Disclaimer: Still don't own Sherlock Holmes…

A/N: Happy New Year, guys! Sorry about the delay in this chapter, but Christmas and New Year's sort of threw me off course (that and Chapter 3, which is going to be a kicker to write).

Thanks to all of you who reviewed. I'm really honoured that I've been able to retain Doyle's style to your satisfaction so far. Oh, and regarding Watson's ignorance to the Omega faction: most of what Watson knows about Moriarty's organization came from Holmes, and Holmes never mentioned any name for the Moriarty gang (it would have been strange calling the faction "Moriarty gang," especially since the guy's dead.)

Well, I think you've heard me ramble enough, so now on with the story!

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Chapter 2-

"Going out in this weather, Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson's stately voice queried, drawing me out of my reverie as I came down the flight of seventeen stairs from my rooms. I lifted my eyes from the steps before me to meet the concerned gaze of my esteemed landlady.

"I'm afraid so," I answered curtly, earning a frown from the venerable matron. "I have some errands to run."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," She exclaimed with a sigh as she helped me to shrug on my coat. "You are going to catch your death out there of the cold. It's dark now, and it's still snowing out there, you know."

I sighed in both exasperation and appreciation of her mothering. "Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson. I won't be long." With that, I slipped on my tall black top hat and made my way into Watson's so called "winter wonderland."

To say that it was merely cold outside would have been the biggest understatement of the century, I'm sure. Even as I stood on the doorstep facing the sludge-covered street, the howling gusts of bitterly icy wind nipped painfully at my cheeks and nose as they blew churning blizzards of endless snowflakes, successfully blinding me to all that was ahead and making me wish dearly for a scarf around my collar.

A hansom or brougham would have been very nice for the shelter they would inevitably have provided, but I did not hail for any cab—I needed more time to collect my thoughts and plan a logical course of action.

I made my way slowly down Baker Street, relishing the calming sound of the crunching snow beneath my feet and the billowing breaths exuding from my mouth in cloudy puffs of white mist. I was taking the same route as I had done when I set out to introduce Watson to Mycroft for the first time all those years ago. I smirked slightly, recalling the surprise on Watson's face when I had first mentioned my brother to him.

The smile faded, however, as my thoughts returned to the task at hand and Mycroft's possible well being. 'How could Moriarty have survived that fall at Reichenbach?' I pondered with a frown creasing my features. I had seen the former professor very distinctly as his body had collided with a boulder at the bottom of the waterfall. There was no way that he could have survived the fall.

'But if not Moriarty, then who has come to take his place?' Moran would certainly be the most capable man for the job, but the man had been sentenced to hard labour in the Australian colonies at his trial.

'Could he have escaped and made his way back to England so quickly?' It was very unlikely, I conceded as I sauntered on; but, when all other alternatives were impossible, the remaining option, however improbable, must be the truth.

'So, Moran is at the bottom of this,' I concluded gravely. 'But why indeed would he go to so much trouble to get my attention? If the man had simply wanted revenge, then I would be seeing Mycroft's name in the obituaries, not in a note sealed with the Omega faction hallmark containing an idle threat and a place of appointment within.'

My turbulent thoughts were abruptly halted by an impeccably aimed snowball that landed squarely on my chest.

"Oh, look what you've done now, Tom!" a young, rosy-cheeked girl clad in a warm woollen hat shouted angrily as she ran up to where I stood. "I'm so sorry sir; it was an accident," she apologised hurriedly as she helped me wipe the slush ball from my coat.

"Don't worry," I assured with a smile as soon as I overcome my astonishment. "It's just a little wet."

Her light hazel eyes were filled with relief as she gazed up into mine, a grateful smile caressing her face for a brief instance before her features contorted into a scowl at the smaller boy who had appeared by her side.

"Apologise, Tom," she chided crossly, fixing the lad with the sternest look I had seen since I was in school.

To his credit, Tom obeyed meekly, quietly muttering, "Sorry," before offering a sheepish smile in reconciliation.

"It's quite all right," I answered soothingly with a smirk on my own lips. "That was the best aimed snowball I've seen for quite a while. You'd make a fine cricket player."

I continued on my route once I had extracted toothy grins from both of them, listening idly to the older girl giving her "just wait till I tell mum what happened" speech. My thoughts became irrevocably fixed on her honey-coloured eyes, and I could see them plainly in my mind's eye. "Oh, Leona," I heard myself whisper in almost a daze.

I turned to see the children disappear into the torrents of snow—much like my sister had many winters before. "I'm sorry," I uttered softly, knowing that I had more to repent for than they ever did. Sighing deeply, I resumed my course with a grim determination; I would not let Mycroft follow Leona into shadow.

***

It seemed that I had gotten myself too engrossed by my own thoughts, because before I had realised, I found myself standing at the steps to Mycroft's lodgings. All the windows were lighted except his, causing the crease between my eyebrows to deepen as I knocked on the entrance.

"Mr. 'Olmes!" the wizened old landlord barked in surprise upon opening the door. "What brings you 'ere?"

"I'm just here to pay a visit to my brother," I answered simply as I crossed the threshold.

The man, senile as he was, peered at me suspiciously for a moment before shrugging and slinking off. "I've not seen 'ide or 'air of 'im, Mr. 'Olmes, but enjoy your visit."

I crept silently up the narrow wooden staircase, wary of its creaking steps and fragile banister. I slipped the brass key to my brother's rooms out of my pocket as I approached the second door to the right in the corridor, only to find that it was already slightly ajar. The door rasped slightly on its poorly oiled hinges as I carefully pushed it open, and it only swung out half way—its path obstructed by a fallen chair.

The only source of illumination was a bright shaft of moonlight from one of the open windows, but even from this mediocre light source, it was easy to see that the rest of the room was in complete disarray. All around me, desks, tables, and chairs of all sizes had been broken and toppled haphazardly onto the carpeted floor. The long velvet drapes that had hung from the tall windows and the few photographs that had adorned the walls were tangled messily amongst the other clutter littered the Persian rug. Countless tomes and sheaves of paperwork, files, and other documents strewn across folds of cloth and the rods of furniture completed the image of an indoor blizzard rivalling the blanket of snow outside.

A glint of silver caught my eye as I had knelt to closely examine some of the papers. The light emanated from a broken crystal decanter which had reflected some of the silver moonlight. Carefully stepping over the cluttered debris in the room, I approached the shattered vessel which lay on the floor beside a toppled sofa. Dark red splotches of blood were splattered on the light carpet and Mycroft's broken pince-nez, which lay glistening on the plush sofa. Beside it, an envelope of heavy crème paper had been placed so carefully that it was the only item in the room which still retained a semblance of neatness. Its W stamped on a seal of purple wax leered and mocked me as I pocketed the pince-nez and extricated the envelope's contents with increased foreboding. There was only a thin sheet of paper torn hastily from a notebook within, and on unfolding the sheet, I saw a message sloppily scrawled which read:

"You probably still think that this is just a practical joke. You are mistaken—this is no joke. I will give you one more chance to save him. I will be waiting for you at Trafalgar Square tonight. If I find that you are not there by midnight, you will be sorry!"

At the bottom of the message was a fingerprint in crimson blood that was undoubtedly Mycroft's.

"No…"

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A/N: Before you ask, Leona will be explained later. Hope you enjoyed!