Mycroft was sitting in the Diogenes Club when he was handed a note by the man from the front desk. Phone call for M. Holmes. Urgent.
Mycroft sighed as he hoisted himself out of his chair. Taking the telephone from the young clerk, Mycroft said, "Yes?" The one word dripped with disdain. The clerk, shuddering from a sideways glance from Mycroft, scurried away.
As Mycroft listened his face changed from a tight-lipped frown to a smirk. "Yes, of course, I've been expecting you. I'll send a car immediately. It was only a matter of time before you needed my assistance." Mycroft placed the phone back on the receiver, took his coat and umbrella, and walked out into rainy London. He had only taken a few steps before his car pulled up alongside him. It was going to be a long day.
Not long after, the black car pulled to the side of the quiet London road. A thin man stepped out of the shadows and sprinted into the rear of the car. The door had barely closed before it continued onward as if it had never stopped. Mycroft scanned the face of the man who sat opposite him. It looked haggard but determined.
"Congratulations are to be in order," Mycroft began, the sarcasm in his voice clear, "you did a splendid job with the cover-up. Even surprised me. Using suited men to remove the body was a clever touch. John seems to think that I was responsible for this entire debacle."
"It's not a debacle. It was necessary, Mycroft, as were the last 18 months. Surely you can deduce why."
"Considering John's current, shall we say, situation, I'd say it might have to do with him."
"Well done. I've been tracking the remainder of Moriarty's network in London, but John was still being watched by one of his men. At the moment I don't have enough data to determine if his arrest is related. There is a high probability that it is not a coincidence. Either way, I must now gather the proof of John's innocence, find the real kidnapper, and avoid Moriarty's network, all while remaining dead. My efforts would be far less taxing with access to certain classified information."
"So what you're saying is, you need my help."
"What I need, Mycroft, is CCTV footage of John over the past two weeks, as well as access to his mobile. We need to know where he's gone and who he's been talking to. We'll be looking for anything out of the ordinary."
Without responding, Mycroft picked up his mobile, dialed a number, and said, "I need comprehensive CCTV footage from the past two weeks of a Doctor John Hamish Watson, current residence 221B Baker Street. I also need an immediate report of all incoming or outgoing calls or texts for the following phone number." After providing John's number Mycroft hung up.
Sherlock Holmes looked at his brother, hoping that his face could express the thanks he was incapable of saying. Mycroft, understanding, nodded. Then, Mycroft's phone vibrated, alerting him that the report of John's phone activity had arrived via email.
Sherlock grabbed the phone from Mycroft's hands. Scrolling through the call list, it didn't seem that John had spoken with anyone unusual. In fact, it seemed to Sherlock that John didn't have contact with many people at all. Something tugged inside Sherlock's chest, but he brushed it away.
"Ahh," Sherlock gasped when he opened John's text history. "Mycroft, I think we may have a way to narrow down two weeks' worth of CCTV footage. It appears that someone lured John to various locations by pretending to be me." Mycroft raised one eyebrow slightly.
"Lucky for John, I've been monitoring the recent police kidnappings. The locations texted to John are also the last-known location of the abducted police officers. Whoever was texting John wanted to leave a trail of evidence connecting him to each crime scene. They were framing him for the kidnappings."
"Dear brother," said Mycroft, shaking his head, "they were framing both of you."
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