I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.
Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.
Eyes behind masks
by Kaiyo no Hime
Chapter Twenty-one
Mycroft rubbed at his eyes, and glared at the paperwork that seemed to enjoy breeding on his desk. Every time he finished with one report, three more showed up to taunt him. North Korea was threatening to launch more missiles, Japan was threatening to shoot North Korea, elections in the United States were going poorly, Greece and Spain were fighting over who could have a worse economic crisis.
And there was still no clue on who was running around the city of London threatening and mentally torturing his John.
Mycroft sighed, and leaned back in the leather chair. He frowned as he noted that his teacup was not only empty, it looked to have been that way for a while. A crease marred his forehead as he leaned closer to investigate the oddity. He teacup was never left empty for long. Anthea was a meticulous and exacting assistant. She always made sure his teacup was full, and there was food of some variety waiting for him while he was hungry.
Deep in the back of his mind, something shifted, and Mycroft began to worry. He paged in whomever it was that was now acting as his secretary. His excuse was for tea, but he needed information. Very, very important information.
"Yes sir," the young woman smiled.
Mycroft didn't bother returning the smile, he didn't care.
"Where is Anthea," he asked.
"She said she had an important appointment, sir, and that she would be back this afternoon," the secretary kept smiling, "Would you like some more tea?"
"No," Mycroft glared, and watched the woman hurry from the room as he picked up his phone.
Anthea did not handle private appointments while on the clock. And she always informed him when she would be unavailable beforehand just in case she was needed while busy elsewhere. It was outside of her norm to simply leave someone else to take care of her business, especially when Mycroft had been so very demanding these past few weeks.
"Check information on where Anthea is right now, and where John Watson is," Mycroft demanded, waiting for a moment as he heard keys clicking away speedily.
His face blanched as his question was answered. John had left the flat ten minutes beforehand, the last message to his phone, which he had accessed before running from 221B, had a message pointing him toward St Bart's medical facility. The message had been signed with his name.
"Get me my car. Now," Mycroft roared, "And shift the entire team to St Barts, Anthea is the Doll Doctor."
He didn't bother to wait for an answer, or to even speak to the flustered young woman outside his door who asked if he wanted his jacket as he nearly ran down the hallway. John would trust Anthea, without thought he would leave himself open to her, and then she would kill him. Slowly and painfully if the more recent deaths were any example.
And while Mycroft Holmes was not a religious man, he prayed then, as he rushed through the hallways and toppled secretaries and other paper pushers, that everyone would get there in time to end things before it was too late.
John repressed a shudder as he looked up at St Bart's, remembering a day not too long past when he had also been staring up at the roof. But now he took solace that, instead of watching a dear friend jump to his death, he would be helping someone dearer stop a killer. It may not tip the scales equal, but it helped settle his heart about the cursed place.
Evidence on the roof. Please hurry. MH
He rolled his eyes, and entered the building. Impatient demands must run fairly strong in the Holmes family. He could almost see Mycroft pacing on the roof, excited to point out one tiny thing that everyone else had overlooked. And John dearly hoped that he had found something, something that would break the case. John smiled as he pressed buttons and felt the life begin to rise.
It would never have occurred to him to check to roof for anything at all. But, looking back, of course someone should have searched the scene. The Doll Doctor must have felt some sort of connection with Sherlock, insane as it was. He must have nearly worshiped the man, so of course he would have visited the last place Sherlock had stood while alive. It might even have been some sort of holy ground to him.
He smiled as the doors opened, and raced towards the stairs. Finally, a mistake had been made. And now they would catch the man, and put him in a small, dark place for the rest of his life.
Mycroft cursed as he launched himself from the car and raced into the building. There were traffic snarls all over the city. Anthea had torn the entire system apart, and now the security team was stuck somewhere in the middle of it. The fact that he had managed to get through at all had been a miracle. But now it was just him, John, and Anthea. On the roof where his brother had jumped to his death.
He didn't bother with the lift as he raced toward the stairs. He didn't trust her not to have sabotaged it in some way as well.
"Mycroft," John asked, looking around, confused.
The roof was deserted, but for a small, folded note on the edge. John rolled his eyes and went to pick it up. He would have thought that the seriousness of the case would have cut the need to be so dramatic, but it figured he would be wrong.
He smiled as he picked up the note, and unfolded it to read.
'No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold
Nothing satisfies me but your soul'
John just stared at the note, his eyes wide and his hand very, very still. He heard the gentle click of footsteps behind him, high heels of some sort given the sound, and resisted the urge to turn around.
"Anthea," John whispered.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to figure it out," the woman whispered, a knife coming around to caress John's throat gracefully, "I wouldn't struggle, dear, sweet John. You'll find that I was much better trained than you were."
John stiffened, but took her advice to heart. Anthea worked for Mycroft, worked very carefully, and very closely with him. He was very, very sure that, for such a small woman, she could fill him with very deep holes long before he would ever be able to lay a hand on her. He was a medic, not a member of MI6. And he wasn't about to try killing himself in a failed attempt to stop her.
"Why," John asked, turning as she positioned him on the edge.
She snorted, and the knife began to slowly cut into his flesh.
"Mycroft's world revolved around Sherlock. Always had," she answered politely, "He obsessed over everything he was doing or was not doing. But then one day you stumble into his life and things go a little crooked. Not much at first, just enough to make him look at the daily reports with an eyebrow raised."
"We were just friends," John insisted, testing the balance on his feet.
Maybe, he thought to himself, just maybe he would be fast enough to take her with him. It wasn't the perfect solution, but at least it made her pay for what she had done.
"Yes, that was always very clear, but you could convince young Sherlock of anything," she smiled against his neck, and John shivered, "But that day, you just stood there and watched-"
"I would have stopped him if I could!"
"Shut up," she hissed, "You threatened Mycroft, you ignored Sherlock, and you stood there and watched as his entire world jumped off that building! And now you're upending his life, hogging time and resources he can't spare, just to look after you.
"You are filthy and undeserving. You killed Sherlock, and you'll kill him just the same," Anthea growled, the knife tightening in her grip and digging deeper into his flesh, "At least now he will mourn, and move on, and it will all be over."
"No it won't," a voice rang from behind Anthea, "It will never be over now."
"Mycroft," John rasped, swinging violently to the side as Anthea spun to look behind her, the knife still digging in to John's flesh.
Mycroft swallowed, staring at the two before him. He had never known just how unstable Anthea was. Of course there was some need for a bit of psychosis in their line of work, disposing of people and tracking and controlling governments wasn't exactly sane, but he had never seen just how far she had dropped in the water. The devotion, too, had been necessary. But not like this, he had never thought she would kill for him like this.
"Anthea, please," Mycroft said, reaching a hand out and stepping closer, "It's not John's fault, you don't need to kill him like this."
"After all he's done," Anthea sneered, "He's an infection, running through your veins. He has to die, Mycroft."
"No he doesn't," Mycroft insisted, taking another step closer, "No one had to die."
Anthea glared at him, her fist still tight around the knife, blood dripping down John's neck as he stood, captured, on the roof ledge. His hands were steady, his footing secure. He watched Mycroft and Anthea battling via eye, and shifted his weight just a tiny bit. Mycroft's gaze shifted to him, read him in a moment, and his eyes went wide.
"I'm sorry, Mycroft," John whispered, turning toward Anthea.
But Anthea had worked with Mycroft, alongside him, long enough to know how to read how he was reading a person. She glared at John, and, with a pull of her wrist, slit his throat. Blood didn't spurt out and drench her like in the movies, and death wasn't sudden. John's eyes widened just a fraction, and then he grabbed Anthea, and dragged them both over the ledge.
"John, no," Mycroft screamed, running, but just two steps too late.
He looked down, and watched the impact with tears. There, where his brother had lay dead just six months before, now lay Anthea and John Watson. He turned to the side and vomited what little tea he had drunk that morning, and slid to his knees, sobbing.
Two years later
Mycroft sighed, laying a fresh bouquet on the grave. St Anne's Lace and lilies. He doubted that John would have liked it, John wasn't one who was much of a flower person, but Mycroft still lay the flowers on his grave once a week. Ferns in the autumn sometimes, and baby's breath in the winter. There was a little florist near the cemetery that John would have loved.
"I didn't think you cared," a voice said suddenly, coming up behind Mycroft, "I thought that was useless."
Mycroft froze, his hands tightening in his gloves, and glared.
"I'm surprised you didn't have your assistant do this instead if you were trying to keep up appearances."
"I don't have an assistant," Mycroft whispered.
The man behind him snorted, and came to stand next to Mycroft.
"How long," he asked, "And how?"
"Two and a half years, Sherlock," Mycroft hissed, his arm tightening.
Sherlock paled a little, turning to Mycroft and cocking his head slightly to the side. Mycroft didn't need to look up to know that his brother was studying him, reading the fists at his side and the tears on his face with practiced ease. The two brothers had always been open books to one another, yet another curse of the Holmes family.
"Your assistant, she killed him," he said finally, "You loved him."
"Of course I loved him," Mycroft roared, swinging a fist and catching Sherlock in the face with a solid punch, "If you hadn't gone off and faked your death he would still be alive!"
Sherlock grunted from the ground, holding onto a split cheek and glaring up at his brother.
"He never would have been yours if I hadn't faked my death, he would have had no need to rely on you at all."
"But at least he still would have been alive," Mycroft growled, crouching on the ground and looking his younger brother in the eye, "I may be your brother, but you are nothing to me now. You cost me his life, and you can never repay that."
"So that's just it," Sherlock shouted as Mycroft stood and began to walk away, "You're just going to ignore me now?"
"Goodbye Sherlock," Mycroft said back, not even bothering to look back, and walked out of the graveyard.
Alone.
AN: And that's a wrap folks!