Dear readers, I know it has again been some time and the last chapter was a little bit confusing. I am on holidays now and finally have some time to finish the (last) big chapter I have been working on for quite some time now. Now I have finally achieved what I wanted: to solve the riddle and open up a new story line. I cannot promise I will update more often. Instead I will try to write longer chapters – like this one. I hope you enjoy it. Love, Esta

Chapter 14 : Let's play murder – or: A riddle is solved

Three month after the shooting – two days after Mycroft's heart attack

The second time Mycroft woke he felt too dizzy to realize he had company again. Only mother's soft touch lingered on his skin when he fell asleep again. Mycroft hated being sick it always brought back bad memories. Memories of childhood nightmares and fears of death. At least he now realized that dying was not really an option. His heart was beating again, not really strong, but strong enough to survive. Whispered voices lulled Mycroft back into sleep.

The third time he awoke no one was around. It was in the middle of the night and the darkness was a soft, welcoming cover. Mycroft embraced it and cuddled back into his cushion. He had not felt that tired in years.

The fourth time finally she had come. Mary Watson. Many things needed to be said, but only two words were needed to know they had a problem. "Sherlock knows", Mary said.

"Everything now?" Mycroft had known that Sherlock had guessed but not to what extend.

"Yes… he knows about what I did and that you covered my tracks. He knows that you sent one of your agents to kill that junkie hacker. And he knows you shot a man to save his life."

His heart flipped. Literally. The heart monitor gave a warning sound.

"Don't", he said. Mycroft closed his eyes.

Two month ago…

"What are you doing in my house", Steven Miller's face was glowing red, he tightened the grip on the fireplace poker he had grabbed when entering the living room. The man in the bespoke, dark suit seemed not to be moved by his brutish display. A smile played on his lips.

"I know what you did, Steven. I know what you got for it. What I don't know is why you are still here." The man moved towards the window, touched the curtains with his gloved hand and looked outside. "Was it not part of the plan, that you would leave this country immediately after what you did?"

Steven stepped from one foot to another. "I don't know what you are talking about, mister. And if I did, it's still none of your business. So: FUCK OFF!" Steven stepped closer towards the arrogant man. Clearly private school education, fancy upbringing. That was all Steven saw, but not the danger lurking beyond the surface.

"You gained quite a lot of money for slipping a message into our television cable network. Even considering you paid a vast amount of money to your friends who hacked the BBC computers to make sure the message was broadcasted over satellite as well."

Steven took another step towards the arrogant man. Now he was only two arms length away, near enough to strike him with the heavy iron he had in his hand.

"Consider me a friend."

"You are no friend of mine." Steven was furious now. And a drunken, frightened and furious man was a dangerous man, especially if he had nothing to loose.

"Then consider me as someone who gives you a friendly warning. Only once: Leave this town, leave this island and run as far as you can… before someone comes to get you."

Steven roared, raised the poker and… stopped midway. The man suddenly had a gun in his hand. And a calculating, cold and dangerous man with a gun was never someone to play with. Especially not when you where only a minor criminal believing to be born to greatness. A new Al Capone, a new Moriarty. That was the true reason he had played along. Not the money, but the fame.

"Hey, man…" he said. "I didn't mean it that way, man…" He stepped closer, forgetting he still held the poker n his hand, raised to strike.

Steven could not hear the shot and so he took another step forwards, in slow motion, millimetre after millimetre… and collapsed. The shot had pierced his lung but did not kill him. He fell and lost consciousness rather fast. The second shot was harder for the man now becoming a killer. The first he could have blamed on being threatened. The second was a calculated move. A shot in the head. Like killing a sleeping man in his bed. That was how he would always remember it later. I killed a man in his sleep. A daydreamer not knowing what – who – might come for him.

Three month after the shooting – two days after Mycroft's heart attack

"I never intended to shoot him. But the man was foolish, the police was hard on his heals and all he did was spending money that had come from nowhere. It was only a matter of time… Foolish as I was I thought I might threaten him enough to leave the country. But there was no…"

Mycroft was sweating and his hand shaking. His throat had become dry from talking. The monitor was beeping, sometimes too fast, sometimes too but never as it should. He was not out of danger yet.

"…no reasoning with him."

Mary took a glass of water from the nightstand and held it in front of Mycroft's lips. "Don't…", he said.

"You know, I am not only an assassin but also a nurse, do you?" She raised her left eyebrow mockingly.

Mycroft swallowed dry. He longed for water and so he gave in. She held the glass while he drank, he could not hold it himself. Talking left him weak and shivering. As Mary touched his shoulder he leaned in, searching for comfort he could not find. They had become close out of pure necessity. How much only a few months could change two people's relationships: From indifference to pure hatred, from a peace treaty to something that came close to an understanding.

"You are tired", she said. "We should stop talking."

"No", his voice was firm again, even though he felt exactly like she said.

"Mycroft…"

"Consider it a debrief." His voice was that of someone used to be in command. But Mary no longer felt threatened by the man she shared so many secrets with they could so easily be each other's doom. A question was burning in her mind.

"So: What did Janine do… after she heard of his death? After all Steven had been more than only one of her acquaintances. She must have known it had something to do with what I had asked her. The day I came to beg her help. I never dared to contact her afterwards, but you… I know you went to see her. Did you threaten her as well?"

"Janine was never a threat, Mrs. Watson. So why should I threaten her? I might have given her a warning of what may come, but nothing more. Even when she sold her story about my brother to the newspapers she had not been anything close to a threat. She could have told the paper's many bad things about my brother. Many things that would have harmed his reputation forever. His drug addiction. The way he sometimes handles cases. Human organs in the fridge. Things that would make every criminal proud: Hacking, theft, burglary – even though only to secure evidence, I have to admit… but no, she did nothing like that. Instead she sold them lies about sexual encounters that have never happened. She took her revenge – and rightfully so – but still was very protective. I never needed to interfere with her… she still likes him… why is a puzzle I will never solve."

"So she was never in danger?" Mary dared to breathe again. "Even though I used her for my schemes? That is good to know because lately I have wondered if the fact I contacted her will in the end be her death sentence… "

"I will not be the judge making that verdict", Mycroft thought. "But there always might be others…"

Three month ago…

"Do you still have contact to that ex-boyfriend of yours working for the cable network?"

Janine groaned "Thank you for reminding me of that asshole, Mary. It seems I have never been good in choosing a decent boyfriend… at least Sherlock was nice as long as he needed me." Funnily enough there was no bitterness in Janine's voice. She rather seemed to speak Sherlock's name with a fondness not to expect from someone who had been treated as ill as she had been. It gave Mary courage to continue.

"I need to contact him. Please don't ask why…"

"Why?" Typically Janine.

"What I tell you has to stay between us. It is the only way to protect you… no stop… don't fret, Janine. This is not a threat but the truth…"

Janine's eyes grew wide while listening what her former friend had to tell.

"What Sherlock did – from the very beginning – was to protect his brother… and me. There was another person involved – high-ranking in the British government – who had hired Sherlock to retrieve some information from Magnussen But that would have never let to Sherlock killing the man. But your former employer had also collected things about Mycroft, personal things no one can know about or he will be dead. And he had started investigating my life when he realised I would be connected to the Holmes family through John. My true name is not Mary. I am in a witness protection scheme I cannot tell you anything about. But Magnussen found out and he… he threatened to publish it…"

"Oh my…" Janine was pale. "I knew he was a bad man, but most times he treated me well enough not to suspect something like that… I am so sorry, Mary."

"Sherlock and John went to retrieve the information, the files… but there were none. It was all in Magnussen's head and Sherlock… I think he freaked out." It was not even a lie Mary was telling, but neither the truth. Perhaps the parts about Sherlock were, but not those about her own life.

"Sherlock had given up everything for the British government he went into hiding for months, he was treated like shit…"

"He was tortured, I saw the scars, no matter how hard he tried to hide them. We might not have slept with each other, but we slept in the same bed more than once", Janine added.

Mary nodded. "But now, no one stands up for him. No one will help him. They will send him on a secret mission that will get him killed. And he does not deserve that."

"What can I do?"

"Get me in touch with Steven Miller."

xxxx

In the end it had been easy, Mary had edited the clip herself – amateur software, some Youtube clips and picture of Moriarty from his time at court was all she needed. Computer skills had been part of her education. The clip she had put on Blue Ray and send anonymously to Steven. 10 million pounds were all the inspiration he needed, so the only thing left to do was sending a text message via pre-paid phone. All comes well in the end, Mary had thought. A plan was set in motion. A plan to save Sherlock Holmes.

But Steven had been stupid. As decided, he had hacked the cable network and made sure some friends took over the BBC network in a multiple hacker attack. Five people, a million for each. That had left Steven quite a rich man, and a man living dangerously. But instead of leaving the country as his contact – an elderly lady as he could judge from the two phone calls they had had – had asked him to do. He stayed, doing what he always did: Gambling. Five million could easily turn into eight, ten or twenty with the right cards. But the right cards never came and so he continued gambling instead of packing his things like promised. He was a liability but not clever enough to make that assumption himself. Never in his life had he thought about the consequences it had – for him and others – if he did not keep his promises. But maybe… maybe even a daft man like Steven could have recognized there was a difference between his normal lies and what he did now: Telling your girlfriend never to cheat again while lying in the bed with another was one thing, but staying in the country after a coup like that… this was pure stupidity.

And so it should not have come as a surprise that one day Steven came home finding a man waiting for him: A gentleman in a bespoke suit, a gentleman with a gun.

Steven Miller's body was found two days later, as an employer he was easily linked to hacking into the cable network and the illegal publication of Moriarty's message. Thanks to Mycroft Holmes and his contacts Steven Miller was connected to Moriarty's criminal network – strings the agency had overseen before. He was linked to two other hacks and a bank robbery – all in all earning him about 10 million pounds. But after that the investigators lost track. Nothing could be found about who might be the go-between between Steven Miller and criminal mastermind James Moriarty – still in hiding and a lingering threat.

The investigations were still running, but with its head investigator currently in hospital the search was put to a halt. Still there was Lady Smallwood and a suspicion lingering… could it be?

Mycroft in hospital knew all that and so was Mary.

"I needed to tell John", she said.

"So he knows, too…" It was not a question. "I should have guessed."

Mary – never easily touching others – took his hand. Mycroft flinched. "He says he is sorry. For what he said to you, for what he did… keeping you away from our baby, closing the door in front of your face, pushing you out of his way and… that must have hurt… but he was so angry and you seemed to care so little."

"And now he is angry with you. For lying… again. For endangering the child you were carrying while… while we did what we did." Mycroft gave her a weak smile.

"He will come to terms… at least he knows the purpose this time. And he understands why we did what we did, no matter how much he disapproves of the methods. But what comes next, Mycroft? What shall we do know? Surely you have already made a plan should it come to this."

Mycroft closed his eyes, breathing in, preparing for the worst to tell. Somehow he had come to trust Mary, John's mad assassin-wife, his brother's attempted murderess, the person he would normally order to secure and put away in some place safe. But he did not. Instead he had fallen for her charms, her wit, her protectiveness. And deep down he had come to terms, that Mary might indeed be a good person, even though her own history told a different story. He trusted her to keep Sherlock safe when he could not. No longer. She would do it not out of guilt, but caring – for Sherlock. For John. Above everyone else for John.

"Nothing comes next, this time, Mrs. Watson. Mary. There was once a time when I promised myself I would never let myself be let astray by my brother again. It was during my first year in university, I had taken up studying after being quite ill for some time. I enrolled for law, political science, business administration and later on history and physics – only because I could and I was bored. Imagine that! Of course, I chose some of my study topics according to my career aspirations in administration. Running a country – what boy would not dream of that." Mycroft laughed a bitter laugh. "I never asked how my parents would pay for it. Luckily enough I got a scholarship that paid at least a vast amount of the fees. My brother was still young and mischievous and – like always – bored and my parents happy that at least one child was doing well.

I worked hard – far too hard most of the times. I only slept a few hours every night, ate less and less. I thought I had to make up the time I had lost due to an illness I had during my teens. My parents were rather proud and so was I. I finally was on the right track.

One day – it was one of our regular Sunday afternoon phone calls – mother told me Sherlock had taken a fever. First I thought nothing of it, but then three days later Sherlock called me late at night. I was still studying even though it must have been far past midnight. Sherlock sobbed and begged me to come home. He said he was in so terrible a pain. I asked him to call mother but he hung up on me. I tried to call back but no one answered the phone. I panicked. Like I have never before. And so I borrowed my roommate's car. I had a license but detested driving. It was late and a long way home. I hadn't had a decent rest in days. What I did was irresponsible in every way.

But Sherlock was ill, so ill. I drove through the night, exhausted, desperate. I do not know what happened in the morning, I still do not remember properly. Maybe I fell asleep; maybe it was really only bad luck as a judge later ruled.

I was nearly home when a little girl jumped in front of my car, I think I tried to brake, but it was to late. She was dead in an instant. She and her mother had been on their way to the bakery to fetch fresh bread rolls, it was her father's birthday. She must have been exited and slipped out of her mothers grasp and ran on the road… like children do…

Of course I did not come home in time. But it would not have mattered if I had, because that night Sherlock for the first time had lied to me. Yes, he was ill. But it was only a light flue. But because of the coughing he had not been able to sleep and instead called me to force me to come home. To help him beat the boredom. He even hid the phone so no one could answer my call and tell me to stay where I was. He lied to me and I… I ruined everything. I never forgave myself that… perhaps I have not forgiven him as well…"

Mary who had been quite for all this time now spoke up. "But you still do everything for him."

"Yes. Always" Mycroft closed his eyes. He felt so tired. "This is something I could never force myself to do: To abandon my brother no matter what he did. After that accident I promised myself I would do many things for my brother but never that much again. But my brother is a greedy man; always taking more than one can offer him without inflicting pain on one's very own soul. He does not mean to, but that is who he is. Always has been. Greedy."

Mary shook her head, clearly in awe that Mycroft was opening up to her of all people.

Mycroft laughed softly. "Do not wonder about something that mundane. Of course I would talk to you about this. We are in this together, if we like it or not. And I know all your secrets, too, after all."

"Does it mean there is still a chance that you will ever forgive me for shooting your brother." Mary's smile was something between teasing and true hope. A hope crushed.

"Never."

Silence filled the room, a silence of two people who had nothing to say to each other, now that everything that had to be done was done. Only Mycroft's heavy breathing and the sound of Mary's hands nestling on her blouse filled the room.

"It is not over yet", Mycroft said. "Sherlock knows, but there are others who don't. And they will not stop searching for whoever was responsible for this."

Mary nodded. "We have to keep that at bay."

"Yes… perhaps it is time to stand trial for all my deeds… " Mary's face paled. "Don't look like that Mrs. Watson… Mary… your name will never fall. I still do know what is best for my brother. And bringing you in to be questioned is definitely something who would never forgive me. And I would not take your baby girl's mother away. Don't think that badly of me. But there is nothing left for me, nothing but finally doing what my brother always needed me to do: Let go, stop controlling and let others do the deed. As I said: Nothing comes next. I don't have anything left to loose."

And so a not so secret plan was formed: A plan to go to prison if necessary. A plan to give up a live that meant less to Mycroft than that of his little brother: His own, Mycroft's stupid and failed attempt to build something for himself. No words were needed for this plan. Only a slight nod of the woman Mycroft had accepted was no longer a thread to his brother. And so again it came to pass that Mycroft did not do what was right, but what would safe his detested, beloved brother.

The same day, 221B Baker Street

While Mycroft would always remember the dead little girl in her pale yellow dress, Sherlock had already deleted that once he had caused his brother unbearable pain. There were other incidents he had tried to forget, too, but never succeeded: That one time, when he had overdosed and Mycroft had carried him through detox forcing his brother back into life. The second time was in Serbia when Mycroft dragged him out of the cellar-turned-torture-chamber whispering his name over and over again, encouraging him to move on even though Sherlock felt so tired that all he wanted to do, was sleeping. And then there was the third time. This Sherlock remembered with all clarity even though he had been high on pain medication. It must have been shortly after he had collapsed in his flat confronting Mary. He had woken up in a hospital room stuffed with flowers and well wishes. And hiding between all the flowery overload sat his brother, sobbing silently, tears streaming down his face. He had looked so heartbroken and sad… Later when Mycroft told him, that it would break his heart to lose him, Sherlock had only joked. But deep inside he had known it to be true. And it had terrified him beyond measures. It still did. It always would.

He was a greedy man, he took what he could and only seldom gave things back. But this time was different. His brother had offered him everything: his life, his soul. And Sherlock had willingly sacrificed both over and over again. Because as the younger brother he had never considered it was not in his right to take everything his brother laid on a plate in front of him. He had taken more than was due and now was time to give something back. His brother's life. His brother's freedom.

And so another secret plan was formed, a plan how to save Mycroft Holmes.

The next morning in hospital

Mycroft was finally awake when the doctors came in the next morning. Anthea was there, Mycroft had not wanted her to come, but she had insisted. She did not bring flowers, like his mother had. Not chocolate – he was not allowed to eat that. She had brought others things so much more meaningful. Mycroft's own sheets, something decent to wear, the ointment for his still burning skin and the white gloves he had started to wear when alone. She knew. And Mycroft no longer cared.

Arrangements had been made for his release but were cancelled again. Mycroft would stay in intensive care. The coronary had affected more than 30 per cent of his heart muscle leading to a cardiogenic shock that had nearly killed him. The doctors still were not sure how much his heart had been damaged but hoped the medications would be able to stabilize the patient enough. Still there was the change the heart would not start beating properly on its own again. They would have to discuss other options soon.

Anthea took notes, Mycroft was sure she would directly head to different specialists ensuring he would get the best care possible. As if he cared.

He was so tired.

xxx

When Sherlock came in the next time, Anthea was gone and Mycroft asleep. And so Sherlock took a chair, placed it next to his brother's bed and sat down. The heart monitor was beeping irregularly, Mycroft's was face drawn and pale. And for the first time in many years, Sherlock took his brothers hand and raised it to his mouth breathing a soft kiss on his knuckles.

"Don't you dare die on me, brother mine. Don't you dare."

To be continued