A/N: Some background summary on the movie 'The Last Enemy.' Stephen Ezard (Cumberbatch) is a brilliant mathematician just arrived home from China to make his brother's funeral. He comes home to his brother's flat, which he's inherited, and finds a strange sick woman in a bed and then another one who introduces herself as Yasim, Michael's wife. Stephen and Yasim promptly fall into bed with one another, and when he wakes, she's gone.

He takes a job working for the ministers who have enacted the T.I.A. system, or Total Information Awareness. It's a system of cameras and tracking technology that essentially monitors where people are all the time. In the name of preventing terrorist attacks and that sort of thing. However, it becomes deeper when Stephen accepts the job to find out where Yasim has gone. This means he gets embroiled in this plot to discover what the government is covering up and why people are getting sick.

Ending spoilers kind of necessary to the fic:

Stephen figures everything out with Yasim, Michael (he wasn't dead it turns out), another rebel-apparent, and a biologist they conscript. It turns out the rebel-apparent was working for the government the whole time, Stephen gets taken back to Michael's/his flat and Yasim and Michael are sent out of the country. Despite Michael knowing that Yasim and Stephen love one another. The rebel-apparent then really kills Michael, leaving Yasim alone. Stephen is on lock-down in his flat.

"It's finished. I'm coming home."

"I'm not in London."

"What happened?"

"It's quite embarrassing, really. It's gotten away from me."

"Tell me."

"Come to the cousins'."

"I hate the cousins'."

"Yes, well. They're dying to see you."

"John?"

"Doesn't know. Doing poorly."

"He's better off for it."

"You think so?"

"..."

"Hm. Thought as much."

"I'll be at the cousins' in a few days time."

"I trust you remember the way."

"Of course."

"Excellent. I'll arrange for John to come for a visit."

Sherlock rung off and binned the phone, ducking out of the line and headed to the rental car station instead. Switzerland to outside of Montpellier was driveable. Even if he did hate driving. The rental he left at the border and then made his way carefully and anonymously for the rest.

He made the trip quickly though and picked the lock to their grandmother's home before Mycroft could open the door. "What happened?" he demanded, dropping his bag next to the stairs.

His brother exited the kitchen, a mug in hand. "A lot has changed in three years, Sherlock."

"Yes, now stop skirting the issue and tell me what's going on." He followed the smell into the kitchen, pulling a piece of steak onto a plate and grabbing himself a fork. "You haven't been wrecking your diet over this, have you?"

"Sherlock..."

"If it's bothering you this much, what happened? You're not..." Sherlock's eyes flew wide. "What happened? Why are you not working."

Mycroft sighed and sagged into a chair. "The T.I.A. system. Total Information Awareness. They keep all of your information on a card and you must carry it with you everywhere. You need it for everything. Getting into buildings, paying for groceries. Taxis. Everything. You'd hate it. The government will know where you are at all times. It happened while I was diverting resources to help you fight Moriarty. No, I don't blame you. I wasn't watching my back and one of the ministers snuck in. I found myself booted out and so, not supporting this change, I left. Anthea's out."

"Have you been in contact with anyone else?"

"No."

"Brilliant."

Mycroft allowed himself a snort. "This will not do."

"Of course not. When's John arriving."

"I'm picking him up at the airport tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded and then put his dishes into the sink.

"You're washing those."

"John will do it tomorrow."

"Sherlock..."

"He'll need something familiar to comfort himself, and this will be perfect," he snapped.

"Do you want me to tell him on the way back?"

He stared into the sink.

"I suppose you know best."

Sherlock stood and poured himself a glass of sherry from the fridge.

"That's mine, you know. John's limping again."

"Of course he is..."

"He's working in emergency. Why don't you go get some rest. I'll wake you in the morning."

Sherlock arched a brow at his brother and then stomped up to his old bedroom.

He paced through the house like a big caged cat, listening for the sound of the car up the drive. This carding problem. It couldn't continue. Obviously. And for Mycroft to be so...out like this, obviously was a problem. Like it or not, Sherlock relied on Mycroft's connections more than once, despite having his own. It was rather nice knowing your brother was capable of 'having your back' so to speak when needed in a pinch. There was obviously more that Mycroft would share with him. If Mycroft didn't like the way the government was headed, there was no way that it would continue.

Why didn't he tell Mycroft to brief John on the way back. That was stupid.

The programme was relatively new then. He had only been gone from London a little over three years, and everything was different. It must have been a planned change. Only happening to coincide with his absence, really relying on Mycroft's distraction. So in a way, it really was his fault, though his brother would only blame himself for not having all fronts properly covered.

He smirked. It probably galled deeply to drive himself around. The expression quickly fell away however, seeing as his brother was looking worse for wear. And that wouldn't do either.

Moving to the door as the car pulled up the drive, he really didn't want to frighten John. Watching from the window, he held off a cringe at John's terrible limp, leaning heavily on a cane. Something else that would have to be fixed. John lugged his duffel from the boot and paused as Mycroft called his name. Catching his eye over John's shoulder, he nodded. Mycroft leaned in, looking off balance without his umbrella, and put a hand on John's shoulder. Which John then predictably threw off as he stumbled back and fell to his arse.

Sherlock scowled, but ran out the door anyway. John John John.

"What the hell do you mean he's not dead!" John demanded, not bothering to move.

Trotting towards them, Sherlock picked up John's cane and tossed it to Mycroft. John's head swivelled round to see, eyes going wide as he paled at the sight of Sherlock.

"They said... You were..."

"It was a ruse, John. I'm sorry."

"You're... You're sorry!" He got to his knees, wincing as he put weight on his leg to get to his feet. "Sorry my arse! I mourned for you! I buried you, you selfish bastard!"

"Was it a nice funeral? You didn't invite Anderson, did you, becau—"

"Sherlock!"

He frowned, focusing in on John's wrecked face and quivering arms that looked ready to punch.

"Jesus..." The other wiped a hand down over his face, reaching back for his cane which Mycroft handed him. "I thought you were dead. You don't get to turn up and just say 'sorry.' That's not enough."

Scoffing, Sherlock cut his sharp retort as he caught Mycroft's eye. "Let's get you inside," he said gruffly. "There's tea and dishes."

"Oh. Dishes. Wonderful."

"Fine. I'll do them. However, I believe we have other problems to solve. Mycroft."

"Later, Sherlock. Let the poor man get settled."

John snorted. "Settled. There's a good word. I've been trying to do that since I met you blasted Holmes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Something's rotten in the state of Denmark."

John bent and grabbed his duffel before lurching passed Sherlock towards the house.

"Your room is the green, John," Sherlock shouted over his shoulder, eyes not leaving Mycroft's face. "So we're all worse for wear. This is not good."

"Understatement, brother," Mycroft muttered, closing the boot and locking the car before he too brushed by Sherlock to head indoors. "When you're done thinking, bring yourself inside, won't you. There's dishes to be done."

"Fuck off."

"Yes, wouldn't that be nice," Mycroft said mildly.

He went back inside when he saw the light flick on in the green room, indicating John's sequestering himself there. He shook his head and headed in to do the dishes.

"John's decided to sleep," Mycroft said from the sofa in the sitting room as Sherlock passed.

"Good. It should do him good."

"Mm. Join me once you've finished the dishes. We need to talk."

Sherlock carried on to the kitchen, filling the sink with water and scrubbing at the plates and silverware until they were clean. What made this a soothing task for some was quite unclear. It was merely repetitive, menial, and dull. And turned his fingers wrinkled. How long does it take for the average person's skin to turn so? Does temperature of the water have an effect on the length of time?

Later.

He dried the dishes and left them on the counter for Mycroft and then fell into the chair across the coffee table from his brother. Steepling his fingers, he drawled, "So."

"There is a man they're keeping a very close watch on. Stephen Ezard."

"The mathematician?"

"The same. You share bees as an interest. Now. I believe he's the one with the information that we might use to blow this situation open. But it means we have to get him out. Which means returning to London. I cannot go."

"I've no card."

"Fakes are easy to acquire, obviously. But you'll travel such that they cannot track you. Use cash."

"Why me?" He dropped his hands and pulled his legs up.

Mycroft quirked a lip and handed over the file he'd been unconsciously worrying. Clearly more concerned than he was letting on.

"Fuck."

"Mm. Everyone has a doppelgänger. Yours is conveniently intelligent as well. As much as I would enjoy watching you play idiot, this will work well for you. There are copious amounts of video footage, what with his supporting the T.I.A. System for one Eleanor Brooke. A minister. You're remarkably similar to this man."

He snorted.

"You shouldn't have any trouble mimicking him. We can get hair dye and cut it, and you'll have to suffer through poor tailoring. He only wears one outfit. He's been working on research, which you shall have to read up on—I know, useless data for your, Sherlock, but if we ever want our London, our England back, then you'll have to do this."

"Espionage. How exciting."

"No need for sarcasm."

"I recognise the necessity. I don't relish in living this man's pathetic life."

"If you were one for sympathy, I would tell you that's why we're getting him out. Also he just lost his brother and lover. But frankly, we need him. He's been implanted with a tracker, so we'll have to have some small surgery—"

"I don't want John in danger."

"Whether or not he chooses to return to London rests solely in his power."

Sherlock nodded once.

"And you'll have to keep it on you at all times."

"Of course."

"The end game is to expose the ministers and bring back the other system. They're convinced this is the way towards safety for the people. It only serves to irritate." Mycroft fluttered a hand to prove his point. "The background information is in the file, however, here is the short version of what happened, since we both know what happens to files that I give you. Ezard had a brother Michael. He started everything. For Stephen anyway. He worked in Afghanistan and was presumed dead; not, of course. He thought something suspicious was going on in a drugs company, the one manufacturing inoculations. Yasim, Michael's widow cum Stephen's lover, was following up. The pair, Michael and Yasim were thought to have escaped from England, but Michael was killed by a professional. Yasim is on the continent somewhere. I have met up with her and gathered all the information needed. Stephen is in love with Yasim. That will help us draw him to us. Though I imagine the idea of freedom will do the trick just as easily."

Sherlock hummed, looking at the picture of Stephen Ezard.

"And he's one of the only people who, with the proper system and information, can break Tag Me, the project the minsters have abandoned. The poor man's been sending out SOS messages in every string of code he can. He's very subtle. Very good."

"Sing his praises a little more, Mycroft."

His brother huffed. "This is important information. You will become him while I will help him acquire the information to transpose into evidence."

"To take down the ministers, yes, yes. When have you planned for this to happen."

"As soon as possible. Whenever you are ready."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course. Two days, I expect. Should be enough." He slid off the chair, taking the papers and Mycroft's laptop with him.

"Good night, Sherlock."

He stepped lightly upstairs, pausing outside of John's room before continuing to his next door. No lights, no movement. John obviously asleep. No matter. They would speak tomorrow. Probably mid-morning after John woke early and went for a walk, showered, had his tea, and ate. Though not necessarily in that order.

He thumbed on the lap top and searched youtube for videos of Stephen Ezard. Queuing up the interview, he worked his way through them all to match the man's mannerisms and dress sense. The latter being quite poor. Research revealed the man to be very intelligent, if considered socially remote. He was not rumoured to have had any friends. Lived in China for four years, yet never bothered to learn the language—a relief, though Sherlock could speak it conversationally if pressed. He scowled, indeed not anticipating the clothing he would wear. Of that, Mycroft had been correct.

Eyes closing eventually, Sherlock woke curled around the computer on top of the duvet. A fleece over his frame and a cup of tea on the bedside table, he smiled. John. The clock told him he'd slept longer than he thought. He stretched out of the bed, padding down the stairs in his rumpled clothes. Mycroft rolled his eyes at him when he entered the kitchen.

"You're ready?"

"Yes."

"But you're not leaving today."

"No."

"Because."

"You know why," Sherlock said mildly around a mouthful of Mycroft's toast.

"You're going to speak with John."

He waved a hand over his shoulder and headed back upstairs.

"I spat on that toast, Sherlock."

"No you didn't," he yelled back at his brother, ducking into the bathroom. Stripping efficiently, he bathed quickly and put on fresh clothes. Mycroft knew exactly what he liked. The slacks were freshly pressed and the muted royal blue button-up was crisp and fine. He smirked at his reflection. Perfect. And, just on cue, the door downstairs opened, admitting one John Watson. And...yes, going for his tea.

Sherlock went downstairs.

"Morning, Sherlock..." John said, slipping back into habit. Then he paused, the cup halfway to his lips and he shook his head in wonderment.

"Morning, John. Your walk was pleasant, I trust?"

"Is that...small talk?"

"Hardly. I was wondering if it had been a satisfactory excursion, both in exercise and calming of the mind."

John huffed over the rim of the cup, finally taking the aborted sip. "That was almost a normal question."

"Please, John." He leaned a hip against the counter, folding his arms. "I'm sure Mycroft probably mentioned the assignment, but we're taking back England."

Rolling his eyes, he sank into one of the chairs by the table. "You really haven't changed."
"That's what I'm trying to tell you, John." He watched as John's eyes widened slightly. Sherlock smiled. "There. Are we on the same page now?"

"I'm still angry with you for dying on me."

"Yes. Well. It was inevitable, and I don't regret doing it."

John's face darkened. "Sherlock—"

"And you misunderstand."

"Then please explain."

"I don't regret what happened, allowing my supposed death to pass as truth. It needed to be done in order to fully eradicate Moriarty. However, I am regretful of the anguish that it so obviously caused you."

Looking mollified, John dropped his eyes to the toast on the table. "I haven't forgiven you then. Yet."

"I know. However, I am returning to London to solve this problem. I am going to switch places with Stephen Ezard so that we might restore the previous order of things."

"Humans being so against change and all..." John quipped.

"While this is the case in general, I am against this change seeing as it almost eliminates the need for my position."

"An affront to your brilliance; check."

"John. It restricts movement and freedom and generally cuts down on the rights of human beings."

"That's not something I thought I'd hear from you..."

"There are rights that human beings are entitled to. The Americans stand by them very stoutly. As history tells us."

John hummed in response. "Well, I suppose you'll have space for two?"

Sherlock grinned.

Preparation was easy. John frowned through the mirror at Sherlock cutting his own hair, the dye sitting on the sink. "Cut the back, John."

His frown deepened. "You don't look like you anymore."

"And that bothers you."

John picked up the scissors and tugged at Sherlock's curls, snipping them off and tossing them into the sink with the others. "You look very strange."

"Thank you, John." He arched a brow at him through the mirror.

"Though considerably better than what I imagined you looking like for being dead," John's voice carried more than a little bite, indicating that he had far from forgiven Sherlock.

"Will you help with the hair dye as well, John?"

"One can manage."

"I would appreciate the help." Sherlock caught his eyes in the mirror again and offered a small smile.

John rolled his eyes. "Stop trying to butter me up." He set the scissors down and stepped back. "Ginger, hm...?"

Standing, Sherlock pushed the stool to the side when they'd finished and carded his fingers through his hair. "Thank you, John. Not bad. I don't like it, of course."

"Naturally," John said, folding his arms across his chest. "You remain, as always, ridiculous."

He sniffed. "You merely fail to see the charm of the aesthetics. This hair cut and the clothes I am about to wear are hardly flattering."

"Mm-hmm." John nodded along. "Lose your figure in all those clothes."

Sherlock spun, an entirely affronted expression over-taking his face.

John, however, merely burst out laughing.

So Sherlock smiled. "A joke. Of course. Thank you, John." He swept by him back into the bedroom and then began stripping his clothes off.

"Sherlock?" John followed him, a strange expression on his face.

He didn't bother to dignify that with a response and instead, scowled at the clothes. "They're hideous..."

"I saw the photos."

"You're sure."

"What? Of course I'm sure I saw the photos. What kind of daft question is that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, stripping off his own pants to trade them for the kind Stephen used.

"Um. Right. Okay then. Nudity not a problem."

Sherlock paused in pulling up the trousers, gaze flicking to John's face. "You're embarrassed. Because I've no clothes on. Because—"

"Sherlock! Mates don't just strip in front of one another. This is... well. Well now I've seen everything."

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock raised his chin, an odd little grin crossing his lips for a split second. "It's just a body."

John heaved a sigh.

Sherlock buckled the trousers and threaded the belt, buttoning the shirt up slowly. "But there's more."

"Don't analyse it."

"You're flushed."

"Please."

"John..." Sherlock said slowly, fingers stilling on the buttons. "Do you.. like what you see?"

John dropped the hand that was over his face, face now flushed fully, eyes wide, as he gaped. "Wha—that's—just... I don't—you're ridiculous!"

"Hm." Then finished his shirt and tucked his arms into the tan jacket that Stephen wore, hunching a bit too become the unassuming mathematician.

John sucked in a breath. "Jesus."

"Hello. I'm Stephen Ezard. And...you are?"

John leaned away from Sherlock's offered hand. "Wow. That's... That's creepily brilliant..."

"As always, John, you know how to turn a compliment."

He dropped his eyes, shifting to lean on the cane differently. "Well."

Sherlock tsked and then was a flurry of movement: tucking the last few items into his travel case, zipping the thing up and planting it next to the door, spinning round the room to gather his mobile charger, and taking one last sweep through the bathroom and the rest of the room before pulling on the semi-clunky sort of shoes that Ezard seemed to prefer wearing before finally tucking his wallet into the inner pocket of the jacket. "We should go, Doctor Watson."

"Don't call me that." He shivered. "It sounds strange. I don't like it."

His eyes widened slightly. "John then?"

"Like always."

"We're friends then."

"Don't push it," John muttered, brushing past him and thunking down the stairs.

"Just on time," Mycroft said, eyes sweeping over them both as they came into the main hall. "Sherlock, you—"

"Everything is packed. You know better than to ask if I'm prepared."

"Of course." Mycroft's lips twitched. Then he turned to John. "Would you prefer to fly back or go with Sherlock? The former is, of course, what is expected from a man who has nothing to hide. The latter will afford the two of you some time to...reconcile."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, knowing the answer John would choose. The man did not, of course, disappoint. "I'll go with Sherlock."

"Excellent. Now, Sherlock. Do not deviate from the plan. There are people in place to aid you. I expect you will know them at once. Regardless, they will help you get Ezard out and on a ferry to the Netherlands and thence on to Norway. Do understand that I'm putting my trust in you to not deviate."

"You know very well that I will deviate if the situation requires it. Now. Cards and affects?"

With a resigned sigh from Mycroft, he handed their things over and then everything was hustle and bustle until they were back in England.

"Go home, John," Sherlock ordered tersely when they stepped onto English soil. "I'll be in contact."

"I'm sorry? I thought I was going with yo—"

"No, John. I need to go in on my own. And I'll need you at Baker Street like nothing is wrong. Act normally."

"But what—"

"No telling Lestrade or even Mrs. Hudson." He paused a second. "I need you to agree with me on this, John. No. Telling anyone. Do you understand?"

John tossed his head, face scrunching into a frown before he pounded his cane into the ground. "Fine."

Sherlock gave a quick nod and then, "I'll be in touch. Don't worry. I won't leave you behind again."

John looked at him sharply, just catching the end of Sherlock's intense gaze.

"I promise."

John nodded sharply. "Alright then. Fine. I'll pretend like nothing's happened. But I want you to call me as soon as you need me. You understand? The moment you need me."

"Of course, John," Sherlock said almost gently. "Off you go then. I'll see you soon." He waited, arms crossed, while John slowly padded away. Then stopped.

"Listen, are you sure you can't use the extra help?"

With a smug smile, he caught up to John and brushed by him. "Let's go."

They made it finally to London, to a small hotel just down the street from Ezard's flat was supposed to be. John checked them in to a room, having the biometrics card, Sherlock providing the cash. John grinned at him after they shut the door to the hotel room and dumped his duffel on the bed. "Fantastic!"

Sherlock hummed and then quickly checked all the corners of their room, drawing the drapes and plugging a loop into the camera in the corner. "How have you lived with all of this nonsense... This is a gross invasion of privacy..."

John laughed. "Says the man who can read everything about everyone from just looking at a person."

"Seriously, how did you live like this?"

John shrugged, face tight as he dropped his eyes and sank onto the edge of the bed. "I just...did. You adjust. If there's..."

Scowling, Sherlock crossed the room to stand in front of him. "You idiot."

"What!"

"You don't have nothing left to live for. Stop seeing yourself as useless. Now you'd best get some rest. Tomorrow the fun starts."

He groaned but flopped back, leaning his cane against the bedside table. "I suppose we're sharing the bed."

"What do you think, John," Sherlock retorted.

"I think you're a selfish bastard and a right prick."

"Fair enough. So are you going to tell me the rest of the plan since I'm no mind-reader."

"Don't be unnecessarily sarcastic, John."

It was John's turn to hum in response and he draped an arm across his closed eyes. "Well?"

"Tomorrow is just recon. You're free to do whatever you want. Once I've found my way in to the building, I'll take you with me, and I'll swap places with Ezard. You'll take him to the arranged meeting with the ferry. Mycroft will contact you and make sure everything goes smoothly."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no,'" Sherlock said, voice tinged with exasperation.

"I'm not going to leave you behind here."

"I need to get into the system and shut it down, John. Now's not the time to argue."

"Well, can't I get Ezard out and then be...I dunno...a mate. And just stay at your flat?"

"Ezard doesn't have friends."

John sighed. "A cousin then." He could feel Sherlock's glare from the bed. "Fine. A...colleague from work or something—we were mates as children and then I moved away. Something."

"We'll see," he mumbled non-committally. "Call for room service."

"Haven't changed at all," John said under his breath, knowing it would be noticed by the consulting detective anyway. He also answered the door when the person knocked, accepting the tray with enough food for two, obviously, thanking her kindly and then shutting the door in her face. He moved over to the small table in the corner and set it down, Sherlock already pacing in a room small enough to be his bedroom.

"Go ahead and eat. I know you're hungry."

"Of course you do." John sat anyway and ignored him while he ate, eyes continually flicking towards the covered window.

In the silence that followed John's shower and Sherlock's picking at what was left of the food, John finally asked.

"Will you tell me what you were doing for the three years I didn't see you? What were you doing?" That you had to leave me behind.

Sherlock sighed. "It's a long story, John. I would rather tell it later."

"Why isn't now good enough."

"It's... tedious at best, if you want all the details. I was hunting down the remainder of Moriarty's ring."

"That wasn't so long."

Sherlock snorted.

"Though it doesn't explain why you had to pretend you were dead."

"Now we're talking about this?"

John shrugged.

"Leave it, John. I needed... I needed to go on my own."

"Because I would get in the way? Because I would slow you down? Because I wasn't smart enough to keep up?" John snapped, folding his arms over his fresh shirt.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No, don't put me off. I want to know."

"I didn't want to have to worry about you."

"You've never done in the past."

"John." He watched him open his mouth to retort, but something in his face must have stopped him. "It was never about you not keeping up or any of those other plebeian reasons you listed. It was about me knowing that you were safe in London."

"Oh yes, where one in every fifty people are murdered and one in every twenty five are involved in a motor accident of some sort!"

"You made those statistics up."

"Sherlock! It doesn't matter! London is no more dangerous than anywhere else!"

Rounding on him finally, "It is if you've got a target on your back!"

John took a step back at his vehemence. "Well...there's...that," he offered quietly, after a moment of silence.

"Yes John. That. Now kindly shut up and go to sleep." He ignored the hurt that flared through his flatmates expression and arranged himself into a pair of flannels before sliding between the sheets.

He woke later in the night to John slipping from the bed. "Where are you..."

John turned, startled. "Oh. Sorry, did I wake you?"

"Light sleeper."

"You didn't used to be." The accusation hung in the air.

He affected a shrug, rolling onto his side to curl up. "Things change."

John gave him a searching look and then padded off towards the bathroom. The light flicked on as the door swung shut.

Sherlock buried his head beneath the pillow to block out light and sound. He didn't move when John slid back into the bed, hugging the edge. Hearing John's breath evening out, he finally dropped back into sleep himself.