A/N: For those of you (if any of you) who saw the author's note this afternoon about me losing this entire document off of my hard drive, have no fear! I recovered it using EaseUS for Mac, and everything is back to normal! Progress has resumed, and here is the newest chapter. Cheers to you all, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)
Emily x
"Well, it's about time. Isn't it, brother mine?"
They hadn't even reached the open door before the voice of Mycroft Holmes invaded their ears and made their hearts beat a little faster. His voice was almost a confirmation of the thing they had doubted and had wanted to see for themselves.
Entering the little room, they found Mycroft sitting up in his bed with his hands precariously folded in his lap and a smug grin on his face. The grin said a lot. It almost seemed to laugh in the face of whoever had attempted to kill him. It would take more than a bullet to stop Mycroft Holmes.
Sherlock shook his head at the sight of his brother. He was glad to have him back alive, but he could tell things were already turning back to normal in their relationship.
"They brought me flowers," Mycroft said, gesturing pathetically to the bouquets of well wishes placed on his bedside table. "I never asked them to. I never liked…flowers. But I'm afraid I don't see any from you, though, do I?"
"You hate flowers."
Mycroft's smile broadened.
"Yes," he hissed. "So, I guess I'm to say 'thank you?'"
Sherlock scoffed.
"Say whatever you want. How are you feeling, Mycroft? It's been nearly two weeks."
"Has it? Time flies when one is unconscious. I hope I didn't frighten you?"
"Not at all," Sherlock replied, his hands deep in his pockets and his face wearing a look of unconcern. John's ears were on fire, and he couldn't stop himself from blurting his thoughts out loud.
"He's been worried sick about you, Mycroft. He won't bloody say it, but he has been."
Sherlock looked violated.
"I have not!" he quietly retorted, his mouth flying open and his face spelling the words "insulted."
"Yes, you have," the doctor insisted, his lips puckering as his patience wore thin.
Sherlock rolled his eyes when he caught sight of Mycroft grinning maliciously at him. The brother's eyes seemed to say, "I got you, brother mine."
"Thank you, Doctor Watson," Mycroft droned, his words leaving his mouth with condescension trailing behind each syllable, "for your incredible honesty. It is valued in such a Machiavellian society."
"Ohhhh," Sherlock groaned, refusing to look into his brother's face. "For God's sake. Can't you ever learn to leave political science at the office?"
"No, I don't think so. But I will ask: how are things coming? I've had no news of you, unless you count dear mummy and daddy kissing and hugging and asking how I was unable to tell them of your marriage. They seemed so insulted. The poor things."
"And what did you tell them?"
"That it was a government matter, and that I simply had no other option."
"Dear God. The poet, as ever."
"Well, what else was I to tell them?"
"And there is the perfect picture of my brother's diplomatic expertise, John," Sherlock said, a laugh escaping his lips. "I sometimes wonder how Britain was able to negotiate anything over the past decade." John laughed as he crossed his arms. Mycroft only grinned at his little brother like a man who is proud of being drunk.
"And, of course, how is our dear Miss Adler? Should I expect any additions to the number of Baker street residents next summer?" Mycroft asked as though he were a king tentatively questioning his subjects as to whether or not they had paid their taxes as commanded.
The question posed, however, made Sherlock and John exchange incredibly nondescript glances and their tongues stuck to the rooves of their mouths.
"Ugh, God. She's having twins, isn't she? I always knew you had it in you, Sherlock."
Sherlock came forward and sat in a chair beside Mycroft's bed.
"She's gone, Mycroft."
The aloof humor vanished from his face, and he looked confused.
"What do you mean she's…gone?"
"She's gone. She's left."
"But that is not…that's not possible. That is simply not possible."
John bumped Rosie up and down in her papoose and cleared his throat.
"Yeah, well…start believing," he said, smiling uncomfortably. "She left yesterday. Drugged Sherlock, told her not to follow him, and left without saying where she was going."
Mycroft's mouth was a cave.
"You mean to tell me that she left without giving any reason as to why?"
"None whatsoever," Sherlock replied.
"This is ridiculous. Damn ridiculous. So she's gone, then, has she? I can have her located. She can't do this. She simply cannot do this. I can have her taken by the Ukrainians, and I damn well should have her taken by the Ukrainians. Do you have any idea how she has betrayed my trust in doing so?"
Mycroft was not strong enough to yell, but if he was, he would have. His voice was straining to reach its current level of sound. He was trying to continue speaking, and it looked like his mouth was trying to enunciate the word "how," but no sound came out of his throat. He gave up presently.
"She spoke with Eurus, Mycroft."
"What do you mean 'she spoke with Eurus?'"
The man massaged his head, and tried to get his thoughts out of his mouth.
"Ah, yes…I told you to pay her a visit. I didn't expect you to bring your wife along, but…what does our little sister make of all this?"
"She wanted to speak with Miss Adler alone. Unsupervised."
"Why?"
"She promised me information in exchange for a conversation with her."
"AND?"
"The day she spoke with her…Miss Adler was gone not an hour after the conversation's conclusion."
Mycroft was trying to remain calm, but his voice grew louder and was now classified as a yell.
"And you authorized this? You authorized a conversation between our sister and your wife? What the devil, Sherlock?! Do you have any idea what you've just done?"
"She said she had spoken with Moriarty and had information for me! You were unconscious—unlikely to make it through; some thought as good as dead—and I was left! What was I to do, Mycroft?"
"And you believed her? You believed that our sister, who is locked up in one of the tightest prisons in the world, had outside information from James Moriarty?" Midway through his train of thought, he began laughing…slowly turning Sherlock's insides with each chuckle.
"Of course you believed her," he went on. "I should have expected this from you. For God's sake, Sherlock: I hope you've learnt your lesson."
"Christ, Mycroft!" John butted in, his head swimming with the excessive arrogance he had inhaled. "You're a bit too hard on the people who want to help. Can you, just for once, try to imagine what it's been like for the past few days? Is it possible for you to think about someone who isn't yourself? Just for once? You would have done the same thing Sherlock did. Oh wait, hang on—you did once, didn't you? Gave Eurus…a conversation with Moriarty? Unsupervised conversation? Am I missing something, or is this is starting to sound familiar?"
Mycroft's breathing grew raspy and agitated.
"This does not concern you, Doctor Watson,"
"Right, that'll be enough," he cut in, ignoring Mycroft's comment and making his opponent's nose flare. "Sherlock, why don't you tell your brother the information Eurus gave you? He might find it interesting."
"Yes, Sherlock; do tell what kind of information was so invaluable?" Mycroft mimicked, interlocking his fingers and sarcastically perking up in bed.
The younger brother rolled his eyes, his heart sinking into his feet. He looked at John, who was shushing Rosie on the papoose; the child was growing impatient.
"She said that 'the road to St. Paul's is the road to hell,' and I was unable to procure anything else from her as I was extracted by your dear governor McIlroy, who saw my presence unfit for Eurus's mental health."
"What kind of rubbish is this? 'The road to St. Paul's is the road to hell?' That sentence is what I lost one of my most trusted agents over? You realize, Sherlock, that our sister could simply be playing you again? Why would she care if she lied to you? She knows how important of an asset Miss Adler is, and there was nothing to stop her from ruining our plans. Absolutely nothing. You've walked right into her little game. I should have expected this."
He cradled his forehead in his hands, sighing heavily.
"Do you have any idea—"
"Mycroft—"
"Of all the times I could have gone and gotten shot…it had to be now, didn't it? Of all the damned things…how could you be so stupid? You always were so stupid."
"This is why you were shot. Because this had to happen while you were unconscious. This was played, Mycroft. Played by Moriarty. YOU were a piece on his chess board."
Mycroft scoffed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"He had you shot because he needed this to happen. You weren't the victim of a random shooting. You were the victim of careful selection. Moriarty somehow knew that if Miss Adler's cover was compromised, the only one she could go to for protection was you. And you weren't there. You were unconscious. He probably wanted you dead."
Mycroft struggled to find words. His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes seemed to tell Sherlock that he agreed. John looked back and forth between the two brothers, trying to decipher what their eyes might be saying.
"I needed you, Mycroft."
The elder brother looked…touched…if the word could be applied to the walking figure of organization and order that was Mycroft Holmes. John's mouth dropped open a bit at hearing Sherlock admit to having needed someone. The detective swallowed uncomfortably, realizing the effect his words were having.
"I didn't want you to die," he added, swallowing after the last word left his lips.
Mycroft laughed. "To be honest, Sherlock, I didn't want me to die either. Not exactly convenient for the welfare of the British nation, now is it?"
"No, I mean—" the detective stopped short, taking a deep sniff of stale, hospital air. "I mean that I didn't want you to die. That's what I mean."
"Always that sentiment, Sherlock."
"I am what I am," he replied, studying his brother's robotic gaze.
Mycroft looked puzzled, a small smile slowly begging to burst into a full-blown grin, but he was having trouble deciding. There went his chest…feeling all warm again.
"You flatter me, brother mine."
The younger laughed.
"Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory," he said, his gaze softening as he looked at his healthy, very much alive older brother.
"Dr. Seuss, isn't it? A bit trivial for you, eh, Sherlock? Children's books were never your forte."
"It gets the point across."
Mycroft laughed. He smoothed some of the blankets in an attempt to occupy the motionless, soundless atmosphere. John coughed in an attempt to help him along.
A thin voice cut everyone's thoughts.
"Mycroft Holmes…"
Sherlock and John turned from where they were standing at Mycroft's bedside to find Lady Smallwood. At the sight of Mycroft awake, alive, and not unconscious, she strode toward the bedside, lowered her face to his, and pressed a long, firm kiss to his lips.
Sherlock wanted to start coughing. What the hell?
Mycroft wasn't resisting, but his hands in his lap were suddenly open and gripping the sheets in horror. What's more, Lady Smallwood's lips didn't seem intent on letting go any time soon. John cleared his throat, turning away towards the door…this was something not mean to be observed by human eyes. Mycroft Holmes being kissed by an actual, living woman. If Sherlock and Irene had been weird enough…this…?
He glanced at Sherlock, who looked like he was hallucinating. Catching John's eye, it looked like the detective was almost begging to be vacated from the room.
"You've no idea what you've done to me, Mycroft Holmes," came Lady Smallwood's voice, holding the man's bony fingers in one of her soft, porcelain hands.
"Alicia…" Mycroft said after a moment of bewildered comprehension. The two men had expected that he would look in disgust at her sudden burst of affection, but he looked more confused than anything else. He inhaled uncomfortably then said, "Oh my…what have you done?"
"Since when do you call me Alicia?" she asked.
"Since now," he replied, and Sherlock almost started laughing when he saw the back of Mycroft's hand slowly stroke Lady Smallwood's cheek. John's eyes were enormous.
Sherlock and John noticed how the two of them were simply staring into the other's eyes, and John made a motion that they ought to be going.
Sherlock followed after him as they slowly edged out of the hospital room, leaving his brother alone with his…his what? Whatever Lady Smallwood was to Mycroft, it wasn't simply business related anymore. That, at least, was certain.
As soon as they had cleared the room and were out of earshot, the two men burst out laughing. This also spurred the infant on John's chest into a fit of jolly giggles. Her father was snorting through his nose, and Sherlock's laughs were ringing out of his mouth and bouncing off the walls. He wondered if the sound was travelling into Mycroft's room…and that thought made him laugh even more.
"What," John exclaimed after catching his breath, "exactly just happened?" His stomach caught on fire again, and he continued laughing hysterically. Rosie was still gurgling into his chest. Sherlock wiped his eyes, which were wet with humorous dew.
"To be honest, I've no idea," he said in between chortles.
"Did you see the way she just kissed him like that? Holy Mary…" John said, holding a finger up to his nose as if he were about to sneeze.
"I thought he would have died of mortification," Sherlock snickered, trying to contain himself.
"Well, you weren't the only one," he replied, laughing into Rosie's papoose and smiling as the girl greeted him with a toothless grin.
"D'you still have those plans about seeing Craig?" John asked, clearing his throat and regaining his voice as they entered a lift and began descending. "About the Wellington brothers, I mean? Their records and messages and such? Are you still wanting to track those?"
Sherlock's eyes gleamed as he found John's fists clenching slowly. His own heart was beginning to race, and he wondered if John caught the spark in his expression.
"Of course I do," he replied, his voice suggesting excitement.
"Is the game on, then?" John further queried, his pulse quickening as he became impatient for the lift doors to open.
"Indeed, John. The game is on."
And the two men stepped out of the lift, took to the streets of London, and decided that they were prepared to thwart the infamous schemes of the world's most dangerous consulting criminal.
