Hello again! Sorry it's been so long in between updates, but I'm trying to make this case as Sherlockian and intricate as possible, and let me tell you, it's bloody hard! I worked through so many scenarios and plot twists and plot maps and it's still nothing close to the brilliant cases in the show. I think I've got it down now, but bear with me; if there's a lull between updates, it means I'm attempting to thicken/sort out the plot. I've already got a few more chapters in the works, so the wait will hopefully be shorter this time. As always, pleasepleaseplease review! Seriously, it keeps me going and provides the fuel for me to keep going with this thing!

Sherlock was looking out the window of 221B Baker street when a sleek black town car came gliding down the road, stopping gently in front of the flat.

Mycroft.

Sherlock gave a huff of annoyance. He didn't feel like going over the pretense of small talk while each Holmes deduced the other; he had no patience to put up with Mycroft today. In his mind he was still combing through the little information he had gathered when Parker Bennett had sat in the den. Her father was presumed dead, yet the girl hadn't received the passcode. Possible, however unlikely, that the chip had malfunctioned. But combined with the fact that a body was never produced… 'lost in action' would probably be the official statement. And then there was the girl herself. Sherlock had never encountered someone of that age able to distance themselves from emotion the way she did. Nothing near his skill level of course, but still, impressive. She was a puzzle. Not for the first time, Sherlock Holmes wished he was able to connect with others the way most people could. He wished to be able to assimilate himself with their emotions, to empathetic, a trait people often pointed out he lacked. Because for the first time since Jim Moriarty made had himself known, Sherlock was curious about the case, but he was just as intrigued about the person behind it.

So the last thing he wanted was his older brother breathing down his neck when he was trying to think. But the British government was already walking up the stairs, which were groaning quite audibly; obviously the new diet wasn't going well. He wished John was there; John always felt obligated to fill the long silences between the brothers' conversation, so Sherlock was usually able to say as little as possible.

Mycroft entered the flat with his usual demanding presence, the aura he exuded of 'I am important. Pay attention to me'. The small drizzle outside was accompanied by the black umbrella hooked over his arm, which was placed in the stand before he removed his coat. So, thought Sherlock, this was to be more than a pop by visit to remind him to catch up on sleep or call mum and dad.

"Brother dear."

Sherlock answered, still looking out the window. "Mycroft."

The elder Holmes brother wandered into the kitchen and set about making himself a cup of tea. Sherlock smirked as he heard his brother shudder as he opened the fridge to get milk; the hands in the ziplock bag were part of an experiment on the decay of fingernails after death.

A minute or so later, Mycroft came came back into the den, mug in hand.

"I'm working on a case, Mycroft." A clear statement: don't bother me.

"Ah yes," Mycroft took a sip of his tea. "The little visitor you had the other day. You've taken whatever sort of case she presented then? Interesting. Children aren't exactly your forte."

Sherlock turned to his brother, eyes glinting with annoyance. "I removed the cameras your team had ever so expertly hidden around the flat. You can't simply spy on me in my own home whenever you please. I have a right to my privacy."

"Yes, but you have no say in how I use the city's security cameras."

Sherlock glared at him. "And there just happens to be one situated conveniently outside the door to the building?" He questioned, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Mycroft simply smirked at him in the manner only known to elder siblings.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped at him, "then you know I've got a case and I'm busy." Sherlock turned his back on his brother, staring out the window once more in a stance that clearly read 'leave me alone'. But as usual, Mycroft ignored his brother's thinly veiled dismissal. He went over to John's chair and sat down.

"I am curious now, bother. What sort of case could a teenage girl possibly offer?"

"You must have already dug up any information available on her, or at the very least listened in on our conversation. Surely you have already concocted several ideas based on your findings."

Mycroft gave a sigh of annoyance. "Contrary to your belief, I do give you and John Watson most the privacy you request. I have no audio or visual devices wired inside 221B. I have no idea what sort of conversation took place. And as for screening the girl, I didn't bother. I had assumed that it would be a trivial case that you would scoff at. And besides, I wouldn't have had the time. Work is rather busy at the moment, what with all the commotion in Afghanistan-" Mycroft caught his mistake a little bit late. "Of course," he said with a patronizing smile towards Sherlock, "you don't need to know about that."

It was an attempt to cover up the information that had just been shared, Sherlock knew. He looked over his brother: dark circles under the eyes; lack of sleep, more than usual. Skin around left thumb has been incessantly picked at; a nervous habit. Furrow between eyes has not lessened; suggests anxiety, impatience. Mycroft was stressed over something, which was unusual. Not much fazed either of the Holmes brothers. The way he had quickly tried to conceal his statement meant his stress had something to do with this 'commotion in Afghanistan'. If Mycroft were this anxious, there was something going on in the middle east besides the usual slaughter of troops. Sherlock would ask John about it later.

Mycroft could see Sherlock was deducing him, and was eager to change the subject.

"So, what's the case then? The one that you're so anxious to pursue?"

"It's quite intriguing, involving a possible false death and a large fortune-" Sherlock stopped, and gave his brother a cheshire cat smile. "But of course, you don't need to know about that."

Mycroft gave an annoyed sigh at his younger brother's attitude.

"Well then, tell me about the girl. Who is she?"

Sherlock could tell Mycroft wasn't going to leave him alone without gleaning some sort of information from him.

"Her name is Parker Bennett. She's an orphan who lost her mother some years, and her father recently died in active service as a medical officer in Afghanistan."

Sherlock could feel Mycroft staring at him questioningly, no doubt noting the similarity to John's past, but Sherlock gave no no inclination that he noticed.

Just then Mycroft's phone gave a small buzz. The elder brother glanced down at it, and immediately stood up.

"Right then," Mycroft turned on his heels and grabbed his coat and umbrella. "Good day brother dear."

Sherlock listened to his footsteps fade down the hall.

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Mycroft Holmes strode out of 221B Baker street and got into the town car that sat idling at the curb. Anthea (her current pseudonym) noticed his expression immediately.

"Something's happened." It wasn't a question; the eldest Holmes' eyes were full of energy.

In lieu of answering, Mycroft handed her his phone, an expression that could only be described as triumph on his face. She quickly scanned the email marked URGENT UPDATE. When she was done, she handed Mycroft back his phone and smiled.

"Excellent."