As Sherlock and Molly discussed the finer details of the autopsy, Mycroft sent a copy of the autopsy to his mobile and then sent that file on to Mummy.
He was hardly surprised when his mobile chimed her distinctive text alert. Glancing at his mobile, he stared in shock. It read simply, Mycroft, he's still alive.
Shaken to the core, he kept his expression carefully blank as he sent back. 'Impossible. The trauma indicates he is most definitely dead, DNA match confirms it.'
After a moment, she replied, I'm sorry, dear. The man on the autopsy table is most certainly dead but I assure you, that is not James Moriarty, regardless of what he looks like. I'll be sending someone well versed with this to you, I expect you and your brother will be angry with me for some time.
Mycroft slammed his fist on the table in an uncharacteristic display of fury, Sherlock spun on his heel to stare at his brother. 'Explain!' He typed furiously.
You'll understand soon, Mycroft, take care of your brother.
"What's going on, Mycroft," Sherlock asked. His baritone was particularly low, a sure indicator of his stress level.
Mycroft glanced up at him, his smile as sharp as a razor, "It would appear that Mummy has been keeping secrets."
After Mycroft's uncharacteristic display of fury, he lapsed into total silence for several minutes. For almost the entirety of Sherlock's adult life, Mycroft had been a veritable font of calm when chaos swirled around him – this fury, directed at their Mummy of all people, was unprecedented. The silence dragged on for seemed like an eternity, Sherlock keeping watch as Mycroft dealt with his inner demons.
"Mummy's little pronouncement necessitates an explanation," Mycroft said abruptly, his dark blue eyes coming back into sudden focus. Glancing over his shoulder to where his assistant sat, her rapt attention appeared to be on the ever present mobile, "Anthea, do be a dear and prepare us some tea. I fear this shall take a while."