes intent and bright under his dark curly fringe, similar to Sherlock's own. He thought he could see the trace of a smile playing around his lips, and before he knew it he was drawn in, and had deduced all he could.

The picture itself was only a few months old, from the wear, and in it he looked to be between thirty and thirty-five. He had a wide jaw and even features, and a delicate skin tone that told of outdoor hobbies in the colder hemisphere, and rare holidays. His jumper was smart, but plain, and his uneven stubble and untamed hair showed that he wasn't overly concerned with grooming or appearances, which meant that he didn't wear the glasses he looked to need out of vanity, but probably out of absent-mindedness or convenience. He wasn't poor, and didn't have the look of a man who spent much on luxuries, and the pass around his neck and the backdrop of the picture told of his job as a lecturer at the FBI Academy, so -

'- A practical, intelligent, introverted man, with clear signs of past stress and current anxiety, and a lot of cats? Dogs? His name is,' Sherlock squinted at the name tag, 'Will Graham.' He realised that he'd been speaking aloud, and tried again to not seem too interested, though Mycroft looked undeceived. 'What's so interesting about someone who teaches those American incompetents?'

Mycroft smiled at him, and rose, pushing the rest of the folder into his hands and giving it a pat. 'You tell me. Sherlock, I guarantee that by the time you've finished reading Will Graham's file, you'll be itching to jump on that plane.' He pulled out his phone as he sashayed to the door, twirling his ever-present umbrella.

Sherlock had an (unusually brief) inner conflict over whether to swallow his pride, but decided that it wouldn't be worth not trying. 'Mycroft, if I am being forced on this trip to America, could you... perhaps...' Mycroft always responded well to humility, but Sherlock's voice would not work quite right as his own bitter thoughts spun in his head.

But Mycroft held out his phone, and as their eyes met Sherlock saw a flash of understanding that he couldn't quite bring himself to resent. It began to beep, and the screen read:

Calling Dr. John Watson

He took it, neither brother acknowledging the slight tremor in his hand. Mycroft turned away.

'I'm counting on you to find out exactly what kind of asset the FBI has hidden away here. You'll be going under the pretense of investigating a serial killing that occurred yesterday, that coincidentally requires your collaboration with Mr Graham. Good luck,' he said as the phone picked up, and was gone.

A.N: Hi there, exalted readers! Due to the, well, non-existence of the feedback I've received for this story, I'm not sure whether I should update at all, or just take it down. Is it worth continuing or not?

Disclaimer: I own neither Sherlock or Hannibal, just the plot I slave to write, which I do not for monetary but geeky spiritual gain and the adoration of the empty theatre.