Insurgency

Mycroft closed the door to John's room and nodded at the security team outside, giving them the cue to organize John's transport to a safe location. Walking down the corridor, Mycroft reached into his coat to take out his phone. He stopped mid-stride: it was not there.

His mind started racing, frantically trying to recall the moment he had last had it – and then his face knotted into a deep frown of annoyance.

Sherlock.

He spun round, and there he was: his brother stood in the hallway, at the head of the staircase, hands clasped at his back, his face a veritable thundercloud. The expression vanished instantly, morphing into pleasant serenity with frightening speed.

Mycroft was suddenly overcome by the realization just how unpredictable his brother had become; his heart sped up, throbbing almost painfully as he walked towards him.

"Missing this?" Sherlock smiled sweetly, holding out the phone to him.

Mycroft slowly took it, staring at his brother. With growing concern he admitted to himself that Sherlock's fake smile would have convinced him, had he not seen the wrath only seconds before. Never before had Sherlock managed to successfully fake emotions in front of him; he had always seen right through his little brother, even if everybody else fell for it completely. Sherlock had perfected the art of pretense, Mycroft realized, and his throat suddenly felt dry as he wondered to what extent Sherlock might have fooled him already.

"Why did you take my phone?" he asked, fighting not to swallow and betray his dismay.

"To see whether you uphold your end of the bargain," Sherlock answered smoothly.

"Then you know that I do," Mycroft replied carefully.

"I see you have arranged for Professor Sheffield to come to your house next week?"

Mycroft gave a tight smile. "He is pre-eminent in the field of treating post-traumatic stress disorder, Sherlock."

"I am aware of that. And why did you invite him to your house?"

"I assumed you would prefer to speak to him in an informal setting rather …" Mycroft hesitated imperceptibly.

"Rather than in a clinic," Sherlock finished coldly.

"Yes." Mycroft raised his brows. "I hope I assumed correctly?" He scrutinized his brother's face, but read nothing there. Nothing.

Sherlock just shrugged.

"And what else have you seen on my phone?" Mycroft asked, struggling to keep his voice devoid of emotion.

Sherlock shrugged it off. "That your government work is as dull as ditchwater."

It was a lie, Mycroft realized. But what disconcerted him was the fact that he could not say why he knew Sherlock had lied – the knowledge was based on instinct, not observation. He felt Sherlock's piercing gaze on him and stared back unwaveringly, searching for clues; today his eyes were green as reed rather than grey, he thought absentmindedly … and finally accepted the debasing truth: he was apprehensive of his little brother. If not to say afraid. It took all his self-control to remain impassive.

Mycroft straightened, declaring with false cheerfulness, "We shall proceed with our plans, then?"

"Oh, by all means, Mycroft," Sherlock agreed with a faked vigour that sounded so wrong it grated on his ears. "Only, there's a slight game changer."

"Is there?" Mycroft raised his brows, his eyes restlessly scanning his brother.

Sherlock's face was suddenly set in stone. "When I woke up this morning, brother, I knew I had missed something. There's always something … until now, I did not know what." He paused.

"And now you do?" Mycroft asked slowly, careful to keep his voice neutral.

"Yes."

Mycroft waited for an explanation, but Sherlock seemed unwilling to give one. Faking bemused indifference, he sighed, "So, what has your ingenious mind missed?"

Sherlock stepped closer, his face only inches away. "You, betraying me. You, misleading me."

Mycroft straightened, stopping himself from baulking at the accusation. "Sherlock, I did not–"

"Shut up!" There was so much venom in his voice that Mycroft fell silent. "Don't think that I've suddenly turned into an idiot just because I can't make sense of my memories!" Sherlock snarled.

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest but decided to remain silent, given that Sherlock had balled his hands into fists.

Sherlock's face abruptly changed into a friendly mask. Smirking, he drawled, "Brother dearest. You intend to section me, right here, right now. Did you honestly think those hilariously unobtrusive male nurses on both ends of the corridor would fool me?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm. "There are men moving on the floors above and below us – don't even think about denying it, I can hear them. There is no way out for me, I will run into your minions no matter whether I race upstairs or downstairs: you've closed a ring around me. You never intended to keep to our agreement, you've planned to cart me off to a mental hospital against my will all along. You've only waited until now because you needed my help to capture Moran – and I suppose, to grant me the peace of mind that John was safe, even from an imaginary Moriarty."

Mycroft held up his hand, trying to pacify. "Sherlock, please–"

"Don't!" he bellowed, red hot rage burning inside him. He huffed out an angry breath. "Don't lie to me." The only thing that kept him from lashing out at his brother was the obvious distress in Mycroft's eyes.

"Sherlock, I'm worried–"

"I know you are." His anger suddenly died down. To his great surprise, it made him sad to see his stoic brother so upset; he had always thought he'd relish the moment he finally managed to unsettle mighty Mycroft.

He did not.

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. Slowly, almost sadly, he shook his head. "Mycroft; Mycroft. You think it's over. But it has barely begun." He reached out a hand but never touched. "Goodbye, brother."

"Sher- NO!" Mycroft dashed forward, but it was too late.

Sherlock had vaulted over the handrail of the stairway before his brother even realized what he was doing. Jumping down two floors, he landed with pinpoint accuracy, never staggering, darting off as swift as an arrow and making straight for the main entrance.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted, leaning over the banister. "There are men down there as well! Don't make a fool of yourself!"

But Sherlock was not to be stopped: he elegantly avoided one agent, knocked down another and pushed an abandoned wheelchair into the path of a third. "For God's sake!" Mycroft cursed and started running down the stairs, tossing aloofness to the wind. His men had already secured the exits as well as the main entrance, and he was certain they would catch his brother, but he did not want him to get hurt or humiliated. Panting, he reached the ground floor. "Sherlock! For God's sake, don't force me to have you subdued like a common criminal!"

Sherlock actually stopped for a second. Whirling around, he snarled, "Try!"

Before any of the agents were even close to him, he had grabbed a visitor's chair and was sprinting towards the entrance doors, the agents outside bearing down on him. At the very last moment, he sidestepped, hurled the chair with full force against the window, smashing it to bits. Another reckless vault through pieces of broken glass and metal, and he was gone, leaving the agents shouting and trailing behind.

Mycroft stopped at the shattered window, staring at the murderous shards. Stunned, he slowly became aware of the shrieks and shouts of passers-by and the embarrassed looks of his agents, who had failed to catch an unarmed man.

And then, for the first time in years, the ever-dignified British Government cursed loudly, for all to hear.