Being too tired to even think, the doctor flopped in bed beside his very pregnant wife and quickly fell asleep. In the morning, however, was a different story. The driver last night claimed to be the third brother of Mycroft and Sherlock, who never mentioned such a thing to him. He said that he was middle child and had yet to even tell his name. John was not allowed to ask Sherlock or anyone about him and had to wait when the right moment occurred. He told the doctor that he'll know when that happens, but John wanted to demand to Sherlock about this third brother if there ever was one. It did make sense, though, that Mycroft was ten years older, but what was the reason behind keeping their own brother a secret.
John wanted to tell someone about this, but he could tell no one, not even his beloved wife, who was sitting across from him at the table eating breakfast. He tried to act normal and not think about anything, but that was the hard part. He just wanted to grab his phone and call his best friend, asking him questions about a third brother.
"So, I was thinking," Mary began with a smile, breaking his thoughts, "I'm going to go with the girls today to let you do whatever you want." She then lightly gasped in realization. "Oh, I forgot. How was the case last night?" She looked at him with gentle blue eyes and a loving smile.
The doctor nodded at his wife. "It was good. Yeah. Very good." He drew his cup of tea to his lips.
"Who was it?" She eagerly asked as she leaned forward, staring at him with an impatient smile as she was biting her lip.
It always amused him how she got excited about the cases like it's her own personal crime show.
"It was actually the sister," he answered as he placed his cup down.
"No," she whispered in disappointment as she leaned back in her chair. "That's sad. Really?" She looked at him with heartfelt eyes. "That's sad."
"Yep. Her own sister," he replied with a deep breath as he looked at his tea.
It wasn't the sister who had died, it was her husband of two months killed by her brother due to jealousy. As sad as it was, it was not the first that something as sad happened in their career.
"Well, that's a shame," Mary sighed as she picked up her own cup of tea.
"Yeah," he muttered, not really paying attention as his mind went to the memories of what happened after the case. Then looked at his wife. "You said that you're going out today?"
Mary nodded. "Yeah. With the girls."
"Alright." He nodded as he sipped on some tea.
Then he heard his phone sound from the kitchen counter sound, notifying that he got a text. Excusing himself from the table, he made his way to the counter that was close by, seeing that it was Sherlock, he read the text. He closed the phone and sighed. "Sherlock needs me and I need to go." He grabbed his keys that were in arms reach off the counter, and headed for the coatrack to grab his tan coat.
"What is it?" Mary asked as she looked over her shoulder at him.
He walked up to her and kissed her cheek. "He's Sherlock. He never says what, just come." He headed for the door. "Have fun, love."
"Bye!"
Then he was out the door to the car.
On his way to Baker Street, John was hoping that Sherlock somehow knew about last night and about this third "brother" of his. Soon he'll know what the detective wants. When he arrived, he calmly made his way to the flat, expecting to find the two brothers, but as usual, it was just Sherlock laying on the couch with his hands together in front of his lips. "Could you pass me a pen?"
John just stood at the doorway, and slowly closed it as he was trying to make sense of his friend, knowing that there was no sense to him at all. "A pen?" He repeated, slightly leaning forward.
"Yes, a pen," Sherlock answered with dryly with annoyance. "Do I really need to repeat myself?"
"You told me to come here to hand you a pen?" This was not the first time his friend asked him to do something like this, but it never ceased to amaze him.
"Yes."
John sighed as he rolled his eyes, staggering to the table to pick a pen up and toss it to his friend, who caught it in midair. "Anything else?" He asked with dry sarcasm, hoping that there wasn't.
"No," the detective answered as if bored as he drew his hand back to his lips.
"Is that really it?" All this way for a bloody pen?
Sherlock looked at him with his pale-blue eyes as if he was deducing. "You are keeping something from me." His eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why?"
Before John could open his mouth, Sherlock's phone went off.
The detective picked it off the floor beside the couch and began to read a text. "Oh," he chirped. "Molly just got new eyeballs for me. Good." He began to text something, closed the phone, and placed it back on the floor. "In a hour I am going to pick them up."
"Experiment?" He dumbly asked.
"Of course." He looked at him. "Want to come?"
John shook his head, not interested at all. "Naw."
Sherlock looked back at the ceiling. "Shame."
The doctor looked down, wondering if he should bring up the strange man or not. He knew Sherlock had the right to know, but the man could be lying. It seemed like he wasn't or he was just a very excellent liar. Either way, Sherlock had to know. He looked at his friend and right when he was about to open his mouth, Sherlock got another text, making him close it again. He watched the detective read the text and saw that his eyes slightly grew, then relaxed. He slowly sat up, rereading the text.
"Something wrong?" He asked, hoping that there wasn't trouble that they needed to rush to.
"Someone wants to meet me tonight."
"Who?"
"Don't know. Unknown number," he murmured, then began to reply.
"It might be Moriarty."
"It's not. Moriarty wouldn't be straightforward." He hit the "send" button. "This one is straight to the point. 'Available tonight at your flat for a meeting? Either way, I'm coming. Just be there.'"
"Sounds like Mycroft," John muttered as his eyes faded away from his friend, wondering if it was the man that claimed to be the third brother.
Sherlock said nothing as he got a instant reply.
"What now?" John asked, returned his gaze back to the detective.
"I said that I was available and he replied with 'Good. Make sure John is there.'" He began to type a reply and sent it. "Told him that you were."
"Yeah," he muttered, knowing that Sherlock would say that without asking if the doctor had any plans with his pregnant wife. Good thing he didn't, otherwise she might be in one of those unfriendly moods and would hate to make her unhappy.
Another instant reply.
"'Good. See you at eight.' Looking… Forward… to it," he murmured as he typed, then closed the phone.
John's own phone then went off, making him pull it out from his coat. When he saw the unknown number, his blood ran cold. "Mary," he told Sherlock, to reassure his friend. He opened the phone and read the text:
Did you tell him?
Knowing what the writer meant, he simply typed. "No."
"How is Mary?" Sherlock's voice broke into his thoughts.
John smiled at him. "Good. She's just going with some friends right now."
"Send her my love."
"Will do." Then remembered that he had to be here at eight, he texted his wife to tell her that he'll be gone till later tonight and got a response, saying "Okie-dokie" with a smilie face.