A/N

An extra long chapter this time. Otherwise the next chapter would have been really short. WARNING: there's a conversation in this chapter in which there's talk about disturbing violence. Nothing graphic or detailed but it is hinted at. And a particular loathsome character makes a reappearance. Also, I'm not sure where Mycroft's official office is supposed to be, but I needed a title and I liked the ring of this :D

N. Naela

Thank you!

Companion Teresa

Aw, don't you like this 'Iceman'? And I tried so hard to make him absolutely horrid! Wait… mission accomplished. Thank you :)

Elbafo

I get what you mean. Not even TV Mycroft would act like that. I think. Then again, he did allude to not minding a bit of torture to get the information he wanted. He also had no trouble at all watching his own brother getting tortured. Showing aggression to a pregnant woman though… tsk, tsk Mycroft! I really did want there to be a very big difference between our Mycroft and … well… alternate-Mycroft. Don't worry, there will be a repercussion :)

* S *

Kyrie stayed in the hospital overnight, before she was brought back to wherever it was where Mycroft was keeping her. Darkened windows prevented her from getting to know the location. It seemed funny to her that again it she was left in the care of either Rafe or Savant. She had gotten to know them well over the years...

Shadowing her, that really had not been their most exciting assignment. Especially if shadowing her meant getting caught in a torrent of rain. Kyrie wasn't a genius, like Mycroft or Sherlock, but when she'd narrowly escaped death after Gerulf had gotten her in his clutches, she'd known that neither of the two men would ever allow her to roam the streets unsupervised again.

At first they were invisible to her. No matter how hard she tried, she could never spot them. As Kyrie studied the faces of people around her, she started to recognise two of them. She surprised them one day by having them lunch and coffee brought over when she was having lunch as well. Neither Rafe or Savant ever told Mycroft their cover was blown. They simply kept doing their job to watch over her. Sometimes she'd casually stop somewhere and small interactions were exchanged. "Are you married?" "Do you have children?" "How's Cynthia doing? Is she better yet?" Things like that. Those days seemed to be gone now.

She was brought to a different room this time. Not as small and confining as the small cell she was first in. There was a comfortable bed, a plastic bassinet nearby in which her daughter lay slumbering. The walls were pristine white this time. Still not her favourite but infinitely better than the depressing light grey. There was even a vase of flowers on a night stand!

Though Kyrie was almost convinced that Mycroft would not see his threats to her through, she still got nervous each and every time someone entered the room. There was a lingering fear her baby would be taken from her. Well, they could try, she thought grimly, but she would not simply hand her daughter over.

To her surprise she was granted a favour. A diary and a pen. It seemed Mycroft understood her well enough to know she would not harm herself or someone else. Not with her daughter at stake.

The reason she'd asked for a diary was because she wanted to write to her Sherlock. During labour, her phantom Sherlock had appeared when she had needed him most and he'd given her hope. Because he was right. Sherlock always found a way to make it up to her. She just had to keep faith that, whatever had happened, could be undone. She had to believe that one day she would make her way back home. Writing to Sherlock was her way of keeping that hope.

Kyrie stared at the words she had written so far, her eyes blurry with tears. It was so hard! Doing this all on her own. She now knew she had taken so much for granted: her wonderful life, loving Sherlock, Sherlock loving her, loving their son, being a mother. At some point it had become so normal that she had stopped appreciating it. She'd been very happy but she'd not appreciated her happiness enough. Was this her punishment?

My dearest Sherlock,

I can almost see you roll your eyes at those words. Or maybe it will make you smile. And you'd not want me to begin this letter with 'My darling love' or something like that. It's not you. It's not us either.

But I do love you! So very much! And I miss you, terribly! What happened that day? It's what's on my mind most part of the day, every day. And I wonder, is there a way back? Will I ever see you again? Do you still exist somewhere or have you been erased like me?

First, before I tell you all about what has happened to me here, I have to tell you this… We have a daughter! Evelina, named after your grandmother of course. And Melodia. Because guess what? She sounds like a song when she cries. I would not be surprised at all if she turns out to have a wonderful singing voice. A daughter who takes after me at least a little bit. She has a little mop of dark hair, like St John when he was first born, but even darker. And her eyes! Her eyes are so blue!

If Mycroft will allow, I will make a lot of pictures of her and put them in this diary. I hope I will get to show them to you someday. Mycroft? You might ask. Yes, your brother is here. And you as well, but I haven't seen you yet. John and Mary are here, Lestrade… Little Miss Rosie. But they don't know me. Like I said, I don't exist here. I've been erased. And you've been erased as well because the Sherlock here… is not you.

Evelina started to fuss a bit in the bassinet that was right next to her bed. "Hello my darling!" Kyrie cooed at her as she put her diary and pen aside. But the little one had other things on her mind. Evelina was making funny squeaky noises, noises that would soon flair to a full out wail if she didn't get what she wanted. So tiny, so young and already the same impatience as her big brother and her father. Kyrie smiled, her heart spilling over with love.

She gently took Evelina from the bassinet and she eased her gown aside, revealing a full breast. Kyrie guided her daughter into position, lifting her breast and offering her nipple at the same time. Evelina latched on instantly and was immediately content. Her tiny hand twitched against her breast as she suckled with enthusiasm. Kyrie stroked the velvety soft skin of her daughter's cheek and again she wished her Sherlock was here to witness this new miracle they had brought to life.

When Evelina was sated, Kyrie put her gown back in place and simply enjoyed cradling her daughter in her arms, watching how she slowly drifted off to sleep.

Several sets of footsteps sounded quite nearby, getting closer and closer.

They stopped in front of her room. Kyrie swallowed hard and pressed her daughter close to her. Evelina gave a squeaky protest and her little hands twitched, but otherwise she remained still and asleep.

Kyrie's breaths came out in frightened little bursts. She couldn't help but wonder if she had been mistaken in Mycroft… maybe that softer side had just been her imagination and he had now come to take away Evelina. She licked her lips, her body tensed and she tried to prepare for whatever would follow.

Then, in walked Mycroft, Mary and John… followed by… Kyrie couldn't suppress a small intake of air in surprise, when non other than Sherlock walked into her room. He didn't look at her, for his gaze was instantly drawn to the small infant girl in her arms.

Kyrie briefly studied the man standing awkwardly next to John. His hair was longer. Much like he wore it when they first met actually. Her own Sherlock had cropped his curls a bit around the Six Thatchers case and he wore it even shorter now.

By the time of the Six Thatchers he had also already shown significant growth in character. In this man, Kyrie could clearly detect traces of the man her husband used to be. Perhaps his growth here had evolved in a different way. When he finally looked up from her daughter their eyes briefly locked. He gazed at her with an intense look. Intense but detached. His game face. He was seeing a puzzle he was already trying to solve, but he was not seeing her. At all.

Her heart throbbed dully in her chest. So close, yet so far. He reminded her so much of her Sherlock, too much. She could clearly see it wasn't him, but yet, in a way, he was. Kyrie quickly looked down at Evelina, before she cast her gaze up at Mary. "Hello again," she said softly. "You are all here. I take it that you found some truth in my words. Took you long enough."

"We set a trap. The last Thatcher bust. It was Ajay," Mary told her.

"And we already knew about Norbury," Mycroft added softly. "I decided to look into her and I found… discrepancies."

"Ajay?" Kyrie asked.

"Angry, traumatised," Mary said, a tight smile on her lips. "I guess years of torture will do that to you. And give you a thirst for revenge. But, with the truth about what happened in Tblisi uncovered, Ajay no longer had reason to want me dead. He disappeared into the night."

"Yes," – Mycroft studied the tips of his shoes – "and then he went after Mrs Norbury. She's dead and Ajay is… gone."

Kyrie blinked her eyes. That was a very different conclusion to the Six Thatchers case. "So, you didn't run half across the world and there was no meeting at the London Aquarium?"

"There was, actually. That's where Ajay shot her, right before she was going to pull the trigger herself. Would you have really left us, Mary?" John asked his wife. Mary bit her lip and, contrary to what she had told Kyrie that night in the hospital, Kyrie knew the truth.

"If I believed that was the only way to keep you and Rosie safe..."

"Glad you didn't have to," John finally said, his voice soft. He then raised his eyes to meet Kyrie's and she saw regret in them. Kyrie gave him a wobbly smile. He gave her a tiny smile back.

"Okay, so… Ajay is now not dead but Mrs Norbury is. Err… at least, I guess, this is the ending then for 'The Six Thatchers' case?"

John bashfully shrugged his shoulders. "Bit of a different ending, eh?"

"This does not mean we believe you," Sherlock pitched in, while giving John a cautioning look.

"I'm not asking for much. I'm not Irene Adler who uses looks or sex to get information that's important enough that it could topple governments. I'm not asking for money. All I ask, is for you to look into Hawthorne. Find out what the hell he's involved in, because, whatever it is, it didn't come falling from the sky! He had to have been working on this for a long time!

"You are Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. The world's only Consulting Detective and I don't even know what your job description is, Mycroft. I do know that whatever government you decide to prop up, thrives or falls at your whim. This should be dead easy for you two. Just don't look at the approved projects. Look deeper."

"And if we do find him?"

"Then make him undo what he did! Look, it doesn't matter if you believe me or not. You can think of me as a raving lunatic for all I care. I just want this one little thing. Find out what Hawthorne is experimenting with. The information I gave you might very well have saved Sherlock's life. Don't you think you owe me? Just a little?"

Sherlock gave her an utterly condescending smile. "So, you are saying that I couldn't have solved this without you? In that case, yes, I do think you are stark raving mad because this only showcases your lack of knowledge about me which is the opposite of what you are claiming."

Kyrie rolled her eyes at him. "I'm not saying that at all. But I can give you a rough talk through of what could have happened that night…

"You would have gone to that place with the last bust. The one with the swimming pool. There you would have caught the burglar in the act. Bust smashed and its hidden contents revealed. Not the Borgia Pearl by the way as you expected, but another AGRA stick.

"That's how you would have found out that Ajay holds Mary accountable for the Tblisi fiasco. If you even would have lived up to that point because there was a rather dicey moment that Ajay could and would have drowned you during a bit of a splash in the pool. With me so far?"

Sherlock gave her a blistering look. "I take it you mean that you were there to save my life. So now we solve cases together as well?" He snorted at her. "This just gets better and better!"

"Take a good look at me, Sherlock! Do I look like someone who solves cases? I was there because you invited me along! You thought it would be easy enough. Confront the burglar, show off how clever you are, police at a decent distance standing by. As usual, you were wrong!"

Sherlock slightly turned his head and gave John a look while mouthing, 'As usual?' at him.

John grimaced and shrugged his shoulders.

"The confrontation became a fight almost immediately and you and Ajay tumbled inside the swimming pool. At some point he got the upper hand and you nearly drowned. I jumped in and distracted him long enough for you to get your bearings back.

"You then confronted Mary, Mary drugged you and ran off, we chased her half around the world until we caught up with her in Morocco."

"Morocco?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Mary, would you like to explain how you would end up in Morocco? Each disguise and each destination determined by the roll of a die, right?"

Mary pursed her lips but wisely kept her mouth shut.

"Happy reunion," Kyrie continued. "Then we got attacked by Ajay because he'd been following us. He told us everything that happened in Tblisi and how he escaped… and how he wanted revenge on the English woman.

"The voice on the phone… The voice who gave a code word... A code word that was used to taunt and torture Ajay over and over again... ammo. Only, it wasn't ammo, but amo… As in?" Kyrie looked at Sherlock.

"Amo, amas, amat… I love, you love, he loves," Sherlock answered quietly, a lot of his earlier disdain gone.

"Leading to Lady Smallwood. Only it wasn't her, it was Mrs Norbury. You knew where to find her and planned with Mary to confront her. And again, you took me with you because you thought it would be easy. Just an old lady, right? Showing off a bit, impressing me. Only you didn't take into consideration that she would shoot.

"So, you see? Without my information, Ajay might have drowned you, or, if you'd survived that, Mrs Norbury would have shot and either you or Mary could have died. Is that really not enough for you to do a small favour for me? Look into Hawthorne, that's all I ask. And if my account is still not enough to give me at least some credit… Look into Culverton Smith. He's a serial killer."

Sherlock narrowed at eyes. "You gave us solid information but I'm still inclined to think your information is tied to Moriarty."

"So, Moriarty worked this all out years before his death? You really think I am his posthumous game?"

"No human action is ever truly random."

Kyrie couldn't prevent a bubbly laugh from escaping her throat. "Oh God, it figures you still manage to find a reason to use that line."

The bewildered look Sherlock gave her was priceless. "Well, it's true!" he bristled. "An advanced grasp of the mathematics of probability mapped onto a thorough apprehension of human psychology and the known dispositions of any given individual can reduce the number of variables considerably–"

A dismissive wave of her hand shut him up. "Yes, yes and you know of at least – what was it? – fifty-eight techniques to refine… Err, I don't remember the rest of your rant. How did it end again?"

Sherlock glared at her but remained silent. Mycroft had comical look of perplexity on his face and neither Mary or John seemed to to able to decide on where to look.

"I was right about Mrs Norbury. I'm not a criminal mastermind or Moriarty's puppet. All I want is for you to look into Hawthorne. That is all." Kyrie sighed and again she could feel hot tears stinging her eyes. "Given everything, is that really so much to ask?"

Mycroft was the one who took it upon himself to answer her and when he did, he sounded very much like his counterpart. "No," he said with a quiet voice. "Not so much to ask at all. I will look into him."

Finally! Kyrie sighed in relief. When her visitors turned around to leave, Kyrie called after them. The events she was familiar with had changed considerably and she realised that now there was no reason for Sherlock to go after Culverton. She also wasn't entirely sure she wanted him to go after that man… but Culverton was a serial killer who needed to be stopped. "Look into Smith as well… He is a serial killer."

* S *

From the moment Sherlock entered the office and sat down on an uncomfortable wooden chair with insufficient leather padding, he'd kept his nose hidden in his notebook containing 'the list' to hide his shock and deeply rooted hatred. When he learned the identity of who exactly would be awaiting him inside the office… Mycroft's office… Sherlock used his notebook as a means to disguise his inner feelings.

"Sherlock Holmes..."

For a second Sherlock thought back to the moment he'd put a bullet between this man's eyes. His lips twitched a bit. Ah… better. He slowly folded his black little notebook of horrors away into the safety of the deep pocket of his coat resting against his chest and he felt confident enough to calmly raise his eyes to meet the glittery green beetle-like ones who, unsuccessfully, tried to intimidate him.

The man with slicked back ebony hair folded his hands together, showing off a gaudy gold ring with a large onyx stone and a small square cut diamond inside of it. Another feeble attempt to show off wealth and power. Sherlock forced the corners of his mouth upwards to curl his lips into a tight smile. Mentally, however, Sherlock procured a small gun from his coat and unloaded the full clip of bullets into the man's head.

"I somehow thought you would look… younger."

"A life wasted away on drugs chases youth away from a man's face. I thought I'd make amends while I still could. I thought Mycroft might take the chance to help me, if only to be able to gloat about it."

The man in front of him looked him over with a thoughtful look in his eyes. "You must have been away, or wasted, perhaps both… far away and long enough for you to still expect to find your brother here."

"Indeed."

When the door opened, Sherlock briefly looked around and saw how a young woman was allowed to walk in, carrying refreshments on a tray. He quickly reverted his gaze back to the man in front of him and made sure his face revealed nothing of his inner turmoil.

The audibly cautious and cumbrous gait betrayed how careful the young woman was forced to move. She too was wearing that godawful large cap strapped around her head that allowed minimal vision, a mere sliver of the floor beneath and in front of her. Just enough to not bump into things if she would walk slowly and carefully enough. It was a contraption he'd seen on pretty much every woman he'd seen so far.

Her nerves and fear were equally telegraphed by the tray that was shaking ever so slightly in her hands. The sound of the teacups softly rattling on their plates only ceased the moment the tray was placed on the desk. Sherlock was almost glad for her when she was immediately dismissed and not forced to prolong her agony by having to serve them.

He briefly watched her retreat and though Sherlock had not seen her face, her hands had looked young and her figure betrayed no signs of an advancing age. Of course not, he thought somberly, Gerulf would never allow an unappealing presence – male or female – close enough for him to become disgusted by their presence.

They both remained silent until the servant girl – or slave – quietly disappeared from the room. It turned out that not agreeing with Gerulf's political views, was not healthy for one's rights and freedom. Sherlock realised that the slightest mistake could mean a definite end to his search for his wife and that was a result that was simply unacceptable.

Somewhere Kyrie was out there, depending on him to find her. Back home there was also his son, depending on him to return his mother to him. Failure was not an option. He had to play his cards just right.

"Where did you say you've resided these past ten years?" Gerulf asked him the moment the door closed.

"I didn't, but, if you'd like to know, I've spent a lot of time in Nigeria, from what I can still recall anyway. Honestly, Mr Shrek," – Sherlock audibly cleared his throat – "there's a great, big blur where once a decent memory used to be."

"Schricken," Gerulf corrected him.

Sherlock pretended not to comprehend. "Hmm?"

"My name is Schricken, not Shrek."

"Ah, apologies."

Gerulf said nothing, merely kept his gaze fixed on Sherlock and Sherlock knew that deep down his adversary knew something wasn't quite right with him.

"Why did you come back to London? How did you even manage to get back to London?"

Right… because Gerulf had effectively isolated the entirety of Great Britain from the rest of the world. Nothing, not even a stray cat, could be smuggled into the country without Gerulf knowing.

Sherlock played dumb and shrugged his shoulders. "I can't clearly remember. I believe a boat was involved. There was water: cold, inky and very wet. No idea how I ended up in the North Sea, let alone how I got out. Short term memory," – he pointed to his head and whistled – "completely wasted."

"Yet you found your way here and you managed to give the cab driver very precise directions."

With an air of complete incompetence, Sherlock widened his eyes. "There was a cab driver? I don't remember a cab driver." He turned around in his chair and look around him as though he was seeing everything for the first time. "How did I get here? And… who are you?"

"Stop playing the fool, Mr Holmes, it does not suit you and I don't like it when people try and waste my time."

Sherlock slowly turned around again, his mind racing along a thousand different tracks in search of a solution that would get him out of here. "Very well. I returned here because I have a score to settle with a few people. One of them you graciously got out of the way for me... my dear brother. Now there's only two left. Surely someone as you can understand the need to put things… straight."

The glittering eyes clouded over with something dark and sinister. Oh yes, this was clearly a topic Gerulf could appreciate.

"That sufficiently answers the why but not yet the how of my question."

Sherlock leaned forward and allowed Gerulf a glimpse of his down darkness that dwelt deep inside of him. "I will not give you the 'how', not yet. Give me two days to settle my affairs and after that, you can ask me anything you like. You know about me and you know what I can do. Two days, that is all I ask. Then… I'm yours."

A feverish look appeared in Gerulf's eyes. "Those affairs… does it involve a woman?"

Good God, was Gerulf a twisted perverted psychopath in each and every reality?

"What are women..." Sherlock replied in a measured tone, "… but cattle?"

The smile Gerulf gave him nearly made him vomit. "Yes. Cattle. And as cattle they should be herded and bred."

"Just so," Sherlock managed to say.

Gerulf seemed to relax and sat back. He licked his lips and smoothed back a lock of hair, his hand slightly trembling. "My latest 'late' wife… She struggled with the concept. Does… yours?"

Even though he swallowed hard, it felt as if a cotton ball was stuck in his throat. "She… thought she could get away from me."

"Ah," – Gerulf smiled and his hand disappeared under the wooden desk – "they all think that, until you prove how wrong they are."

"What happened, to yours…?" Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper and he instantly regretted the question. He already knew he really didn't want to know the answer. He got it anyway.

"I gave her to my soldiers to play with. Some of them have… urgencies… that are hard to satisfy in conventional ways. I regret she did not last long enough to please them all. At least her remains made for excellent dog chews."

He tried hard, but Sherlock could not entirely prevent his imagination from creating some very disturbing images by hearing those callously spoken words.

Where he found the strength to convey his next words, Sherlock didn't know, but he was grateful that Gerulf bought them hook, line and sinker. "What an excellent notion." His voice croaked. "Perhaps your soldiers will have a new plaything in a day or two. I take it there's an option to… watch?"

The smile Gerulf graced him with was so demented that even hell would not be able to produce a more ghastly image than that. "Of course, as long as you don't mind a select audience."

His vision started to blur and sound became muted. Sherlock knew he had to get out of there… soon. "Not at all." He abruptly rose to his feet. "If you don't mind, I have to make some preparations."

Gerulf magnanimously gestured towards the door. "Don't take too long with those preparations, Mr Holmes. It's been a while since my soldiers have been able to enjoy a bit of sport."

The smile that Sherlock gave him simply had to be equally disturbing, if not more so. "Oh, you can trust me, Mr Schricken, I look forward to returning here very soon. Extremely looking forward to it, in fact.

Gerulf seemed very pleased with the prospect of torture, pain and humiliation and Sherlock left, wondering how the hell he was supposed to live with himself, knowing the travesty he was about to leave behind.