Chapter 2 – Time is a wooden door without a door knob

The paint brushes of time recolour all, but Sherlock remains unaltered. He is still the child whose best playmate was danger and whose worst nightmare was boredom. After all, time itself is like a wooden door without a door knob. We all know that the door exists; we see proof of it in our clocks and in the passing of seasons. But we only see a reflection of an alien ghost. Furthermore we claim to understand the very nature of time itself, yet nonetheless we keep looking for ways to open the door, to buy ourselves more time. It is odd that we, during this impossible conquest to gain entrance to the secrets behind the door, seldom take the obvious fact into consideration: that the door into the room of time will open when our own clocks have stopped. When we draw a line such as that, the great human race turn frail in our own eyes. All our scientific victories will end in one resounding defeat. A thought of such nature would intimidate ordinary people, though my brother would hardly fit that adjective. He is as oblivious of the twins time and death as a cloud covering the sky on a sunny day. But he forgets that he is as fragile as the wood that makes the door. And I am afraid that one day, his enemies will learn that even he cannot walk through fire. Unless he forms an alliance with those who can..

Hidden in a window well-placed above street level, a stoical figure observed as one of the doors in the vast black car parked on the other side of the street opened and a tall, powerfully built man in an undoubtedly quite expensive suit stepped out in the rain, which was angrily throwing itself at the desolate road of Baker Street. A secretive smile that bore a strange resemblance to a smirk came to life on the face behind the window, as the little fact he already had deducted was confirmed. The question was not who, when or why, but what.

When was obvious being the exclusive and luxurious black vehicle at the other side of the street, what it had brought to his doorstep was his brother Mycroft as it had done several times before, and why in connection with Mycroft Holmes was definitely not a riddle that took many seconds to solve; the British government, was once again out of its depth, as it always was. From time to time it could be a case itself in determining who were the most incompetent; the British police department with Lestrade and his useless minions making pandemonium, or the British government with Mycroft and his politicians getting themselves into both domestic and foreign diplomatic trouble. As his brother no longer could be seen from the window, Sherlock leaped over the little coffee table, pushing down several of Watson's much-treasured works treating various odd anatomical abnormalities, ran to his red chair by the fire, where he rapidly hid a shrunken head behind two books in the bookshelf (one of his friends had managed to get him the head as a replacement for Watson, when he was out doing his dull work at the clinic – he had quite a strong notion that neither his friend nor his elder brother would approve if they knew of it), covered the worst blood stains from his last experiment in seeing how long it took for human blood to seep through wood with a corner of the rugged carpet, grabbed Watson's mug with freshly-brewed tea and opened the day's paper, while he placed his feet on a stool and leaned back in the comfy chair. He was quite certain this little manoeuvre would delude his dull brother.

The tall figure halted in the doorway and let his attentive gaze wander around the dark room, before it rested on a familiar face. "What a pleasant surprise. My younger brother finally acting as an adult member of society." Mycroft smilingly observed and nodded towards the newspaper in Sherlock's hands, before he straightened himself up. "I had halfway expected you to be spying on me through that window." He added with the utmost civility, as he calmly stepped into the well-known and absurdly familiar living room of his brother's messy apartment, gently poking various misplaced objects and books on the floor with the tip of his umbrella as he made his way to the window, where his brother had been standing only minutes before his arrival. The fact that John Watson had moved it had obviously not made things less messy in 221B Baker Street, Mycroft mentally concluded. He would have been surprised if it had.

With an excessive amount of rattling paper and a great bit of annoyance, Sherlock managed to put the paper away and turned a disapproving look at his brother's back. "I had expected you to know better of me by now than to suspect me of having to bore myself with prying on you. I would learn nothing I do not already know of. Besides, unlike certain other people," he emphasized the word "certain" strongly in order to remind Mycroft of his hidden government projects before he continued, "I strongly disapprove of cloak and dagger work, unless it is actually called upon. Consulting detectives with homepages hardly strive to be stealthy." He sharply added, before he averted his gaze from Mycroft to the kitchen. God how people could be unnaturally half-witted at times. At times he wondered if it was considered a grand deviation to society rules to actually think and not just drift absently around with closed eyes, as he suspected most people of doing.

"At least I don't need to worry about you concerning yourself enough about me to keep an eye out for me. Though that is not really a revelation to any of us, is it?" he said with a faint smile. That bellicose brother of his would never change. "As your elder brother, I am still waiting for the day you choose to end this childish battle." Sherlock grimaced, as he replied: "And as your younger brother, I am still holding out for the day where you end your charade aspirations to become the world's new mastermind of diplomacy. Hopefully before I get a case involving you in it."

Mycroft ignored his harsh statement with years of practice as he turned around and looked for another person supposing to be in the room. "Speaking of concern, I do not see the one and only object of that limited concern of yours around. What have you done to John Watson? Bored with him already?" he asked and sounded as indifferent as if he was asking Sherlock about what time it was, but underneath the indifference genuine interest was man was part of his plan in coming here and baiting Sherlock. That army doctor was the best weapon Mycroft could use in his conquest to get his brother to help him. "Even Lestrade would have been able to deduct where he is without aid from the united police force." Sherlock replied and managed to withhold a sigh, before he walked back and let himself drop down in the comfy chair. "In the bookshelves and on the table, there are heaps of medical books, clearly saying that Watson still has his flat share here. Considering it being early evening he cannot possibly be at the clinic, not even for emergency calls, since that particular clinic doesn't take any. In case you didn't notice, his tea mug from Barts stood on the table – with steaming hot tea in it, telling us that it cannot have been more than ten minutes since the tea was made. Must be home, then." To emphasize his statement, Sherlock raised the mug. "Furthermore, there's the fairly suggestive fact that the bathroom door, which you passed on your way up here, was closed and you would have been able to hear running water. Since Mrs. Hudson followed you up, she cannot be the one using it – and I am in the room. Doesn't great political success require the slightest bit of intuition and deductive skills?" he said with unconcealed annoyance and got on his feet. He walked over to his brother with an absent smile.

"No need for pretences of good will now, Mycroft. Tell me of the case. This isn't a social call; else you wouldn't have come at this hour or in this weather." The youngest brother immediately concluded. Mycroft had always preferred the earlier hours of the day for social calls, when he could excuse himself with some governmental appointment having brought him here. And it was no great secret that his brother had always dreaded dirt and bad weather; he had, not unlike their late father, developed a hypersensitive (and to Sherlock ridiculous) sense of propriety and took good care of his expensive suits and that umbrella of his was mostly a trinket of display, not of practical use. He never got out when the elements were against him, not even in a car. Besides these obvious facts, Mycroft well knew that he wasn't very welcome in Baker Street. The further away Mycroft was, the better off was Sherlock in his own eyes.

Mycroft shrugged. He might as well get straight to the heart of the matter. "As you of course are aware of, this is a matter of diplomatic importance to us I entrust you with. This cannot get further than Watson and you. Not even Scotland Yard can know that we need you on this case." He informed, but Sherlock merely smiled at him. "What makes you think I might even be interested in solving a diplomatic puzzle, where you have thrown the pieces away for yourself? The last time I accepted one of your "cases", I was left with a body lying on rail road tracks and the task of finding a microchip with secret plans." he asked with a slightly mocking edge to the question. "That chip has by the way found eternal shelter in water, in case you hadn't been informed."

Now it was Mycroft's turn to smile, an artificial grimace suitable for a funeral. "I am glad that you remember the Bruce-Partington plans. Do you also remember a certain gentleman who wanted to get his hands on those plans?" Mycroft gravely asked. All signs of pleasantness vaporised from Sherlock's face, and he attentively looked at his brother. Moriarty. The potentially most dangerous man in the criminal world. The greatest challenge of all. Especially since he knew so much about him and Watson. Last time he had almost managed to kill Watson and him, and it was actually thanks to Lestrade that they had been pulled out of there in time. Gentleman was the right word for that scoundrel, though Moriarty's sense of abiding the law might be a bit twisted. And he was still roaming free out there, leaving his mark on every single misdeed in the criminal classes. You just had to know how it looked.

Mycroft continued, taking Sherlock's sudden silence as a suitable reply. "As you undoubtedly already know, it has long been rumoured that the government has been playing some role in the closure of the Blackfriars Tube Station. That rumour is halfway true. When it was shut down for maintenance two years back, it was done so at a convenient time. On the very evening the station had been sealed off for public intrusion, the Prime Minister received an anonymous letter with a photograph in it, requesting one of our best intelligence agents and one of my closest friends Amery Merwick, to go down into the sealed-off tube and collect the much sought Retribution Act, which we lost back in '98. The list of all the former agents we dismissed from duty due to mental instability and who are probably more than willing to finish off a couple of us diplomats. What convinced us was the enclosed photograph. It was an image of one of the lifts, where the plans lay wide open. Amery never came back that day, and we have been trying to open the station again. We have only completed outer maintenance, but we cannot get down into the tube station itself. It seems like someone has overruled the government's control with the tube station and has locked it off. The codes we enter are invalid. Sherlock, someone has access to the station, which ought to be sealed off completely. I think it is your professor Moriarty who has snatched the station out of our hands, though it puzzles me how he did it." Mycroft said, and with an exhausted sigh, he sat down on the corner of the table. Sherlock looked at him. "Interesting little puzzle, Mycroft, but where do I get in? What does it matter to me? You do know I hardly ever venture into a tube." Sherlock argued, and snatched Watson's cup of tea.

Mycroft smiled faintly, as he produced a letter from one of his pockets. "We received another letter with a new photograph enclosed. It was also from Blackfriars, and it was one with the plans. But this time the sender requests Mr. John H. Watson to meet him down in the station by midnight next Friday. And for old friendship's sake he allows him to bring his military pistol and one small bottle of digitalis poison. He might consider making an exception and letting him die a quick but painful death." The elder brother looked up at Sherlock, whose face had become blanched in an instant. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes will receive his own invitation on Sunday." Mycroft handed him the letter, and the young detective took it. The last sentence in the bottom of the white paper said in red ink: "We both know absence makes the heart grow fonder, pet detective, but in your case this little separation will hopefully kill your blanched heart off for good. You killed mine long ago and I owe you in return. That's what real friends do, you know: get close enough to your heart so they can pierce it, bury it and make a grand treasure hunt out of it. Just for fun! Poor doctor. You will inflict a wound beyond mending when he sees you won't be coming to his rescue. Trust. A gift you so recklessly toy with. Even if you should live a thousand years, you'll never find it again. Remember, Sherlock?"