Author's note: A reviewer pointed out that I could write about Mycroft's reaction to Irene's plan, and I couldn't resist.

Also, in case you should wonder why I haven't uploaded anything for a while: I have been working on something and yes, you'll eventually get to read it.

I don't own anything.

Mycroft Holmes had several reasons for having Irene Adler arrested as soon as she and her PA (for lack of a better word) returned to England.

Naturally, he had eventually found out that she was still alive, that Sherlock had saved her (it took a Holmes to fool a Holmes, but any Holmes would see through the deception after a while), but he had never talked to his brother about it. As far as he could tell, they hadn't been in contact since then, and if Sherlock had succumbed to sentiment once and had therefore saved Irene Adler's life, so be it.

There had been a time, in fact, when he had been sure he would. The dominatrix wouldn't stay away forever. She was too sure of herself, sure enough to believe that she could enter the UK undetected. And then the Secret Service would finally arrest her and get all the information they could out of her. He had had constant supervision on anyone she might be in contact with, as well as on all the channels she could use for her return.

And then Sherlock committed suicide and nothing mattered anymore.

Mycroft was surprised at the numbness he felt. He had been prepared (or at least he had believed to be prepared) for Sherlock's death for years, had been half-expecting it for a long time. Ever since his brother had started taking drugs, to be precise. He had been sure that, not only would he not be surprised, but that it wouldn't have a big impact on his life. He only ever saw Sherlock on a monitor or when he was pressuring to take cases anyway.

He had known the risks involved as he had told Moriarty his brother's life story, but he had been sure that the consulting criminal would keep Sherlock alive for as long as he could. He liked the games they played, and he got bored easily. He could never have imagined (and he should have, he really should have, perhaps he hadn't wanted to imagine it because Sherlock was still his little brother, the one who had wanted to be a pirate) that Moriarty would take his own life and that Sherlock would follow him.

Anthea called him during a meeting with the Minister of Internal Affairs, and Mycroft knew immediately what had happened. Anthea never called him during meetings. In case of an emergency a text was more than enough.

There was only one reason why his PA should call him. Why she would feel the need to tell him something personally.

Sherlock was dead.

He excused himself and went into the next room.

He picked up.

"Yes?"

For a second, she didn't answer. Then she took a deep breath.

"Sir, Sherlock – he committed suicide. He jumped off the roof of St Bart's hospital. When the call came in, I contacted the Secret Service. They are on their way to the scene as we speak. Sir, I am – "

"Thank you, Anthea" Mycroft answered, and he was surprised at the harsh tone of his voice. Even in the most critical situations, he prided himself on sounding and acting not different than normally, so why was he all but shouting at his employee now? "Is there anything else I need to know?"

"No, sir" she answered with a voice devoid of any emotion, but just before she hung up, Mycroft could have sworn he heard something like a muffled sob escape her.

He put his phone away.

Then and only then did he realize that his hands were trembling.

A moment later, the enormity of what had happened came crashing down on him, although he could still appreciate the irony that he never thought he would even be shocked to begin with.

He managed to hide his feelings from the Minister, but only barely.

He wanted to return to his office afterwards, to keep working, but strangely, he found himself telling the driver to bring him home.

Anthea was waiting for him there. He needed to give her more credit than he already did, apparently; she knew him better than anyone else.

Now that Sherlock was dead.

She quickly informed him, her face blank, her tone professional, that the agents had found and removed Moriarty's – or, as he would no doubt have been identified if there had been an official inquiry – body on her orders. Although she didn't say so, Mycroft knew she had felt it necessary to protect Sherlock's reputation.

Like he should have done.

So he told her that she had done well. She left shortly afterwards, and Mycroft pretended not to notice the barely hidden pity and worry in her eyes.

The next few weeks past much more quickly than he was used to. He arranged Sherlock's funeral and tried to give John money, which the doctor refused to touch; he made sure all traces that Richard Brook had ever existed disappeared. And, of course, he was still the British Government. Therefore, he was busier than usual.

And yet his days had never felt so empty.

He had been prepared for Sherlock's death.

Or so he had thought.

Because he had not been prepared for the moments he automatically reached for the surveillance report on his brother only to remember it wasn't there; the moments he found himself wondering if he could force Sherlock to take a rather unusual case only to remind himself that he would never solve another case again; the free time he suddenly had on his hands because he didn't need to worry about Sherlock anymore.

Anthea seemed to notice that he wasn't quite himself, but she didn't say anything.

He still fulfilled his duties to the outmost satisfaction of every colleague he came in contact with, but the truth was that he didn't care about his job anymore.

Apparently Sherlock had taken all his abilities to care with him when he died.

So when his PA informed him that Irene Adler had entered the country a few days ago, he was about to tell her that the Secret Service should pick her up and not to bother him about the dominatrix again.

And then she mentioned that Adler's PA had apparently contacted Kitty Riley and was feeding her with false information.

Mycroft understood immediately.

Irene Adler was taking her revenge on Kitty Riley, the revenge Mycroft had thought of taking but decided against because he couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't deserve it.

He leaned back and watched.

Within three weeks, Kitty Riley's career was over and Irene Adler had left the country again. When Anthea told him the Secret Service didn't know where she was, there was understanding in her eyes, and for once Mycroft didn't resent it. He simply nodded and told her she could take the rest of the day off.

He did too, and in his empty house, he raised his tumbler and toasted Irene Adler.

At least once, in this world that had always let Sherlock down, justice had prevailed.

Author's note: Okay so that wasn't so much Mycroft reacting to Irene's plan as another Post-Reichenbach story, but what can I say? My stories have a way of doing something entirely different than what I planned.

I hope you liked it, please review.