It started with a visit from Mycroft, which in Sherlock's eyes could never be a good thing.

"Harold Saxon," Sherlock repeated, and twirled his violin bow in his fingers, "No, it doesn't ring a bell."

"Of course it doesn't, he's a politician. I don't expect you could tell me the name of our current Prime Minister. Which- " Mycroft held up a finger as Sherlock opened his mouth– "which leads us to my next point. Mr Saxon might very well be the next leader of this country and we know absolutely nothing about him."

Sherlock snorted and stopped twiddling the bow around to shoot Mycroft a look. "You mean your precious British government is admitting defeat and turning to me?"

"No." His brother said evenly. Sherlock noticed with satisfaction the small muscle twitching in Mycroft's jaw; he had a competition with himself on how many times he could set that muscle twitching in one visit. His record was twenty-seven. "We're coming to the best man for the job."

"What's all this?"

John, bearing mugs of tea, perched himself on the arm of the sofa and handed one to Mycroft. Only the thin flare of Mycroft's nostrils told Sherlock of the brief internal battle fought within himself to accept tea served in an Arsenal mug.

Sherlock shrugged. "Mycroft's begging me to investigate a politician named Harold Saxon."

To his surprise John set his mug down enthusiastically. "Saxon? He looks great! He's got my vote this year."

"Why?"

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft sharply. The set of his shoulders, the infinitesimal narrowing of his eyes: affecting nonchalance, yes, but not wholly succeeding.

"Why?" John repeated, and paused. "He's… well, he's addressing the key issues, isn't he, and he's got a great manifesto."

Mycroft's voice was very dry. "I wouldn't be too hasty."

"Why not?"

"He is too perfect. His record is flawless. Every politician has at least one skeleton in the closet, even if the public aren't aware of it. Cheated on their wife, fiddled their expenses, partook of certain substances – but Mr Saxon appears to be a model citizen."

"Has it ever occurred to you that he is-"

"As much as I hate to say it, John," Sherlock broke in, "Mycroft's right. Nobody's perfect."

He drew the bow idly across his violin. By the time John and Mycroft had finished wincing at the sound it produced, his mind was made up.

"Fine. I'll take the case. It's not like there's much else to interest me at the moment, Lestrade's only tried to call five times today."

Mycroft didn't say thank you; but a certain degree of relief filtered into his eyes. "Anthea will send you our research so far."

Sherlock waved a hand, affecting insouciance, because that was what annoyed Mycroft most, and the muscle had only twitched thirteen times today. But his interest was piqued.

Nobody had nothing to hide.

Two men sized each other up across a small booth in a backstreet London café.

"Cards on the table," one man said, and his words dripped with anticipation, "In exchange for my connections, you'll set me up with…"

"The world at your disposal. More potential for chaos than you could possibly imagine. Might get a country or two of your own if I'm feeling generous."

"And Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, yes, you can have him too."

"And you get?"

The second man flashed a very practised smile. "Total control over the population of Planet Earth, obviously."

"Of course."

"I send my army in to do whatever they want. And… I get the Doctor."

James Moriarty and Harold Saxon smiled identical, greedy smiles. They understood each other perfectly.