Author's note: We're back at the start now – this is the same time as the prologue. Sherlock and John are both at the Old Bailey to stage Sherlock's resurrection.

Thank you for reading so far - and I'm really happy that Mary has found a fan! Plus, I promise to keep my comments short in the future.

To Howlynn: a million thanks for the in-depth-analysis, I'll definitely take time to reflect on it! Please don't get me wrong if I don't comment on it: I'm in the middle of my final exams and getting the story finished was like writing with the hounds of hell at my heels … and yes, I did change Mycroft a bit, assuming that the three years changed him as well - I had fun with that! But I'll do him justice later, I think he's brilliant :-)

Full Circle

They had come full circle, Sherlock mused. Back to where it all began, at the Old Bailey, the place of Moriarty's trial, where the criminal mastermind had fooled them all.

He had arrived at the Old Bailey long before John. Mycroft had sent the car early, barely leaving him time to enjoy his tea and forcing him to skip breakfast. Not that he would have managed more than a slice of toast anyway, and even that would have upset his stomach.

Now, sitting in the antechamber of the courtroom, he was waiting for the hearing to begin. The room was a venerable, wood panelled chamber with leather armchairs, heavy tables, and monarchs staring down from the walls. It smelled of oak, dust and history. A tea trolley was in front of him, but he had not touched anything: his fingers were flying over the phone, spelling out the thoughts his voice failed to express.

John,

I am proud of you. More than a little – I feel like a mother hearing her child say its first words! Laugh at me, if you want, it's sentiment, yes, and I know how ridiculous I sound, but it is true.

How coolly you handled Mycroft at the briefing, virtually interrogating him, keeping up with his line of thought, pouncing on all the flaws and weaknesses in the plan. And you trusted me despite what I have done to you and Mary – you go along with this dangerous plan because I devised it.

John, I am bursting with pride, and at the same time I'm so ashamed I want to crawl under a rock and die because I will betray you yet again. By the end of the day you will know what I mean.

I know I disappointed you because I hastened from the room before you could speak with me – I can't talk to you, John, not now. Well, in my defence I can say I did have a rather good excuse to rush out, which had something to do with a cucumber sandwich and a persistent food intolerance.

But that's not really the problem.

It's me. I'm choking on my words and I have no explanation for my silence. I have no time to analyse this problem, it will have to wait for later – if there is a later.

The truth is: I avoided you because I fear you. I was terrified that you would see through my lies; and once you have the slightest doubt, you don't let go, do you? You'd corner me and you'd want to know what's wrong and what they've done to me, and I would give in and break down, falling apart at your feet – and you'd be so strong and forgiving, and you'd offer your help and be practical and kind, all doctor and friend.

And then you'd worry even more lines into your face, and by the end of the day you would go home to your loving wife. And I would be broken.

I am broken anyway.

What I'm about to do is unforgivable.

I hope you forgive me anyway.

S

Sherlock's ears picked up the sound of footsteps – someone treading softly by nature, yet confident, loathing haste. Today, however, there was a slight hesitation in the steps, heralding concern. Immediately, his own anxiety spiked, thankfully morphing into anger almost immediately. The door opened with a slight creak, but Sherlock did not acknowledge the intruder.

His brother slowly approached the heavy chair next to him and sat down, crossing his legs. Relaxing against the high back of the chair, he placed one hand on the armrest but kept twisting the handle of his umbrella between his delicate fingers: the perfect image of mildly bored self-composure. Sherlock knew better. The umbrella spoke volumes; there was no rain in London today.

Mycroft watched his brother typing furiously on his phone, his mind obviously far ahead of his fingers, for whenever Sherlock made an error – proof of his impatience – he hissed angrily, stabbing at the phone as if it were a venomous scorpion.

"You'll give yourself tendinitis if you continue like this," Mycroft said placidly.

"I don't care."

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock–"

"Don't talk. You're distracting me." Another angry jab at the screen.

"Sherlock, don't you think this can wait-"

"I'm writing that bloody diary as you suggested and now shut up!"

Mycroft fell silent without further protest. Not for long. "You have to tell John."

Sherlock just snarled. "I can't."

"If you can't speak to John, why don't you give him your phone? You've obviously written a considerable amount already."

Sherlock shot his brother a murderous look without interrupting his typing. "It makes no sense without the other phone, which I had to hide, and which you failed to retrieve, brother dear!"

"I'm working on it," Mycroft assured him in a surprisingly soothing tone, as if promising to a child to have a beloved toy repaired. "It is only a matter of time."

Sherlock just hissed between his teeth.

"Anyway," Mycroft continued, lowering his voice, "I meant you have to tell him what you're planning to do. To him. Today."

"No."

"Why?"

"Too dangerous."

"Nonsense."

Sherlock stopped typing and looked up. For the first time Mycroft had his full attention. "He would not agree to it. He would never stay out of it. He would insist on remaining by my side."

Mycroft took a deep breath, knowing that he had lost the argument. "I could force him."

"No. He'd slip through your fingers again."

"Not this time."

Sherlock just snorted.

Mycroft wasn't willing to give up just yet. "Sherlock, don't you think you've hurt him enough? I'm afraid he will not forgive you this."

"I am aware of that."

"You are deliberately destroying everything you worked for."

"I have no choice."

"You do have a choice." Mycroft stopped spinning the umbrella and put it aside. "Look, I have only agreed to your plan because you promised me to accept help when this is over. Not all psychiatrists are complete idiots. What is broken can still be mended. However, there is a point of no return; and you are approaching it – fast."

"I have long exceeded it." Sherlock rose and slipped the phone into his jacket. "And you still don't believe me, do you?"

Mycroft looked up at his younger brother, standing so tall and aloof. "I hope we are both wrong. For once."

Sherlock just scoffed.