Mycroft had just hit send on the update text when he trips over a person lying on the floor. His phone goes flying and is caught by a midsized man dressed as a security guard. He has a gun in his free hand. "Thank you." Mycroft says, retrieving his balance and flashing his badge, but the man ignores it and points the gun at Mycroft's chest. "What are you-?" The man flicks the gun and Mycroft stops, hands up. The man lowers Mycroft's phone to his side and Mycroft can hear the faint sound of it dialing. He watches in horror as he slowly raises the gun to the ceiling, a satisfied smirk on his pale lips.

A woman behind Mycroft takes notice and screams, "Get down, everyone!" The man shoots into the air to warn everyone back. Mycroft drops to the floor, covering his head. People nearby are screaming and calling for help as the man makes his way over, waving the gun around. He stops a few feet away and deliberately hangs up the phone, watching for a reaction from Mycroft who gives him none. He lifts Mycroft from the floor by his suit collar and holds the pistol to his head.

"What do you want with me?" Mycroft asks.

"I want you to text Sherlock that you are safe. Then I will strap you down and leave you to explode with everyone else." The man pushes Mycroft through to a waiting area and seats him in a chair, yelling at everyone in the area to evacuate. He hands Mycroft the phone. "Don't try anything or I'll shoot you." Mycroft nods and types in a distress text, intended to look the same as every other coded message, but the signature gives away the SOS. 'Please get it Sherlock. Please.'

A SE KSXW –XS (M1)

The man takes the phone and checks the lettering. "Good. Now keep still." He ties Mycroft securely to the seat.

Sherlock arrives at the river and takes a seat on a nearby bench. If 958 followed instructions, he should pop out of the manhole on Sherlock's right. Sherlock's arm is bleeding profusely, soaking his shirt in scarlet. "Damn." He inspects the injury, noting that there's no exit wound. The bullet was still inside him. He groans. "Hurry up. Your escape boat leaves in less than ten minutes." The sound of metal brings his attention to the manhole being lifted. 958 climbs out and drops it back in place quietly, as if trying to avoid alerting someone below. "Good, you made it." Sherlock pushes himself to his feet and winces at the strain to his arm. He grasps it. "Let's get going."

958 doesn't move right away. "Sherlock. I realized something while I was down there."

"Yes? Actually hold off." Sherlock shakes his head, fighting his instinct to know things. "We'll talk on the boat. It should be arriving any minute. It looks like you need to get moving." Sherlock tilts his head, indicating the manhole. "How far back?"

"They were in the wine cellar."

"We'll be fine." Sherlock starts walking toward the gangway.

958 follows, limping on his injured foot. "I don't know how long we have before they find out where I went."

"The boat will be here long before they get out. They won't be expecting you to exit so quickly." Sherlock stops at a bench near the gangway. "Sit down. Your foot must be killing you."

958 sinks onto the seat gratefully. "Thank you for helping me…Brother." He leans his head back and closes his eyes.

Sherlock stares at him, confused. "What did you call me?"

Sherrinford opens his eyes. "I said, Brother."

"I-I'm not your brother."

"I told you I realized something down there. The wine triggered a memory. My name is Sherrinford Holmes, and I was kidnapped from the army 29 years ago."

"I'm not your brother." Sherlock sinks onto the bench opposite Sherrinford, crossing one leg over his knee huffily.

"I promise you; I'm not pulling your leg. My real name really is Sherrinford Holmes. I'm 49 years old and I am your eldest brother."

"Mycroft is my only brother. Sherrinford died."

Sherrinford holds his arms out wide. "I didn't. See? I was captured, and my memories altered, but I'm very much alive."

Sherlock looks him over once and is about to rebuttal when a woman with dark brown hair limps into view. Her leg is tied with a temporary tourniquet made from a scrap of her shirt. Why she chose to tear her shirt instead of using her blue scarf was beyond Sherlock's comprehension. Sherrinford takes notice of Sherlock's gaze and smiles when he sees her. "I'm guessing you're Midnight?" Sherlock asks. The woman before him was much younger than Sherrinford, early thirties at the least. "You seem rather young to be his wife."

"Yes. He's 15 years older than me, but who cares when you love someone?" Midnight makes her way to them and sits down beside Sherrinford, dismissing Sherlock.

"Are you okay?" Sherrinford leans forward to look at her leg.

"Nothing that can't be fixed. Got in a fight with 642 and 1031. They managed to hit me with a knife, but I took them out." She pulls at the tourniquet and gasps at the pain of blood rushing to the wound. Sherrinford rests his good hand on Midnight's thigh.

Sherlock clears his throat. "While this reunion is rather touching," Sherlock uncrosses his legs, placing both feet flat on the ground, "our boat has arrived." Behind them, the loud horn of the ferry sounds. "What does-" Sherlock pulls out his phone, intending to show Midnight's last text but instead finds a missed text from Mye. 'I am safe. -FA' Danger. "Change of plans. Get on the boat. I have to take care of something."

"I am surprised you're letting me go." Midnight stands shakily with help from Sherrinford.

"I'm letting your husband go. You just got lucky. Besides, one day's head-start can't hurt. I know where the boat is going so technically, you're at a disadvantage. I'll catch up as soon as I finish with this."

"I could kill you here and now and save us both-"

Sherlock interrupts Midnight. "You're both injured. I'm not worried."

Midnight's glare could have lit paper on fire. "Instead," she continues, "I'm giving you time to make a choice. You have 90 minutes. The hive, or the bee?"

"Bee or the hive?" Sherlock thinks. Home and flying insects. Must be the airport and a plane. But which one? John's? "The hive refers to the airport and the bee is one of the planes? What happens if I choose one and not the other?" Sherlock looks between Midnight, who holds her fiery gaze, and Sherrinford, who seems to have gained a conscience and looks away. Neither speak.

"Good day, Sherlock." Midnight limps with Sherrinford onto the boat, just as the horn sounds again to signal its departure.

"Wait!" Sherlock is fighting panic when he remembers his conversation with Mycroft the other day. The Sherrinford he spoke of was brave. He wouldn't let Mycroft die. "Sherrinford Holmes?"

Sherrinford turns and leans over the railing. "Yes? I told you this."

"They said you were dead… Mycroft was devastated. Sherrinford, please. I need your help. Mye is in danger. I know you're in no physical state, and it's been years since you last saw him, but please, help me save him!"

Sherrinford's face drops guiltily, "I'm a dead man, remember. This may be my only chance to survive." The boat begins to pull away from the dock.

Sherlock's mind is racing, looking for some way to convince him. "I saved you once, I can save you again. But first, we need to save him. He deserves to know you're alive."

"I…" Sherrinford looks between Sherlock and Midnight and groans. He gives her a kiss and tosses his phone to Sherlock before climbing over the railing and into the salty water below. Sherlock races to the water's edge and tosses a rope down to help him out.

"Bet that felt nice," Sherlock motioned a hand to Sherrinford's foot, which had started bleeding again. He hands over Sherrinford's phone. "Thank you."

Sherrinford grunts, "Might as well try to help someone before I die." He looks back one last time to Midnight, but she was gone.

"You won't die." Sherlock helps Sherrinford to his feet and grimaces, clutching his arm again. With the adrenaline fading, he's starting to feel the throbbing pain.

Sherrinford squeezes the water out of his clothes as best he can. "Our people are very efficient. I can't run forever."

"We'll come up with something." Sherrinford limps forward and almost falls. Sherlock catches him and puts his good arm around his waist.

"Thank you." Sherrinford shivers. "When we're done saving Mycroft, I'm going to need dry clothes."

Sherlock chuckles. "And maybe later, we can get your wound covered up." Sherrinford rolls his eyes and manages to hop along with Sherlock's help. A minute or two of silence goes by before Sherlock finally can't help but ask, "How did you survive?"

Sherrinford starts at the sudden question. "Survive…the war?"

"Yes. Mycroft said your base was bombed."

He struggles to remember, "They saved me, pulled me from the wreckage."

"What then? You were saying your memories were altered. What did they do?"

"They…tortured me but… I forget." Sherrinford scrunches his face as he tries to think.

"Don't push yourself. Can you stand on your own for a minute? I'm going to hail a cab." Sherrinford nods and Sherlock lifts a hand to a passing cab. "Airport. And don't give me shit. We have a crisis to deal with." The driver reluctantly nods, and Sherlock collects Sherrinford, sliding in the back of the cab beside him.

Sherrinford holds out a hand. "Let me see your arm." He pulls a small kit out of his satchel and shakes the excess water off. "This will hurt quite a bit, but I've got to get the bullet out."

"I'm sure I've felt worse. Was shot in the chest a few years back. Barely lived."

"You'll have to catch me up on that story someday. For now, remove your coat and hand me your scarf." Sherlock complies and Sherrinford lays the coat down on the seat and ties the scarf above the wound. "Ready?"

"Just fucking do it." Sherlock grits his teeth in preparation for the pain he knows is coming. Sherrinford sticks a pair of pliers in the wound, searching for the bullet, but not five seconds later, "God stop!" He's clutching tightly to the door, knuckles already turning white.

"You've had worse huh?" Sherrinford laughs and pulls the pliers back.

"Never anything that hurt this badly before. Must have hit a muscle or something. Just leave it in."

"You're going to get sick if we do that. It's a lead bullet. What you're feeling is the poison taking effect. Contracting the muscles."

"Who uses lead anymore?" Sherlock's breath feels stuck in his chest and he can't bring himself to open his eyes.

"Our gunmen. Effective."

"Fine. Continue, but gently." Sherrinford nods and proceeds. "I said gently!" Sherlock growls through gritted teeth.

"I'm trying. It's pretty deep in there." The taxi turns a corner and Sherrinford jabs a nerve. Sherlock punches the door. "God! Just leave it in. I'll be dead, and then they won't kill you, how about that?"

"How about you stop moving?" Sherrinford pins Sherlock's arm against the back of the seat. "I think I got it."

"Good, give me back my arm now. I'm going to enjoy prodding at your foot."

Sherrinford yanks the bullet out, "There."

Sherlock immediately snatches his arm back and grasps the wound to staunch the bleeding. He leans forward, fighting the pain. Through deep, tense breaths he asks, "The bullet didn't shatter, did it? I'm not letting you get those out if it did."

"Lead doesn't do that kind of thing. Now, I'm going to inject an antibody. Give me back your arm."

"Please don't tell me you have to use a needle. Needles and I don't have a kind past."

Sherrinford shakes his head. "I don't have to use a needle, I can just…" He jabs a needle into his arm.

"Goddammit Sherrinford!"

He looks pleased as he starts stitching up the wound. "You wouldn't have let me."

"If you would have told me the truth, I might have!"

"I wasn't about to leave it to chance." Sherrinford bites off the stitch.

"You act like you know me so well."

"I based my conclusion on how you acted when I was pulling the bullet out." Sherrinford side glances at Sherlock. "Okay, that should do it." Sherrinford hands Sherlock his kit and sits back, grabbing the door. "Don't ruin it." He lifts his foot for Sherlock to examine. The wound looks as though when the bullet hit, it went through the bones to the concrete and lodged some rock into the base of his foot.

"I can't believe you were walking on this." Sherlock pokes the pliers into the wound.

Sherrinford grinds his teeth. "I'm a soldier, I can take a little pAAAAAin!" He shouts the last word.

"Sure," Sherlock chuckles. "Your foot is broken. You can see where the metatarsal bones-" He laughs to himself. "I sound like John." He pauses and looks up at Sherrinford. "Is he really dim?"

Sherrinford flexes his arms against the door. "In comparison to you? Yes. Compared to other people?" He breathes out slowly. "John takes things way too literally. However, he's much smarter than most of your police force." Sherlock drops a piece of concrete onto the coat and starts digging for another when Sherrinford jerks his foot back. "Fuck!"

"Statistics show that a person who swears a lot is very trustworthy. But it's also been proven that cussing does not minimize pain." Sherlock smiles lightly. "Give me back your foot. I'm almost finished." Sherlock checks for remaining pieces of rock and puts the tools down when he's satisfied. "There. Do you have a wrap in that bag of yours? I usually use Polyfilla to make a cast, but I don't have any right now."

"Unfortunately, no. I can only carry so much."

"What about a knife?" Sherrinford hands over his knife. "Thanks. Mind sending Mycroft a text for me? It's in my coat pocket. I'll tell you what letters to type." Sherrinford collects the phone. "First unknown number in messages. Ready?" Sherlock uses the knife to cut the unbloodied sleeve of his shirt into two pieces. "D-E-L-W-W L-E L-W-W L-Y-J H-L-J A-Z-D-D-T-M-W-P L-W-X-Z-D-E E-S-P-C-P A-C-Z-X-T-D-P -D-S. You got it?"

"I think so," Sherrinford holds the phone up for Sherlock to look over.

"Send it." Sherlock hands back the knife and wraps Sherrinford's foot as tightly as he can. "This will have to do. At least nothing else can get into the wound." Sherlock sits back and stares out the window.

Sherrinford uses the other piece of fabric to wrap Sherlock's wound. "How's little Micro been since I left? What's he been up to?"

Sherlock observes Sherrinford's reflection in the window. "Micro?" he laughs. "You make him sound small. I always called him Mye. He got married and has a daughter. Her name is Caroline, but I call her Care, and he holds a 'minor position in the British Government' but we all know he calls the shots."

Sherrinford laughs. "Sounds like Micro isn't so little anymore."

"I wonder what Mummy would think of you now, if she'd still recognize you."

"She's still alive?"

"If you can call it living. She's in a home. Early stages of dementia. Haven't been to see her in a month or so."

"What about Dad?"

Sherlock takes a long while to answer, focusing instead on one of the approaching airport signs. "Alive. Sherrinford. Can I call you Sherri?" He doesn't wait for a response. "Sherri, Father…abused all of us. Mummy. Mye. Me…"

"Dad, abusive? I never-"

"Physically, sexually… yeah." Sherlock chokes back a sob, not wanting to appear weak in front of Sherrinford, but the memories burn his eyes as tears begin to form. "Mye and I went to school with bruises all the time. And then Mye left and… Father, he…"

Sherrinford reaches over and puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, his face soft and sympathetic. "You don't have to tell me."

Sherlock shakes his head, wiping away the tears, "No, you should know the truth. He…" He breathes out slowly. "He molested me."

"Did you tell anyone? Mummy? Micro?"

Sherlock shakes his head again. "He scared me. He threatened to make it worse if I screamed… if I told anyone. Mummy was at work, so no one was around to hear if I did scream. I…" Sherlock's voice breaks and Sherrinford squeezes Sherlock's forearm.

"Do you see him often now?"

"I try not to. Mycroft may go to see him sometimes, but we've all gone our separate ways since Mye left for Uni. It wasn't until Jim Moriarty returned that Mye and I spoke to each other."

"Who's Jim Moriarty?"

"Irish bloke. Dark hair. May be on assignment with Midnight. He started sending texts around the same time as she did."

Sherrinford thinks for a couple seconds, "You say he's Irish? Dark eyes?"

"So you know him?" Sherlock perks up a little.

"Not really. He came by to give me the task of killing you. That's all. Haven't seen him much otherwise. He mainly worked with Nigh."

"We'll talk more about this later. We're here." Sherlock pays the cabbie handsomely, promising to have his car compensated for, and helps Sherrinford out.

Sherrinford almost falls as he steps down. "I can't feel my foot. But considering it's broken, and I have to walk on it, maybe that's a good thing."

"You're welcome to stay here."

"I'm coming idiot!"

"Then you best keep up. Hand me your gun." Sherlock holds out a hand as he speed walks toward the building.

"It's got no bullets remember?"

"Yep." Sherlock leads Sherrinford around the side, knowing the front doors would be shut fast. "Should be a fire escape on the second story. Can you climb?"

"I've been walking haven't I?"

"Let me rephrase. Are you up for a climb?"

"Hells yes!"

"Eager." Sherlock laughs. "Let's go then."

Text Conversation: www. dcode .fr/caesar-cipher

(M1) I am safe. -FA
(S1) Stall at all? Any way possible? Almost there. Promise. -SH

This chapter's song is a youtube video. Sherlock Series 4 Promo | The Other One