Happy Johnlock Anniversary!
John
Sherrinford Holmes is looking at them from the screen and it has to be him John decides going by the dejected and shocked look on Mr Holmes's face. Because if there's someone truly capable of recognising his oldest son in the face of a supposed stranger then it's that man and it's got to be true.
Sherlock too is in shock, speechless and motionless. It's still a bit unnerving, as it was the first time when John saw it happen. But he doesn't say anything, only placing a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
"Why?" Sherlock whispers softly.
His hands are shaking slightly when he tries to click over to the next picture and instead of doing that he opens right click menu on the photograph. He hesitates for a moment before he saves it to download folder.
A couple clicks later he's in download folder and frowning at it. Mr Holmes, much like Sherlock prefers seeing details in the folder menu. The photograph is at the very top of the folder, saved under the name it was downloaded, a nonsensical string of numbers that give John no clue whatsoever.
But something about it gives Sherlock some sort of a clue because he's frowning at it still before he finally mutters, "It shouldn't be that big."
John glances at the size of the photograph and finds himself agreeing. He's not very good at computer related stuff but he had taken enough of photographs during the last year to know that an excellent quality photograph shouldn't weight nearly ten bloody gigabytes.
This one does though.
"I should have a USB stick with a decrypting program in the bag," says Sherlock as he stands up and it's got to be the testament of how rattled he is by what they found out when he leaves the kitchen to fetch it himself rather than sending John out to do it.
While he's gone Mr Holmes returns to the browser and clicks over to the next photograph. It's a whole body shot one of the woman standing in the garden with her hands touching rose bushes, also bloody pink. Again she's pink all over, from the headband down to her shoes, tinted glasses on. She's also definitely a she going by the protruding breasts where breasts should be on a woman. They're covered by the dress and are just big enough to be either a very good decoy or the real, albeit surgically altered, deal.
There's also something peculiar about the dress. John by no means is an expert on style, even though between Sherlock and his good for nothing wife he exchanged his wardrobe into something more befitting a full time doctor rather that of a recently retired soldier or clinically depressed GP. He also never had been stupid enough to advise any woman how to dress, not since Harry read him a riot act about it many years ago anyway.
Something about that dress though feels definitely off, aside of being annoyingly pink which with pale complexion of the woman in the photograph doesn't appear to match. It's the way it covers her, from neck to ankles, with sleeves reaching down to her wrists. Not a particularly good choice for what appears to be a warm summer day going the state of the flowers around her.
John downloads that one too.
"Got it," says Sherlock as he enters the kitchen, closing the door behind himself.
He returns to his seat and plugs in the USB. He waits impatiently until the computer registers that the device had been plugged in and opens the first program he clicks on. Once the program opens he loads in the photograph that the program changes to an .avi file.
"Here there be dragons," Sherlock mutters as he clicks on it.
Once it starts however there are no dragons. There's a darkened room with a big screen with a shadowed, solitary, lean figure standing before it and John's stomach drops the very second he registers what they're watching.
Sherlock
The video shows a darkened room with a big screen and a solitary figure standing in front of it with their back turned to the camera. Then he register the image of a stony patio in front of a glass structure with three figures standing on it. The video on the screen plays on mute, blessedly. He doesn't want to hear it. Doesn't want John to hear it, or Daddy. Like he doesn't want to remember the look of shock on John's face and the realisation of what Sherlock had done and for whom.
He killed people before Magnussen. He devoted over two years of his life to dismantling Moriarty's network and a considerable number of his targets were too dangerous to general population, let alone on extent to people whose continued survival he cared for. And then there were a couple of morons prior that died because they were inclined to take their chances and try to escape or try to kill him before escaping. A couple had chosen to run into a busy street, a couple jumped from a high building just as another few learned that for a scrawny beanpole he was quite strong and a ferocious fighter.
Magnussen was different. Magnussen wasn't a murderer. He wasn't a target of a covert operation. He was a potential threat to John and his continued happiness, with Mary and people of Mary's occupation attracted enemies that didn't have scruples. They wouldn't hesitate to use John or the baby to hurt Mary. For Mary's safety alone Sherlock cared very little. He didn't actively wish her death but if she wasn't John's wife and the mother of his child and a potential threat to John's safety…
That ship had sailed. Mary was dead, Daisy made sure of that, better job than Norbury had. She was no longer a threat to John or their daughter. Neither were her enemies.
He swallows thickly and focuses back on the image on the screen. He finds himself surprised with the screen being frozen on the devastated look on his face. He remembers the moment. The this is it feeling, the realisation that he will most likely never get to see John again.
"Enjoying looking at a murderer?" comes a question, off camera, in a familiar condescending voice.
Mycroft, he realises.
"I'm not looking at a murderer," says the figure, their voice is soft but hard to place as definitely male or female on a voice scale. "I'm looking at peace," they add, still without turning around.
"There's nothing peaceful about it," says Mycroft sourly.
"I didn't say peace, you dumb fuck," the figure chides Mycroft, their tone sharp and deep, definitely male sounding. "I said peas."
"Peas?" asks Mycroft, sounding surprised, still not within the view of the camera.
The figure on the screen whirls around on their heel to face Mycroft. Their arms are crossed over their chest which is definitely female looking. The room on the screen is lacking proper lighting but even in the relative dimness of it he can see the rest of their body and their face.
Someone pauses the video, could be Sherlock, could be Daddy, could be John. He isn't certain but it doesn't really matter as his eyes fixate on the frozen image before him.
Blonde hair from the photograph are gone. Cropped short to a dark, curly bob with impeccably straight left side parting. Another difference is the lack of overwhelming pink attire that's been traded for a very fitting black dress with long sleeves and a turtleneck neckline. It's long, markedly shorter than that pink atrocity but long enough to reach below the knee. It accentuates definite lack of wider, female hips and a female bosom. The only spot of colour at all is the lipstick, red and in a shade vibrant enough to be visible in a dimly lit room.
But it's definitely Sherrinford and Sherlock compares the image on screen to that from the photograph. Maybe it's a matter of the lighting but Sherrinford's face lacks the colour of the photograph and the lines on his face are more visible. It's understandable, Magnussen has been dead for over a year and this video had to be made shortly after his death. That would put Sherrinford at fifty… fifty-one.
It's hard to gauge the height from the image but in the photographs from his early twenties Sherrinford appeared to be slightly taller than Daddy and Sherlock and Daddy are of similar height… Give or take a couple of centimetres and the fact that with age people start to shrink.
He chances a look at John, who is frowning at the screen and then at Daddy who doesn't. Daddy is watching the image with the same rapt attention he devoted to the image of Daisy.
He's breathing normally and doesn't appear to look faint but just to be sure Sherlock sneaks his fingers over Daddy's wrists and takes his pulse. It's elevated but not alarmingly so and Sherlock allows himself to look away.
Who unfreezes the image, Sherlock can't be certain other than it can't be him because he's holding onto John's right hand with his left and on Daddy's wrist with his right. Someone does and Sherrinford continues talking.
"Yes, peas," says Sherrinford. "You know this tiny green vegetables that Mummy insisted was good for our health?" he asks. "This kind of thing," he pauses briefly and fixates his gaze on Mycroft. "She had this weird and annoying phase just as Sherlock hit his terrible twos to make all of us eat healthy. Which had gone swimmingly, especially with him. Remember that and how no amount of cajoling, begging, downright bribery and withholding dessert never managed to convince him to eat them?" the pause that follows it is a bit longer. "I'm sure you do. Just like I'm sure who figured out how to get him to eat the bloody peas."
Sherrinford uncrosses his arms briefly and gestures at himself with his right in a 'that would be me' gesture before he crosses his arms again.
"He was a very contrary toddler," Sherrinford continues. "A truly terrible two years old and a seasoned tester of all boundaries. No was his favourite word at every point of the day even when his actions suggested otherwise. Confused the hell out of Mummy."
"But not you," Mycroft says slowly.
"Of course," Sherrinford states simply. "I had you and much younger cousins to observe and I wasn't distracted by trifles like Mummy had been. It takes a certain level of dedicated observation to gauge what is testing of other people's limits and what isn't one. From there all one needs is finding the right incentive," he pauses. "Sherlock had been very easily susceptible to reverse psychology at that age," another pause. "Don't eat peas, Sherlock. Peas aren't for you, Sherlock," he says firmly. "Does it sound familiar?"
Mycroft doesn't answer.
"Don't go after Magnussen, Sherlock," says Sherrinford softly, eyes fixed on Mycroft. "He isn't a dragon for you to slay, Sherlock," brief pause. "Does it sound familiar or do I need to waste my time and look for a sound files?" another pause. "So in the answer to your earlier question, brother mine," this one is said with a sour expression and a chilling look on his face, "I wasn't looking at a murderer. I was looking at a gun," yet another pause. "Now however I'm looking at a murderer and I wonder how he's going to blame the gun he fired."
Mycroft doesn't answer and that alone is damning. More than the analogy and he, he who prided himself for being one of the most observant people alive had missed it. He missed it and he…
"Naturally," Sherrinford continues, "the peas thing stopped working once he realised that Mummy was pleased with him for doing something he wasn't supposed to do. Messed with his head for a little while," he adds. "He was always a remarkably observant child though and he remains a remarkably observant adult. Unfortunately for himself however he still remains highly susceptible to having people he trusts manipulating his perception."
Mycroft doesn't say a word, makes no attempt to defend himself, or Sherlock.
"I learned that lesson fairly quickly," adds Sherrinford. "So did you. The difference between me and you is that I never used it in ill will. You however…" he hangs his voice. "You helped to exploit a trauma and rather than help him overcome it you continued to condition it."
"I wasn't alone," Mycroft chimes in. "If you're so keen to shed blame on people…"
"I shed my fair share of blame on our parents," Sherrinford interrupts him icily. "And Lord knows that I paid for it the highest price," he adds with a snarl. "But I cannot blame them for something they didn't know. How could they know how their absence when I needed them the most, in the darkest and most painful moments of my life…" his tone is icily cold but his face is far from such, he just looks hurt. "I killed their son, I killed their daughter," he adds softly. "How could they bring themselves to look at me and after me when I failed to save their babies. I promised them that I would look after them and I failed. I messed up by putting my bloody thesis first and when it mattered the most I couldn't save Billy and Rosie…" his breath hitches. "But that wasn't what happened, was it Myc?" he asks, his tone changing back to the icy one. "Neither is this," he gestures at the frozen image. "After all, you learned from the best."
Mycroft doesn't answer.
"Your silence is enough of an answer, Myc," says Sherrinford after a moment. "So, what's the verdict of the esteemed council that dances to whichever tune you play?" he asks condescendingly. "How your another brother is going to pay for your mistakes?" he adds. "Except it wasn't a mistake, was it?" he says pointedly. "Because a mistake would mean that you messed something up and you don't mess up. Not since Irene Norton."
There's a sharp intake of breath coming from the speaker and then silence, nearly oppressive silence.
Until.
"He will resume the East Wind operation," says Mycroft. "With a better cover."
Sherrinford snorts, loudly and condescendingly before he mutters something that sounds eerily like 'I should have known'.
"Even if Sherlock were about to undergo a gender reassignment surgery for that it would never work," says Sherrinford grimly after a moment. "Not that I'm seeing any valid point for continuing it. You had seven different, highly regarded and experienced profilers evaluating the final target and they all agreed that Adam is a clinical example of an organised psychopath and a sexual sadist. Hell, both of your brothers agreed with that assessment and one spent a substantial amount of time at the receiving end of the very generous eastern hospitality of his cronies. He is certifiably and criminally insane and beyond the reach of any conventional and unconventional ways of resocialisation. Unless you're planning to build a secret, high security prison on a lone island in the middle of the sea just for the benefit of his continued survival."
Mycroft doesn't reply.
"Are you even planning on enlightening him," says Sherrinford as he gestures at the image of Sherlock on the screen, "against who he's going?" he asks sourly and upon looking at Mycroft he adds. "Of course you aren't, why I'm even asking that question," he mutters to himself. "Because Sherlock in possession of all the facts would do the same thing I did and bail out of this mess," he adds and snorts, "after making a brief way back home to collect all of the potential pressure points you might wish to exercise on him and holing up with them in the wilderness of a bloody Australia," he concludes angrily.
"Sherlock was nearly successful in his infil…" starts Mycroft, he sounds stiff and defensive.
"Successful?" Sherrinford asks incredulously and snorts. "And what exactly speaks of a roaring success in that endeavour, brother mine?" he asks icily. "Nearly dislocated shoulder? Multiple lacerations on his back that came from various devices from a whip to a metal pipe? Three cracked ribs? Bruised kidneys?" he pauses briefly. "I'm not medical but I saw the file from Belgrad's hospital, he was still pissing blood when you signed him out against medical advice for Christ's sake."
"Sher…" Mycroft starts and rather than the beginning of Sherlock's name it sounds like beginning of Sherrinford's.
"His only success in that endeavour was getting himself captured when that twisted son of a bitch and a moron went for a bloody vacation. That much I can give you because it's the only reason why you brought him back home alive and breathing and not in a freaking pine box," says Sherrinford angrily.
There's a long pause during which none of them says a thing and then.
"You will fix it," says Sherrinford, his voice sounds calm and even.
"You're in no position to bossy me around, brother mine," says Mycroft condescendingly. "We're no longer children."
"We didn't exactly were children for a long part of our relationship," replies Sherrinford and throws in, "brother mine," and rather than a term of endearment it sounds like an insult. Then there's a brief pause before he adds, "And you will find out that I'm in an unique position that makes bossing you around frighteningly easy, Mr Norton."
The scene on the screen behind Sherrinford changes from the frozen image of Sherlock's face to what passes as frivolous frolicking between the sheets between a man, in which Sherlock almost instantly recognises Mycroft, and a woman. It takes him a moment to get a clear look at the woman's face and his heart drops to his stomach when he recognises her.
Because it's one thing to hear his brother throw accusations at his other brother but it's another thing to have a nearly tangible proof that they weren't baseless. It's the timestamp that's the most damning, 29th April 2014.
"Would you look at that," says Sherrinford in falsely cheerful voice, "it's even timestamped. I'm sure that even the stupidest reporter in the country would be able to tell that back then dear Lizzie was still a faithful and devoted wife of that ephebophilic paedophile," he pauses briefly. "I'm sure that the good doctor would be able to see it clear as day."
"You're putting too much faith in Doctor Watson's observing abilities," says Mycroft condescendingly. "Much like Sherlock, I should add and the doctor as you had seen through the last hour and ten minutes is his blind spot and completely oblivious of the fact."
Beside Sherlock John huffs angrily.
"I can agree with that," Sherrinford concedes, "but I disagree with your opinion on his intellectual abilities. He's pretty damn smart," Sherlock finds himself smiling softly at that, "but the problem with making deductions as our brother occasionally found it out is that one cannot make them without all of the necessary data. The good doctor is a retired army captain, his access to confidential data is limited to what he can obtain or learn from our baby brother. That," brief pause, "doesn't mean that he himself is an intellectually limited individual."
The image on the screen behind Sherrinford changes again and if Sherlock thought that his heart couldn't drop even lower in his body it suddenly does.
On the screen Sherlock can see John struggling with a thug that injects him with something, tranquilizer most likely, but he loses it and he's being lowered to the ground. The moment John's eyes close the scene changes to a bonefire that just had been lit.
Next to him John gasps and it takes a tremendous effort and a quick mantra of 'John is here now' for Sherlock to not do the same. The image on the screen freezes exactly as Sherlock dives into the bonefire to pull John out. For a moment neither Mycroft nor Sherrinford speaks.
"The last words I ever spoke to Sherlock," says Sherrinford slowly. "You know what they were, Myc?" he pauses. "He was screaming at me, yelling that I'm going to get myself killed too as he clutched on Rosie. He was huddled in the corner of her room, holding her for a dear life. She was crying, bawling her eyes and he was hysterical."
There's a pause, long enough for the fog in Sherlock's mind to lift. Long enough for the kitchen to disappear giving way into the image of his older brother jumping through the blazing inferno to kneel in front of him.
Sherrinford in his memory looks both manic and terrified and for a second relieved before he silences the terrified nonsense spewing from Sherlock's mouth with the words that Sherlock never forgotten even when he had forgotten his brother.
"Fire exposes our priorities," Sherrinford in his memory and on the screen says it just as Sherlock whispers them himself.
And it had, it exposed them to the bare bones. As if he ever could have doubted that. He was his brother's priority, his survival and safety. Just like his was John's. He was loved, fiercely and desperately for Sherrinford to hold very little regard to his own survival and safety.
It's John crushing the bones in his left hand that pulls him away from the raging inferno of his memory.
"And it had," says Sherrinford in the video as he turns towards the screen for a moment. "There's our brother jumping into the fire with little regard to his safety or injuries while the good wife is bleating in the background like a bloody sheep she is," he adds, his tone casual and changing to livid as he describes Mary.
There's another pause during which none of them says a word and the only thing that Sherlock can hear is John's slightly laboured breathing and the distant squeals from the living room.
"I wonder," starts Sherrinford casually, "how either of them would have reacted if they knew that the thugs that kidnapped the good doctor were employed by MI5. Fitted with body cams even. If they realised that this entire thing was a ploy to expose if the old pressure point still applied," he adds and pauses briefly. "It worked splendidly first time around, didn't it?"
Mycroft, condemning himself even more, doesn't say a word.
"And then there's the good wife," Sherrinford continues icily. "She's good," he pauses long enough to snort, "very dedicated to the cause but not as good as she thinks she is in her arrogance. Good thing that she's the dumber one," he concludes with a sneer. "Because if she was actually the smart one instead of following someone else's orders," the look that he throws Mycroft at that is the one of disgust, "she would have done the deed, leaving the gun behind knowing that our baby brother would definitely pick it up."
Mycroft still doesn't say a word.
"She messed up though the very moment she decided to go rogue and instead of following an order she decided to get even with the man she married, per your instructions," Sherrinford adds. "Sherlock is lucky that Janine managed to press the hidden panic button under her desk before she passed out. Otherwise there would be another funeral and this time it would be a real one. But that part got edited out of the final report, didn't it? You knew that she would never breath a word about it to anyone, least of all to our brother. She does value her freedom above anything else and she's the smarter one."
"She has her uses," Mycroft finally admits.
"No she doesn't," replies Sherrinford and snorts. "She had been done with all of it within a month since her idiot of a brother planted her in Magnussen's emporium. And I have on a pretty good authority that she had been done with all of it for far longer than that. After all, she was the one with conscience and a witness of her brother's descend into madness."
"Helped to implement it too," says Mycroft with a heavy sigh.
"No, that was you," Sherrinford says simply. "And his own ambition and determination to outsmart you. Such is the problem with ambitious minions, things get messy when they develop a mind of their own. He could have continued to make a name for himself if only he listened to the orders and the moment he stopped he signed his name on a dotted line in all of his insane glory."
"You sound fond of him," says Mycroft lividly.
"Never had been," replies Sherrinford with a snort. "If any of us was somewhat fond of him that would be Sherlock and for a very brief window of time it had taken him to challenge him and wrap the good doctor in explosives. Again, per your orders."
"The Van Buren Supernova," says Mycroft condescendingly. "That was a long shot and a very risky one."
"Maybe," concedes Sherrinford with a shrug and that makes Sherlock flinch as condemning as it is. "I'm a painter and as we both know an expert art forger, excellent grifter and a con artist. Richard Brook went to his grave believing my loyalty to his cause, your cause. Or maybe I should say, he went to my grave believing that good old Rosie Devereaux always remained loyal to him while his own bloody sister tried to abandon him. I should get a fucking Oscar for that performance."
"Well, you had," replies Mycroft.
"No, what I got is my baby brother tangled up in that bloody mess by stepping away too soon," Sherrinford counters grimly. "If I stayed on I would have dismantled the network from the very top and it would have taken me three, six months at the most to do so with no danger to my own person or anyone I cared for. Unlike Sherlock who had been working from the ground up and still after two years didn't get to the bloody top. Because if he had, you would be missing all of your teeth and both of your kidneys and I would be blowing the whistle so loudly that it could be heard in both Americas."
"Even knowing what happened to the last person that did so?" asks Mycroft incredulously.
"You mean the same thing that happened to me?" asks Sherrinford in return. "I'm dead Mycroft, had been for twenty-nine bloody years. In fact, I'm not even that, I never existed, my birth certificate had vanished and all of the photographs of me from before are securely locked if they hadn't been lost in the fire that killed me. People who remember me were either handsomely paid to forget me or had been manipulated into never bringing up my name," he pauses. "How exactly that makes me different from the last person that exposed Moriarty to the public? Hess had been fishing for a long time and in his paranoia he firmly believed that the next Moriarty should be a Holmes. Sherlock was a child, you were too young and I had no interest in becoming a crime mogul on behalf of British Secret Services. All I wanted back then was to sort my head out, change my majors and watch how our younger siblings grow up and how our parents grow old. That's all I ever wanted. But that isn't what I've got. What I've got was a sociopath using my deepest fears against me when I was at my most vulnerable, turning my grief and devastation into a tool against me. And I believed him, I knew who he was and what he did and I still gobbled every single hint he gave me like a goose gobbles food in December."
Mycroft stays silent in the pause that follows it.
"But I wasn't the only one, was I?" Sherrinford asks after a moment. "Similar looks weren't the only thing that Sherlock and I shared. We were close, very close. Some sick and twisted individuals would even say that too close. As if him being sexually abused by his older brother somehow was my fault even though back then I wasn't even conceived let alone born," he adds sourly. "My feelings towards Sherlock were never inappropriate. He was different from the brother I've got at the age and time when I finally had a chance to be the sole focus of our parents attention, with no distractions from other family members. And he, unlike his predecessor, was like the rest of the cousins," a brief pause. "Normal," another pause. "Happy," another. "Cheerful." The pause that follows it is longer before Sherrinford adds, "He made it easy to love him, to entertain him, to motivate his interest in the world that surrounded him. He exuberantly returned the affection he received even when he was a little baby."
There's no response from Mycroft.
"The connections that one's forges in the early stages of child's development run deep. Very deep, brother mine. Especially if one is one of the child's caretakers and one of the pillars of their sense of safety and security," continues Sherrinford grimly. "And I was his, I was one of the immediate sources of comfort through his childhood. He confided in me things he wouldn't confide in anyone else. But I wasn't the parent, I didn't fit the definition of it. I was the exception when he needed one and I never betrayed his trust," his voice goes even grimmer. Then there's another long pause before he resumes talking, "I was there when Vicky had murdered Victor and unlike all of the other adults I listened to a child bereft with grief and I proved that he was right all along. That there was something seriously wrong with Victor's sister. I did that, not that moustached pompous arse that got credit for it. I was the one who told Sherlock that Victor could be at peace now. I did it for him because he asked me to. I did it for Victor because he looked up to me to, because Sherlock had. That's what older brothers do, Myc, they look out for their siblings. They don't force them to clean up their messes."
"It's…" Mycroft starts but he barely manages to utter that before Sherrinford interrupts him again.
"You will fix it," he says, his voice flat and even.
"Or?" Mycroft asks stiffly. "Threats, brother mine, usually come with a leverage."
"And, brother mine, have I failed to provide one in so far?" asks Sherrinford sourly before he exhales. "Fine, have it your way Mr Norton."
The image on the screen changes but this time it's not another video rather than a photograph. It's black and white but even with as poor quality as its size it makes it in the video he immediately recognises the people in the centre of the photograph. And judging by the gasp coming from John, so does he.
It's a photograph of Mycroft, much younger, portlier Mycroft with lighter hair more naturally red as they had been before he started dyeing them, his hairline already started to recede back then. His early twenties likely. But Mycroft isn't as surprising as the woman whose hand he's holding or the way she's dressed up. She's in a wedding gown, with a small bouquet in her free hand, veil billowing as they walk down the stairs. She looks where she's stepping while Mycroft looks at her with a cowed expression.
It's Mary. A much younger Mary, around the same age as Mycroft. She looks radiant and quite considerably pregnant. Fifth month maybe?
"Mrs and Mr Irene Norton," says Sherrinford slowly. "Or maybe I should say, Shirley Moran and Mycroft Holmes. The coning bitch and the colossal moron that almost got himself arrested because like many idiots before him he had fallen for a pretty face that had fallen into him for his family connections. Particularly that to the British secret services," he pauses briefly as he looks at the photograph. "And somewhere in there should be another idiot, namely me, that believed in your strong convictions that dear Irene loved you truly and devotedly. And I sincerely wished you that back then, brother mine, the moron that I too have been," he pauses as he turns back and snorts. "I'm sure that you remember what followed the brief honeymoon after that. A missing young, pregnant woman and a newly wedded husband who was very strongly implicated as the guilty party of her disappearance. And do you remember who enlightened the good detectives that Irene Norton was the name of a stillborn from some country cemetery whose date of birth fit the age of the dear Irene and consequently saved you from spending the rest of your life in jail?" There's another pause before he says, "Wonder what the good doctor would make of that one and what he would do to you once he will realise how expertly he and our brother had been duped."
"Most likely he would interrogate his wife," mutters Mycroft. "Which will lead him nowhere."
"Because she isn't the one you had married and she's a dumb cunt," replies Sherrinford. "But she's a dumb pregnant cunt and she knows that as long as she remains as such she has a leverage. Unlike her smarter sister however Siobhan is quite acutely aware that she's between a ton of bricks and a very hard place. She will cave in eventually, those that recognise their limitations very often do. Like Janine, she will throw Shirley under the bus and before you will know it you will be in jail if you're lucky or dead if you're not. Dead you can't exactly triumph over your darling wife, Myc and gloating from prison only makes you look dumb. So for once in your goddamn life fix the mess you've made."
With that Sherrinford walks out of the camera range.
"Or you will?" Mycroft calls after him.
The only response is some sort of a device, likely a remote control, hitting Mycroft. Going by grunt it hit him with some force and quite painfully. Likely in the face.
The screen goes black after that.
It's a lot to take in. Every single issue raised in the video individually is a lot to take in let alone cobbled together into some sort of conspiracy with his older, middle brother in the midst of it. Then there's his oldest brother, disturbingly alive and also caught in the middle of this mess.
Had this been anyone else, any other family he would be already be making deductions and predictions where he would be able to find one or the other or both. Because that they're both out there somewhere he knows deep in his gut. What he doesn't know is what part Daisy played in all of it.
Then there are things which he doesn't want to examine because the betrayal is to raw. Every single interaction with Mycroft since teenage years and everyone that ever came in contact with him. Lady Smallwood, Mycroft's other bloody wife, appealing to his chivalry to save the husband that she was planning to throw under the bus.
He missed it. He was emotionally compromised when she came to him and she played him like a bloody fiddle. Even now he's too emotionally compromised for his deductions to be logically sound and devoid of emotional turmoil.
Then there's John, John whom he had failed. He had failed him over and over through the years, from withholding information from him down to…
"Mr Holmes," John's voice tears through Sherlock's thoughts. "Would you terribly mind if I shot your middle son in the genitals?"
"Not particularly, no," says Daddy. "I kind of want to do it too and I've been provided with an ample amount of ammunition," he pauses briefly. "What about the oldest one?"
"I want to punch him, her in the teeth," says John grimly. "Because of all of the ammunition he or she possessed they weren't exactly forthcoming with sharing it."
"Maybe there's something more in the other ones," says Daddy pensively. "This," he gestures at the screen, "required a lot of planning and effort. And as limited as my understanding of criminal masterminds is I do know that a good grifter knows their mark. And Sherry claimed to be an excellent one."
"And how are you feeling about that?" asks Sherlock softly.
"Not sure," Daddy admits. "I'm appalled by a lot things they both said and deeply relieved that he's alive. And, unlike Myc, in possession of conscience though I never had a reason to ever doubt that."