Note: I present to you an alternate S4 AU. For those who loved the last series, that's absolutely fine; it just wasn't my cup of tea. I hope you enjoy my story that's to come, and don't forget to comment!
Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC Sherlock series.
"What you're about to see is classified beyond top secret."
A blonde woman and a depilated man sat up straight in their seats as the slight hefty man turns to face them. Behind the both of them sat a petite older woman with short gray hair. Her meager, wrinkled hand clicked her pen as she opened her small notepad she had in her lap.
"Is that clear?" The woman starts to put on her bejeweled reading glasses before the voice barked out, "Don't minute any of this." The woman blinks and lowers her glasses. She watches with perplexity at the man and folds her hands in her lap.
The man known as Mycroft Holmes turns to the three large video screens that were behind his two colleagues, Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin. On these screens showed the footage of that fateful Christmas Day at Appledore.
The day that Sherlock Holmes shot and killed the Napoleon of Blackmail, Charles Augustus Magnussen. The man in question sat in a chair next to his brother, facing the table where Smallwood and Edwin were positioned. He doesn't speak a word to either of the people in the room.
"Once beyond these walls, you must never speak of it. A D-notice has been slapped on the entire incident. Only those within this rooms – code names: Antarctica, Langdale, Porlock, and Love – will ever know the whole truth." Mycroft drifts his eyes down to his right at "Porlock," whose head has been down the entire time since the meeting had started. He looks back at the screen and clicks the remote control in his hand.
"As far as everyone else is concerned, going to the Prime Minister and way, beyond, Charles Augustus…" He stops speaking when a rapid clicking noise reached his ears. He snaps his eyes back on Sherlock, whose thumbs were darting away at his phone screen.
Mycroft narrows his eyes before he realized what his little brother was doing.
"Are you tweeting?!"
Realizing the question was appointed towards him, Sherlock quickly covers his phone, but not before sending out his tweet.
He looks up guiltily at his older brother. "No."
Mycroft glares at him. "Well, that's what it looks like."
"Of course, I'm not tweeting. Why would I be tweeting?" He hurriedly says and waves a dismissive hand.
"Give me that."
He quickly walks to his brother and reaches for the phone. Sherlock looks at him in bewilderment. "What? No, get off!"
He tries to hang on to the phone with both hands while Mycroft struggles to grab hold of it.
"What are you doing? Get off!"
"Give it here!" Mycroft sternly commands.
Mycroft finally manages to get the phone while Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs. Mycroft looks down at the screen and scrolls through his tweets with a frown.
"Back on terra firma." He reads aloud.
Sherlock sighs. "Don't read them out."
"Free as a bird."
"God, you're such a spoilsport."
Mycroft turns back to him with an anger sneer. "Will you take this matter seriously, Sherlock?"
Sherlock glares back at him. "I am taking this seriously. What makes you think I'm not taking this seriously?"
Mycroft reads out another with a sarcastic happy manner. "Hashtag: OhWhatABeautifulMorning?!"
Sherlock whips his head to Mycroft and indignantly starts to defend himself.
"Look, not so long ago, I was on a mission that meant certain death – my death – and now I'm back, in a nice warm office with my big brother and…Are those ginger nuts?!"
Sherlock enthusiastically lifts himself out of his chair before racing to the plate of biscuits located on the table. As this happens, Mycroft mumbles an exasperated 'Oh, god' under his breath.
"Love ginger nuts!" Sherlock engulfed a bundle of biscuits in his large hand. He rips off a piece of one before popping it in his mouth.
Lady Smallwood looks at the younger Holmes with an annoyed grimace. "Our doctor said you were clean.
Sherlock gives her a smug smirk. "I am, utterly." He turns and looks at Mycroft as he walks back towards his chair. "No need for stimulants now, remember? I have work to do." He crunches into another biscuit.
Sir Edwin raised his eyebrows in bewilderment at his antics. "You're high as a kite!"
Sherlock turns to Edwin with mock sympathy. "Natural high, I assure you."
Sir Edwin shakes his head before rubbing his hand down his face.
"Totally natural. I'm just glad to be alive!" He sings dramatically while holding his hands out.
A deep chuckle chimes out of him before he lowers his hand, still chewing a mouthful of biscuits. "What shall we do next?" He asks them before his eyes dart to the elderly woman in the corner.
"What's your name?" He points at her.
The woman stiffens with the sudden attention. "V-Vivian." She nervously answers.
"What would you do, Vivian?"
Vivian gets thrown off by the question. "Pardon?"
"Well, it's a lovely day! Go for a stroll? Make a paper aeroplane? Have an ice lolly?" He takes another bite out of a biscuit. Lady Smallwood shakes her head in disbelief, and Sir Edwin keeps rubbing his hand over his face.
Unsure of what to do, Vivian feebly answers him. "Ice lolly, I suppose."
Sherlock gestures dramatically towards her. "Ice lolly it is! What's your favorite?"
Vivian looks nervously towards her superiors. "Well, really, I shouldn't…"
Sherlock encourages her to speak more. "Go on."
"Do they still do Mivvis?" She questions.
Lady Smallwood had enough of the distraction and breaks the conversation with a firm, "Mr. Holmes."
Both of the Holmes brothers turn to her simultaneously.
"Yes?" Both men ask her. Mycroft looks to Sherlock and lowers his head in embarrassment. Lady Smallwood looks toward Mycroft, ignoring Sherlock. "We do need to get on."
Mycroft nods and raises his head. "Yes, of course." He clicks the remote in his hand to reset the footage. While he sets up the video, Sherlock swipes his phone from him and gestures dramatically with it. He sits back down in his chair and tucks his phone into the pocket inside his jacket.
Mycroft rolls his eyes and looks back at the screen. A sound of a helicopter soon fills the room, and Sherlock and Magnussen appeared on the screen, John lingering in the background.
The footage showed a distant shot of Sherlock on the patio of Appledore. The rapid wind of the helicopter blows Sherlock's hair and clothes around as he walks up to Magnussen, John's gun in his hand. A group of armed operatives were surrounding them, guns at the ready.
"Oh, do your research!" Video Sherlock yells.
The footage moved to the head camera of one of the operatives near the patio. As someone runs across the camera, very briefly blocking the view, Sherlock could be seen with his hand still lowered. But a gunshot still rings out and Magnussen falls backwards. Sherlock then drops John's pistol and instantly raises his hands. John could be seen staring in horror at the scene before he moves towards Sherlock.
The footage jumps back a second or two, and the scene is now from the telescopic sight of a rifle. It showed two dots on Magnussen's face as he stands on the patio, and another gunshot rings out before he falls out of view again.
The video repeats over and over again as the four adults watched. Sherlock indifferently keeps eating as he watches.
"I see. Who is supposed to have shot him, then?"
Sir Edwin gives him a smirk. "Some over-eager squaddie with an itchy trigger finger, that's who."
Sherlock just keeps staring at the screen as he chews. "That's not what happens at all."
Mycroft chimes in, "It is now."
"Remarkable. How did you do it?" Lady Smallwood asks.
Sir Edwin turns to her. "We have some very talented people working here. If James Moriarty can hack every TV screen in the land, rest assured we have the tech to, er ... doctor a bit of security."
He points to the screen while Sherlock tosses a piece of biscuit towards his open mouth. It misses and falls to his lap, and he scrabbles to get it.
"That is now the official version; the version anyone we want to will see."
Lady Smallwood nods before she looks at Sherlock. "No need to go to the trouble of getting some sort of official pardon." Mycroft folds his arms and looks sternly down at his brother.
"You're off the hook, Mr. Holmes. You're home and dry."
"Okay, cheers." He says before jumping up from his seat, his appreciation to them almost nonexistent. Pushing the last of biscuit in his mouth and holding it between his lips, he starts to button his jacket and reached for his Belstaff coat.
Lady Smallwood frowns at his careless attitude. "Obviously, there's unfinished business. Moriarty."
"I told you Moriarty's dead." He says with a muffled quip and takes the biscuit out of his mouth.
"You say he filmed that video message before he died."
He paused for a moment with one arm in his coat, still chewing. "Yes."
"You also say you know what he's going to do next. What does that mean?"
"Perhaps that's all there is to it." Sir Edwin remarks as he points to Sherlock. "Perhaps he was just trying to frighten you."
Sherlock shakes his head. "No, no. He would never be that disappointing." He looks away to gaze into the distance.
"He's planned something; something long-term; something that would take effect if he never made it off that rooftop alive. Posthumous revenge. No – better than that. Posthumous game." He mumbled to himself.
"We brought you back to deal with this. What are you going to do?" Lady Smallwood interrupts his thoughts.
He quips back with an immediate, "Wait."
She blinks with disbelief. "Wait?" She echoes back.
Sherlock narrows his eyes at her. "Of course, wait. I'm the target. Targets wait. Look, whatever's coming, whatever he's lined up, I'll know when it begins."
He walks towards the door, putting his other arm into his coat.
"I always know when the game is on. D'you know why?"
She gives out a little exasperated sigh. "Why?"
"Because I love it." He says before popping up his coat collar and dashing out the door.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Water dripples echoed in the decrepit, old room as they dripped from the leaky pipes. The walls were stained with mildew, and a stale, decaying odor fumed.
A table stood in the middle of the room with leather cuff straps connected to the surface. A series of surgical tools hung on wall next to a rusty, old sink. An I.V. with a mysterious bag of fluid stood next to the table. It was eerily quiet except for the harsh bawling of a woman.
Tied up in the corner was a young woman with long blonde hair. The ropes were tight around her wrists and ankles to the point that they were starting to bleed.
Her clothing only consisted of a bra and knickers, the remains of her clothing ripped to shreds on the other side of the room. Her skin was caked with mud and dried sweat, and her hair was oily and matted to her face.
She continued to sob as she closes her eyes, praying for help to come.
Suddenly, a door opens abruptly, and she jumps in fright, knowing who it was.
She looks up to see her kidnapper come into the room with a big duffel bag. He drops it in front of her, and she squeaks in fear. Her trembling becomes severe as her captor doesn't speak or move for several moments.
Finally, she finds her voice. "P-please…Let me go…please!" she begs. "I-I won't tell anyone! I promise!"
He ignores her pleads before bending down to her level. Her breath hitches as a large hand caresses her face and grabs her chin.
Heavy panting comes out of her in a rapid pace as he stares at her.
"Please…" she tries again.
"…You look just like her." He finally says.
The woman raises her eyebrows in surprise. "W-what?"
"But, not exactly." He says as he fingers her hair. "You don't have her hair, not yet."
He takes his hand away and looks towards her chest. "Breasts are just a bit too big, but still remarkable structure and build." He says before he places a hand on one of her breasts.
She shivers with disgust as he squeezes it. He moves away and stands before lifting her up over his shoulder.
The woman screamed and kicked her legs as he walks over to the table.
She was slammed down on the hard surface before he restricts her with the straps.
"PLEASE! PLEASE HELP ME!" She screams and begs.
He shushed her as he grabs the I.V. and brings the needle to her arm. He pushes it in and walks to the sink to wash his hands.
The woman felt her strength falter, and her vision grew darker as she hears him speak.
"It's not your fault. You didn't mean to look like her. I'm very grateful to you, miss. You're helping me get prepared for the real thing." He says.
Her eyes suddenly felt too heavy to keep open, and more tears escape as she closes them.
The last thing she heard was "Just a quick makeover, and we'll get started."