He had chosen the least conspicuous, most tucked-away safe-house that he had access to; it deliberately had the look of a short-let holiday apartment, exactly the sort of thing an elderly couple might rent if they were seeing the sights of London and catching up with their adult children. (Or, in this instance, seeing precisely nothing of London while fuming at one of their adult children and worrying incessantly about the other.) The downside to this property was its location; Mycroft's car had been in gridlocked traffic for more than half an hour.

He revisited the frenzy of familial communications that had formed the backbone of the previous evening. A flurry of emails from Sherlock with links to accounts of his death and Moriarty's, interrupted by messages from their parents, which swerved between their concern and agitation over Sherlock ('Can't we at least just speak to him?') and their dissatisfaction with their accommodation ('Could you ask about a teapot, Myc? We've brought our own teabags, but we can't find a pot anywhere!')

It was clear that his brother was bored, because there had also been an exchange of text messages – fairly lengthy by their standards.

I need some clothes – SH

You have clothes.

I mean to sleep in - SH

That particular conundrum never troubled you before.

Mycroft had immediately questioned whether he should have sent that last one; perhaps he shouldn't be encouraging his brother to sleep naked in his current whereabouts.

I am being threatened with a variety of hideous t-shirts – SH

Considering the events of today, I'm sure you're capable of neutralising that particular threat. And hard as it may be to believe, I do have slightly more pressing matters to attend to.

There had been a hiatus while Mycroft liaised with the coroner's office and took an intelligence briefing from the team tasked with tracking Moriarty's criminal network in Europe. Finally, when he himself was being driven home, he picked up the conversation again.

No reports of you being thrown out into the street. Assume you're being a good house guest?

I'm trying. Not convinced I'll be doing much sleeping - SH

A spark of concern shot through Mycroft – surely not…?

By which you mean…?

Too much work to do. Plus guest bed ludicrously small – SH

The detail of the guest bed had been surprisingly reassuring.

It isn't too late to relocate, you know.

It had taken a few moments for a reply to come through.

I'm fine. Just eaten a large bowl of pasta, so can't actually move anyway - SH

Mycroft had considered challenging his brother's assertion that he never ate when he was working, but he conceded that this day was somewhat extraordinary even by Sherlock's standards. Although the whole thing did sound horribly domestic. Regardless, the conversation had ended there, and Mycroft had found himself side-tracked anyway, first by a call from the Prime Minister's office and then one from his father, who was unable to find the thermostat at the safe-house.

Seeing as he had been unable to resolve the latter situation to his parents' satisfaction, it was sure to come up when he finally managed to crawl through traffic to where they were staying.

He took out his phone; it had been more than twelve hours since his brother's last communique, but there had been no reports from the agents stationed outside Dr Hooper's flat either, which Mycroft hoped suggested that Sherlock was behaving himself. In every sense of the word.

Sleep well? he typed.

A response came through almost immediately.

Yes. Being dead really takes it out of you – SH

I take it you resolved the predicament of the clothes?

In a way. Apparently, this Women in Science Conference 2010 t-shirt really suits my skin tone – I may keep it – SH

Arguably better to wait until your host vacates the premises before you start stealing from her

There was a short pause, and Mycroft imagined his dishevelled brother scouring the dark web with one hand while hoovering up breakfast cereal with the other.

Molly isn't going in today. Compassionate leave - SH

Mycroft felt his eyebrow rise spontaneously. Before he could compose a response – and as though having witnessed the reflexive eyebrow - Sherlock sent a follow-up text.

Her supervisor insisted - SH

All things considered, perhaps this was better. Instead of worrying about an edgy and impatient Sherlock prowling the property alone like a chained Alsatian, Mycroft now only had to contend with some mild concern over exactly what 'compassionate leave' might entail. However, if it reached midday and Dr Hooper hadn't fled the flat in despair - or murdered Sherlock with a well-placed hairpin - Mycroft would consider it a small victory.

Traffic was moving more swiftly now, and Mycroft realised he was relishing this meeting with his parents even less than he thought he was. Their expectations of what would happen next were no doubt wildly at odds with the plans he and Sherlock were now putting in place.

En route to see M&D, Mycroft typed. Should I pass on a message?

A few seconds later, the reply came through.

Tell them it's probably not worth bothering with Christmas presents this year - SH

Yes, they would find that extremely comforting, Mycroft thought, rolling his eyes.

When they arrived at the safe-house, Mycroft let himself into the building and up to the second floor flat. As he rounded the corner into the open-plan kitchen and living room, his parents were already on their feet in anticipation (or at least his mother was; his father was still in the process of putting down his crossword book and levering himself off the sofa).

"Is he all right?" his mother asked immediately.

"Unless something has occurred within the last ten minutes, then yes," Mycroft told her. He wasn't sure how reassuring this was, given that Sherlock could probably ignite an international incident in the time it took to make a pot of tea.

"The way they're covering it on the news is horrible," she said, pulling at the ends of her silk scarf. "All this nonsense about Sherlock being shamed into taking his own life; that it's somehow proof that he's a fraud. We can hardly bear to watch."

"Then might I suggest that you don't?" Mycroft said.

"Well, there's not a lot else to do here," his mother retorted, gesturing around her to the admittedlystark surroundings.

"Perhaps we could decamp to yours, Myc?" his father put in. "If it isn't too much bother."

"This facility may not look like much, but it is fitted with state-of-the-art security systems," Mycroft replied. "It's far more appropriate in the situation."

"Oh, rubbish! You just don't want us there," his mother said, with an angry tut.

Well, there was that. He was very tempted to mention the antique wall hanging that his parents had, on their last visit to his home, decided to use as an extra blanket.

"It's only temporary," he told them. "You have my word."

His father settled himself back down on the sofa, patting the cushion beside him to encourage his wife to sit, too. His mother, Mycroft noticed, did not move.

"So I suppose this Moriarty chap is actually dead?" his father asked. "I mean, it's not possible that he's pulling the same stunt as Sherlock?"

Mycroft managed a tight smile.

"Having seen photographs of the body, I believe that holes in the cranium of that size tend to be rather tricky to recover from."

His father nodded, wincing slightly at the thought.

"We always worried that Sherlock would end up upsetting the wrong person," his mother added. "He's so terribly rude to everyone, and when there's an opportunity to show off, he just can't help himself. I hope at the very least this might knock some sense into him."

His parents, Mycroft realised, were under the impression that the worst was behind them all; at some point in this conversation he would have to break it to them that this was merely the start.

"One can but hope," Mycroft replied, lips pulled together in a thin smile, repeated use of which had caused his back teeth to start aching. Where Sherlock was going, he was far more likely to have something knocked out of him.

"So where is Sherlock now?" his father asked. "Is he in one of these…facilities, too?"

"No, he's staying with someone," Mycroft answered briskly, checking his pocket-watch.

"With who?" came the inevitable question from his mother.

"Just someone he knows," Mycroft said. "An acquaintance. Someone who was involved in yesterday's events, as it happens."

He saw his mother and father exchange looks.

"Someone else was involved?" his mother asked. "Well, who is he? And why does Sherlock trust him to this extent?"

Mycroft took a breath.

"Actually, it's a she," he said. "A woman."

"What woman? Not that woman?"

Mycroft saw his mother's face blanch. He could only imagine that his parents must have come across John Watson's charming little 'Scandal in Belgravia' story at some stage (they'd said something to Sherlock once about the tiresome blog being "the only way to find out for sure what you're getting up to – and that you're still alive").

"No, that woman – as you refer to her – is dead," Mycroft told his mother. "This one works at St Bartholomew's Hospital."

"A friend of Sherlock's?" his father asked, with all the incredulity that the question deserved.

"That may be overstating it slightly," he replied. "But he trusts her; appears to hold her in high regard."

"Well, what's her name?"

Oh, good lord – this was like when his mother had wanted to know the name of every single boy he'd made acquaintances with in his first term at boarding school; it was completely pointless, but for some reason it seemed to matter to her.

"Molly Hooper," he told her. "Dr Molly Hooper. A pathologist. I believe Sherlock regularly haunts her laboratory and makes a nuisance of himself in her mortuary."

Another exchange of glances from his parents; he could only think that his mother and father were now mentally drafting the engagement announcement for The Times.

"But why would this woman – Dr Hooper - help him?" his mother pressed, apparently not tiring of her ceaseless line of questioning. "From what you've said – and you haven't exactly overburdened us with details – it sounds as though there's a lot at stake for her."

Mycroft opened his mouth to say something glib about yesterday being a quiet day at the morgue, but he stopped himself. Instead, he swallowed, clasped his hands behind his back again.

"It seems she cares for him," he said simply.

He saw his father's eyebrows rise, and at the same time his mother let out a short laugh.

"Is this the point where we discover grandchildren we knew nothing about?" she said.

"I can assure you it isn't," Mycroft replied coolly.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket for the second time in a minute. No doubt Anthea was trying to get hold of him, but he was acutely aware that there were two rather pressing pieces of information that he had not yet been able to impart.

"So when can we meet her?" his mother asked.

It took Mycroft a moment to realise that they hadn't closed the subject quite as firmly as he thought they had.

"Why would you want to do that?"

At this, his mother rolled her eyes.

"Because I would like to meet the person who would do something like this for Sherlock," she replied, a slight tartness to her tone. "And to thank her."

Mycroft wondered whether his mother would apply the same reasoning to the twenty-six members of Sherlock's homeless network, too – why didn't he go the whole hog and just ask Anthea to organise drinks and canapes for them all?

"That won't be possible," he said instead.

His mother was now wearing a long-suffering look, as though it was actually justified.

"Well, I'm assuming this elaborate scheme of yours will have to involve a fictitious funeral?" she said. "Unless you're planning to resurrect your brother within the next few days?"

Mycroft's expression must have been enough to confirm it for her, because before he'd had the chance to respond, she continued.

"In that case, we'll surely meet this Molly Hooper there?" she reasoned.

Ah yes. They had come to the first of the 'pressing pieces of information', although not entirely taking the route that Mycroft had intended.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible either," he told them. "Principally because neither of you will be going to the funeral."

At this, they both looked astounded – as though they'd just been told that their cruise of the Norwegian Fjords had been cancelled without warning, or someone had revoked their Theatre Club 'Silver Matinee' memberships.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft!" his mother said. "Of course we'll have to go to the funeral!"

"It would look rather strange if we didn't, wouldn't it?" put in his father, his words more a question than a statement.

"Despite this being Sherlock we're talking about, there will be a lot of genuinely grief-stricken people present," Mycroft replied. "The press will inevitably be swarming all over it as well, and I'm concerned that you may not be able to…maintain the façade."

His father raised his eyes skywards; his mother looked affronted.

"Instead, if anyone queries it, we'll say that you're both too heartbroken to attend," he continued. "And that you wish to mourn in private."

"And I suppose you're going to keep us cooped up in here until it's all over?" his mother asked. "How long are the two of you planning to keep up the charade until the truth is allowed to come out?"

And now to the second 'pressing piece of information'. Given how well the last one went down – and considering the much longer-term implications of this news – Mycroft rather wished he had something positive to offer them afterwards. He'd have to ask Anthea to send over a hamper from Fortnum's. Or a bloody teapot at any rate.

He slowly lowered himself into the chair opposite where his father was sitting; the gravity of his expression was enough to suggest to his mother that she should sit too.

"Sherlock…won't be coming back any time soon," he said, slowly, pressing the tips of his fingers together. "There is still a great deal of work to be done. While everyone thinks Sherlock is dead, he is in a unique and unprecedented position to dismantle James Moriarty's network, to rid the world of a virulent and necrotising disease once and for all. It is an opportunity we must seize, and Sherlock is central to its success – there is nobody who understands the workings of Moriarty's mind better than he does."

When Mycroft finished speaking, he waited for one of his parents – most likely his mother – to launch at him with a barrage of protests. Instead, they both sat there in silence for a long moment. His mother looked down at her hands, placed side by side on her knees; Mycroft saw his father's hand move to her shoulder.

"Where…where are you sending him?" his mother asked quietly.

It was clear that they saw this as his doing, which came with the inference that anything that befell Sherlock as a result would be his responsibility.

"That hasn't yet been determined," Mycroft replied, carefully. "Although even if it was, I couldn't tell you."

His mother closed her eyes for a moment, her lips pulled tightly together. When she opened her eyes again, the stare with which she fixed him made Mycroft flinch slightly.

"Mycroft Holmes, you look me in the eye and tell me that you aren't knowingly sending your brother to his death - and that we will see him again."

00000000

It hadn't been an easy corner out of which to manoeuvre. Mycroft had, of course, denied the accusation levelled at him, pointing out that it had been about thirty years since anyone had been able to make Sherlock do anything he didn't himself want to do. But as to whether their parents would see their younger son again? He fully intended it, of course, but he wasn't exactly in the business of absolutes. Mycroft got the distinct feeling this hadn't been what his mother wanted to hear.

On his way back to the office, he texted Anthea about the hamper. Perhaps he should have ordered one for Dr Hooper too - a 'sorry for the inconvenience' sort of gift. Throw in some gourmet cat food (Mycroft had heard somewhere that people liked it when you made a fuss of their ridiculous pets).

Late in the afternoon, with the death certificate supplied by Dr Hooper filed and the coroner's 'report' signed off, it became necessary to make contact with Sherlock again.

Funeral arrangements almost in place

Almost immediately, a response arrived.

I can practically hear your excitement. You've been planning my funeral since you were twelve years old - SH

Eleven, but close enough. Any requests for the music? Or shall I allow M&D to find inspiration in their Best of Broadway album?

I couldn't care less - I won't be the one having to endure it - SH

He had a point. And once again it made Mycroft consider his directorial role in the whole affair; two days from now, he would be choreographing a funeral that only he knew was not genuine. Well, not quite only him; he supposed Molly Hooper would be there, although there could be no question of them conversing - she had to appear no more significant than any of the other mourners.

Mycroft wasn't even convinced that, until two days ago, he could have picked Molly Hooper out of a line-up of lab-coated females - at least not without the hideous Christmas knitwear he vaguely remembered from their first and only other meeting, which took place over Irene Adler's body. Even then, he conceded, he had detected an undertone of something between Molly Hooper and his brother, some underlying tension - although he'd soon decided he didn't care enough about it to continue that thought.

Have you overstayed your welcome yet? he asked.

Well, I'm still being fed, and I think the cat is getting used to me - SH

Sadly not for much longer. Funeral is the day after tomorrow.

There was a short pause, then a response.

Shame - the sleeping arrangements have just taken a turn for the better - SH

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the screen of his phone, suspiciously - but he couldn't avoid the jolt of anxiety.

You're in the cat basket? he replied, trying to sound off-hand.

Molly's room. Very generously proportioned bed - SH

Mycroft sighed. This was a man who, any time now, was about to embark on an extremely dangerous mission to infiltrate and obliterate an international criminal network - and he was using this valuable preparation time to find ways of making Mycroft uneasy. Or at least that's what he hoped Sherlock was doing - the alternative didn't bear thinking about.

You'd best tell Dr Hooper about the funeral. I'll text you the details shortly.

It was a while before a response came through. In fact, Mycroft had time to take tea with the Home Secretary and receive another status briefing about patterns of activity detected in Moriarty's network by the time his phone vibrated again.

I need you to promise me something - SH

Mycroft's eyebrows slowly rose. Apparently, his family hadn't finished making demands on him today.

Keep an eye on John for me. Mrs Hudson too. I know you might find it difficult to believe, but this will be hard on them - SH

Mycroft felt a twinge of chagrin. He might not understand his brother's recent habit of becoming 'attached' to other human beings, but he wasn't completely without a heart.

Of course.

Keep the media away from them - SH

Nothing would give me more pleasure.

He watched as his brother appeared to be typing a reply, then pause for a few moments before resuming.

Molly too - SH

Mycroft frowned. He felt his pocket for cigarettes, before remembering – with a flash of irritation – that he'd left them in the car prior to the meeting with his parents (their mother had a preternatural ability to detect the presence of even an unopened pack). He tapped out a reply to Sherlock.

I doubt very much the media will find their way to her door.

Another pause.

I mean keep an eye on her, Mycroft. I've asked a lot of her, and that isn't going to go away when I do – SH

Mycroft sat back, looking at the words. At first, he assumed Sherlock was concerned that Dr Hooper might crack under pressure; that she would be unable to withstand the probing questions from her hospital superiors, or continue to live out a lie in the presence of Sherlock's other acquaintances. He was on the verge of replying 'But you chose to involve her', when he realised that his interpretation of his brother's motives was backwards. Sherlock was no doubt concerned about Molly's place of work and the degree of secrecy she would be forced to maintain - but his concern was for her, not for himself. Sherlock didn't doubt that this woman could and would do what he had asked of her - his anxiety was over what it might cost her.

Slightly unnerved, Mycroft tried to remember when his brother had last expressed genuine concern for another human being (they were probably both still in school uniform at the time). He couldn't help but be intrigued as to what made the singularly unremarkable Dr Molly Hooper so remarkable.

If that is what you wish.

Sherlock was clearly waiting on Mycroft's response, as his own arrived in mere seconds.

Thank you - SH

Mycroft was starting to think about what 'keeping an eye' on Molly Hooper would mean in real terms; security and surveillance he could provide, but he got the impression that wasn't entirely what Sherlock was getting at. His thoughts were interrupted by another buzz from his phone.

I hope you're writing a suitably moving eulogy? Be sure to mention how you were always envious of my superior intellect and looks - and let me know if you run out of superlatives - SH

Mycroft sighed deeply, and cast his phone onto the table. Honestly, the next time his brother tangled with a psychopathic master criminal and was forced to fake his own death, he was perfectly welcome to have his pathologist work out all the bloody details.