Lighting Fires

Thank you for the lovely reviews! If it's a guest review, I can't reply personally, but I appreciate each and every one of them.

And here's John's second less-than-pleasant encounter… Sorry it's taken me a little longer than planned, but I spent quite a bit of time trying to get it exactly right.

Inspired by the song Fires by Ronan Keating

Disclaimer : not mine, no money


It's not really that much of a surprise when, the next day, a black unmarked car pulls up at the pavement just as John is leaving the surgery in the early evening. After all, Mycroft has intervened before whenever John's life has got more…interesting.

John's heart sinks. It's a Friday evening at the height of the chickenpox season and it's been a bloody long day at the surgery, full of spotty kids with very little wrong with them and over-worried parents. He's really looking forward to a quiet cup of tea at home and an evening with nothing to do, apart from going through his notes on the victims, looking for connections.

Still. No point in putting off the inevitable. He's never actually been man-handled into a meeting by anonymous toughs, but it's not beyond the realms of possibility. He's under no illusion as to the true nature of Mycroft's power.

Giving a loud, deliberately put-upon sigh, he walks over to the car, opens the door and gets in, giving a resigned nod to possibly-Anthea. She doesn't seem to have changed at all in the last three years – same hair, same sharp suit, same complete lack of surprise at anything that life throws at her. Just an updated smartphone which, as usual, takes up the entirety of her attention.

He doesn't even bother to attempt striking up a conversation during their short journey; he's too busy trying to sort out his emotions and prepare himself for the meeting ahead of him.

He hasn't seen Mycroft since the burial. Even the name can conjure up an image of a smug, self-satisfied bureaucrat and – worse – a traitor, and it usually provokes a flare of suppressed anger that he tries to keep buried deep in his subconscious. Normally, he tries very hard not to think of Sherlock's older brother. The man represents a negative association that he cannot – will not – deal with, not when he has so many other concerns.

Rather to his surprise, he's taken to the Diogenes Club. Mycroft wants a public meeting, then. No lurking in underground car parks or unused power stations today.

John sets his jaw in preparation as he marches through the silent reading room to one of the many panelled doors at the far end. He recognises Mycroft's private office even before his silent guide opens the door. Despite his determination not to be cowed by the man, he finds himself hesitating in the doorway, much as he used to before The Fall. A meeting with the power behind the British government has never been the easiest of experiences.

"Ah, Doctor Watson, how nice to see you."

Mycroft is standing by the desk in his bespoke suit, with the usual enigmatic smile. The man doesn't seem to have aged much, although there's a new tightness about his mouth that John doesn't remember, and the doctor in him does the usual quick assessment and notes that the man has lost a little weight. It's hard to tell, really – impossible to imagine Mycroft wearing a suit that doesn't fit him perfectly. He probably gets a new one each time he puts on or sheds a pound or two.

"Mycroft." He tries to make his voice as neutral as possible.

The older Holmes brother raises his eyebrow very slightly. "Do please take a seat. I'm sure you would appreciate the cup of tea that you were clearly on your way home to drink."

Rather to his surprise, John finds he has to bite inside his cheek to keep from grinning like a complete idiot. Intentional or not, Mycroft's familiar percipience reminds him acutely of the younger Holmes - and God, how he's missed those small deductions and predictions of his behaviour that used to irritate him so much at the time.

He keeps his face straight, hoping that Mycroft hasn't noticed. However, as he takes the seat indicated and accepts the fancy cup and saucer offered to him by a silent minion, he fancies that there's a muscle twitching in the other man's cheek, almost in response. He wonders, as he always does, whether Mycroft ever makes a gesture or speaks a word that isn't loaded with meaning.

The 'British government' sits behind his desk with his usual languid grace and sips delicately at his own cup, sighing with a relief that doesn't seem feigned.

"Forgive me, John. It's been an unusually long day, even by my standards. The situation in Syria…" his voice fades away and he gives John a gentle, strangely approving smile. "But that is my job, and of limited interest to you, and no doubt you too have had a trying day with all the sickly infants that fall to your lot."

Despite his instinctive hostility, John is struck afresh by the strange charm of the man. He's not sure whether it's because the tilt of Mycroft's head and the delicate way he folds his hands remind him in some small way of Sherlock, or whether it's the case that Mycroft himself possesses that same, inexplicable charisma. Either way, John is shocked to find himself having to fight against an unexpected sympathy for the man.

This is not how it's supposed to go. This is the man whose duplicity – whose betrayal – gave Moriarty the ammunition to bring his younger brother down.

John gulps his tea silently, keeping his eyes on Mycroft and wishing he had Sherlock's insight. Does the man know his brother is alive?

He aches to talk to someone about his knowledge. The last three years have been an incredible strain, having to watch everything he says; making sure he always sticks to the past tense when talking about Sherlock. He desperately wants it to end. If Mycroft gave even the smallest of signs that he knew… then, God, the relief would be so great that John would forgive him on the spot.

Instead, all he can do is sit in his chair, sip his tea and assume his usual persona. Small, unimportant, insignificant – ignorant - John Watson, just trying to move on with his life after his friend's dramatic suicide. It's an image that he's cultivated over the last three years as a form of self-defence. Before Sherlock's death, he'd occasionally felt a bit bitter about his lack of height and rather mundane appearance, and the fact that he often appeared to be invisible next to his friend. Nowadays, it's a positive benefit – who'd suspect harmless old John Watson of having any secrets?

As Mycroft looks at him, he gets the strong impression that the man saw through this image the very moment he walked through the door – and possibly before – but he doesn't know. He can't take the risk.

There's a tension about Mycroft. He's holding his shoulders rather more tightly than he used to, despite his apparently relaxed pose. It occurs to John that this can't be easy for him either.

The last time the two of them had met, they'd parted in silent hostility, hidden behind a thin veneer of cold politeness. There had been an awareness (on John's part, at least) of a mutual, but separate, grief and an unspoken understanding that neither could be of comfort to the other man. Quite simply put, they had no common ground. It was far, far better to avoid one another.

This perception is reinforced when Mycroft's polite smile falters very slightly. "I'm afraid I am finding this a little…strange. Seeing you here, John, reminds me of… so many things…"

There's an air of regret about the words. Mycroft looks away suddenly, fidgeting with his folded hands, and a startling revelation comes to John.

Mycroft is lonely.

What must it be like to be Mycroft Holmes, the man behind the British government? The most dangerous man you will ever meet, as Sherlock once described him. Worlds away from his younger brother, who has always hurtled through a life filled with an astonishing level of chaos for man with such an organised and logical mind.

Not for Mycroft the midnight dashes across London and hair-brained pursuits of dangerous criminals. Not for Mycroft the eschewing of sleep and regular meals in favour of 'the Game'; the late-night takeaways after a solved case; the messy experiments; the domestic arguments about who finished off the milk and didn't replace it. No, Mycroft must plan his days with military precision – when he will sleep and eat, what he will wear, where he will be, who he will meet, what he will say – and not say – each and every moment of his life. No room for unpredictability.

How did the adult Mycroft – this alien creature - come into creation? How did he form? Who raised him, developed him and sent him hurtling towards his strange destiny? At what stage did a phenomenally bright child become the most powerful man in the country? And why him - and not Sherlock?

At what point did Mycroft decide that caring was not an advantage? Has anyone – anyone at all, male or female – ever brushed that lock of hair off his forehand or run a gentle finger down his cheek…or leaned in to press a kiss to those thin lips? Does Mycroft ever feel the lack of such casual affection…or such companionship?

The man sitting opposite him shifts abruptly, and the illusion of loneliness suddenly evaporates. Mycroft is, once again, the cold-eyed bureaucrat affecting a persona of urbane civility. John wonders whether the previous pose was deliberate – perhaps intended to elicit sympathy? Is Mycroft really so inhuman that he needs to play-act at emotions?

"Well, you are no doubt wondering why I have invited you here." They both ignore the obvious lack of an actual 'invitation'.

"I had wondered why, after all this time," John admits, quietly.

Mycroft leans back, steepling his fingers in front of his chin, and observes the doctor. "You had rather a lucky escape yesterday morning, did you not?"

John huffs out a dry laugh. "And I suppose you're going to tell me who did it?"

Mycroft hesitates just a fraction. "I'm sorry, John, but I don't know."

"Really?" He can't help it; he just can't keep the scepticism out his voice. However, Mycroft looks genuinely regretful. In fact, he looks decidedly pained not to know all the facts.

"I have, of course, investigated the matter, and I suspect that it may have been an… associate of James Moriarty, but I am afraid that I do not know for certain."

"Not Moriarty himself, then?"

Again, John is aware of that fractional hesitation. He senses that Mycroft is being very careful with his words.

"James Moriarty is dead, John. He has been dead for just over three years."

John draws a shuddering breath. He's wondered, of course he's wondered. Moriarty had been too quiet – he's convinced he would have wanted to goad him after Sherlock's death, but there's been nothing. Silence. And now he knows why.

"Are you sure?"

Mycroft meets John's eyes unflinchingly. "Absolutely. I identified the body myself."

"How?" It comes out as a croak. He's not sure he wants to know – did Sherlock finally kill him? And yet… he needs the closure.

The grey-green-blue eyes - dear God, so like Sherlock – are still on him. "Suicide. He shot himself. Not a trace of doubt."

Mycroft's voice seems to fade away. His image blurs in front of John's face and he feels the blood rushing into his ears. He lifts a shaky hand to his cheek and is surprised to find wetness – tears?

It's relief, sheer relief that immobilizes him in his seat, but something else too. The intense agony of that day rushes back into his consciousness with an almost physical force, threatening to unman him.

Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock… was all this for nothing? Did you know Moriarty was dead when you jumped? Why – dear Christ, please, why did you have to do this? Will I ever know?

"…John? John? Are you well?" Mycroft's voice seeps back into his consciousness; the quiet, mannered tones sounding almost agitated.

Awareness of his location floods back into John's mind. Not here – not now. He has to process this new information – he needs to understand where it leaves him and Sherlock - but in the sanctity of Baker Street. Not here, where he feels surrounded by enemies.

Rather self-consciously, he wipes the tears from his face and sits up straighter. To his surprise, Mycroft has refilled his cup and is stood over him, holding it out. The shock of this unlikely image helps to dispel his daze.

"Thanks," he mutters, gulping fiercely at the still scalding liquid. The burn of it down his throat helps him to pull himself together. "I'm sorry, it's just a surprise. I suppose I've been looking over my shoulder all this time without even realising it."

"I am sorry, John." Mycroft moves back to his desk and sits down, his face serious. "I should, perhaps, have guessed that you might have had some concerns about his continuing presence in your life. I wanted to tell you but…" His voice fades away, leaving John to understand that there were reasons why he didn't. There are always reasons.

"Do you…" he clears his throat and tries again. "Do you think Sherlock knew he – Moriarty – was dead before he…"

He can't complete that sentence, but Mycroft clearly understands the meaning. "That, I suspect, we may never know." There's a finality to the words, a sense of underlining them to indicate the man's intention to move on to other matters.

So he doesn't know that Sherlock is alive… or else he thinks that I don't know… John experiences the usual sense of helplessness that he always associates with Mycroft. He doesn't belong in this world of secrets, and spies, and double-meaning.

Mycroft leans forward, steepling his fingers again. "I wish I could tell you that his death has made your life safer, but I fear you are as much at risk as ever, John. I can provide minders, surveillance…"

"No." John sits up more firmly. That's the last thing he needs, someone else watching his every move.

Mycroft nods, looking down at a bulging file in front of him. It's the response he had expected. "I can understand that. But…my brother was correct in his description of James Moriarty. The man was not just a man. He was a spider – the centre of a web of corruption and violent crime that spanned – and still spans – many countries. There is hardly a crime syndicate or a terrorist organisation in the world that has no former connection with my brother's nemesis. And these individuals do not appreciate his death…not least because it appears to have had considerable ramifications for the success of their endeavours."

"What ramifications?"

Mycroft opens the file and flicks through a few pages, although John is sure that this is only for show. He has no doubt that the man in front of him has memorised every word. "It would appear that certain key figures and networks have been under attack for some time now. Bodies have turned up. In some cases, the cause of death – accident, murder or suicide – is not determined. And the demise of these individuals has had severe consequences for certain criminal organisations. Additionally, anonymous evidence has been e-mailed to police departments in China, Argentina, Italy, Australia, the United States of America – several other countries. Evidence that has allowed charges to be brought against previously untouchable individuals. In some cases, powerful, highly-placed figures." He gives John a meaningful look.

"Does – do they – does anyone know who is doing this?" John tries to keep his voice light. He's sure Mycroft must be able to hear his heart beating so fast it threatens to burst out of his chest.

A long, expectant moment of silence hangs between them before Mycroft finally sighs, closing the file. "No. We have no idea who can be behind this."

He gives John another of his all-seeing gazes, and the doctor finds himself squirming slightly.

"So? I mean, that's good – isn't it? That these people are being brought to justice?"

The brows draw downwards in mock disappointment. "I think you know that it is not quite that simple, John."

"I'm still not sure what all of this is to do with me."

The other man folds his hands under his chin again. "Let me put it this away. Among certain… parties… there is a perception that my brother may have been responsible for Moriarty's death. There is a commonly-held view that Sherlock shot him before jumping off that roof."

"On what proof?" John's eyes narrow. "Mycroft, where was Moriarty's body found? Was he – was he on that roof? With Sherlock, I mean?"

Those eyes of indeterminate colour turn fractionally colder. "I apologise, John, but I cannot reveal that information."

John's eyes narrow at his opponent in this verbal battle. A battle that he rarely wins, but it doesn't stop him from trying.

"What about his phone? Mycroft, do you have Sherlock's phone?" It's a quiet but insistent question.

And it's no different this time. Without hesitation, Mycroft looks directly back into his eyes. "I do not have it, and have absolutely no idea where it can be."

And that's that. John experiences the usual frustration of not being able to ascertain whether the man is telling him the truth. He wonders, quite suddenly, what truth actually means to a man like Mycroft. Is it revocable? Can Mycroft actually believe that a lie is the absolute truth when he needs to?

"To return to my point," Mycroft's dismissal of the topic is quite clear. "Sherlock is being blamed for Moriarty's downfall – and, by extension, the downfall of a large number of somewhat disagreeable gentlemen – and ladies, of course."

He smiles briefly, but his face turns serious once more. John senses genuine concern as he leans towards the doctor. "In the absence of my brother, their attentions are turning towards his former colleague, friend and – forgive me, John – presumed lover. Some are looking for revenge, some for a bargaining chip. And, trust me when I say that you really do not wish to encourage such attention. Some of these individuals make James Moriarty appear almost civilised."

"Well, they'll have to try a little harder than they did yesterday." John feels almost bullish; the RAMC officer coming to the fore again. Just let them try… He feels the thrill of exhilaration go through him – the adrenaline of danger, of the chase…

Mycroft raises a hand as if to cut through his guest's thought processes. "Tell me, John, are you at all aware that there have been at least five identified attempts on your life during the last three years?" His voice is clipped. No urbanity now – no pretence.

"Attempts? What do you mean?"

Mycroft smiles at him, and there's no humour in it. "Of course you are not. My people really are that good. Did you suppose that I have left you entirely alone since Sherlock's death? You have been followed – looked after, you might say – since the moment he fell from that building."

John leans forward, bristling despite the revelation that has genuinely stunned him. "And without my consent, as usual. Why should I believe you? How could I not know about these 'attempts'?"

"I repeat… my people are that good."

John swallows; a memory returns of a struggle by the dark canal. "Perhaps I'm better at defending myself than you think?"

Mycroft waves his hand again, casually. "Oh, that man never intended to kill you – not you, at any rate. The young woman may not have been so lucky. But he clearly had instructions not to kill you, so once he recognised who you were, he stepped back. You may rest assured that, if he had thrown your body into the water, the individual that was following you that night would have pulled you out and resuscitated you. And yet…" Mycroft's voice turns dreamy. "And yet, my agent's intervention was not required. I wonder why?"

"Wait a minute." John thinks quickly. "Was I being followed four nights ago? Between Barts and UCL, around two in the morning? I saw someone, or at least I think I did."

"The individual you saw was not my agent."

"Do you know who it was? Not one of Moriarty's ex-agents – I'm sure of that."

Mycroft nods and gives John another of those strangely approving smiles. "Possibly not. He has some other motivation, as yet undetermined. You should not assume that it is necessarily a benign one."

John frowns, trying to visualise that shadowy figure. "I feel I should know him, but I can't quite remember… Years ago, not here… A friend, though, not an enemy."

"Is that so?" John looks up to see Mycroft observing him with interest. "That may be the case, but remember that your life has changed considerably over the last five years. Old friends may have different motivations these days."

"You mean because of my association with Sherlock." It's not a question. John puts his cup aside as he leans forward to emphasise his point. "Back then, the first time we met, you were trying to warn me off, weren't you? Trying to stop me getting involved with Sherlock. You knew I wouldn't accept your offer. You had my files – you knew all about my limp and my hand tremor – do you expect me to believe that you didn't already know that I'd never take your money?"

The older Holmes' brother smiles, not taking his eyes off John.

"So…" John is thinking quickly, "your motivation wasn't to pay me to spy on your brother. And you surely knew that I couldn't be scared away… You really were trying to warn me to keep away, weren't you?"

It's funny that such a simple fact should be such a revelation.

"But, I still don't understand. Why should you have cared back then? What difference would it have made if something had happened to a crippled ex-army doctor that you didn't even know?" John shakes his head, trying to clear his way through the myriad facts. "See, I always thought you were worried about Sherlock – thinking that I might endanger him; slow him down or compromise him in some way. But, all along, it was me."

Mycroft hesitates, looking down at the files on his desk. John sees his hand rest gently on a thin file for a fraction of a moment before moving away again. There's an internal debate going on in the man's mind.

He laughs suddenly, puncturing the tense silence. "It is funny, is it not? I do see your problem, John. You are suspicious of my motivations – and why should you not be? Our first meeting was not exactly conducive to friendship. As far as you are concerned, I am an interfering presence. My very existence is an offence to my brother. Possibly you even consider me dangerous. You fear me, although you try to hide it. Your best friend despised me, his own brother."

Mycroft stands up suddenly and begins to pace – and John sees his younger brother again. It's almost as if, now that Sherlock is gone, Mycroft no longer feels the need to deliberately distance himself from inherited mannerisms.

"Do you know the real reason why Sherlock could barely bring himself to pronounce my name? No, of course you do not –he would never have revealed that much of his past. Irrelevant, unimportant, dull, he would say. Perhaps, if I could… but no," he shakes his head. "It is not my tale to tell. Suffice it to say that I had some… influence… in Sherlock's childhood that he resented. He carried that resentment into adulthood… and here we are."

He stops, turns that bright gaze onto John. "Here we are, quite unable to communicate honestly." John winces, but Mycroft carries on as if he hasn't noticed. "You fear me, you are angry with me – and rightly so. You blame me for Sherlock's death."

"I don't –"

"You do. And rightly." Mycroft's face grows distant, the lines more pronounced. He looks old.

"I know what I am responsible for. I asked you to… on that occasion, I wished you to convey my sincerest apologies. I do not know if you had an opportunity… but perhaps it does not matter… now."

He looks at John again. "You have an opinion of me, formed of my brother's prejudice, your lack of understanding of my…role, and your own anger over what happened. I do not seek to defend my actions back then, but it's clear that, as a result, you will not – cannot – trust me.

"And yet…" The man looks deeply troubled. "Can it be possible that you are genuinely unable to accept that I simply… do not wish you to come to harm? And have never done so? "

John looks away, uncomfortably.

"Five years ago, you were a name on a file. Just a man…and yet, no, not just a man, a decorated military hero, a skilled doctor, an able man. Do you know that you were once considered for possible recruitment to the Service? Considered and rejected – by me? Oh, not because of any lack of skill on your part, but quite simply because I felt that you had already done enough for this country. I felt that you had had enough."

He turns away, beginning to pace again. "Then what do I discover? This man, this Doctor John Watson, has been seen associating with my brother. My unreliable, unstable, brilliant but dangerous younger brother. Not just associating with him, but clearly planning to move in with him. Naturally, I was concerned – not for my idiot brother, but for a decorated, invalided war hero with post-traumatic stress disorder."

He looks back at John. "Tell me, John, when do you think I first became aware of Moriarty's psychopathological interest in my brother?"

"I don't – "

"Six years ago." Mycroft pauses by the desk, his eyes distant for a moment. "That's when his interest first came to my attention."

"Six years? But – but, even Sherlock didn't know about him until that cabbie that I shot –"

He breaks off belatedly, but Mycroft gives him a wry look. "I don't think we need concern ourselves with your role that night, John. I am not working for the Metropolitan police." He grimaces at the very idea.

"But surely – I mean, are you telling me that you knew Moriarty was a danger to Sherlock at least eighteen months before he heard his name?"

"At that time, I didn't know for certain what his motivation was. All I did know was that he had an obvious interest in the life and activities of one Sherlock Holmes. He was also, quite clearly, a serious risk to the security of this country and its people, and I had to step very carefully." Mycroft gazes over John's shoulder at the panelled wall, his voice quiet. "Sherlock…did not help matters much… His 'game' with Moriarty caused far more problems than even he was able to solve."

"Something of an understatement." John is surprised to hear his own voice emerging; sounding dry and rough in contrast to Mycroft's carefully modulated vowels.

Mycroft throws him an undecipherable smile. "And that is – was - my brother's main problem. Oh, I do not deny that he was excellent at solving the crimes that were seen….but he sometimes failed to take into account that which is unseen."

"And that fell to you." It isn't a question, but Mycroft nods nonetheless.

"Indeed. When you met my brother – and proved to be somewhat useful on that occasion - in one sense, I was pleased. What I saw that night was a steadying influence on a young man who has caused me considerable worry for most of his life. But, in another sense, I was concerned – for you. And for him too, in a way. You have no doubt heard my brother telling you on more than one occasion that caring is not an advantage. Clearly, you do not believe that to be the case. But, Sherlock was right... when it came to James Moriarty."

Mycroft has John's full attention now, as he begins to pace once more.

"Moriarty worked in a subtle way. For him, it was all about human motivation…and human weakness. Moriarty was not interested in systems or codes. His fascination was with people – and how far he could push them. Friendship, hatred, loyalty, greed, attraction, lust, love … those were his weapons. There was nothing he loved more than to discover an individual's weaknesses and exploit them.

"In your case, the weakness he exploited was loyalty – the loyalty of a soldier to his comrade. Not a weakness, you think? Well, maybe not – certainly not on a traditional battlefield - but to Moriarty, it was a key. A chink in your armour. He knew what your reaction would be – that you would try to sacrifice yourself for Sherlock's sake. He saw that very early on in your association with my brother.

"In Sherlock's case, it was vanity, a desire to solve the 'unsolvable'… an addiction to the game… and perhaps, in the case of Ms Adler, a certain degree of loneliness. Oh yes, Ms Adler was a very clever move by Mr Moriarty.

"In my case…" His voice fades away and he stops by the desk, his head dropping to gaze unseeingly at something there.

"In my case, the weakness was fear."

He looks up and laughs drily at John's face.

"Does that surprise you? Does it startle you to learn that the great Mycroft Holmes lies awake at night in fear of what might happen – in fear of the most dire consequences? I suppose you imagine that I am always in perfect control… and so I am. But the fear remains, even if I control it. You must know something of the depth of the power I possess, although you are perhaps unaware of its full reach.

"My life… is not an easy one, John. Oh, I chose it, I desired it. The entirety of my adult life has been focused purely on the goal of gaining - of obtaining - power. Power over my own life, power over those around me… even power over those who will never know that I exist. With power comes responsibility… the need to ensure that every decision I make is for the good of this country.

"And James Moriarty exploited that. You think that I betrayed Sherlock? Perhaps I did. All I knew was that a very dangerous man had to be compelled to reveal his secrets, and that one person had to be sacrificed for the good of the many. Even if that individual was my own brother. Responsibility, John. Responsibility… and power…."

He turns to face John. "And now I have responsibility for you."

"What?" John is startled out his daze. Mycroft has never been this informative before, and he had been imagining the encounters that the spymaster must have had with the consulting criminal. "What do you mean? Oh, no you don't, Mycroft. You don't start 'owning' me the way you tried to own Sherlock."

Mycroft sighs and there's an air of impatience about it. Any minute now, he will start casting meaningful glances at his watch.

"This is not about 'ownership', as you term it. The reality is that you are now in a very dangerous position – more so than you ever were in Afghanistan. A position that is, perhaps, of my brother's making -"

"And I have never regretted it – not a minute of it." John's voice is firm. And he means it. He wouldn't take any of it back – the midnight chases, Sherlock's experiments, even being the subject of one at Baskerville. Sherlock had shaken the life back into him; had made him so much more than a useless, crippled ex-army medic.

"I understand that, John – perhaps better than you realise." The last comment is a muttered aside, and John's not quite sure if he heard right, but Mycroft looks at him with those oddly intense Holmes eyes.

"I could compel you to accept my protection. You realise that, of course." The man makes a casual gesture. "In twenty minutes from now, you could be on a plane, being taken to a place where no one will ever find you."

"No." He spits the word out, fixing Mycroft with his most venomous glare.

"No? I thought not. But – don't you understand, John? I have to keep you safe; it's my responsibility – "

"No. It is not."

"I made a promise –" Mycroft breaks off, abruptly and turns away. He seems almost… distracted.

"Promise to who?"

The older Holmes brother sinks into his chair, seemingly weary. He fiddles with a file on his desk for a moment, and then smiles again, his eyes not meeting John's.

"It would seem we are at an impasse. I wish to be of help to you, but you will not accept my protection, and I cannot – I do not have the right – to impose it on you. No -" he shakes his head, and John has the strangest impression that he is having an argument with himself… or with someone else. "No, I don't have that right."

John leans forward. "You really want to help me? Great. Then help me solve this case. Find me the link between those victims and lead me to the killer. You know you can do it." He leans back. "That's all I'm going to ask of you."

Mycroft's eyes flicker to the file he is holding and then looks up at John, his mouth twisted in a strange manner. "I cannot do that. If I could, believe me, I would… but there are circumstances that I cannot explain to you."

"Then we have nothing further to say to one another." John stands, making it clear that the conversation is finished.

Mycroft doesn't stand; he merely makes a weary gesture of dismissal, his head bowed.

John hesitates, not knowing quite what to say. In the end, he shrugs and turns towards the door.

"John?"

He stops, turns back towards Mycroft.

"Please, for your own sake… don't get involved further in Inspector Lestrade's case. And do be careful. Don't trust to old friendships."

John nods, not trusting himself to say anything, and leaves.


He's on Baker Street, just approaching 221B when he hears the whisper from a nearby alleyway.

"Hey, Doc?"

He stops, squinting into the gloom. "Bex, is that you?"

She emerges from the alley, her eyes wary. "I gotta message for you."

"Yes?" Could it be Sherlock? She seems to read the unasked question in his eyes and shakes her head slowly. No.

He frowns. There's something about her; she lacks her usual streetwise confidence. Her eyes are dark with something… an expression that is somehow familiar to him…

"What is it, Bex? What's the message?"

"This."

It's a mere whisper, and just as his wits catch up with him and he recognises the fear in her eyes, there's an all-too familiar crack of a pistol.

He throws himself forward, grabbing for her, but all too late – far too late – as the dark blood spatters across his front.

The utter terror in her eyes dulls as she sinks through his out-flung arms, dead before she even touches the ground.

A scrap of paper falls from her limp hand into the spreading pool of blood.

I believe in Sherlock Holmes.


Next time, John gets a little closer to his shadow...