AN: What if at the end of "His Last Vow", that person at the end hadn't done the thing... Sherlock really goes off to Europe leaving everyone behind... six months later, Mycroft received a parcel.

Warning for gore and language.

Greg Lestrade stepped through the door, letting the thick wooden slab shut behind him with a soft click. Ahead of him, sitting neatly behind his desk, was the other Holmes brother. Dressed his his usual business like attire.

"I'm not sure I understand what I am doing here, Mister Holmes." Greg said.

Mycroft didn't stand up, but he gestured to the chair opposite him, "Please sit down."

Greg eyed the chair like it had offended him, "I prefer to stand, thanks." Greg noticed then that Mycroft looked, different… almost, troubled.

Mycroft cleared his throat, "I insist, Detective."

Greg didn't argue this time, and slipped into the chair without a word.

"You're obviously wondering why I called you here."

"You mean man-handled, yes?" Greg asked with a frown.

Mycroft chuckled lightly, "That aside, the matter for your presence is most important."

Greg heaved a sigh, "I'm listening…"

Mycroft rummaged behind his desk, bending down and picking something up, "I have a gift for you."

Greg's mouth twitched slightly, nearly a smile but he held it back and waited patiently for the Holmes to continue. Mycroft set a medium sized box down on his dark wooden desk.

"You shouldn't have." Greg teased.

"It's nothing so cheerful, you needn't look so chipper about it." Mycroft scolded. Greg eyed him with confusion.

"Look, Mycroft, as much as I enjoy being kidnapped I am actually a rather busy man, so let's cut to the chase, shall we?" Greg asked.

Mycroft cleared his throat, "You recall six months ago, Doctor Watson likely told you that after what… Sherlock did… he took a job in Europe… flew away from everything."

Greg was silent a moment before he nodded, "Yeah, though I imagine he took a plane."

"Quite funny, quite funny…" Mycroft muttered, "Sherlock knew what he was getting himself into-,"

"I don't like the sound of this. What's happened?" Greg cut in.

"Are you always so pessimistic?"

"When it comes to Sherlock Holmes?" Greg asked as though the answer should be obvious. In return, Mycroft raised his eyebrows in silent agreement.

"Point taken…" Mycroft said, before pushing the box forwards, "somehow, this package got through rather a few layers of top security to get to me. Of course for Sherlock, that's nothing."

"Sherlock sent this?" Greg asked.

"I imagine so, it's certainly something he'd find humorous." Mycroft said, "though how he managed it is rather beyond me…"

Greg eyed the box, unsure whether he wanted to even touch it let alone open it, "It's not a hand is it?"

Mycroft smiled that weird Holmes smile and shook his head, "Nothing of the sort."

Greg took a breath and, taking to his feet, pulled the box towards him. He lifted it, "It's heavy."

"Yes."

Greg glanced at Mycroft and suddenly felt stupid for stating such an obvious fact, "Drugs?"

Mycroft said nothing, and simply gestured feebly to the box before sitting back in his chair with a sigh. Greg, eyes raking over the pale face of Mycroft Holmes, felt his stomach sinking.

Whatever was inside this box had shocked Mycroft. With shaking hands, Greg slid a finger under one of the flaps. The boxes tape was already cut so it would be simple to reveal the contents. It felt like an age to Greg as he stood their, debating whether or not to open it up. Sherlock had been gone six months, on an undercover mission or something. John hadn't gone into details, though Greg suspected he wouldn't, Sherlock might not have even told him.

"No point waiting, it's not going to open itself." Mycroft's clipped voice cut into his thoughts and shook him out of his pause. Before he could think, he flipped the flaps open and then he recoiled in shock.

Sitting as neatly as his brother, was Sherlock. Only, it wasn't all of him, rather, just his bloodied, severed head. Greg was lost for words for a moment or two before he looked up at Mycroft. On second thought, he didn't look shocked, or upset, or even angry.

"You knew." Greg said.

Mycroft only lifted his head slightly.

Greg continued, "You knew what… that he was…"

"As I said, he knew exactly what he was getting himself into. He knew it was dangerous." Mycroft said.

"Dangerous?" Greg repeated, "He's dead! His head was sent to you in a fucking box! Your own brother! You knew this would happen! You sent him to his death!" Greg paused, taking a few breaths, "You're brother." he stressed.

Mycroft looked upon the box, "He's not my brother anymore… just another corpse…" a beat, "or at least part of one."

Greg couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I got a note too, lovely, don't you think? A gift and a card." Mycroft said gesturing to a lone piece of card on his desk. Greg reached for it without thinking and picked it up. It was a generic birthday card, only it said 'for my dear brother' on the front. Greg opened it. There was nothing inside save the typical greeting of 'happy birthday, have a good one'.

"Always the joker, Sherlock." Mycroft muttered.

"You think he got himself decapitated and then sent you his own head..?" Greg breathed in distress.

"He's done stranger things, Detective…" Mycroft said, "and I thought it best to inform you first… Doctor Watson might have shot me."

"This card come separately?" Greg asked, voice quiet.

Mycroft shook his head, "Secured to the forehead." Mycroft tapped his own with a dark look, "Via a small piece of tape."

"Well… I think this time we can be pretty sure he's not faking it." Greg said.

"How unfortunate." Mycroft huffed.

Greg took the cue and set the card back down before leaving the office. The door swung almost to a close behind him.

AN: This is a one shot for the time being, though I have got half another chapter planned out in my head...