Thank you to TheScienceofObsession and Snogandagrope, as usual.
I have more gorgeous art! CollideIntoSound did a lovely Sherlock coming out of the lamp, which I've tucked into Chapter 2 over on AO3, because that's where it makes sense, so go see it and tell her how fabulous she is!
Chapter 17: The Might and Cooperation of the British Government
John wakes an hour or so later, disoriented and rattled by a bewildering pounding. He jerks, finding himself draped across Sherlock's chest, nose in one armpit, tickled by hair, smelling the morning's sweat and the leather cuff wrapped around his bicep. Sherlock's arms clamp down, stilling his instinctive jump, and he hears, so low it purely vibrates, "It's someone at the door, John."
John nods to show he understands, and quickly slips out of the arms, the bed; the cool air of the bedroom is an affront after the warmth they'd created, tangled beneath the duvet. He pulls on his trousers, grabbing his Sig from the bedside table, and gestures for Sherlock to stay back. He pads silently to the flat door, alert, awash in adrenaline, remembering the fantastic tsunami of events the night before: the attack in the parking lot, the missing lamp, the items from Sherlock's past, the body in the morgue that was not his sister. There are a number of very serious, very real dangers that could be on the other side of the flat door. Although it is odd for any one of them to be rapping out a warning.
The knocking sounds again, this time accompanied by a warbling, "Woo ooh! Boys! You have a visitor! Aren't you awake yet?"
John relaxes a bit. Ah, Mrs. Hudson. He tucks the gun in his waistband at the small of his back, opening the door cautiously and is confronted with her wrinkled, smiling face. "Good morning Dr. Watson," she chirps. She stares unabashedly at his bare chest, and John flushes a little, rubs a hand on his head to tame his hair. "Ah. Yes. Someone's here?" He glances past her, but the part of the stairs he can see are empty.
Mrs. Hudson nods, bright-eyed and curious. "Yes, he's just down in the foyer. He says he's a distant relative of Sherlock's? His name is... Mystron Holmes."
"A relative of Sherlock's," John repeats in a flat tone. He gives Mrs. Hudson a sharp, incredulous look. "How can Sherlock possibly have a relative?"
Mrs. Hudson moves her hands in an embarrassed, flustered way. "Oh. I-" she peeks nervously down the stairs and bites her lip. "I didn't think-"
There's movement at the corner of the landing and a tall, imposing man appears. He's holding something long and thin in his hands, and the light of the window comes in behind him, shadowing his face.
"Stop," John says. His voice is cold, hands steady around the Sig he'd pulled out so fast he can't even remember doing it. Mrs. Hudson turns her head and squeaks, seeing the gun. She takes several hurried steps back.
The man on the stairs stops, freezing completely; but the line of his body broadcasts that he's doing it solely for John's delicate sensibility, not out of fear. "Hmm," he says, and the impatience expressed in that short sound is so like Sherlock that John blinks.
There's a rustle inside the flat, and behind his back Sherlock asks, "What is this?"
"He says he's a relative of yours... Myron Holmes," John answers. Sherlock sucks in a quick breath, and John stiffens even more, watching the man on the stairs down the nose of his gun. Long fingers curl around his shoulder, spasming with bruising force before loosening up and pushing John forward so that Sherlock can peer around the door.
The four of them remain immobile for long moments, staring at one another, and Mrs. Hudson has both hands in front of her mouth, panicked eyes shifting between the Sig and the stranger. "I'm sorry," she quavers.
"I have bona fides," the man says carefully, and Sherlock's hand twitches on John's shoulder where he's left it.
"Indeed," Sherlock responds coolly. "Come in, then, and tell me about them."
John aborts a movement of protest, and backs up, allowing the man to proceed into the living room. Sherlock dismisses Mrs. Hudson with an annoyed flap of his arm, and shuts the door smartly in her face. He turns to face the man, "Myron Holmes, you say?" His voice is suspicious, overlain with a veneer of polite disinterest. John remains in the door of the kitchen, keeping a clear shot, gun steady.
The man looks at John first, gray eyes tracking the length of his bare torso, the meandering red lines that Sherlock had etched into his skin, the small dark bruises from his mouth and fingers; then he turns to scan Sherlock, wrapped like a mummy or a child in the white bedsheet. His gaze is as devouring and intuitive as Sherlock's, and John finds himself wondering if there isn't some truth to his claim of kinship after all. They are almost the same height, both tall and lean, with cutting intelligence, and a cerebral predation curls off of both of them like fumes from ammonia. He feels uncomfortably certain that the man has noticed the stubble rash on Sherlock's pale cheeks, and successfully put two and two together.
"I am Mycroft Holmes," the stranger corrects, holding out a slender hand adorned with a heavy, old-fashioned signet ring.
Sherlock glances briefly at the outstretched hand and dismisses it with a pronounced disregard for social convention. He twitches his shoulders under the sheet, and nods at one of the chairs in front of the fire. "Have a seat," he says crisply, "and tell me about these bona fides." Sherlock lounges in the chair opposite and stares at their visitor, challenging and lazy, hunter's instinct blatantly draped in detachment.
"And you," Mycroft says, leaning forward intently, "I believe you to be Sherlock Holmes. Am I correct?" He seats himself primly, and John sees that the long thin stick is an umbrella, a prop which he twists between his palms, distracted. John shifts slightly to the left, butting against the door frame, the rattle of glass in the sliding door startling him a bit as he leans. Both men disregard him and his weapon, which he lowers, but does not put away.
Sherlock shrugs and does not commit himself to an answer, eyes flitting rapidly over Mycroft, busy analyzing what data he can observe. "You know enough about me, I apprehend, to realize that Mycroft is a family name."
"Your short-lived elder brother, yes," Mycroft responds. "I am descended from your other brother, Sherrinford. Thirteen generations, now. I have paperwork." He reaches, slowly, with an amused glance at John's gun, into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a bundle of papers. He holds them out to Sherlock, but is ignored. With a breathed Tsk he sets them on the table next to him instead.
"You look quite like him, actually," Sherlock says, briefly sounding a little lost. Then he visibly cloaks himself again in hauteur. "Much older, of course." That's a jab, and Mycroft winces ever so slightly. "A bit heavier about the waist. Fond of desserts, are we? I always told Sherrinford he was too drawn to rich foods." A very faint pink stains Mycroft's cheeks, but fades quickly, as if willfully suppressed. Sherlock appears gratified with his well-aimed shot. John rolls his eyes, keeping careful control of his gun. I could believe they're related. They're behaving like brothers, for god's sake. Although Sherlock's prickly response is clearly an emotional defense at the dumbfounding news that he may have relatives.
"The family has been looking for you for a very long time," Mycroft continues, disregarding Sherlock's childish salvo. "My many-times great grandfather had portraits of you, of course, and there's the family story about the... mishap... that you suffered, leading to your ultimate disappearance. We had this..." he fans the bundle of papers and pulls out one that's very old, on filthy parchment that's become so soft it's like fabric, draping over Mycroft's aristocratic fingers. On it is a detailed drawing of a lamp, and John doesn't have to step closer to recognize it. Mycroft pulls a small book from another pocket and flips carefully through it. Again, time is woven into the bindings, the red linen cover dark and stained in dirt and oil and age, the pages within blotchy from unconstrained ink, filled with script and sketches. He nods towards the floor to his left, at the scattered clothing Sherlock had strewn there a lifetime ago. "The description of that very ensemble has been passed down for generations."
Sherlock is static, nothing moves until he blinks, slow. There's a long pause. "How did the family know about the lamp?" he asks at last.
Mycroft nods a little and settles back into his chair, umbrella placed meticulously in the crook of his knee. He crosses his hands on his thigh. "Sherrinford was much younger than you at the time, of course. A mere 15 years old, he didn't have as many resources then as he'd command later in his life. Your father, as I understand it, was quite ill, and died not long after you disappeared."
Sherlock inclines his head as if this doesn't surprise him. Mycroft flicks his eyes to the little journal, and says, "My impression is that you and Sherrinford weren't terribly close. He was young, and tagged along, and pestered you in your laboratory. But he loved you, rather revered you, actually, and always skulked around the curtains when you had your colleagues in for debates."
Sherlock's lips purse slightly, but it's the only move he makes. His eyes go a little unfocused as he remembers.
Mycroft looks satisfied. "Therefore, when you left to conduct your challenge with James Moriarty, Sherrinford knew, more or less, where you were going and why. A debate over the magical aspects of alchemy, as I understand it?" Mycroft raises one eyebrow, looks simultaneously supercilious and intrigued.
"He claimed he was going to transmute lead into gold, essentially through sorcery," Sherlock acknowledges. "Which I knew to be ludicrous. He had a certain number of cultish followers, whom he wished to be in attendance at the time. It turned out that... gold was not his endgame."
Mycroft leans forward. "Family history is scant on this point," he says. "Sherrinford managed to track down a member of that cult, which took a number of years. He bought this drawing," he taps the parchment on the table with one pedantic finger, "and then, once he'd come into the title and his money, paid a very large advance in order to obtain the actual lamp. Unfortunately the man whom he'd cultivated turned up dead shortly thereafter, so the drawing is all we've got. However, Sherrinford was told you'd become a... slave to the lamp, somehow; that you'd been granting wishes, that you were utterly under the control of- ahem. That Moriarty had become your Master." Mycroft peers at Sherlock with a touch of what might be sympathy, but it's quickly erased.
"Sherrinford was still quite young," Mycroft says on a sigh, "and did not know how to best use the power behind his name, did not know how to draw around him a team of men he could trust. He... lost you. Moriarty died some years after that, under shrouded circumstances, and although Sherrinford attempted to acquire much of his estate, he never found the lamp. He didn't know where to continue looking for you. But he never stopped. And when his sons were old enough, he told them to search as well. And thus we have sought you for generations." Mycroft taps his umbrella once, sharply, on the floor between his feet, which seems to be a signal that he's done with his tale.
John thinks to himself, His little brother, who he never saw again. A young man who'd evidently created a geas spanning generations to search for his big brother. So sad. Sherlock's shoulders move, and John can see that his hands are fidgeting, picking at one another under the sheet. His face is impassive, but his body language suggests uncertainty and wistful nostalgia. He leans back in his chair, slumping as if exhausted, working a long, slim arm free of its binding and scrubs a hand fiercely against his face. "Sherrinford," he mutters.
Mycroft stares as Sherlock is revealed from the sheet: the intricate designs on his hand, the leather cuff, the bruises against his chest from the fight at the club, the bruises on his feet. But he does not comment, not on these the Eastern flair nor the obvious remainders from a vicious fight. He simply waits.
"How did you find me?" Sherlock asks. He flicks his fingers back and forth across his chin, then pulls his other arm free of the sheet to clasp his hands together in front of his lips. The sheet falls open to his hips, and Mycroft blinks.
"Perhaps," he suggests in a strained voice. "You might like to find a pair of trousers first." He slides a look at John as well. "I seem to have caught both of you... unexpectedly."
Sherlock frowns at him, and the warmth John had seen at the mention of his brother fades into ice, as Sherlock visibly withdraws emotionally. He huffs, flinging himself to his feet, and stalks towards the bathroom, sheet dropping precariously with each step until it slides off completely just as he vanishes within.
Mycroft looks at John who stares right back. "Would you like a shirt?" he prompts.
John smiles, tense and wary, and fondles his gun. "I'm fine, thank you," he answers. "I'll just stay here with you." Although Sherlock seems to accept the fact that Mycroft is family, John still doesn't fully trust him.
"Are you afraid of me?" Mycroft asks.
"No," John answers calmly. "You don't seem very frightening." He strokes his thumb against the grip of the Sig and resettles his shoulders against the doorway.
"Ah. The bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, isn't it?"
"And how do you know I'm a soldier?"
"I've read your file carefully, Dr. Watson."
"Huh," John replies, suspicious and bemused. There was a file on him? And if there was, how did this man come to access it?
"Might I inquire as to how you came by the lamp? You are noticeably not a man of means-"
"Oi! That's enough, no need for insults. And who said I have the lamp?"
"I am merely interested in how you've managed to restrain yourself from... utilizing the peculiar properties said to be inherent in the lamp."
"If you're asking if I've wished or not, that's none of your business." John's tone is flat and uninviting.
"Obviously you have not wished. I'd just like to let you know that there will be repercussions if you do." Mycroft's voice holds both warning and icy threat.
"And how do you know what happens if I make my wish?" Is it possible that Mycroft has the lamp? Is he pushing for John to wish?
"We have had many years to study legends and anecdotes on this phenomenon, Dr. Watson." Mycroft stares at him, grey eyes like Arctic slush. "I am concerned about your relationship with my relative, that is all. I find that, in spite of the short time I've known of him, I..." there is an almost imperceptible flash of incredulity, "worry about him. I want to make it clear to you that... There are people who feel deeply invested in his well-being."
John is speechless. Did he just get the 'you hurt my family and they won't even be able to find pieces of you in isolated ditches deep in the countryside' speech? From someone who'd only known about the man he's protecting for less than 24 hours?
Sherlock strides back into the room, gauzy trousers and nothing else on. It's actually a step more naked than he'd been in the sheet, and John stifles an inappropriate giggle at his audacity. The genie throws himself on the sofa and ripples into a more comfortable position, arranging himself like an indolent cat, maintaining a provoking stare at Mycroft the whole time. Clearly the emotional armor is back in place. Mycroft looks back dispassionately, although John sees a slight tic at the corner of his eye.
"You can put the gun away, John," Sherlock tells him, gesturing with a languid hand, pale arm outstretched. "We're not in danger here." Sunlight catches on gold, tracks a glittering band around his delicate wrist, and thin shafts of light create chiaroscuro from the henna patterning his skin.
John nods and tucks his piece back into his trousers. Mycroft makes him uncomfortable, but he does seem dedicated to aiding and protecting Sherlock. "Tea, then?" he offers with reluctant hospitality.
Mycroft toys with his umbrella. "Tea would be lovely, thank you. Milk and three sugars."
Sherlock snorts something uncomplimentary that includes the word 'waistline'. John shakes his head and goes to fill the kettle. There is silence in the living room for the entire six or so minutes it takes to prepare the tea. When John returns, he has the disquieting notion that Sherlock and Mycroft have been conducting a intense conversation under the guise of staring hard and silently at one another. He awkwardly clears his throat to distract them from one another and distributes the mugs of tea, to Mycroft's quickly concealed disdain (does he expect fine china?) and sits in the remaining chair, kicking it a bit so it makes a circle with the sofa. Mycroft shifts as well, and now the three of them are all cozied up for a chat.
"How did you find me?" Sherlock asks again.
"I programmed the lamp into image recognition software many years ago. The inverted crescent moon on the cap, and the handle formed into a dragon-like serpent make it quite unique. I input your portraits as well, although none of those have been detailed enough to register you. Due to my... minor... position within Her Majesty's government, I have... access... to CCTV."
His tone is so stilted and pretentious that John has to grin. Minor position my arse, he telegraphs at Sherlock through a smirk and wiggle of his hairline. Pompous tosser, Sherlock responds by digging his shoulders sharply into the chair and wrinkling his nose. Clearly having found himself a relative does not mean they will be the best of friends.
Mycroft leans back, fussily extending then recrossing his legs. "Your arrival here yesterday triggered all kinds of alarms, since you were waving the lamp around so very conspicuously out there in the street. Visual confirmation showed that you bore a striking resemblance to family paintings, enough to merit a visit in person." Mycroft runs a disapproving eye over the sheer trousers. "Although your clothing seemed a bit more conventional yesterday."
Sherlock rolls a Gallic shrug and makes an exaggerated moue, expressing comical sadness. "Alas, I have lost that suit and this is all that remains to me."
"We'll go to Oxfam-" John begins.
Sherlock flings out an arm to shut him off, and he nurses his tea in embarrassment for a moment, feeling like a failure of a caretaker, feeling the weight of Mycroft's judgemental stare.
Mycroft moves on. "May I see the lamp?" he asks.
"No!" say Sherlock and John simultaneously and emphatically enough to raise Mycroft's eyebrow.
"Indeed?" is all he says, but calculations are clearly racing behind steely eyes, and John shifts subtly onto one hip, so that his gun can be quickly and easily accessed, and places his mug on the table. Mycroft's interest in the lamp makes him jumpy; he feels that Sherlock can only safe when the lamp is in his hands. Even though Mycroft is confirmed as family, now, and does not seem terribly threatening. Although the potential is there, in so much leashed power, and John would be a poor soldier indeed to turn his back on such a tiger.
Mycroft looks again at Sherlock's bruises and says, "I presume your refusal has something to do with the altercation you were in last night? At least three, no, four different men? What happened?"
Sherlock dismisses the question. "That is none of your concern."
Mycroft says patiently, "Sherlock, I assure you, it is my concern. You have been the concern of our family for nearly 250 years. I am not a man of insubstantial power and means, and I can pledge you the full weight and support of the British Government, in addition to your own, not inconsiderable, fortune and resources (to which I shall soon allocate you access), in aiding you with any problems you may have."
"The British Government does not care about my problems," Sherlock says, diverted.
Mycroft smiles thinly. "As an unofficial proxy of the British Government, please accept my assertion that it does."
Right, John thinks. Minor position. This man exudes so much authority that it is not a surprising revelation.
"How did my brother ever produce progeny so poncy?" Sherlock flounces back to a seated position, and begins to prod at a bruise on his chest.
"You are satisfied with my antecedents, then?"
Sherlock appears to grind his teeth. "Yes. You look too much like Father and Sherrinford to be anyone else's get. I recognize the way you think. You know too much to be anyone else. Plus, you've got the ring. So, still Marquess of Lewes, then?"
Mycroft nods. "Still seated in Holmes House in south Wessex."
Sherlock's face thaws momentarily in memory, hand dropping limply into his lap, and Mycroft says, "You are welcome any time," to which Sherlock's expression closes over again, and he shrugs his indifference. But pain, and a certain longing, lingers in the tightness at the corners of his eyes.
There's a hesitant tapping at the door, and Mrs. Hudson's voice is outside, indomitably cheerful. "Woo ooh, boys, hallo?"
John stands and moves to open the door, tucking the gun away before he does so. Mrs. Hudson looks first to his hands, and then peers beyond him to see Mycroft and Sherlock, both staring politely over at her. "No one shot yet, then?" she chirps, poking gentle fun. "That means it's a fine morning. And is Mr. Holmes actually family, Sherlock?"
Sherlock makes a face, but doesn't answer. Mycroft rises to his feet and smiles at the landlady. "I am something of a nephew, ma'am." He sketches a shallow bow. "It is a pleasure to meet you..." he pauses, since he hasn't actually officially met her. Sherlock is stubbornly silent, so John steps in and says, "Er, right. Mrs. Hudson, this is Mycroft Holmes. Er, Marquess of... somewhere."
John lingers on the idea of Sherlock in the peerage. He would have been the Marquess himself, back in his own time, if John understood Mycroft's story. Which he did, of course, it was fairly simple. It is easy to imagine Sherlock in rich, noble surroundings, with servants and obeisance, and John feels a bit ill over the travesty of such a man being enslaved for literal lifetimes.
"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson's eyes go wide, and then she simpers, bobbing in a small curtsy. "Well, a pleasure to meet you, too, my Lord."
"Mr. Holmes is fine, Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft remonstrates.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. No need to kiss up. Now what is this about?"
"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson looks down at her hand, clutching around an envelope. "A nice young gentleman just came to deliver this to you, dearie. You are certainly popular lately."
Sherlock jolts to his feet and steps directly across the coffee table, making a beeline for the envelope, which he snatches out of her hand. "Did you recognize the gentleman? Same one from last night? No? Very well then. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I certainly appreciate it." He turns her around and hustles her towards the door. "Do you have any biscuits? Perhaps you can bring some up in a while. Or scones or something. Yes, thank you. Please be on your way." He shuts the door behind her with a decisive bang and turns around. "John. It's another one."
"Another one?" And suddenly John remembers that there had been an envelope last night, something within which had shocked Sherlock, but he'd forgotten about it after receiving the call about Harry being dead in the morgue.
He shoots a look at Mycroft, whose bland expression belies the sharp curiosity in his eyes. Hmm. Perhaps they want to wait for some privacy before opening it. "Ah. Er. Sherlock."
Sherlock ignores both of them and takes the envelope over to the window, to stare at it in the light. "Same stationary, same handwriting as the last one." He slides the heavy paper out of the envelope and John crowds up to his side to read it too. If Sherlock is feeling apprehensive, it doesn't show through his excitement at having a new clue.
The writing inside is done with an old-fashioned fountain pen, letters scriven with uneven consistency as the ink ebbs and flows. It is absorbed into the linen lines of the paper, and for a moment, John is simply caught by the art and beauty of carefully crafted longhand before he can decipher the spiky, backslanted script.
"Sherlock, darling boy,
I have missed playing with you so very much, dear Toy. It's really been too long, don't you think? And I must say, the Lamp is not as much fun when you're not in it. I hope you're enjoying the Bundle I left behind last night. I understand you may be short on attire, and pray this will still fit you. Ah, such Memories!
Do you recall that small knick in your thumb, as you cut the Mugwort for The Ceremony? I do Apologize if there's still a Bloodstain in your vest, dear boy. You'd think I'd have found the time in the past Century or so to get around to it! I'm just Lazy, I suppose. Do be careful of the Lead, my dear. I understand it can be downright Unhealthy if you don't have my particular Constitution. Well, that's not really an issue, as we both know you can't Hurt yourself even if you try, don't we? (Hanging one's self is such an Undignified way to go anyway, isn't it?)
I do miss you so, you Succulent Boy, and I rather Madly want you back. You're simply wasted on that dull Army Puppy you've been obliged to consort with. Does he treat you as I did? I worry that you don't have the Excitement... the Challenge... that you crave, sweet thing. You need a strong Master with a Firm Hand, and I imagine you've found none better than I in all these years, have you? Discard your Ordinary little Pet, darling, do. Surely he wants to go hug his Sister (now that he knows she's not in that Morgue!) or something Human like that. Let him make his stodgy little Wish, and then come back to me. I've made so many plans for us: I've waited for so very long...
With greatest Anticipation,
James Moriarty"
Sherlock fits the heavy sheets of paper back together, very precisely matching the folds, and tucks it back into the envelope. He appears to be holding his breath, and finally releases it in a sharp, stifled gasp.
John fights a creeping chill at the contents of the letter. "Sherlock," he whispers, with suppressed horror. "Is that? Those things he said... Are they true?" His brain is on ghoulish repeat: Hanging one's self is such an undignified way to go... hanging... hanging.
"All of them," Sherlock replies tonelessly. "The handwriting is a distinctive match as well. It must be..." They stare at one another for a drawn out moment, and nothing either one of them is thinking is good, both lost to the queer, jubilant insanity that seeps from every threatening line of the missive.
There is a gentile cough behind them, and they turn to see that Mycroft has risen, stands leaned on his umbrella like a dapper, three-legged figurine. His eyes are very sharp. "May I be of assistance?" he inquires mildly. John makes an abortive movement, as if to step in front of Sherlock, to protect, to absorb a blow, and Mycroft looks amused.
Sherlock says, "It is but a minor affair, Mycroft. Nothing that need discommode you. We do not require help."
Mycroft looks at them both consideringly, and then at the pile of clothing on the floor. He weighs his thoughts for a minute. "Sherlock," he says finally. "There cannot be too many individuals who know you well enough to send such a letter."
Sherlock's raises a defiant eyebrow, and Mycroft lifts his own in a mirroring gesture and gives a brief roll of his eyes. "That was high quality paper, the watermark visible through the light of the window, Sherlock. Hand scriven with an expensive, heavy nib. The letters were formed in an old-fashioned style and the sheer number of capitalized words in the middle of the sentences indicates that the writer is channeling syntax from the past century at the least."
Mycroft turns a growl of frustration into a condescending sigh. "Just as we have kept an ear out for you, dear Uncle, so we have continued monitoring the name of Moriarty. The bulk of his fortune was mysteriously claimed shortly after his death, and there have been whispers through the centuries.
"I have found you. It is not unreasonable to assume that others have as well. You have before you the full might of the British Government. I ask you again: May I be of service?"
Sherlock wheels around and stares down at the street below, tapping the paper in his hands against the sill in a staccato rhythm. His back is rigid, and the swelling and discoloration that marks him is starkly lit, darkly discordant paired with the diaphanous trousers. He flexes his shoulders, and hard muscle twitches under fair skin, expressing his misgivings.
John turns to face him, keeping Mycroft in his peripheral vision, and puts his hand on the small of Sherlock's back, fingers spread wide, pressing into the heat of him, offering solidarity. He strokes up and down, moving closer, longing to pull Sherlock fully into his arms, but restrained by the presence of Mycroft, stiff and proper with his superfluous umbrella.
Sherlock's hair is particularly unruly, after their very... energetic... morning, followed by hard sleep. Curls wave medusa-like above his forehead, and his eyes are wide, color subdued into gray this morning, and somewhat glassy with shock. John slides his open hand across Sherlock's shoulder, down a long, cool arm, bumping over leather then gold, rubbing his thumb affectionately over the prominence of a wrist bone and finally squeezing slender fingers before dropping to his side.
"You think this is from Moriarty, then? The original one?" he murmurs.
"There are things in here only he could know."
"But. You said it's been 231 years." The number is scored indelibly on his brain, he couldn't forget it.
Sherlock says, with some degree of sarcasm, "Well, he was seeking an elixir to extend human life."
John looks up at him seriously for a moment, face drawn down in soft lines of solicitude. He wishes he could pull the man into his embrace, hide him behind the armor of John's own skin, conceal his vulnerability. But they have a visitor. He tilts his head towards Mycroft, patiently waiting in the middle of the room, raises his eyebrows in a question to Sherlock. Shall we tell him? Trust him?
Sherlock closes his eyes, statue-still, and finally draws a deep, wavering breath. John waits, itching to touch, wishing there was something he could fight, now, to protect the strained, beautiful man in front of him. After a moment Sherlock turns, regal in his near nudity, tall and assured and contained. "Mycroft." He balances thoughtfully on one leg, the other drawn up just enough to trail his toes across the top of the other foot. "The family's been seeking me for all this time."
Mycroft nods somberly. "Indeed we have."
"So has another."
"May I presume that it's James Moriarty's cult or kin?"
"You may presume that it's James Moriarty himself." Sherlock shows momentary disappointment at Mycroft's stoic lack of surprise.
Mycroft thoughtfully taps a well-manicured nail on the shiny black stone of his signet ring. "Last night, I could find no current information on that name. His estate and holdings in Ireland are long since dissolved. And yet... you hold there in your hand an epistle from him? Yes?"
"I do. With facts included which are known only to him and myself."
"Right," John interrupts. He leans one hip against the desk. "231 years. Did anyone hear me say that?"
Mycroft slides an amused glance at John. "So we did. And yet here is Sherlock himself, 231 years on, against all intellectual predictions, flying in the face of science. It follows, therefore, that someone else could do the same. Clearly it's not impossible, merely... highly improbable," and for just a minute, he and Sherlock are in smug accord.
"You say you have access to those cameras on the street," Sherlock says quickly. Mycroft nods assent. "Could you see who came here last night? We... Someone delivered a message to Mrs. Hudson. And... Someone broke in. It must, of course, be related."
Mycroft looks very serious. "They broke in? Were you here?"
John shakes his head. "We got back quite late last night."
Mycroft eyes Sherlock's bruises once again, and then tracks the marks left on John from the morning's efforts, and seems to accept that it was a late night indeed. "I will get that information to you expeditiously," he says.
They're interrupted by a brisk tap at the door, and unexpectedly, Mycroft is the one who answers. Disconcerted, John and Sherlock observe the confident entrance of an attractive brunette, with keen, dark eyes, dressed in a tailored suit. She saunters into the room, high, sharp heels clicking on the floor, glances at the two half-dressed men by the window without blinking, and turns to Mycroft. An overcoat is draped over her arm, and she holds it out. "Sir," she says. "If you're to make the 10:30 with MI5, we'll need to be leaving now."
"Of course, my dear," Mycroft replies, pompous features softening into a not-quite smile. "What should they ever do without me to sort them out?" The pair enacts a smooth exchange of umbrella for coat, an obviously well-practiced dance between them. She adjusts the coat on his shoulders as he shoots his cuffs. "Did you bring the-"
The woman flips out a small package from somewhere in the vicinity of her cleavage and hands it over. Mycroft turns to Sherlock. "I have a phone for you," he says, moving across the room until he's standing in front of his many-times great uncle. "I'm sure if you need help figuring it out, that Dr. Watson here can help," he doesn't actually sound entirely convinced, and John growls at him a little. Mycroft's mouth twitches in a prelude to a smirk, pleased with his barb. "My direct number is programmed in there, should you have need of me. I took the liberty of putting Dr. Watson's number in as well." He hands it to Sherlock. "Texting and data streaming are enabled and limitless. I trust this will come in handy.
"I must go. I'll let you know as soon as I have analyzed CCTV records from last night. Perhaps I could be so presumptuous as to assume that I need to continue to be on the lookout for the lamp?"
Sherlock looks recalcitrant, as if caught out by an adult in a lie, but John isn't surprised that the shark-like intelligence of the man in front of them has successfully extrapolated that the lamp was stolen. John wants to laugh, but the situation is far too serious and surreal for that. He balances on his toes, ready for whatever may happen, and gets a sidelong, knowing look from the British Government.
"Perhaps it would ease you to be made aware at this juncture," Mycroft twirls his umbrella, "that I have no need for wishes. I have sufficient resources without magical assistance. Your lamp is safe from me."
Sherlock doesn't show measurable relief, but he does relax marginally. "I'll call you if I need you," he says, putting the phone on the desk behind him.
Mycroft nods formally at both of them, then and turns around, herding his assistant ahead of him. At the door he looks back at Sherlock, with the shadow of a smile, and says, "It is my pleasure to meet you at last, dear Uncle."
Sherlock simply stares. The door closes softly behind them.
As if drawn by a string, both John and Sherlock hurry over, opening the door to hear two sets of footsteps leaving the lower staircase.
Mycroft's voice floats up, "Very interesting men, my Uncle Sherlock and that soldier fellow. They will bear watching. Upgrade their surveillance to Level Three."
"What? Who?" Which is a surprising question from such a competent, lethal-looking woman, one who could speak so casually about meetings with MI5.
"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson."