Mycroft's phone rang. Not many people knew that number.

Either the world was ending, it was the second coming, or something equally miraculous/horrific had happened.

"Mycroft."

The voice is tearful.

"What is it Mrs Hudson?" Mycroft asks, sitting up straighter.

"Sherlock, he's finally... well I don't really know. I heard him talking, then shouting and sobbing, so I went to see what was going on, and he said something about seeing John, and he was waving the gun around-" she broke off into sobs.

"I'll have someone there right away," he told her.

She sniffled. "I'm so worried about him."

"I know," he murmured. "As am I."


Mycroft read the report that had been placed on the top of one of the many piles on his desk. It was regarding Sherlock, who had been institutionalized for his own protection. Mycroft hated to do it, but Sherlock was actively suicidal when Mycroft arrived at the flat, and hadn't shown any sign of relenting.

He kept saying that he needed to be with John, needed to make things right.

But for now, Sherlock was safe and would continue to be safe.

It may very well break Mycroft to keep him safe, locked away where drugs kept him out of his mind palace and dulled his perceptions, but safe, nonetheless.

And of course, he certainly couldn't tell Sherlock what had been found when scouring the earth for John over the past months.

Skeletal remains of one John Hamish Watson (confirmed by dental, DNA, and whatever Mycroft could find, because he needed to be bloody well sure), died sometime in mid 2009.

Well before he met one Sherlock Holmes on January 29th, 2010.


There were some things that even Mycroft Holmes couldn't find out.