Disclaimer: None of this is mine, largely because I'm a college student and don't own a bloody thing. Also because these characters belong to J.K. Rowling and the entity known as Moftis.
If Remus hadn't seen a rat turn into one of his supposedly dead ex-friends recently, he wouldn't have been able to believe his eyes when the car stopped. During all previous meetings with Mycroft, the location had been neutral: the lower floor of an empty factory, or a cafe, generally. But this-was this Mycroft's house?
Remus had long since realized that the Holmeses came from money-splitting the rent had certainly never been a necessity for Sherlock-but this. The ivy-covered brick monstrosity was three stories; that was evident from the placement of the windows, and it was nothing particularly remarkable for a British estate house. What was remarkable was the breadth of the thing. The house looked capacious enough to house multiple mistresses without them ever discovering one another's existence, but Remus couldn't picture Mycroft having any desire to take advantage of that quality. Maybe there was a room in the house for every country in the world, each full of reams of data to which only Mycroft had access. That seemed more Mycroft's style, but the truth was that Remus couldn't picture Mycroft having the will or stamina to walk the length of this house with any regularity. Unless-was there a moving walkway? With the Holmes brothers, anything seemed possible.
The woman whose name was not Anthea cleared her throat impatiently in the driver's seat. "Well, aren't you getting out?"
Remus looked at her, startled at being drawn so quickly out of his reverie. "Aren't you?"
The woman tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and shook her head. "No. I'm just letting you out, and then I'll take the car around."
Remus unbuckled his seatbelt and made as dignified an exit as he could after that implied reproach. As soon as he'd closed the passenger door behind him, he heard the car accelerate on the gravel drive, rough beige pebbles scratching together for all they were worth and a small cloud of dust blooming in the vehicle's wake. He mentally checked the placement of both his wand and his gun; thus reassured, he straightened his shoulders and marched to the huge double doors. There was a brass knocker, centered exactly, and Remus felt a bitter pang of nostalgia for the days when Sherlock would push the knocker of 221B askew just to make Mycroft's skin crawl. Taking a deep breath, Remus reminded himself that that was why he was here-to start the process of bringing Sherlock back, to turn that nostalgia into reality.
Remus grasped the knocker, rapped twice against the metal plate affixed to the door, and then twisted the knocker so that it wouldn't hang straight down again until someone adjusted it.
Mycroft's unmistakable, oily voice-missing some of its whinier overtones in a way that was clearly the result of electronic transmission-rang out from above Remus's head. "I saw that. Straighten the knocker. You're not my younger brother and I won't indulge you."
"Like you ever indulged him," Remus muttered while he did as he was bid. He wasn't in the least surprised that Mycroft had cameras watching his door and a PA system that would let his visitors know they were being scrutinized. Come to think of it, Remus probably would have been more surprised if he had gotten away with that knocker trick.
"Of course I indulged him," Mycroft retorted. "He was my brother. Now come in; don't be tedious."
"The door is unlocked?"
"Now it is." Mycroft's sigh was possibly more condescending over the loudspeaker than it would have been in person-although, Remus reflected, the loudspeaker didn't carry Mycroft's eyeroll, which was always more damning than his sighs. "All my locks are automated. I unlocked this one when you arrived on the step. Now come in."
Remus entered the house and looked around. He seemed to have transported himself back in time about a century-the chairs were all made of wood with hand-embroidered cloth seats. There were even (good Merlin) doilies. The room he currently occupied looked like the entrance hall; a staircase with mahogany railings swept down the middle of it, and an enormous chandelier hung from the three-story-high ceiling. There wasn't much furniture here, but he could see through the one open door a room that looked like a parlor; that was the one crammed with furniture and appalling decorations. Perched on one of the high-backed chairs was Mycroft, one ankle propped on the other knee, as close as he ever got to lounging (so unlike his brother, who took lounging to a level most lazy teenagers could hardly even dream of).
"You're right there?" Remus exclaimed. "You could have met me at the door!"
Mycroft looked at Remus with his eyes, without turning his head. "I could, but why? Now come in."
"I swear it would have been faster for you to meet me at the door, rather than explaining to me how to let myself in and then waiting for me to discover you," Remus grumbled as he entered the parlor.
Mycroft rolled his eyes, and it was even more damning than Remus remembered. "Legwork," he muttered. Then, looking at Remus: "Sit."
Remus maneuvered himself onto one of the overly delicate chairs, feeling as though he'd been called to McGonagall's office. Then he forced himself to get comfortable-even McGonagall didn't really scare him much anymore, now that he'd spent a year teaching alongside her. He leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees. The papers he'd found in 221B were still clutched in his left hand. He took a deep breath and said, "Sherlock didn't die when he jumped off of the roof of Bart's last year."
Mycroft sighed again, leaking condescension. "I wondered when you'd find the papers. He left them there for you."
"Then why not just tell me?"
"The phone conversation was being monitored. Obviously. You couldn't know immediately."
"Where is he now? This was ten months ago."
"If Sherlock wanted you to know his whereabouts, you would know."
Remus narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure? Because apparently he wanted me to know he wasn't dead, and I didn't get the memo until just now."
"Well, of course, neither of us counted on you being quite so dense, but-"
Remus leaned even further forward. "Where is he now?"
"What makes you think he wants to be found?"
"I don't care what he wants; I need to find him!" Remus burst out before he could help himself. Then he took a deep breath and amended his statement. "He doesn't want to admit his loneliness, but that doesn't mean he's not lonely."
Mycroft steepled his fingers in front of his face. It was Sherlock's gesture, and Dumbledore's, and it looked all wrong on the body of the man whom Remus knew to be the Muggle government. "Let me put the question another way. What makes you think Sherlock wants you to find him?"
"You just told me he left me the papers!"
"Oh, certainly." Mycroft spread his arms expansively. "He wanted you to know he wasn't dead. Wanting to be found is an entirely different matter. Did you notice, among all your precious documents, there wasn't a single clue as to where he was headed?"
Remus swallowed the anger that was boiling from his stomach into his throat and attempted to think for a moment. "You're stalling. You don't know, do you?"
Mycroft turned his head now, as he hadn't when Remus had entered, and ogled his own parlor. "Of course I know where he is. I know everything. I make it my business to know everything."
"Then tell me where he is!"
"Perhaps we could arrange a trade. I'll tell you where Sherlock is if you'll tell me where you spent the last ten months."
Remus laughed humorlessly. "Exchanging data again? Really? Didn't get you very far last time, did it?"
"Oh, far enough."
"With your little brother defamed in front of the entire country? That's far enough?"
"Will you take my offer?"
Remus weighed the risks of Obliviating Mycroft for a moment and then decided he didn't care about the side effects the action would have on Mycroft's brain. Mycroft wasn't worth that kind of concern. Not when there was a chance to find out about Sherlock. "Yes."
There was a long pause, and then Mycroft motioned at Remus. "You go first."
Remus smiled tightly and loosed his wand from his sleeve. "I was at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, teaching."
Mycroft blinked down at the wand. "Doctor Watson. I never took you for a joker."
Remus's gaze was level. "Nor should you. I'm completely serious."
"Preposterous."
"Do you have a more likely explanation? One that covers all the facts?"
"If you were a wizard, why would you have spent two years living with my brother and pretending to be an ex-army doctor?"
"I am an ex-army doctor. Magic hasn't always suited me."
"And then it suddenly did? I find that hard to believe."
"Well, I gave you my answer. Now I'd like information on Sherlock's whereabouts in return, if you please."
"If you're going to insist on spouting off fairy-tale nonsense, then I'll just have to inform you that Sherlock is currently in Neverland."
Remus decided that, since he was going to have to Obliviate Mycroft anyway, he might as well spare himself further argument and seize the information he was seeking by force. "Legillimens!" he muttered, pointing his wand at Mycroft's head.
Mycroft ducked, and a jet of pale blue light arced over where his head had been. A vase on the shelf behind him exploded, and shards and china dust flew over everything. Mycroft looked up, dusted himself off, and frowned. "You couldn't have installed a hologram machine or a smoke bomb in here . . ."
Remus ground his teeth. "Sherlock was so hard to convince, too. I turned a book into a cat for him. Should I repeat the exercise or can you just give me the information I came here for?"
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Sherlock knew?"
"He borrowed my wand, the day he jumped off of Bart's. He said he wanted to see how it worked. Now tell me where he is."
"Why can't you just do your hocus-pocus and find him yourself?"
"Magic has limits, just like anything. Now tell me, or I will make you. I can make this very unpleasant for you. Where. Is. Sherlock?"
Mycroft pursed his thin lips. It did not have the same effect coming from him as coming from McGonagall. "What makes you think I would deliver sensitive information about my brother into the hands of a lunatic?"
"You've done it before," Remus ground out.
"But that time I had something to gain."
"So this is all about you, is it?" Remus snapped, standing. He considered hexing Mycroft but decided it wasn't worth the effort. "You're such a waste of time. Pertificus totalis! Legillimens!"
Mycroft had neither the time nor the agility to evade these spells; he half-stood in an attempt to get out of the way, which led his momentum to be in exactly the wrong place when he got petrified. He went rigid and fell face-forward into the coffee table that had separated him from Remus. His forehead hit the table's corner with a satisfying thud, and his mouth wound up resting on a particularly large doily.
Then Remus's mind flooded with images and snatches of sound. He hadn't been quite specific enough in his Legillimency, and now bits of the Holmes brothers' childhood were flashing before him.
A larger child with straight hair and a smaller one with a curly mop shoved each other, vying for a look in a magnifying glass. The curly-haired child played with a dog while the straight-haired child looked on sullenly. Both children bent over an Operation board, the straight-haired one holding tweezers. The straight-haired child read a thick tome while the curly-haired child folded napkins into birds. The straight-haired child played cello and the curly-haired child accompanied him on violin, smiling. The straight-hair child poured tea while the curly-haired child stuck out his tongue.
A curly-haired teenager lolled in a dimly-lit room until a straight-haired young man turned on the light and picked up the syringe on the floor. The young man studied by the light of a lamp until the teenager vaulted through his open window. The young man poured tea while the teenager stared off into space. The young man ushered well-dressed guests into the house and the teenager sneered and read their secrets. The young man snapped at the teenager until the teenager pinned him to a wall.
A curly-haired young man wearing a tailored suit strolled into the office of a straight-haired man nearing middle age. The straight-haired man watched surveillance video footage of the curly-haired man entering abandoned buildings, dressed in dark-colored grunge. The straight-haired man waited for the curly-haired man to emerge from a crime scene, wrapped in an orange blanket. The straight-haired man watched the curly-haired man walk off with a shorter man into the night.
The curly-haired man walked into the straight-haired man's office, fidgeting for once. "You've got to help me."
"I don't have to do anything."
"You sold me to Moriarty. You owe me this."
"You dug your own grave, brother dear."
"Help. Me."
The straight-haired man sighed. "What do you need?"
"We've got to get me down from the roof of Bart's. Moriarty's going to have us meet there. I'm going to have to jump. It's got to look convincing. The buildings nearby are too far away, and they're not nearly tall enough, even if we could make it look like I were dying. We're going to have to get me all the way down-a trampoline would be best, given the physics-"
"That will be plenty visible from the ground."
"There's a wall in the way-you can't see the ground in front from the other side of the street. You'll have to disable the cameras that are closer than that. All of them. And I'll position John across the street."
"Oh, of course. He'll watch?"
"It'll be so much more believable if he sees it for himself and everyone can tell that he thinks I'm actually dead. I've diagramed all of my plans, so I'll leave them in the flat. He'll find them eventually."
"Is that wise?"
"He deserves to know."
"I wasn't aware people so eminently ordinary could deserve anything."
"Shut up."
"What happens after John finds the documents?"
"What do you mean? He'll know I'm not dead."
"Will you let him know where you're going?"
"I don't know where I'm going."
"Nonsense. Surely you'll be finding Moriarty's operatives and taking them out."
"Of course. But it's a worldwide network. Who knows when John will find the papers and where I'll be when it happens?"
"We're getting off-topic. What is it you need me to do?"
"I need a giant trampoline. And I need a crowd that John can't get through-preferably someone to distract him or detain him so that he can't get to me immediately after I've jumped. And then of course I need an ambulance team who will take me away and not ask questions."
The straight-haired man looked idly at his hand. "Is that all?"
The curly-haired man's jaw tightened. "Yes. I can take care of myself, Mum."
"You were the one who asked for help."
"Shut up." The curly-haired man exited the office.
The scene shifted, and a phone screen was all that was visible. There was a string of texts from different numbers, one text per number, never from anyone in the contacts list. "Took out two in Sarajevo today. Get me information on Pakistan." "Kabul operatives dealt with. Get me a flight to South America." "They were expecting me in Montevideo, but they were still idiots. Get me into North Korea." One text, dated May 30, said, "Pyongyang now secure. Get me an exit visa"
The visions ended. Remus memorized the number of the last text and hoped Sherlock was still using that phone. He really had been everywhere. This would be quite the search. Good thing Remus could Apparate and had the senses of a werewolf.
Mycroft was still lying on the coffee table with his mouth on a doily. Remus considered just Obliviating him and then leaving him there, but Mycroft wasn't anywhere near stupid enough to ignore the reality that something very strange had happened to him if he found himself immobilized on top of his coffee table. The woman whose name was not Anthea would probably be curious as well, if she found Mycroft in this state.
Remus reluctantly decided he ought to restore Mycroft's mobility, and then he realized that he ought to put the vase back together as well. "Reparo," he said, waving his wand over the porcelain debris. Then he pointed his wand at Mycroft, undid the body-bind curse, and, as the man was standing up and straightening his suit, said, "Obliviate!"
It was almost surreal watching Mycroft's eyes slide out of focus and his jaw go slack. It reminded Remus strangely of the time when Irene had drugged Sherlock and the great detective had been reduced to a blurry-minded mess, except that Mycroft, unlike Sherlock, had a great deal of dignity to lose in the process. "Doc'or Wasson?"
"You have just told me as much as you know about where Sherlock is. I am going to leave now."
"Aw righ' . . ."
Remus let himself out of the mansion, feeling much more powerful than he had when he'd been compelled to let himself in. He walked to the end of the long gravel drive and into a nearby stand of trees. Knowing Mycroft, there were probably cameras everywhere, but behind a tree in the midst of a grove was probably as safe a place as any to Disapparate.
Remus spun on his heel and Disapparated with a faint pop.
A/N: It was awesome to hear so much from you last time! I love your reviews! Please keep them coming!