Chapter four

Despite what John might have thought, Sherlock had not been sleeping as deeply as he appeared.

Truthfully, he'd collapsed on the couch nearly as soon as his flatmate had walked out the door. And gotten into the black unmarked car. And he had woken up as soon as he'd heard John's footsteps on the stairs, He could always tell when it was John. The man always walked with quick purposeful steps. Today though, there was something different.

John steps were still quick, still purposeful...yet there was a slight hesitation in them. It was almost as if he was afraid to come into the flat. Sherlock listened carefully just to be sure that he wasn't mistaken. For one, he was home far too early. By his estimate, the doctor had left approximately 2.8 hours ago for work and wasn't do home for another 7.2 hours still.

"Perhaps he's not well?" he thought as the door opened and closed.

"Sherlock?" John called out wearily. "I'm back." Sherlock didn't respond. He was more concerned with his friend's tone of voice.

'He's tired,' he thought. 'like he's been dealing with patients all day, but he's only been gone for close to three hours. He's sluggish and hesitant. The black car that picked him up today was obviously one of Mycroft's so I can only assume that whatever my brother said to him has left him upset and tired.'

He was about to call out to his friend when he felt something warm and soft cover him.

'A comforter, mine by the smell of it,' he thought as he unconsciously pulled it closer around himself. ' Whatever it is can wait I suppose. John doesn't seem all that worried about it, so it can't be all that important. Mycroft is probably just being a twat again, nothing new there...' he thought, drifting back off into a light slumber.

He was awoken several hours later by his mobile phone going off. He immediately sat up and pulled it from the table beside him.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered, drowsily glancing out the window- nighttime; eight o'clock it looked like.

Lestrade's voice came across the other line, sounding more weary and exasperated than normal. He noticed a note sadness in it as well.

"I promised I wouldn't call today," he started. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Typical useless Yarders. "Especially given the news you've had today, but I really need your eyes on this case."

Sherlock frowned. News? What news? He hadn't spoken to John earlier. Bad idea?

"What kind of news Lestrade?" he asked, momentarily forgetting about the case. There was a pause on the other line.

"John hasn't told you yet?" The D.I. asked slowly. Sherlock was beginning to get annoyed.

"No, I was asleep when he came home. What news, Inspector, could potentially be so devastating that you felt that I wouldn't be able to work on a case?"

Silence met him on the other end once again. Finally, ever so quietly, Lestrade said, "Sherlock, Mycroft is dead..."

~SH~

John walked up the stairs for the second time that day. If at all possible, he was feeling even worse than he had been earlier.

He couldn't believe that he'd nearly forgotten to go on to work after Mycroft's!

How thankful was he that Sarah was so very understanding of the situation. All he'd had to say was "Sherlock" and she'd waved him on without a single question.

As it happens, it was a horribly boring day at the clinic anyway. And wasn't he thankful for that as well It gave him time to think about what he was suppose to tell Sherlock about his brother.

Now back at home for good that night, the same question bounced around his brain and still he'd come up with no satisfactory solution.

He sighed as he reached the door and noticed the light peeking underneath. 'Guess he's up then,' he thought. 'Probably absorbed in one of his many experiment.' he chuckled lightly as he turned the doorknob. 'Probably hasn't had a single bit to eat all day, knowing him.'

He walked into the flat and was surprised to see his flatmate sitting in his arm chair with his knees drawn up to his chest, hand folded as if he were praying.

To anyone who didn't know the detective well, their first thought would indeed be this. But to John, who counted himself among the privileged few who could call him their friend, knew that the only higher power that Sherlock was speaking to was that of his own mind.

On the table beside him lay his phone. A sinking feeling bubbled in his stomach.

"Um, hello," he said awkwardly. He got no response from the man on the couch. "And what have you done today?"

Without moving from his position, Sherlock said tonelessly, "I got up." John nodded.

"Right well, that was productive of you wasn't it?" he said sarcastically. He didn't miss the brief quirk at the corners of Sherlock's mouth.

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock said abruptly, " Lestrade has a case for us. Murder downtown. Sounded like a five but I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt. What did Mycroft want?" He opened his eyes fully and stared at his flatmate intently. John coughed nervously.

A case? Already? And he wasn't even going to ask how Sherlock had know he'd been at Mycroft's.

"Um, well you know..." he answered weakly. "The usual..." Sherlock nodded.

"And was there a lot of blood?" he asked. John nearly choked.

"Sorry, what?" he asked. He was seriously confused now. What was he talking about?

"Lestrade just called," Sherlock explained. "He told me. So was there a lot of blood?"

Lestrade. John had forgotten the inspector had been at the house as well.

"Sherlock I-" Sherlock raised an eyebrow which was much more effective than any look could possibly be.

"It's fine John." he said. His tone was low, almost empty like he was trying to sound disinterested in the whole thing.

The silence that now filled the flat was awkward. At least it was for John.

After about a minute of this, in which Sherlock had gone back to his "thinking" position, John pursed his lips and said, "So... Mycroft is dead... how are we feeling about that?"

Sherlock said nothing at first, but John could see a distinct tightening in his stance. Unnoticeable by an outsider.

"Not possible." he replied stiffly. The doctor felt an intense wave of sympathy for his friend.

"Sherlock..."

Said detective sprang up suddenly, grabbing his mobile and heading toward the door.

John blinked in surprise. "No, what? What are you doing? Sherlock?" he stuttered out.

"I don't have time for sentiments, John," he said, grabbing his coat. "I'm going to the crime scene." Without another word, he dashed out.

John stood, stunned momentarily, before racing to catch up.

"Sherlock wait!" he yelled. "Damn you and your ridiculous gazelle legs..."

~SH~

John felt his apprehension skyrocket as they neared the Big White House. The streets were quiet now. No police car were parked on the street. All the lights were dimmed and the rain had a last stopped its down pour. John couldn't help but feel like the whole thing was a bit eerie looking.

Sherlock had said nothing during the whole ride. He'd sat completely still throughout the whole thing, not even checking his plane obsessively like he normally would.

As the cab pulled to a stop in front of the ominous house, John heaved a heavy sigh.

He hadn't expected to be back here so soon. He glanced over at Sherlock. His face was unreadable. John got out and stared up at the drive way.

John paid the cabbie his fare and followed his flatmate. Gravel crunched beneath their feet

They got to the front door and stopped. They stood looking at the lock on the door for a second, then Sherlock knelt down and pulled out a wire from one of his many pockets. John looked at him, startled.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't look at him when he answered. "Picking the lock; obviously." John's startled look turned incredulous.

"You don't have a key?"

Sherlock looked embarrassed for a split second. " He tried to give me one once-"

"But you refused him right? Didn't need one huh?" John finished for him. Sherlock coughed sheepishly. John smirked.

"It didn't seem necessary at the time." Sherlock muttered and focused his attention back on the lock. "Besides," he said after a moment of silence. "This is much more fun."

John grinned and rolled his eyes. So predictable.

After several more moments of silence, the lock clicked opened; the sound loud in the quiet night. Sherlock stood up with a grunt and dusted himself off.

He gave John a "Brace Yourself" look before opening the door. He hesitated just the slightest bit, long enough for John to place a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You don't have to do this, Sherlock," he said. 'There are other people who can do this-" he was cut off by Sherlock brushing his hand from his shoulder with a shrug. Without another word to John, he strode inside the house. John followed with a sigh.

The house was nearly pitch black. The only light was a few streams of moonlight coming from the gap in the curtain. Without the mirage of people bustling about, the place seemed...lonely, dejected... sad.

'Like a reflection of its owner I suppose.' John thought absently.

Instead of dwelling on that particular train of thought, he turned his attention back to Sherlock.

Said man was running his hands along the walls, muttering things to himself. John sincerely hoped he was looking for a light switch.

His hopes rang when he heard a small click and bright light flooded the room.

John surveyed the space. It looked much as it had that morning. Except there were no police officer and government agents crawling about and sifting through Mycroft's belongings. The doctor felt a tad indignant on his behalf. Somehow, it felt much more personal now that it was someone he knew personally.

He was saved from his absurd thoughts by a cough from Sherlock. The detective was looking at him with a raised eyebrow. He couldn't stop the light pink that coated his face.

"What room was the body found in?" Sherlock asked. He was once again the cool, detached analytical detective. John turned and pointed to the next darkened room.

"There wasn't a body though." John said. Sherlock stared at him, a look of confusion on his face. He stared at John for a long time before John sighed.

"C'mon, I'll show you." he started off toward the living room. Sherlock followed silently.

They got to the living room and flipped on the light on.

Immediately, Sherlock went into what John affectionately referred to as "Panther Mode". He stalked around the room slowly as a predator might stalk his prey. He ran his hand over objects, flipped them over and looked them over. Nothing escaped his careful gaze.

"This is where Mycroft spent most of his time," he said absently. He pointed at the spot where the chair had been standing earlier. Someone had taken it from the room and now even John could see the dents in the carpet from where the legs had been. "He sat here nearly every night. Contemplating. Thinking. Planning. The fire place has ashes in it. A fire has recently been put out."

He pointed to a spot by the window. "You said there was a lot of blood. That spot there, it's been cleaned. Scrubbed..." He mumbled off and began to pace the room again.

John left him to it and decided to examine the room again himself.

As Sherlock had stated, the room had indeed been ostentatiously scrubbed so that any blood that hadn't been collected for testing and sampling was no longer visible. The image though, was burned into his memory.

The stained carpet... the window with a bloody hand print... the chair; broken during an obvious struggle... the picture on the fireplace mantle...

Wait. Picture on the mantle? John did a double take and walked over to the mantle. Yep. There was definitely a white picture frame with a photo nestled behind the glass.

"Sherlock," he said, surprised that the detective hadn't noticed it before now. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I didn't think Mycroft was one for keeping...photographs...sentiment and all that."

Sherlock looked to where John was standing. He looked at the mantle and blinked, as if he too was seeing the frame for the first time.

He picked it up and examined it.

"The frame is new. Placed here over the last five hours, I think." At John's raised eyebrow, he sighed irritably and explained. "The dust John. It's undisturbed. This mantle hasn't been properly cleaned in weeks. The frame however is completely white. Not a trace of dust on it. There are no lines in the dust directly underneath that would indicate picking the frame up and placing it back down. No thumb or fingerprints on the frame or glass to even indicate that someone has touched it. At least, not long enough to leave their mark.

Mycroft did not put this frame here. Especially not one of-"

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and stared at he photo. Concerned, John looked at the picture to see just what had rendered his friend speechless.

It was a photo of Mycroft. He was standing in front of a church wearing a black tux. On his face was a smile and in his eyes, a brightness John wasn't sure he'd ever seen before. What was most surprising about the photo though was the woman standing next to him. She was wearing a white, gown-like dress and had such an expression of joy on her face that it made John's heart literally ache from seeing it.

Her hair was done up with white flowers and her make up made her pale blue eyes stand out sharply.

"Margaret." John whispered solemnly. "It's your brother's wife..."

Chapter four/end