Author's Note:

Well, after that fantastic start, I hoped I'd be able to churn out the next installment quickly. …no such luck. Between some writer's block, college prep, college itself, and weekend exhaustion… yup. But, finally, here we are!

All right, so! In Mortality proper, we had Clash of the Titans: Mycroft vs. Moriarty. But that Clash was actually Round 2. The sequence you're about to read is Clash of the Titans, Round 1. Can you guess who our combatants are? No? Well, enjoy!

To my reviewers:

aragonite: SQUEEETHANKYOU! ;D I know—it's always something of a punch in the gut whenever I write Sherlock and Mycroft together, because I love them both so much and yet they're so different. They're almost always at odds because of that, even though either of them would kill to keep the other safe. It's pretty heartbreaking, really. Again, thanks so much!

Historian1912: These scenes will be in the final version, yes. Sorry if I didn't make that clear earlier… *frowns at self* Thanks muchly, and I hope you've been doing just fine in college! ;-)

MadameGiry25: Your alerts didn't work? Hmm, that's not good… I think I ought to be able to fit this into Chapter 25 pretty seamlessly, but thanks for the offer! Wow, really? After gushing over Mycroft the entire book, this is your favorite scene with him? =D I know what you mean, though: I really enjoyed drawing out that vulnerability. I seem to like to do that to these tough and/or larger-than-life figures… Yeah, the Ecclesiastes quote definitely worked better abbreviated. YES, Tankerville! Here's hoping you think it works better this time around! (Or, at least, what I have posted of it, thus far…) Thank you, darling!

Ennui Enigma: Thank you so much for… well, the entire review! *grins like an idiot and hums happily* A time to write and a time to read, indeed! =D

Ranger-Nova: Thanks so much, hon! Ah, I am SO sorry I haven't replied to your, well, birthday present, yet! =( I saw it in my inbox right before we left for a weekend getaway, and then right after we got home, college started up. It's been a frenetic two weeks for me. But I really, really LOVED my present. *tackle-hug* Are you going to post it up? It's too adorable NOT to share with the rest of the Beer fans!

© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.

All rights reserved.

==2. Major Watson, pt 1==

Characters: Sherlock, Mycroft
Rating: T
Word Count: 1,704
Warnings: none
Setting: Chapter 4: The Highest Degree Sinister. Replaces Holmes's infection by Culverton Smith as the final scene of the chapter.

John Watson considered the possibility that he was masochistic. Two wounded limbs which ached inconsolably in inclement (especially cold) weather, and, out of all the destinations on earth, he chose to live in London. But after nearly ten years and Sherlock Holmes, he could not imagine living anywhere else.

"Are you nervous, John?"

The doctor smiled fleetingly at the avuncular chuckle and turned to his former mentor. "Perhaps. I recall Holmes mentioning the Tankerville once: he said that he'd cleared a Major Prendergast of a charge of cheating at cards."

"Prendergast!" boomed Hayter, laughing. "He still attends. They tell me he was rather a wild sort back in the day, so I'm not a bit surprised at the accusation."

Shaking his head fondly, John merely returned his gaze to the window on his side of the cab and massaged his game leg. Colonel Matthias Hayter was a tall, well-built man, hale and hearty in his middle age. John would not be a bit surprised if his onetime patient would outlive him. Hayter spent his so-called declining years between his Reigate estate and a town house, with an eye towards ducks in the former and an ear towards gossip in the latter. He often declared that there was nothing so entertaining as hearing of the foibles and follies of his fellow man.

In that, the Colonel certainly resembled Holmes in his odd fits of humour. Larger-than-life men, both of them. They had got on splendidly during that aborted holiday on Hayter's estate. John leant his head against the wall of the cab and allowed the Colonel's boisterous voice to flow over him, relating the latest of society in an ironical tone.

So much for gossip being the province of women! John grinned briefly at the thought.

Colonel Hayter had come up from Surrey for the holidays, albeit rather early. "Hallow's Eve, All Saints, and All Souls are more interesting in the town than they are in the country," he had once told John. Now the Colonel had talked John at last into accompanying him to his club, the Tankerville. The club was designed solely for army officers.

John's own brief tenure with the army had granted him the rank of assistant-surgeon, only—he had commanded no troops, only orderlies, and his rank of Major was more honorary than actual.

But Hayter was not one to take "no" for an answer. "You shall be unfit to practise medicine much longer if you don't look after yourself, lad," he'd declared. However, whereas John would have been perfectly content with a quiet evening at home with his lovely wife, the Colonel insisted that the doctor needed a more social setting for relaxation. How Hayter could possibly consider the din of a military club to relaxing was beyond John's powers to fathom.

And no sooner had the doctor stepped through the double doors of the Tankerville than he felt completely out of place. The club was on the first floor of the building—the doors opened up to a short hall which led to a flight of stairs. The outward appearance could not be more ordinary.

The inside could scarcely be less so.

The Tankerville Club, despite its plebeian name, was one of the most opulent establishments John had ever set foot in. Oak floors, cherrywood panelling, mahogany furniture, enormous chandeliers… it was more a palace in miniature than a club. Even Mycroft's precious, luxurious Diogenes could not compete with the sheer decadence of this place.

Now that John thought about it, a social setting would not have been so bad for relaxation, but John would vastly have preferred the Crooked Arrow. A friendly pint or two with Lestrade, Bradstreet, perhaps MacDonald or Morton and possibly Gregson would have been just the thing.

John felt Hayter's gaze on him and knew the older man could sense the turn of his thoughts. "John," Hayter murmured warningly.

John felt bound to make the attempt. "Could we not have gone to a respectable pub?"

"Come along, m'boy." Hayter took him by the shoulders and steered him into the common room, at which point John sighed and decided to make the best of it. After all, Holmes had been dragging him around for nearly a decade—surely he could endure anything by now.

There was no lack of variety in the physical features of the club members, but most shared the same permanent tan John and Hayter bore. And all were recognisably military men in their evening suits.

Hayter's name was called, and he turned aside to greet the man, though not before a press on John's arm to follow. John ignored the summons and moved on, drinking in the vast room and its occupants with the eyes of a writer.

The ostentatious hall was a grand tribute to the wealth and power of the British Empire, maintained by the men the room serviced. But it was rather too splendid in John's eyes, so very exquisite as to be nearly effeminate. It was the very antithesis of what he and his fellow soldiers endured when they fought for Queen and country.

"I beg your pardon," said a boyish voice, "but you are new here, are you not?"

John's focus telescoped inward once more and settled upon the man before him, some three or four years his junior. The man's skin was, amusingly, much darker than his corn-silk hair, and his grey-blue eyes sparkled affably out of his bronzed, handsome face. He was about John's height and wiry rather than stocky in build.

The doctor instinctively liked him. "I am. I was invited by a friend. Major John Watson, at your service."

The bronzed face creased into something just short of a grin, revealing boyish dimples. "Major Dick Sharon, at yours."

John smiled as they shook hands. "Dick?"

Sharon shrugged one-shouldered. "Richard Sharon always sounded too pretentious for my tastes. I enlisted under 'Dick'—rather to my dad's vexation, I might add—and that was that."

John chuckled. "I was tempted to try out 'Jack' for a change when I enlisted, but I decided against it."

"Good for you," said Sharon. "You look fully a John."

John chuckled again, deciding that Major Sharon must be a favourite amongst their generation of officers. His warmth and charm was not a bit affected—the kind of man who loved life and enjoyed sharing it with others.

"You say a friend invited you?"

John nodded. "Colonel Matthias Hayter."

The other man's face brightened further. "Hayter! Well!" He clapped John on his bad shoulder, and John hid a wince as dull pangs shot down his already-pained arm. "Any friend of that old rascal is more than welcome in the Tankerville! So, where have you served?"

"India, very briefly, and Afghanistan," John said factually. "Second Afghan War. I was originally with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, but I was reattached to the 66th Berkshires."

Sharon's pale eyes went round. "Maiwand?" he all but whispered. Of course, he did not need John's confirming nod—every army man knew the fate of the 66th Berkshires. "Good heavens. And you…"

"Left shoulder. Jezail."

Sharon winced as he obviously realised that he'd clapped that exact shoulder.

"I was invalided out after Candahar," John continued, "and that was the end of my brief military career."

"Poor fellow," Sharon commiserated. "I've been in India myself since '79—I'm on a two-month furlough just now."

"I should have liked to stay in India," John mused, recalling his moments of lucidity in that Indian hospital. "For all its perils, it is a land of enchantment."

Sharon nodded. "It is that. I—"

"Dick!" someone called from a nearby table. "Are you coming? We're dealing!"

"One moment!" Sharon called back. "Well, Watson, what say you to poker?"

John shook his head, smiling. "You go ahead. Perhaps I shall join later."

"You do that," Sharon said firmly before turning toward his table. "A pleasure meeting you, Watson."

"Likewise," said John. He watched Sharon take a seat at a table filled with men in their thirties before returning his gaze to the room about him. He found his eyes searching the throng for any familiar faces, but if there were any men he had known in his pre-London life, they must have changed considerably in the past decade.

After another two minutes or so to himself, he was rejoined by Hayter. "Well, well, if you didn't want to follow me everywhere this evening, I shan't hold it against you, my boy," said the Colonel. "I did notice that you were not entirely alone."

"No, I was not," John agreed. "Do you know Dick Sharon?"

"Yes, indeed, the young scoundrel." Hayter's green eyes twinkled. "Oh, there's not a devious bone in his body, bless him, but the lad enjoys the ladies' company at social events. I do hear that there's a native girl in India who has caught his eye—I suppose we shall see how distance and time affect the relationship."

As he spoke, Hayter manoeuvred John through the tables to one near a tiger skin gracing the wall with its glory. John had never before seen one so enormous, and, for a long moment, he was back in the jungles of India, watching the king of Indian beasts prowl his domain.

An amused voice broke into his reverie. "Do you like him?"

John reluctantly tore his gaze away and faced the speaker, a man taller and even more powerfully-built than Hayter. He was certainly past fifty, but even a long tenure in the Queen's service had not damaged his handsome, chiselled features. His dark, angular face could have passed for either a philosopher or a ladies' man, incredibly enough. His Prussian blue eyes danced as he regarded the newcomer.

"He is magnificent," John said feelingly. "Is he yours?"

The older man smiled. "He is, indeed—one of my two finest." He stroked one hind leg affectionately. "The other I must keep in my house to brag over."

John laughed outright as the man winked at him.

"Well, Hayter," the hunter boomed amiably. "I see that you have at last brought your protégé."

John felt the colour rising to his cheeks.

Hayter beamed. "I have, indeed. John, meet Colonel Sebastian Moran."

Author's Note:

WHAM.

That's the kind of line that you end a Doctor Who episode on, isn't it? ;D But, in all seriousness, I'm sure most or all of you saw it coming. As soon as you saw the tiger, I'm sure you saw it coming.

Now here's the problem—this is a major pain to fit into the pre-existing story. I'm still trying to work out the rest of this sequence, and transitioning it to pre-existing scenes… Lotta work. *sigh* So this will take some time, again, to update. Terribly sorry about that, but there really isn't much I can do.

Oh, and btw! I'm now on Tumblr, under my blog name "A Study in Sherlockiana." Also, keep an eye on my deviantART account, aleineskyfire, because I think there'll be some brand-new art, courtesy of college, showing up there soon. ;D

Anyhoo, you know the drill! Stay tuned AND…

Please review!