Disclaimer: I do not own anything except the plot and a few OC's needed for the plot to continue. Everything else is certainly not mine.
Beta: None. All mistakes are my own.
Rating: M (see warnings)
Warnings: Considerable violence and gore, bad language, and many Sherlock epiphanies. If you are easily disturbed by violence and murder, I don't recommend this fic.
A/N: Welcome to my multi-chaptered story! It's the first one I've written for a long time. I have no idea how long it will be, but I currently have 20,000 words of it written so far. I hope you enjoy it, and feel free to message me about any aspects of the story.
Chapter 1 – The Fall
Nothing is ever perfect. No plan is one-hundred percent fool-proof, and no deduction can ever tell someone everything about a person – there are simply too many variables for it to ever be completely perfect. Even Sherlock Holmes, the first and only consulting detective, knew this. He had accepted a long time ago that he couldn't be right all the time, and that he couldn't plan everything and always expect it to go well, but it never stopped him from trying.
As he learnt more and more, from both experiments and observations, he found that his ability to determine variables improved. He was never going to get it right all the time, although he would never admit that to anyone, but the things he would never have taken into account just two years ago were suddenly obvious to him. He had one person in particular to thank for that. John Watson. John was loyal, smarter than most and seemed to have the unique ability of making Sherlock actually feel something for people. Gone were the days where Sherlock could go through his day without a care for whoever the latest victim was in a case, and in its place was an intriguing sense of something akin to empathy. Although he doubted he would ever be able to empathise with someone completely, and nor did he ever want to, there was a new level of understanding there. He wasn't sure if he wanted to thank John, or strangle him, for it.
So, with his new-found ability to understand emotions a little bit more, Sherlock was confident that his plan to fool both Moriarty and John was almost completely foolproof. Of course there would be other potential variables that he hadn't considered yet, but he was always good at thinking on his feet, and so he wasn't really concerned. He'd even let someone else help him, and that was Molly. She was useful enough, especially in regards to getting a fresh dead body, and she had finally stopped the inane small talk. All things considered, she was reasonably useful. The plan was coming along nicely, and he had planned for three different potential failures just in case. It didn't stop him from worrying ever so slightly, knowing full well what would happen if he failed. He didn't really care if the actual fall went wrong, and he ended up dying – as long as John was safe, nothing really mattered.
As it got closer to the time, John started looking at Sherlock strangely, and he half wanted him to come up to him and say "I know what you're planning," just so that Sherlock wouldn't have to lie anymore, but life didn't work like that, and so the doctor said nothing, and neither did the consulting detective.
When it came to putting his plan into motion, which started by meeting the true psychopath that was Moriarty, everything went to plan. Sherlock was told that there were three assassins – three bullets – that would kill the people he cared about: John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. And then Moriarty made a fatal error; he told Sherlock that there was a codeword that would stop the assassins. A tiny little bit of hope had spread through Sherlock's chest, alongside the overriding sense of smugness. He wouldn't have to jump – he could just deduce the word out of nemesis and then kill him. The problem would be solved.
But, of course, he should have realised that, with Moriarty, it was never that simple. Before Sherlock could figure the word out, Moriarty blew his brains out with a gun, blood splattering onto the rooftop. Now, Sherlock hadn't expected that, as much as he thought he should have done. It was then that it dawned on him that he had to do it – he had to fall.
Right on time, John arrived and everything was back on track. However, through all the planning and the re-planning, there was one factor that Sherlock didn't take into account.
His own feelings.
When he saw John standing there, several stories below on the street, he felt a rush of pain flow through this body. It didn't take long for Sherlock to realise that he was crying. Genuinely crying. He hadn't cried for years, after realising that Sociopaths did not cry. So this sudden activation of the amygdala caught him completely by surprise. His plan to be cold and indifferent, to try and avoid John feeling too upset at his death, went completely out of the window. Alongside his own dignity.
"No one could be that clever," he replied, when John described how Sherlock had known everything about him, in a glance.
"You could," came the reply. And Sherlock laughed. He laughed because it was the only way to stop himself from breaking down and telling John the truth. He'd never expected it to hurt so much. He cursed John for allowing him to feel again.
Then he dropped the phone, and he fell, as John looked on in horror. It was a fall that should kill someone, but thanks to careful planning, and the use of a dead body, he landed inside the lorry, just like he'd expected to. He didn't even have a scratch, but he found himself checking his chest. It felt as though there should be a knife, deep inside the one thing he said he never had: his heart. Of course there was nothing there, but the knowledge did nothing to soothe the pain. It was clearly psychosomatic, then. It was obvious that John was the cause of his psychological distress. More tears even attempted to force their way out, but he pushed them aside. Sherlock was dead in the eyes of John, and so John needed to be the same way, to Sherlock. Feelings would only get in the way, after all. He brushed himself off and hid away, until he could implement the second part of the plan.
Sherlock already knew that it wouldn't take Mycroft long to realise that he was actually alive, so he kept out of the public but didn't bother trying to escape his older brother. He had already grudgingly realised that he would need his…help. Sherlock practically choked on the word. Their rivalry, having stemmed from childhood, had gone on for far too long for him to ever truly be fine with asking his older brother for any form of help or assistance. Mycroft always did it without asking – it was their unwritten rule.
It took forty-eight hours for a car, which was Vauxhall Corsa to avoid unnecessary attention, to pull up outside, and Sherlock was disappointed in his brother for taking so long. Donning a simple disguise, he waited for Mycroft's assistant to walk up the weed-covered path. Less than five minutes later, they were on their way back to the oldest Holmes brother.
There was silence in the car, except for the gentle tapping coming from the assistant's phone, but Sherlock preferred it that way; small talk was never something he had enjoyed. He watched the world go by, through the tinted windows, and he wondered how John was taking his 'death'. It had been hard to define their relationship, and empathy still didn't come all that naturally to Sherlock, but he could only assume that the man was upset. But it would eventually pass, this he was certain of. After all, John had been in the army, and so he'd become desensitised to death, and despite what the useless therapist had said, he wasn't haunted by it – the doctor yearned to be back there. Eventually, Sherlock would become a distant memory in the other man's mind, and that would be it. Somewhere deep down, he felt an ache, but he pushed it aside. It was for the best, and now was not the time to be thinking like that; he needed to prepare himself from the upcoming onslaught from Mycroft.
They arrived at one of the many 'Secret' buildings that Mycroft owned, with this one being just North of Kensington. It was a large but unassuming building, with ivy growing up the walls. There was nothing about it that would make people look twice, which was most likely Mycroft's intention. The car pulled up onto the gravel drive with a gentle crunch. The assistant stopped texting just long enough so stare at him, as if to ensure he actually planned on leaving the car. Without any acknowledgement, he opened the door and stepped outside, hearing her begin to tap away again as he closed the door.
Before he had a chance to knock, the door opened. The man behind the door was typical of Mycroft's assistants: the freshly pressed suit, the manicured fingers, and the lack of facial hair. Sherlock knew that it made his older brother feel more important when the people he controlled looked professional.
"Follow me," was all the man said, and then he turned around and began walking down the hallway. Sherlock followed, staring at the various pictures of trees and fields that littered the walls to distract from the lack of colour on the walls themselves. On the last door on the left, being most likely a study of some kind, the man stopped and opened the door, before swiftly walking back the way they came. Sherlock felt just a tinge of nervousness – just on the edges of his usually calm state of mind – and the journey to the door felt a little longer than it should have done.
It turned out to be a library, judging by the fact that there was almost no wall space that wasn't covered by a bookcase. There must have been a thousand books in the room and, under different circumstances, Sherlock would look through them, but he was too occupied by the man standing in front of the one piece of wall that didn't have a bookcase on it, which held a fireplace instead. His back was to him, but Sherlock could recognise his brother anywhere, even without that ridiculous umbrella. Almost all of the light came from the fire, which cast an almost eerie shadow on Mycroft. It was times like this that Sherlock understood why people considered his brother to be an intimidating figure. Of course he wasn't afraid of him, but it didn't stop him from understanding it.
"So good of you to deem me worthy of being in on your little secret, little brother," Mycroft said out of nowhere. Sherlock hated to admit it, but it made him jump. Only slightly.
"So good to see you finally admit that I'm important enough for someone to need to be worthy," Sherlock quipped. Mycroft turned around in one quick motion, and there was not even a hint of warmth on his face.
"Does it really seem the time to be making jokes?"
Sherlock shrugged and didn't dignify it with a response.
Mycroft sighed, "I've guessed why you decided to take a leap, seeing as we found the body of Mr Moriarty on the roof, but I'd rather hear it from your words, if you don't mind." He moved over to the one of two chairs in the room and sat down, and he indicated for Sherlock to do the same. After deciding that it wouldn't look weak for him to do as his brother asked, Sherlock sat down and looked defiantly at the older man.
"I did what I had to do to save John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Moriarty wanted me to jump – if I did not, he would have killed them all," he explained, as calmly as if discussing the weather.
"And, pray tell, why did you not bother to come to me first? You clearly knew what was going to happen, and I could have prevented it."
"I'd say you've done enough to 'help', wouldn't you agree?" Sherlock remarked. It was a low blow, even Sherlock knew that. Judging by Mycroft's face, it had hurt him somewhat – not that the other man would ever admit to that, even under torture – although the pained expression was gone, a second later, never to be seen again.
"I admit that I…made a mistake, but at least I own up to mine," he replied with, after a pregnant pause.
"Oh? And what mistake do you propose I made?" Sherlock questioned, feeling defensive.
"You think that John will be fine, whilst you sit there and play dead, but you are wrong and foolish to think so."
"What makes you think that I care about John's feelings? Feelings are a waste of time and are nothing but a distraction, as we've been through before."
Mycroft actually laughed. It was quiet, and lasted only a second, but it was a laugh all the same.
"Oh, Sherlock, don't be so tedious," Mycroft replied. "We both know that that is not true – it is written all over your face. If you did not care, you would not have gone to the trouble of pretending to be a fake to help…soften the blow, as it were, but I can only assume you still have no intention of telling him?"
"Of course not. I would have told him so by now, if I had any intention of doing so."
"I will ensure that he does not find out, and only because you have your reasons for not doing so yourself, but I will tell you this, brother: Dr Watson is hurting."
Sherlock desperately wanted to delete that information, but he could not bring himself to do so. It was only when he reminded himself that it would hurt, at least for a little while, until the man slowly forgot about him, was he able to return to his usual self. This 'feelings' nonsense was starting to frustrate him, but it was easy enough to control, when logical thoughts were applied. That was what he had to continue doing, and so that was what he would do.
"What is your plan then?" Mycroft continued, after it was obvious that Sherlock had no intention of responding.
"I am going to dispose of the rest of Moriarty's crime network, to ensure that, once I make it known that I am still alive, there will be no consequences for John or anyone else."
"And I'm guessing that you need my…assistance to do this?"
"I require your services, yes," he admitted, and it was more painful than he imagined. It didn't help that Mycroft was sporting a smug expression. "But it is only to speed up the process. I am more than capable of doing it alone." It was a lie, and they both knew it.
"I assume you are not going after every criminal Moriarty has been in contact with, so how many people are we looking at?"
"More data is required, but we're probably looking at…oh, let's say nine or ten people."
"And you think that will be enough to break the chain of command?"
"Of course. There will be a right-hand man, probably as insane as Moriarty himself, but there will be other important people as well, including the three people assigned to assassinate John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade."
"That accounts for four of the ten," Mycroft pointed out.
"Yes, and the other five or six will be further down the in the hierarchy, but they could still be a threat – they'll have some form of control, or at least Moriarty will have told them they have control, over some aspects of the network, possibly providing information or supplies. He would choose only the most money-obsessed, and most easily manipulated, people for that kind of job – people who are loyal to a fault…for the right price."
There was silence for a few minutes, and Sherlock watched as his brother considered everything that he had just said.
"All right," Mycroft agreed, "I will begin work immediately to find out the information about Moriarty's network. We will go to a more secure location, and we shall work from there."
Sherlock stood up to show that he was willing to go with this plan.
"And one more thing, dear brother, you will be stay at this location at all times, and you are not to leave until we have all the data, is that clear?" Mycroft's voice was like steel – there would be compromises and no deal-making. His older brother wanted to show Sherlock that he was in charge, but the consulting detective merely smiled at the challenge.