When she left her house on the way to work the next morning, a sleek black car was parked outside her door. Upon laying eyes on her, the driver left the car and held the back door open.

'Oh, no I am not,' she said hotly. 'You can tell Mycroft to-'

'I'm afraid I must insist, Miss Blackwood,' the driver informed her.

'Well, I'm afraid I must decline.' She spun on her heel and started to walk down the street. Before she could take a step, she was picked up by the arms and slid into the backseat of the car. The door was closed and locked behind her.

'Hey!' She yelled, as the driver took his place in the front. He turned the key in the ignition and the vehicle hummed to life. 'This is abduction!'

The driver didn't reply. She huffed and slumped back in her seat, digging her phone out of her bag. She called her boss, made up some excuse about a dying grandmother, and by the time she'd finished they'd stopped outside an old, yet well kept building. The door was opened and she scowled at the driver as she was lead through tastefully decorated corridors into a brightly lit room. Paintings adorned the walls, and curtains were thrown open to let in the early light. Sitting in the corner, an old grandfather clock stood, and in the middle, Mycroft Holmes sat opposite an empty chair at a white-clothed table.

'Ah,' he said, returning his tea cup to it's saucer when she entered the room. 'Genevieve. Good morning.'

'Mister Holmes,' she scowled, stalking over to the table. 'You just couldn't take no for an answer?'

'Now, now,' Mycroft soothed, unfazed. 'Do sit. It's far too early for such unjust anger.'

'Unjust?' She fumed.

'Would you like some tea?'

She stared at him, then, with a grand sigh of resignation, took her seat.

'Tea would be lovely,' she answered. An impeccably dressed waiter brought her a cup, she added sugar to her liking, then took a long sip.

'So,' she said, putting down her beverage. 'What have you summoned me for, Mycroft?'

'Let us not get to that just yet,' he answered. 'We have years worth of catching up to do, and a whole meal to enjoy.'

Evie rolled her eyes.

'Now, Genevieve-'

'Evie, please.'

He smiled a very Mycroft smile – an expression purely for the benefit of others, containing no genuine emotion. 'Evie, then.'

She repressed another sigh. 'Well then, Mycroft,' she started, 'I see you've certainly moved up in the world since we last saw. No longer a lowly local politician, are you?'

'Lady Luck has been kind to me, I suppose. I make a modest living.'

She pointedly swept her eye across the room. 'Modest. Of course.'

Breakfast was brought out, presented in the way only professionals could manage; a spotless white plate that was much larger than the portion it contained. She straightened her napkin and placed it on her lap, picked up her cutlery.

'And you, Genevieve. You've certainly... changed since we last saw each other, and dramatically so. You've moved to London, for a start.'

'Well,' she helped herself to some toast, 'the family business turned out to be, I guess, not my kind of business.'

'Of course. A shame, though. You were extremely gifted. The brightest of them all.'

'Being the brightest burns a lot of fuel, I've found. Too much.'

He smirked. 'An interesting philosophy.'

They ate in silence.

'And your family?' Mycroft inquired, innocently enough.

She casually cut up her toast. 'Dead. Or estranged.'

'I see. Apologies.'

She finished her food without speaking, trying to figure out what Mycroft was up to. He wouldn't go to such lengths to merely "catch up" with her, or ask about her family (she was pretty sure he knew, anyway, and had only been asking to make small talk, or more likely, to make her uncomfortable). When she was done, she lay her cutlery on the empty plate. She was poured another cup of tea and watched the man opposite carefully over the rim of her cup. He only smiled that patent Mycroft-smile at her.

'Mycroft,' she spoke at last, 'I'm tired of games. I've left behind all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense, and I don't miss it in the slightest. Tell me, now, the reason you've brought me here. We both know that it isn't because you've missed me.'

'Very well then,' he conceded. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin. 'What do you know about the death of Sherlock Holmes?'

It took her a moment to overcome her surprise and reply.

'Not much, really,' she admitted. 'John hasn't told me much – I think it's hard for him to talk about. I really only know what I read in the papers.'

The corners of Mycroft's mouth curled bitterly. 'The papers,' he said with contempt, 'only reflect the asinine and ignorant thoughts of the masses. They aim to please the mundane and, as a result, are as reliable as the gossip of housewives.'

'John shares your sentiment.'

'As he should.' He lifted his own cup, but it never made contact with his lips. Instead, it hovered in-between as Mycroft stared out the window, over the silent sight of early-morning London.

'My brother,' he began, 'is an extraordinary man. Ever since he was young he has been able to see what the rest of us cannot. I have long thought that he has one of the most brilliant minds in the the last few centuries. Unfortunately, brilliance breeds contempt; genius inspires jealousy. My brother may be a flawed human being, but the disdain he was often victim to was a direct result of the inability of the banal to comprehend anything greater than themselves.'

Without taking a sip, he returned his cup to the table. 'This pettiness made it entirely far too easy for the ordinaries to be turned against him. Of course, the sheep could never do anything without the direction of the shepherd.' He leant forward and studied her closely. 'Tell me,' he continued, 'are you familiar with the name Jim Moriarty?'

'Yes. I read about his trial,' she answered. 'It was interesting, to stay the least.'

'Indeed it was. Sherlock once described Moriarty as a spider, and he could have not been more apt. Moriarty was a master of manipulation. He could pull strings and play the population of London as if they were nothing but puppets.' He leant back into his chair slowly. 'And, I am ashamed to admit, I was no exception.'

'You believed your own brother was a fraud?'

'No, I have always had faith in the intellect of Sherlock. I was played in a different way. I know you are aware, Evie, just as Sherlock and Moriarty are aware, that the real power in this world is not guns or missiles or uranium deposits. It is knowledge. Information. A dangerous tool, and the right knowledge in the right hands can be a weapon of mass destruction. I thought the information he would give me in exchange for information on Sherlock would be far more beneficial than damaging. And I was so, very wrong.'

Evie didn't reply.

'My regret is... insurmountable. I was instrumental in the downfall of my brother, and the knowledge of what I have done will burden me for the rest of my life. Using everything he now knew about Sherlock's life, Moriarty molded the public into a shape of his liking and the public, who in their ignorance refused to acknowledge that anybody could be as brilliant as my brother, put up no resistance. They shamed him, and this shame drove Sherlock to the edge of a roof. And then off it.'

'So that's why John hates you,' she murmured.

'And rightly so. I have cost him his best friend.'

Evie sat there, thinking, but something didn't sit right to her. It took her a moment to pinpoint the source.

'Present tense.'

'Pardon?'

She looked up. 'You still refer to Sherlock in present tense. I hope this doesn't seem too harsh, but it's been ten months. People usually adapt by now.'

Mycroft's lips twitched. 'And so we arrive to the crux of the matter.' He raised a hand and a waiter approached, offering Evie a silver tray on which a brown folder lay. She took the folder and flipped it open. It was filled with reports, all official and highly classified, probably something she shouldn't be reading, but she skimmed over the pages regardless.

'What is this?' She asked, uncomprehending.

'Moriarty did not work alone. He was the head of a complex syndicate. Currently, he is missing, and whether or not he is alive is unclear. Certainly, no body has been found. However, the underworld of organised crime that he built is still active.'

She flipped to a new page. A report from Detective Inspector Lestrade, detailing how an anonymous tip lead the police to the location of a known operative of Moriarty's organisation in Hackney. Inside, the man had been found sedated, with no other human being in sight. On another, a report translated from Mandarin Chinese stated that a tip had caused the police to find the location of a known criminal. Dead, this time. These reports came from different police stations all across the world. Egypt, America, Australia, Russia...

'But lately,' Mycroft informed her, 'anonymous tips to authorities across the globe have lead the police to known members of Moriarty's web. All of these members have been found either sedated, or dead. The tipper remains unknown, but I do know this; whoever has been picking off the remainders of Moriarty's men must be,' his expression was both impressed and fond. 'Brilliant.'

Slowly, she closed the folder. 'And you think that Sherlock is the one doing this?'

'Nobody truly knows what happened near the "end" of Sherlock's life. The only two people who know for certain the events that transpired are Sherlock and Moriarty himself.'

'How sure are you that this is Sherlock, and not some other vigilante?'

He hesitated. 'I admit, we have no substantial proof. But it seems logical. He is a remarkable man.'

She paused. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked away. Birdsong drifted in through the window. The sun grew stronger, and cars could be heard in the distance. London was waking up. The clock struck seven and the dong dong dong rang through the room.

'Why are you telling me this?'

'Genevieve, you have been a tremendous comfort to John his time of need. I doubt he would be alive today at all, had you not moved into 221c. You are, now, his dearest friend. So I leave this information with you, to tell him... or not.'

She gripped the folder in her hands.

'How sure are you that Sherlock is alive? Give me a figure.'

'Well,' Mycroft contemplated, 'if I had to quantify it in such a way... I would say there is a three out of ten chance that this mysterious do-gooder is Sherlock.'

She let out a low whistle. 'Thirty percent,' she breathed. 'That's certainly optimistic, considering you've no proof.'

'I am not optimistic, Genevieve; I just have faith in my little brother's abilities.'

She stood and picked up her bag, shoving the folder inside.

'What will you do? If I may ask.'

She pulled her handbag onto her shoulder. She took her time in replying.

'I'm not going to tell him,' she said finally. 'I can't.'

'Who else could have located and captured all these criminals?'

She didn't have an answer.

'Doesn't John deserve to know?'

'And if you're wrong, Mycroft?' Her face was sombre. 'What if you're faith is misplaced? What then? What if I give John hope, only to have to take it back? He's getting better. He smiles more and more each day. He's got a girlfriend and a job and-'

'You?'

'Yeah.' She gave him a tired smile. 'He's got me. I'll see you around, Mycroft.'

She left.