Sherlock slowed his steps as he heard the glide of an approaching car. There was only one vehicle in the world that could sneak up on him in that manner. He tilted his head back and looked up into the night sky. A long stream of air ghosted from his lips. He did not feel like dealing with his brother just then. He was still trying to figure out a fifth scenario on how to solve the complication of a certain diminutive pathologist after the first four failed his beta testing.

"Come on then, little brother, these talks of ours are tedious but necessary," Mycroft called to him.

Sherlock half turned and looked at his older brother from over the collar of his jacket. Mycroft stood at the rear of a large, black sedan wearing a Glen Check patterned brown suit that, while immaculate, looked as though it belonged in a previous era.

"Are they? Necessary?" Sherlock drawled.

"Oh, do be serious! Don't act like you don't live for them. I'm not the one in love with the sound of my own voice . . . among, erm . . . other things?"

Sherlock pinched his nose as he tried to avoid taking his brother's bait. He drew in some air, adjusted his jacket and then made his way to the other side of Mycroft's car. He slipped in and they were underway.

"Go on, I have things to do," Sherlock said impatiently.

Mycroft folded his hands over the hook of his umbrella. "Yes, I see you're ever so busy at the lab trying to solve this whole Moriarty business."

Sherlock ignored his barb but glared at him. "That infernal umbrella! You do realize there is no chance of rain for several days, correct? I believe that thing has become a crutch."

Mycroft flicked his fingers dismissively. "At least my crutch is an inanimate object, brother mine. Tell me, how is the lovely Miss Hooper doing? I do so adore her fetching outfits."

"Dr. Hooper is inexplicably fine," Sherlock grumbled. "Although, I wouldn't say her taste in clothing is any worse than yours."

Mycroft's lips drooped as he looked down at his suit. "I'll have you know this ensemble cost three thousand pounds."

Sherlock lifted a brow and scoffed. "Liar! It was discounted by half due to the wonky stitching on the cuff and the fact that that particular pattern has been discontinued."

Mycroft lifted his chin. "Hmmf, well, I have your Belstaff reproduced in China by a woman called Mrs. Liu for two hundred quid!"

"I know," Sherlock replied with a grin as he brushed some dust from one of the sleeves. "I'm the one who gave her the pattern."

Mycroft sighed and drummed his fingers.

"Are we quite done with our requisite sparring?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft was silent a moment as he stared out the window at the passing shops and restaurants. His hands tightened their grasp on the handle of his umbrella. When he returned his gaze to Sherlock, his face had paled.

"Mycroft . . ."

"I'm sorry, b-brother," he replied with a tremor in his voice. "My position is not as secure as it once was. I'm vulnerable. I wanted to give you time to solve our latest conundrum but I had to make a decision."

A prickle of ice crept up Sherlock's spine. "What have you done?"

When Mycroft did not immediately answer, Sherlock snatched the umbrella out of his hands. "What have you done!?"

"I needed help, little brother. I needed answers. I went to the only place I knew I could get them."

"You didn't. Please, Mycroft, tell me you did not let that lunatic off his island!"

Mycroft swallowed. His hands were shaking.

"You don't know what it's like to make these difficult choices, Sherlock."

Sherlock wanted to break his brother's damn umbrella over his head.

"And you don't know what it's like to execute them! Damn, damn, DAMN!" His voice cracked. "I slayed your dragon, brother. Have you so little faith in me?"

Mycroft folded his trembling hands together. "What's done is done."

"Oh, spare me your platitudes. Decisions, bah! At least I know not to make the wrong ones. Stop the car."

Mycroft looked up to his driver in the rear view mirror and nodded. Sherlock wrenched at the door handle and exited the car.

"Where are you going? Back to the lab?" Mycroft called after him.

Sherlock leaned back into the door frame and glowered at his brother. "No, I have something that needs to be undone."

"Don't you want to know the answer to our little broadcast mystery? I did at least solve that."

"Don't do me any favors!"

Sherlock pushed off the car and stood up but then stuck his head back in the car a second time.

"Soooo, to clarify, this is not a sick joke? He's back?"

Mycroft stared straight ahead. His umbrella had found its ways back into his embrace.

"Yes, he's back."