So sorry for such the long wait! I don't even know how long its actually been. I know this isn't the best and most exciting chapter. But its what ived got for you for know. Thanks so much for being patient with me! :)

Sherlock sat surprisingly patiently in the soft arm chair of Mycroft's office. He was patient for now, but if Mycroft didn't come soon, Sherlock might use the adjacent window for escape. Just as Sherlock was calculating the length of the drop, his brother walked in. "Glad you could make it, Sherlock." Mycroft briefly smiled in the other man's direction. "I wasn't given much of a choice." He replied.

"Sure you were. It was either my office the easy way, or the hard way."

"Exaclty."

Mycroft gave a smirk and shrugged the last comment off, "so how are you, brother, dear?"

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock said sternly, cutting to the chase.

"What? A man can't check up…"

"Mycroft."

Mycroft noted the serious and slightly rushed tone to his voice, and his innocent face was replaced by a very business-like countenance. They stared at each other for a moment, before Mycroft pulled out a file from a drawer in his desk; never taking his eyes off Sherlock. He dropped it on the desk and Sherlock looked to it. It was a simple manila folder, not very thick, and was just recently added to Mycroft's collection; Sherlock judged this by the lack of dust and wear, as anyone would.

Sherlock looked to Mycroft and for him to continue. "We've received news, Sherlock." Sherlock really didn't know where his brother was going with this, but did he detect a hint of concern in his voice? "And what, pray, is this news that is so important, you had to "force" me over here."

"Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock almost yelled as he was getting tired of Mycroft wasting time.

"Irene Adler is dead."

Sherlock sat silently for a moment. Mycroft actually thought that the woman was dead? He couldn't help but mentally commend himself on how clever he was, that his own brother didn't know she was alive. Or did he? Sherlock stared at Mycroft a bit more. "So?" was his reply. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, "that's it?"

"What else is there? Do you assume that I care for this information."

"Yes, actually, I…"

"Well, I don't." He added quickly, maybe a little too quickly. His brother caught it, and stared at Sherlock more skeptically. They sat there in silence some more before Sherlock started again, "Do you have the body?" he asked.

Mycroft cleared his throat and looked a little sheepish, "No, not yet. We have people searching in Karachi, where she was reported through a source of ours that she was dead." Sherlock nodded, as if he were thinking about what it meant. Mycroft watched his brother, he didn't expect him to have a dramatic reaction, but he was looking at least, for some emotion. He didn't see any to his confused surprise, and so he stood up. "Tell me, Sherlock." Sherlock looked to Mycroft innocently. "Did you hear from her at all, after all of that." Assuming Sherlock knew what he meant by that, he continued. "If so, I would like to know what it was, because we very much need to find this body." Sherlock didn't respond at first looking at Mycroft and deciding how to answer. "No. I haven't."

"I see." Mycroft quickly responded. He was skeptical now, and he watched his brother turn his head toward the window. "Was that all you needed me for?" Mycroft gave and exasperated laugh, "Yes, I suppose so."

"Well then, I guess I'll be off." Sherlock stood and looked at his brother, then left the room with a swish of his coat. Mycroft sighed and turned to his mahogany hutch in search of a drink. He knew that Sherlock knew more than he let on, he always did, but he wasn't sure what. He'd have people on it right away, of course, so the mystery wouldn't remain for long. He sat back down in his chair with a glass of butterscotch brandy. He opened up the folder on his desk and scanned over its information: a picture of the woman, a file on her past clients, a file on her history(which wasn't a lot), and a picture of his own brother. He lifted up the photo of Sherlock, not remembering it being there when he created the folder. He set it down again and glanced about the room, a realization of what might have been done dawning upon his mind.