The opening dialogue and the characters are not mine, I just borrowed them for a bit.
"Oh, Sherlock! What have you done?"
"Don't be absurd. I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one."
"Hardly merciful, Mr Holmes."
"Regrettably, Lady Smallwood, my brother is a murderer."
Mycroft sat at the table, the elegant leaded windows behind him letting in the last rays of the dying light. He steepled his hands in front of him and stared into the distance, too caught up in his thoughts to hear the floorboards announce the intruder.
The voice was one he thought he would never hear again, so familiar, yet changed, older. He had mistakenly thought the owner dead. "It's still difficult, is it? Condemning your sibling to what you know is certain death? I thought it would have gotten easier by now."
Mycroft rubbed his eyes with a thumb and a finger as he breathed a great sigh. "So, you are alive, too."
His sibling made a slow walk around the table, stopping behind his chair to whisper silkily in his ear. "Did you think otherwise, dear brother?"
Mycroft slammed his palms down on the polished tabletop in anger. "Yes! I identified your corpse! You let me think my actions had indirectly led to your death."
"So sorry, Mycroft. It was necessary." The smile held hints of the young, innocent child he had once loved dearly. The eyes were different, though, cold and icy.
"Necessary? It was necessary?" Mycroft stood and grabbed Sherlock's twin by the wrist. "I sent you away to protect you. They didn't want to put you in prison, they wanted to execute you. I sent you…"
The wrist was jerked out of his grasp and then they were nose to nose, breathing the same air. "You sent me to my death, Mycroft. As soon as they had me out from under your influence, they tried to kill me," Sherrin replied with a growl.
"No! I arranged your exile to keep you safe. If you had remained in England, they would have hanged you! They… Oh, no…" Mycroft gasped, staggering back to lean against the edge of the table. It all suddenly became so clear. He had missed it at the time. Anger had clouded his mind. And sentiment, too. Sentiment had always made it difficult to see clearly, especially when it came to Sherlock and Sherrin.
Fifteen years later, standing in the half-dark with another that had somehow managed to escape death's grasp, the clouds parted and he could see what he could not before. Colonel Bentley had been a little too eager to take the young Holmes under his wing, promising to guide Sherrin into a new life, away from the sins of her past. No one was to know that the youngest Holmes had committed treason to save Sherlock.
Sherrin studied Mycroft's horrified visage and frowned, feeling the bubble of hate in her chest slowly deflate. It left her feeling somewhat disoriented and dizzy. "You really didn't know, did you?" She backed up until she felt the chair against her legs, and sat heavily.
"No, I didn't, Sherrin. I meant for it to be a way to keep you alive." Mycroft reached out for her hand, running a thumb over her knuckle before pulling back.
"Well, this is quite anticlimactic," she sighed.
"Sherrin," Mycroft said quietly. "For what it is worth, I am truly sorry."
She didn't look at him, didn't meet his eyes, but Mycroft could see the tears threatening to fall from her lashes. She continued to study the empty table in front of her, tracing the grain of the wood with her finger.
"I could bring you back, you know? I hear there is going to be an opening for a Consulting Detective."
She tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. "You know I was always rubbish at deductions."
"Yes, your talents tended to lean towards a keyboard and coding. Still, you weren't all that bad. I think you might be able to handle the job. You might just have an advantage over Sherlock as you understand the emotions behind motive." Mycroft slid his hand across the tabletop, intending to offer his handkerchief. Instead of taking the cloth from him, she reached out and hooked her smallest finger around his corresponding digit and gave a gentle tug. He returned the tug, feeling it mirrored somewhere deep in his chest.
Their hands stayed linked during several minutes of silence. Finally, she released his finger and took the handkerchief. She dabbed at the wetness on her cheeks, meeting his gaze. "Thank you all the same, Mycroft. I already have a job I quite enjoy."
"Oh?" Mycroft raised his brow in curiosity.
She smiled, a genuine smile, this time. "Yes. It seems I have quite the talent as a hacker. I could commandeer every computer or television screen in the country for my own purposes if I wanted to. But don't worry, Mycroft. I'll leave world domination to you."
"Yes, well," Mycroft shifted in his seat, "now that I know you are alive, how can I reach you if I so desire?"
"Here," she held her hand open, "let me have your mobile."
Mycroft looked at the screen when she handed the device back to him. "Sharon Ford? That's not a very original name."
She laughed, "Yes, but Sherrin Fforde Elizabeth Holmes was a bit pretentious for a lowly computer boffin like me."
Mycroft couldn't help but chuckle in return, "Yes, I suppose it was. Will you come and say goodbye to Sherlock before he leaves?"
She shook her head, fighting the tears welling up again. "No. It's best if he doesn't know I'm alive. I will keep an eye on him, though. Maybe I can help him one day. Maybe I can save him again."
Not long after, she shouldered her bag and hugged Mycroft tightly. He smoothed a hand down her raven curls before letting go, taking the time to create a shrine for this memory in his own Mind Palace. "Please be careful, Sherrin. Your loss would break my heart… again." She nodded and was gone.
She didn't try to contact him, but knowing of her illicit activities he was able to track her as she made her way around the globe. She never caused too much harm, staying just under the radar. She was quite good at what she did.
He lost track of her in India, two days before Sherlock was to be exiled and the same day the database of MI6 was breached. The report he received about the incident stated that nothing sensitive was viewed and the hacker logged out exactly thirty-four seconds after breaching the firewall. It looked like Sherrin's handiwork. She and Sherlock were thirty-four years old, surely not a coincidence. Mycroft supposed it was a message for him, an unusual way for her to say 'hello'.
Mycroft didn't contact her until the day of Sherlock's exile. He sat in the back of the black car as Sherlock's plane touched down seven minutes after taking off. He fired off a text to the number she had programmed into his phone.
You? –MH
Yes. Did you like it? –SF
It was effective. Thank you.-MH
You are most welcome. Tell Mummy and Daddy I will stop in at Easter.-SF
