A/N: Did I say regular Updates? I meant sporadically and uncertain updates that will take you by complete surprise when they happen :D

Chapter three

John was completely and utterly speechless. Oh sure Sherlock had rendered him "speechless" before. But he'd always come out of it with an "Amazing!" or a "Fantastic!". Now though, John had been rendered totally unable to utter a single syllable.

Around him, the room seemed to fade from existence. The camera still flashed and the officers still whispered but it all seemed like a dream to John. The kind dream you play specter instead of participant.

Jumbled thoughts ran rampant through the doctor's head, trying to piece together all of the parts to the puzzle to form one picture.

...blood...smear...struggle...Mycroft's DNA in blood...Mycroft's blood...dear god...

"Oh my god." John breathed in disbelief. He looked back and forth from Lestrade to Morrison. Shock written on his face. It wasn't true. This had to be a trick. "You think someone's murdered Mycroft Holmes?" he asked uncertainly.

All activity in the room halted to a sudden stop. Hearing the words out loud brought such a stillness that John could have sworn he was standing in a graveyard. He winced. Bad analogy. Lestrade coughed awkwardly and looked away from him. The rain echoed slightly as it bounced off of the tiled roof.

Guilt shimmered in Morrison's eyes. He cleared his throat softly. The sudden noise seemed to knock the room out of whatever stupor it's sunk into. Morrison sighed.

"We said, we hoped that it was murder, Dr. Watson. That's very different from thinking that it was murder-"

Lestrade interrupted angrily. "What more bloody evidence do you need?" he yelled. "Look at the state of this place! It looks like a bloody stampede of rhinos came through here! And the blood. If you hadn't noticed, it's bloody everywhere! It's enough to knock a person out cold if not kill them!" John had never heard such emotion in the Inspector's voice before. He was surprised to see the man was actually trembling.

"And why the hell would you wish him dead?" Lestrade spat in the corner's face. "What kind of heartless bastard-" John laid a hand on Lestrade's shoulder The other officers were now staring opening at the group. More whispering- most likely about them now. Though he felt the Inspector was wholly justified in his rage, someone needed to be the voice of reason here...

Morrison held up his hand in defense. "Consider who we are speaking about Inspector," he pleaded. "Has Mr. Holmes ever explained what he does for this country?" Neither man had an answer.

"I figured not. Let's just say that Mr. Holmes is one of governments most important officials. He knows things about people, and this country that would destroy its very foundations." He looked at the two men, willing them to understand. "If Mycroft Holmes hasn't been killed; then we have a very big problem on our hands."

The room quieted again as the gravity of the situation settled over the occupants.

John cleared his throat. "Well," he started. "You've made yourself very clear Dr. Morrison." He glanced over at Lestrade. His companion's face was pale, his eyes dull. He raised a brow. He hadn't realized that Mycroft and Lestrade had been so close. He turned back to Morrison. "Why us though? Mycroft's got a brother you know. Sherlock Holmes? Maybe you've heard of him? Consulting Detective?"

Morrison gave the doctor an amused stare. "Of course we know about Mr. Holmes the younger. Unfortunately; it wasn't his his brother he asked for." John's confusion multiplied ten fold.

"What are you saying?" he asked, confusion and anger mixing together and bubbling over. "That you want us to tell Sherlock that his older brother is probably-"

"Hopefully!" Morrison interjected. John glared at him.

"that his older brother has hopefully been murdered because if he hasn't, then the alternative is worse than we can even imagine." Morrison nodded once. John's eyes narrowed. "And this is what Mycroft wanted is it?" Lestrade said nothing. He stood still and stared numbly at the carpet.

Morrison nodded. "Yes, you two were specifically mentioned in his file as his witnesses." At the men's confused stare he explained. "Every high ranking official has one. If something... unsavory happens to them, then two witnesses are required to verify the death of said official."

John felt suddenly exhausted. "Yes, well nice of him to let us know." Then again, Mycroft wasn't really one to explain his plans to John. Preferring to instead hide out in old factories and abandoned warehouses...

He pressed his fingers to his temples in an attempted to stave off a fast growing headache. "Right, are we done here?"

Morrison nodded. "Yes, Dr. Watson." he said. John nodded in return and turned to start back the way they'd come.

"Dr. Watson, wait." John turned back to the coroner who was digging through his pockets. Morrison pulled out his billfold and took out a white business card. He held the card out for John to take.

"Perhaps we could meet sometimes under more pleasant circumstances?"

John was sorely tempted to just walk away but for propriety's sake, he gave the coroner a tight smile and practically snatched the card from his hand. Without looking at it, he shoved it into his back pocket.

"Well, thanks for that." he said, turning his back on the entire room. Just before he left the room, he turned back one last time and ask,

"Just so we're clear, why did Mycroft choose Lestrade and I over his own brother?" Morrison looked him steadily in the eye, his own guarded and replied,

"I don't know."

~SH~

John slid into the cab stoically. He told the driver his address and laid back against the padded leather seat. He thought about what he had just done and said.

Well truthfully, he wasn't actually thinking about Morrison, or Lestrade or the blood or even Mycroft.

No, the person who occupied his thoughts currently was Sherlock Holmes.

How was his brilliant, slightly sociopathic flatmate going to react when he learned that his brother might have been murdered?

He stared out the window, watching the the rain drops slid down the foggy glass, vague memories of Irene's death sifted through his head. Sad music and random outbursts of completely wrong deductions...

Then again, Irene hadn't really meant anything to Sherlock- well he didn't think she did anyway. This was his own brother...

Then again, Sherlock and Mycroft had never really got on with. They were constantly at odds with one another over something; well anything really. Briefly he wondered at why that could possibly be. He'd never bothered to ask his enigmatic friend and Sherlock being, well , Sherlock had never divulged much of his past.

Honestly, John had no friggen clue how he would reacted to the news. With Sherlock, anything was literally possible. On the one hand, the two brothers seemingly despised one another yet when it came to personal matters, they would do anything for the other

'Unless it happens to be Moriarty.' John thought bitterly. But he had made up for it when he, unbeknownst to John at the time, had sneaked his brother out of the country with Molly's help. He had given him money to live on and made sure that he always had a safe place to stay where ever he went.

And Sherlock, whether he would admit to it or not, would always solve the crimes that Mycroft set before him. It was almost...touching in a way. Neither one, it seemed was able to show affection in the normal way, so they did it in the only way they knew how.

The cab jostled him slightly as it hit a pothole in the road. John shook himself out the his daze.

One thing still bothered him though. Why had Mycroft chosen him of all people to be a witness? Lestrade he could see...sorta...since he was a detective inspector for Scotland Yard and as such had resources available to him that would be invaluable. Sherlock himself would have been the perfect choice for a situation like this.

But John? What was he good for? He was a doctor yes. But he required a body to be of any sort of use. All he'd seen at the crime was a massive blood puddle and a bloody-quite literally- hand print on the window. They might as well have given him a stick and told him to build Rome with it. Useless.

So why had he done it then? What was Mycroft playing at?

"We're here Sir." said the cabby, effectively cutting into John's jumbled thoughts. He blinked and and glanced owlishly out the window.

He was staring back up at 221 Baker Street.

"Sir?" asked the driver curiously. John shook his head and opened the door.

"Right," he said, stepping out of the car. "Um, how much do I owe you?" he asked, reaching for his wallet. The cabby waved it aside.

"Fare's already been paid. Someone by the name of "M" took care of it." John nodded silently, not even the slightest bit concerned about it. Must have been Anthea, he figured.

The ground beneath his feet crackled as he stepped away from the cab and it drove away. He looked up at the gloomy sky. Now dry for the time being.

He stopped just before he opened the door to the flat.

He was about to tell Sherlock, the only consulting detective in the world; Sherlock, who had one of the most brilliant minds in history but the personality of a small child. Sherlock Holmes, his best friend; that his brother could very well be dead...

He tried to squelch the guilt he felt at being the one to bring the news. It wasn't like he blamed himself or anything, after all, John hadn't been the one who killed the politician...

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

~SH~

Standing outside the door to 221B, John listened with baited breath for any sounds of movement from inside the flat. His hand rested on the door knob, poised at the ready.

'I'll just have to be blunt about it,' he thought. 'There's nothing else for it.' he took a deep breath and opened the door.

The flat looked basically the same as when he'd left that morning. Books and clothes strewn about. Empty Chinese take-our cartons laying about the floor and experiments bubbling away on the table in the coffeeless kitchen. John shook his head at the mess. They definitely needed to do some cleaning.

Making his way into the flat, he searched for being who was largely at fault for the hurricane.

"Sherlock?" he called. "I'm back..." he frowned and went into the living room. Perhaps he was still a the window, lost in thought.

He was about to cal out to him again when he spied him on the couch.

John blinked in surprise at the sight.

Sherlock was asleep.

A gentle smile crossed John's lips. 'And he said that he wasn't tired...' he thought in amusement.

The depressing piece of news sprang back up. John forced it firmly away and went down the hall to the detective's room. He grabbed a blanket off of his bed and wondered at the strange neatness of the room.

He made his way back to the living room, hoping that Sherlock hadn't woken up.

He hadn't, thank God. As John placed the blanket over him, Sherlock curled into its warmth and snuggled deeper into the couch. He sighed in complete contentment.

John knew that he should wake him but, somehow, it just didn't seem right to, with his features looking so innocent and peaceful. He sighed and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

He'd let him sleep for now... because he knew that when the latter woke, his friend probably wouldn't sleep again for a long time...

Chapter three/End