Mycroft's mobile began buzzing erratically. "Mother" appeared on the identification. He ignored the call and reasoned that he'd call her back after he was done reading the current treaty in his hands. Not three minutes after her first call did she call again. Anthea looked up from her perch to the side and asked if Mycroft would like her to handle it. He nodded yes absentmindedly and she answered the call herself, disappearing from the room so not to disturb Mycroft.
It was not long after she returned.
"Sir, there's a problem," she said loudly.
Mycroft looked up, immediately running through a number of scenarios in his mind. He imagined the absolute worst for a few moments and then switched to the better things. Mummy did overreact sometimes, so it really could be nothing. But Anthea never overreacted to anything, and if she said it was a problem then it was probably a big problem.
"Your mother checked each bank account," Anthea explained, "and apparently money is disappearing from your brother's."
Mycroft stared blankly for a moment before the news fully processed and he established a form of action. "How much?"
"It varies, sir, but it's always over three thousand every month."
Mycroft almost threw the papers he was reading on the desk and immediately grabbed a phone. He dialed the bank and demanded they shift all of his brother's saved up money to Mycroft's own account. They said they did, and when Mycroft checked his own records online, quite a substantial amount had been added to his. He next demanded to know who in the world had been taking money from the account. The person on the other line claimed they did not know, since they were using the correct passcode and everything that the younger Holmes created. The bank pulled up a list of recent withdrawals and all came from an ATM in London.
Anthea, hearing the address, immediately called for surveillance on that particular machine. With minutes, the photos and videos loaded onto her laptop and Mycroft scrolled through them to see if he recognized the perpetrator. But as he found out, the perpetrator turned into perpetrators. Various people in all sorts of clothes (mainly filthy rags, Mycroft noticed) kept coming and going to the machine at the listed times and dates.
"They look homeless, sir."
"They do," Mycroft agreed quietly. "Call the Inspector and attempt to track these people down."
Anthea nodded and sped off in search of Lestrade's contact information.
Three days later, when Lestrade had managed to obtain three of the…sixteen people in the photos and camera feeds, there was no good explanation. None of the people there claimed to know what Lestrade was talking about; well, they'd heard of the suicide, but that was it. They wouldn't say anything else, and Mycroft got more and more frustrated.
He returned from NYS after trying to interrogate the people to see Anthea looking quite annoyed.
"Well, sir," she said when Mycroft asked tentatively what had happened, "we received a call that someone tried to hack into your account. Put in all the wrong numbers probably about five times before giving up. And before you can ask, no, there is no clear image of him, because he covered the camera on the front with his elbow and is wearing every article of clothing to keep his face and body out of the camera's eyes."
She seemed frustrated.
That was odd.
"I'll take care of it, thank you, Anthea," was the only thing Mycroft said as he strolled past her and pushed open the doors to his office. He set his brolly down and looked up in surprise at the very sudden figure sitting in the chair opposite his desk.
"Now how did you get in here?" he asked calmly, picking up his umbrella again to use as a very efficient weapon.
"Oh, put that down, Mycroft," they said and stood up, removing a cap on their head and pulling off a large zip-up sweatshirt. "You look ridiculous," Sherlock Holmes said.
Mycroft figured he could react in a number of ways. He could cry for joy for seeing his once-deceased brother; he could cry for anger for the same reason; he could continue his original plan and deal a swift thrust of his umbrella to his once-deceased brother's jugular; he could shout, scream, pound his fists into the ground.
Mycroft chose to lower the umbrella and stare in awe, shock, and annoyance.
"You're not dead," he finally said.
Sherlock scanned his brother up and down before answering with, "No. Neither are you." He licked his lips. "You don't seem surprised."
"Moriarty killed himself on the roof with you," Mycroft said as his explanation. "I was suspicious. And with what you've been trying to pull with all that money you're stealing-"
Sherlock sneered and sat back down. He watched Mycroft stalk along the perimeter of the room and sit at his desk.
"I was perfectly well off until you interfered," Sherlock muttered, sighing and slouching in his chair.
"Yes, living as a dead man is probably quite luxurious," Mycroft spat. "Although, I wouldn't know, I suppose. Tell me, instead, Sherlock, all the wondrous things you've encountered while on this eighteen-month vacation as a corpse."
"I will not sit here and accept your petty abuse, Mycroft."
"I will certainly not allow you to come back from the dead, making it seem like your whole absence was just the span of a measly afternoon."
Sherlock straightened again and stared at Mycroft. Neither said anything for a while it seemed like, so Mycroft took the time to take in the once-deceased Sherlock Holmes' appearance.
His hair was still made of unruly curls, but he died it to a much lighter brown color than it was naturally. His eyes were…oh, contacts, Mycroft realized. His eyes, instead of the blue they'd always been were a dark chocolate; he just had colored contacts. Instead of his tight button up shirts he wore a thin, long-sleeved blue shirt and frankly ugly jeans. He had upsettingly muddy trainers on. His oversized gray sweatshirt lay on the floor, abandoned.
"Not much of a disguise, Sherlock."
"I had to work quickly with this once. Normally they're better."
"Why the rush?"
"Because my landlord kicked me out because someone took all my money so I could not pay rent anymore, Mycroft." Sherlock shook his head. "I need my money back now, Mycroft. I had a carefully constructed plan and life set up but you completely ruined the whole thing."
"Astounding, though, you thought I wouldn't notice."
"Mummy always had an obsession with checking our statements."
"Which is why I find it hard to believe you made such an amateur mistake."
"Mycroft, I was dead, why would Mummy check mine? I had hopes that by eighteen months after my suicide you all would have moved on like normal human beings, especially because you hated me, Mycroft." Sherlock stopped. "You, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson-" He faltered suddenly and ruffled his hair and continued with, "Will you give me back my money or not, Mycroft?"
"What do you need it for?"
Sherlock didn't answer him and crossed his arms. "It is my business, Mycroft, and I need the money now."
Mycroft almost answered him, but there was a knock at his door.
"Sir?" Anthea's voice from the other side. "Something else has come up."
He pursed his lips and got up slowly and slipped out of the office to take care of it. Sherlock stood as well, donning his large grey sweatshirt again and fitting his hat back onto his curly hair. He checked his reflection and deemed it good enough to be waltzing through central London.
Mycroft returned to the room a moment later. He grabbed his coat and umbrella and motioned for Sherlock to follow him.
"I'm not going with you," Sherlock said, crossing his arms and meeting his brother's harsh stare.
"You will go with me, Sherlock," Mycroft commanded, though he whispered his brother's name to make sure no one heard it. "I won't leave you here and I won't leave you to try and get out without my assistance."
"I only came here for my money," the younger Holmes spat. "I don't need your assistance, Mycroft."
"Yes you do, or else you could not have come to me. You're not touching one bit in those accounts until you tell me what you need it for."
"I need a new flat, since I've been kicked out of the other one." Sherlock was getting exasperated, and Mycroft could tell from his clenched fists that he could be making anything up from here on out.
"That's only partially your problem. And your flat problems can be rectified when you stay with me," he said. "Now cover your face and follow me."
"I will not stay with you, Mycroft!" Sherlock stepped back and almost bared his teeth like a growl was forming in his throat. "I do not want your help."
Mycroft glared and stepped back into the room and shut the door softly. He set the umbrella down, took a few slow steps towards his stubborn little brother and towered over him.
"I'm not in the mood for negotiations, Sherlock," he said. "But if you stay with me and allow me to help you, perhaps you can return to John sooner."
Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose. "Do not attempt to treat me as a child, Mycroft, if I agree."
"You have agreed to it," Mycroft Holmes said, "now hurry up and follow me."
Sherlock frowned but took slow steps toward the door. Anthea waited for them outside; she seemed surprised at the other man with Mycroft, but she did not ask who it was.
"The car is outside for you, sir," she said as they began walking. Mycroft thanked her and advanced forward to match his brother's speed. They walked stoically through the halls, down stairs, and outside to the dimming light from the sun. Sherlock slipped into the car first, followed by Mycroft. The driver sped off without question back towards Mycroft's own flat.
"Why do you want to help me, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked softly as he stared out the window, his eyes finally looking tired and sad because he thought, from Mycroft's angle, they couldn't be seen.
"You haven't eaten properly in God knows how long," he said. "And if you are currently homeless, I feel it is an older brother duty to help."
Actually, that wasn't really the reason. Sherlock, Mycroft realized, was now perhaps the skinniest he had ever been. His limbs hung wearily when he stood, and he looked just as absurdly tired as John and Mycroft himself were.
And also Mycroft had suddenly remembered what John had said to him on the one year anniversary. Mycroft hadn't said sorry, and he had no plans of saying it, but maybe Sherlock might take the hint. Maybe.
Bam! The return!
It occurred to me that, in the original books, Sherlock has to go to Mycroft for funds and all to help take down Moriarty's web and stuff. So I decided to do the modern BBC version! In case you were wondering.
So yep. Thanks in advance for reading and for any reviews I get! And sorry for any mistakes! :D