I am in the mood to write and after your kind remarks I think this will be getting a bit longer. I love Mycroft. And Mary… oh Mary… Prepare yourself for the hunt on Moriarty. And people dying. Or not?

Chapter 2: Traces

Three months later

Mycroft Holmes sat on his chair, hands neatly folded on the top of his desk, a statue of calmness and control. He could fool anyone with that pose, anyone but himself – and maybe his brother. Lady Smallwood never even cared to look at him properly. Perhaps she would have seen: The utter exhaustion in his eyes, the far too tight lips telling about his anxiety and the sweet pearls on his forehead spoke volumes of how tiring the last three months had been. Three months of covering tracks. Three months making sure no one knew, especially his little brother. Three months without proper sleep and attempts not to know what someone else was doing not really behind his back.

"So everything you tell me, Mycroft, is that neither you, nor your people, nor anyone else in the bloody damn business has a clue who is behind this complot, or whatever you might call it?"

"If you put it so: Yes." Mycroft could not even believe that his voice could sound so calm while lying to one of the most important people in the country: Lady Smallwood. Again. But who cared. They all came and went. She was not the queen. And Mycroft had more than once even lied to the prime minister.

She turned around, her eyes glaring. "This is not a joke."

"Oh lady Smallwood, please be assured: It is not. To be honest it is a security nightmare I would rather not encounter ever again." And that was not even a lie this time.

"So no trace of Moriarty or whoever is behind this. You and every intelligent officer had convinced me Moriarty was dead after the incident with your brother. And suddenly out of nowhere he is back. And at what a convenient time."

A line like a punch in his gut, well aimed and nearly hitting the core of a secret operation – Mycroft had to take a deep breath to stop himself from flinching. "What are you implying?"

"Don't play dumb on me, Mycroft." She was now leaning over his desk, very controlling for a woman who has nearly lost all control over her life because of her husband's stupid love affair – even if it was only in letters. "We both know: Whoever hides his traces that well has to be a genius. A genius like your brother who happened to be shipped off to a deadly operation and just at that exact moment Moriarty comes back. Tell me that this is just a lucky coincidence."

"I don't know if it is lucky, but a coincidence it is. You can't be implying my brother had something to do with this. He was in prison. And you got to know which state he was in. You have seen it." Mycroft seldom raised his voice but the mixture of fury and fear got the better of him.

Lady Smallwood lent back on her heals and smiled. "Maybe not him, but someone has made sure your brother could be staying in this country. Maybe not him, but someone close to him?"

Mycroft slowly rose from his chair. "If there is someone else behind this, someone other than Moriarty, I will make sure to catch him."

"Oh sure, you do." Lady Smallwood smiled again, well-mannered as she was raised but with a hint of annoyance. What did that woman think? That he would be so easily to break? Or was it simply a shot in the dark? He could take no risk.

"Would you please excuse me now, my lady? I have work to do and criminals to catch, as you so nicely laid out to me." He gestured towards the door, somewhat rude but he was beyond care. Mycroft felt nauseous. When was the last time he had eaten properly? Breakfast at five, after that two hours meeting at his office, than Downing Street, back to do some office work… How late was it? 4 pm. He should have taken a break. But there was simply no time.

"Mycroft?"

"Oh excuse me. Yes?"

"I said: Do we see each other in the meeting tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, yes, of course." How could he have missed that question?

"Oh and Mycroft: Please be sure that you can trust your own brother. It would be a shame if you would fall over another of his mistakes. This one would be really too grave."

He glared at her in his most intimidating manner but she did not even flinch. "I am sure. And now: Goodbye."

He opened the door and let her out of his office, Mycroft turned before she could make another remark. But then he held himself back and smiled at her again. "Oh and Lady Smallwood, before you start a manhunt on my brother, please consider who had taken him into this messy business with Magnussen. It was you, was it not?" She paled. "Or was it your husband." And with that he closed the door into her face.

"You have to take it more lightly, Mycroft. I told you so. And now breathe. Deep in and out." Good god, why had his inner John Watson always have to come out at times like this. Mycroft stumbled. He never stumbled. And this sweat was not normal. He had to pause before he even reached his chair, holding onto his desk. This was beyond the typical nausea that has plagued him for days now. "You should really look after your health." God, John, shut up.

A fiery pain ripped through his chest and his left arm started to throb. Shit. Shit.

Mycroft slowly walked the last one and a half meter to his chair and slowly let himself glide down. Surely he could simply breathe it away. It had worked the other times. In and out. "Mycroft don't be an idiot and call an ambulance." When had his voice of reason become that of John Watson?

The next wave of pain hit him with even more force. And now Mycroft was worried. No correction: Terrified. With shaking hands he pulled out his phone. Where was his assistant when he needed her? Right. Sent to kidnap his brother.

"Shee… Sherlock." Mycroft was shivering now and he felt himself gliding out of his chair. He had to tell his brother to stop his hunt for Moriarty. He had done so before. But now… god, if he was no longer able to cover every trace that Watson-woman left, she would be caught. Or not. Or. When had his mind stopped working properly? And why was he on the floor? And the phone? Why exactly was it in his hand?

"Oh brother dear, tell me again: When did you stop texting and started phoning me, again?"

That voice. Was it real? Another wave of pain hid him and this time he could not keep himself from groaning.

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock should better stop talking now, he sounded like a child. His voice had this tiny little hint of panic in it like those time he had messed with Mycroft's experiments and something had gone wrong – again.

"You seem to be in a hurry today, first sending your assistant to kidnap me and then phoning, too. Mycroft?"

"Breathe. Don't stop breathing." Oh hi there, John again. So calm. His brother's voice on the line now had a more panicking sound.

Oh, and there was his old friend pain again. Hello. Missed me? Missed me? Missed me?

Where was that coming from?

"Mycroft tell me: Is it Moriarty? Mycroft? Shit, talk to me. We are nearly there. Whatever he is doing to you, I'll get you. Do you listen? Mycroft? Myc? Brother, please…"

The voice was slowly fading. Where had it come from, again?

He was slowly fading away. Sleep. Dear me, sleeping sounded so appealing. Remind me, when did I sleep the last time? Oh…

To be continued