The Other One
It was like John was seeing double vision.
"William, how lovely to see you!"
"Shut up."
"That's hardly the way to greet me after all these years."
"No, really. Shut up."
John looked in between Sherlock and curly haired man that was currently crouched with them behind the lab desk in the facility, opening his mouth to say something. Ask a question. Something. Perhaps fortunately, he didn't find the syllables. Sherlock's warning to their companion to shut up wasn't because of the greeting but because there were at least three snipers tracking them down.
"Is there a back way out of here?" Sherlock muttered.
"There's windows, if you're amendable."
"I've never been not amendable," Sherlock muttered, peering up over the desk.
The curly-haired man laughed. "Oh, that's not the way I remember it."
He had dark hair, darker than Sherlock's, jet-black under the flickering back-up lights casting their glow around the room. It wasn't curly so much as wavy, and it fell down to brush his jaw line instead of his ears. There wasn't much striking similarity there as much as it was in the face; when the dark-haired man had looked at John, John had been staring into Sherlock's eyes. More blue than silver, in this light and with the lab coat, but definitely Sherlock's eyes.
"Sherlock," John started, but he was cut off.
Sherlock grabbed the dark-haired man's shoulder, spinning him around. "Lead the way," he hissed. "And stay low!"
"I know how this works," the man replied, turning away and streaking across the lab almost too fast for John to follow.
He gawked after him until Sherlock gripped his shoulder. "Follow him, he knows this place better than I do."
"Sherlock, who-"
"Talk later!" Sherlock shoved his shoulder and John jolted into action, following after the still yet unidentified doppelganger.
"Where are we going?" John asked when they stopped at a corner. "I thought we were getting out of here-"
The black-haired man held up his hand, silencing him.
One of the snipers rounded the corner, gun poised. John made an instinctive grab for his gun, cursing when he remembered that Sherlock had grabbed it earlier, and turned to Sherlock instead and-
The black-haired man slipped forward and, in all of five seconds, the sniper was flat on the ground, unconscious, and the rounds were being emptied from his gun, clattering to the floor harmlessly. "Let's go," their companion said, dropping the gun and stalking down the hall without a pause.
John felt like he was in a bizarre state of disbelief.
Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat, something between a huff and a grunt. "I see he hasn't changed," he muttered, pushing at John's shoulder again. "Come on."
John doggedly followed Sherlock and the other guy until they made it outside, without any more surprise attacks from either of their sides. They were all three silent, until they were outside, hurrying down a well-beaten path into the nearby forest.
"What is happening, Will?" the dark-haired man asked, turning to look at Sherlock.
"Stop calling me that," Sherlock retorted.
"Why, that's your name."
"You know that I don't go by that anymore."
"How would I know that, Sherlock? I hardly know anything about you, nowadays."
"Well, that's not my fault, now is it?" Sherlock fired back, lengthening his stride.
"Hey, Sherlock, wait up." John grabbed Sherlock's sleeve, pulling him to a stop. "Both of you, explain. How do you two know each other? Explain what's going on."
The dark-haired man looked over at Sherlock, who had paused but still hadn't looked back.
Sherlock sighed. "John, this is my brother. Well, my other brother. Sherrinford. Or more commonly known as just 'Ford'," he said, glancing over his shoulder.
John frowned. "Brother?" He felt like he'd been hit in the face with a brick wall. "Other brother? There's more besides you and Mycroft?!"
"Just one. Sherrinford," Sherlock said, turning around. "Although I haven't seen him in eleven years," he added, looking back at Sherrinford.
Sherrinford raised his eyebrows. "That's my fault how?"
Sherlock sighed, crossing his arms as he looked at John. "Sherrinford is, as much as I loathe to admit, extremely talented when it involves technology. Has been since he was a kid. When he was twenty-two, he bypassed the protection on my brother's - Mycroft's - laptop and sold off the contents of encrypted files that Mycroft had had stored there. He very nearly brought about the ruin of a particularly important tactical move that Mycroft had been in league with, for the British government." Sherlock looked back at Sherrinford. "And very nearly the ruin of the Holmes family as well."
Sherrinford glanced up from his watch. "Don't be melodramatic, Sherlock. I was merely doing what I thought what was correct."
"Selling out your country, classy," Sherlock replied.
"It wasn't the country," Sherrinford retorted.
"It was enough," Sherlock pointed out, "that Mycroft disinherited you."
"Bygones, brother, are bygones." Sherrinford looked up from his watch again. "And now, I think that we should probably move on. Only two out of the three snipers remaining have been detained."
"How do you-" John started, trying to keep up with the conversation and the proceedings but feeling hopelessly lost at the same time.
"His watch," Sherlock interrupted. "It's internet-enabled. Email. He's talking to the security force in the facility."
"Bravo, Sherlock. I can see that you haven't changed, either." Sherrinford paused, angling his head back towards the way they had come.
"I wouldn't see a reason that I-"
Sherrinford slipped forward, pressing his fingers to Sherlock's lips. "Now's not the time, brother. One of them is in this forest." His hand slipped down to take John's revolver, which he handed back, before grabbing Sherlock's hand and dragging him off.
John barely had time to blink before he took off running after them.
He thought that two Holmes Brothers had been enough for all of the United Kingdom. But, apparently, they stretched clear into America, too, and who knew what could happen now that he knew this.
At least, he thought, as gunshots rang out behind him, at least he would never be bored. (Not that he really thought he would have been, anyway.)
I wanted to get a Sherlock fic out there for the 3rd annual Week of Sherlock Holmes (is this still a thing? it was two years ago? if not, I say it is) and, for some reason, the potential 'other brother' got in my head and wouldn't get out. I know that, theoretically, Sherrinford is supposed to be older than Mycroft and Sherlock, but I kind of picture him being almost a carbon copy of Sherlock, but kind of on the sketchy side. (And that's just from thinking about it for this story. Hey. That's what I came up with.)
PS. This is just going to be a oneshot. No backstory, no future story, just a oneshot with the other brother.
I do not own Sherlock. Thanks for reading!