Summary:

"Mycroft had told him they were meeting after John's day at work, which could only mean that John was getting kidnapped in the next hour."

CHAPTER 15

John looked out of his office window and sighed at the rain. London was definitely conspiring to make it one of the most depressing days of the last few weeks.

Mary had left work alone minutes before. John had something else to do. At least, he thought so.

Mycroft had told him they were meeting after John's day at work, which could only mean that John was getting kidnapped in the next hour. John hadn't been dealing with Holmeses for years for nothing. He knew their antics well enough. He had already put on his jacket, getting ready to wait for the black car that was inevitably going to pull over in front of the surgery at any moment.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and John turned on the screen.

Bored. -SH

John smiled. Trust Sherlock to be bored after a few hours without a case. He could swear the detective was getting even more impatient than he had always been.

Sorry, I can't help. I've got a date, he texted back. He hoped Mycroft wouldn't forget the candles and the wine.

Ugh.

Should I remind you that you are already engaged? -SH

I've got a date with your brother.

John could make Sherlock's disgusted expression. He snorted to himself, observing a rain drop that ran down the window. He should probably wait downstairs, but he didn't fancy getting wet.

For god's sake, was that really necessary? -SH

It's your own damn fault, isn't it?

It was Sherlock's fault. He could have told John he was being threatened weeks ago, they could have had a good conversation – one of those in which people actually communicated. But no, Sherlock was still reluctant about telling him anything, so John had to turn to Mycroft for help.

Why couldn't Sherlock just bloody tell him himself?

Well, if you must. Ask him how the diet is going. -SH

John laughed. He didn't fancy getting arrested for calling the British Government fat either.

A black car pulled over in front of the surgery just as John started typing his reply to Sherlock.

Date just arrived. Go experiment on the head, he typed the fastest he could, rushing to the lift.

Just finished gauging the eyes out. -SH

Jesus fuck. What was even John's life, for Christ sake. If the police accidentally found his phone, he was going to be convicted for accessory to murder.

Bye, Sherlock, he sent and turned the phone off. He knew Sherlock well enough to suspect the detective would text him through the whole date just to upset Mycroft.

It shouldn't have surprised John that he was brought to Mycroft's private office at the Diogenes Club, but for some reason it did.

That place had always made John feel inadequate beyond belief. He instinctively straightened his shoulders and his clothes.

It took Mycroft a moment to come in – John thought he did that on purpose, just to intensify the dramatics.

Mycroft sat in front of him and he had some files with him– secret files, John supposed. He couldn't help remembering that one time when Mycroft had lied to his face about Moriarty and everything that was going to happen.

He squeezed his hands in fists to stop punching Mycroft in the face.

"I see you're being assaulted by your memories again," Mycroft said, nonchalantly, without raising his eyes from the pages he was perusing.

God, he was such an obnoxious prick. Compared to Mycroft, Sherlock was a walk in the park. And John had never in his god damn life thought about Sherlock as an easy person.

"It's endearing how you seem to think I am the one to blame for Sherlock's faults. Tell me, do you blame for everything or just for this particular scheme?" The last word left Mycroft's lips as if it had a bitter taste in it.

Everything, John thought and surprised himself by it.

It was ridiculous to blame Mycroft for Sherlock's mistakes. Mycroft was overpowering, but Sherlock had always been proud. He had always followed his own rules.

"Does this conversation have a point?" John asked, facing Mycroft fully. He knew the only way of dealing with the elder brother was to just be his captain self.

He could play this game.

"Ah, of course," Mycroft said, finally looking up from the files. "Always the pragmatic. Let's jump into business. You have questions and I shall answer them."

"At least the ones you judge convenient," John pointed out.

"Quite," Mycroft smiled without humour. "So, what is it you wish to know?"

"Everything."

Mycroft's evil laughter sounded weak in John's ears. As if the British Government maybe wished he could have this choice, but didn't.

"There really isn't much to tell you about it. There has been a sequel of death threats. All of them in manila envelopes, words cut from the newspaper. Such a cliché," Mycroft commented.

"Which newspaper?" John asked and that made Mycroft look at him sharply. It was John's time to smile at him humourlessly. "Come on, do you want me to believe Sherlock didn't deduce everything there was to know about the newspaper?"

"I was the one who deduced it, in fact," Mycroft pointed out. "You know very well that my brother couldn't care less about the media in general. And I had to face this particular newspaper more times than I wish to revisit at this moment."

John waited for the information that was yet to come. For some unknown reason, Mycroft seemed particularly reluctant to tell him about the newspaper. "So?"

"They specifically used the issues of The Sun from the second week of June," Mycroft told him.

John tensed in his chair. So it was very personal. It was the anniversary of Sherlock's death.

"June of 2011," Mycroft said, and his lips had a tense line around them.

Fuck.

"Jesus," John rubbed his face. How could Sherlock think it would be a good idea not to tell him that was beyond his comprehension. People were storing the newspapers from the day he had died! It was disgusting. "Is Moriarty really dead?"

"Indeed he is, Doctor Watson, and my brother and I believed we had dissuaded all his associates in the time Sherlock was away," Mycroft answered.

"Well, you were clearly wrong," John said opening his arms in an expansive gesture. "It sucks, doesn't it? Being wrong?" He asked, bitterly.

Mycroft scowled at him. "I must remind you that we have absolutely no proof that Moriarty's people are the ones behind all this."

John raised an eyebrow. He couldn't imagine any other person behind this. Even if Moriarty was really dead, he would probably have given orders for his people to gather all the media cover of Sherlock's suicide and destruction.

It didn't make sense that someone else would bother keeping those papers for so long, though. That Moriarty was strangely obsessed with Sherlock, John was fairly aware of, but that someone else would inherit the obsession seemed a crazy assumption.

Who would care about it that much?

John refocused his eyes on Mycroft that was paying fully attention to him. John was getting more and more frustrated by all this.

"I want to know what happened," John said, defiantly.

"A lot of effort was put into that day, Lazarus was a huge operation," Mycroft said, joining his hands over the files he had on his lap. "It cost me two of my best agents–"

"I don't care about that," John intercepted. Maybe someday he would be able to listen about that day without feeling like there was barbed wire around his neck. And he meant what he had said on that first day. He wanted to know why all that had been necessary. He still hadn't got a good answer to that. He suspected the death threats Sherlock was receiving had to do with it.

Mycroft looked hard at him.

"I want to know what happened in those two years, Mycroft. And judging by the files you have with you, you already know that. So stop bloody wasting our precious time."

Mycroft dared to smirk at this, but his eyes seemed soft. As if he had, indeed, imagined that John wouldn't let this go.

Well, he could be damn sure John wouldn't.

Finally, Mycroft started opening the five different files he had with him. He placed one after the other on the two tables beside them. "June of 2011, London," he said, pointing to the picture of a thin man that looked almost too inoffensive to be involved in such a powerful criminal organization.

The first one, John thought. Probably the first person Sherlock had ever killed, if John was understanding correctly the 'Eliminated' stamped in red over his face. John ran through the information in the file. The guy didn't really seem like a threat, and John had some difficulty in placing him among Sherlock's first preoccupations after jumping to his 'death'.

One particular piece of information called his attention, though.

Sniper.

"Was he –"

"Yes," Mycroft said. "He was at the pool and he was at the building across from St. Bart's. One of Moriarty's favourite assassins."

That hadn't been Sherlock working. That had been Sherlock avenging them. Him.

John let this realisation fit in his brain. He felt conflicted. He wasn't usually a vindictive person and he was always too worried about Sherlock's well-being to encourage that kind of thing. But at that moment, when he knew Sherlock was safe at Baker Street and he remembered everything Moriarty had led them to, he felt glad.

Mycroft pointed to a different file. That one showed a beautiful redhead woman dressed in a smart suit and high heels.

'Expertise: knifes'.

John looked sharply at Mycroft.

"July of 2011, Taza, Morocco," the elder Holmes said, simply.

Morocco.

John rubbed his face to hide it from Mycroft's acute eyes. Sherlock had been stabbed right after jumping to his death. He had been alone in a different country in what could bloody well have been called a suicide mission.

"How could you let him do this, Mycroft?" John asked. It didn't make any sense that Mycroft had gone along with that frankly terrible plan. Sherlock wasn't a soldier, for Christ's sake, he wasn't a special agent. "He could have died!"

"Yes, but he didn't, now moving on to the others –"

"Well, but he could've!" John shouted. "Sherlock is not a fucking hero, he is your little brother, how could you let him almost die there?"

"I saved him, if you care to observe the facts, Doctor Watson. Who do you think rescued him from Morocco and did the elimination this time?"

"You let him go back out there and hunt Moriarty's people alone!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed as if this whole exchange pained him. "I'm flattered by your assumption that I have such control over Sherlock, even after living with him for so long," he smiled unpleasantly. "You only think he was alone because you weren't with him. And believe me, that wasn't my decision."

Being told by Mycroft Holmes that it had been Sherlock's choice to leave him behind made John's insides turn on themselves. He had already known that, but it hurt, nonetheless.

John looked at the walls, helpless. He sometimes hated that sick bond he had with that family, cursed the day Mike had called his name at that park.

And then he remembered that that bond was still one of the things he cherished the most in his life.

He sighed and looked at Mycroft again. "Well, go on, then."

Mycroft used a pen to point out the other three files he had placed on the table on his right. "February of 2012, Bern, Switzerland; April of 2012, Budapest, Hungary; August of 2013, Hannover, Germany."

John smiled. He hated being treated like a simpleton. "I want to know what happened after Morocco, Mycroft. How did you find him, how did he look like, his injuries, his recovery. Everything. And you are going to tell me."

Mycroft straightened his shoulders. John didn't know if he was aware of it, but he imagined nothing escaped the British Government's awareness. "As you could notice by the dates, he required some months of medical care. First I had a doctor whom I trusted entirely shipped to Morocco. As soon as Sherlock's injuries allowed, I had Sherlock and him transported to Switzerland."

"Well, that wasn't fast enough. I have seen the scar, Mycroft. It's not that different from my own and I was in the fucking Afghan desert," John told him, trying to keep his voice down.

Mycroft turned a bit pale at that. "The lack of proper treatment in the first two weeks caused him to almost die. He had gone off the grid and I had lost him for a week before finding him captured by one of Moriarty's associates. Until then, it's my opinion that Sherlock was facing Moriarty's network as an extension of the man himself: something apparently chaotic, but brilliant, with a touch of lunacy. He was wrong and he paid the price. The organization was extremely efficient and practical. Moriarty's antics were just his own," Mycroft said.

A man that looked like a butler brought in a tray with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. John didn't think Mycroft had asked for anything, but it didn't surprise him that people there were trained to fit his every need before he even had them.

Usually John would refuse to have a drink with Mycroft, but he had to swallow down the lump in his throat. He noticed Mycroft was looking at the ice in his glass.

"Don't think Sherlock didn't miss you while he was there, John. He learned the hard way that one can't simply relinquish his doctor while running around chasing the most hunted criminals in Europe," the elder Holmes said, sipping the whiskey.

John looked at his hands curled in fists. He couldn't help thinking over and over again that Sherlock should have let him go along. He couldn't help thinking that he would have gone to hell and back after Sherlock if he had just let him do that.

"When was he tortured?" John asked.

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock was beaten a few times. I believe the x-ray you are talking about is the one take after Budapest. He was beaten again in Serbia – when the last event happened – and in other European and Asian countries while doing his... legwork," he said, and the last word seemed to have left a foil taste in his mouth. "I did the extraction again in Serbia, in last October."

John perused the files again. "I don't see anyone from Serbia here."

Mycroft smiled, but his eyes were hard. "Yes, I preferred to leave Baron Maupertuis alive. He had information of value to us."

John nodded to show he understood. He still couldn't see how any of those people could be connected to the death threats Sherlock was receiving. "What about these, then?" He asked, pointing to the files on the table.

"Sherlock killed those who didn't give him a choice. As you well said, my brother is not a soldier, and he is no assassin either. Most of Moriarty's people were incarcerated and some of them were exchanged for information and diplomatic facilities between Our Majesty and other countries," Mycroft smiled.

"Yes, I'm sure Queen Elizabeth was well aware of everything about Moriarty," John smirked bitterly. He looked over to the files again. He was trying hard to make sense of the path Sherlock had gone alone, of everything he had had to face.

And now he was being threatened again. Would they ever have a break?

John looked at Mycroft and thought that if anyone could help him understand what was happening, it was the older brother. "What do you think?"

Mycroft raised an infuriating eyebrow back at him. He must have known what John meant, but of course he wanted to hear him say.

"I know you are the smart one, Mycroft. Sherlock is an overgrown child sometimes. So, what do you think is happening? Do you think those death threats are linked to these people?"

Mycroft smiled a softer smile than was usual. "Quite frankly, Doctor Watson, I don't. I have my reasons to think those envelopes have absolutely nothing to do with Moriarty's work apart from the fact that they invoke Sherlock and Moriarty's relationship. We do not have any indication that his organization is behind all this."

"But does this organization still exist?"

"Don't they always? I have no doubt it will raise again soon enough with another brilliant man behind it. But I don't believe they will worry about Sherlock Holmes until their paths cross again. These letters, these envelopes, they are not their style," Mycroft said, and his tone left no room for doubt.

John himself didn't believe Moriarty's people would waste their time threatening to kill Sherlock when they could simply hire a sniper to end his life. This thought wasn't a pleasant one. John hoped Mycroft was right.

"The red seal...?" John asked.

"Easily forged. A magpie is not that uncommon," Mycroft answered.

John nodded. His brain was going in a million different directions at the same time. "Why would someone do that? I mean, use this particular M. O. to threat him?"

Mycroft had the guts to smile at this. John wanted to wipe that from his face with his fists. "Now, John, you are asking the right questions," he said while pouring another shot of whiskey to himself. "It's a good disguise. We would be tempted to blame Moriarty and his associates. It would sent us on a fruitless chase. And it's another proof of how personal this is. It's my brother's life story, it's something linked to the reason he had to die, in the first place. It's his work. Your work."

John nodded again, numbly. It made sense. So it was personal. But why the fuck was someone so pissed at Sherlock just months after his coming back?

"That, John, is what we have to find out," Mycroft answered the unasked question.

"Right," John said. "I want to see the letters," he said, not for the first time since he had discovered about them. He had no idea why Mycroft and Sherlock were being so secretive about them.

"That is not possible."

John smiled humourlessly. He figured.

"Let's just say they are unnecessarily theatrical. And too personal for anyone's comfort."

John frowned at that. Who would have any personal information about Sherlock, for Christ's sake? The man was a class 1 liar, had faked his own death and planted a whole fake life story when tricking Moriarty.

A certain thought started to form itself in John's head.

"Could this be Irene Adler?" He asked. "Maybe she sold him out. It wouldn't be the first time. Maybe she is feeding someone information about Sherlock."

"It's indeed a possibility that I have considered, so I sent someone after her in America. I don't think she is our link to this person."

"You have been wrong about them before," John reminded him.

"Them?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

"Sherlock and Irene," John said, trying not to show how uncomfortable that subject made him feel. He blamed on the fact that he didn't trust that woman for a second. He had yet to understand why the simple thought of her and Sherlock together made his stomach sink. "He likes her, he helped her once. Maybe she knows more about him than you are aware of."

"He likes her?" Mycroft asked, mimicking John's turn of phrase. He had a bewildered expression on his face.

"Well," John shrugged.

"Was that what you deduced about his heart? That he likes her?" Mycroft said, with a deprecating smile on his lips. John felt insulted by it. "You, John, really are no detective."

John rolled his eyes. They were getting rather side tracked on their subject. He didn't want to think about Irene and Sherlock anymore. He didn't want to think about Irene tricking Sherlock and breaking his heart again.

"These threats, John, are as personal as throwing you at a bonfire."

John's head snapped up at this and he looked straight into Mycroft's eyes. "Are they connected?"

Mycroft sighed, as if it pained him to admit that he wasn't sure. "Possibly."

John squinted his eyes at Mycroft, thinking hard about that. He had barely entered Sherlock's life again and people were already using him to get to the detective.

"This is why he doesn't want my help, isn't it?" John asked, rhetorically.

He just didn't know if Sherlock was trying to protect him or was just tired of having a liability. John had been used against him more times than any other thing. And he was getting bloody tired of it.

It made him want to run back to Baker Street. It probably made Sherlock not want him there again.

"Sherlock accepted your help the moment he let you find those x-rays, John. That was all the answer I needed," Mycroft said. He collected all the files and piled them on his lap. "I suppose our meeting is over, Doctor Watson. I wish I had more information to give you, but I'm afraid that's everything."

"I want to know about the surveillance you have on him," John said. Mycroft just raised an eyebrow. "Come on, Mycroft. Your baby brother is receiving death threats you can't trace and you want me to believe you don't have a security detail following him everywhere? Give me some credit," John smiled at him.

Mycroft seemed to ponder for a moment, before deciding to tell John the truth. "I bought the building across from 221B. It is occupied by agents. They are monitoring all the roofs in that particular block since we don't want to be surprised by long range rifles. Baker Street is being monitored 24/7. We've put detail on Mrs Hudson as well."

John nodded. It was consistent with what he had expected.

"I also bought the house across from yours. And we've put details on you and your fiancée for good measure. I'm sure you comprehend," Mycroft smirked.

John rolled his eyes. He didn't have in him to argue. Not after everything he had listened to.

"I ask that you do not disclose this information to anyone else."

Why would he ever tell anyone anything about it?

Mycroft had stood up and straightened his suit. John figured the conversation was over. He imagined the British Government had other crisis to deal with apart from his little brother's.

But first, there was still something he wanted to know.

"How did Sherlock break his arm?"

Mycroft smirked, as if he had been waiting for this question. John supposed he must have been.

"Following what we thought was a lead on this whole affair. Some information we received led us to Ireland, which was the first headquarters of Moriarty's network while the man was alive. Sherlock found a small cell of arms trafficking working with the still breathing part of IRA and was knocked unconscious."

John nodded. "And what does that mean? That you were led there?"

Mycroft smiled. "That someone is going out of their way to not let us forget about the last three years, Doctor Watson. And I want to know why. I believe you do too, don't you?"

thank you for the support! and thanks to my beta who is the best ever.