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Chapter Two.

With a gasp, Sherlock Holmes awoke from slumber, with the kiss of Molly Hooper still lingering from his last lucid memory, on his forehead.

Moriarty

It was over.

The Holmes brothers had played their cards right.

Richard Brook had been real. Moriarty had been a mask. And now both man and disguise were finished.

Sherlock brought his hands to his face, and tried to calm himself. But they shook, reminding him all too well the frailty of rationality. He was stripped bare - had been stripped bare for awhile now, since the night at the pool when John had been threatened.

It was over.

John.

John.

A strange sound broke the silence of his room. Like a wounded animal, small whines, and when he discovered the sound came from him, he did not repress them. Instead they grew louder and more desperate.

"I…I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?"

He was crying. Sherlock Holmes was crying – no, sobbing like a child, unable to stop, like a newly orphaned boy. This was so strange to him, that the shock of such a thing deepened the wails. He had not cried since…Since he was a boy, crying under his bed for Sherrinford, when Mycroft had left.

No, that wasn't the complete truth. He remembered another time, not too far back in his history, imprisoned in those walls, wailing, "Mycroft, please. Please don't make me stay. I haven't heard the voices in eons, honest. Lestrade, tell him I've been well. There's a woman – a woman, she promised she'd watch over me, Mrs. Hudson. I helped her with a case, years before. Her husband…I ensured his execution, in Florida, when I was in America…"

"Ah, yes," Mycroft had stood before him, emotionless as usual, leaning on that damned umbrella of his, "Let's talk about your time in America. The nightmare of bringing you back home after that little fit of yours, because –"

"That's not *fair*. I haven't been that low since, and you know it. Look, Mrs. Hudson said I could stay at Baker Street. She lives below the flat; she'll keep an eye on me."

Lestrade at the table, shifted on his seat thoughtfully, "I can keep an eye on him too, Mr. Holmes. He does seem better –" he nodded his head quickly in apology as Sherlock stiffened, "Sorry, Sherlock. I can keep an eye on you. You do seem better."

Mycroft shook his head, "You're not ready to live independently. Sherlock, for God's sake, what would you have me do? You stay awake for days on end, you forget to eat –"

"Eating is dull," Sherlock muttered under his breath; then hastily added, "I can eat! I'll eat like a prince. I'll sleep regularly –" Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "–Alright, fine, I'll sleep when *necessary*. And I promise – I promise I'll stay clean."

Mycroft twirled his umbrella on its point, then let out a breath, "I'm not happy with this."

"I promise," Sherlock said firmly. And thankfully those shameful tears began to subside when Mycroft softened, and threw up his hands in surrender.

Sherlock let out a sigh.

"But Sherlock," Mycroft said, moving forward and fondly tidying Sherlock's hair, "You're not to complain about my…Surveillance methods…Is that understood? I do so worry about you," his fingers tightened around a handful of curls, till Sherlock nodded slightly. "Good lad," Mycroft smiled with genuine fondness, and Sherlock laughed. He had as much freedom as anybody could ever have, when they were the loved brother of Mycroft Holmes. And that was enough. Well. For now. It would be easy to win Lestrade over that he could manage on his own. And for some unknown but blessed reason, his brother did listen to reason with the Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard. Most of the time.

Those tears had been a mixture of performance art, frustration and fear of having to stay in the hospital. These ones for John were different. They were blind grief and despair, and he did not stop, even when Mycroft entered the room with another figure. A young man, Sherlock's own age, with russet coloured hair and a suit tailored to his every measurement. The young man straightened the horned-rimmed glasses on his nose, as he stared down at Sherlock.

"Sherlock."

Tears still racked his body, but he sat up at his brother's sharp words. In the corner of his eye he could see Sherrinford standing in a pose, the way he had used to stand, to tease Mycroft's stance. Sherlock blinked and his dead brother was gone. That gave him the gravity to calm down more than a reprimand from Mycroft ever could.

Sherlock breathed in. And breathed out. Containing the dread. He would not tell Mycroft.

Instead he slowly turned to survey the stranger.

A tailored suit. Obviously with a little money to spare. But his shoes – his shoes though of good make, were a little worn, which suggested a bit of thrift in his personality, as if he had come into money but had not always had it. He stood poised, but it had a practiced air to it – for some reason Sherlock could envision this young man standing in front of a mirror and getting the stance just right. A flick of ink was smudged on his right earlobe, but the smudge did not look as if it were from a pen. It was a few specks rather than a smudge mark – had he been writing with a quill? Why on earth would any public servant write with a quill? Mmm...No, more correctly, he had the look of PR all over him, with that lickspittle smile. The breast pocket of his suit coat was adorned with a wilted daisy, a carelessly picked one. Why on earth would a man dressed so impeccably, wear such a thing? Sentiment. Not from a woman, a woman of his taste would have had him wear a handkerchief, or even an expensive fountain pen clipped to the material. A child. A small child he cared for. A little girl. His little girl? A little girl he had not seen in more than two or three days, judging by the state of the flower. But a little girl whom he loved, again, judging by the state of the flower still in his suit pocket. Sherlock's eyes flickered to the redhead's hand. Ah. No wedding ring, but the shade of skin was lighter on the ring finger. There had been a wife. Sherlock looked back up, and spied a fine gold chain under the collar of his pressed shirt. He would bet money the chain held a ring. So. Emotion again. Clearly not divorced, even if he held feelings still for her he would keep it somewhere safe, not wear it close to his heart. Widowed then. Widowed and left with a daughter. A daughter in another's care who he did not see as much as he wished to – the flower told him everything. An absent, overworking father.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, then looked towards the corner of the room, with relief that Sherrinford was not there again. His calming trick of deduction always worked.

He then looked to Mycroft, who gave a very slight and subtle shake to his head. With the meaning clear. Don't start with him. Not now.

Sherlock stood, and stared at both of them, his voice hoarse, "I thought I was to be a ghost, Mycroft."

Mycroft said nothing to him, and instead turned to the young man, his hand resting on his shoulder, "Here he is, Percy. I now charge you with his life."

Percy nodded solemnly. Oh brilliant. There was another Mycroft. John would be amused…He tried to ignore the jolt of pain from the thought of John.

"Percy Weasley," the young man said, holding out his hand. Sherlock did not move to shake it. Percy stood there awkwardly, till he stepped back to Mycroft.

"I thought. I was to be. A ghost. Only you and Molly were to know my whereabouts."

"Oh you are, brother dear," Mycroft said with a mock ingratiating smile, "You will disappear, just like a spectre, while I myself bury your name. Now come…" he seemed pained, so pained for a moment, "There is much I need to tell you."