Beautiful Lies.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Warnings: none for now, contains some strong language, but then what doesn't? :)

Chapter 1: Enervated.

Rain pounded the road as the limousine parked right in front of the large manor. A uniformed chauffeur got out, opened an umbrella and walked around to open the back door. The man who got out was dressed impeccably, in a crisp three piece suit, tailored to fit him like a glove. He nodded at the chauffeur who followed him a few paces behind, holding the umbrella to shield him from the rain. Both man and servant walked up the marble steps and the door to the manor opened before they had reached it. No surprise there, he had to be expecting them; sending the limo and all that.

The chauffeur remained outside as a butler took care of his coat and hat and directed him silently towards the hall. The passageway was ornately yet tastefully decorated with a few well-placed paintings, original the man had no doubt, and a bronze bust of an ancestor probably standing in a corner. As soon as he entered the hall, his attention was drawn to the man standing right in the middle. Well into his fifties, the man had a distinguished air around him accentuated by his salt and pepper hai cut military style and half rimmed glasses. The man, who had just entered, summed up all his courage and briskly walked up to the other, extending an arm.

"You must be the infamous Aionian?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question.

"One of them, yes." The man replied, his voice a baritone, soft and elegant.

"As much as it saddens me to say so, I must decline your offer." The man was trying very hard to appear calm and collected.

"Yes well, that really should sadden you." Aionian replied, revealing a pistol. "As it should sadden your family."

Two shots were heard, and the butler signaled the chauffeur to drive the limousine away.

"It's all lies, John. They were right…I'm a fraud."

"No, Sherlock. Why, why are you saying that?"

"NO, Please no, don't…"

"Goodbye John. Goodbye."

"No!" He jerked awake with the shout on his lips. The scene of Sher- of him, with tears streaming down his face, standing forlornly right at the edge of the building before stepping forward still played through his mind like a broken record, over and over again, relentlessly. Blood covering his face, blood which seeped into the cracks of the pavement, blood which had no business being anywhere other than inside him and try as he might, he just couldn't shake the feeling of being there.

He untangled himself from the bed sheets, and got out of bed with shaky leg, limping his way out of the room and into the kitchen. . Anyone looking at him would be able to see the not yet dried tear streaks on his face and come to the conclusion that he had been having a nightmare, but a certain someone would, after throwing a casual glance at him would deduce from the hunched shoulders and slow gait that he hadn't been able to sleep; from his unwillingness to go back to sleep, that the nightmare was a recurring one, and from his shivering… what the hell was he thinking? He gripped the handle of the mug tightly, closing his eyes, willing himself to think of anything, of anyone, but him.

Heaving a weary sigh, he abandoned all thoughts of making tea, and quickly got dressed, wanting only to get out of the flat as quickly as possible. It was early, not yet five in the morning, but he could go for a run and then make his way to the clinic. Anywhere was better than here.

Three hours later fund him sitting at his desk in his small but neat office.

"Good morning doctor." Sarah's voice filtered through his half asleep mind, jerking him wide awake.

"Yea, hi." He grunted, not wanting to bother with the usual pleasantries. For once she took the hint and after giving him a sad look went on with her own business. He ran a hand through his hair and sat up straighter, disgusted with her for pitying him, with himself for allowing it. He didn't need their pity, their incessant phone calls, their impromptu visits and their sorrowful looks. Well Lestrade had been the first to get the clear message: after he had hung up on him on his third phone call in two days the DI had got the fact that he just wanted to be left alone. No wonder even he had had some respect for Lestrade: the man at least had some sense in him. But Mrs. Hudson and Sarah, they were harder to shake off. What was it with women and their desire to coddle everyone within sight? It had been three months and he was sick and tired of Mrs. Hudson acting delicately around him or Sarah shooting him worried glances when she thought he wasn't looking. It was like as if they thought he was made of bloody china, and they were waiting for him to shatter any moment. Well, he wouldn't. It wasn't like as if he hadn't had someone close to him die before, he had been a soldier dammit! Death was a normal part of his life. At least that's what he kept telling himself, enough times a day, hoping that if he kept repeating it, the lie would become a truth…like another big lie that had been chanted into becoming the truth, that he was a fraud.

John shook his head, a sad ghost of a smile on his lips, as he stuck a thermometer into a wriggling infant's mouth to take his temperature. That idiot had tried to make him believe the lie too. Him, John Watson, who had seen him at his work, prancing about like an arrogant drama queen in that ridiculous 15th century coat of his, shouting orders and jumping around crime scenes, making fun of every authoritative figure and blatantly breaking rules. John was no consulting detective, but he wasn't an idiot either. He knew a genius when he saw one and he refused to believe, along with the whole damn world that the best man he had known, the best friend who had changed his life, was a fake.

The thermometer in his left hand started trembling and it took a minute for him to realize that he was having the tremors again, and he shifted it to his right before clenching and unclenching his left. Scribbling a prescription down, he shot an empty smile at the mother and grabbed his coat as she left his office. He needed air; he just needed to get away.

The park was, for once, quite. There were not many people around, the only ones being the mothers who were playing with their toddlers on the swings. John sat down at the bench farthest from the playground, and therefore the noise. Nothing had changed. Life seems to go about as usual, children playing, mothers worrying, patients showing up sick at the clinic. Even the crimes seemed to continue, as if the criminals of the world were unaware that the man who reveled in tracking them, chasing them and catching them, was… gone. Had stepped off a roof in fact, if he hadn't been the one to hear the 'suicide note' he would have thought the fool was trying another experiment, trying to defy gravity itself. A hollow chuckle broke out, as he discreetly wiped the tear that was threatening to fall with his thumb.

"Enjoying the sunshine, Doctor Watson?" a voice, refined and cultured and so unlike his, broke his introspection. An elegant man, tall and well appareled in a three piece, most probably some foreign designer's suit.

"What the hell are you doing here?" John almost snarled, having no wish to even look at the older Holmes, the brother who had sold out his own blood.

"Come now Doctor, there's no need to be so harsh." Mycroft seemed like as if he had expected the outburst. Which on second thought he probably had. He was as good at reading people as he had been at noticing details.

"I've got work to do…at the clinic." John muttered, starting to get up, just wanting to get away from the repulsive man.

"John, please…" the softly spoken request made him stop.

"What do you want?" he gave in, turning towards the taller man.

"I came here to tell you something, to show you something." Mycroft started, and hurried to finish, noticing the doctor's wary look. "It's about Sherlock."

"What about She-" John cleared his throat, looking away. "What about him?"

""I had been receiving several threats from some people lately, threats I didn't reply to." Mycroft paused, drawing in a long breathe. He held out a folder towards John. "Threats I had ignored until this came in today morning."

John took the folder and flipped it open. Staring back at him was a 8x10 snap shot of him. Those cheekbones, the collar pulled up, -must be acting cool again, John thought smugly. He was squinting at something and the angle of the photo suggested that he had been unaware of the photographer. John glanced at the rest of the items in the folder: There were around eight to ten pictures of Sherlock, all from surveillance cameras it seemed, probably the work of Mycroft's men before… well before three months. He was about to demand an explanation, when his eyes fell to the small printed date depicting the time the photo was taken. The date was that of yesterday.

His mouth went dry as his brain fought to make sense of this. There must have been a mistake. The photo must be a fake. He went through all of them again, noticing that they were from different angles of the same place. Not fake then. Maybe it was a misprint… maybe, no, no that wasn't possible.

'How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?' The words sounding in his ears, his words, and the evidence in front of his eyes both were proof of the fact that he was… alive. John clenched his hands, still holding the folder, to stop the rapid tremors, and looked up at Mycroft.

"This was the first page." Mycroft said, holding out another page to him.

Sherlock Holmes.
2432- XXX Street,
Paris, London.

"The people, who had been threatening me, sought him out in order to get me to respond." Mycroft cleared his throat. "Doctor, if this is to be believed, and I had the photos tested, they aren't fake; then my brother is well and alive, and currently residing in Paris."

"Alive?" John repeated, his mind not processing what his ears were hearing. "I checked his pulse, he was- he didn't have a pulse! This is not funny at all Mycroft!" He couldn't stop the tears from welling up in his eyes, hating himself all the more for appearing weak.

"Why on earth would I joke about such a thing John?" Mycroft's eyes bore into his as he searched for any hint that he was lying to him in them. "I was as surprised to find this, as you are now. I had no idea-…" John glared at him disbelievingly- "I swear it!"

"Alright, if he's alive, then why didn't you contact him yet?" John still couldn't wrap his head around the whole thing. The whole thing had to be a sham, a deception, a trick. That was the only possible explanation. Someone knew of Mycroft being his brother and was fooling Mycroft with false threats of harming a person already dead. Unless Mycroft had contacted him, he wouldn't believe it.

"Well, to be honest, I was rather hoping he would have contacted you…" Mycroft trailed off at John's incredulous look. "But I see I'm mistaken, in which case there would be a very good reason he hasn't done so yet."

"So you mean you didn't have any idea if this was true, and you came to me to confirm whether it was or not?" John could not believe this man.

"Well you and he were close, so it was only a logical assumption…" Mycroft looked around, suddenly uncomfortable. "Listen, whoever is behind this would find out if my people would try to get near him, so you find a way to do so. And hurry up; if this isn't a sham, then he could be in grave danger."

John didn't know what to say. How was he supposed to contact him? But Mycroft had already started to walk away. "Oh and listen, be careful John." He called back, before hurrying away.

Staring at the photos in his hand, John numbly walked to his flat at Baker's Street. Was this possible? Could he really been alive? If he was then why hadn't he gotten in touch with him? Unless it meant that he believed that John too had started to doubt him and would have nothing to do with him. Or maybe he just didn't play that important a part in his life… He banged his fist on the table. This did not make sense! It was a bloody lie; some freak who thought it would be funny to play with his heart was doing this to him! He won't believe this. It was too painful…

"Hurry up; if this isn't a sham, he could be in grave danger." Mycroft's voice sounded in his ears. He ran a hand through his brown almost greying hair.

Making up his mind, he powered up his laptop. If this was true, then the only safe way to get to him would be through his blog. He wouldn't ignore a message sent by his blogger now, would he?

So that's chapter one. I would love to know what you think, its been quite a while since I've posted and I'm not sure venturing into the Sherlock world is entirely a smart idea. So please read and review!