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Chapter 7.

Mycroft's POV.

I stretch behind my computer and reach for my tea. Oh brother, dear, you are handling this all wrong. If I was capable of the emotion I am sure I would feel sorry for John.

I sip from my tea while I watch the good doctor run out the door and slam it close behind him. On the screen next to it I see Sherlock in the living room. And he is not alone…. His wound must have impaired his judgment because even for me it was clear from the beginning Moran would never fall for this obvious dummy-contraption.

Colonel Moran kicks in the door and I see Sherlock reach for a weapon but Moran shoots first. Not to kill. Not yet. Part of the window shatters and Sherlock ducks under the rain of glass.

'Sherlock Holmes. We are alone at last…' Moran's voice is slightly distorted but I can hear the pleasure of revenge in the way he says my brother's name.

'Full screen on that one, sir?' Anthea asks while standing nervously behind me.

'Not yet.' I motion without taking my eyes of the screen. I don't have to wait long. In the screen of the front door appears – how predictable – doctor John Watson. He heard the gunshot and can't resist to come to his friend's aid. Oh John, you really can't leave the battlefield behind you, can you?

John quietly climbs the stairs, gun firmly in his hand, through total darkness. A true soldier, that man. And a true idiot.

Sherlock cannot speak. The wound is more painful than you anticipated, isn't it, little brother. Colonel Moran is taking his time, walking slowly towards Sherlock. 'I will enjoy this! After all this time of you chasing me we are finally face to face. And I will finally kill you.'

Sherlock opens his mouth, probably to give one of his clever and demeaning replies, but Moran stops him. 'No. Don't speak. No one cares for your last words.' He points the gun at Sherlock. Anthea gasps behind me. 'Sir?'

But I motion her to be quiet.

Moran smiles at Sherlock. 'Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.'

There is a gunshot. Sherlock shocks, but Moran falls to his knees, and then face down on the floor. Blood is coming from a wound in his back. John appears in the door opening behind him. His gun in his hand. He shot from the hallway. Probably while standing halfway on the stairs. Not really a difficult shot for a marksman, but he saved my brothers' life. Again. Just as I anticipated.

I see how he kneels next to Moran's body while asking Sherlock 'Are you okay?'

Sherlock's voice is calmer and more steady than I know he feels. 'Fine.'

'He is dead.' John concludes about Moran.

'Obviously.' I think it and Sherlock says it.

John steps over the body and sits next to Sherlock on the floor. I watch them sitting in silence for a few minutes. Anthea has disappeared. Why? To give them privacy? This is why that girl will never go far in this business. I listen when my brother and the doctor speak again. Sherlock goes first.

'Thank you, John.'

He expresses his gratitude. Sincerely. How unexpected. I must get John to tell me how he can make Sherlock do that.

'You're welcome Sherlock. But can you please tell me who this man is that I just killed and what the hell happened to you these last years?'

'Where do you want me to start?'

'How about the roof of the hospital. You and Moriarty. Start there.'

I get up to get more tea while Sherlock tells the long and frankly rather boring story of how he faked his death and chased Colonel Moran after killing the two other hit men.

When I get back with tea and cookies (no sugar, no fat, no calories. Anthea is good at some things.) Sherlock just finished. Then come John's questions.

How tedious.

I check my messages and call back the prime minister while the two men talk.

John tells Sherlock about his new job and other insignificant trivia of his daily life. He asks Sherlock what he will do now.

'Will you move in here again?' John asks.

'I might.' Sherlock answers. 'In fact I probably will. Want to join me?'

John looks around. 'I would but there is a dead man in the living room, no food in the kitchen and, frankly, a terrible draft through that gunshot in the window.'

The look at each other and then burst in a giggle.

Honestly little brother, aren't you too old and too injured to giggle like that? I am embarrassed to be related to you. I rub between my eyes while I wait for the irritating sound of the doctors' laugh to fade away. When it finally does there is silence again. Neither men makes a move to leave.

'I am married now Sherlock.' John says softly. Is that guilt I hear in his voice?

'I know, John.' Sherlock's voice is a whisper barely loud enough for the microphone to pick up.

'Her name is Mary.' Why is John speaking to the floor? 'She is lovely. You should meet her. Maybe you can join us for dinner some time?'

The pleading way John looks at Sherlock can be best described as puppy-eyes. That is painful. I feel like I just got another cavity from looking at it.

Surely Sherlock will want to leave now. He swallows and clears his throat.

'That would be nice, John, thank you.'

Oh little brother, what is going on? Is it not enough that the ex-army doctor has reduced you to a giggling schoolgirl over a dead body? But now you are also unable to turn down an invitation for what will obviously be a terribly uncomfortable dinner with a newlywed couple who haven't had sex in over a month? Dear God, you are behaving like a 20-year old girl who spotted an opportunity to reunite with her high school crush. Have I taught you nothing?

'I should go home.' John stumbled while trying to get up. 'Mary will be worried.'

'Okay. Good night John.'

John turns in the doorway. Hesitant. I can tell he wants to say something else but he decides to leave it at: 'Bye Sherlock.'

And he is gone. Leaving Sherlock behind in the dark, drafty room with the dead body of Colonel Moran.

Behind me I can hear Anthea has come in and she inhales before saying something about removing both Sherlock and the dead man from Baker Street.

'It can wait until tomorrow.' I say while getting up. She is no longer surprised when I answer her unspoken questions.

'Good night Anthea.'

'Good night, sir.'

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