In the end, I still own nothing except the mafia twist. Cudos to whoever knows where the first line of this chapter comes from.
The beginning...
In the end we are all stories. All that matters is how good a read you make, maybe you are a best seller or maybe you are a flop. The story starts when you are conceived and ends when the last person speaks your name...
"John!" Harry shouted, slamming the door unnecessarily, "I'm home!"
John, who had been in the basement responded with a curt, "No, really?" Harry laughed as she made her way to the cellar, carelessly flinging her coat and umbrella to the side.
"Always the funny one, aren't you?" She asked without expecting an answer. "What ya doin' down here?"
John looked up to were his sister had stopped on the steps, "Fixing a couple of things. You did say to prepare-whoever makes the first correct move wins, sister dear. Even your elementary knowledge of chess can tell you that."
Harry grinned and leaned on the cellar's stair's railing, "I think of it more as poker, who ever has the best bluff wins." John shook his head and motioned his sister deeper within the cellar. He had a familiar shape nestled in his arms, that even as a babe Harry would have recognised.
"Who's the client?" John quiered, interest to know if his guess had been correct. The fact it was 'that' flat that had been asked for all but confirmed it.
Harriet does not answer, "What are you working on? I know I keep all my guns in good repair."
John looks down at the weapon in his arm and shrugs, "I find cleaning them to be very relaxing. I might have done a couple of things with some stuff I picked up in the army too." Harry smiles at him fondly, not moving from her spot.
"Welcome back to the family, John."
"Glad to be back." A smirk flicks between them, their first move planned and brought to action without a word.
Every problem has two sides...
Silence is golden. Secrets are made to be broken just like glass. Tread with caution, one false step ends it all.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft wearily asked from the bottom of steps. Sherlock did not answer but anyone could tell from the noise that he was in the flat.
"I've come to talk to you about your former flatmate." A snarl was heard from upstairs and Mycroft knew that he had heard. "You know his name is not actually John Hamish Watson?"
Sherlock, in his fully coated glory, appeared at the top of the stairs, "Go away, Mycroft."
Mycroft pretended not to hear him, "It was one of his three birth names, and the one closest to the truth. The Watson family actually fully adopted the name, creating a legal looking history sixteen days after his birth. Harriet was almost named Annabelle, and John easily could have been Samuel or Alphonso." Sherlock came face to face with his brother.
"Out of the house!" He yelled, "Out! I don't give a fuck who he was or could have been. He's my flatmate and my friend which happens to be, correct me if I'm wrong, none of your damn business."
Mycroft was not moved by his brother's anger, "Emotions are not an advantage," He reminded the former detective. "Caring will get you no where."
"Caring kept the Watson family on top of the crime syndicate for three generations and allowed it to be untouched by Moriarty." Sherlock reported stiffly. "It worked for them well enough that no one can touch them. I'd like to see you try and tell them that caring is not an advantage." Mycroft opened his mouth to say something but Sherlock beat him to it, "I already know about yours and Harriet's roundevou. I'll warn you now, you've started a game you can't win." Sherlock marched, backwards, up the stairs, keeping his face to Mycroft the whole time. "You might be Britain but the Watsons are London. You've played into their hand and I can't say I much feel like helping you escape. John can take care of his damn self, I know I can get him back when I need to." Mycroft paled at this and Sherlock smirked, "Oh, Mortuary, what a quaint little shop. A place you can go so that you don't exist. Drop as much as you can and people will delete you so well that you'll forget you exist. Don't you remember that little rhyme? Mortuary/ Oh place of sleep/ What secrets keep?/ Silence be not key/ This be plain to see/ Dead talk/ But not to the living/ Dead walk/ But for themself/ Dead dine/ But not with wine/ Oh, Mortuary/ Do you dead keep?" His cryptical puzzle delivered Sherlock disappeared, leaving Mycroft at the foot of the stairs very much disturbed.
"Do you not know the rest?" Mycroft asked a silent flat. "Oh, Mortuary/ Crypts of gold/ Coffins for the cold/ Dead to keep/ Fall asleep/ Place of light/ Forget thy plight/ Lay down/ With thy broken crown/Sleep away/ Do not wake with day." No answer, not even a sound from upstairs and so Mycroft turned to leave.
He stopped at the sound of shuffling and a question, "Is that a child's fairytale?"
Mycroft shakes his head, not turning to face Mrs. Hudson, "No, Mrs. Hudson, a riddle from our childhood. Mummy used to tell it to us all the time."
"And what was that mother's name? I do think she knew that family, rather well if the riddle is anything to go by." Mycroft raised an eyebrow, hand raised to the doorknob.
"Meredith Emelia Holmes is her only name. And yes, she used to be a runner for them and in the end she still would have given her life for them." Mycroft sighed and looked to the closed door of 221B. "I'm afraid that is one of their many gifts, emotional manipulation. I fear he may have fallen prey to the wiles of a Watson." He shook his head, mourning the loss of a family member.
Mrs. Hudson grinned, "It's not him I'm worried for." She retreated to her own rooms and Mycroft left, not at all worried about the senile landlady with strange ideas. If he had thought to turn around he might have noticed a familiar glimmer in her eyes. Her beloved and dead husband had been one of the many rivals of the Watson clan and she knew how good they were. She would have to remind John not to shoot up her walls, insurance refused to cover it now a days.