Stepping out of St. Bart's and into the daylight, John hailed a cab. Sitting in the back seat, his mind was racing. A brief conversation with Molly had turned Irene's unlikely story into a plausible theory.
The cab slowed to a stop, and the driver turned his head to John. He thanked and paid the cabbie before stepping out onto the sidewalk. After instinctively squaring his shoulders, John entered the Diogenes Club. When a man at the entrance tried to stop John, he said, "Holmes," without breaking stride and stormed into the club.
John spotted Mycroft immediately, despite the fact that the man's face and torso were hidden behind a foreign newspaper. Before John could say a word, Mycroft intoned, "hello, John. This is rather unexpected," from behind his paper. He then folded it carefully and placed it in his lap.
"Yes, well, the past few days have been full of surprises for me. I thought I'd pay it forward."
"I see."
"No, I don't think that you do." Their conversation was earning them a few glances from other club members. Mycroft stood and strode out of the room. John followed, scowling. Once they were standing outside John continued his rant. "What happened after Sherlock jumped, Mycroft?"
"Well, I supposed a lot of things happened, John. You grieved, worked longer shifts at the clinic, and began to sleep in my brother's bed from time to time. Of course I'm just assuming that the last bit is new."
John blushed slightly. Doing his best Sherlock impression, he rolled his eyes. "I mean, what happened to Sherlock's body? Molly said that men in suits removed it from the morgue almost immediately after you ID'd Sherlock. A bit suspicious, yeah?"
Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, and John thought he was on to something. "John, I have no idea what you are talking about. You're right, I identified the body, but it was analyzed at St. Bart's before being cremated. The headstone is simply a placeholder. Surely you've seen the police reports."
Cremated, John's mind shouted, there's not even a body!
"The reports are a fake, Mycroft, and you know it."
"I'm sorry John, but I don't know what to say to these...theories," the last word was said with great distaste. "I can't help you."
Mycroft watched the army doctor storm off down the street, then returned to the club. He spent the rest of the afternoon staring thoughtfully out the window, his newspaper forgotten in his lap. Mycroft had to admit that Dr. Watson was full of surprises.
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