"The Queen, how cliché – playing to your vanity," Mycroft drawled, reaching out to grab a biscuit from the plate on the table. After a moment, he looked up to notice the flat stares of his siblings. Crystalline blue eyes stared at him for a long moment before he snapped, "What now?"

"She's not the White Queen, you idiot," Sherlock snapped, "You are." His focus shifted to his sister, "He was sending you a message."

"Yes," she agreed, her eyes were unfocused, remembering days long past. It was a system used in Yugoslavia – chess pieces represented persons of interest, targets. There were many days when we would play chess in the park, he always chose black." She stood abruptly, setting the mug on the table beside her and walked around the flat, "There's not much more to tell, really. I chose an afternoon when I knew Mycroft would be busy, went to Hyde Park and hired out a deckchair and waited. I didn't have to wait long – five minutes at the most and there he was, bold as brass. He told me in no uncertain terms that I'd made a mess of his short term plans but that in the long run, it had all worked out far better than he hoped. He made it plain, if I left with him, he'd leave England and we could tour the world.

"And if you didn't?"

"He'd destroy everything I held dear; he would start with London and burn it down around me until I begged him to stop. He'd kill my Queen and work his way down to through the pawns until there was nothing left." Her knuckles were white, her spine rigid as she stood there staring at the wall, "I was prideful, too sure that I could protect everyone. I walked away from him. Two days later, I heard some rumours and decided to change my schedule – to take care of a routine task I normally sent Mycroft to deal with. You know the rest."

"Why?" Mycroft whispered, that mask of ice gone, "You had to know he'd try something."

She nodded, arms hugging her ribs and her eyes clouded with remembered pain, "Why? You're my little brother; it's my job to protect you." When he let out a short bark of bitter laughter, she turned to him and said, "I will always remember the day when Dad sat me down on the sofa and put you on my knees. The oldest watches out for the wee ones, he told me, I was a big sister now and little ones need to be watched over. How could I tell him that I'd let you die, Myc? That I sacrificed my brother for the Empire?" Angry tears fell down her face, "No, that I could not do."

"So you sacrificed yourself?"

Her shoulder slumped in defeat, rocking slightly on her heels, "That was never the plan but he has a way of tossing the best of plans into the rubbish."

Mycroft sighed, straightening his suit as he sat staring into the depth of his teacup, "So we wait and see what he wants.

Sherlock studied his siblings, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest, "We know what he wants." Mycroft's gaze swung to his but Sherrinford stared resolutely on the floor, "He wants what he's always wanted."

"Me," she whispered.

Her chin lifted slightly and Sherlock could almost watch as she placed her mental armour back in place. He stepped over to his sister, his hands coming to rest on her slight shoulders, "Yes," he studied her carefully, giving her a quick but firm hug, "How long before he contacts us?"

She shrugged, "Could be a few days, could be hours – he's fickle. There are so many factors to take into consideration. He may not even be certain that I'm alive. He might just be acting on instinct."

"You don't believe that."

"No," she agreed, "I don't."

In the end, there was nothing to do but wait – after a point, discussions became circular and pointless. After Lestrade's departure to the Watson residence, Anthea and Molly had announced their plans to get some sleep – the siblings had agreed that they should sleep in shifts and they had retreated to their own mental fortresses. By mutual consent, Sherrinford had claimed the bedroom first leaving Mycroft and Sherlock alone in the living area.

Mycroft had abandoned his suit for a pair of black trousers and a silk dress shirt, the closest to relaxed Sherlock had seen him in ages. Sherlock was worried about Mycroft, his carefully crafted aura of calm was crumbling around him and his brother gave all appearances of being adrift.

Rising from his seat, Sherlock slipped into the kitchen and rummaged through one of the cupboards, careful not to make too much noise. He bit down a laugh as he extracted a packet of nicotine patches from a box of biscuits stashed at the very back of the cupboard and returned to the living area. Applying three patches to his arm, he sat down in his chair and tossed the remainder of the box to Mycroft. "You have one hour to get your mental house in order – then we start."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, fatigue evident in the way he held his body, "We can scarcely begin, Sherlock. We know next to nothing about the man – everything we knew was a lie."

Fingers twinning under his chin, Sherlock shook his head as the faintest of smiles crossed his face, "Not so, brother mine, something you would realize if you were not trapped in your own guilt." At Mycroft's look of disdain, "I know you better than anyone, Mycroft and I've seen the face of your guilt before – I see it now." He leaned forward and hissed, "Get yourself together and think!"

"Which part of this would you like me to cogitate on, little brother. The part where a madman seems to fancy our sister or the fact that she willingly went to her death."

"We know his weakness," Sherlock said, "and he shall pay for it."

Sherrin emerged from the bedroom two hours later; she stopped abruptly in the kitchen to take a moment to memorize the picture before her.

Sherlock sat in his chair, fingers clasped as if in prayer, looking to the entire world like a Pre-Raphaelite angel with his strong jaw and chiselled cheekbones. Mycroft lay on the couch, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows –patches visible on his forearm. His fingers rested on his wrist as if he'd fallen asleep taking his own pulse. The extreme care with which he slicked back his hair had been undone by the cushions, his hair curling ever so slightly.

Slipping further into the room, she stepped over to Mycroft, smoothing back an errant curl and covering him with a blanket before moving over to check on Sherlock. Reaching out to caress his cheekbone, she startled when his eyes snapped open and he reached out to grip her hand. One finger lifted to touch cupid bow lips as he stood and gestured for her to follow him into the bedroom.

With the door closed, he said simply, "He cannot accept that you went to what you knew was likely your death for him." When she blinked at him, he said simply, "As I have done similar now twice, I am a little more understanding of your position and I think I have an idea as to how to end this."

"And how do we do that?"

"We give him what he wants."

Notes:

There were a few songs on the playlist for this but most notably The Great Escape by P!nk and Radioactive by Imagine Dragons