"I met her once." Mycroft commented as he sat at his office desk.
"Thatcher?" Sherlock queried as he paced before his brother, who added: "Rather arrogant, I thought."
"You thought that?" Sherlock repeated, raising his brow, and Mycroft chuckled: "Ha, I know."
His smile dropped as quickly as it came, and he asked with a frown: "Why am I looking at this?"
Mycroft lifted the phone in his hand, depicting a picture of a baby girl, and Sherlock paused.
"That's her, John and Mary's baby." He said as though it were obvious. "I know Marie's already sent you several of Scott and Sheryl, so I thought you should see their child, too."
"Oh, I see, yes." Mycroft said in understanding, looking back at the phone with a fake smile. "Looks very..." he struggled for a word that wasn't insulting, "fully functioning."
He looked back up at his younger brother, who frowned and asked flatly: "Is that really the best you can do?"
"Sorry, I've never been very good with them." Mycroft stated monotonously, and Sherlock frowned as he asked: "Babies?"
"Humans." Mycroft replied with a mirthless smile, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Explains why you had a slightly better reaction to the picture of your niece and nephew." He muttered as he took his phone back from his brother, and Mycroft replied: "Well, even they just looked…"
He trailed off with a shrug, before adding: "Still too young to tell."
"They are my children that you're referring to." Sherlock pointed out flatly, and Mycroft returned: "Which is why I am waiting to give them a chance – between yourself and Marie, I can only hope you've managed to create somewhat intelligent beings."
"Cheery as ever." Sherlock scoffed, before he pocketed his phone and said, back to business: "Moriarty - did he have any connection with Thatcher? Any interest in her?"
"Why on earth would he?" Mycroft scoffed, and Sherlock paused in his pacing to reply scathingly: "I don't know. You tell me."
Mycroft simply looked at his brother for a moment, before he leant forward, stating as he opened an old file on his desk: "In the last year of his life, James Moriarty was involved with four political assassinations, over 70 assorted robberies and terrorist attacks, including a chemical weapons factory in North Korea."
Sherlock frowned in thought, while Mycroft continued: "And had latterly shown some interest in tracking down the Black Pearl of the Borgias, which is still missing, by the way," he leveled a look at his younger brother, "in case you feel like applying yourself to something practical."
"It's a pearl." Sherlock retorted. "Get another one."
Mycroft rolled his eyes, while Sherlock stared off into space, murmuring: "There's something important about this. I'm sure."
Mycroft frowned, lifting his head slightly to get a better look at his younger brother as Sherlock continued: "Maybe it's Moriarty. Maybe it's not. But something's coming."
"Are you having a premonition, brother mine?" Mycroft asked pointedly, and Sherlock blinked before he looked back at his brother.
"The world is woven from billions of lives," Sherlock answered thoughtfully, "every strand crossing every other."
"Since when were you so interested in premonitions?" Mycroft asked flatly, before he raised a brow. "Worried about your wife?" After all, her name is rather symbolic, isn't it? 'Marie'."
"Hm, yes. 'Rebellion'." Sherlock answered a tad sarcastically. "Very apt."
"And 'wished-for-child'." Mycroft pointed out darkly
Sherlock went silent, and Mycroft went on with a raised brow: "Now, if we were to have fanciful whims on pre-destined fates, I wonder to whom my dear sister-in-law's name would be a reference to?"
"That's not what I meant." Sherlock snapped. "What we call premonition is just movement of the web. If you could attenuate to every strand of quivering data, the future would be entirely calculable. As inevitable as mathematics."
Mycroft just smiled a little, and he noted: "'Appointment In Samarra'."
"I'm sorry?" Sherlock asked, frowning as he was distracted by his brother's abrupt comment.
"The merchant who can't outrun Death." Mycroft stated. "You always hated that story as a child." He eyed Sherlock carefully. "Less keen on predestination back then."
Sherlock just pursed his lips and retorted flatly: "I'm not sure I like it now."
He grabbed his coat, while Mycroft mused: "You wrote your own version, as I remember. 'Appointment In Sumatra'. The merchant goes to a different city and is perfectly fine."
"Goodnight, Mycroft." Sherlock retorted, and Mycroft mused casually: "Then he becomes a pirate, for some reason."
"Keep me informed." Sherlock called, ignoring his brother as he walked out of Mycroft's office.
"Of what?" Mycroft countered, and Sherlock replied: "Absolutely no idea."
With that, he walked out of the office, heading back home with a frown and an unreadable look in his eyes, while Mycroft sighed and glanced back down at his notebook, partially covered by his hand.
There in the middle, written in his neat handwriting, were the words:
Victor
Sherri-
"A bust of Margaret Thatcher?" Marie repeated incredulously, keeping her voice low, and Sherlock nodded.
"Nothing else touched, just the bust was taken." He confirmed just as quietly, and Marie said thoughtfully: "And broken where it could be seen… Why?"
"I don't know." Sherlock answered as he finished buttoning up his pajama top. "It could be anything, but it's definitely something important."
"Since when were you all about omens?" Marie asked, half-joking and half-serious, and Sherlock responded flatly: "Since I discovered I was capable of what you called 'intuition and insight'."
"Would it kill you to say 'love'?" Marie teased, but her light tone disappeared instantly as she stared at Sherlock and asked: "And you think this has something to do with Jim Moriarty's return?"
"It might, or it could be something else entirely." He frowned, settling on the bed at last. "But the only thing to do is wait until there are clearer signs. I just wanted you to know, and be on the alert."
"You don't have to tell me that." Marie sighed as her eyes flickered to the baby cribs in the corner of the room.
Sherlock saw, and he drew Marie close to his side as he murmured: "I won't let anything hurt you, or Scott, or Sheryl. I made you a vow that I would always protect you, and that will always include the twins."
"And I don't doubt you, Sherlock, really I don't." Marie sighed, wrapping her arms around her husband and resting her head on his chest. "But I…"
"You're worried about our pasts catching up to us." Sherlock murmured, trying to keep out the distaste in his tone but Marie heard it anyway.
"Yes." Marie replied quietly, her voice even lower than their already hushed tones. "We weren't exactly the best parent material – and still aren't in many respects."
"You're doing wonderfully." Sherlock reassured. "I know this has been on your mind since before they were born, but you're the best mother Scott and Sheryl could ask for."
"But I can't shake the feeling that it's not over." Marie whispered. "Not that it's a surprise, with constant reminders like Jim's message from beyond the grave -"
"The game is never over." Sherlock reminded her softly. "Not for us – but I swear to you, Marie: I will protect you three. Our… family."
He said the word hesitantly, and causing Marie to finally crack a smile.
"Thanks, Sherlock." She sighed. "But never forget you don't have to do it on your own. Okay?"
"I promised this before." Sherlock pointed out, and Marie answered: "Yeah, but you also drugged me before."
"You're never going to let me live that down, are you?" Sherlock muttered, and Marie pressed: "Sherlock. Promise me, you won't ever keep me in the dark again. Because I made a vow to you, too: that I would always be by your side, and protect you."
Sherlock's lips curved up just slightly as he looked down at Marie. Blue eyes met green as he reaffirmed: "I promise."
She relaxed just a little, and Sherlock kissed the top of her head.
"Go to sleep now." He murmured into her hair. "I love you, Marie."
"And I love you too, Sherlock."
A few days later, Marie sat with Mrs. Hudson for their regular morning tea while the twins sat playing in the two baby chairs the good landlady always kept in her kitchen. She was smiling as Mrs. Hudson cooed and fussed over the babies, when the front door opened and she heard the distinct heavy footsteps of one Scotland Yard Detective Inspector.
"Greg?" She called, and Lestrade paused to peer into Mrs. Hudson's flat.
"Mornin', Marie." He greeted. "Mrs. Hudson, Scottie, Sheryl."
"You here with another case?" Marie asked curiously, noting the bag Lestrade was carrying, and the DI nodded.
"Yeah, I think Sherlock'll like this one." Lestrade stated, and Marie raised a brow.
"I hope so." She warned. "He's been having a trying day, bored out of his mind and on his new 'boring' client of the day; and I heard DI Hopkins going upstairs earlier – I doubt he'll be interested in her case, either."
"Yeah, well, I think he'll like this one." Lestrade replied, gesturing to his bag. "And I think I'm usually good at telling what will get his interest."
"If not, you're always welcome to stop by for tea." Marie smiled, and Lestrade grinned.
"Sherlock's a lucky man to have someone like you, you know." Lestrade complimented, making both Mrs. Hudson and Marie laugh.
"Thanks, Greg, but I think I'm the one who got lucky – despite what you all think." Marie smiled.
"Oh, you're both lucky." Mrs. Hudson interjected. "Lucky you found each other, and lucky to have such beautiful children."
She cooed over Scott again, who waved his fists at her, while Marie laughed and Lestrade smiled.
"Well, I'm heading up." Lestrade stated, waving goodbye to the two women and the babies.
They waved back as Lestrade turned and headed up the stairs to Sherlock's flat, straightening his jacket and smoothing his hair as he readied to go chat – read, 'flirt' - with DI Hopkins while waiting for Sherlock.
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he heard Lestrade flirting with DI Hopkins outside - and quite badly at that.
Finally deciding he had had it, Sherlock interrupted his client to stride to the flat door, throwing it open as he snapped: "Will you two please keep it down?!"
He slammed the door back shut on the two abashed DIs, turning back to his client as he stated: "Now, you haven't always been in life insurance, have you?"
His client, Mr. Kingsley blinked at him from his seat while Sherlock went on as he settled back in his couch: "You started out in manual labour. Oh, don't bother being astonished."
Mr. Kingsley started, and Sherlock continued: "Your right hand's almost an entire size bigger than your left - hard manual work does that."
"I was a carpenter." Mr. Kingsley confirmed, glancing at his mismatched hands in some amazement that Sherlock had noticed the small detail. "Like me dad."
"You're trying to give up smoking - unsuccessfully - and you once had a Japanese girlfriend that meant a lot to you but now you feel indifferent about." Sherlock added, and Mr. Kingsley blinked again, taken aback.
"How the hell...?" The man began, before he glanced down at his breast pocket and realized: "Ah... e-cigarettes."
"Not just that, ten individual e-cigarettes." Sherlock pointed out flatly. "If you just wanted to smoke indoors, you would've invested in one of those irritating electronic pipe things. But you're convinced you can give up, so you don't want to buy a pipe, because that means you're not serious about quitting. So instead, you buy individual cigarettes, always sure that each will be your last. Anything to add, John?"
Sherlock turned his head to look at John's armchair, and he did a double take at what he saw.
"John?" Sherlock asked, staring at the red balloon with a face drawn on it that currently sat on John's chair, and John replied, leaning around the kitchen doorway: "Uh, yeah, yeah, listening."
"What is that?" Sherlock demanded, still staring wide-eyed at the balloon, and John explained as he walked out with a mug of tea: "That is... me. Well, it's a me-substitute."
Sherlock blinked before he said awkwardly: "Don't be so hard on yourself. You know I value your little contributions."
"Yeah?" John asked, raising a brow. "It's been there since nine this morning."
"Has it?" Sherlock asked in surprise. "Where were you?"
"Helping Mrs. H. with her Sudoku." John answered with a shrug. "Marie was busy looking after the twins... though she did solve all the ones we got stuck on."
Sherlock leaned back, pursing his lips, when Mr. Kingsley interjected curiously: "What about my girlfriend?"
"What?" Sherlock asked, glancing at the man, and Mr. Kingsley remined: "You said I had an ex-"
"You've got a Japanese tattoo in the crook of your elbow in the name 'Akako'." Sherlock replied impatiently. "It's obvious you've tried to have it removed."
Mr. Kingsley glanced down at the faded tattoo in surprise, and he said with some confusion: "But surely that means I want to forget her, not that I'm indifferent."
"If she'd really hurt your feelings, you would've had the word obliterated." Sherlock countered. "But the first attempt wasn't successful, and you haven't tried again, so it seems you can live with the slightly blurred memory of Akako, hence the indifference."
Mr. Kingsley smiled and burst into small giggles as he admitted: "I... I thought you'd done something clever."
Sherlock glanced at him, almost raising a brow as Mr. Kingsley continued with a chuckle: "Ah, now, but now you've explained it, it's dead simple, innit?"
John's lip twitched up into a crooked smile, while Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose and straightened up, shifting to face Mr. Kingsley fully.
"I've withheld this information from you until now, Mr. Kingsley, but I think it's time you knew the truth." Sherlock stated flatly, and Mr. Kingsley's face changed.
"What do you mean?" He asked, looking a little fearful, and Sherlock asked: "Have you ever wondered if your wife was a little bit out of your league?"
"Well..." Mr. Kingsley began, shrugging, but Sherlock interrupted: "You thought she was having an affair. I'm afraid it's far worse than that, your wife is a spy."
Mr. Kingsley gaped, and he asked faintly: "What?"
"That's right." Sherlock said rapidly. "Her real name is Greta Bengsdotter. Swedish by birth and probably the most dangerous spy in the world. She's been operating deep undercover for the past four years now as your wife, for one reason only, to get near the American Embassy, across the road from your flat."
Mr. Kingsley flinched, but Sherlock didn't even pause as he continued: "Tomorrow the US President will be at the embassy, as part of an official state visit. As the President greets members of staff, Greta Bengsdotter, disguised as a 22-stone cleaner, will inject the President in the back of the neck with a dangerous new drug, hidden inside a secret compartment inside her padded armpit. This drug will render the President entirely susceptible to the will of that new master, none other than James Moriarty."
"What?" Mr. Kingsley gasped, and Sherlock continued to fire away: "Moriarty will then use the President as a pawn to destabilise the United Nations General Assembly, which is due to vote on a nuclear non-proliferation treaty, tipping the balance in favour of a first-strike policy against Russia. This chain of events will then prove unstoppable, thus precipitating World. War. III."
Sherlock finished by punctuating each word at the end of his sentence, and John chuckled.
"Are you serious?" He asked, and Sherlock scoffed as he turned to his friend: "No, of course not. His wife left him because his breath stinks and he likes to wear her lingerie."
Sherlock gave Mr. Kingsley another unimpressed look as he stood up, striding over to the door, while Mr. Kingsley protested: "I don't!"
John raised a brow skeptically, and Mr. Kingsley admitted with a whine: "Just the bras."
"Get out." Sherlock ordered shortly, opening the flat door.
Mr. Kingsley hung his head but did as he was told, and Sherlock slammed the door shut after the man with disgust.
"So," John asked, "what's this all about, then?"
"Having fun." Sherlock replied as he lingered by the door, and John repeated: "Fun?"
"While I can." Sherlock shrugged, and John nodded skeptically: "Mm-hmm."
There was a sharp knock on the door, and Sherlock turned back as it opened to reveal DI Hopkins.
"Uh, Sherlock-" She began as she walked in, but Sherlock interrupted as he forced her physically back out: "Borgia Pearl. Boring. Go!"
"Oh, but-" She protested, but Sherlock just ordered as he slammed the door after her: "Go!"
The door opened again before he even had time to turn away, and Sherlock sighed irritably: "This had better be good."
"Oh, I think you'll like it." Lestrade replied as he pulled out a clear plastic bag from his workbag.
Sherlock stopped immediately, staring intently at the broken pieces of plaster sealed inside the bag, while John said in surprise: "That is the bust, isn't it? The one that was broken."
Sherlock carefully took the bag, examining it intently as Lestrade replied: "No, it's another one, different owner. Different part of town. You were right, this is, this is a thing. Something's going on."
Sherlock didn't move, still staring at the broken Thatcher bust intently, and Lestrade paused mid-grin.
"What's wrong?" He asked, brows furrowing. "I thought you'd be pleased."
"I am pleased." Sherlock replied shortly, and Lestrade pointed out: "You don't look pleased."
"This is my game face." Sherlock replied, finally looking up at Lestrade and his lips curled up into a smirk at last. "And the game is on."
