Lost and Found

By the Lady Razorsharp

AN: Inspired by Granada Productions' version of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories The Final Problem and The Empty House. Thanks to beboparia for the poetry reference.

Part 3: Brother

The autumn leaves are falling like rain.
Although my neighbors are all barbarians
And you, you are a thousand miles away
There are always two cups at my table.
-T'ang Dynasty poem

5 May 1891

"Will that be all, sir?"

Watson blinked, looking at the telegraph office clerk as if seeing him for the first time. "I beg your pardon?"

"Will you be sending any more telegrams, sir?" The clerk asked in heavily accented English, peering out from under his green visor.

Watson felt as if his head were full of cotton wool. "Ah—how many are there so far?"

The clerk consulted his receipt book. "Two—one to Frau Hudson and one to Frau Watson."

"Yes, of course." Watson nodded. "In that case, I need to send one more, please."

"Very good, sir." The clerk placed a blank telegram form on the counter. The doctor hesitated for a long moment, pencil poised above the paper. "Are you all right, sir?" asked the clerk, concerned at the deep sorrow etched on Watson's face.

"I am the bearer of bad news," Watson murmured, his eyes on the expanse of yellow paper before him. "I confess I do not know quite how to begin." He sighed. "No doubt you've heard that hundreds of times."

"I have indeed, sir." Still Watson hesitated, and the clerk cleared his throat. "If you will permit me, sir—a word of advice?" Watson glanced up, and the clerk took it as silent permission to continue. "Write quickly, and do not look back until you reach the end."

The doctor mulled this over, and then nodded. "Thank you." He turned his attention to the paper and began to write with quick, bold strokes.

At the discreet cough that sounded to his left, Mycroft Holmes glanced up from the brief he was reading to see Grayson, one of the Diogenes Club's faithful stewards, standing a few feet away. Grayson held a yellow telegram envelope in his hand, and raised an eyebrow in question when he had caught Mycroft's eye. Laying aside the brief, Mycroft waved him over. Grayson gave the envelope into Mycroft's hands, revealing the word 'URGENT' stamped in red on the paper.

Mycroft reached into his pocket and withdrew his penknife, silently slit the envelope and then settled his attention on the half-sheet the envelope contained. As usual, Grayson hovered a respectful distance away, ready to take a reply if necessary.

Instantly, the color drained from Mycroft's face, and the steward hurried over in alarm.

"Sir! Are you all right?" Grayson dared to raise his voice to a stage whisper, an exception made only for the gravest of emergencies.

Mycroft tore his attention from the telegram to stare at Grayson, who himself blanched under the piercing storm-grey gaze. With a swiftness of movement that Grayson had rarely seen displayed by the heavyset founder of the club, Mycroft launched his bulk from his chair and quit the hall, leaving the hapless steward scrambling to keep up. With their footfalls ringing like cannon fire in the silence, they did not slacken their pace until they reached the Stranger's Room. After following Mycroft into the book-lined chamber, Grayson hurried to shut the door behind them.

"When did this arrive?" Mycroft snarled, brandishing the telegram in his fist.

"No more than two minutes ago, sir." Grayson' voice was still no louder than a murmur; though at the moment it had more to do with Mycroft's disquieting display than years of training. "Shall I go and fetch the boy back?"

"He was only the end link in a long chain. There would be little point in questioning him." Mycroft sighed explosively. "Blast it all!"

Grayson allowed himself a tiny frown; whatever the telegram contained had shaken Mycroft—usually the most unexcitable of individuals—down to the core. "Bad news, sir?" he ventured.

With the telegram still clutched in his right hand, Mycroft wandered across the room, his substantial shadow falling across the parquet floor. He stopped at the tall library ladder positioned on the left side of the bank of windows and wrapped his thick fingers around the handrail. "My brother is dead," he said in a hollow voice.

Grayson felt a sharp pang of sympathy for the man he had long served. It had been some time since Mycroft's brother had visited the club, but Grayson remembered being impressed by what he had seen of the younger man's cleverness and energy. It was indeed a shame that such a bright candle had been snuffed out forever. "Is there anything I may do for you, sir?" the steward asked quietly.

"Yes." Mycroft did not turn from the windows. "You can get the messenger boy back after all. I will be dispatching several telegrams in a short while."

Grayson nodded, relieved to be of use. "At once, sir," he said, then turned and hurried out of the Stranger's Room on silent feet.

Mycroft waited until the door had closed behind Grayson and the footsteps retreated into the distance. With a sigh, he laboriously climbed the steps of the library ladder and sat on the top step, gazing out of the window at the busy neighborhood. Two young boys gamboled past, the younger one's hand safely entwined in that of the older boy. He followed the children's progress along the street until they were out of sight, and then turned back to the telegram in his hand.

MEIRINGEN VILLAGE

SWITZERLAND

5 MAY

MR MYCROFT HOLMES

C/O DIOGENES CLUB

PALL MALL

TERRIBLE TRAGEDY STOP SHERLOCK HOLMES LOST OVER REICHENBACH FALLS YESTERDAY STOP STAYING FOR INQUEST STOP BACK IN LONDON NEXT WEEK STOP MAY I CALL THEN QUERY DEEPEST CONDOLENCES STOP JOHN WATSON END

Mycroft folded the telegram and slipped it into his pocket. "Sherlock," he murmured, his water-pale eyes filling with sudden tears. "Oh, Sherlock."

Nearly two weeks had passed since that late April morning, but Mycroft could still recall his surprise at hearing the landlady announce that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was asking to see him. That singular event was enough to start a warning trill of alarm within Mycroft; he could count on one hand the number of times they had been under that particular roof together. However, at the sight of Sherlock's pale, drawn face and haunted flint-colored eyes, alarm turned to genuine brotherly concern. One look told Mycroft that it was best to have Sherlock sit down before he fell down, and went to pour them both a glass of port.

"The situation is quickly becoming intolerable," Sherlock said, settling gratefully into one of the overstuffed chairs in Mycroft's flat. His hands, Mycroft noticed, were shaking as he accepted the glass.

Mycroft returned to the sideboard to pour his own glass. "You were wise to come here, Sherlock."

The younger man ran a fingertip along the edge of the glass, making the crystal chime an eerie note. "Even now, the ring closes 'round me, and there is no escape," he muttered darkly.

The elder Holmes replaced the stopper on the port with a sharp clink. "Well then, perhaps you should leave Moriarty to those more suited to the task."

Sherlock banged the heavy cut-crystal glass down on the table. "Don't shilly-shally around with me, Mycroft. Say what you mean."

"What I am saying is that your enthusiasm has outstripped your abilities," Mycroft replied. "Moriarty's crimes are out of your milieu." He sipped from his glass.

Astonishment was plain on the younger man's face. "Out of my—"

"I suggest you bow out while you still can, Sherlock."

"If indeed I should 'bow out' now," Sherlock said coldly, "the fact remains that I have given all of you ample time to act, and yet you have not!"

Mycroft's glass nearly shattered from its forceful return to its place on the sideboard. "Tread lightly, Sherlock, I warn you!"

"I would hate very much to think that innocent lives were spent waiting for your all-important word!" A pinched look appeared around the bridge of Sherlock's aquiline nose, making his face into a bloodless mask. "When will it finally be enough, Mycroft? Will my death at Moriarty's hands finally be the necessary impetus?"

The grizzled grey brows of the elder Holmes drew together sharply, and his eyes flashed silver fire. "Sherlock, it is only because you are under considerable strain that I am prepared to forgive your obscene lapse of judgment. However," he breathed, "I will not afford you such grace a second time."

The younger man studied the carpet silently, the knotting of his jaw the only clue as to the effort spent reining in his temper. "You know I speak the truth," the amateur consulting detective said softly, his eyes still on the intricate Turkish design underfoot. "Moriarty has thrown the gauntlet at my feet and I intend to take it up." He raised his head to fix Mycroft with a steady gaze the color of a winter sky. "I could ask for no greater honor than to rid this world of his evil."

Mycroft stared at his brother with a mixture of pride and disbelief. "Sherlock, I cannot let you do this." He shook his head, seeing their dying mother's feverish face before him once again. "Long ago, I promised Maman that I would look after you."

His brother's eyes clouded over with pain. Invoking their mother's name had been a low blow, and both knew it. "I believe I have more than proved that I am quite capable of looking after myself." Sherlock ground the words out from deep in his throat. "If I was not, this morning's mischief would have ensured that I would at this very moment be on the slab covered in hoof prints or with my skull bashed in."

The mental pictures of both scenarios slithered coldly through Mycroft's brain. "I will concede you have been disgustingly lucky." Two pairs of grey eyes narrowed, one in warning, the other in challenge. "Your John Watson is a married man now, but still you are being reckless with his life," Mycroft continued sharply. "You know that you have but to say the word and he will follow you to the ends of the earth."

"He is indeed 'a friend who sticketh closer than a brother,'" Sherlock quoted, his voice low and deadly.

Mycroft went purple. "I should thrash you for that!"

"It would be amusing to see you try."

The silent standoff continued for several heartbeats. "Do you see, Mycroft? I cannot leave Watson here, even if I wanted to," Sherlock finally ventured into the tense silence. "It is much too dangerous. Moriarty's men would overtake him, and…" His eyes shuttered closed in horror. "They would do him grievous harm to extort compliance from me."

Mycroft remained silent for a moment, hoping to find some flaw, some improbability in Sherlock's argument. To his dismay, there were none. "We have spotted Moriarty's confederates around Dr. Watson's house already," he said gravely, unable to help making one last attempt at swaying his brother from this dread errand. "They wait for you. It is a fixed game."

To his surprise, Sherlock smiled. "Well, then. Since the cards are all dealt, I suppose I should not keep them waiting." He took up his glass and drank it to the dregs. "You were right about one thing," he said, carefully replacing the cut crystal glass on the sideboard. "I cannot do this—not alone, anyway." He looked up into his brother's face, his expression more intense than Mycroft had ever seen it. "Please, Mycroft. Will you help me?"

Mycroft laid his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "What do you need me to do?"

As he watched Dr. Watson run at full speed through Lowther Arcade that morning not a fortnight ago, Mycroft knew without doubt that the man was determined to see things through, and that thought alone had been enough to calm some of Mycroft's wrenching despair. Though the loss to the world was incalculable, at least Sherlock had not been alone at the end.

The door opened with the barest whisper of well-oiled hinges as Grayson slipped back into the room. "Sir, the messenger boy is here."

"Good." Mycroft cleared his throat and carefully descended the ladder steps. He gathered up the monocle suspended from his lapel on a gilded chain, and fitted the small circle of glass to his left eye. Crossing to the desk, he took up a pencil and a sheet of notepaper, and wrote a single terse sentence in neat, angular letters. "Here," he said, and gave the paper into Grayson's hand. He removed the monocle and let it fall back against his waistcoat as he walked Grayson to the door. "Tell the boy that this must go with all haste to Dr. Ralf Siemens at the British Embassy in Switzerland and Mr. Charles Campbell at the Home Office. And in reply to Dr. Watson, simply, 'Received your message, come as soon as you are able.'"

"To Dr. Watson: 'Received your message, come as soon as you are able,'" Grayson repeated. "Very good, sir." With a respectful inclination of his head toward Mycroft, Grayson once again was gone like a frock-coated specter.

Mycroft turned back to the windows and slowly climbed the ladder to resume his perch on the top step. The setting sun was turning the clouds into streaks of orange and gold flame in an amethyst sky, and Mycroft sat deep in thought until the lamplighter had passed beneath his window.

Someone knew the truth of what had happened at the falls called Reichenbach, he mused. And even if it took him until the end of his days to find out who that person was, or what they knew, he would find them.