Chapter One

Sherlock strode into his brother's stately foyer, coat billowing out behind him, footsteps angrily pounding the pristine marble floor. "God, this place always feels like a damn museum!"

He frowned his distaste, eyes sweeping the dark archaic wood panelling, the lavish paintings and mirrors in their ornate frames, the imposing grandfather clocks, and the grand sweeping staircase flanked by two Greek busts on spiralling plinths.

His brother snorted. "You deem anything larger than that hovel of yours, a museum."

"Oh, come on, Mycroft." Sherlock gestured theatrically around the room. "Is all this space justified...for one man?"

"One has to keep up appearances."

"What's with all the suits of armour? I feel as if I'm being watched."

"You are, Sherlock. Trust me, you are."

Sherlock swirled around, facing his brother again. "Why can't I go back to Baker Street?"

Mycroft stopped in his tracks, eyes wide and angry. "Well let us make a little deduction, brother dear," he threw back sarcastically. "Maybe because you killed a man, executed a man, at point blank range. I had to pull a harp's worth of strings to have you incarcerated here for the time being."

"You? Have to pull strings? I thought you were the puppet master," Sherlock mocked. "Besides, I did nothing that one of your lot hasn't already done!"

"But not with an audience, you fool. If you intended to kill Magnussen, you should at least have had the sense to do it behind closed doors."

"I did not intend to kill him."

"Why the gun, then?"

"Precautionary."

Mycroft's features crumpled beneath the weight of concern. He took a deep breath. "Why, Sherlock?" he despaired. "Why did you do it?"

Sherlock turned away again, refusing to acknowledge the pity in his brother's eyes. "I was saving someone else the trouble!" Remembering Mary, he added: "It was only a matter of time before someone blew the bastard's head off."

Four doors, of the same rich dark wood as the panelling, dotted the foyer. Sherlock slammed through the central one that stood at the foot of the staircase, knowing exactly where he was heading.

"I don't know whether I can get you out of this one," Mycroft warned after him. "You do realise that?"

"Don't give me that bullshit. You practically run this country," Sherlock snarled back, the door slamming shut behind him.

Hesitating in the empty foyer, silent now save for the low ticking of the grandfather clocks, a shiver ran down Mycroft's spine, chilling him to the bone. For the first time in his life he felt afraid, but not for himself.

"Damn you, Sherlock," he whispered wretchedly, hands clenching into fists, nails digging into his hands painfully. "I fear you have gone too far this time."

Quickly recovering his composure, he squared his shoulders and made a beeline for one of the other doors, his mind firing into a whir of activity. He had calls to make, he realised wearily. Lots of calls.