Title: The very best of times.

Author: Alice

Disclaimer: The title is in reference to "A tale of Two cities" by Charles Dickens and it's famous first words "It was the best of times, it was the worse of times.." Additionally, it references the last words Sherlock said to John in "His last vow". Also, the name Sherrinford has long been rumoured to be the 3rd Holmes brother so I take no credit for it. The creation of Sherlock Holmes of course belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and it's current popular incarnation, to the crew of BBC.

Rating: T

Summary: A third Holmes brother is revealed but his past as well as his present motivations are questionable and dangerous. Can Mycroft and Sherlock trust him? When Sherlock is poisoned, he and John must work against time to find an antidote before time runs out. What role does Sherrinford Holmes play in Sherlock's potential demise? Read if you enjoy Bromance. No Slash.


Chapter 2

Mycroft sat in the office of his family estate. Soothing jazz music played in the background as he stared at a photo on his table, lost in the memories it bought. 3 young boys of different ages stared with disinterest at the camera. No doubt, they were not pleased at the prospect of being photographed. He was the tallest and the oldest, leading the way with his displeasure of having his picture taken. Then there was Sherlock, black curls spouting, a scowl on his face, much shorter than the other two. Another boy stood to the side, his face was passive. Together, they were the Holmes brothers. Each gifted with intellect, above average mental capacity, superior deductive skills and a propensity to patronize normal humans. Together, they were undefeatable.

Sherrinford. He had another brother once. When he lost him, he had become overbearingly protective of Sherlock, and in doing so, inadvertently pushing him away. He bowed his head now, deep into the creases of his cupped hands as he remembered last night's conversation.

"You are one of the targets."

"That barely scares me. There are daily threats on my life. So far, I have outlived all my adversaries. Who is the executor this time?" Even Moriarty was no match for him. It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me. He had once said to John Watson.

A pause. "Sherrinford Holmes."

For once in his life, Mycroft Holmes shuddered, feeling fear in the abyss that his usual ego and intellectual prowess had not allowed him.


The morning of January the 6th came and went without event. Lestrade had called to request his presence at murder scene but Sherlock had declined. The case was a five at most, and he did not leave his house for any less than a seven. He had told Lestrade so and after some muttering from the detective, had nonchalantly offered his deductions over the phone. The police were now on their way to capture the murderer.

"I'm bored." Sherlocked yelled into the empty living room. He picked up John's gun in his hand and squinted his eyes, aiming at a familiar spot on the wall.

" Hey! Where did you find that?" John yelled from the kitchen. He eyed Sherlock suspiciously over his cup of coffee. "I hid it!"

Sherlocked rolled his eyes.

"Oh please." He said, scratching the back of his head with the gun. Today, more than any other day, he felt restless.

John huffed with annoyance. "You should have accepted Lestrade's case if you're so bored. Even a five is better than not having anything to occupy your mind. At least you would have an excuse to leave the house."

"I don't need an excuse to leave the house."

"Moreover, it has been a month since you last accepted a case." John continued. He pointed at his laptop. "Your popularity is soaring, the blog count is at a new high-more than 1 million views and job offers are rolling in. Maybe if you would just-" His voice softened. He realized the futility of his words. A brilliant mind like Sherlock's should not go to waste on any common case. Stimulating the far reaches of his mind palace required intrigue, danger and similar brilliance. Ever since Moriarty went to ground, few have been able to rival the consulting detective's intellect. Surely, the only other individual capable of arousing interest, forcing Sherlock to feel challenged, was another Holmes.

On the plus side, the absence of cases had meant that Sherlock had a lot of spare time to attend to basic human activities such as eating and sleeping. John considers this turbo refuel time before another case lands at their feet, which undoubtedly, will occur at some point.

The front door bell rang. He heard Mrs Hudson, bless her, open the door, allowing the visitor inside.

"Mycroft!" The identity of the visitor was revealed. "The boys are upstairs."

Mycroft appeared at their doorway, his signature umbrella in one hand, a wrapped gift in another.

"To what do we owe this pleasure?" Sherlock asked, his back to Mycroft. As usual, he did not give his brother the welcome he deserved.

There was no answer from Mycroft as he stood awkwardly in the doorway. He glanced down at the gift, contemplating his next words.

"Is it about a case?" Sherlock sounded a little more interested as he straightened up in his chair.

"Happy birthday, brother." Mycroft finally said.

"What!" John jumped to his feet. "Today's your birthday?" He yelled in utter surprise. Of all the years he'd known Sherlock, mundane yearly celebrations of life was certainly not a pass time he allowed. He had blatantly refused to disclose the date of his birthday to anyone, not even to his best friend.

Sherlock finally turned his chair around. He had a look of annoyance on his face. "Are you kidding me, Mycroft? We don't do this. We never have." His eyes fell on the gift in his brother's hand. He glanced away quickly. Sentiment was a disadvantage, even when no foes were in the vicinity.

"Mother's orders." Mycroft lied. Because I'm going to die, Sherlock. That's why we are doing this. Because this might be the last time we can ever do this. Maybe, normal isn't so bad. After all, 7 billion people subscribe to it around the world.

In two quick strides, Sherlock was by Mycroft's side. He took the gift from his brother, never allowing himself to spare a glance at it before throwing it unceremoniously onto the sofa.

"Thank you." John said, speaking as always for Sherlock's lack of response.

Mycroft turned to leave.

"Wait!" John shouted as a brilliant idea came to mind. "Stop by tonight again."

"Why?" Both Mycroft and Sherlock asked in unison.

"Because..." He said slowly as he looked at Sherlock, expecting instant disapproval. "We're going to have a nice dinner tonight...for Sherlock's birthday."


To Sherlock's dismay, John was adamant that dinner was to proceed. Before nightfall, the guest list had expanded rapidly to include Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly Hooper. Sherlock frowned a lot that afternoon. There was barely space on his kitchen table to fit all these people. He certainly didn't have enough chairs. But Mrs Hudson had just waved her hand at him, ignoring his displeasure and squealing with delight at the thought of preparing a feast.

She had given him a big hug. "Oh Sherlock, all these years and I never knew!"

Now, he could smell the fragrance of roast chicken and potatoes wafting up the stairwell. It was in some ways, vaguely pleasant. Sherlock set about updating his website "The science of deduction" with an analysis of London's geology. You never know when it would come in handy. Certainly, he found the knowledge invaluable when locating the children in Moriarty's carefully set up Hansel and Gretel deception.

He eyed the counter on his own website; the number was dismal compared to John's blog. He guessed that normal people were more preoccupied with the thrill of the chase. Rarely, do they stop to observe, to read between the lines, to pay attention to the crucial details, minute as they may be.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he observed John busily cleaning up their apartment. Sherlock wanted to tell him to stop, to quit making such a spectacle of it. It was only his birthday after all.

He decided against protesting. There was no point. He could read the determination in John's furrowed brows. He was set on giving Sherlock a birthday celebration of sorts, something Sherlock had declined participating in since he left his childhood home.

An hour later, the first of the guests arrived. It was Molly Hooper. She was dressed casually, like she had just left work in a hurry. He observed the faded outline of lipstick rubbed from the edges of her mouth. She must have applied lipstick and then decided against it, he deduced.

"Hi Sherlock!" She beamed at him. "Happy birthday!"

Sherlock grunted a response.

She stood silently for several minutes before saying awkwardly. "Err...How's the liver going?"

Sherlock perked up. "The liver is fascinating. Its ability to regenerate, detoxify, synthesize proteins and produce the biochemicals necessary for digestion is really quite remarkable. I examined some of the cellular structure under my microscope. Although...I suspect the previous owner of this liver was poisoned. I observed advance signs of toxicity."

Molly again beamed at him, like he had deduced something less then obvious.

"You're quite right. This victim was from Eastern Europe. Exposure to the toxin was 7 days prior to death. He subsequently suffered from headaches, blood noses, nausea and vomiting, muscular spasms, dyspnoea and muscle paralysis before losing consciousness and finally cardiac arrest. I have taken samples from the liver as well as kidneys for analysis but have yet to come up with the toxin. "She walked over to his fridge and peered inside at the liver. "It's a mystery."

"Yep." Sherlock was in agreement. It was a mystery indeed and for once, something worthy of his time.

"Where's the birthday boy?" He could hear Lestrade shouting as he entered the front door and sprinted up the stairs.

"I see you've captured the killer." Sherlock stated simply as Lestrade emerged from the doorway.

Lestrade paused before answering. "The suspect was captured at 1500 this afternoon. " The hesitation did not escape Sherlock's observation.

"Problem?"

"We are struggling with a motive. Donovan is interrogating him but he is still refusing to talk"

"You may find him responsive to mention of a post box, south of London where he has hidden certain documents." Sherlock offered helpfully.

Lestrade nodded and walked towards the window with his phone lifted to his ears. He was calling Donovan.

Mycroft too arrived in good time and soon they were all seated for dinner. Mycroft was seated on opposite ends of the table to Sherlock. His demeanor was awkward, as if he was not quite sure of how to behave in such social settings. Molly and Lestrade sat on one side and were happily chatting over a recent case and Mrs Hudson and John on the other, busily playing the hosts and offering everyone food and wine.

When they had finished desert, some sickeningly sweet cake that Mrs Hudson called sticky date pudding, John raised his glass, silencing everyone.

"I would like to propose a toast-" He looked at Sherlock who was frowning at him. "To Sherlock."

"Shut up, John. For god's sake-" Sherlock started, unwittingly turning a shade of crimson.

John ignored him. "For being the most arrogant, unpleasant and ridiculous asshole I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. When I returned from Afghanistan and we became flatmates, my life changed . I gained a best friend. I live my life on the edge and it is generally enjoyable because of this little bugger over here." He held his glass of wine in Sherlock's direction and this time Sherlock held his gaze, not looking away.

I think I speak for all of you in saying that life's next great adventure always follow Sherlock." He looked at Mrs Hudson, at Molly, at Lestrade and finally at Mycroft. Molly eyes were brimming with tears and Mrs Hudson was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "So thank you, Sherlock Holmes."

"John, that was beautiful dear!" Mrs Hudson sniffled.

"Here, here! Happy birthday Sherlock!" Everyone chimed and even Sherlock gave a little smile, faint pink coloring his high cheekbones. This is actually kind of nice. He thought. Thank you, John. His hand brushed John's and he let it linger there, a little longer than usual.

The evening was dying down when Mrs Hudson startled from her seat and hurried downstairs. She came huffing back upstairs with an envelope clutched in her hands. Sherlock recognized it immediately but did not rush forward to receive it. No, he told himself. Control.

"Oh Sherlock, I almost forgot to give this to you. It arrived in my mail today; I think the postman got our addresses mixed up!"

Sherlock took the envelope from her hands coolly and slid it into his coat pocket. He did not miss the suspicious look that Mycroft gave him. Ignoring it, he picked up his violin and started playing.


Everyone else had left, all tipsy from the lure of alcohol, when Sherlock finally retrieved the envelope from the pocket of his coat. John was already dead to the world and snoring upstairs.

The envelope was white and crisp in his hands. Sherlock hands were slow and steady when opening it. Using a small knife, he slit open the envelope and glanced inside. A card.

Dear Sherlock,

It's been a while. As always, even in my absence, Happy Birthday.

Sherrinford

Sherlock allowed his back to fall against the spine of the sofa. He let out a long sigh of relief. Sherrinford. 5 years since his last contact and 15 since he was last seen, but this card was evidence that he was still alive. Where have you been, brother? Mycroft is a rubbish big brother. Mycroft, who had been strangely accommodating tonight, sitting and drinking amongst the common people and showing no contempt for their intellect, or there lack of, even engaging in polite if occasionally patronizing conversations with Lestrade about the current state of the police force.

Sherlock tried to remember the last time he saw Sherrinford, but his mind was clouded. His mind palace a complicated maze difficult to traverse at the best of times, and now with a little alcohol in his system...it proved impossible to navigate. All Sherlock remembered was a dark room, rushed whispers, and a sense of urgency and danger...

His thoughts were interrupted by an unfamiliar ringtone. He frowned. A phone. Someone must have left it behind.

He looked around the room and saw the faint glow of a lit up screen on his mantelpiece. He moved to pick it up, hoping to locate its owner.

His eyes fell on the text message on the screen.

Tomorrow, 1800.

51.5072° N, 0.1275° W

SH

His initials, but the text message was not sent by him.

The phone belonged to Mycroft. His brother had let his guard down tonight. He was out of character. Something was amiss. But what? Sherlock searched his own alcohol affected brain. Something was bothering Mycroft, something dangerous, something that challenged him, something that he feared. He had drank until his usual inhibitions were no more and he succumbed to the effects of alcohol and had to be taken away by his assistant Anthea.

When Mycroft had told him last Christmas that his loss would break his heart, Sherlock had choked on his own cigarette in apparent disgust. What he failed to tell Mycroft was that he was in some remote way, close to being touched by his words.

Sherlock memorized the coordinates. Then, after slight hesitation, he deleted the text message from his brother's phone. Turning the lights off, he retired to bed. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.


Hope you enjoyed the recent chapter!