A/N: So remember how those numbers at the beginning of the each section indicate chronological order? Well, that's going to be kind of relevant for the next two chapters. Just letting ya'll know so hopefully you don't get too confused.
37
Tuesday morning, at John's insistence, Sherlock made a visit to Lestrade at Scotland Yard.
The DI sagged with relief when he learned the truth. Sherlock uncomfortably observed the older man sit, utterly silent, head in his hands, for a good minute.
"Thank God," Greg finally exhaled. He looked up at his friend. "You understand I've got to tell the rest of them?"
Sherlock made a face. "Fine," he said. "But do try to keep it out of the press. I can't have you lot compromising my investigation."
Lestrade nodded. "I'll make certain they understand exactly what's in store for anyone who leaks this," he declared. "Don't worry, Sherlock, it'll stay quiet."
As Sherlock was leaving Lestrade's office, Donovan was entering it. They shared a distasteful glance, watered down from earlier days, but otherwise gave no acknowledgment of one another. The door clicked shut between them.
A glance over his shoulder showed Sherlock what he'd expected to see. Lestrade, relaxed and amused, told Sally the news. Sally, wide-eyed and leaning energetically into her boss's space, verified the facts, her mouth moving a mile a minute as she grilled Lestrade. Sherlock turned away.
The consulting detective was almost out the door when he heard running footsteps, followed by the call,
"Oi! Freak!"
Sherlock halted stiffly. He'd long since grown used to this, however, so he let nothing but polite disinterest show when he turned to face her.
His mask faltered when he observed uncharacteristic warmth in her expression. Normally Sally Donovan was ice—cold and unkind, cutting into him with her sharp edges. She sneered and she mocked, never letting her animosity go unknown. But now she was almost smiling, and something warm was in her eyes.
"Thank you," she said bluntly.
Confused, Sherlock shook his head. "I didn't..."
"You helped him," Sally said. "You helped all of us. We might even be able to sleep again."
Sherlock had nothing to say. Understanding his silence, Sally nodded professionally, and then turned on her heel and returned the way she'd come. Sherlock set his body on autopilot and resumed his departure. Inside his mind, he scrambled to accept this encounter into his basic understanding of his life's structure, attempting to reconcile the conflicting truths.
Despite the reshuffling occurring in his hard drive, Sherlock smiled.
Tuesday evening, the Baker Street boys received an unexpected visit from Mycroft Holmes. With a strained smile, Mycroft asked John if he would be so kind as to give the brothers privacy. After checking in with Sherlock, John shrugged and made his way downstairs.
Mrs. Hudson was happy to see him. She offered tea and cookies, which John politely declined. They sat together at her table discussing the weather, the book that Mrs. Hudson had just finished reading, and a promising triple murder mentioned in the daily paper.
The sound of voices in the flat above trickled down to them, but it was impossible to make out anything more than indistinct murmurs. The minutes passed in pleasant conversation as John awaited Mycroft's exit.
"WHAT?"
Mrs. Hudson jumped in her seat, and even John stared worriedly up at the ceiling. Sherlock's roar had been the first word to come clearly to their ears.
Sighing, John dropped his head into his hands. The voices above were louder than before, but still indiscernible. John readied himself for the tumultuous aftermath of the Holmes's conference, as he would surely bear the brunt of Sherlock's bad mood.
After several more minutes, a step could be heard on the stair. John left Mrs. Hudson and watched Mycroft descend. The government official looked like a wounded animal. Noticing the doctor, Mycroft acknowledged him with a vaguely sad look.
"He didn't accept your apology?" John assumed. He didn't need to know what the fight was about to guess as much.
Mycroft grimaced. "My brother is… very proud."
"I suppose it can be considered a family trait."
"When he is in a more fit state of mind, he'll come around," said Mycroft, gaining confidence.
"He sounded pretty angry."
"Indeed," he agreed easily. "However, in the grand scheme of things, this will be forgotten. Have a good day, John."
Mycroft was at the door and John was starting up the stairs when Mycroft called, "Oh, and John?"
The soldier turned back. For the first time that day, Mycroft smiled sincerely. "Thank you for taking such good care of Sherlock. Please continue to do so. It is clear what you mean to him… and he to you. Congratulations on your long overdue insight."
The British government left. John rolled his eyes, ignoring his pinkened cheeks. Only Mycroft would thank him and insult him in the same easy sentence.
Well, no, Sherlock would do the same.
Shaking his head at the abnormal siblings, John jogged the remainder of the stairs. He entered 221B bravely, braced for a storm.
He was surprised to find nothing of the sort. In fact, Sherlock was flitting to and from his collage on the wall—the one that John had first believed was to do with the search for Moriarty, but now understood was actually to do with the search for the video's creator. His eyes were alight with the promise of a challenge. John was terribly confused.
When Sherlock gave no sign of explaining himself, John asked, "What's going on, then?"
"There has been a development in the case, John."
"The fake-Moriarty-video case?"
"Yes."
"Right, and… that's to do with Mycroft, is it?"
"Yes, yes!"
"So…" John didn't understand what was happening at all. "Why… were you shouting? And why did Mycroft leave here looking like a kicked dog? I thought you'd had a row."
John saw the exact moment that Sherlock came back down to earth. A hint of awareness was in his eyes now, muffling the manic excitement, and he turned to face John.
"Mycroft thinks so as well," he answered conspiratorially. Though he still didn't understand, John grinned at the taller man's expression. "It's always easier to ferret out his secrets when he feels guilty about something. He's that much easier to read because he's that much more desperate to win back my goodwill."
"So you faked it," said John, dumbstruck. "You weren't actually angry."
Sherlock gave a half-shrug. "I was a bit angry, but the stronger emotion by far is intrigue. You see, John, my brother came to see me so that he could share a bit of intel: that he is the one responsible for Moriarty's video."
John gaped. Momentarily he floundered, then he burst, "So all along, he was-"
"No," Sherlock cut in. That same bright light was back in his eyes. "It wasn't him, I'm sure of it. But I let him think that I believed him. Now all that's left to do is discover who my brother would bother protecting."
"You think he's protecting someone?"
"Obvious."
"But… why?" he exclaimed.
"That too is a question still to be answered." Sherlock drifted off into thought, muttering out loud. "If the one responsible were dangerous, Mycroft wouldn't risk hiding their identity from me. But if the one responsible were an ally, why would they not take the credit for my rescue?"
"Sounds like a complicated logic problem to me."
"Yes, it's a promising conundrum."
"How can I help?"
Sherlock gave him a smile. "I'm not sure yet," he admitted. "I need to devise a strategy with which to approach the problem."
"Just let me know when you need anything," said John.
He stepped forward and kissed Sherlock, the action entirely casual. John was full of amazement that this was something normal now, something he could do whenever he wanted, something that had changed everything without really changing anything.
The best part was feeling Sherlock smile into the kiss.
36
"Sir." Andrea approached Mycroft's desk, extending a mobile phone towards him. "It's your brother on the line."
He peered confusedly. "And why is Sherlock not contacting me directly?"
"It's not Sherlock, sir."
The British government's expression smoothed over. He reached to accept the phone.
In that split moment, the deduction—transparent, Mycroft, utterly transparent, he scolded himself—hit him like a powerful gust of wind. Pursing his lips, Mycroft brought the phone to his ear, shooing Andrea away with his other hand. The door clicked shut behind her.
"Good day, Sherrinford," he greeted tightly.
"Mycroft, my good lad!" exclaimed the elder Holmes. Mycroft cringed at his sibling's childish exuberance. Sherrinford was always exhausting to deal with. He and Sherlock had that in common. "I call with some rather important information."
"Yes, given the rarity of the occasion, I presumed it was important," was his dry response.
"Oh, tch. Tired of me already, little brother?"
Mycroft gritted his teeth. "Would this information happen to be concerned whatsoever with the fake resurrection of our dear brother's greatest adversary?"
"Always such a penchant for pompous language," Sherrinford noted. Mycroft's eyelids twitched."Ah, my dear Mycroft, yes, that is indeed why I have dialed. Shall I assume from your irritated tone of voice that you've already puzzled it out?"
"I should have realized sooner," Mycroft declared. "When my investigations into Mummy proved unfruitful, it should have occurred to me to consider other, more eccentric, members of the family."
"Don't let your pride take too hard of a hit. I'm sure you would've worked it out eventually."
"I do not need you to massage my ego, thank you."
"No? Oh, very well. I shall remain a useless older brother, then."
"Hardly useless," admitted Mycroft begrudgingly. "Your notion to invoke Moriarty's reputation to spare Sherlock from his fate was… inspired. And it is appreciated."
"You would do just as much for him."
"Yes; however, it hadn't occurred to me to send him such a gift."
"Go on, Mike, you can say it. I won't tell a soul."
Mycroft ran his tongue over his teeth. "Is it truly so difficult for you and Mummy to remember all two syllables of my name? What a burden it must be."
"I'm waiting!" was the carefree answer.
Mycroft rolled his eyes. It took him a moment to swallow his pride and conjure the words. Finally he bit out, "Thank you, Sherrinford."
"And you are extraordinarily welcome."
"And what do you expect me to tell Sherlock, hmm?" the younger brother asked. "What fiction shall I devise to keep him blissfully unaware of your existence?"
"The answer is quite simple. Take the credit."
"You mean shoulder the blame."
"Blame?" cried Sherrinford. "I—or you, rather—saved the poor boy's life! He'll be grateful."
"He'll believe that I have been deceiving him for weeks on end. He will take it as an insult to his intellect."
"You could always be honest, of course. I wouldn't object. It's due to you and Mummy that he knows nothing of me, and only out of respect for your wishes have I remained uninvolved."
There was something uncharacteristically serious and, dare he think it, bitter in Sherrinford's words. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He sighed. "Somehow I imagine that such a revelation would only enrage him further." His eyes turned downcast. "He might choose never to speak to me again."
The line was quiet. Neither man had anything to say.
"Do as you will, Mycroft," said the older man. "You always have. I only rang because Andrea said you were running yourself ragged over the fear that some new villain had come to challenge the apple of your eye."
"Her words?" he asked sarcastically.
"Verbatim," was the dramatically sincere response. Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"It would seem that my hardworking PA is of more use to you than to me."
"Come now, my boy, you agreed to this arrangement. You can't fault Andrea for it now."
"I cannot help but feel that you are the more benefitted for it," said the British government. "You hear reports of me, and yet I hear nothing of you, no matter how vital the information."
"Alas, that is the younger brother's cross to bear. Wouldn't you say, Mycroft? Perhaps you would like to get Sherlock's input on the matter?" Mycroft's jaw clenched at his brother's accusation of hypocrisy. Sherrinford was clearly enjoying his own wit."I'm certain we could locate him quickly enough—you do keep surveillance on him, do you not?"
Mycroft smiled tightly. "I am not so interfering as you or Sherlock seem to believe."
"Ah, let us forget this!" Sherrinford declared. "It is enough that you now have the truth, and that our brother is safe and sound."
The younger man took in a deep breath. "Yes. That is what matters. I will go at once to put Sherlock's mind at ease."
"Until our next chat, Mycroft. Ciao!"
The phone beeped, indicating that the call had ended. Heaving a great sigh, Mycroft set the mobile down. He dropped his head into his hands, trying to massage away the headache pushing against his frontal lobe.