"Follow Sherlock." He said on his phone briefly before hanging up.

His face half hidden in the dark, eyes lifeless and lips tight into a line, Mycroft Holmes flipped the piece of paper in his hand with an unusual vehemence while his other hand felt his phone. It hadn't been fifteen minutes ago when he had hung up on his younger brother who was demanding his whereabouts— fifteen minutes later he now had people keeping an eye on his brother's movements who reportedly just came bolting out of 221B moments ago because as Mycroft had expected—brother Sherrinford had made contact with their youngest brother.

And no, he wasn't calm.

Approximately two and a half hours ago since his return every single event that had been disarrayed in the government political wise, economic wise and decision-making wise had been influenced by him. Two hours was quite enough. The only thing too handful for him of course was the reappearance of his eldest brother, Sherrinford.

Whether Sherlock knew about Sherrinford beforehand or not was no longer of importance. Why Sherrinford even appeared at 221B was no mystery at all. The only mystery Mycroft found upon ransacking Sherlock's flat was the appearance of this single paper—a catastrophe he hadn't expected that even made him leave Sherlock on his own devices as he went to confirm his deplorable mistake.

Mycroft closed his eyes and succumbed to his mind to find answers.

If it was true...the paper... then it would tip the scale even further. And the result?

Terminal.

Mycroft sighed and felt more exhausted than ever—much more than when he was on the run away from his terrorist pursuers. The idea that his younger brother was now on the trail of their eldest was another thing he was upset about. Sherrinford would not let himself be found unless he means to and Sherlock on the lookout meant the red light was raised— that Sherrinford managed to enthral Sherlock again with a game so irresistible and so dangerous that could result to anything permanently destructive.

The British government's patience thinned.

He had warned Sherrinford... he had made it clear...

Once their eldest brother stepped that boundary and set things in motion, Mycroft knew his eldest was aiming for the collateral damage. It matters not who win or lose—only who survives. The game was afoot and if not preceded with caution... further actions would lead to sacrifices... even deaths.

And Sherlock... Oh, Sherlock.

"Do you think there's something wrong with us?"

Sherlock once asked him this and Mycroft gave his answer not to establish his indifference to emotion, but to warn his brother of what could be in their future... Hadn't he been telling Sherlock about it from the start? A text book fact— the fragility of life? The East wind takes them all in the end. To survive it or not... sentiments would only guarantee its lasting effect.

Because one life lost—broken heart remains.

Sherlock had been prone to it ever since he was a child—Redbeard had proven it at length that gave Mycroft a glimpse of what his younger brother would be like. All because his silly little brother cared.

Exposing his younger brother's weakness was not an option, and so Mycroft did everything in his power to conceal it.

Hence, he trained Sherlock to steel them—his mind, his heart— that made the older Holmes somewhat be deemed all-business by the youngest—and cold-blooded by many. But then again—wasn't he ever?

It was a setup applicable only to him and his brother—Mycroft put up with his preference to make Sherlock see what he meant by less sentiment whenever they were together—always winning all sorts of mental games—he would never be lenient with Sherlock let all be damned; then avoiding birthday celebrations, avoiding social gatherings— avoiding phone calls and gifts on Christmas, avoiding Christmas... avoiding people.

Avoiding his younger brother at times too proved to be effective.

Sherlock ultimately got the point and reflected his older brother's actions. He even learnt to dismiss his older brother thoroughly. Mycroft made his point.

Not that he truly believed his younger brother would fall for such a pattern— Sherlock could never avoid people, thus him meeting John Watson was inevitable. That was when Mycroft thought of it awhile then... that Sherlock needed somebody to place all his attention—someone who needed him and his protection. People are made stronger by the urge to protect others; even make them kinder.

Mycroft was never inclined to the latter. It was unappealing for him.

So it came to a point where Sherlock needed someone he could 'protect'. Thank goodness John Watson came along because the older Holmes needed no nonsense from his younger brother—not when he, Mycroft Holmes, was the 'embodiment' of the very word.

It was his expertise.

Now, 'caring' was particularly natural with John and this fact had always made Mycroft seek him whenever he felt the impulse to 'look after his younger brother'. Despite all that has been said and done, Mycroft will always look after Sherlock in his own way. From a distant or even in the shadows, it was the only thing he could do without actually attaching himself to his younger brother.

Unconventional yes, but it was all to prepare Sherlock.

Because Mycroft knew sooner or later his demons will come back to haunt him and when they do Sherlock could not afford being weak and sentimental. He needed his younger brother to be the genius that he was. Mycroft had done well in preserving himself with the help of the 'Uncle Protocol' to the later date, but the ground had been shaken badly with the unexpected younger James Moriarty affair.

Sherlock exposed himself to be the 'doting' younger brother much to Mycroft's unease.

The older Holmes' thoughts were suddenly interrupted upon a call on his phone. Looking down at the screen, he saw his younger brother's name projected on it. Again.

Sighing, Mycroft's frown deepened and merely watched the mobile ring on.

This was clearly the opposite effect of not wanting Sherlock to be too attached to him, Mycroft Holmes woes. His sentiments right after his older brother's rescue had been too overwhelming—

Should he, Mycroft be flattered?

Under the circumstances, it only bothered him. Sherlock would not be of much help with his emotions scattered about. And especially not when it was their own blood they needed to pluck from the ground.

Mycroft clenched his jaw as he cancelled Sherlock's call and started texting instead. Once sent, he looked outside again and saw the Diogenes club come into view. He waited with utmost rigidness for the sedan to stop. Eyes completely expressionless and with aura too domineering to be questioned, he went out of the car, gave no acknowledgement to the club's master who didn't look surprised to see him, and crossed the dark hall in long strides.

His demon was waiting.

The crumpled piece of paper in his hand was enough to make him flee Baker Street without further knowledge of Sherrinford's plan and leave Sherlock on his own and that was because the paper he took from 221B's mantelpiece, good god... the piece of paper that was too familiar to him. A piece from his page.

The same sheet that could be found in his red notebook.

The red notebook that contained most of his undisclosed plan... codes, patterns... everything he had scribbled on when he was in one of his more pensive mood where words just keep flowing out.

The red notebook he shunned to carry during his retrieval plan of Sherlock Holmes from James Moriarty's hands.

The red notebook which he left in the secured walls of Diogenes club.

He entered his office and went to the underground— it was what he called his cold stone office with dark, unpainted walls reachable via Diogenes. He glanced up at his hidden cameras and immediately went over his wall locks.

One look inside and he knew the result.

Mycroft closed his eyes tightly.

Terminal.


The Jubilee's eye of the millennium. What else could it be?

Sherlock got out of the cab wearing his familiar dark coat and looked up to the giant London Eye that has been an attraction of the city from all over the world since its establishment. The giant Ferris wheel found at the Jubilee Gardens of the south bank of the Thames River, in between the Westminster Bridge and Hungerford Bridge by the London Borough of Lambeth—in short the heart of the nation.

What better place than to uncover his eldest sibling and his nasty schemes than the centre of London? Sherlock thought silently into the almost dark sky. He looked around the street where a long line of people were standing, seemingly in tangle to infinity range and queuing at the bottom of the Ferris wheel like it was a natural thing to do.

Typical of people to gather amidst a status alert in the country.

With eyes narrowed, the detective crossed the road unto the curb with eyes slightly glancing at the city cameras. He had been trying to contact Mycroft but the latter was not responding nor was he showing any sign of wanting to get in touch. And just when things were reaching a climax.

But that's what happens when Mycroft thinks he can always hog the fun. Surely he didn't think Sherlock incapable of dealing with their eldest? Just thinking of it annoyed Sherlock as he marched towards the bottom of the giant Ferris wheel with hands jammed in his coat.

It was not about who meets Sherrinford first—it was about who gets to him that gets to play.

Mycroft can keep his secrets and plans.

Sherlock will stick to his initial one—to sabotage everything.

Besides, there was one particular reason he wanted to meet his eldest brother alone and that was something Sherrinford had to answer for. Once they see each other face to face.

So the detective cut passed the people in the long line with an impassive face, allowing people to ogle at him and point fingers. He had forgotten how easily recognizable he was and berated himself for not carrying his baseball cap or even his adored deerstalker hat—which of course would make him stand out more. He crossed it out of his mind immediately.

Still, the queue could go on forever as he neared the entrance area and scowled at the civilians whispering his name. The London Eye has been impractically attracting these people almost every day, with its transparent ovoidal capsules that could carry a number of people at a time to the highest point where they can see the whole Great London.

Also a perfect spot for any terror cell. But then—wasn't that why the security around was at maximum?

Then again, he wouldn't past it his eldest to be sly—especially if the challenged were mere ordinary people security. Sherlock tried to call Mycroft again to no avail. Exactly what has gotten him to be aloof during a crisis?

Stupid Mycroft.

Sherlock was observing every inch and niche with quick eyes over everything when out of nowhere he saw someone make a violent movement towards him that made him nearly reply in unison—an expectation he had been waiting on since he arrived—only to realise it was a teen girl who suddenly grabbed his arm with her smart phone ready at hand.

"Do it again and you'll be sniped." He muttered at her after she took the photo, making the girl blink at him and shrug.

Sherlock followed her with a frown, ultimately deciding the female gender utterly fearless when a tall man bumped to him next—and Sherlock was caught surprise as a mobile phone fell on his hand.

That pattern...

Sherlock glanced up to the tall man walking away as if nothing happened and then looked down at the phone and saw that its caller was on. Swiftly, he put it on his ear with eyes scanning the vicinity for any one on their phone— which was everybody.

"Who's this?" Sherlock began knowing full well the answer but the detective had to admit though... his blood was boiling in excitement and was doubtful his voice was able to hide it. The final piece of the puzzle.

"What a very stupid question." came that deep, languid voice with a touch of American accent Sherlock thought he had heard before. "Hello, Sherlock. It's nice to finally hear you again. I had been looking forward to this."

"Likewise." The detective looked behind him into the long line towards the terminal of the Ferris wheel. "What kind of maniac have you turned into, Sherrinford?"

"Likewise, dear brother?" came the uninspired reply. "You're hardly one to talk."

"I am the one to talk." Sherlock made his way toward the front line in haste. Having Sherrinford's people around was fatal. "I have plenty of things to settle with you now why don't you show yourself?"

"Still the impatient one, are you? Didn't Mycroft teach you well?"

"You're both stupid brothers I barely need help. Speaking of Mycroft—what have you done with him?"

"Couldn't you tell?"

"Aside from everything?" Sherlock stopped walking and turned his whole attention on the mobile with eyes glinting dark. Even if he does accuse him now, Sherlock knew his eldest brother would never deny any of it. It was his touch. This was the real Sherrinford. "You've always been the deceitful one—"

"I'm not sure if you're flattering me but it's an interesting notion—"

"Why are you doing this?" despite his qualms, Sherlock had to hear it.

There was a short pause on the other line as the question seemed to brought up a range of answers then—

"Another stupid question, Sherlock. You know exactly why—because I find you both still at the wrong side of my table after all this time. And Mycroft ever the stick in the mud."

Sherlock clenched his jaw at the first sign of threat. He travelled his eyes at the many people and wondered if Mycroft would come on time. He always does.

"That's pathetic even for you." He whispered belligerently.

"And you still on drugs because of boredom is any better?"

"Where are you?" Sherlock looked up at the rotating Ferris wheel containers and down to the people waiting for others to descend. "Show yourself."

"Are you getting anxious? Why? Because Mycroft's not around? Or because you think I'm too much for you?"

Sherlock's body straightened with his whole face turning rigid.

"Only one way to find out... so show yourself."

Sherrinford gave a dry chuckle. "You sound mighty offended. Still hung up over the past? But face it, little brother if it's a battle of wits, you know you can't win me."

"I've heard worse."

"Mycroft's been diligent in reminding you, I see? He's a hopeless case, that brother of ours. Didn't you know he framed me? Not once, I tell you."

Sherlock smirked. "Well deserved. Probably did you something good. Or turned you worst."

"Oh, he turned me better, little brother. It shows how blood ties mean so little to him—something he got from me? But you... why do you stick with him all this time? Not that I care but you were never the hero type—little pirate of mine."

"If you want to hear something far worst, he nearly sent me to Middle East so I don't know what you're complaining about. But if you're looking for sympathy I assure you, you're on the wrong street."

A sigh came from the other end while Sherlock quickly moved on to the first line with eyes around the suspicious people he could see. There were too many people!

"I see. So you're also a hopeless case."

"Now why did you bring me here?" he went on, afraid at the silence of his ever scheming eldest.

"A greeting." Sherrinford answered simply. "And to make a point."

As if on cue, Sherlock suddenly heard a number of gasps from people standing at the very front. In a matter of seconds, the detective was there and saw twenty or so people hurrying out of one of the slowly rotating passenger capsules which was about to level with the ground.

The reason was clear as the word got spread around.

"Jeez, a skull!"

"There's suddenly a skull!"

"Was it part of the attraction?"

Not hesitating, Sherlock went over to have a closer look and jumped on the empty capsule that was still moving. The now empty passenger capsule was wide enough for twenty five people and then he found there seated on one of the available chairs was the skull. The detective warily looked at it, phone still at hand.

"Sir—" the operator of the ride suddenly clung by the door as the capsule moved and Sherlock shot him a look before nearly throwing himself at the entrance that surprised the man— who somewhat recognized him without the hat—

"Evacuate these people—

"What?" the man paled in surprise that made Sherlock turn to him contemptuously—

"It's Mr. Sands!" he hissed the code that got the operator's eye to widen. "Now go!"

The detective watched the man let go of the entrance as it ascended and the door shut itself close, leaving Sherlock looking down at his skull quietly. Mr. Sands had always been one of central police coding for bomb threats. That being made known to the force reduces the number of casualties. Sherlock put the phone back on his ear as the capsule rotated upwards.

"Have you become a local terrorist now?" he looked around every corner of the moving capsule. "No wonder Mycroft hates you. You ply on the petty."

"Oh, no, not always. I just find this attraction befitting for our special event."

"You're not going to kill off this people, are you!?"

"You're the one inside the capsule—"

"So you're going to kill me off then?"

Silence from the other side then—

"Everyone dies in the end. This is just an extra helping hand."

Sherlock tightened his hold on the phone and looked down the ground to the people who seemed to be exiting the area. People emerge from the capsule but he could see that none was boarding anymore. That got the detective to raise his eyes in satisfaction.

"Your special event doesn't need any audience." He said on the phone.

"Still, I want to make it public. It cries for fame. And this is what I really admire about you, little brother." came Sherrinford's voice that hinted enthusiasm, "You know it's a trap and you still go for it."

"You can't kill a hobby. Besides, I've got to collect my skull." Sherlock muttered as he walked to the skull, inspected underneath the chair and finally reached for his pal and look over it too. There was no bomb or any indication on it being a threat whatsoever. "And now that you got me where you want me to be, when are you going to show yourself? You know my every movement which means you're somewhere you can see everything first hand." He scanned the vicinity thoroughly.

"Oh, I'm just around... minding the view. I've just returned to London so of course I'd try this too. Why don't you enjoy the scene, Sherlock? Although I'm sure you're having the time of your life now."

Sherlock paused and eyed the glass window; the opposite car was too far to even distinguish faces but the detective could see the other side jam packed with people. Narrowing his eyes further, a lone figure seemed to be just standing there by the window too, clad in a suit, unmoving. What more, seemed to be facing him steadily.

The detective didn't move his eyes from the form and addressed the phone again.

"Hello, brother." He breathed.

"From a normal person's view, I'll find it quite strange you're the only one in there, Sherlock." Sherrinford mused on, "Sadly these people around me don't notice anything at all. Thick headed they all are. And absolutely slow."

"I wouldn't say that." Sherlock stepped closer to the glass, eyes on the figure he knew to be his brother, "I know quite a handful of people who can give you a run for your money."

"Really? Like that John Watson or tiny missus Hudson?" he sounded grave in the background while Sherlock's eyes flickered at the mention of the names. And it dawned to him once more that strange feeling—the feeling of helplessness when the people he was closed with get involve in his affairs when he carelessly forget about them. It reminded him full well of the Napoleon of Blackmail, Magnussen. Needless to say, the detective licked his lips as he reached for his other phone to call John.

"Don't involve them." He said with eyes unblinking, "you know this is only within the family."

"I know that. Mycroft's always been incessant about it. Why do you think I singled you out?"

"So what do you want? You didn't call me here just so you can rant and be obnoxious, did you?" John wasn't answering and it pissed the detective as he began texting instead. Just then he noticed he was already halfway of the cycle and reaching the summit. The opposite capsule of course, was meant to reach the ground in matter of minutes. Once that happens, he knew Sherrinford's count to destruction will begin. He tried dialling Mycroft again, all the while trying to distract his eldest—"Pulling me out of Baker Street right under Mycroft's nose—you must had better plans to meet me so badly aside from delaying and distracting me that is."

"This is not a distraction, Sherlock. It's a show. To make a point. Mycroft hates it when I go near you—it's different when you seek me on your own. I bet on your curiosity –you've always been out of his system. You were always the 'ticking bomb' trying to prove yourself to your much better seniors."

Sherlock was suddenly surprised by the red lights that surrounded the whole London Eye. The sky had turned darker much quicker than he anticipated and as he expected, the passenger capsule containing his brother or whoever it was reached the ground ultimately with passengers flowing out just as Sherlock's capsule reached the highest peak.

And he watched helplessly as the man dispersed with the crowd. If this was how he plans his escape...

"So much for the better senior if all you can do is call from half the sphere." The detective muttered with a little smirk as his capsule began descending. "But I agree with 'seeking you out'. You remember the story of the East wind? It has generally become me now."

"Really?" Sherrinford vibrated a laughter that seemed to distract Sherlock as he frowned down. "You really think so? Didn't it ever occur to you that maybe he was specifically talking about me— removing the unworthy had always been my forte. I thought Mycroft was making the warning clear—that you'd have to be on your best if you want to survive me that is. Both of you."

And Sherlock inhaled deep as he remembered those times. Big Ben's clock chimed six and the detective sighed out as his mind palace turned and flipped every possibility of him getting blown to pieces. If that was the plan then...

"You really believe Mycroft doesn't know we're both here?" he asked.

"Even if he does my message to him was enough to send him flying to his secret service and by the time he realises his mistake I have already made my point. That I can get you and that I win. Or you really believe he'll choose you over the matter of national security?"

"That's not even a question." Sherlock replied as he raised an eye after scanning the street and saw that familiar dark sedan glided in together with four Scotland Yard police cars that made his eyes glinted. "I believe him."

Red and blue blinking lights swarmed the bottom of the London Eye and within seconds, the facility was full of authorities, leading people out. Sherlock kept his eyes to the dark sedan that halted by the sideline but nobody came out. The next thing Sherlock knew, his phone was ringing and Mycroft was calling.

He stared at the ringing phone.

"Not unexpected." Sherrinford's voice on the other line still sounded too cool although Sherlock was sure Sherrinford could see that Mycroft has arrived. "But still surprising. Seems like Mycroft is still the foolish older brother who comes to your rescue."

"You'd never understand." Sherlock felt strangely apprehensive at the calmness of his eldest brother. The phone kept ringing. "For all you know, Mycroft has already been ahead of you all this time. He is the smart one."

"Well, I haven't raised any white flags yet. Don't you know, Sherlock? Sometimes you just don't have to outsmart people."

A heart beat and Sherlock pressed on the glass window midway down where he can already see people closer and watched as the sedan door opened and Mycroft's outline came out in his dark suit and umbrella.

"Sometimes you know," Sherrinford's voice from the other line was very quiet as if he was choosing his words carefully. That was when Sherlock noticed another person walked up behind his brother—

"Sometimes you just have to kill them." Sherrinford finished.

To Sherlock's sudden realisation, he hit the answer button of the ringing phone with heart racing—

"Mycroft!"

Exactly as he saw the unknown man point a gun in the middle of Mycroft's back—and gunshot filled the air—

"NO!" Sherlock lost all senses as he slammed his fist on the glasses on frenzy— shouting—but his own voice was not coming out— what just happened?

Moving objects around the terminal, people seemed to scatter everywhere in hazy flow—more sounds of alarm but he couldn't understand what just... a gunshot—his brother— the capsule was not moving— dead.

Silence was ringing as his heart seemed to burst out of his chest and he wanted to crash the glasses knowing it was futile. He slammed again and again—unmindful of the numbing of his fist—the shock enveloping his very body and his ears ever hearing the sound of his beating heart when—

"Sherlock?"

Mycroft's voice.

The detective shot a look down the phone in his hand where the familiar voice was coming from and jammed it on his ear in disbelief—

"Mycroft?"

"Oh, Sherlock! Answer when I call you!"

The younger Holmes stopped breathing for awhile as he shut his eyes with perspiration too cold on his skin. How the miracle happened he didn't care—Mycroft's alive—

"God damn you, Mycroft..." Sherlock hissed—

"What?"

But before Sherlock could utter another curse—another loud explosion rang too close in his ear and he felt the whole capsule shake as his body came crashing on the floor with a thud. Raising his eyes up in alert, he saw the red lights die and smoke came from the attached metal bars of his car—the bomb was attached outside—and Mycroft was shouting on the phone—the next thing another loud explosion came that shattered his hearing and the ground shook more violently than ever— till it even disappeared on his feet and for a moment, Sherlock thought he was suspended in the air. Only to realise—thanks to the heads up of his mind palace—that the whole passenger capsule was falling down.

And the capsule tumbled down the Thames River, crashing on the water down below.


Terminal


~To be continued~

End is near T_T

Thanks for reading!