Chapter 6: Medusa

John was fairly sure he knew who was behind this, and the thought caused a cold sweep of rage to swamp him. But he couldn't be entirely sure, so he kept his mouth shut, knowing that if he tried to escape he'd never make it, anyway. And besides, Mycroft had never kidnapped him so dramatically; the first time had been subtle: payphones ringing as he passed them; CCTV cameras following his every move; a sleek, shiny car with tinted windows gliding up the pavement.

He could hear the purring of the car's engine through the bag that they'd dragged over his head, could feel it through his skin, even. He could make out the vague shape of two men in the car with him and the thought occurred that he bloody hoped that it was Mycroft orchestrating this. He had made such a mistake before, and had been faced with The Woman instead.

All the muscles in his body tensed when the car came to a stop. He supposed he'd now find out precisely who was behind this, and what they wanted with him.

He didn't struggle when they hefted him out of the car, into the cold, winter air, and he didn't lash out when they cut the cable ties binding his hands and whipped the cloth bag off his head.

Instead, he glowered at the man who'd ordered the whole thing.

"Hello John." His voice was as calm as it had been the first time they'd met; calm, and just a little bit mocking, "It's been a long time."

"Not long enough." John retorted sharply, his hands fisting at his sides as he watched his captors retreat to a discreet distance. No emotion showed on Mycroft Holmes' face at John's hostility, he merely studied the pointed end of his ever-present umbrella. "How have you been?" he asked, his tone completely, neutrally cordial.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" John snapped, definitely not in the mood to deal with Sherlock's elder brother.

"What do you know about 'Medusa'?" Mycroft enquired, his tone all politeness. A mirthless laugh escaped John: "I don't believe this. You sent your own little private army to smash my door down so that you could get me to tell you about a mythological woman with snakes in her hair, who can turn people into stone?"

"No, John." The umbrella tip hit the ground with an exasperated tap, "I arranged this meeting so that you could tell me if you've been contacted by a Hacker under the alias 'Medusa'."

"Well, I haven't." John said shortly, "And you do realise that you're going to be paying to have that door replaced, don't you?" he hoped that Mycroft didn't detect his lie – well, half-lie – it wasn't like the person that had taken over his computer had given their name, though, funnily enough, they had anticipated that this would happen. Equally strangely, he felt much more kindly disposed to that Hacker than to the man stood opposite him, in his bland, three-piece suit and overcoat.

When Mycroft didn't press further, he had to keep himself from breathing a sigh of relief.

"I take it you haven't heard from Sherlock, either." Mycroft murmured, his eyes boring into John's digging for the truth.

"Of course I haven't heard from Sherlock. The man has been dead for two years. Or have you just completely lost the plot?" Acknowledging the jibe with only a condescending roll of his eyes, Mycroft proceeded:

"My personal computer was recently hacked into, and I was left a delightful little note by 'Medusa'. Upon investigation, it seems that, over the past two years, many people have had like messages, including persons of my own acquaintance. And all of the messages pertain to Sherlock. Rather odd, don't you think, John?"

Blinking, John remembered what he'd been told: I think you should know that he never truly died.

"John?"

"You don't think I'm 'Medusa' do you?" he asked, injecting incredulity into his tone, knowing perfectly well that Mycroft knew that he wasn't. "Your flippancy isn't helping." Mycroft replied coldly, "The extent of your programming skills is writing that blog-which I notice you haven't updated since Sherlock fell-"

"Do you have any sensitivity whatsoever?"

"The only person who has ever been able to hack into my personal computer was Sherlock. And that was only because he was able to deduce his way through my security. And I am certain that Sherlock is not the one disguising himself as 'Medusa'"

"Maybe you need to up your security, then." John smirked.

"Evidently." Mycroft said coldly. He knew what John Watson thought of him, and he agreed. But certain things had come to light in the last two years, which had left Mycroft Holmes mildly perturbed, especially so, recently, because despite all of his best efforts, he hadn't been able to track down 'Medusa'. The long and short of it was that he felt ignorant and impotent, and he didn't like the feeling at all.

John was lying. He knew it. He also knew that it would simply be counter-productive to haul the man in for questioning. So he let him go back to his little flat with the assurance that his door would be replaced the following day.

John, however, didn't stay in his flat, that night; instead, he grabbed his laptop and paid a visit to 221b Baker Street. He had this feeling in his gut; something big, something wonderful, something terrible was going to happen, and he needed to be here. Never mind that the door to 221b hadn't been destroyed by Mycroft's goons.

Sherlock's chemistry equipment had been packed away, just as Mrs Hudson said, and had been donated to a school. Except the microscope; they'd found an engraving on that which meant that it had to be kept safe:

Dearest Sherlock,

For your 21st birthday,

Mummy

His skull, however, remained in pride of place on the mantelpiece, grinning at the empty sitting room.

As John sat down in his chair, he nodded and said hello to "Skeletor". He then opened his laptop and pulled up his blog. As Mycroft has observed, he hadn't touched it since the 16th of July two years ago, and the hit counter was still at 1895 (he hadn't been bothered about getting that fixed).

Feeling a brilliant, inexplicable, sizzling feeling in heart, he typed: "Hello, long time no see. Something is going to happen. I can't tell you what, how or why, but I know that something is going to happen."

After that, he just stared at the computer screen. It was half-past two in the morning and he had to get up for work, soon, but he didn't care. A mysterious, inexplicable grin curled around his mouth when, despite his having disabled comments, a comment appeared from 'Medusa':

"Hello Dr. Watson, it's good to know you think so."

Author's Note: Hmm…what do you think? Have I got John right? Have I got Mycroft right? Am I going in the right direction?

Also, the soundtrack for this one is Sweet Dreams by Emily Browning.