9. The feeling of being caught with one's pants down

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Lestrade? I was in the middle of a covert investigation when this bumbling idiot walked in and dragged me out!"

Sherlock, fidgeting about in the back of the car, was furious where he should have been grateful, at least in Anderson's opinion. "Covert my foot, without me that bloke would've blown your head off any moment."

"Without you he'd never pulled that weapon in the first place!"

"Now listen to me, freak….."

"For God's sake tell him to be quiet Lestrade or I don't know what I'm going to do!"

This did it. The car came to an abrupt halt that almost sent the two squabbling backbenchers through the windscreen when the DI jammed on the brakes. "Shut up, both of you. Or you can walk home!"

Donovan, besides Lestrade the only one who'd used her safety belt according to regulations, was unruffled by the sudden manoeuvre. As the two on the back seat were silent – doubtlessly due to the fact that the weather wasn't very nice and they were very far away from urban civilization – she put her two cents in. "I've always said freak's not worth rescuing."

"That applies to you too!" Lestrade growled at her. "You make me sick, all of you. Just in case you're interested Sherlock, Mycroft has risked his hide to get you out and as to your investigation, the "evidence" you mailed to yourself is a lot of crap. You've made a complete asshole of yourself, so if I were you, I'd zip it!"

Sherlock paled, partly with anger but also with embarrassment. So Voldemort had had his way with Harry Potter once more! It had always been a possibility but even so the Detective had hoped... What made things much worse was that Mycroft had thought it necessary to let Lestrade in on everything. Come to think of it – how much of this private Holmes disaster had the inspector revealed to his two idiotic aides?

It was an unfamiliar, actually an unique impression in the younger Holmes' life but he just wished he was Harry Potter, with a broomstick to ride away on or at least a conjurer's wand to create a deep hole in which he could vanish, here and now. Possibly before he had to travel on to London in this special company. Most surely before he had to face his elder brother about this whole messy affair.

Or John Watson.

Oh God, John! Who gave a damn about Moriarty's reassurances that his flatmate would be safe? After all, the criminal had said it himself: "I'm soooooo changeable."

"Lestrade, John needs protection. He has no idea…."

"And you would like to keep it that way I shouldn't wonder" the DI snapped back. "We're not the total dimwits you take us for, you know? 221B Baker Street is under police protection since the moment Mycroft first spoke with me. And no, nobody told John Watson nothing about anything, as always. Happy?"

"Yes" confirmed Sherlock grudgingly. The "Thanks" that was already on his lips he swallowed. Perhaps he'd say it to Mycroft. If elder brother would talk to him at all, ever again. Funny that there had been times when he'd wished Mycroft would get lost at sea or something. Suddenly the perspective wasn't so very enticing any more.

All in all, Sherlock decided that he'd had better days. Or weeks. At a complete loss as to what to say he put his best enigmatic face on and said nothing at all.

Which, by all appearances, was perfectly fine with the unnerved DI.

Donovan's gaze wandered from one to the other, grazed the sulking pathologist and came back to her boss. "Can we go on now? Please?"

Lestrade nodded. Just once and very briskly. But he started the car and they were on their way again.

Naturally the peace didn't last long. "Anybody to tell me what this talk of "Mycroft" was all about?" Anderson complained.

"NO!" Three voices shouted it and through all the ringing in his ears the pathologist thought that maybe this question had been a very bad idea. He returned to silent sulking which did wonders for the emotional climate inside the car.

Sherlock breathed easier after that. At least he could be sure that "Anderson-wouldn't-work-with-me-and-thank-heaven-for-that" was as clueless as always about anything. Apparently the DI had thought of protecting the Consulting Detective's reputation even if elder brother had not. Good old Lestrade, he wasn't so bad after all. Not that sherlock would ever tell him that.

Neither would Lestrade profit much from the secret warm feelings Sherlock harboured for him. They had driven on silently for a few minutes and the DI had just begun to relax a bit when his favourite disturber of the peace raised his presumptuous, black-curled head again. "Oh, Anderson, before I forget: I was right about the killer and the waste water system. He's dead, by the way."

A distraught DI rolled his eyes heavenwards. If Holmes needed an outlet for his frustration and awkwardness, fine, but why Anderson? Why not anyone a poor underpaid civil-servant named Gregson Lestrade would not have to console afterwards? "Congratulations, Sherlock" the Inspector tried to silence the pathologist's personal nemesis. "We gathered that much; - would you believe it? - all on our own from the body when he was washed up by the Thames yesterday."

"I thought I'd mention it" Sherlock murmured. For once he sounded truly chastised and subdued and Lestrade was humbly grateful for small, miraculous mercies.

The three policemen inhaled deeply to avoid sighs of relief when the car reached its destination and Anderson opened the door on Sherlock's side. "We've arrived, Your Highness. Time to alight from the carriage."

"That's not Baker Street!"

"I'm always impressed with the quickness of your mind." That was Lestrade once more. "Your brother awaits. Get off!"

Briefly Holmes hesitated. Furtively, under his lashes, he scrutinized the Inspector's face in the driver's mirror. There might be a chance to persuade him to go to Baker Street after all ….. Obviously, there was not. These set jaws, the angry frown…. No, there was nothing for it, Sherlock had to grin and bear it.

The very moment he'd left the car the door banged shut behind him and Lestrade drove off with screeching tyres. "Thanks for the friendly support" Sherlock thought sourly. He eyed the building façade in front of him. "The Diogenes Club"! That was all he needed. Every single one of the stuffy good-for-nothing half-senile silence lovers in this club loathed Mycroft Holmes' younger brother, for enough reasons to fill a special edition of the Times and every reason was a solid one.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and entered the distinguished premises, only to be apprehended by a visibly worried servant: "Mr. Holmes is in the library Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock filed the face away in his head, category "idiot, extreme". His long legs gave him a decisive advantage and he reached the first floor library well before the puffing servant could catch up with him. "Hello, brother dear" he said boldly when he spotted Mycroft by the whiskey trolley. Was that a quadruple in the meticulously manicured hand?

"Ah, the prodigal son returns" Mycroft remarked with hatefully overbearing benevolence – and a smile to match it.

Sherlock bit his lower lip angrily and looked away, which gave Mycroft an opportunity to quickly look his younger sibling over. The little one seemed well enough. Thank heaven for that. But on the other hand… "Really, Sherlock, next time you feel the urge to treat yourself to an S&M-Camp outing you could tell your twisted friends to keep me and Her Majesty's Secret Service out of it. The photos I received were a trifle degoutant."

"It was nothing" Sherlock muttered, crestfallen despite his resolve to stand his ground "just a stupid tattoo".

"A tattoo? You got yourself a tattoo? And while you were at it you told these criminals all about me and our family?" Mycroft said disbelievingly. "For God's sake, Sherlock, how old are you?"

Writhing with awkwardness Sherlock wanted to reply "it wasn't like that." But then Mycroft would say "then how was it?" to which Sherlock would have to reply "he just fooled me" to which Mycroft would say "only fools are fooled" at which Sherlock would naturally take offence, and then the conversation would become heated and then Mycroft would take offence and then …Oh, hell, he might as well get it over with on a short-cut. "I'm sorry Mycroft. My fault."

"Indeed it was. Really, I do have a mind to give you a good thrashing as if you still were a child. Do you have any idea what hell would break lose if my superiors knew what I gave this criminal to bail you out?" Mycroft emptied his glass and, to Sherlock's profound dismay, poured himself another quadruple. "And you told him that Mommy called me sweet shanks or stuffy bunny!" the elder brother added accusingly and for some complicated, quite irrational reason that was the most hurtful accusation of all.

Naturally it made Sherlock walk up the wall. "He…. Moriarty I mean, he wanted me to stay for a few days and I thought – he said it would be just a lark and I thought I could find some evidence for Lestrade to bring him behind bars for good. The sooner he's off the road the better it'll be"

Sherlock wasn't good at apologizing at the best of times. One apology per year was the best he had to offer. And here was elder brother, clearly striving for a second and a third one in barely five minutes.

And Mycroft hadn't finished yet. "Evidence! You call that evidence. All the data you got out of him was crap. My people went over it, bit by bit. The accounts, the lists of names – all fakes, not one piece of valid information. He wanted you to steal these data! First he lured you into his trap; then he fooled you into believing that you could outsmart him and finally he blackmailed me into giving him the Crown Jewels of the information age. Well done, little brother, a fine piece of work indeed."

"Nobody asked you to risk your neck for me!"

"Sherlock, he said he'd kill you."

"Why didn't you give him some crap in return, eh? Who said you had to give him the real thing?"

"For all I knew he'd tortured you until you fainted. I couldn't be sure that Lestrade would cut you out."

"And if Moriarty'd skinned me alive what business is it of yours? Why should you care?"

Mycroft stared at the younger one, winded and speechless. "Last time" he finally managed to get out "last time I checked you were my brother."

"Well I wish I weren't. I wish I was an only child." Sherlock turned on his heel and marched out without a second look for his brother.

Damn Mycroft that he always had to overdo it. Sherlock had been perfectly willing to give in. He'd marched to Canossa and back on his knees. Twice, had Mycroft asked him to. But to put that kind of pressure on him, to cause this Himalaya of a guilty conscience – it was too much demanded.

And damn Moriarty for outsmarting both the elder and the younger brother. Someday, somehow the Consulting Criminal would pay for that. Oh yes, he'd rue the day he'd first met Sherlock Holmes!

Evil thoughts of gothic revenge loomed in Sherlock's mind like black clouds that heralded a raging storm of devilish destruction. In this unhealthy state of mind he could hardly be held accountable for his actions and so it happened that he arrived at 221B in a cab without a penny on his person.

Which wasn't exactly to the cabby's liking. "Listen mate, me money or there'll be trouble. Of the bone-breaking sort."

"Mrs Hudsooooon" Sherlock roared while he drummed against the door for all he was worth. As much as he'd liked to vent his anger on a careless cabby he didn't think the police would take well to it. And one dispute with The Yard was enough for one day.

Finally the landlady opened the door, beaming from one ear to the other with glee. "Sherlock, you're back at last….."

"Pay the cab, will you?" snapped Holmes and off he was, up the stairs and into his living room, with only one wish in his head, to dive into his favourite chair and stay there, without seeing or hearing or talking or listening to anyone at all for a very, very long time.

Alas, it wasn't meant to be. "Oh Sherlock, you're back" John sniffed. He sat in Sherlock's chair tightly wrapped up in blankets, his feet propped up on the second chair. "I'm fine by the way, thanks for asking." Sniff-sniff-sniff. "Even more thanks for bringing me that stuff from the drugstore you promised to fetch when you went out four days ago, saying you'd be back in two hours." More sniffing and a weak cough for good measure. "I knew I could always rely on my friend Sherlock Holmes in my hour of need!"

Sherlock lowered his head and closed his eyes. "This is too much" he thought again "it is just too much. Why me? Why always me?" Truth be told, he felt like sniffing too right now. Maybe he'd better stayed with Moriarty?

"Oh don't you worry" John rattled on meanwhile "a severe influenza is nothing to worry about after all. Just a 41 C fever for days, some headache, hardly worth mentioning. No trouble at all for Mrs. Hudson though. She loved doing the fetchin' and carryin' for me whilst you were out enjoying yourself, what with her bad hip and all…"

Right on cue the landlady appeared in the doorframe. "Sherlock I wouldn't say it under normal circumstances but 60 ₤ for the cab – I'm a bit pressed for cash….."

Her eyes widened innocently when she looked at Sherlock's darkening face. "You'd not say he cheated me into giving him too much?"

With two quick strides Holmes was at the mantelpiece, took a hundred pounds note out of a casket and pressed it into her hands. "Keep the change!"

She protested loudly and Holmes could barely hear John coughing "that's my money, Sherlock…." The very same instant the telephone in the kitchen rang loudly through the house and outside a car backfired which caused an alarmed scream of Mrs. Hudson's, John got another coughing fit – and Sherlock knew that he had had enough.

Barely two minutes later he found himself in another cab, with his credit card safely tucked away in his pocket.

On his arrival he paid the cabby off, climbed the few steps to the entrance and then the stairs up to the first floor.

It was as if Mycroft hadn't budged at all in the meantime. Without the slightest surprise he watched his brother's entry. "Back so soon?" was all he said.

"You once wanted me to join The Diogenes Club" replied Sherlock, nervously drumming his fingers on his hip. "You think there's still a chance?"

"Hardly" said Mycroft with a cocked brow. "Think of the scandal it would cause. All these feet shuffling. Some older traditionalist members might even clear their throats. In public! We couldn't allow that to happen, could we."

"How can you do it, Mycroft?" Sherlock suddenly burst out. "All these plain ordinary people at your office, the staff meetings, the briefings, the debriefings, the de-de- the pre- and the post-briefings, sitting around a tea trolley, all the useless, senseless, brainless talk-talk-talk – how do you cope?"

"Why do you think I became a member of the only obligatory silent club in London?" Mycroft asked back, mildly amused. "And besides – I've been through a hard schooling since childhood. You know, I'm not an only child."

Sherlock felt a grin spread on his face, much against his will, yet irresistible. "No rest for the wicked, eh? Not anywhere."

"You could always have a cup of tea with me in here. Tell me what you know about this Moriarty fellow and what he wants from you and John."

Sherlock stood rigidly upright and silent for a second before he distorted his mouth as if he'd bitten into a lemon. Finally he sat down opposite his brother and looked everywhere except at Mycroft.

The tea was served. "I'll be mother" the elder brother said out of habit when he poured it and Sherlock snorted derisively, likewise out of habit.

Two cucumber sandwiches, one biscuit and three cups of Darjeeling First Flush later Sherlock suddenly muttered, quite out of the blue, "thanks, Mycroft. For everything."

"You're welcome" the elder one softy replied. "You always are."

This made for another three-sandwiches pause in the conversation.

Subsequently Sherlock pulled himself together, inhaled deeply and said: "About James Moriarty…."

"He's going to regret that he has been born" said Mycroft.

He was rewarded with a toothy grin, garnished with tiny slices of cucumber. "My thoughts exactly. Seems we're brothers after all."

Hours later, Sherlock had at last mustered the courage to give 'home sweet home' another try, Mycroft took up his mobile for what he hoped would be the last time today. "Hello, John? Yes, he's on his way to Baker Street as we speak. Whatever you did to drive him mad it worked a treat. Can you imagine, he even asked for Club membership. I owe you one."

Mycroft listened briefly before he continued "no I don't think I'll have sleepless nights about the information I gave to Moriarty. All these people deserve everything the Consulting Criminal has in store for them, and more."

The call ended on a very amiable note. "Good night, John. Take care of my little brother, his feathers have been cruelly ruffled. And, if possible, do not only watch his back, have a look at it, too."

It was way past midnight when Mycroft left The Diogenes Club and walked home. He smiled a bit when he thought of all the naughty boys and girls he had had on his files for ages without any chance to make them pay for their wickedness. Tomorrow, at breakfast, in their posh houses or hotels, they would find Moriarty's message under their golden plate: Pay day.

True enough, Mycroft had sweated cold when he had binned the criminal's list of names and firms. Instead Moriarty had got data about the people Mycroft thought deserving of the Consulting Criminal's tender attention, even though the picture of what this disobedience might do to his brother had been foremost on the elder Holmes' mind.

But all was well now. Moriarty would do the dirty work the Secret Service was too precious and too noble to do and in the end the Criminal Mastermind would do what people like him always did – he would overreach himself. "Wenn's dem Esel zu gut geht, geht er auf's Glatteis" was an old German saying and it was true for almost all people.

The Consulting Criminal would make the tiniest mistake – and then the Holmes brothers would have their revenge.

James Moriarty stood no chance. After all, the man was just an only child.

A/N: That was it, people, the final chapter. Just an epilogue yet to come and then the story will be complete. Let us know what to you think, reviews are always very welcome. By the way, the German saying Mycroft thinks of roughly translates as :"If the donkey is too happy he'll go skating and break his legs."