Ego Te Absolvo

[I Absolve You]

Sherlock is only in bed a short time before he gives up on trying to get to sleep. Instead of resting, he decides to spend some time in his Mind Palace.

First, he contemplates taking on Moriarty's men without Mycroft's help.

Possibility one: I travel the globe taking down the network. I am alone and there are several dozen of them; numerically, the odds are not in my favour. While Moriarty's successor is a pitiful fool, he's still in command of people hired by Moriarty, which means that even if I can dupe their boss, I may not be able to dupe them. Capture by Moriarty's men would involve physical torture, which I can tolerate… and being forced to watch the killings of John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, which I cannot.

Possibility two: I successfully defeat Moriarty's men, but being legally dead I will have a difficult time returning to Britain and restarting the work… unless Mycroft helps. And I knew I would need his help in this; that's why I returned to this infernal rat-trap in the first place.

Estimated duration of crusade against Moriarty's men: Without Mycroft's help, two years. With his help, six months.

Sherlock grinds his teeth. Mycroft is unfailingly and infuriatingly right, but can he be trusted? John didn't believe Mycroft when he said he was sorry, but John has a hard time believing most people. Sherlock thinks back to the expression on his brother's face when they first saw each other this evening and runs it through his Database of Mycroft's Expressions.

I've only seen that expression on three previous occasions.

The first was 25 December 1985. I sneaked out of the Manor to see the lights at Oxford Street. Father and Mycroft went looking for me, and when they found me, Father was, as always, irritated. Mycroft spoke like he was angry, but his face told me a different story: the slackened eyebrows, the tension in his jaw releasing. He truly had been worried about me.

The second was 29 October 1999. Mycroft fetched me from Heathrow after my time in Florida. The expression on his face was shocked at first, as if he thought I were a ghost, but his face quickly melted into the same face I saw on Oxford Street. It's impossible to say whether or not he missed me during the years I was gone, but he definitely had been concerned for my safety.

The third was 17 September 2003. I was at St. Bart's after taking a speedball. Mycroft was there when I awoke, no doubt concerned that while my body had pulled through, my mind might not. Of all the times I've seen Mycroft relieved, this is probably the closest match for tonight's expression.

Mycroft could have stayed home that Christmas and left me on Oxford Street, or let Father go alone to retrieve me. He could have sent a minion to Heathrow. He was at St. Bart's at the exact moment I awoke and he must have been there since I arrived; it's the only time I've ever seen him in wrinkled clothes.

The man who did all of that would not have betrayed me under anything less than the most desperate of circumstances. Moreover, he would feel horrendously guilty about it, and tonight he was the closest to disheveled that he's ever been. He truly is remorseful. However, that does not excuse his offence. Mycroft must only be allowed to participate under my terms.


Mycroft awakens the next morning and phones Anthea to let her know that he won't be at work. If Sherlock really did come back, there is much to be done at home, and if last night actually was a hallucination, a day off might prevent his sanity from unraveling completely. Regardless, the British Government can stumble along without him for one day.

After getting dressed, he silently walks down the hall and knocks on the door of Sherlock's childhood bedroom. He finds the room empty and the bed just as it was the night before. The guest bathroom is empty as well. Mycroft takes a moment to kick himself for believing last night was real. (Hope is for fools who have nothing better.)

The diplomat makes his way downstairs to the kitchen. (Scuff marks on the balustrade are likely another hallucination, or a leftover from our childhood.) He decides that since he has the day off, he might as well have a proper breakfast. He rummages through the freezer and finds bacon, then fetches bread out of the breadbox. (Sod my cholesterol. Sometimes, one simply needs bacon.) Starting up the stove, he jumps when he hears a familiar voice.

"Is that on your diet?"

Sherlock leans on the kitchen doorway brandishing a smug grin. For the second time in the last 24 hours, Mycroft thinks he might faint. Leaving the bacon on the counter, he walks over to Sherlock and stands a foot away, studying him.

Sherlock wordlessly punches Mycroft in the face.

Startled, the older man staggers backwards, hand on his jaw. "Why in God's name did you do that?"

"You wanted proof that I'm real, so I gave it to you. A hallucination of me wouldn't punch you, and even if it did, your lower lip would not be bleeding – which it is, incidentally, better put some ice on that. Honestly, Mycroft, every time I attempt to please you, you get cross with me, and then you wonder why I so rarely try to please you!"

Blotting his lip with his handkerchief, Mycroft glares at Sherlock with the surly look he used to give as a teenager. He grumbles that Sherlock should sit while he fixes breakfast.

"Not hungry," Sherlock says as he ambles over to the kitchen table, still favouring one leg and leaning on the countertops.

"Of course," Mycroft snorts. He fixes himself a bacon sandwich and joins Sherlock at the table. "Slid down the balustrade again, I see. Aren't you too old for that?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You weren't awake to help me, and I'd done everything I could upstairs."

"I'd have awakened if you knocked."

"You? Only if I'd knocked with a battering ram. You were deep into REM sleep, and from observing you since childhood, I knew that attempting to awaken you when you were in such a state was futile. Since I couldn't wake you and my violin is at Baker Street, I went to my Mind Palace to ponder our current situation."

Mycroft takes a bite of his sandwich and looks at Sherlock expectantly.

"I considered all the possible outcomes in my quest to rid the world of Moriarty's men. While I find this thought distasteful, it seems that the mission has the greatest chance of success if I allow you to assist me."

It's all Mycroft can do not to roll his eyes at his brother's egotism. (Sherlock is more similar to a young Father than either of them would have cared to admit.) "Then assist you I shall. What do you require?"

"Not so fast, Mycroft. You have committed a grievous breach of trust, and I am only allowing you and your minions to take part in this quest because the alternative is even more unpleasant. I cannot trust you again unless you obey my instructions to the letter."

"Fine," he gripes.

"One, I do not want a funeral. The media is currently distracted with the salacious photos of the Duchess of Cambridge and my funeral would only bring unwanted attention to my associates. Besides, I can't tolerate all that bloody sentiment!"

Mycroft nods. "As you wish. What would you like carved on your headstone?"

"My name, and nothing more. Give the location to John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, but no one else. I can't bear the thought of teeming hordes of fans dropping off wilting flowers and horrible poetry and dripping candlewax and tears everywhere as they did at Buckingham Palace after Diana's death."

"Consider it done."

"Two, I want you to pay half the rent at 221B Baker Street so that John can continue living there. My goal is to return home when this is over, and I doubt another tenant would welcome me back."

The older man tilts his head. "This is solely due to your desire to return to your former dwelling and not your friendship with the good doctor or your landlady?"

Sherlock snorts at Mycroft and then continues listing his demands. "Speaking of John, I need you to continue to keep him, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson under surveillance. My death is not going to be easy for them and I want to be sure that they're all right."

"Done." (I'd have cameras trained on them even if you told me not to.)

"However – and this is very important, Mycroft, do try to turn your attentions away from that sandwich for a moment – you are not to interfere in John's affairs unless he is in imminent, life-threatening danger. No more kidnappings."

The older man puts his sandwich down, inhales haughtily, and says, "Fine."

"Next, I want you to look after my homeless network."

"Exactly how do you propose I do that? As you well know, they are experts at avoiding CCTV cameras."

"By donating ten thousand pounds to St. Theresa's Shelter. Many of them frequent St. Theresa's during the winter, and it has one of the better soup kitchens in London."

Mycroft wrinkles his nose and furrows his brows. (Try to remember how relieved you are that he's alive and perhaps that will prevent you from strangling him. Besides, it would be most difficult to strangle anyone with bacon grease on your hands.)

The older brother sniffs, "And of course you merely ask this out of concern for the network's welfare and not out of a desire to punish me?"

"Of course," Sherlock says with a cheeky smile. "I'll wait while you transfer the funds."

Sighing, the older brother washes his hands and fetches his laptop. Turning the screen so that the younger can see, he makes twenty donations of 500 pounds each from all of his accounts – several small donations are much harder to trace than one large donation. "Satisfied?"

Sherlock says with a smug tilt of his head, "I am overwhelmed by your generosity, dear brother."

"Is that all?

"Hardly," the detective scoffs. "You are not to touch any of my possessions that remain at Baker Street. Molly will dispose of my experiments, but everything else shall remain as it is."

The diplomat cocks an eyebrow. "What if John and Mrs. Hudson want your possessions removed?"

The detective waves his hand dismissively. "They won't. By the way, Molly took my coat to the cleaners yesterday; it should be finished by now. Have someone fetch it for me, would you?"

"So that all of London can recognize you?"

"No, because it's unusually cold for midsummer and I'd like to observe John one more time. Invite him and Mrs. Hudson to my 'grave' in a few days. And I won't be recognized because I won't be seen."

"Very well, but I'm sure you realize that you cannot wear that coat while chasing Moriarty's men. It has rather become your trademark."

Sherlock glowers at Mycroft as only a younger brother can. (Does he really think I'm this stupid?) "Yes, yes, yes. When I depart, you may give John the coat. And then there's the matter of proving I'm not a fraud…"

The older man folds his arms. "I feel that is a task best delegated to John. He has all of your case files and contact information for your former clients. If I provide him with the information my people have accumulated about Moriarty and his aliases, he can solve the puzzle."

The younger man nods. "Yes, John functions better when he has work, and –"

"I'm afraid he's about to be sacked," both Holmeses say in unison.

"Straight after he returns from bereavement leave," Mycroft murmurs. He gives Sherlock a look that says he shall take care of this. The look in Sherlock's eyes says that he had better take care of it.

Still staring intensely, the detective continues, "We must also deal with the kidnapping charges. If you truly are remorseful for what you've done, you shall prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that I did not abduct those children. And you shall provide John with whatever assistance he requires in clearing my name. Consider it your penance."

The diplomat frowns. "I doubt John will welcome my assistance."

"If he wonders about trusting you, give him this," the younger man says, handing Mycroft an envelope. "He will be more likely to forgive you if he thinks that I did."

"But you didn't."

"Forgive you? If by 'forgive', you mean that I have forgotten your indiscretion and wish to bury it and invite you to my flat every weekend to watch rugby, or whatever it is that ordinary brothers do, then no, I have not forgiven you. But do I wish to punish you? When you walked in yesterday, I observed that your hairline had receded another fifteen millimeters since we last spoke, you have two new wrinkles on your forehead and bags under your eyes, and you have put on three pounds – you always eat when you're distressed. Thus, I conclude that I've no need to punish you, for you seem to be doing an admirable job of punishing yourself."

The elder brother grimaces at the comments about his looks. Like Mummy, he's quite vain and can't tolerate the idea of letting one's appearance go.

The younger man continues, "Have I forgotten what you've done? You know that I've never forgotten anything in my life, merely deleted it, and I will never delete anything that pertains in even a minor way to Jim Moriarty. It would be unwise to delete such information, because there is a great deal to be learned from these events. I suspect you have drawn the same conclusion, and you shall not repeat this mistake in the future."

The elder brother gives a stiff nod.

Sherlock continues, "While I understand that most criminals need to be kept away from society for the common good, in a few cases I find it unfair to judge a person's entire life based on one action. Yes, that man is a thief, but what if he stole food because he was hungry? Yes, that man betrayed his brother, but what if he did so to protect his country?"

The detective pauses briefly and adds, "Yes, that man made his best friend suffer, but what if he did so to save his best friend's life?"

There is a long pause as the two brothers stare at each other intensely. The next words need to come from Sherlock, and Mycroft's heart slams against his ribcage as he waits for them.

Sherlock looks Mycroft in the eyes and says, "Jumping off of St. Bart's does not define my life, and giving my life story to Jim Moriarty does not define yours."

If Mycroft Holmes were a lesser man, he might weep for joy.