The man had black hair, oddly-tinted green eyes, and a discontented expression as he looked about the room he'd rented in a backwater French hotel. It had peeling wallpaper, a crack in the doorframe, the seal was broken on the window and the bed almost nothing but lumps, but he couldn't argue with the accommodations. He'd chosen them, after all.

His phone rang in his pocket, and he answered out of reflex. "Que voulez-vous?" he barked irritably, still examining the room and trying to figure out how long he would have to stay here. "Je n'ai pas le temps pour ca maintenant."

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock froze, his contact covered blue-grey eyes widening with shock. "Mycroft?" Instantly, his accent reverted from that of a backstreet French vagrant back to his native British speech patterns. When he spoke again it was with a touch of alarm. "What is it?"

"It's John."

"What happened?" he asked sharply, eyes narrowing.

"Nothing harmful – physically, anyway." Mycroft's voice was as smooth as usual, though with a hint of tension underlying it.

"What, then?"

"He knows, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes widened again, and he slowly ran a hand through his straightened black hair. "How?" He began pacing, ignoring the fact that given the creak each step drew out of the floorboards he could be heard at least five rooms down the hall.

"In truth I'm uncertain of that, Sherlock. He had apparently been making some notes but they are as indecipherable as yours used to be – whatever language or code he was writing them in. John just marched into my office this morning and told me he knew and that I did as well." Now Mycroft was beginning to sound minorly irritated – whether at Sherlock's questioning or a memory of earlier events, he wasn't sure. "I've looked over the security footage and there's nothing to indicate what helped him make the connection. He has no doubts of your survival."

Sherlock blew out a breath and unconsciously reached for the scarf that wasn't there to straighten it, stopping part way through to let his hand fall limply to his side. "This could be a problem."

"How soon can you be back."

"I've traced Rodolph Trass – if that's really his name, it appears to be a pseudonym –here, but I've yet to locate the man."

"I'll send three agents to replace you."

Sherlock nodded. "Good."

"We'll see you back in four days."

Sherlock heard footsteps passing in the hall and switched back to French. "Oui, ça ne marchera."

"Until then."

"Au revoir."

Sherlock hung up the phone, then all vestiges of his true identity once more vanished into the manner and appearance of a French vagrant as he left the room.

Author's note: If the French dialogue isn't flawless, I apologize. It translates as follows:

"What is it?"

"I don't have time for this right now."

"Yes, that will work."

"Goodbye."