Deductions

"A trap?" Mycroft asked, sounding irritated.

"Yes," Sherlock said, glaring at Lestrade as he turned his own phone over in his hands, apparently unable to decide how much he should pester Donovan.

"Let them kill each other and just kill whoever's left," Mycroft snapped and then seemed to draw in a pained breath. "Mother, I am trying to have a private phone call-"

"There is something strange-" Sherlock argued, refusing to allow his brother to be distracted by their parents.

"They are the people that stole John from my house, bundled him off to face Moran, and didn't help him while he was being-" Mycroft broke off again but this time there didn't seem to be any interruptions. "You watched the video," Mycroft finished heavily.

"What video?" Sherlock could hear his father asking in the background.

"Tell them to go away, they're slowing everything down," Sherlock snapped.

"Would that I could," Mycroft replied. "Evidently, father feels he is the King in his castle and is therefore pestering me. That along with the fact that my own damned agents won't let me leave this room."

Sherlock let out a long breath. "You're of no help," he muttered down the phone before ending the call. Mycroft did not cope well with cabin fever.

Trap. Why was Kevin Moriarty so intent on trapping the informant? Was it power? Was he more concerned with a network than they had previously thought?

"You've got Molly Hooper safe?" Sherlock asked Lestrade as he scrubbed a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, she's at the station with Sally."

"I've missed something," Sherlock snarled. "I know I have. Moriarty's younger brother, likely abused by him and unhinged because of it. Early signs of violence, taken by Moran, trained by him and kept on the leash. He kills Moran-"

"Why him?" Lestrade asked.

"Occam's razor," Sherlock replied absently. "The simplest explanation is usually the correct one."

"So…he waits for years after his brother dies to kill his mentor and come after you?"

"I was outed by the press as being alive," Sherlock said tapping his fingers. "That fits."

"But the rest doesn't so…maybe that isn't it."

Sherlock blinked at him in surprise.

"Take yourself out of the equation," Lestrade said. "It worked well last time."

"Well then…if someone else...then Kevin Moriarty is after Moran's killer."

Oh.

"And tormenting me on the side?" Sherlock continued, and then shook his head. "That doesn't-"

There was the sound of wood splintering and suddenly both Scotland Yard and the agents were shouting as two, no four, figures appeared from the house next door to his parents', the wooden gate that separated the houses having apparently collapsed under their weight.

He and Lestrade paused in their conversation, watching.

"Down on the-"

The agent never finished, a shot firing and knocking him to the floor. There seemed to be some sort of cavalry and Lestrade swore, opening the car door and then shoving Sherlock down behind it.

"That will hardly stop a bullet," Sherlock muttered.

"They have easier targets," Lestrade replied as he reached for the radio and started to call for back up.

"Why wouldn't they have just followed him?" Sherlock asked as he leaned his head back so that it rested on the driver's chair.

"Seriously?" Lestrade snapped. "Now? You're deducing in the middle of a gun fight?"

"It's not the Wild West," Sherlock muttered. "And as I don't currently have a gun, what would you like me to do?" He stared at the ceiling of the police car. "Why would they not follow the man that killed Moran?"

"Loyalty?"

Sherlock threw Lestrade a pained look. "A realistic reason," he said.

"Fuck," Lestrade murmured. "They're beating the shit out of each other."

"Why would this Moriarty hold such a grudge?"

"Am I gonna get laughed at if I say loyalty again?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "Urgh," he huffed and picked up his phone again to dial Mycroft. "I have a question-"

"Why is there gunfire outside?" Mycroft asked sounding peeved. The familiarity of it was somewhat soothing.

"Oh there's some shoot-out of some description," Sherlock said absently. "Why would a group not follow someone who killed the alpha male?"

"Are we assuming that it wasn't Moriarty the younger?"

"Indulge me."

Mycroft was quiet. "Revenge…If the killer was not someone who wanted to be part of the organisation."

"Then why is this person alive?"

"Because it's likely to be one of the people that coaxed out John. You are going around in circles here."

Yes. Because something wasn't adding up. There was a flaw in his reasoning.

"Who would Kevin Moriarty hate more than you and me?" Sherlock snapped again. "He wants to torment us and yet his focus has changed, despite the fact that you and I are within killing distance."

There was a long silence as Mycroft pondered that.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling. "You're always saying that you're the smart one. Be smart-"

He froze as a wash of horror suddenly struck.

Be smart.

No.

He dropped the phone as he tripped out of the car, reaching for Lestrade's gun without a pause and racing towards where the agents were surrounding a car.

"We can't get to them," one said as he came over. "We've got friendlies and a stray and theirs in the buildings. Nothing can-"

Sherlock ignored them, ignored the sudden panicked cries as the agents realised who he was and what he was doing. He just cleared the car when he spotted a figure on top of another one, a blade in hand that was already dripping.

He fired.

His shot went wide, catching the man in the shoulder but it made him stand. Dark hair and familiar eyes, a twisted smile that was a lot like his brother's.

"I have a present for you," he said in that strange accent as he straightened. "I-"

The words were cut off as a shot came from no-where and hit Kevin Moriarty straight between the eyes. There wasn't even time for a look of shock to wipe out the smug expression from his face.

The shots rang out again and suddenly bloody Lestrade was there tugging him down. But the shots weren't going for him but rather for what was left of Moriarty's men.

"Let go," Sherlock roared. "You don't understand-"

"Stay down or you're gonna get yourself killed," Lestrade hissed.

"It's John," Sherlock said, trying to struggle against him. "It's John-"

"John's dead-"

"A person that could have killed Sebastian Moran, been hated by Kevin Moriarty, and been of higher priority than myself and Mycroft," Sherlock corrected. "It's him, it's-"

The shock of what he was saying, whether Lestrade believed Sherlock or not, was enough to allow Sherlock to scramble lose and dart out from behind the car again.

There was nothing there but streaks of blood on the pavement.

Lost, Sherlock looked around but in the darkness of a street with shot out lamps, he saw nothing. Shocked, he could do nothing but stare at the only tangible evidence he had.

Xxx

It took Mycroft two hours after Sherlock's bizarre phone call to get out of his parents' house, during which time his brother hadn't called once.

If he was dead, so help Mycroft, he would march into hell just to scream at the idiotic man. Who sat and pondered in the middle of a gun fight?

"Where is he?" Mycroft demanded as he strode from the house, his irritation with his own people best served for when he wasn't quite so fractious. Instead, he focused his attention on a rather pale Greg Lestrade who looked fearful but not upset.

Injured then. His moronic brother had managed to injure himself. How wonderful.

"Before-"

Mycroft ignored the man and huffed at the sight of the shot-out car that was being lit up by ambulances. The injured had been moved and the dead were covered if they were unknown.

He should find out how many he had lost before the night was done.

His brother was sat behind the car, back against it as he stared down at bloody streaks across the pavement.

He appeared…uninjured.

"Are you hurt?" Mycroft asked, unable to work out exactly what was wrong. Sherlock shook his head, still staring at the ground like his very existence depended on it.

"Then…" Mycroft peered back at the police and then to Sherlock. Wondering if grief had once again hit his brother he crouched down and reached for Sherlock's shoulder. "We should go inside," he said gently, trying to ignore his own distaste for the idea.

If he were ever to be locked up during a security crisis again, then his parents had best be in Fiji.

"It makes sense," Sherlock whispered.

"What does?"

"I can't…" Sherlock trailed off and frowned at his own hoarse voice. "I can't tell if it makes sense because it fits or because…even the possibility…"

"What are you talking about?"

Sherlock looked away and then frowned again.

"Could…" Lestrade seemed to take his own steeling breath as he stood behind Mycroft. "Could John be alive?"

"No." Mycroft was appalled the man could even suggest such a thing.

But Sherlock was staring at him, as if there was a possibility, and Mycroft blinked at his brother. "Why would-"

If John were alive then…then he would have had to be the one to kill Moran. And that would mean…

Mycroft rocked back away from Sherlock, then turned his attention to the blood on the pavement. "Has someone sampled this?" he asked. "Run tests?"

"No we-"

"Do it," Mycroft snapped. "Now."

"If-" Sherlock still seemed dazed. "We never did find out what happened to Popovic."

Mycroft reached out for his brother and held him firmly by the shoulders. "You and I cannot trust our own judgement, not on this. Wait, wait until there is something concrete-"

Sherlock closed his eyes, as if pained.

"I know," Mycroft whispered as he pulled Sherlock close. "But Sherlock… why would he run?"

Xxx

"You're a mess," Mary declared as she sat on the floor in front of John. "And not even a hot mess either."

Talking hurt, so he just flipped her the finger and winced as she started to clean the gashes in his arm and along his back. "In future," she said, "Try to avoid falling to the floor when fighting."

"Yeah," John said, his voice barely audible. "Got that memo."

She threw him an annoyed glare. "Then prove it by not doing it."

The water in the sink was turning red. "You knew Kavan," John said, feeling like he should get it in there.

"Yes," Mary replied. "I did."

"You were one of Bastian's," John decided. "You and Finn."

"No," Mary said softly. "Finn was. I was…I fell for someone. Finn's brother. I was…something else," she said with a smile. "Far better trained than any of you lot. But…Moran found out and…he died from the injuries. Kavan had been let loose."

"I'm sorry," John said softly.

Mary nodded, not looking at him. "Finn's grabbed what was left out in Afghanistan. He thought it was best not to put all of our eggs into you."

"You came here though," John said softly.

Mary looked up and stared at John for a long time. Then she moved away and nodded at the shower. "In," she ordered. "I've got the pavement out of you."

Now was hardly the time to push matters.

"John?" she asked as he turned to get in.

"Mm?"

"Why didn't you stay?"

Really? "They think I'm dead," John said, his voice catching. "Didn't seem much point correcting them. The boy they knew…he's long gone."

Mary said nothing as John eased into the shower and hung his head. With effort, he twisted the shower on and then stood underneath the water; half hoping it would wash away more than the blood and dirt.

Stupid.