One week after Kitty Reilly was sacked, John sat at the desk typing in his clumsy, two-fingered style. When he heard someone coming through the door, his soldier's instincts kicked in. Definitely a man, by the heaviness of the tread… I'm not expecting anybody and Mrs. Hudson is out. Could be trouble. He reached into his waistband for his gun, and then the door opened.
"Blogging again?" Mycroft said, twirling his umbrella.
John shouted, "Mother of Jaysus! I almost pulled my gun on you! Don't you ever knock?"
Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "Didn't you receive my texts? I sent one last night and another when I was en route."
"Texts… oh shit. I'm sorry, Mycroft, when I left work last night my phone's battery was dead. I thought I plugged it in but I was so tired I must have forgotten. Luckily, I have an extra battery," he said, retrieving it from the desk drawer.
Interesting, Mycroft thought. It was extremely unlike John to allow his mobile to go dead, but he decided not to comment on it.
John continued, "Anyway, yes, I'm blogging. Have you seen the London gossip blogs lately? A lot of people have posted about Kitty and wondered what I think of all this. Sherlock's supporters are starting to come out of the woodwork; he's even been trending on Twitter."
Mycroft leaned forward on his umbrella. "So you're going to start updating your blog again?"
"Not regularly. I've only written one post and I doubt I'll write any more. I think my efforts to clear Sherlock are best kept under wraps."
Mycroft nodded. "I agree that discretion is in order. May I see what you've written?"
"Of course." John turned the laptop around so that it faced Mycroft.
2nd October
Hello everyone. It's been a few months since I updated, and honestly, I never thought I'd update again. Nothing happened to me before I met Sherlock and nothing happens to me now that he's gone. I just wanted to tell everyone that I have been overwhelmed by all the support Sherlock has received in the last few days. I've read your blog posts and your tweets and I'm starting to make a dent in my e-mail. (Please be patient about replies – I'm practicing medicine again and work has me very busy.)
Sherlock Holmes was my best friend, and I'm grateful to everyone who believes in him.
Mycroft nodded curtly. "Well done, John. You've finally learned to say just enough."
"Thank you, but I'm sure you didn't come here just to damn me with faint praise," John said, folding his arms.
"Indeed. I would like to know what your next course of action will be now that Miss Reilly is no longer a concern."
"I've found some of her sources for the article on Rich Brook. I'm going to interview two of them later today: a David Hamilton, who supposedly wrote one of the press clippings in Brook's portfolio and Angela White, one of the producers for The Storyteller, the children's show that he was allegedly the star of."
"Very good. I must warn you, John, this will not be as easy as discrediting Miss Reilly. Reilly was naïve and sloppy; Moriarty was ruthless and had a meticulous attention to detail. Anyone who willingly dealt with him is unlikely to be a pushover," Mycroft said, his eyes pinning John to his chair.
John returned Mycroft's icy stare. "Moriarty once covered me in semtex. I have a pretty good idea of who I'm dealing with."
"Fine," Mycroft said imperiously. "Good luck, John." With that, he waltzed out.
Across town, Moriarty's successor was livid. The 6'4" tall Sebastian Moran was practically doubled over to bellow in his associate's face. "Your plan was what?"
The henchman, a slender, bespectacled man, stammered, "Sabotage Watson's phone so that he wouldn't know Mycroft was coming! Th-then Mycroft would sneak in, Watson w-wouldn't know it was him, and since Watson has PTSD he'd shoot him, and then he'd f-feel so guilty he'd…"
"He'd just roll over and play DEAD?" Moran screamed.
"Something like that," the smaller man said, looking much like child who's been caught without his homework.
Moran growled, "Then explain to me why Mycroft Holmes is still alive and John Watson is now on his way to interview one of our associates!"
"Th-the best laid plans of mice and men…" the little man began.
Moran punched him with a gigantic fist, knocking his associate out cold. At times like this, he really missed Jim. Sure, the man was a diva who pranced about in designer suits and hogged all the glory while his underlings did the scut work, and yes, he was an absolute maniac; but he was creative! This little snafu would have been no trouble for Jim. He imagined Jim now, in whichever version of the afterlife he occupied, chanting, "That's why I ran the sho-ow, Sebby! I was the brains, you were just the muscle!"
Moran snarled under his breath. This was a mere setback. Time to do damage control and remind Hamilton who employed him. Then, take out Sherlock Holmes' pet soldier. Everybody has a weakness, Moran thought, and I bet I know what John Watson's is.
A/N: Headed out of town, may be a few days before the next update. Good things come to those who wait. ;)