Title: Brothers Three

Summary: The lives of three brothers intertwine in a variety of ways. When R suddenly becomes Q due to an explosion at MI6 he is forced to turn to his half-brother for help but Sherlock Holmes has his own problems to deal with. The confluence of the lives of the three Holmes brothers through the events of Skyfall, the Reichenbach Fall and beyond in the alternating points of view of Q and John Watson.

Parings: Mostly friendship unless you happen to want to read anything in between the lines. Lestrade/OC in passing.

Warnings: Spoilers for Skyfall and Sherlock Season 2. Language. Some violence. Potential OoC moments. Shakespeare quotations taken out of context and mangled mostly as chapter titles. A dictionary might prove useful as both Q and John tend to use obscure words. Unbeta'd and not Brit picked. I apologize in advance for any anachronisms, grammar errors and/or typos. Author's notes, if any, will appear at the end of each chapter.

Standard Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to their respective owners. I am merely playing with them for my own as well as your amusement. I recieve no compensation, I make no profit.


Chapter 8 – The Adventure of the Vacant Building

I have never been one for anniversaries pleasant or otherwise but there was something about this day that I found I needed to mark even if it was depressing. It was the one year anniversary of Sherlock's suicide. I had moved out of Baker Street almost immediately after his death. I just couldn't stand the familiar look of the flat without him in it. I also could not bring myself to move his things up or even tidy a bit. So it just sat there as a gaping reminder of a brilliant man come to an untimely end. I know Mrs. Hudson had eventually boxed most of it up. She told me she had when we went together to visit his grave about a month aftward.

That first time visiting his grave had been gut-wrenching. My therapist, Ella, had suggested that I go and say all the things I hadn't said while he was alive. It would give me closure she said. I didn't think it would help but I promised that I'd give it a try. It was a cold rainy day and my limp was back with a vengeance. I stood there after Mrs. Hudson left and all I could think about was how I couldn't believe that the whole deduction thing was a lie. That Sherlock was a lie. I kept hoping against all hope that he wasn't really dead. That this was all a ruse of some sort. I may have even said some of it aloud. It hadn't helped.

But something else that happened that day which ended up making the next 11 months more bearable. Since I had sent Mrs. Hudson home in a cab, I decided to walk to my new bedsit in Kensington gimpy psychosomatic leg and all. I wasn't terribly far away from the cemetery when I saw James Bond walking purposefully in my direction. We greeted each other and he offered to buy me a drink in a tone that I knew wouldn't take no for an answer. We wound up in a dark little pub on a side street talking inane pleasantries and carefully avoiding the elephant in the room that was Sherlock's death. I remember very vividly the moment when Bond nailed me to my seat with those bright blue eyes of his and said "I came looking for you intentionally you know."

Of course I had to ask why and he had explained that Q had nicked the CCTV feeds and thought I needed to watch them. My immediate reaction was no thanks, been there done that in person already. Bond had insisted and handed me a micro-thumb drive. He told me that the files were encrypted and the key was Q's name. Bond had kept talking and eventually I promised to look at what Q had sent.

When I finally made it back to the bedsit I plugged the thumb drive into my computer and decrypted it. There was a file with a note from Q telling me which file was which. Q had not only snagged the feeds from several different cameras but he'd also enhanced them enough so that the conversation on the roof between Moriarty and Sherlock could be lip read. He had also thoughtfully provided a transcript just in case watching the footage was too much to start with. I read the transcript then watched the video feed. While it didn't alleviate the hurt it made it easier to cope knowing that Sherlock had given his life to save those he cared for. From that day on I'd worn the micro-thumb drive on a chain around my neck. It was a bit of sentiment that I knew would have driven Sherlock crazy but it helped somewhat.

So here I was standing at his grave one year after the fact and wondering what now. I was working again. According to Ella I was making good headway through the grieving process. I wasn't telling her everything though. I was putting up a good facade of normalcy but that was all it was, a facade. Things just seemed so pointless without him.

"John," Lestrade's voice came from behind me and I turned. "I thought I'd find you here."

Lestrade had visibly aged over the last year. His hair was greyer and the lines on his face were more pronounced. It had not been easy but he'd weathered the fallout from being associated with Sherlock and was still with NSY. He'd also started up a new romance after his divorce was final. Shirley was her name. I'd met her a few times. She worked in the IT department of a huge multinational shipping corporation called Universal Exports. Being in IT of a global corporation meant she worked strange hours and was on call a lot. Surprisingly it didn't seem to put a strain on the relationship probably because they both were in the same boat so to speak regarding job demands. It seemed Lestrade, at least, was moving on with his life.

"Greg."

"I hate to bug you today of all days," he said "but something's come up and I'd like to bounce some ideas off you."

Over the last six months Lestrade had looked me up several times when a case of his completely stalled out. We'd discuss, toss around ideas and attempt in our own way to use Sherlock's methods to see if we could come up with something. It sometimes worked, other times not but it seemed to make Lestrade at least feel like he'd turned over the last stone before officially labeling something a cold case. It was after one of these sessions some two months ago that I'd finally shared Q's information with him. His reaction had been interesting, less surprise and more relief that something he'd long suspected had been confirmed.

"Shall we find a pub?" I asked.

"Yeh…have to eat sometime." was his reply.

We ended up in the same dark little pub where James had given me the thumb drive. "So what's this all about then?"

"Have you been following the Adair murder investigation in the press?"

I had. One Ronald Adair, accountant, had been shot dead through his second floor office window four, well actually five days ago now, at roughly 3 am. His office had been in an old converted bank building where all the windows were bullet resistant. He'd been shot with a small caliber round that should not have had enough power to breach the window from a long distance and the bullet trajectory was such that the shooter would have needed to stand in the middle of a freshly turned flowerbed in the middle of a public park. It was also interesting that the killer had taken two shots in close succession, one of which had hit Mr. Adair and the other which hit the laptop upon which he'd been working. The press was having a field day with all sorts of conspiracy theories.

"It's bizarre," Lestrade continued. "Forensics can't make head nor tails out of the bullets. They appear to be some sort of strange metal alloy. Completely nonstandard. We also can't tell what Adair was working on because one of the two shots slagged the computer. We don't know why he was using a laptop as opposed to his office computer. Nothing in the man's history, work or otherwise that indicates that someone would want to kill him. The man was an accountant for Christ's sake. We are down to checking his phone records and credit card purchases in an attempt to reconstruct his movements over the last few days of his life and hope that gives us something to go on."

I let Lestrade blather on. Finally, he ran down so I could get a word in edgewise and ask some questions. We talked a great deal over lunch and figured out a few additional leads for investigation but didn't make a breakthrough. On the way home I realized that something in his tale was jogging my memory but I couldn't for the life of me figure out what it was. Since the crime scene was only slightly out of my way I decided to have a quick look.

Even though it had been over four days the conspiracy theories in the tabloids meant that there were quite a few folks who were sightseeing at the crime scene. There were even a couple of impromptu discussions about the crime going on among the bystanders. I looked at the flower bed, up at the window and then around at the surrounding buildings. If it hadn't been for the bullet resistant glass I'd have said the ideal place for the shooter would have been the roof of the one story building on the other side of the park. I walked over to take a look. When I got there I attempted to determine where on the roof someone would need to be to match the trajectory Lestrade had described. I was concentrating so hard that I ran smack dab into a gentleman who was hurrying along the sidewalk with a laptop bag and several old leather bound books in his arms. He was an older fellow with the slightly off gait and hunched back of someone with severe arthritis. Given his thinness I was surprised that I hadn't knocked him over but I only caused him to drop his books. He was quite upset and cursed me roundly for being "an addlepated idiot who didn't look where I put my clodhoppers" in a thick scottish brogue. I apologized profusely and helped retrieve the books. Despite the assistance he stomped off in a huff. The collision with the old gentleman completely derailed my train of thought so I ended up just going back toward my flat. I was just putting my key in the lock to the front door when I was accosted by the very same old gentleman I had run into earlier.

In a croaking voice he said "You are surprised to see me."

"Yes," I said shortly. I had no idea what the fellow wanted, my leg was hurting and I really wanted to sit down and have a cup of tea.

"Well" he sounded a bit sheepish, "I was a little rude back there and as I happened to see you I thought I'd tell you that I was much obliged that you helped pick up my books."

Despite myself I was curious, "Did you follow me?"

"Oh no, it was mere happenstance," he said. "I work just up the street there at the antique emporium."

"Well, I'm sure I'll see you around then," I said turning back to the door. I pushed it open and walked into the small entry hall of the flats expecting the door to shut behind me. It didn't. I turned back to look to see what the problem was and saw Sherlock Holmes dressed as the old antiques shopkeeper standing in the doorway.

I punched him.

He reeled back from the punch, ricocheted into the wall and ended up on his ass as the door swung shut. He looked up at me and said mildly "I suppose I deserved that."

I didn't know whether I wanted to embrace him or punch him again so I just extended my hand to help him up.

"70%" he muttered to himself as he grabbed my hand and got up off the floor.

"70% what?" I asked. Oh great. It hadn't been more than 60 seconds and we were falling back into the old rhythms. God I'd missed it.

"Quentin estimated that there was a 70% chance you'd slug me, a 25% chance you'd hug me and a 5% chance you'd faint," He replied.

I hadn't let go of his hand so it was easy to pull him into a rough embrace. I really needed to reassure myself that he wasn't just a figment of my imagination. He was skinnier than before, all whipcord muscles without an ounce of extra fat, and reassuringly solid. I hadn't gone completely off the deep end then. I released him to arm's length just to look at him for a moment then grabbed him in a bear hug again. I was rather surprised when instead of just standing there not knowing how to deal with my blatant display of sentiment he hugged me back.

"I'm sorry John," he started. "I didn't mean to upset you with my overly dramatic reappearance."

I realized then that I was crying. "Bastard," I mumbled as he stood there holding onto me. I felt him sigh.

"We need to talk," he said softly as he maneuvered me into my flat.


Later that evening as Sherlock lead me down another tiny alleyway, I was still having a hard time getting my mind around the tale that he had told me.

Of course he had suspected that Moriarty would attempt some sort of grand gesture on the roof of St. Bart's that day. He'd anticipated the blackmail into suicide play but had been a nonplussed when Moriarty had taken his own life. He'd actually expected the criminal genius to attempt to fake his death rather than blow his brains out on the roof. Regardless, Sherlock had set things up so that he'd jumped into a lorry with a hole in its top and an air cushion in the bed to break the fall. His co-conspirators had rolled the look-alike body, provided by Molly, onto the sidewalk and driven away no one the wiser.

Quentin had somehow figured out what Sherlock had done. He'd managed to contact Sherlock and they'd been working together on and off to take down the remaining part of Moriarty's network. Some of the cooperation had even been officially sanctioned. According to Sherlock it hadn't been too hard to get MI6 involved officially on occasion since some of the network members were moderately high up on the list of persons of interest. In short, Sherlock had spent the last year hopscotching all over including Tibet, Iran, Sudan and France. I wasn't quite sure how he'd managed to do it but I suspected Quentin had a hand in it one way or another.

We'd been making our way through the back alleys, over fences, up on roofs and occasionally through back gardens for the last hour or so. I was completely lost but Sherlock seemed to know exactly where we were going. He'd mentioned in passing when he asked me if I was still up for a bit of work that we'd be avoiding CCTV cameras as much as possible.

Judging from Sherlock's behavior I could tell we were nearing our destination when we squeezed between the alley wall and a temporary construction fence. The vacant building was in the process of being gutted and renovated. It was most likely being turned into into upscale flats over business space judging by the boarded up display sized windows on the ground floor. Sherlock lead me over to a door with an obvious lock and proceeded to pick it with ease. We entered the building and carefully made our way up to the first floor.

The windows on the first floor were intact and the renovators were in the process of rebuilding the interior walls. Some walls were mere framing while others had electrical and still others were partially covered with drywall. That gave the whole interior a rather maze like appearance. Still moving quietly we made our way over to the windows. I was surprised at the view. We were looking out on Baker Street. The vacant building we were in was almost directly across from 221.

When I looked at the windows of our old flat I could see the lights were on and shadow of occasional movement. I had expected Mrs. Hudson to rent out the flat so I was completely surprised when I saw what was clearly Sherlock in the window for a moment. I reached out to grab him, just to reassure myself that he was still by my side, and found him shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Good isn't it?" He whispered in my ear. "Quentin has all sorts of electronic toys. Some of them are even useful." He paused then added "Now we wait."

We settled down in an area covered by several almost completed walls but still with a good view of the windows that looked out onto Baker Street. Stakeouts are awfully like sentry duty. You are in a constant struggle to stay ready for action without getting oneself too tired to actually be able to act. Despite having been out of practice I found myself settling into the proper mindset easily.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was wired. Usually on a stakeout he would retreat into almost a trance. Thinking deeply but completely aware of his surroundings. Not tonight. Tonight he was jittery, barely holding himself in check. If I hadn't had a good look at him earlier I would have suspected that he was under the influence of some sort of illicit stimulant. No, this was pure excitement. I just hoped that whatever it was we were waiting for would happen before Sherlock ran out of nervous energy.

Half an hour later I got my wish. Sherlock cocked his head. I listened too. I could hear the faint sounds of someone moving in the far stairwell. They were careful and quiet and if I hadn't been listening for it I might have assumed the sound was simply the building settling as it cooled in the night. The sounds continued up to the second floor. I prepared to move but Sherlock shook his head. I understood. He did not want to chance even a whisper.

A few minutes later he moved over to look out the window motioning me to stay in place. He watched for a bit then motioned me toward the stairwell we had come up. Together we slowly and silently made our way up. We halted so we could just peer into the second floor. This floor was mostly open space. The renovators had finished removing the non-load bearing walls but hadn't yet started in on their replacements. I could tell from the street noise that there were several windows either missing or open. Framed by the light of one of the open windows I could see a man sitting on a box with a case open on the floor beside him. As I watched he assembled what looked like a modified sniper rifle, loaded it, and set up using the window sill as his rest. Then he stilled and sat almost motionless, waiting for his shot. There was very little sound when he took it. Just a muffled whump.

Sherlock's hand was on my arm. I could tell he was waiting for the sniper to put the rifle away before moving to apprehend the man. The sniper was disassembling his rig as quickly as he had assembled it. He had just placed the long barrel in the case when a figure swung through the open window, feet first, missing the sniper's head by inches.

The resulting fight was brutal. The sniper and his adversary were both well trained and in excellent physical condition. They both fought with their entire bodies. Fists, knees, elbows all were in use. Suddenly the combatants separated and I could see that the sniper had pulled a knife. The two men circled each other momentarily then just as suddenly were back into close quarters fighting. I could feel Sherlock tense beside me. He was gaging the fight. Looking for the best way to intervene. I had my Sig out intending to take a shot at the sniper if I had a clear line of fire.

Something went crash at street level and there was the sound of feet pounding up the stairs. The combatants continued undistracted. They were grappling now. One man managed to knock the feet out from the other and they both went down with loud thud. I saw the knife flash in the dim light, heard a pained grunt as it connected then the rather distinctive crack of breaking bones.

The pounding feet had made it to the top of the far stairwell and I heard Lestrade's voice shout "Stop, Police."

One of the combatants, the one who had swung in the window, made it to one knee breathing heavily. The other lay still on the ground. The kneeling man froze at Lestrade's shout. He looked up in Lestrade's direction and it looked like he muttered something under his breath. He turned his head slightly then as if listening and I could see his face caught in the light from the window. James!


Author's Note: Chapter title derived from The Adventure of the Empty House by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. List of places Sherlock visited is also lifted from that story using the modern place names. I realize that in the original stories Sherlock is "dead" for 3 years. Given the increase in speed of international travel I shortened the interval to 1 year.

It's the penultimate chapter. Wow. This particular plot bunny took over my life and completely disrupted my free time. I have two unread e-books and three unread hard copy books that are sitting there because the stupid thing demanded to be fed words! Just to let you know this project has, as is the intrinsic nature of plot bunnies, sired offspring who look to be just as bad in demanding my time. As always, PM typos and leave reviews. I have it on good authority that reviews tend to make plot bunnies breed faster which in turn makes me write more.