April 1891

Sherlock Holmes burst into his brother's Pall Mall rooms, looking even more gaunt than he usually did, and with an air of fear, as if he were being followed. Mycroft knew his brother well, and knew that there were few things on this Earth he would admit to being afraid of. The sight worried him more than he felt capable of saying.

"Sherlock, are you all right? You look as pale as death. Have some claret," Mycroft found the bottle on the sideboard and handed his brother a glass.

"Thank you, I will,' Sherlock said. "Do you mind if I close your shutters, Mycroft?" He began closing them before his older brother could answer.

"What is the matter, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, a note of urgency entering his voice.

"Mycroft, I have found the pinnacle of my career. I am about to catch the elusive Professor Moriarty!" For the first time, Sherlock's eyes shone with something like his old excitement, but the fear was still behind them and Mycroft was not fooled at all.

"Professor Moriarty? Do you mean the genius who was behind those art forgeries in France?"

"Yes, and the bank robbery Watson and I foiled that was hidden by the presence of the Red-Headed League," Sherlock said.* "And countless other cases to which I have given my attention over the last few years."

Mycroft sat down, rather impressed. He had been aware of some diabolical force behind many of the more elaborate crimes in Britain for the past few years; he and Sherlock had even discussed the matter on a few occasions. Mostly, he thought, when the detective was missing his former lodger, married these three years.

"I have put the finishing touches upon the trap that will end the careers of the professor and his agents, but he is well aware of me and as the trap will not be put into place until Monday, he has set his entire criminal empire the task of stopping me. He himself visited my rooms this morning, and assured me that he would ensure my destruction."

Mycroft took some snuff, "I assume you assured him of the same?"

"Indeed," Sherlock continued, "However, on my way here I was nearly run down by a two-horse van, and only a little while after that, I narrowly missed being crushed by a falling brick. I know he is behind these events, and so I came here. I am sorry to put you in danger, but I needed a safe place to spend some time."

"You are welcome here in any situation," Mycroft said gravely, although he knew that if Moriarty knew where Sherlock lived, he would likely be aware of his brother's lodgings as well.

"His second-in-command is a crack shot, a former soldier from India, much like Watson," Sherlock continued, as if he had not heard Mycroft's words. "I happen to know he is in possession of one of the new air-guns made by Von Herder, and I am sure he is ready to train it on me at a moment's notice. Hence the reason for the closed shutters."

Sherlock must have spent a day of terror until he reached the relative safety of Mycroft's rooms. In uncharacteristic moment of familial sentiment, Mycroft remembered that he only had one brother, and said gently, "Stay here as long as you need, Sherlock. These rooms are the most well-protected outside of the residence of the Queen herself."

A small smile crossed Sherlock's lips, "I expected nothing less in light of your position. Thank you, although I did not come here only for safety and I will not take up more of your time than necessary. No, I came here to inform you of my plans, in case something should go wrong." Mycroft nodded, listening intently, and Sherlock went on. "I am planning to leave the country for a few days, until after Monday when Moriarty's empire will be brought down."

"Is that wise?"

Sherlock scoffed, "Everything is set in place; even Scotland Yard could not bungle it too badly. Besides, I cannot stay at Baker Street. I am sure I would not last the night." His expression grew haggard, and Mycroft saw that he likely had not slept in days. "After I leave here, I am going to Watson's. He shall accompany me for the duration of my stay, which should not be more than five days."

"Sherlock, you are a wanted man! Are you quite sure you want to bring Watson into this too?" Mycroft knew of his brother's affection for the man, but he had not thought Sherlock would so disregard his friend's safety.

"They are already watching his house, Mycroft," Sherlock said heavily. "I have no doubt that, if he stayed, they would pay him a visit to try and find out my location. The consequences of such a visit would be…unpleasant for him, to say the least. Moriarty would have no qualms against using him to bring me out of hiding, or even to revenge himself upon me. That is my limit, Mycroft. I care nothing for what they do to me, but I would die myself before I see them harm Watson in any way."

Sherlock appeared astonished at the depth of his own seldom-voiced emotions, and Mycroft shifted awkwardly before continuing. "Is there anything you wish me to do? I do have some influence, you know."

"First, my will," Sherlock said. "Hold on to it, please, in the event that all does not go according to plan." He handed Mycroft a sheaf of paper, which the elder man read in some surprise.

"I had no idea you were this well-off, my dear boy." The will listed a large sum for Mrs. Hudson, enough to allow her to remain in her Baker Street rooms without taking lodgers for the remainder of her days, a sizable chunk for Mycroft himself, a fund for the Baker Street Irregulars to be sent for education, and that was only half of the amount listed. The remainder, a huge sum that Mycroft would never have guessed if he looked only at his brother's threadbare dressing gowns and small lodgings, was to go to the Watsons.

"It is a relatively recent acquirement," Sherlock conceded. "Second, I have engaged a carriage on the Continental Express tomorrow. Will you drive your brougham to the Lowther Arcade, to the side opposite the Strand, and meet Watson there at a quarter past nine?"

Mycroft had been given the brougham as conveyance to Whitehall by a grateful government, but he had never used it. His rooms were close enough to the office that he enjoyed the walk, although he occasionally sent it out to pick up important personages he had to meet with, rather than meeting them himself in some out-of-the-way place. "And once there, then what?"

"Drive him to Victoria Station, of course," Sherlock answered. "And wear the black cloak, the heavy one with the red trim, so he will know which one to take."

For someone who intensely disliked interrupting his routine, Mycroft did not spend more than a second thinking about his answer. "Consider it done, Sherlock. I shall deliver Dr. Watson safely to the station before anyone realizes he is gone."

Relief shone in Sherlock's eyes, "Thank you, Mycroft. It is a load off my mind, and I do not trust anyone else to do it. Now, may I take up more of your settee? I don't think I have slept at all during this week."

"Nonsense, Sherlock. Take my bedroom," Mycroft said, and was truly worried about his brother's condition when he did not resist the suggestion at all. He wondered if Sherlock was truly up to this task, but he had seen his brother succeed against seemingly impossible odds before. Still, he was taking no chances today. He quietly got up, took out the gun he kept in his spare set of drawers, and sat in his sitting room with it loaded. There would be no one who could get to Sherlock Holmes here without first meeting Mycroft, and he had it in his mind that such a meeting would not end well for whoever tried.

*This isn't book canon but it is Granada canon and that's basically almost as good.