My Body is Your Vessel

by am1thirteen

Inspired by this prompt: Sherlock didn't fake his death. He is actually dead. And John doesn't know what to do with himself. He is, therefore, happy and relieved once Sherlock starts possessing him. This isn't really the above prompt's fill, I kind of took the idea from there and spun it in to something darker and more sinister. COMPLETE.

2. Chapter 2 - Hour of the Hound

MY BODY IS YOUR VESSEL

am1thirteen

Chapter 2/5 - Hour of the Hound

Four months later

BREAKING NEWS: THE BACHELOR VS DEADEYE, TODAY IN COURT

Sebastian 'Deadeye' Moran, one of the most dangerous snipers in the world, was detained over a month ago for committing at least sixty-one contract killings. Being a professional murder-for-hire, his victims largely fell within the high-profile community, including former minister Stewart Lauder, and fiction author Ronald Adair. In the last four years, Deadeye Moran is rumoured of have vanquished over one-hundred lives, each with only one lethal shot, usually aimed to the head. Moran's distinguished vocation came to a premature end when Confirmed Bachelor John Watson, former partner of amateur detective Sherlock Holmes who killed himself after being exposed as a fraud two years ago, tracked him down and shot him through his shoulder. Today at noon , Moran will be brought to trial at the Old Bailey, presenting John Watson as an expert witness to the events leading to his arrest. DI Lestrade refuses to comment as people start comparing today's trial to the disastrous trial of 'Jewel Thief James Moriarty', with Boffin Holmes as the expert witness.

"Sir,"

Mycroft puts down the newspaper.

"It's time."

XXX

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, a retired military man, gave the outward appearance of a respectable man. He was an author, an adventurer, a sportsman, and a member of London's most respectable club."

Inside a parked car on a deserted area near Warwick Square, Mycroft calmly glances at his pocket watch as he listens to John's press interview through his earpiece.

"According to my investigation, which might or might not conform to the Scotland Yard's, Colonel Moran is responsible for a rather significant number of unsolved cases in the last few years. In fact, it was one of those cases which brought my attention to him. The murder of Ronald Adair back in 2010. As most of you have probably known, he was a renowned author. You've probably read his book, the, um, Down with The Tiger."

"It was not publicly known but Mister Adair's publicist made a statement once regarding the origin of the novel's storyline. It was inspired from Mister Adair's friend's true experience when he was trapped by a tiger in the forest. The 'friend' was apparently also an author, and he actually intended to publish the same story. He was only halfway done when Mister Adair published his, and threatened to sue. A week later, Mister Adair was shot in the head while attending a charity event in Surrey. I wouldn't go into the details, but I have found solid evidence of Mister Moran's involvement in this incident, which I have imparted to the police before his arrest. All will revealed in today's trial."

Mycroft gives his chauffeur a small nod, eyes fixed on his phone. The car starts.

"What-really? You're asking about him now? No, I will not comment on Sherlock Holmes. Frankly I don't give a toss about the incriminating articles, or mad theorists with too much time on their hands. While we're at it, yes, Anderson, I know you're the 'anonymous source'. If I were you I'd be careful with that new watch. You know what they say, easy come, easy go."

"Here's the only thing you need to hear from me about Sherlock Holmes: he was my best friend and nothing will ever convince me that he told me a lie."

XXX

Mycroft leans back and sighs quietly as he looks down at the scattered array of papers and photographs on his desk. The antique clock on the corner ticks past the twelve hour mark. It is now three AM. He sweeps his tired eyes across the empty study. Sherlock returns his gaze from the dark corner of the room with empty black sockets instead of sharp pale eyes. Mycroft heaves in a deep breath and closes his eyes, willing the sinister chimera away. When he opens his eyes again, he only sees a coat stand where his overcoat is laid on. His younger brother has always signified a lot of things in his mind. He is brilliant, obstinate, petulant, arrogant, and many more. This is just one of those dreary times when he is dead.

Sherlock was alive after he jumped off from the St. Barts rooftop two years ago, Mycroft knows that much in the least. Not because Sherlock told him anything about his plan or because he helped him with his trick, obviously. It was thanks to one particularly well-positioned camera near the taxi pool at Heathrow Airport. Having dyed his hair red, Sherlock also wore a hat and enshrouded his gait with an oversized dark jacket. He actively avoided showing his face to the cameras and managed to do so quite brilliantly, there was only one brief moment with the clear shot of his face. Mycroft was only too happy to destroy the original footage and kept the only hard copy in his hidden vault. To this day he practices his restraint everyday by not viewing it every time he feels a shred of doubt about Sherlock's wellbeing. What happened to his brother from the point on is, quite unfortunately, out of his hands and his sight.

In the last two years, Sherlock predictably never sought him out for help. Every other month he would receive sighting reports from his most trusted men across the world, but no one has actually managed to get a clear sight of the consulting detective or take a decent enough picture to ease his discomfort. Sherlock might have survived the fall, but with a noble quest to unravel Moriarty's worldwide criminal webs, not even Mycroft could deduce what might or might have become of him. For all he knows, Sherlock could have been bleeding to death in a ditch or being held captive by some criminal lord in another continent by now.

When Lestrade came to tell him about Sherlock's ghost haunting John, he didn't miss the subtle grimace in 'Ruby's face. She probably didn't miss the slight twitch of his brow either as he promptly refuted the theory. His knee-jerk reaction was dread. Coming second was curiosity. All the talk about transcendent beings had caught him off-guard. Obviously there was a division somewhere that was actively investigating such matters, only not in his area. He sat there all night weighing his options, occasionally browsing some classified research files to collect the facts. The next morning, he installed military-grade surveillance in 221b. Not even 'Ruby' had the clearance to access the recorded video files. He was determined to keep the matter to himself, watching them on his phone or laptop in-between parliamentary meetings, multi-national conferences, private parties and charity events.

On the first night after the cameras were installed, John stopped dead on his track near the doorway, darting his eyes across the room with a frown before heading back downstairs, calling for Mrs. Hudson.

"Did someone come in to my flat earlier?" Mycroft could hear him ask her.

"Not that I know of, dear. I was there in the afternoon to tidy up a bit, but no one else has come."

John told her not to worry and gave her a kiss, then he re-entered the flat and came in to view again. The first thing he did was repositioning the skull, to presumably what he considered its former position. When John looked up and stared at the general direction of one of the cameras (the one hidden inside the wall behind the bison skull), for a moment Mycroft thought he was going to discover and dismantle it. But instead the doctor turned around and sat down on the chair, turning the telly on. He sat there for a long time, not once switching the channel.

A week passed before another noteworthy event occurred, namely Detective Inspector Lestrade. The inspector arrived at 221b in the afternoon, carrying an overnight bag, which was quickly stowed away in John's room upstairs (he was going to stay the night). Pleasantries were exchanged, then John started to talk about the haunting. Just as John finished his story, 'Lisa' texted him the identity and the current address of the junkie. He watched the rest of the footage inside the car, on his way to a private addiction rehabilitation centre in North London. Halfway there, he texted 'Lisa' asking for all the photos stored in John Watson's phone. He finished downloading them on his laptop ten minutes later. His attending PA threw him nervous glances from the front seat as he frowned at the screen, zooming in on the writing on the fogged mirror. The handwriting was similar to Sherlock's, and most importantly it was written with a right hand. John Watson was left-handed.

"He collapsed after the first blow," the recovering junkie, a misguided young man in mid-twenties, finally agreed to talk after some 'friendly persuasion'. "I thought, that was it. I didn't intend to kill him, I was just told to rattle him a bit, you know, send a message."

Mycroft tilted his head disinterestedly, tapping his finger on the armchair to the tempo of Boccherini's String Quintet that had been playing in the car earlier.

"When I kneeled to pat him down for his wallet and stuff, he suddenly elbowed me, right in the gut. I reeled on the ground for a while, before I knew it, he was standing next to me. There was... something was just not right, I could feel-no, I could see it. His eyes looked different." The junkie bit his lower lip, straddling his arms fretfully. "I begged him to let me go, threw my knife away, held up my hands, but he just-kept-kicking my chest. He kicked, and kicked, and kicked, and kicked... I just lost it then. When I woke up I was at the hospital. He tried to talk to me, his expression was back to normal by then but I wasn't going to take the chance. Called mum, told her to transfer me to another hospital."

"It was most informative, Mister..." Mycroft gave the impression of trying to remember the name, then held up his hand when the young man was about to remind him. "However you have failed to deliver, perhaps the most vital part of the narrative."

The junkie stared at him, baffled.

"The man's expression as he beat you down," Mycroft crossed his legs and raised his chin, "How would you describe it, I wonder."

The young man pursed his lips in disgust, brows knitted, clutching himself even tighter.

"Pretty damn chuffed I say."

XXX

FOOTAGE #89 Sherlock's Room CAM 011 CH03

( 18/02/2013 01:28 AM)

John enters the room. He doesn't switch on the light, but leaves the door open instead, letting the light from the corridor seep in to the room, just enough for him to navigate himself to the bed. As he sits down on the side, his left hand starts making repeated clenching motions, obviously distressed.

"Sherlock," he starts, voice hoarse, "I think... I think I am done... I am just done. I don't want to avoid you... avoid this anymore... I know you're here, I saw you here so many times before... Greg saw you too last night so I guess it wasn't just my imagination... I need to know if you can talk to me."

The doctor falls silent for a moment, eyes transfixed on the wall across the bed in awe. He sees something there. Something that can't possibly be happening.

"God... you're really here..." He whispers, palming his mouth, "I missed you so much, Sherlock. God help me, I do."

For a moment, it seems a little hard for him to speak. He just sits with his head low, trying to control his breathing.

"Why wouldn't you talk to me before?"

"Not a good excuse, Sherlock. People already thought I was mad the moment they learned that you're my flatmate. I already thought I was mad when I let you keep body parts where we keep food."

"No, I threw those out. It's been two years, Sherlock. TWO bloody years. Have you been here the whole time?"

A long pause.

"I see... so that's why it took you some time before you reached out to me..."

"Seriously, though, you should have just shown yourself and talked to me from the beginning. I wouldn't have cared for the bloodied head if you'd just talk like this instead of standing quietly in the corner. I'm not squeamish. A doctor, remember?"

"Why would you want to do that? Even without all the blood, you've scared him witless, for God's sake."

A giggle. "Okay, that was a bit funny. But it's no excuse to try it again. I'm dead serious. Don't do that again, to anyone you hear me?"

"Of course I am excluded, you git. You can show yourself to me anytime. Just don't do that to anybody else."

"Christ... what am I doing here... Greg asked me to tell you to go away, not to make up some bloody rules for insufferable ghosts..."

"It was just an expression! Of course I don't see other ghosts. I don't want to."

"Don't blame him too much. He is just worried about me. Maybe if you'd talk to him... nope. Maybe not. He'll probably just ward you away with crucifix and garlic."

"Heh, figured you'd have deleted pop culture and occult knowledge. That one actually requires you to know both to get."

A resigned sigh. "I don't know, Sherlock, not that much. Not really my area. I have sooner declared myself barmy before admitting your existence, remember? If you want me to, I can look it up on the internet."

"I'm still not sure if I'm comfortable with you... doing that."

"It's awfully invasive. I don't particularly enjoy waking up somewhere I don't know, not knowing what I've done."

"I know you did it to protect me, Sherlock. You even left a note. Did you-did you do that often? Coming in while I'm in the shower? No, nevermind. At the second thought, I don't really want to know."

"You really can do that? I guess I wouldn't mind it so much if I can maintain some sort of awareness during... fine, fine, we'll take it slow. One step at a time."

"No, really, I don't mind, Sherlock. I wouldn't have brought it up otherwise. It doesn't seem like you're going anywhere for some time, I can only imagine your frustration, not being able to interact with your surroundings for so long. I can do it. I will be your transport. Just... don't starve me or smoke excessively."

"I can't believe I'm getting this lecture from you, of all people."

"It was never my intention to harm myself. Especially now that we're sharing this body, I promise to take a better care of it."

A smile. "That would be fantastic. The sleep-deprivation part should be a good place to start, considering the time. Do you-do you mind if I sleep here?"

"Good night, Sherlock."

XXX

It is the second time Mycroft has driven up to a crime scene, rolled his window down and smoothly insinuated his intention to give Lestrade a ride back to New Scotland Yard. The Inspector watches his back warily before climbing up in to the backseat, next to Mycroft.

"If I may ask, what's the caution for?"

"Nothing," Lestrade huffs out a breath, clearing his throat. Mycroft pointedly raises an eyebrow, but isn't kept in suspense for long as 'Penny' promptly sends him a text about the Inspector's meddling colleagues post his rather messy divorce, and the circulating rumours about Lestrade's new rich-Mycroft decides to stop reading from that point.

"So you need to talk about something?" The Inspector shifts on his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the whole setting, even though Mycroft has especially called off two out of his three PAs and sternly warned his chauffeur-slash-bodyguard against glaring at Lestrade through the mirror.

"I'm afraid we'll still be dancing around the same issues, Inspector." He says, "It's about John Watson, and his sparked interest in press exposure. I'd say he has become quite the media darling, don't you think?"

Lestrade gives the notion a careful arc of brow. "Your brother wasn't much of a media darling himself and he had his face splashed on the front page anyway. I don't think it's his intention to attract so much attention."

"His speech earlier in front of the Old Bailey was rehearsed. And not just the words, he prepared everything down to his gestures and body language. There was a distinctive pause each time he switched expression. His appearances were impeccable, down to his tie-pin. If he only had the trial in mind, he wouldn't have gone through the trouble of picking up a new 600-pound suit. He could have entered the building through the back door but instead he braved the hordes and willingly gave an interview. He wasn't really listening to their questions, he just recited what he planned to say." Mycroft finishes with an apathetic flick of nail, "He convinced you to follow the trails that eventually led to Moran, yes?"

Lestrade's eyes narrow incredulously. "You are saying that John intentionally sought Moran out in order to be famous."

"That would be the logical assumption."

"And what for, exactly?" He challenges, "Why would he want to be famous?"

"I'm afraid I don't have enough data to process the information, Inspector. I was hoping you'd enlighten me." Mycroft states calmly, despite the other man's obvious exasperation.

"Well I'm sorry for not sharing your opinion, Mister Holmes. It's just hard to imagine. John is the least vain person I know. He might have had a surge of excess income lately from his consulting detective business. He wanted to look sharp for the trial and for once he actually had the money, I wouldn't blame him for wanting to splurge a bit. Besides..." Lestrade suddenly pauses. It only takes Mycroft one look to know that he was about to say something he wasn't supposed to. Mycroft narrows his eyes at him, wordlessly daring him to cover it up with a blatant lie. Lestrade turns out to be wiser than he looks, because after an ostensibly rather intense mental battle in his mind, he seems a little less determined to remain silent.

"Look, I know why John went after Moran." The detective's voice is even, like he is trying to be considerate, not to alarm Mycroft. "Moran was Moriarty's right hand man. It wasn't mentioned on the papers but Moran sought John out first. He sent him threatening letters and came to the clinic once to taunt him."

Mycroft looks mildly dubious. He gives the inspector an encouraging nod to continue as he texts 'Penny' to check the surveillance footage from the camera located right across John's clinic.

"Moran believed Sherlock was still alive. I read the letters. He claimed that Moriarty was dead and Sherlock was the one who had killed him. He intended to smoke Sherlock out by threatening John's life. John decided that he was too dangerous. He asked me to help him conduct an investigation to catch Moran first before he could hurt innocent bystanders the way Moriarty did." Lestrade explains.

"So you gave him access to the unresolved cases' files Moran was potentially involved with." Which is illegal, especially considering the scandal that has befallen the Scotland Yard after Sherlock's suicide.

"Moran did kill Ronald Adair, it was the only personal murder he conducted that could be directly linked to him." The Inspector emphasizes, "If he were anything like Moriarty, he could have killed more people for a game. He is a cold-blooded, vicious murderer. We've got him now. I'd do it all over again."

Mycroft returns the man's gaze, unsmiling. On the screen of his phone is the captured CCTV image of Moran, lightly disguised in dark long coat and a baseball cap, coming out of the clinic. Lestrade is telling a half-truth at least.

"You're full of surprises, Inspector. I didn't think you'd be foolish enough to risk your lifetime career for a friend, again."

"I did it plenty for your brother, not because he was a friend. I did it because he was a brilliant mind and he was right."

"And I'm supposed to take it that you hold John's intellect in the same regard too?"

"Mister Holmes," Lestrade's expression softens. Mycroft knows what he is about to say. The Inspector sat there on the same seat four months ago as he told him with a straight face that he had seen and talked to his brother's spirit. That the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, in a laughably uncharacteristic way, had told him that he had had no idea how or why he couldn't have passed on and had decided to stay in Baker Street as this... trite intangible being. The little brother he knew would have sooner found a way to kill himself all over again if it would have helped him escape the void of ennui.

"I heard you the first time when you told me you found the whole premise 'incorrigibly absurd'. However,"

"You'll excuse me for that."

"However, I want you to know that I've been working together with him for four months now, and he has never given me any reasons for doubt. I still do believe that your brother... well, he is with John now. And I like to think that he is reasonably happy with this new arrangement." Lestrade seems immensely relieved, noting that they are about to arrive at his destination. "Maybe later after you've given it some thoughts you can go see him and confirm it yourself. With your Holmesian power of deductive reasoning or something."

"Oh but I have observed, Inspector." Mycroft's tone takes a dip for the lower end, "Enough to know that whatever is in there, it is just a poor imitation of what my brother was. The good doctor's mental health wasn't too reliable to begin with. Added together with his best friend's suicide, the only anchor in his new life as a civilian... One could say that it makes up the perfect blend for... let's say for instance, multiple personality disorder?"

Lestrade sighs, wearing the same frustrated expression whenever he thought Sherlock was being purposely difficult.

"All I can say is that you should meet him yourself instead of observing him from afar. You'd know by then."

The car stops. Lestrade throws him one last concerned look before nodding his goodbye, climbing out of the car.

"Baker Street, sir?" asks his driver attentively.

Mycroft makes a dismissive motion with his hand.

XXX

FOOTAGE #204 Sitting Room CAM 002 CH01

(02/03/2013 10:23 AM)

"Good morning... John, I guess. What are you doing with that piece of flesh over there? Is that human tongue?"

John has the grace to look embarrassed, taking his face protector off and putting the solder away.

"Sorry. An experiment. Sherlock insisted."

Lestrade nods dismissively and starts looking around the flat. It has gotten a lot more lively, with Sherlock's 'dead body' mannequin lying on the sofa, some books featuring maggots for the covers on the low table, and something that has gotten charred beyond repair under the kitchen table.

"Um, is Sherlock..." Lestrade starts twirling his finger before pointing it downwards.

"Oh, no. I haven't seen him for a few hours now." John pauses, peers under the sofa, then stands back up again looking relieved despite Lestrade's open scandalized cringe. "Yep. Definitely not here."

"Ehm. Look, John, you know I'm perfectly fine with your new arrangement with Sherlock... It's just..." Lestrade starts hesitantly, placing both hands on his hips. "I'd like to know who I am dealing with, yeah? Just, maybe when you come to the crime scene, can you perhaps use something as some sort of signal to let me know if it's you or Sherlock? It would do me a world of favour."

John makes a small noise of acknowledgement, "Would the scarf be alright? I'll tell Sherlock to wear it when he goes out."

"Terrific. Ta, John," The Inspector smiles, tension leaving his back.

"It just never occurred to me before, because, well, I thought it'd be pretty obvious. Sherlock and I, we aren't exactly similar, I guess?" The doctor adds as an afterthought, looking mildly uncomfortable.

Lestrade offers him a sympathetic smile.

"Really? I've been acting like him?" John starts to laugh timidly. "But I'm not-"

Lestrade clears his throat, "It's not that I can't tell you apart. Let's just say that there are some things that you usually do your way, now you do it Sherlock's way, mostly case-related stuff. I wouldn't lose sleep over it, surely you know about Sherlock's penchant for filling up the entire room with his presence. Maybe just try to not let him occupy the entire space there, yeah?"

John nods quietly, biting his lower lip. "Yeah, thanks for the heads up, Greg."

"No problem, mate. Anyway, I think I might have a case for both of you. A man burned down his house along with his entire family- He is here right now, isn't he?"

John is glaring at something above Lestrade's head, jutting his finger, mouthing something that suspiciously sounds like 'YOU GET OFF HIS BACK RIGHT NOW ! I SAID NO FLOATING!'.

XXX

The phone call comes at around seven-thirty on a Sunday morning. Mycroft is just settling down for breakfast (egg-whites and earl grey) when 'Jen' suddenly stumbles inside the room rather gracelessly and hands him her phone, face tight with concern. A part of him would be proud to learn that his expression remains detached as he listens to a man with broken English struggle to convey the news, except that nothing else seems to matter anymore. The person is trying to tell him that they have found Sherlock's body.

An hour into the flight, Mycroft begins to feel coherent enough to start viewing the files that have been swiftly faxed to his office. It just wouldn't do to let sentiment wipe out his entire hard drive. The flight will be for another fifteen hours, an adequate time for him to... reorganize.

No word is needed. A manila folder is propped on to his table as soon as 'Jen' recognizes the gleam returning in his eyes. There are photos, but given the advanced decomposition state of the body, it is almost impossible to tell, so he skips them altogether and goes straight to the reports. There has to be something. There is always something.

XXX

FOOTAGE #326 Sitting Room CAM 002 CH04

(25/03/2013 03:42 PM)

Lestrade enters the sitting room, calling out John's name. No one answers.

Lestrade opens the door to Sherlock's room, peers inside, then closes it again. He calls out John's name again. No one answers.

Lestrade pulls out his phone and dials John's number. He puts it on for a few seconds before hanging up. Voicemail, most likely.

"Mrs. Hudson, I don't think he is here," he says, voice fading out as he steps away from the flat, "It's okay, I'll just text him. I'll skip the tea, cheers."

XXX

The weather is humid and hot 2200 miles away from London. Mycroft stops listening as soon as he ascertains that the attendant is just going to recite back the forensic report he has read. Focusing on the body-or rather, skeleton with bits of dried darkened flesh on it, Mycroft could barely restrain a cringe.

The height is about right, the bone structure matches the age and racial profile. 'Jen' has also confirmed that the dental record matches. Mycroft ignores her sideway worried glances and keeps his eyes across the body, taking in every seemingly trivial information. There is no way he is going to relate this pathetic pile of bones to his brother. If this were really Sherlock, he would have known from first time he laid his eyes on it. The fact that he is still able to make observations with cold precisions is enough of an evidence. As for the other evidences, he will find them. In time.

"He was buried shallow in an unattended field, about five kilometres from the nearest building, an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the town. Been dead for about a year. Some kids accidentally found him." The morgue attendant, a middle-aged Asian man who spoke fluent English, walks over to his desk to retrieve a cardboard box containing several plastic bags. "His clothes are mostly intact. No wallet or any kinds of identification. Fortunately we were able to extract some DNA samples from the bloodied shirt. I'll have it handed over to your assistant in a minute."

"I'm afraid that shall not be necessary," Mycroft suddenly says, looking up from the dead body with a pleasant smile. "Mister... Pho, isn't it?"

The man promptly turns to him, regarding his remark with polite curiosity.

"You have been working here for thirty years. Separated, with three teenage children, all in the custody of your wife. Which is probably for the best, considering your gambling problems and constant inebriation."

"Where did you say the body was found at?" Ignoring the unattractive gaping look in the other man's face, Mycroft casually retrieves the manila folder and flips it open, furrowing his brows. "Five kilometres from an abandoned warehouse that just happens to be the biggest underground gambling vault in town. Interesting." He puts it down again, face contorted in mock-pity. "Owed the house over fifteen thousand pounds last month. I'd say it wasn't a good month for you, but you eventually managed it pay it all back even tough your tax report claimed that you made roughly half the amount annually."

The attendant's eyes are wide with fear and disbelief, fight or flight response starting to kick in. He will soon realize that all possible exits of the room have been secured while Mycroft distracted him with his presence.

"It was the debt that did her in, you know. Your wife... Katrina. She still loved you at that point, but she couldn't risk her children's future. Wise woman." Mycroft continues, leaning casually on his umbrella. "I'd say you don't look very surprised. Did someone, perhaps another tall Englishman, come here and tell you the same thing before dropping a bundle of notes on the desk for a certain favour?"

The morgue attendant scuffles backwards, trapping himself between the wall and his desk, absolutely terrified. "N-no sir- P-p-p-please just-spare my life-"

"It was a clever ruse. Well-prepared, down to the details. Someone switched the dental records, right from under my nose. Someone who had access to my credentials. Someone who knew how to utilize the flaw in the system. Someone who had tried it before." Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock

"He made sure nothing could be picked up from the body for identification. Every clue, every piece of evidence would be the one he supplied, including the DNA sample. You see, I don't need to run the test, I know it will be a match. He knew I would have been suspicious but there would have been nothing I could have used against him. His plan was immaculate, except for the part where you're involved. The body is clean, but you are practically dripping with clues. That would be his only oversight. Pity."

Mycroft approaches the man in strides, reaching in to his suit pocket, relishing his horror-stricken features as he leans close and whispers, "Before you answer the following question, please be assured that your best bet at avoiding jail-time for fraud and twenty-year-long embezzlement is to get on my good side."

The smile fixed back on his face, he pulls away, patting the trembling man casually on his shoulder. On the desk, 'Jen' has spread out an old black-and-white newspaper clipping of Sherlock and John, standing side by side after receiving the diamond cufflinks Sherlock never got around to wear (because all of his cuffs had buttons).

"The man who gave you the body and told you to report it as Sherlock Holmes, do you see him there?"

The attendant stumbles forward and braces himself on the table with two wobbly hands, lowering his head to look at the faces more closely.

"T-t-the blond man here," he squeaks out pitifully, "He's the one."

XXX

FOOTAGE #354 Sitting Room CAM 002 CH04

(28/03/2013 02:06 AM)

John enters the flat, dragging a large suitcase in to Sherlock's room.

XXX

FOOTAGE #357 Sherlock's Room CAM 011 CH03

(28/03/2013 02:07 AM)

John dumps the suitcase on the floor, pausing to catch his breath. He takes off his gloves, his scarf and his coat, then closes the door. The room is pitch black now.

XXX

FOOTAGE #357 Sherlock's Room CAM 011 CH03 NIGHT MODE

(28/03/2013 02:10 AM)

John is nowhere to be seen. The suitcase lays open on the floor. It is empty.

XXX

It is the third time Mycroft drives up to the crime scene. He hasn't rolled down his window yet. The police cars are starting to disperse, leaving the scene (typical house-breaking, the part-time gardener did it) one by one. He still has time. Lestrade is usually one of the last ones to leave.

Mycroft glances at his pocket watch, then looks out the window again. Two cars left, one of them is Lestrade's. He has to decide now.

His phone chimes. A text message from 'Jen'.

JW IS IN POSITION.

He slips his blackberry back in to his pocket, sighing quietly. When he glances back outside, Lestrade is standing in front of the house, talking to his new sergeant. The other car has left.

"Baker Street, sir?"

Mycroft nods.

As the car starts moving, he throws one last glance at Lestrade's direction. The Inspector is now approaching his own car, keys in hand.

"Not going to pick up the good officer, sir?" asks his driver attentively.

Mycroft leans back, closes his eyes and ignores him.

XXX

Mycroft steps out of the car, umbrella first. His black three-piece suit is immaculate, his expression is controlled, his hands are steady. The amount of preparations he has gone through for this moment is laughably copious. It's the North Korea crisis all over again. The sweaty palms, the unpleasant grip of uncertainty, the overwhelming dread of a high-stakes gambling. There would be no backup plan to fall on to. There is no way but forward. There is no alternative but to win.

The sky is dark and gloomy, the wind is picking up speed. It has started to drip. Mycroft takes it as an invitation. He rings the doorbell.

"Mycroft! Come on in. Oh dear, I think a storm is coming."

A storm is coming alright, Mrs. Hudson.

In the end, it wouldn't matter whether his little brother really resides inside his flatmate's body or not, no. Mycroft refuses to even give the notion a chance. John Watson has attempted to manipulate him. He is going to tell his story, unveil his reasons. Then he is going to pay.

"Here to see John? He's upstairs, you can go ahead, I'll bring up some tea later."

John doesn't have enough resources to pull it off, both intellectually and financially. He shouldn't have been able to. There is someone behind his back, someone clever, powerful and brilliant. Mycroft will wrangle the name out of him if it is the last thing he's going to do.

"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Hudson. I'm not staying for long."

John has military training, and Sherlock's training as well. It will not be easy to detain him, but Mycroft has a special troop with MI6 training behind him. If anything, John will be outnumbered. He will be placed in a secure facility, where a team of specialists will crack his enigma, bringing reasons to his conundrum.

"In this storm? Don't be silly, dear! You are Sherlock's brother, I can't possibly chase you out in this weather! You should stay for a while, at least until the sky clears up."

Sherlock.

It feels like he's just been hit with a barrage of bricks. He remembers why he hasn't attempted this approach at the first place. Sherlock will never forgive him for this. It wouldn't matter whether his brother is still alive or not. If he lays a finger on John Watson, he will lose Sherlock all the same. In the end, family is all that he's got, and he almost loses it all.

As if on cue, a violin solo starts playing upstairs. Bach's Sonata no. 1 in G.

John Watson has never touched a violin in his life, his mind helpfully supplies.

Ignoring Mrs. Hudson's frantic calls, Mycroft turns around and leaves. The music halts abruptly as he closes the door behind him.

XXX

SIR, PLEASE HEAD STRAIGHT HOME. CODE RED.

Mycroft turns his phone off and stays inside the unmoving car for two hours.

XXX

'Helen' is standing near the front gate, blackberry tucked in her coat pocket. That alone should have said something about the urgency of her earlier message. The car stops and she climbs inside, not a strand of hair out of place despite the rather vicious wind blowing outside.

"Sir, the younger Mister Holmes is here." She says, not as carefully as Mycroft would have preferred.

"Where is he?" Mycroft asks, not as composedly as he would have preferred.

XXX

"Really, Mycroft? Kidnapping and assault? Did you teach your goons nothing about manners?"

For a moment Mycroft just stands by the door, gripping the handle of his umbrella tightly. Sherlock has always signified a lot of things in his mind. Right now he is brilliant, obstinate, petulant, arrogant, sitting on an armchair inside his childhood bedroom with tousled red hair, guarded by six trained combatant officers, and alive.

"As far as I'm concerned, they are just escorting you home." He smoothly countered with a lopsided smile before settling down on the opposite chair, umbrella tucked away to the side.

"They put a bag over my head and dragged me away in front of hundreds of people," hisses his brother sullenly, "You think I put on this asinine getup for laughs? I wear it because I don't want to attract attention!"

"Now don't be too cross, brother dear. Surely you have taken the risk of such treatment into account upon deciding to return to London." Mycroft leans back on his chair, crossing his legs, ignoring the thrums in his chest that wouldn't shut up about his brother being alive.

"You are here for Sebastian Moran, I presume."

"I am here because John is being dull by putting himself at risk," Sherlock drawled out with great repugnance. "I would have taken care of Moran eventually, but he deliberately taunted him and made himself a target to the rest of the organization. Half of them must have occupied Baker Street already, preparing for a coup de main."

Mycroft arcs an eyebrow, "Taunted him, how?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter. He must have done something, I know he did. Moran had been laying low for a few years after murdering the author. He knew he made a mistake by committing a personal killing. He had no reason to move back to London to get shot by an ex-army doctor. Implausible."

Mycroft clutches the armrest just a little tighter. His first instinct was right. John did aim for Sebastian Moran. Although the sniper did come to the clinic, it didn't necessarily mean that Moran taunted John. It was the other way around. John must have done something to draw his attention, as the man has been acting suspicious for several weeks with his random disappearances from the flat.

"You need to bug the flat, if you haven't already." Sherlock suddenly says, "Also security details. You've got too many lying around here with nothing better to do anyway."

"I shall see to it," Mycroft agrees, sighing quietly, "On one condition."

"Fine, I'll stay here temporarily. Whatever. It's too risky after the stunt your goons pulled at the airport anyway." Sherlock pulls his legs up and cradles his knees petulantly. "But I refuse to be confined here. Let me in the control room. I need to see Jo-the flat."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "There is no control room, this is not a government-funded residence. I'll arrange for a laptop to be delivered here in a few minutes."

"And some respectable clothes." Sherlock adds, "And some Herbatint."

Mycroft looks vaguely surprised.

"I take it that you're ready to come back from the death then?"

Sherlock lets out a long-suffering sigh.

"I'm never dead, Mycroft. I'd rather you get used to the concept as soon as possible."

XXX

TBC