Chapter five

"Macwoft!" said the four year old impatiently.

His eleven year old brother was sitting in one of the big chairs in the their family library.

Previously, Mycroft had been enjoying a quiet afternoon reading his favorite book; while his baby brother took his afternoon nap. That had abruptly ended when Sherlock had come bouncing in out of his room (conveniently just down the hall from the library).

Normally, Mycroft didn't mind when his brother bothered him. The child showed a great deal of promise in the intellectual field and was at the age where curiosity reigned supreme. Naturally, Mycroft felt it was his duty as the elder of the two to impart all of the knowledge he could instill into the younger.

What he DID mind, however, was the constant stream of meaningless that constantly seemed to spew out of his brother's mouth at inconvenient intervals.

Like right now.

"Macwoft!" came the little voice again. Mycroft sighed in irritation.

"My name, Sherlock, is MYCROFT." he said, snapping his book shut. "M-Y-C-R-O-F-T. There is no "a" or "w" in it. And shouldn't you be taking a nap right now?"

Sherlock pouted for a split second. "I know that!" he said. "S'not my fault my mouth won't say it!"

Any annoyance Mycroft should have felt bled away instantly. He smiled warmly at the child leaning casually over the arm of the chair.

"Was there something you wanted, Sherlock?" he asked. Sherlock tilted his head in confusion.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You said my name- or something close to it- twice," he said patiently. "Is there something you needed Little Brother?"

Comprehension dawned on the small child. He leaned forward as he shook his head, midnight curls bouncing around his head adorably.

"No," he said. "I just wanted to say I love you."

Mycroft's eyes widened a fraction. He opened his mouth to reply but was stopped by the four year old leaning forward more and kissing him on the cheek.

"Night, Macwoft." Sherlock said, running out.

Mycroft sat still in his chair. After a minute of silence, in which he heard a door close in the distance, he smiled and sat back comfortably. Opening his book once more, he smiled, warmth blossoming in his chest.

~SH~

Sherlock opened his eyes at the pounding on the door. He sat on his bed in his customary "thinking" position. It had been some time since he'd searched his mind palace for good memories of he and his brother; quite honestly he'd thought he'd deleted the lot of them.

He shook his head to dispel the last vestiges of the memory, finally focusing on the pounding.

"Yes, John," he drawled out lazily. "Come in."

The door opened and in entered his worried looking flatmate. Sherlock tried not to make it obvious that he was staring. He'd grown quite proficient at this over the years. Watching without actually watching the way John's red plaid button up shirt clung to his chest in just the right places, or how adorable each little worried crease in his face was. He tried not to let his mind stay on the image of his friend's broad shoulders or short but sturdy and reliable frame or his-

"Right, " said John, walking over to him. "You've been in this room all day. It's past noon now-"

"So?" Sherlock snipped. "Not enjoying your boring peace and quiet?" Noon was it? Not that he would have noticed since his curtains were closed and lamps turned on. He'd thought it was later than that. John rolled his eyes.

"Not when we've got an actual case on. Makes it a little hard to relax, you know, knowing there's a murderer somewhere out there." Sherlock scoffed.

"I told you before, that case was only a five at best. I'm sure Lestrade and his team of talking primates will work it out eventually-"

"Christ, Sherlock!" In a sudden fit of rage, the doctor grabbed his friend by the shoulders and gave him a hard shake.

Completely taken aback at the action, Sherlock blinked, wide eyed at him, speechless.

"Your. Brother. Is. Dead." John said, enunciating each word with a shake. "Mycroft is dead, Sherlock. Does that mean ANYTHING to you at all?"

Sherlock felt an icy coldness creep over him and settle in his chest, just over his nonexistent heart. The feeling started to constrict, creating a small tingle of pain. Sherlock shoved the feeling away forcefully. Irritated at the sudden emotion, he brushed John away angrily.

"Why are we talking about this again?" he asked. "I've told you already, John. It. Isn't. Possible." He looked John square in the eyes. "You just don't simply kill MYCROFT. It's impossible to kill the Government-"

John sighed, cutting Sherlock off. "Even if that were true, which I'm sure it's not. Governments die all of the time, Sherlock. Someone kills them, there'd never be any change in the world if they didn't." John gave Sherlock a sympathetic look. "Any despite what you may believe, your brother is just a man- a smart man sure- but a man all the same. Just you and me-"

Sherlock shoved John aside- much to both men's shock and confusion. But Sherlock could feel the icy feeling start to grip him again. He didn't like it. He wanted nothing to do with it.

After a moment or two of silence, John sighed again.

"Look," he said gently. "Why don't you try and get some sleep? You've obviously haven't all night- I can see the bags under your eyes." He turned and walked toward the door. "I'll be in the other room if...if you want to talk."

Sherlock nodded, though he knew that John couldn't possibly see him. Unless, of course, the doctor happened to have eyes in the back of his head- which was an interesting, if irrational theory. His eyes lingered a moment too long on the his friend's arse.

He didn't quite trust his vocal cords to form the words he wanted right now. A strange lump seemed to have formed right in the middle of his throat.

~SH~

John paced around the living room, moving and shifting around the clutter and boxes.

Damn that man! Damn him and his refusal to accept emotions!

He growled angrily to himself. He could tell that Sherlock was feeling SOMETHING about Mycroft's death. He was sure of it. But whatever it was, was being deliberately buried, hidden away in some dark obscure corner of Sherlock's Mind Palace. Probably in the "To be deleted" file.

It hurt him to see his friend this way. He hadn't missed the pleading light, the detective's eyes held, as he tried to convince himself that it wasn't possible for his brother to be dead. He wanted so desperately to take him in his arms and assure him that everything was going to be okay. That this was just a horrible nightmare brought on by too much caffeine and sleep deprivation.

He knew about the stages of grief of course. He'd gone through them himself not three years prior. Had been talked through them multiple times by his therapist. Stage one: Denial.

He sighed. He knew the stages were shorter or longer depending on the person... but he couldn't help but worry how long Sherlock would be stuck in stage one...

In all his mad pacing, John had failed to the photo of Mycroft and Margaret sitting on the coffee table. He didn't know why they'd grabbed it, only that it didn't seem right to leave such a happy photograph in a place where something so tragic had happened. One misplaced brush sent the fragile frame flying.

John winced at the resulting crash. He checked briefly to see if Sherlock had heard it but the door to Sherlock's bedroom remained firmly closed. Well the detective probably HAD heard the crash, he was just too busy sulking to bother seeing what the cause was.

He shook his head fondly and knelt down to pick up the glass that now littered the carpet. Picking up the the photo, he gazed sadly at it. Mycroft looked so unlike himself in it. So happy and carefree, smiling in a way that John had never been privileged to see. And Margaret... John felt his eyes mist over.

He hadn't known Mycroft's wife all that well, having only met her briefly two or three times, but he knew that Sherlock and of course Mycroft, had thought the world of her and her disappearance had been a huge blow for the both of them.

He felt a small, barely noticeable dent in the back on the photo. It felt like writing.

He turned the picture over to see a note someone had written in small, neat cursive.

It read: "To Vivian, all my love,

Margaret.

P.S. Please give him a chance, I

Know you'll love him as much

as I do."

John raised an eyebrow. Vivian? Who the hell was Vivian?

Maybe Sherlock would know. He had known Margaret far better than he had. He looked again toward his flatmate's door, wondering whether or not he should disturb him. Sherlock needed time to process, he knew that. He looked back down at the note and stood back up, grimacing at the ominous creaking in his knees. He made his way back to the door and knocked lightly.

"What is it now?" Sherlock asked from behind the door. John let out a silent sigh of relief. It didn't sound like Sherlock was angry about earlier.

"Yes, um, you wouldn't happen to know who Vivian is would you?" he asked.

There was a noise from inside the room. Sherlock opened the door and stared at John as if he'd grown a separate head in the last ten minutes.

"Where did you hear that name?" he asked, eyes narrowing. John held up the photo.

"The back of the photograph?" he asked as if it were plainly obvious. Which, given that it was Sherlock, really should have been. The man in question blinked.

"Of course..." There was an odd inflection in his tone. "Obviously."

John gave him a look. "You did examine the photo, didn't you?"

Sherlock looked away, suddenly finding the door frame incredibly interesting. "Yes, of course I did, John." he said. "I must have just deemed the information completely irrelevant and deleted it."

John nodded slowly, unsure whether or not to believe him.

"Right, um... So who is she exactly?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "She's Margaret's younger sister who happens to hate Mycroft and I with a passion."

John blinked in surprise. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't that. "What?" he said intelligently. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Sister, John," he repeated. "As in a female sibling? I believe you have one of your own."

John glared at him. "I know what a sister is, Smart ass. I just didn't know Margaret had one, thanks."

"Yes, well, you didn't know all that well I suppose," Sherlock said absently. "Are we done establishing the Bradshaw lineage or was there something else you wanted?"

Another look from the doctor. "You don't think that you should, I don't know, interview her or something? If this photo belongs to her, then she might know something."

It was brief, but John swore he saw a note of surprise in Sherlock's eyes. Maybe John had pointed out something Sherlock had missed. That didn't happen often. In fact, it didn't EVER happen.

"You didn't consider that, didn't you?" he asked, a tad bit nervously. Sherlock scoffed angrily.

"Yes, of COURSE I did, John." he said. "It isn't important." John nodded. He definitely didn't believe him this time.

"Right." he said. "Well, I think I'll just pop on over myself, if you don't mind. See if I can find anything." It was nearly imperceptible and had it been anyone other than John, it would have gone unnoticed, but Sherlock looked rather relieved at being given an out.

The detective rolled his eyes. "Yes, well have fun with that, I'm going to take a nap." John grinned.

"No you're not," he said, turning around. "You're going to sit on your bed and sulk until I come home."

He imagined the slight pout on Sherlock face and had to stop himself from giggling. He was nearing the front door again when Sherlock stopped him.

"Oh and John?" he friend called. John turned his head to acknowledge him.

"Hm?"

"I wouldn't mention that you know Mycroft or I. I meant it when I said she hates us with a passion."

~SH~

After a brief check in the phone book, John discovered that a Miss Vivian Bradshaw lived just on the other side of Trafalgar Square. It was a beautiful day. The rain from yesterday had given way to a day of sun and warmth. Not too warm of course since it was England. The taxi ride took just over 10 minutes.

There was a wooden sign hanging on a pole out front that read, "BRADSHAW INTERIORS" in curly cursive. John had to squint in the sun just to make out the letters. The house it pointed to was small. It was brick faced with wooden panels on the open window. It looked rather inviting, he decided.

John took on last look at the sign before walking up the stone path, and ringing the doorbell. He waited for a minute or to and rung again. Maybe she was out? 'Or she wants to avoid someone...'

Another minute passed and just as he was about to give up and go back to Baker Street, he heard a voice from inside shout, "Just minute please."

A second later, the door opened and a woman appear. John raised an eyebrow.

The woman in front of him was small and pretty. She had long strawberry blonde hair pulled back from her heart shaped face with a dark blue, gold trimmed ribbed.

Her face was thin, her eyes, a deep brown. With an uncomfortable jolt, John realized he could have been looking at a reflection of of Margaret.

'Of course, you idiot.' he could almost hear Sherlock snarl. 'Sisters?'

The woman eyed him warily. " Can I help you, Sir?" she asked.

John cleared his throat. "Yes, um, are you Vivian Bradshaw?"

The woman gave him a look that clear said, "Duh, eegit."

"Yes," she said, dryly. "Who else would be answering my door?"

The tone in which she said this vaguely reminded John of a Queen lording over a very small, very dirty peasant boy.

He took a deep breath to calm his already rising temper. He already had to put up with this from Sherlock and Mycroft.

"Yes," he started calmly. "I need to speak with you."

"About...?" she said impatiently.

Thinking quickly, he said the first thing that came to his head so that she wold listen to him.

"Look, um, it's about your sister, Margaret."

Vivian Bradshaw stood in the doorway, her eyes wide in shock. After a second or two, she seemed to get her barrings and narrowed her eyes at him. John got the impression that she was sizing him up, measuring his weaknesses and deciding whether or not a simple plebeian like him was worth her time.

John figured she must have seen something she liked, because after a minute or so of being stared down, she held the door open with a reserved sigh and said, "Come on in, I'll put the kettle on."

Chapter five/end