Sherlock
Several clicks later the next photograph gets decrypted into another video. This one starts with Sherrinford seated in front of a vanity although it's hard to say for certain where the camera is. It's definitely high enough to be at the level of his face, showing in the background what looks like a bedroom and in the foreground.
Sherry had said that he and Sherlock were much alike in more than looks and the sight of his brother sitting naked in front of a mirror doesn't really surprise him. Neither does the sight of his breasts, definitely female, skin sagging in some places, betraying the age while they still remain artificially pert. Not too big though, but big enough for John (when Sherlock quickly glances at him) to fixate his eyes firmly on Sherrinford's face.
And speaking of it. In the brightly lit bedroom Sherrinford's face is more clearly visible than in the darkness of the last one. Much like Sherlock Sherrinford has high cheekbones, identical cupid's bow on the upper lip and pale eyes. However his nose is shorter than Sherlock's, eyebrows thinner and his jaw has a softer looks to it. He also looks his age, opting out of filling out wrinkles with Botox.
As the video starts playing Sherrinford is in the middle of applying mascara, pausing only briefly when somewhere in the distance doors slam shut. Then he places the mascara down on the counter and reaches for a brush. He's brushing his cheeks with it, although Sherlock strongly doubts that there's any speckle of powder on it, when the door to the bedroom open forcibly and slam shut.
"Happy New Year, brother mine," says Sherrinford, too perkily cheerful for the salutation to be genuine just as Mycroft storms over to him and comes to stand about a good meter and a half behind his back.
He looks furious, angrier than Sherlock ever saw him before and at a certain point of his life he made a point of testing the limits of Mycroft's patience.
"How?" Mycroft practically spits out. "How the hell did you do that?"
"Did what?" asks Sherrinford in a cautiously interested surprise that Sherlock realises is a lie because while his expression betrays nothing his slightly lowered eyelids that quickly cover the sudden gleam in his eyes tell it all.
He's smug, Sherlock can tell us much. He knows his own micro-expressions and like Sherrinford said the two of them are alike in more than looks.
Next to him John makes a sound between a cough and snort that almost instantly morphs into a snicker, "Sorry," he says quickly, as Sherlock hits pause, "it's just," he snickers again. "God, it's inappropriate, all things considered."
Very much alike, Sherlock tells himself. Could it be that they're too much alike? That thought surprises him but not the sudden jolt of jealously.
John calms himself down the second he sees the look on Sherlock's face and he says with a fond smile, "Oh, don't be like that, Sherlock. It's just," he clears his throat, "way back in the old, easier times I sometimes used to wonder what possibly could piss him off. Not aggravate or annoy him just full on piss him off."
"And it turns out that it's temporarily resurrecting a supposed criminal mastermind to save your younger brother from an exile," says Sherlock and just as he does he finds it's both incredibly touching and downright ridiculous.
It also explains why, even a year after the big bang of Moriarty's resurrection, there's a distinctive lack of anything that bears the semblance of the man's mad genius. Not that it actually sounds like he was a genius.
James Moriarty isn't a man, it's a concept, he reminds himself as he remembers the vision of his brother that he summoned to his mind yesterday when he still believed him to be dead. And James Moriarty of his time wasn't as brilliant as he wanted to be. Perceptive? Very. Criminally insane? That one too. But what Sherlock used to attribute to his genius wasn't it.
What was he then? What was his game? And whose long term game it really was. Sherrinford's? Mycroft's? Or good Lord, how could he had been so blind, Janine's?
Maybe the answer to those questions lie in this video, maybe they don't but he won't know for certainly until he won't watch it or any other videos that had been left for him to find.
He presses play and Mycroft starts ranting right away, "Like you said, you're an expert art forger, experienced smuggler and an excellent grifter and con artist. However," he pauses briefly to take a breath and let it out through his teeth before he adds, "you're not a hacker. Sherlock is a better hacker than you and in that regard he's far from being an expert."
"Agreed," says Sherrinford simply, "you have a point somewhere in there, Myc?" he asks innocently.
"Are you trying to convince me that you missed yesterday's national broadcast of James Moriarty asking the nation if they missed him?" asks Mycroft incredulously as he stares at Sherrinford in the mirror.
"Yesterday I was in my atelier through the entire day with my entourage building a small scale version of Louvre and other museums out of pillow and blankets and regarding them with tales of the most daring art thefts," replies Sherrinford simply. "Some of which were my own and I would like to remind you that I served my time in jail for that. In a French jail on that and you know how touchy French are on that subject. Thanks a lot for that by the way, brother mine," he adds before he reaches out for something on his left.
It's a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He pulls one out of the pack and lights it up. He takes a drag as Mycroft snorts and after a moment of staring at the back of Sherrinford's head he stalks towards the wardrobe on the opposite side of the room. He grabs first thing he gets his hands on and throws it at Sherrinford. It looks like some sort of a flimsy peignoir and it lands a solid meter away from Sherrinford.
"Put your clothes on," Mycroft scoffs angrily.
How eerily familiar, Sherlock musses before he snorts.
"Brother mine," says Sherrinford calmly, "you barge into my apartment at the time of the day when I usually freshly roll out of bed. You know me and you also know my habits and you expect me to be impeccably dressed up and waiting for your arrival while knowing fully well that I don't give a square root of jackshit about your kind of propriety," he adds as he puts the cigarette down in the ashtray. "However," he looks in the mirror and dead into Mycroft's eyes, "I wonder what in my nakedness offends you more. Is it my tits and fanny or is it the tangible proof of the limits I'm capable of going to protect what's mine to protect," he asks before he very slowly turns around in his seat to face Mycroft while showing his back to the camera.
It's a gruesome sight that makes Daddy and John gasp in shock. The flesh isn't unblemished but mangled tissue of old burn scars that extends all over his back, from the neck down and partly over the back of his arms.
He didn't jump after he threw Sherlock out of the window. No, he was left up there in the middle of a blazing inferno with an infant that wouldn't survive the fall. No, instead of jumping he made his way out through the burning fire. One that he considered deadly enough to not hesitate to throw Sherlock out of the burning building.
And he still ran through it with their baby sister in his arms. Probably shielding her rather than himself.
Sherlock completely misses what Mycroft's face does under Sherrinford's scrutiny and he refocuses on the video as Sherrinford turns back towards the mirror and reaches for his cigarette, he takes a long, slow drag of it and lets it out.
"How did you do it?" asks Mycroft grudgingly after a long moment of silence.
Sherrinford rolls his eyes before he says slowly, "If I indeed did what you accuse me of doing do you think I would have been stupid enough to admit to it? Asking purely hypothetically obviously."
"Obviously," Mycroft echoes sourly before he snorts. "And then there's the gall to place the file on my computer and make it trigger the transmission the very moment our brother was about to leave the country."
"Speaking of which," Sherrinford interjects, "how is Sherlock?" he sounds genuinely interested.
"High," deadpans Mycroft, "claiming that it's on life but in my experience it's high enough dose of amphetamine that would be able to knock out an elephant," he adds condescendingly. "Speaking of which," he adds as he pulls something out of his pocket, marches to Sherrinford and slams it on the counter before he retreats to his earlier spot with an angry, "how the hell you managed to do that," he turns around to look at Sherrinford as he adds, "I made sure that he was being watched at all times by people who wouldn't pass him a glass of water if it wasn't authorised. How in the God's name he managed to get his hands on that?"
Sherrinford examines the piece of paper in which Sherlock recognises the list he made of the drugs he had taken before the flight to his exile. He tore it into pieces but since then Mycroft had taped it back together. Sherrinford frowns at it before he puts it down and reaches for the pack of cigarettes. Except he doesn't pull another one out of it, opting to very slowly turn it around with his left hand.
"If you don't know that already then I see very little point in enlightening you," Sherrinford says finally in a soft voice.
He knows, Sherlock realises, of course he knows that the drugs all this time had been in Sherlock's coat. Cautiously hidden in the secret pockets, in tiny plastic containers that could be very easily changed into syringes by unscrewing the lid and putting the needle through it. That one was in his belt. Well, maybe he doesn't, didn't know, exactly that but he knew that the only logical place for Sherlock to have that much of drugs on himself back then was if they were on Sherlock's person all along.
"Those people were incorruptible," says Mycroft lividly.
"If that thought makes you sleep better at night," replies Sherrinford as he looks back at the list. "And like you often happen to do you're asking the wrong people the wrong questions," he adds as he reaches again for the pack of cigarettes and this time pulls out one and lightens it up. "The question, brother mine, that you need to ask is not how rather than why."
"Because he's a drama queen," Mycroft snarls angrily, "you're the drama empress so you would know."
"And you're drama pope going by this tantrum alone," replies Sherrinford condescendingly between one drag of the cigarette and the other.
That comment earns him a snort from Sherlock, John and Daddy nearly simultaneously.
"Most likely because he believed that he would be bored during the flight," adds Mycroft after a moment as he rubs his forehead.
"If that thought makes you sleep better at night," says Sherrinford softly as he glances at it again. "That's why you have me to burst your bubble," he adds before he takes a long drag from the cigarette. "I've told you many times before that burnt victims make no habit out of running into burning buildings. I don't do that and Sherlock," he pauses and swallows, "we're much alike in many things. It appears that we're similar in that regard as well."
Then he falls silent for a longer moment before he resumes talking, "I'm not medical personnel by any means, Myc. But even I know that this," he raises the list for Mycroft to see, "is a lot even for an experienced and versatile drug addict like Sherlock. And that's when he has both of his feet firmly on the ground. But he wasn't exactly going to have them there for too long, would he Myc?" he asks looking Mycroft's reflection dead in the eye. "Throw into that the changing pressure of a small cabin and cumulating effects of the drugs and as soon as the jet would reach it's supposed flight height he would most likely suffer from a pulmonary embolism. It's a small jet, with just pilots that moonlight as navigators, no real stewardess. Everything that a man needs during a flight is on hand. No one would have walked into the cabin until the jet was about to land. Do you know what sort of a call you would receive by then?" he asks pointedly. "Mr Holmes, I'm afraid that your brother passed away during the flight," he says in a slightly pitched tone. "I have no idea how that could happen."
"That's preposterous," Mycroft objects angrily. "If Sherlock was going to kill himself he would have done so while he was in solitary confinement."
"If that thought would make you sleep better at night," Sherrinford repeats before he shakes his head. "Unlike you, brother mine, I died, trice and two of those times were suicides," he adds with a grimace. "And people who truly mean to commit a suicide… mean it down to their very core, they don't faff around with cries for help. No, Myc, they plan every last detail of their departure from this world, they make arrangements, tie up loose ends."
Mycroft stares at Sherrinford in shock.
"Let's say that I gave into Uncle Rudolph's persuasions and I'd agreed to assume the position of the necessary evil at his insistence with all the inconveniences," Sherrinford continues slowly. "Do you know what I would have done if I knew that one of the coming days would most likely be the last one I would spend as Sherrinford Holmes?" he pauses briefly. "I wouldn't be as gruff as I've been towards Mummy. She has her faults but she always had been that way, that doesn't mean that she didn't love us any less, just in her own way. I would have told her that," he pauses for an intake of breath. "I would have told Daddy to not worry that much. I would have told him that he was the best dad we could have asked for and that he always did right by us and that he will always continue to do so. I would have told him that I loved him because I never done enough of that. I would have told Sherlock that one day he would remember the good times with Victor without feeling the pain of his death. I would have told him to dream big and aim far. I would have hugged him more than I had. I would have told him that I will always love him and be there with him when he will need me. I would hug Rosie more. I would spend more time with you, I would tell you that it's okay to feel different from other people and that being different doesn't make you abnormal. I certainly hadn't done enough of that in the past."
"You're saying…" starts Mycroft softly.
"That if I were Sherlock and I had a choice between certain, slow and agonising death and dying on my own terms I would have died on my own terms," Sherrinford finishes simply as next to Sherlock John draws in a shaky breath. "And I would have been selfish enough to take away with me the last goodbye of someone I loved more than anything in this world. It's that bloody simple, Myc."
John lets go of Sherlock's left hand and wraps his arms around him in a nearly crushing embrace.
He didn't know, Sherlock realises.
"I suspected," John whispers into his ear, as if he knew what was on Sherlock's mind. "I knew that it was a suicide mission and after the plane and afterwards," his breath hitches. "I was a coward. I didn't want to examine it, not with how quickly you bounced back. I convinced myself that it was a solitary incident," he pauses briefly. "And it was for a while."
"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers into his ear and he means it from the bottom of his heart.
"You have nothing really to be sorry for," John tells him. "Mycroft on the other hand," he grumbles. "Promise me one thing though," he adds. "That if you would ever find yourself in similar position…" he pauses, "that you will tell me the truth because…" his breath hitches again.
At the same time is the hardest and easiest thing to promise. Not just because it's John and because he wants to grow old with him. He would never do anything to jeopardise that especially now that it isn't a feverish dream rather than a possibility, not even if it mean giving up on work completely. And truth be told what good the work had gone to them in so far, aside of bringing to their doorstep criminally insane lunatics that threatened to tear them apart and nearly bloody succeeded.
It used to be fun but it really hadn't been one in a longer while. The last time he really found genuine pleasure in it was in the unexpected presence of John by his side when out of worry about John's continued safety he had invited a bored and sleep deprived assassin for a little dog chase. It wasn't that he actually wanted her there, he would rather much have John but her mood and physical condition needed to be assessed so he could tell if he needed to worry about her potential return to old work.
In the end he learned that he had reasons to potentially worry whatever or not victims of unexplainable and professional looking shootings were hers. But at the time he concentrated on the pleasure of a brisk walk by John's side as they followed Mary and Toby.
Maybe they could get a dog, one of kid friendly breeds, like a golden retriever or an Irish setter. If Hudders would agree to that of course. Newfoundland perhaps? No, they were big and friendly dogs but they were also incredibly lazy. Something more energetic.
"I promise," he tells John.
They cling to each other for a moment longer before they turn back to the screen.
"Did we miss anything?" asks Sherlock as he turns to Daddy who is glaring at the screen.
"A tiny bit," he says grimly. "I rewound it to that moment."
Sherlock presses play and on the screen Sherrinford says, "It's that bloody simple, Myc."
"My son..." starts Mycroft.
"Is not worth the blood that had been spilled to preserve his life, Mycroft," Sherrinford interrupts him. "What about other people's sons? Other people's daughters?" he hisses lividly. "Especially daughters," he adds and huffs. "How many little girls he and his comrades had raped and tortured? How many innocent civilians had gotten into his way? People whose greatest offence was being in the wrong place at the wrong time?"
"His mother…" Mycroft tries again.
"Oh for Christ's sake," sneers Sherrinford before he turns around. "Irene is a criminal mastermind and an excellent manipulator but even she could tell that there was something wrong with the boy the moment he tried to murder her baby daughter. I've seen what she'd done to people who crossed her with less and I can assure you that the only reason why your psychopathic progeny is still breathing is because as long as he does so she has leverage over you."
"You think that I don't know that?" asks Mycroft icily.
"You do know that," counters Sherrinford. "And instead of finishing this never-ending game of tug you allow it to continue."
"He's my son," Mycroft snarls.
"And Sherlock is your brother," Sherrinford snarls back. "So am I, you clot. What about my son then?" he asks lividly. "The one I abandoned and neglected for years so I could rescue yours? What about Jagodina?" he adds with a snarl.
"Jagodina was a mistake," says Mycroft gravely.
"Jagodina was the best and easiest shot at recovering your brat," replies Sherrinford briskly.
"Jagodina was a mistake," Mycroft repeats insistently.
"No, Mycroft," says Sherrinford sternly. "Jagodina wasn't a mistake. It would have been an opening shot in a war you didn't want to start. Not when you just regained control over Moriarty which Uncle Rudolph had lost. A control you eventually had lost, hadn't you?" he asks, his voice slowly turning into icily cold. "Should I invite myself to tea with the Watsons so I could ask Siobhan about it?"
"If you want to get shot," replies Mycroft sourly.
"She won't shot me," says Sherrinford simply.
"Sherlock thought the same," counters Mycroft with a grimace.
"Sherlock met her unarmed," replies Sherrinford. "Not a mistake I would make," he adds, cocking his head slightly to the left. "Oh, now I see it," he whispers. "The king is dead, long live the queen," he adds softly. "So tell me," he says louder, "was the cost of house cleaning worth it?"
Mycroft doesn't answer.
"She passed the test, didn't she?" asks Sherrinford curiously. "Her own niece, Myc," he adds slowly. "The little girl she used to look after when her sister was on her business trips. You heartless monster," he adds with a hiss.
"I didn't kill her," says Mycroft stiffly.
"Yes, you did," counters Sherrinford with a conviction. "You didn't pull the trigger yourself but you might as well had done that. Irene needed to be distracted when Moriarty's network reformed itself around the new leader that didn't have scruples. Hence manipulating me into believing that our younger brother killed himself when I was already emotionally compromised. That's why you didn't protest when I said that I wanted an extraction. I wasn't an asset, I was a liability and Sherlock…" he hangs his voice as Mycroft looks down at his shoes. "He was a liability too, he didn't want to work for you, not until you applied proper leverage and even then he went about it the wrong way. He never saw your hand in all of it like he was supposed to do and then when you almost led him by the hand to Adam and Irene he screwed up. He got caught and he had to pay for it, still does."
Mycroft doesn't answer.
"Or was there another reason why sweet Mary Morstan hadn't met a tragic end when he returned?" asks Sherrinford curiously. "Unless the good doctor was a consolation prize for killing her niece," he pauses, likely for a more dramatic effect. "She did found him incredibly cute and smart and I heard her telling Janine that she would really hate to shot him."
"It's a good thing then that Irene Adler called Moriarty when she had," says Mycroft flatly. "Curious thing about her phone though," he adds. "The last call that had been made to her number moments before she called him was one of yours."
"You think that after a lifetime of cleaning up your bloody messes I wouldn't be able to recognise your hand in Richard's sudden and unyielding desire to engage Sherlock into a game of chase?" asks Sherrinford pointedly. "He was unhealthily fascinated with him long before that I won't deny it. But he was also unhealthily fascinated by Sinead. Yet he never sacrificed profitable businesses just to get to know her better."
"Sinead is a boringly normal housewife whose most challenging effort is finishing crossword before her friendly plumber will arrive to inspect her plumbing," replies Mycroft.
"Agreed," says Sherrinford with a nod. "She isn't a potential asset that needs to be vetted for a spot in a very covert operation. So covert and so important that you were ready to arrest your baby brother for treason just to get him on board," he adds briskly. "For the record, it wouldn't have worked and not because Sherlock would have told you to stuff it. That thing cost you what, five or six agents?" he asks pointedly. "Siobhan claimed that she shot five but I could have misheard her."
"Good thing for Sherlock that you've gotten involved," retorts Mycroft.
"That's what I'm here for," says Sherrinford flatly. "And speaking of Sherlock. If you will try pulling him into it again…"
"You will kill me?" offers Mycroft.
"Tempting but no," says Sherrinford ironically. "I will destroy you, Myc and I don't need a gun to do that. I will undo anything good you ever have done and expose you to the world."
"Even knowing that it will get innocent people killed?" asks Mycroft incredulously.
"I don't care about people, Myc," replies Sherrinford. "Side-effect of devoting better part of my adult live to existing in shadows. I care about family and that term extends to those they care for."
"But no me," says Mycroft as he looks down at his shoes.
"Not anymore," agrees Sherrinford. "I might, of course, be tempted to change my mind but that's going to cost you. A lot."
"Name it," sighs Mycroft.
"Mary Watson," says Sherrinford simply. "I will be very generous and allow her to remain in London as long as she's breastfeeding her daughter but the moment it's gone I want her removed from Sherlock and the good doctor's vicinity. Permanently."
"Literary or figuratively?" asks Mycroft sourly.
"Either, both," says Sherrinford with a shrug before he turns around back to the mirror and ostensibly picks a lipstick. "Now get out of my house. I have a very important meeting to attend and you're cutting into my getting ready time. Farewell, brother mine," he adds before he starts applying the lipstick.
Interestingly enough Mycroft does listen and leaves the room after several seconds of staring at Sherrinford. Also interestingly enough the video instead of ending keeps playing and only after somewhere in the distance the doors slam shut Sherrinford reacts.
He drops the lipstick and collapses on the counter, hiding his face in his arms before he starts sobbing.
It's hard to tell if his break down is genuine or is it the sham for the viewers. After all his brother is a grifter, an excellent one according to himself. That sobbing goes for about few minutes, two and almost a half according to the timer on the video before something changes.
In the distance the doors open and close and the sound of hurried footsteps get near the room. The door to the room open just as Sherrinford straightens himself and wipes his eyes. His mascara has to be waterproof and of a very good quality because his make-up doesn't smudge. Then he turns towards the intruder just as they come into a view.
It's a small child and likely a boy going by the distinct lack of adornments that typically can be found on little girls. Going by his height he's around four to six years old. Four, his brain supplies with conviction. And he finds it in the riot of reddish-brown curls and the same shape of nose he saw in photographs of himself at that age.
It's Sherrinford's child.
"What's wrong Nana?" the boy asks softly.
Strike that, it's his grandchild.