A/N – Beta read by the wonderful Mugenmine.

Part Six: The Fraud

John could hardly believe what he just heard. Sherlock's attention was fixed solely on him, and while he held Sherlock's gaze steady on, John mentally flushed. He couldn't think of a single thing to say in response. Except, maybe, of course I would have come after you if you needed me, you dolt, that's what friends are for. He didn't say that out loud, though. He didn't think there was much point to it anymore.

John didn't know how he was supposed to behave. It wasn't as if anyone could have prepared him for this. He didn't know what he was supposed to feel or say. It was odd, he never had trouble speaking his mind, not with Sherlock most of all. One must not speak ill of the dead, was what he'd been taught. To the dead? It was as if his mind was still struggling to grasp that the man before him wasn't a ghost. Sherlock wasn't dead.

Except that he was. For more than three whole years, he was dead. Jumped off a roof and was gone, just like that. John should know; he saw it all happen.

People don't just come back from the dead. Things like that don't happen in the real world. Who does things like that? Sherlock Bloody Holmes, was who. And Irene Adler, he remembered. Fat lot of good that did in her case. Death still caught up with her in the end.

John's tongue felt like it was made of lead. Odd, that. John wasn't easily struck speechless. He wasn't that sort of a man. Then again, he wasn't the fainting type, either, and he still found himself on the floor just a short while ago. The day just kept throwing him with one surprise after another.

The biggest surprise of them all was sitting right in front of him. Sherlock had an earnest expression on his face, which most people wouldn't have been able to spot on him. John wondered if he still could, really. Who was to say Sherlock wasn't just putting on pretences for his sake? After all this time, could John really claim to know him? His stomach clenched painfully at the thought. He wondered if ever really knew Sherlock at all.

John felt as if he stepped into a parallel universe. Maybe he had slipped and hit his head, and was hallucinating it all. Or maybe he was dreaming. Could he be dreaming? He pinched his thigh discreetly (except that Mycroft's gave a soft chuckle at that, so perhaps he wasn't as discreet as he thought.)

Awake, then. Good. He couldn't imagine how he would have felt if he woke up suddenly and found himself still in his tent in the middle of bloody nowhere. It felt like eons passed since that unfortunate camping trip. No, he was definitely awake. His back and shoulder still ached from sleeping on the ground the previous night.

Christ, to think, all this time, people griped at him for not being able to move on properly. Said it wasn't good for him to dwell on the past. It wasn't if he didn't try. He was still seeing his therapist. He had a steady job and a wonderful woman by his side. He was functioning.

It was simply his duty to help clear Sherlock's name. Sherlock deserved to be remembered as something better than a fraud. John knew the truth about what sort of man Sherlock was, after all. Ha, some cosmic joke that turned out to be.

Never - Not ever, not in a million years - could he have anticipated this. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock, who he watched plummet to his death. Sherlock, whose blank eyes and smashed-in skull still haunted his dreams. He had checked for a pulse, hadn't he? He could not have imagined the pieces of Sherlock left behind on the pavement. It all happened so fast – and he thought back to those moments so often – maybe his mind supplied him with details that weren't really there.

He couldn't have imagined it all. He just couldn't.

John was dizzy. He thought that perhaps he should put his head between his knees, so he did just that. Distantly, he heard Sherlock calling his name.

John shook his head, once. He leaned forward in his seat, his elbows resting on his thighs. He let his head sag toward the floor. He tried to concentrate on taking long, calming breaths, and so he jumped when a gloved hand came to rest tentatively on his knee.

He lifted his head to see that Sherlock was kneeling beside his seat, face a short distance from his own.

"Will you leave us for a moment?" Sherlock murmured, shooting a quick glance toward his brother.

"Of course," Mycroft said in reply. He rose from his seat and made to walk away, but then paused behind Sherlock. His hand hovered above Sherlock's shoulder for a moment before pulling back. "John," Mycroft said, giving him a quick nod before stepping out of the room.

John couldn't hear his retreating footsteps. Either the room was soundproof, or the bastard was listening in. Either way, John hardly cared. He covered his face with his hand, letting his head sag downwards once more.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked. The hand on John's knee squeezed lightly.

John looked up and tried to smile. It was less than convincing. "Give me a second," he said.

He felt as if a fog was lifting from behind his eyes. He had so many thoughts, questions, all swarming together in one confused jumble. It literally made his head hurt.

Belatedly, he realised that the shock at seeing Sherlock alive must be wearing off. His heart was still hammering a crazy tempo in his chest and a steady throb made its home in his temple, but at least he didn't feel like he was going to faint again.

"Sorry," he said. "It's just..." He lifted his hand to gesture aimlessly. "You know."

"It's quite all right," Sherlock said. "In fact, you're doing better than I expected."

John huffed out a laugh, surprising even himself. "D'you think?"

Sherlock smiled, eyes crinkling. He used John's knee as leverage to lift himself up to his feet, dusting off his trousers as he did so. He leaned back against the table, causing John's water glass to inch dangerously close to the edge.

John licked his lips, finding them suddenly dry. He reached for the water glass and drained its contents. Holding the empty glass before his eyes, he sighed.

"I don't suppose you have anything a bit stronger?" He muttered. He never did get that drink he was after. Ha, if he thought he needed one before…John didn't expect a "yes", so he was surprised when a steel hip flask was thrust before his face. His eyebrows rose in a silent question.

"Confiscated it," Sherlock explained, and by confiscated he of course meant stolen. "I… thought you might need it?" He added slowly, unsure. His brow furrowed.

"Thanks," John said, nodding. He took the offering from Sherlock's gloved hand. The corners of Sherlock's lips pulled up in a split-second smile, no doubt assured that he had been right.

John studied the engraved flask. The design depicted some sort of a big feline, he reckoned; a tiger or a leopard. It was old. The steel was so badly scarred by years of use that it was hard to tell for sure. The doctor in John was appalled by the thought of a stranger's germs, but the soldier in him still remembered a turbulent country and shared water canteens. Impossible to clean, those wretched things were.

He removed the cap, and brought the flask to his lips. Tilting his head back, he took a huge gulp of the unknown liquid. He regretted it immediately.

"Jesus." He coughed. "That'll rot your teeth out." He took another swing of it, and discovered the drink did not become miraculously better the second time. He grimaced, handing the flask back to Sherlock.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked, tucking the flask back in his coat pocket.

John groaned in reply, still feeling the burn of the liquor. He pulled the back of his hand over his mouth before letting it drop back in his lap. He sighed deeply, gathering his thoughts. He looked up at Sherlock, struggling to get the words out.

"You could have told me what you were up to. I'd have stayed away if you'd only asked," John said.

Sherlock actually smiled – smiled! – at that. "Wrong," he said.

For a moment all John could do was stare at his old time friend. And then, just like that, the words came tumbling out.

"Or, I could have helped you. It doesn't matter, you…" John felt heat rise up his neck. "You jumped," he stopped, sucking in air rapidly. "You let me believe that you were dead, all this time. All this time. I mourned you, Sherlock. I went up against everyone who called you a fake-"

"Going against my express final wishes," Sherlock interrupted him, his head tilted to the side. He brushed a finger over his chin in thought. Then he seemed to realise what he just said was a bit not good. He looked down at John, having at least the good grace to appear apologetic. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock still had a knack for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

Really, Sherlock? Really? John wanted to laugh, though he felt far from amused. He pulled himself up from his seat, intending to pace out his restlessness.

"I didn't mean it like that." Sherlock said, in clear frustration.

"You-" John started to say. He stopped himself before he said anything he might regret later. The room didn't allow for much pacing, and the dust unsettling under his feet made his nose itch. He stopped behind a chair, and gripped its backrest. He looked down, watched his knuckles go white from the strength of his grip.

Perhaps he was going through some sort of bizarre reverse grieving process. This stage was definitely "anger". He closed his eyes tightly and tried to calm down. All of a sudden, he felt defeated.

Maybe it wasn't anger, after all. Because all he could think of at that moment was those past few years, and how he spent them desperately missing his friend. Spent them thinking that he failed Sherlock somehow. Spent them thinking about what, oh what, he could have done differently. He categorised and calculated every moment, over and over, in his mind. Stayed awake countless nights, agonising over the 'What If's: what if he could have stopped Sherlock somehow? What if he could have convinced him that he didn't need to end his own life?

It was that horrible, crushing guilt that kept him in his therapist's seat all this time. She never did approve of the movement to clear Sherlock's name. Said it stopped him from coming to terms with Sherlock's death. Oh, the mind numbing irony; it was maddening.

"John-" Sherlock started again, hesitantly.

"Three years, Sherlock." John breathed out. "Three bloody years." He brought a hand to his face; attempted to scrub away the pain pulsing behind his skull. If he were slightly more poetical he might've been inclined to rub it over his heart instead. Silly thought.

Silence prevailed for a long moment. "I'm aware how long it's been," Sherlock said eventually, coldly. His expression softened. "John…"

"Save it." John said, cutting him off.

"Will you listen to me? I wanted to tell you, I would have done if I could," Sherlock said. "It was too dangerous."

John took a deep breath. "I can take of myself, you do know that?" He was surprised at how even his voice was. It was a complete contrary to his inner turmoil. But then again, he always knew how to keep calm in stressful situations.

Almost always. Sherlock's bloodied face flashed in his mind's eye.

"I know you can." Sherlock replied, all too quickly. "John-"

"I'm not sure what to think." John admitted, interrupting him. He rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and index finger, pressing hard enough to see bursts of light behind his closed eyelids.

Sherlock spoke quickly, "I had no choice but to keep you out of it. You, Lestrade, everyone – you were being watched, closely. Mycroft was the only one with the means to disappear without arousing suspicion. If Jim had only suspected-"

"Jim?" John said, incredulously.

"It was for your own safety." Sherlock waited a bit, looking away before reluctantly adding, "…And mine."

John felt an unpleasant shiver go down his spine.

"Okay," John said finally. He shut his eyes tightly, and felt irrationally grateful that Sherlock was still there when he opened them again. He nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat. "Okay." John repeated. "I'm not saying we're not going to have words again later, but right now… You're alive, and that's all that matters." His voice went a little off at the end, and he cleared his throat, feeling self conscious.

"I hate to interrupt this touching reunion, brother dear, but we are on a schedule," Mycroft said, causing John to jump in surprise. He didn't even realised the man had re-entered the room.

"Git," John blurted, unable to help himself. He had a lot of pent up resentment left for Mycroft.

Mycroft rolled his eyes in reply. "Is that really necessary?" He asked. To Sherlock he said, "Do you have it?"

Sherlock snorted. "You waited this long, Mycroft. Surely you can wait a few more minutes?" He reached into his pocket, pulling out a portable hard drive. One corner of his lip pulled up as he handed it to his brother.

Mycroft turned it around in his hand critically, as if he could magically glean out whatever information it held. "Is this everything?" Mycroft asked.

"Hardly everything, but more than enough to begin with; as you'll find soon." Sherlock replied. "You can begin the distribution, but be discreet. I cannot afford to have you destroy my cover."

Mycroft smiled, "Of course. Shall I remind you, we've been in this business far longer than you?"

John watched the exchange with mounting confusing. "Excuse me, would anyone mind filling me in?"

They both ignored him. "Yes, and doing a brilliant job for sure." Sherlock's dry tone made it clear he thought nothing of the sort. "Yet one must wonder why I had to rescue one of your people in Mexico, or dispose of that double agent eight months ago. Tell me, is he enjoying life in a Somali prison?" Sherlock asked mockingly. His eyes narrowed and he spoke again before Mycroft could reply.

"You broke your nose." Sherlock observed.

Mycroft huffed indignantly. He tapped the bridge of his nose lightly. "Doctor Watson's helping hand." He turned to John, raising a single eyebrow. "You've a mean left hook."

"Oh, that," John said. He cleared his throat. "Don't expect an apology any time soon."

The last time John had seen Mycroft was a few weeks after Sherlock's "death." Not long after the funeral, in fact. John came by the flat to collect his things and found Mycroft there.

Mycroft had the nerve to suggest John forget and move on. It was a bad choice of words, and Mycroft was clutching a broken nose a few seconds later. John hadn't seen the man since, as hard as he tried to contact him. Looking at Mycroft's nose now, he saw that someone had set it back perfectly. Even a trained physician such as himself couldn't tell that Mycroft's nose was ever broken. Sherlock, he knew, had his ways.

"Really, why?" Sherlock asked curiously. He stepped closer to his brother, studying him with interest. "Oh. It was three years ago. What did you say, Mycroft?"

Mycroft grimaced. "Those were troubled times. I merely suggested that-"

"Hang on, you never noticed until now?" John injected, stopping Mycroft mid-sentence. "Didn't you say you two were in contact this whole time?"

"Indirectly," Mycroft said softly. He looked at his brother carefully, and something seemed to soften in his eyes.

"This is the first we've met in person since I died," Sherlock said.

"Well, there's something you don't hear every day," John muttered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sorry, since I faked my death." To Mycroft, he added sarcastically, "it was like an extended holiday."

Mycroft's lips curved in a smile. "It's very good to see you as well, Sherlock."

"Yes, well." Sherlock said before falling silent, avoiding his brother's eyes.

"Sherlock, what were you doing all this time?" John asked. "Where were you?" His eyes widened when he remembered what Mycroft told him earlier. "You're the secret agent Mycroft was telling me about, aren't you?" He exclaimed.

"Secret agent?" Sherlock said, glancing at his brother in question. He turned back to John, rolling his eyes. "You've been watching too much telly. But I suppose that's one way of putting it, yes."

"So Moriarty's been caught. You have proof that he's real, yeah?" John asked anxiously. He realised he was gripping the chair's backrest again, and quite hard at that. He let go, rubbing his hands together to restore circulation.

Mycroft shook his head. "It's more than that. Moriarty's connections span across the entire globe, but he had a group of close associates on his back and call. Sherlock was able to infiltrate that inner circle." He paused, "well enough to overthrow Moriarty, in fact."

John gave that information a moment to sink in. "But… how?" He asked.

Sherlock sighed. "It's a long story." His lips thinned, before he started to explain. "The condensed version is that Jim and I had an arrangement. He gave me an option to join him, in return for the others' safety, as well as your own."

"Join him, what do you mean?" John's list of question was growing steadily. "Why would he do something like that? What was in it for him?"

Sherlock chuckled. "I've been asking myself why he did what he did for years. Nevertheless, it gave me an intimate perspective on his criminal connections. Without them, he's as close to vulnerable as he ever was."

He inclined his head toward the portable hard drive in Mycroft's hand. "That drive, in the right hands, holds enough data to ensure thousands of convictions, worldwide. And not just that." He smiled. "Jim liked to keep a close watch over our – his – clients. With good reason."

He turned to Mycroft, eyes narrowed. "Do see to it that it arrives in the right hands, Mycroft. It would be unfortunate if this information was auctioned to the highest bidder. Don't muddy this with politics."

"I'll see to it that it's not." Mycroft said.

A mobile rang, cutting their conversation short. John frowned at the choice in ring tone, glancing between the two brothers in question. Sherlock's, he guessed, judging by the annoyed look that crossed over his face. His guess proved correct when Sherlock pulled the mobile from his pocket, hitting the receive key with more strength that was probably warranted. Gloria's Gaynor's assertions that she will survive were cut in the middle.

"I've been meaning to change that. Excuse me." Sherlock muttered.

"Yes?" Sherlock said, drawing out the word. "Yes, speaking. Don't you read the papers, Mr. Murdock?" John could hear the man on the other side, although he couldn't make out his exact words. He sounded hysterical. Sherlock sighed hugely, loudly enough to be heard over the phone. He cradled the mobile between his ear and shoulder, taking the time to adjust his gloves while he listened to the man's babble.

"While I certainly can take care of your little problem, it's hardly worth my effort now, is it?" Sherlock said in distaste, taking the mobile back in hand. He sat down, shooting an annoyed look toward Mycroft who sat on the opposite side of the table, watching his brother with fast attention.

"I'm not expecting you to do anything," Sherlock said, amusement coating his voice. "If you'd have followed my advice to the latter, we wouldn't have been having this conversation right now. See what your avarice wrought? No, no, it's time to man up." He crossed his legs, leaning back in his seat. "Well, you have a gun, don't you?" He murmured. "A rope would do in a pinch."

It was Sherlock, but at the same time, it wasn't. John had seen Sherlock act many times, but the act was always starkly different to his normal behaviour. The personas he adopted were usually ludicrous, yet somehow still believable (sobbing vicar, falling-down drunk, babbling American tourist.) This transition, however, was almost as frightening as it was surreal.

The body language was Sherlock's. The words were mostly Sherlock's (despite the accent that now coated them). But somehow, the man speaking was decidedly, empathetically, not Sherlock.

"What?" John mouthed in Mycroft's direction. The man's attention was fixed on his brother, however, and he did not reply.

"Tick tock, Mr. Murdock." Not-Sherlock continued. "No time like the present. Try not to make too much of a mess, would you? Don't call this number again." Sherlock disconnected the call with a sweep of his thumb, cutting in the middle of the man's startled shout.

"Did you just tell someone to off himself?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, he will never take his own life; classic narcissistic personality disorder. No, he'll make a run for it." He tapped away on his mobile, sending out a quick text message to who knows who. "Unsuccessfully," Sherlock added with a smirk and then returned the phone to his pocket.

Turning to Mycroft, Sherlock nodded toward the portable hard drive that was now laid on the table. "You'll find Jacob Murdock listed under folder 'human trafficking17'. Use the index key, it's very helpful."

"What about the rest?" Mycroft asked, his index finger sliding over the device's sleek plastic cover. "You said there's more."

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "I need more time to secure the information and compile it in a digital format. It will be ready before Saturday night. Have the preparations in the hotel been made?"

"Yes, and the staff has been replaced." Mycroft confirmed. "I'm assuming all invitees have confirmed their attendance?"

"Naturally," Sherlock replied.

"What's happening on Saturday night?" John wondered.

"A small gathering," Sherlock said, smiling. "You are never to complain about me making things difficult ever again, Mycroft. I'm handing this to you on a silver platter."

"What sort of gathering?" John exclaimed.

"I'll explain later," Sherlock said.

Mycroft leaned forward with his hands clasped before his face. His elbows rested on the table. "You do realise, an operation on this scale… It's never been done before."

"Getting cold feet, are we?"

"I'm merely highlighting the fact that there would be repercussions. Very powerful people will be looking for someone to blame. I might not be able to protect you if any of this leads back to you, Sherlock."

"I've taken precautions to ensure that does not happen. These people dug their own graves, Mycroft, none of it leads back to me, or to Jim. Let us keep it that way. After this is all over I want nothing at all to do with it, do you understand?"

Mycroft's looked less than convinced, but he nodded. "And as for Moriarty?" He asked.

"I'm sure you can find something to pin on him, but don't connect him to any of the main events just yet." Sherlock said, leaning back in his seat. He seemed conflicted, though, and after a moment he asked, "How is he?"

Mycroft's laugh was an answer on its own. He tapped the tip of his umbrella on the floor. "He's enjoying my hospitality."

For whatever reason, Sherlock's expression darkened considerably at that. He leaned back in his seat, nostrils flaring in a sudden feat of anger, though he said nothing of the sort. He seemed to be debating with himself. John watched him in confusion.

"I'll need to see him, of course," Sherlock said after some consideration.

"Why?" Mycroft asked. It sounded more of a threat than a question.

"Closure," Sherlock replied. His tone was dangerously flat.

"Out of the question," Mycroft stated.

"Mycroft," Sherlock warned. "Don't try to bully me. I can bring this whole operation down on your head in an instant."

"Would you, really?" Mycroft said, lifting his eyes briefly to the ceiling. "I can't imagine it."

"Do you want to test that theory?" Sherlock snarled.

"Boys," John said, exasperated and more confused than he had ever been in his life. "Settle down, all right?"

"You wanted to be kept out, Sherlock. I'm honouring that request." Mycroft said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. It was a stark contrast to Sherlock's livid expression. "My answer is final."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at that. He rose from his seat slowly, glaring down at his brother. Without looking at John he said, "come along, John."

"Where are we going?" John was on his feet instinctively.

"Out," Sherlock said. He turned up his coat collar with a snap (John had the sudden mental image of an angry cat with all its fur sticking up) and was out the door with two strides of his long legs. John followed close behind him.

"John," Mycroft said, bringing John to a halt. He spoke so softly John wasn't sure at first that it wasn't just a figment of his imagination. He looked back, stopping at the door with one hand holding it ajar.

"Would you ask him-" Mycroft started to say. He seemed to think better of it, though, and shook his head. "Never mind."

"What?" John said, sighing.

For a few short moments, Mycroft seemed lost for words. It wasn't a very good look on him.

"How is he, do you think?" Mycroft asked finally.

John frowned at the question. You're Mycroft Holmes. He wanted to say. You can tell what I had for lunch yesterday by the state of my shoelaces. Surely you don't need me to tell you that?

"Why don't you ask him?" He said instead.

Mycroft's answer was a long, drawn out sigh. He rubbed his forehead tiredly. "You know what he's like. Do you think he'll ever tell me?" He smiled, though it resembled more of a grimace. "Honesty?"

"Fair enough," John admitted. He licked his lips. There were a million things he still needed to know, and he preferred to hear it all from Sherlock. He made a hesitant step out the door. "I have to…" he said apologetically.

"Go." Mycroft said, jerking his head toward the door.

John offered him a tight smile before hurrying to catch up with Sherlock - in more ways than one.