A/N: Hi! *smiles nervously*

For those of you who have read any of my stories before, sorry for going AWOL. This is not going to replace any of my preexisting projects, don't worry.

For those of you who are new to me - nice to meet you! I hope you'll enjoy the ride!

This is something I've been planning to write for ages. It's far from done, but I wanted to upload the first chapter for now, just to see if other people like it or if it's just me. Regular curiousity, I guess. Chances are I'll continue writing this either way. I can't promise frequent updates, but I can promise to do my best.

Anyway, we should begin.

"You need me where?" David Rossi asked, hoping he misheard his friend because of connection problems.

"It's okay if you can't come," Emily immediately said, "It's just that – "

"That it's me or nothing," Rossi sighed. "Remind me again how you got yourself into this?"

"Liaisons with the local police is important, Rossi, you know that. I pay the occasional visit to the Scotland Yard, and over time befriended the Detective Inspector I mentioned."

"Right, the one who asked for your consultation as a profiler," Rossi added, making sure he got all the details right.

"Exactly. I told him that I'm too busy with work to help him – "

"And I'm not?" Rossi interrupted, wondering if he should be insulted by the suggestion.

Emily sighed. "Garcia told me about all of your unused vacation days. This could be your way of taking your necessary vacation but not stop working. And besides," she added, "Out of the team, you can afford it the most."

Rossi didn't reply immediately. Even over the phone, he could see the anticipation in Emily's eyes. "Fine, I'll do it," he sighed in defeat. "But only if you make time for dinner. If I'm flying all the way to London, we might as well catch up."

He could almost hear her smile. "It might have to be lunch."

"Whatever you can fit into that tight schedule of yours," Rossi said with a small grin. "I'll see you soon."

"Thank you so much, Rossi. I owe you one."

"Damn right you do," he said with a laugh and finished the call.

As if on cue, Garcia appeared at his office, knocking on the door to attract his attention.

"Hi, I hope I'm not interrupting. We have a case."

"Actually, change in plans," he said, getting up from his chair. "I'm going to London."

"Wha – London? Are you going to see Emily?" she asked in anticipation.

"I hope so," he sighed.

"Send her my love if you do. Don't worry, I'll update Hotch. Go and pack," she said with a grin and made a move to leave.

"Actually – " he started to say and Garcia turned back.

"I'll book you a ticket once I tell Hotch," she immediately said. Rossi smiled, and she winked in return and hurried away.

Oh, what did he get himself into?

Having always been a quick packer, David was ready in time for the closest flight. And so five hours after being asked, David was already on a plane heading over to London. Reid gave him two books to read, Morgan made him a playlist and Garcia gave him a flash drive with a bunch of movies on it. Thankfully, Hotch knew him well enough to simply give him earplugs. It was quite clear that they all wished they could be the one flying to London, but they also knew Rossi was the best choice. Nevertheless, all of the members of the BAU, including Rossi, wished he weren't.

The flight was okay. The food was tolerable, and he managed to get a decent amount of sleep. Eventually, he started chatting to the woman sitting next to him. Once he mentioned his occupation, he started getting questions from the boy sitting across the aisle. In an hour, half the plane was listening to his stories. Some people even shed a tear when he told them about Sergeant Scott and Hernandez's bravery. After some time, he was asked about his plans for his trip to London. He answered that he was going to consult the police, as their usual consultant has too much on his plate to help at the moment. He had talked some more to Prentiss before the flight, and she filled him in on all the details he was missing. Then, one of his British listeners asked him if he knew that consultant's name. Rossi apologized and said he only remembers his last name – Holmes. All of a sudden, all of the quiet listeners were brought to life. He got a flood of questions he wasn't prepared for – is Sherlock Holmes okay? What is he like? Who is he going to consult? What case is he going to consult the police about? Is Sherlock really as tall as he seems?

With some amusement, Rossi had to disappoint the inquirers and said that not only that he has never met Sherlock, he also has no idea what case he's going to help the police with.

By the time the plane landed, Garcia had already booked him a hotel room – and a very nice one, at that. Rossi made himself a mental note to thank her. However, he only reached that room at 4am, so he decided it would be best to wait with his thanks until the sun rises.

David managed to sleep for a couple of hours, but eventually was woken up by a strange dream and decided he had had enough sleep. Even as he was brushing his teeth and getting dressed, he still couldn't make sense of it. In his dream, the Detective Inspector took him to an interrogation room, where he said he had the most notorious criminal England had seen in ages. Only that the Detective Inspector was Hotch, and the notorious criminal was himself, sitting alone in the room, smiling at him viciously through the one-way mirror.

At 8:30am, Prentiss texted him and said the Detective Inspector, whose name was apparently Lestrade, had asked him to arrive in the afternoon. Prentiss suggested that he should use the time to visit the tourist attractions and see the sights. Having nothing better to do, Rossi took up on her offer. He took a map from the hotel's reception and used it to navigate around London. He started at the main sites, but soon grew bored. This wasn't his first time in London, and he had never been a fan of walking around aimlessly.

When he reached Trafalgar Square, a new idea formed in his head. He pulled out his phone and googled the name he had heard repeatedly on his flight over – Sherlock Holmes. He found an address, and decided to head over. Maybe he could give him an idea about what Lestrade is like and what he's supposed to consult him about. And regardless of that, he was curious. The man seemed to be a legend.

Eventually, he found his way to the right address. But instead of an ordinary street with houses, he found a crime scene. People hurrying about, picking up burned down pieces of god-knows-what, helping the injured. There was an explosion, definitely, and the source of the explosion seemed to be no other than 221B Baker Street. He went further nonetheless, to see if there was anything he could do to help and maybe get some more information about what happened while he was at it. He decided to approach an old woman who was standing some distance away from the scene. She was covering her mouth with one hand, as if to keep herself from crying. She seemed to be slightly injured, so David assumed she was there when the explosion happened.

"Ma'am, are you okay?" he asked. "It looks like you got hurt, you should see a doctor."

"Oh, no, don't worry about it," she replied with a dismissive gesture. "I've been worse."

"Do you know what happened?"

The woman hesitated for a second. It was just a second, but Rossi noticed, and he knew that whatever she was going to say next would not be the truth.

"Oh, gas explosion. You know what these things are like," she answered, deliberately avoiding his eyes.

"Did anyone get hurt?" he decided to ask, accepting the lie for now.

"Just my two lodgers, but they're fine now. They practically saved my life." Her voice slightly broke at the end of the sentence. David was now truly curious as to what had really happened.

"You're Sherlock Holmes' landlady?" it finally dawned on him.

"Yes, I am. Silly me, I haven't introduced myself. Are you a client?"

"A client? No, I just came here in the hopes of asking Holmes some questions."

"That makes you a client," she said with a chuckle.

"Actually," he said and pulled out his credentials from his pocket. He knew it would be a good idea to keep them on him even though he had no jurisdiction there. "My name is David Rossi, I work in the FBI. I was asked to consult the police instead of Holmes, who's obviously busy. I was told that he has worked with the Detective Inspector I'm supposed to consult to, so I was hoping to ask him about the man and if he has any idea what I'm going to consult him about."

The woman didn't seem impressed. "Who, Lestrade? Oh, he's sweet, you'll have no trouble with him. It's Sherlock you would've had trouble with."

"Why's that?"

"Well, he's a little…" she started to say, but her voice faded as she tried to find the appropriate adjective.

"Difficult?"

"No, what's the word?..." she thought for a few more seconds. "Insufferable," she finally remembered and met his eyes. When she noticed his surprise, she quickly added: "Don't get me wrong, I love him deeply. He's just not very good with new people."

Rossi chuckled. They were both quiet for a moment. Then, Rossi decided he couldn't stop himself.

"Miss –"

"Please, call me Martha," she said kindly.

"Martha," he corrected himself. "I've seen several explosions in my life, and this is not a gas explosion. What really happened here?"

She looked away, a worried look in her eyes. "Well, I'm afraid you'll have to ask Sherlock about that."

"And where is he?"

"Out at sea, I believe," she answered with an air of satisfaction.

Rossi chuckled humourlessly. "Right." He stuck his hand into his jacket's pocket and pulled out his business card. "Well, when you do see him, can you please tell him I looked for him?"

He handed her the card. After a second of hesitation, she took it.

"Thank you," he said with a warm smile, and she smiled back. "Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor?"

"I'll go see one right now," she said with a grin, and David knew she was lying.

Nevertheless, he nodded. Having nothing else to say, he nodded and turned around, walking away from Baker Street.

Now that he had something to think about, wandering aimlessly was just what he needed to clear his mind. What really happened there? Who was involved? Was that detective really the hero everyone seems to think he was? What secrets was his landlady hiding? Did Detective Inspector Lestrade have anything to do with all of it? Was flying over a good idea?

He walked until his stomach made a loud enough noise to distract him from his thoughts and alert him about his hunger. He entered the first restaurant he came across. He ordered spaghetti carbonara, just because it reminded him of the cooking class he gave the team once. It felt like it was ages ago. He ate very slowly, trying to spend as much time as possible so it would be late enough to head over to the police station by the time he finished.

He eventually reached the decision that 2:30pm was just late enough to be considered 'afternoon'. He left a bill on the table without asking for a check and left. Following the map, he eventually reached the New Scotland Yard building. One of the officers noticed he seemed lost, and asked him who he was looking for. He was quickly led to Lestrade's office, where a greying man with lively brown eyes awaited. David had no way to be sure, but he had a feeling that the focused look the Detective Inspector was giving his computer was because of a game and not actual work. He found a silly comfort in seeing that Lestrade looked nothing like Hotch. That dream was going to hunt him for some time.

"Hi, uh," Rossi said, feeling somewhat awkward. "I'm Special Agent Rossi."

A mixture of relief and realization spread across Lestrade's face as he got up from his chair and offered his hand. "Yes, hello, nice to meet you," he greeted him when he they shook hands. "I do hope the flight over wasn't too bad."

"It was nice, actually. I mentioned that I'm in town to consult the police, and once someone asked if I'm replacing Sherlock Holmes things got pretty wild," Rossi laughed.

Lestrade chuckled uncomfortably. "Yeah, he's quite famous here. But he has enough trouble of his own at the moment, and I have a bunch of cases that grew cold. I'm not entirely sure what it is that you do, but Emily Prentiss assured me you could help me close some cases."

"Well, as you probably already know, I'm a profiler. My first ex-wife described it as being something between a psychologist and a detective. We study behaviour and use the psychological profiles we build to catch criminals."

Unable to conceal his disbelief, Lestrade chuckled. "Does that really work? I mean, no offence, but…"

"It sounds like total bullshit," Rossi finished his thought with a smile. "Don't worry, we get that a lot. A lot of famous criminals were caught using our profiles, actually."

"I'm sure you do great work, it's just –"

"For example," Rossi interrupted to save them both time. "I'd say you're an unmarried man who's very committed to his friends. You try to watch your weight, but you let yourself go whenever you close a case. Am I close?"

David grinned as Lestrade's mouth fell open.

"How – can everyone around me read people?" Lestrade cried, exasperated. Rossi assumed he was referring to Holmes, which only made him more eager to meet him. "Have a seat," the Detective Inspector said tiredly and gestured towards the chair across from him.

David sat down, and so did Lestrade. "So where should we start?" the former asked.

"Well –" the latter started to say, but then his phone buzzed. He checked it, and a frown immediately appeared on his face.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, it's just…" Lestrade started, his eyes still on the phone, but his voice trailed off. "Sorry, I have to go," he apologized and looked up from his phone. "Sherlock might be in trouble. Typical," he added with a forced chuckle, trying to make himself seem less nervous.

"Sure, go ahead. I'll start working on these to save us some time." David gestured towards the files on Lestrade's desk.

"Thank you," Lestrade said with an apologetic look. "I'll be back as soon as possible," he assured him and hurried out of his office.

With a sigh, David opened the first of a rather impressive pile of files. After a while, he started enjoying the silent work. The team had had a string of urgent cases lately, so it's been a while since the last time he consulted on cold cases. Nowadays he preferred to brainstorm with his team, but working alone made him feel nostalgic, in a way. It reminded him of who he was before the BAU became his family for the second time, and how much he had learned since then.

He connected three seemingly-separate murders to a single offender, profiled that the vicious man behind a series of home invasions was actually a teenager and built profiles for the rest of the cases. The Detective Inspector only returned an hour after the sun had set. By then, David had already gone through more than half of the files. He had planned to wait for Lestrade in his office, but when he heard a commotion some distance away he decided to get up and check what it was all about. He stood some distance away, just close enough to see and hear everything but not too close to be noticed.

Surrounded by half a dozen other officers, Lestrade was having what appeared to be an argument with a man David didn't recognize. He was taller and younger than Lestrade, in a suit that seemed to be his second skin.

"You've brought me all the way over here. Is that not enough?" the man asked, exasperated.

"I need you to stay here while I ensure you're not in danger anymore," Lestrade replied, seeming somewhat insecure.

"And this is your idea of safety?" the man snorted, looking around in contempt. "My brother's flat is more secure, and I certainly trust his landlady more than I trust any of your officers."

Must be an older Holmes brother, then, David thought. His entire demeanor radiated power and superiority, and yet there was a certain air of insecurity in his voice that caught David's attention. Profiling killers is always easier than profiling normal people – it's easier to analyze the extreme. But something told him that while not being a serial killer, that man was far from normal.

"Look, I promised Sherlock –" Lestrade started to say with a sigh, confirming David's theory.

"Oh, you promised him?" Sherlock's brother interrupted, sarcasm dripping from his words. "Well, that changes everything."

Lestrade gave him a desperate look. "One hour. That's all I ask. Stay here, maybe talk to someone – fine, don't talk to anyone," he took his words back when he saw the appalled look on the man's face. "Just stay here. I'll have someone bring you everything you need."

The two of them looked at each other for a moment, waiting for the other to break. Eventually, the other Holmes sighed. "Just tea will do."

Lestrade nodded, clearly relieved. His eyes found those of an officer nearby and he sent him an urgent look. The latter hurried away, probably to make a cup of tea.

"White, no sugar," the man called out after him.

"Thank you," Lestrade said. "Wilkins," he turned to one of the officers. "Please take Mr. Holmes to interrogation room one."

"Excuse me?"

"It's the only place I can guarantee you won't be disturbed," Lestrade explained tiredly. He was clearly eager to get away from that man.

Holmes huffed exasperatedly, and followed the officer with a slightly raised chin in silent resentment.

Lestrade let out a big breath, emptying his lungs from air. He looked around the room tiredly, as if a solution to his situation would suddenly appear, and his eyes met David's. The former hurried over, suddenly aware of the latter's existence.

"I am so sorry for arriving so late," the Detective Inspector immediately apologized. "It was quite a mess, and I just saw the aftermath. I didn't think it would take this long."

"Don't worry, I get it. It's part of the job. Is your friend safe?"

"Yeah, they both are," Lestrade said with a somewhat exhausted grin. Rossi didn't know who the second friend was, but decided not to ask for now. "Except that I promised Sherlock to make sure his brother is looked after, and I have absolutely no idea how to do that," he admitted.

"Older brother?"

"Yeah, and possibly the only person on the planet that's more difficult than Sherlock. Now I just have to figure out how to help him when he refuses to speak to anyone."

"Would you like me to try?" Rossi found himself asking.

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow. "Are you sure you want to go there?"

"I deal with serial killers for a living. He can't be that much more difficult."

"I seriously doubt that, but please, go ahead. At least I'll be able to tell Sherlock I tried."

Rossi gave his a small grin. As he followed Lestrade to his destination, he wondered whether he had just made a mistake. Normally, he'd just say that the worst that could happen is that he'd fail. But this time felt different. This wasn't a case, and he was not on his way to meet a criminal. He was diving head-first into something much bigger than him, something that seemed to be obvious to everyone but him.

Just before Lestrade opened the door, Rossi asked: "Do you have any idea what happened?"

"Absolutely no idea," he answered, and opened the door.

Rossi took a single step in and the door was immediately shut behind him. Only then did Holmes look up from his cup of what seemed to be dissatisfying tea and met his eyes. His gaze stunned Rossi for a second. His eyes were bluer than they seemed from all that distance away, and they were much sharper than he expected. Rossi felt like every inch of him was being analyzed, everything he had ever said or done in plain sight. It was just a second of hesitation, but it was enough to give the man in front of him the upper hand.

"A profiler? Is Lestrade really that desperate?" he asked in disbelief, his eyes still scanning David. "You can return to America now, your services will not be needed here."

David opened his mouth, but no voice came out. "How –" he asked in bewilderment. He glanced back at the door, as if expecting to see Lestrade standing behind him, mouthing details about him to the strange man.

Holmes shook his head. "This is why I specifically said I won't talk to anyone. Leave, please."

Officially curious, Rossi pulled back the chair across from Mycroft and sat down with a little mischievous smile.

Holmes rolled his eyes with a desperate expression.

"Alright, so you know everything about me. Why don't we even it out?"

Holmes raised his eyebrows, seeming somewhat surprised. Rossi wondered when was the last time someone didn't give this man exactly what he wanted. "Your name would be a good start," he encouraged him.

"You came into this room without even knowing my name?" Holmes asked, his voice slightly more curious than before.

"All I know is that you're the older and cleverer brother of Sherlock Holmes, that you don't approve of his choice of a job and that you went through something big you should talk about."

Holmes was quiet for a few seconds. "Who told you that I'm cleverer than him?" he asked, hints of pride showing in his voice.

"No one did. But I've been told that you're more challenging than him, so I made an assumption."

"And my opinion about his occupation of choice?"

"A man with a suit and an ego like yours would certainly think his little brother should do something more useful with his mind," Rossi answered, maintaining eye contact. He took some pleasure in seeing the surprised look on Holmes' face when he mentioned his ego. Holmes' game had rules, and Rossi was slowly breaking them all, one by one. Because this was a game, and Rossi was not going to lose.

"Obviously. You can leave now."

"I'll leave when you do."

The two of them stared at each other for another moment. Eventually, Holmes sighed.

"Mycroft Holmes."

David couldn't help but smile victoriously. "David Rossi."

Something seemed to light up in Mycroft's eyes. "David Stephen Rossi."

"Yes, that's right. I take it that you've heard of me," Rossi said, a warm feeling of self-importance spreading in his chest.

"My brother has copies of your books, I believe," Mycroft said, appearing slightly confused. It took Rossi a moment to decipher that look – he was trying to remember something.

"I'll sign them for him if he wants."

Mycroft snorted in contempt. "He skipped the melodramatic opening of every chapter, read the details of the case, deduced who did it and spent the rest of the chapter complaining about how long it took you to catch the killer."

"Well, solving cases is his job."

"He was twenty years old."

Surprised, Rossi didn't reply. Mycroft didn't say anything either, still trying to remember something. Eventually, Rossi's patience got the better of him.

"What are you trying to remember?"

Rossi did not expect to get a reply, but Mycroft seemed to be too lost in his thoughts to notice he was speaking. "If I ever gave him another birthday present after that one." All of a sudden, he realized what he had just said. He shook his head, shaking away the dreamy look from his eyes as well. He cleared his throat. "I apologize, that was a foolish thing to say," he uttered, looking down at the table. "I should probably just go home and get some rest." He looked up with a dry, unconvincing smile.

"Your hour hasn't passed yet."

"How do you know? You don't even have a watch."

"And neither do you," Rossi replied with a smirk. "So I guess we'll stay here until I decide an hour has passed."

"This is absurd," Mycroft muttered angrily and pushed himself up from the chair.

As he made his way to the door, Rossi spoke, without turning around to look at him. "If you leave before I do, I will personally see that Detective Inspector Lestrade calls your brother and informs him that you refused to cooperate. How do you think he will feel? Do you think he will be disappointed?"

Mycroft froze in front of the door. "I think he won't give a damn," he said blatantly.

"Then leave."

A small triumphant smile appeared on Rossi's face when, a moment later, Mycroft went back to his chair and sat down heavily on it. "Nothing more than an hour," he said bitterly. "And I don't plan to say anything until it's over, so don't expect me to entertain you."

"That's fine," Rossi said with a nod. He hoped Lestrade was listening to the conversation, because otherwise he would come to release Mycroft once the hour was actually over. Rossi couldn't leave or inform Lestrade to stay away in any way, so he just prayed that like a proper cop, Lestrade was watching their conversation from behind the mirror.

After some time of complete silence, Rossi was certain Lestrade had been listening. An hour had definitely passed. Oddly enough, he didn't find the silence boring. He spent it thinking about Lestrade's cases, about his unnerving dream and about the strange man in front of him. He managed to keep himself comfortably entertained, while Mycroft Holmes seemed to be getting more and more bored with every minute that went by. After an unknown amount of time, he finally spoke.

"Have you ever killed someone?"

Surprised by the question, Rossi decided to be honest. "Yes, more than once."

"What did it feel like?" Mycroft asked, his piercing eyes on him.

He hesitated for a second, considering his answer. "I never feel much at first, until my head hits the pillow the following night and I can't fall asleep. The first time was just as difficult as the last one. It never gets easier," he admitted with a sigh.

Mycroft nodded and looked away. He was quiet for a moment. "I couldn't do it," he said, his voice not much louder than a whisper.

"Well, most people can't."

"I have killed before," he found himself saying. "Indirectly. I've ordered the deaths of more people than I can remember. But when I had to do it myself…" he shook his head.

At first, David thought Mycroft was trying to intimidate him. And it worked, in a way. If Mycroft Holmes really had such a position which allowed him to order assassinations, it would explain why everyone seemed so afraid of him. But after a few seconds, David noticed Mycroft was still not looking at him. He wasn't trying to make an impression – he just said what's on his mind, for what must've been the first time in ages.

"Maybe it means that you're a better man than you thought," David said, trying to somehow comfort the man. "That's a good thing," he added when he noticed his words only seemed to make him sadder.

"Maybe for you," Mycroft muttered to himself.

Out of ideas, Rossi said nothing further. They were back to their previous silence, only now it felt tenser. Now Rossi had a piece of the story. It wasn't whole and still didn't give him a lot to go on, but it was something. He'd get it out of him, one way or another. Like before, he let Mycroft break the silence. It seemed that the latter regretted sharing, so the longer they sat there, the more Rossi lost hope of ever getting another piece of information.

But then, something happened. Something neither of them could control.

Mycroft's stomach growled.

Rossi raised an eyebrow. "Hungry?"

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his seat, visibly irritated at every single aspect of the situation. "Not at all. Can I leave now?"

"When's the last time you had anything to eat?" Rossi insisted, ignoring his question.

"I believe that is none of your business," Mycroft replied, unconsciously tilting his chin upwards.

After a moment of consideration, Rossi decided he probably didn't think his idea through. Which was why he said it right away, before he could change his mind.

"Let's make a deal."

Mycroft straightened up in his seat. "I'm listening."

"You will leave right now, but I will come with you and make sure you have something to eat."

Mycroft exhaled sharply in disbelief, waiting a second with his reply, as if he was giving Rossi a chance to say he was joking.

"Absolutely not."

"No problem," Rossi said and crossed his arms, sliding a bit down in his chair. "I've got all night."

Mycroft threw him an angry look and then looked away to the ceiling, trying to maintain an indifferent expression. After a minute he looked back at Rossi in a mixture of defeat and hatred.

Rossi suppressed a grin. "Do you have any food at your house?"

"No, but I have several menus and a phone," Mycroft replied, annoyance shining through his voice.

Rossi shook his head. "Do you have anything to cook?"

Mycroft gave him a meaningful look. No, of course he didn't. Rossi should've figured that out. Mycroft was hardly the type of man who cooks.

Without saying a word, Rossi took out a small notebook and wrote down a list of everything he thought he'd need. He got up and opened the door, leaning out to see if anyone was there. His eyes found Wilkins, the officer that escorted Mycroft to this room. Knowing it would be best if as few people as possible would know about Mycroft's presence, he called Wilkins and gestured him to come over. The latter obeyed, appearing somewhat nervous.

"I know this is kind of a strange request, but can you go and get me everything that's on this list and have it brought over to the address Lestrade will send you?" David asked and handed him the list.

Wilkins took it and read it briefly, now looking more confused than nervous. "I don't know if –"

"Tell Lestrade that Agent Rossi asked for it. He'll sort it out."

Obviously bewildered, Wilkins nodded and left. David closed the door and looked back at Mycroft, whose annoyance was now mixed with curiousity.

"What was in that list?" he couldn't help but ask.

"Everything I need to make a proper dinner. By the way, I'm gonna need your address."

As expected, that riled him up. "First of all, sending the police to go grocery shopping for you is hardly a good use of their time. Moreover, you are certainly not going to cook dinner at my house. And furthermore –"

"Let me guess," David said, unimpressed by his anger. "Your address is a confidential piece of information that should remain unknown to as many people as possible?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"Then I'll ask Lestrade to come and bring it to us. He seemed to really care about your brother, so I'd take a wild guess that he already has your address for emergencies. Am I right?"

Mycroft didn't reply, but his look gave David his answer. After a moment, he asked another question.

"Do you always talk like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like sounding clever makes you feel more secure."

Once again, Mycroft didn't reply. He only clenched his jaw and gave him a hating look. David wondered if getting on his nerves before going over to his house was a good idea. Probably not.

"Well, shall we?" he said and opened the door.

Mycroft got up and left the room without looking at him. David hesitated for a moment before following him. He looked around the room, wondering if he was making the right choice. Mycroft Holmes was a peculiar and probably dangerous man, but somehow, that didn't scare him. On the contrary – it made him determined to help him. He still had no idea how he could help him or what actually happened, but he was going to find out.

And if he had to irritate him to do that…

A/N: So this is it for now. I'll try to upload the next chapter as soon as I can.

I'd really love to hear your thoughts and opinions, either through a review or a PM. Questions and (constructive) criticism are welcome too!

Have a nice day :)