Chapter Two - The British Government

John took both cups from Sherlock and the taller man crawled back into bed beside him. The detective settled against the headboard, ankles crossed, and took his tea back from John with an adorable yawn. John had just taken his first sip of tea when their cosy bubble of newly discovered something-more-than-friendship was burst, unsurprisingly, by Mycroft Holmes. The text alert caused both men to groan in unison.

"Ignore it," Sherlock glanced at his phone where it sat on his bedside table, irritation easy to read in his tone and the scowl that flashed over his beautiful face. John didn't need to be told twice. He'd learned not to get involved when it came to the elder Holmes brother. Sherlock had once described him as the most dangerous man John had ever met and although he had never actually caused John any harm - despite his constant insistence on making each of their meetings as intimidating as possible - John didn't doubt that it was true. That the power held by the man he'd heard described as 'the British government' was far more dangerous than he could comprehend. Mycroft Holmes himself had related his and Sherlock's relationship to him on their first meeting as somewhat difficult, and had even gone so far as to call himself Sherlock's arch enemy. Ridiculous - but not totally inaccurate.

John had a complicated enough relationship with the detective himself, possibly even more so after the events of this evening. He had a hard enough time getting his head around that, without pointlessly involving himself in their childish sibling rivalry, if it could even be explained in such simple terms.

They slouched beside each other in Sherlock's bed, but any chance they'd previously had of enjoying the rest of the night in each other's company had already been besmirched before the second text alert sounded. This time it was John's phone buzzing away in the living room. As much as it pained John to accept that their night might not end with Sherlock falling asleep, long limbs wrapped about him in perfectly restful peace, he knew that there was no way either of them could resist their curiosity for long.

"Might be important . . ." John muttered, sipping his tea.

"Important . ." Sherlock mocked, more in imitation of Mycroft than of John. "I seriously doubt it, Mycroft claimed today's case was 'important' . . . he's played that card already today and I'm not going to fall for it twice. He can learn his lesson the hard way if he wants. Let him stew." The detective brought his own cup to his lips but despite John's not so sly sideways glances, he couldn't bring himself to drink. He was thinking.

Before Sherlock could stop himself he'd made a grab for his phone, almost sloshing tea all over them both. John grinned, enjoying Sherlock's lack of control and zero ability to stop himself from delving into yet another mystery. Sherlock's eyes flashed briefly over the screen and then he was tapping at the keys, faster and faster until with a stiff jerk of the head, he stopped. John waited for the detective to tell him what the text had said but he just sat there tense, brow furrowed in concentration. John peered sideways up at his friend's face and nudged him gently with his elbow.

"Something's wrong? What is it?" the doctor didn't want to make his friend irritable as he sometimes was when John asked too many questions. But something about the way Sherlock had reacted had him spooked. Sherlock kept his eyes glued to the phone but spoke quietly, obviously still deep in thought.

"Not only does Mycroft not text when he can phone, but he doesn't text full stop, he has people who do that for him. He's always to the point and doesn't waste time with sentiment and frivolities at least not when relating messages to his staff to distribute accordingly - so why on this occasion would I be receiving a text from my brother incorporating the phrase - My dear little brother. It's something he would say, to be certain, but would he have one of his staff actually type out those particular words?"

His thumb tapped the backspace button where he'd begun to type a reply, clearing the text and staring once again at the suspicious message. John sat up properly and swung his legs off the bed and onto the floor. He hurried into the living room remembering only when he was on his way back, phone in hand, that he was stark bollock naked. He tried not to look too embarrassed as he slipped back under the covers beside Sherlock. The taller man stared but the expression on his face was completely distracted. He took the phone before John had the chance to look at it himself, and read the message out loud.

"Please have my brother get in touch as soon as possible. This is a matter of the utmost importance. - M Holmes"

"M Holmes!" Both men exclaimed in unison. This was not the usual manner of Mycroft's texts at all. They stared at each other for the briefest of moments in silence before the whole world seemed to burst into a whirl of sound and movement. Both phones rang at the same time, numbers withheld, and Sherlock was up on his feet again, sheet clad and moving like a white blur across the room and out into the hallway.

"Don't answer!" he called over his shoulder as he whirled away. John could hear banging coming from downstairs. Someone was at the front door. Following closely behind Sherlock as he entered the living room, John made a dash for the basket of clean laundry sitting beside the couch where he'd left it the day before, and rummaged through the neatly ironed and folded clothes until he found a fresh pair of pants and jeans. He had on his underwear, and had one leg into his favourite denims when he heard Mrs Hudson's shrill voice as she answered the incessant barrage at the door. She made not too delicate a point of stating the time at the top of her lungs. The door was slammed and they heard more shouting as the intruder barrelled up the stairs past Mrs Hudson's vain protests. John lost his balance trying to get his left leg into the other leg of his trousers and fell face first onto the floor. Sherlock sailed past, sheet billowing behind him, John lay in a crumpled heap but Sherlock barely seemed to notice him. He stopped and stared at the closed and locked entrance to their flat as the handle rattled. More banging followed, shaking the door on its hinges. John had picked himself up, heart racing, and had just managed to pull up and fasten his jeans when Sherlock leaped across the room and flung the door open wide.

Mycroft Holmes stood leaning nonchalantly against the wall in the dingy hallway, one hand resting on the curved handle of his umbrella and the other casually in his coat pocket. One foot was tucked behind the other, the toe of his black polished leather shoe daintily touching the scuffed floorboards on which he stood.

"Evening Gentlemen," he crooned with a stiff smile as he straightened and stepped toward them. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the mess, the case file, the laundry, the tea cups, his brother, the sheet, the glance at the doctor, the doctor's blush, the doctor's bare feet and chest, his stomach and shoulders and finally the living room windows. He crossed the room in a few strides, moving faster than John had thought it possible with such a composed demeanour. He peered through the curtain and stepped back, turning once again to face the two men.

"Just WHAT in the BLAZES is this all about?" Mrs Hudson hurried up the stairs and ploughed into the room with fists clenched.

"I do apologize, for interrupting your evening," Mycroft said calmly with only the slightest of nods towards the doctor and the detective, "and to you especially Mrs Hudson, for my uncivilized entrance. I do hope I didn't give you too much of a fright."

"You scared the living daylights out of me Mycroft Holmes!" her tone was angry but her face had softened already and it was obvious to all three men that she had been engulfed by the all-consuming charm that came so easily to the tall and elegant brothers. "What in the world has gotten into you?"

"Nothing to worry about I assure you, just a little problem that I'm sure will be rectified presently." A loud shot was heard from somewhere down the street and John stared at Mycroft in horror.

"No, Mycroft, no riddles, just tell us what the hell is going on? What's with the weird messages? And what is going on outside?" John fixed the politician with a hard stare but Mycroft ignored him completely and turned his attention to Sherlock. The detective had been quietly engrossed in his phone from the moment he'd opened the door and John wasn't sure if this was reassuring or if he should be even more anxious.

"The case wasn't quite interesting enough to grab your attention then I see," Mycroft said with a tiny hint of a smile. Sherlock's head snapped up from the phone in his hand, "or perhaps you were just a little too easily distracted . . . ?" Mycroft eyed John reproachfully before stepping calmly towards his brother and leaning in closely, breathing something into Sherlock's ear that John couldn't make out.

The detective's eyes widened a fraction and he almost dropped his sheet in his hurry to grab at the case file on the desk. Mycroft got there first, "I don't think so, it's a little late for that now anyway, don't you think?"

"That's not FAIR!" Sherlock growled, making a swipe for the file held high above his brother's head. Mycroft held him back with his other arm and Sherlock was helpless unless he chose to forgo his modesty entirely. "It's your fault!" he spat, "You oughtn't to have made the thing so damned boring!"

"That was the point, dear brother." Mycroft sounded disinterested, "Anything pertaining to an actual case and you might have wasted precious time on some wild goose chase. I never for one moment thought you would actually believe I had brought you a secretarial homicide. For pity's sake Sherlock - is your opinion of me really so low?" He smirked and in doing so enraged his younger brother to the point where Sherlock had forgotten his sheet altogether and was now grabbing wildly for the file and before Mrs Hudson could avert her eyes, they had fallen onto the couch and Sherlock's naked thighs had straddled Mycroft and he was able to snatch the now slightly crumpled pages away from his brother's vice like grip.

"Merciful Heavens!" Mrs Hudson breathed as she turned to make her way slowly from the room and began the dark descent back down to her flat on the ground floor, "At my age I just don't . ." A silence fell over the three men as Mrs Hudson's footsteps receded.

Sherlock leafed through the document, his eyes darting from each page to the next at

lightening speed. He gritted his teeth.

"Would you mind, Sherlock?" Mycroft shifted uncomfortably beneath his brother and

Sherlock lifted himself to a standing position without taking his eyes from the file. Mycroft stood and smoothed down his clothes with a neatly manicured hand and stepped gingerly away from the detective. John coughed lightly hoping that one of them might remember that he was there and perhaps shed some light on what the hell was going on?

Sherlock finished reading and dropped the file into the fireplace where the edges began to brown and curl. The smell of melting plastic spread across the room from the binding clip that the detective had neglected to remove before disposing of it. Recoiling from the pungent invasion, John turned and reached to open the window but was stopped by Mycroft's hand on his shoulder.

"Not a good idea Doctor, best stay out of sight for now." Mycroft's voice had deepened considerably and John dropped his arm to his side and did what the other man said. Mycroft's dark eyes said all, and John felt a shiver of cold fear in his gut.

Suddenly Sherlock was elbowing his way between them and protectively positioning himself between them and the window.

"Yes," he said simply, eyes wide and his mouth set in a grim line. "I'm sorry . . . I

didn't . . . I wasn't . . . I'm sorry." Sherlock looked so pathetic and regretful that John wanted to wrap him in his arms and assure him that it would all be okay.

"Dear me," Mycroft tutted patronizingly, "no need to be sentimental. It will all be over with soon enough and I'll be out of your hair. I just need to stay here for an hour or so if neither of you mind too much. And please Sherlock would you mind putting some clothes on? You really couldn't make this situation any more uncomfortable if you tried."

Sherlock reddened slightly and disappeared into his bedroom, banging the door closed behind him. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the buzzer at the front door. Both men froze as the sound of Mrs Hudson muttering to herself carried up the stairs as she headed off to answer it.

"STOP!" John yelled and bolted for the door. He flew down to the ground floor hallway, and caught Mrs Hudson just before her hand reached the latch. "Wait!" he said panting, taking her arm and pulling her back towards her doorway. "Just wait." He signalled for her to stay put just out of sight of the front door and tried to calm his racing heart. The buzzer sounded again and then someone was opening the letterbox and peering through.

"John?" the muffled voice said through the small opening, "John is that you? What the hell is going on?" It was Lestrade. John hauled the front door open and before the D.I. could say another word the doctor had grabbed him by the shoulder and had pulled him inside, slamming the door shut. "WHAT is going on?" Lestrade glowered at John, as he straightened his coat and reached for his police radio, "Is everyone alright?"

John brought his hand up to his face and rubbing his jaw incredulously, shook his head. "I don't have the foggiest Greg, seriously I don't know, but I'm sure as hell going to find out!" John turned and marched back up the stairs with Lestrade close behind, leaving Mrs Hudson staring after them.

"What do you mean you don't know?" Lestrade asked, "You're the one who's been sending me these strange texts!"

John stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to face the inspector. "What texts?"

As Lestrade came up the stairs towards him John remembered that he was still shirtless and flushed, but the mystery of the whole situation was more important right now.

"Don't be a git John! There was the crazy one about paint! I assumed you were high on fumes! And then you get all serious and demand I show up with the bloody cavalry!" He pointed back down towards the front door. "I called to find out what the problem was but you don't answer so what was I supposed to think? And what exactly am I supposed to tell them outside?" Just as he said this his radio crackled to life and then a female voice, likely Donovan's, asked,

"What's the situation Sir? We're stationed up on road a little, do you need back up? Over."

"Negative. Stand by," Lestrade spoke quickly and passing through the open door to the flat, he eyed the two men standing before him with an exasperated nod. Sherlock had dressed in the same clothes he'd been wearing earlier, despite the few missing buttons.

"Sherlock . . ." John realised, "Sherlock sent the texts."

Lestrade nodded, it all made perfect sense now, at least as much sense as it ever did. "Right!" he said, pointing an accusing finger first at Sherlock, then at Mycroft and then back to Sherlock, "Which of you two is going to explain to me what I'm doing here?"

Mycroft couldn't hide the slight curl at the corner of his mouth as he turned to face his brother and raised an eyebrow. "Scotland Yard? What were you thinking? Why not just call in the army for all the good that would do!" He scoffed and John wanted to punch him and knock him down but he wasn't sure why. He was going to shout at him as a sort of compromise but while he was trying to figure out what to say Sherlock got in there first.

"Shut up Mycroft, you're hardly in a position to be making demands, beggars can't be choosers. I'm trying to think!" He reached down into the laundry basket at his feet and thrust a random shirt up at John without making eye contact. John felt himself blush as he pulled the shirt on but thankfully nobody noticed, they were too engrossed as the detective had drawn himself back up to his full height, turned his attention to Lestrade and had begun to explain.

"There's going to be an assassination attempt at 07:00 hours, as a government car drives from Westminster Bridge, along Birdcage Walk towards the palace. There will be three passengers in the car, only two will be alive by the time the car reaches Buckingham Gate. It's supposed to be a message, but it's been orchestrated by someone inside. Someone with a vendetta, the choice of target isn't random. It's personal. Attempting an assassination in such a wide open space with such high security? You can guarantee the person responsible is a power mad egotist, and close to the target. However, due to a slip up, this person has become suspicious that the plan has been discovered and may change the place and time as soon as they get more information. Therefore we can't do anything to make them think we know until we've got more information ourselves. It could be disastrous - they could choose a new target, and we'd have no hope of finding them."

Sherlock stopped to breath quickly and was about to continue when Lestrade butted in,

"How do you know all this? Who's the target?" he glanced at his watch "It's half nine

NOW! How are we supposed to stop them by seven in the bloody morning? And how are we supposed to stop them if you're telling us we can't actually do anything to draw attention to ourselves? If it's an inside job then they're bound to have people at the yard as well . . ." he trailed off and looked at Sherlock, realisation dawning slowly. "Sherlock just tell me straight, why the hell did you two drag me here and how did you find out about all this?" The detective scowled and ran a hand through his dark curls. He looked to Mycroft who met his gaze with a little pout.

"Mycroft gave me a file this afternoon," he stated simply. The detective inspector shrugged his shoulders impatiently waiting for the younger Holmes brother to continue.

Mycroft coughed lightly.

"And I would have been in touch sooner," Sherlock explained "except that the file was in code and I didn't realise until now, I was . . . ."

" . . . . Busy." Mycroft finished smoothly. "Anyway, you're perfectly right inspector – there really is nothing you can do and I'm sure you have far more important work to be getting on with and there are more than a few people at the yard who are more than aware of the situation. So if you want to keep your job, your reputation, and particularly your life, it would be advisable for you to keep this little problem quiet." He crossed his arms and glowered at the D.I. coldly.

"Don't you go anywhere!" Sherlock had his hand on Lestrade's shoulder and had regained some of his obnoxiously commanding air. "I need you to talk to your people, tell them that it was a false alarm, that I've relapsed and that I sent that text while inebriated. That ought to entertain them enough to distract them from the obvious. Dismiss them, apologize and say you're staying to help John sort me out."

Lestrade swung around and angrily jabbed a finger into Sherlock's chest. He looked as if he was going to argue for a moment but seeing those pale blue, deadly serious eyes locked on his he dropped his gaze and nodded. "They're not going to believe that shit Sherlock, they'd expect me to be angry so there's no way they'll just accept that I'm staying to help when I have a whole week's worth of paperwork sitting on my desk and a shift to finish!"

"Ha! Don't kid yourself inspector. Your shift finished two hours ago, the only reason you're still working is that you can't go home because your wife has kicked you out again. If any of them have two brain cells to rub together then it's as obvious to them as it is to me. They'll assume that you're telling the truth and that you're helping John deal with me in the hopes of being offered a sofa to sleep on so you don't have to sleep in your car for the second night in a row! No-one stays two hours after a shift to do 'paperwork' if they can possibly help it." Lestrade turned slowly to face John, eyes burning, but John shook his head emphatically. Sherlock must have read it in the crumpled clothes or the bags under his eyes. The bastard was right of course. "Oh and don't worry, they'll believe it, I'll make sure of that." Sherlock shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels, nodding in encouragement as the D.I. lifted his radio and with an uneasy frown began to speak.

"Unit 131, this is Lestrade."

"Lestrade, Go ahead. What's the situation Sir?"

"False alarm. Stand down. . . ." As the D.I. began to relay the story Sherlock had planned out for him, the consulting detective had begun to shake. John could see it in his hands as he lifted them to grab at his dark curls and his eyes darted around the room wildly. John took a tentative step forward and was about to reach out to calm his friend when Sherlock started jumping from one foot to the other and shouting.

"FUCK THE POLICE!" Sherlock laughed like a madman. As John watched transfixed, the D.I., struggling to be heard over the racket, shouted into the radio angrily and he had to shove Sherlock away when he tried to grab the radio from his hand, almost dropping it.

"Sir, could you repeat that, there seems to be some interference. Over."

"Sherlock's off his bloody face! Did you get that? FALSE ALARM! I'm staying to sort this mess out." Sherlock was now slumped against the D.I., sobbing hysterically and whimpering the horrified inspector's name and apologizing over and over. "Get back to work, and don't you even think about mentioning this to the chief! Over and out!"

The world's only consulting detective straightened and smiled at the D.I.

"Bloody hell Sherlock you manipulative bastard!" Lestrade couldn't help the smile.

John was trying to wipe the adoring grin from his face, painfully aware of Mycroft watching him ruefully as he beamed with pride at his detective's shockingly brilliant acting ability. Sherlock had taken Lestrade aside, leaving him perched on the edge of the couch,

with instructions to contact just a handful of his best men, just the ones he trusted implicitly and ask them to stay stationed up the road and to do it quietly. While he was engrossed in his task, and Mycroft was scowling dangerously at him, Sherlock took John's arm and lead him into the kitchen.

John didn't waste any time, he knew he wouldn't have the detective all to himself for long. As wild and unreal as their evening seemed to him now, he made the decision to show his friend that he was still his old self and hoped that Sherlock would not treat him differently now because of the new dynamic between them. He placed his hand on Sherlock's arm and squeezed gently, resisting the urge to get too much in the detective's personal space. He knew the brilliant mind was too distracted now anyway.

"Sherlock, are you alright? You're not enjoying this case like you do all the others, what has happened? It's not like you . . ." he trailed off and realized he was failing in his attempt not to appear needy. Sherlock gripped his hand and pulled him closer. He stood stiffly though and John couldn't tell what he wanted him to do.

"Mycroft . . ." the detective breathed, "He's scared. He's good at hiding it, and I really wasn't sure at first but I realized I'd seen that look on him once before. A long time ago, but I remember, he's truly scared. He's terrified. He'd never admit it and it's a betrayal for me to even think it but it's true. This is serious John."

"I know Sherlock I can tell that it's serious." John frowned, unable to resist the need to glance quickly at Mycroft who was now standing by the fire staring into the flames and pretending not to be listening to Lestrade muttering into his phone. "Just tell me what you want me to do Sherlock, I want to help." Sherlock smiled sadly and leaned down to nuzzle John's neck, sending a shot of tingling pleasure down the doctor's spine, despite everything.

"Get your coat, Dr Watson. We're going out."