Chapter 5

"John, do you think that Mycroft is acting weird?" asked Sherlock as he inclined his head at an angle, crouching down and running his fingers over the now cleared stone on the roof of St. Bart's.

"What do you mean by weird?" asked John as he crouched down next to Sherlock, helping him to look for clues.

"When have you known him to answer a phone call right in front of us?"

"Well, he could be busy. We don't usually find our way into his office," said John.

"Yes, but not only did he take the call, but instead of asking us to leave the room, he left the room."

"He might have not wanted to throw you out of his office since we were talking. He was trying not to be rude."

Sherlock let out a sigh, and rose to his feet, arching his back slightly as he stretched his arms above his head.

"He also seemed happy that I was staying with him, telling me to, 'take my time'. Even the quick smile he flashed me suggested that he had something else on his mind."

"Sherlock, he basically controls the British government. When doesn't he have something on his mind?"

John reached out and pat Sherlock's back gently.

"Your brother just cares about you is all. He's not acting weird alright."

Sherlock didn't agree with John, but decided not to press the issue further. Something was going on with Mycroft and he was determined to figure out what.

What happened next to Mycroft seemed to happen in slow motion.

He awaited the bullet, thinking about how it would slice through him with such speed and accuracy, that he probably would not feel or remember anything. Maybe he was already dead, and if he'd open his eyes, he'd see that for himself

Yet he still kept his eyes shut, too afraid to look to see if it was true.

The sound of a gun shot never registered in his ears though. Shouldn't he at least be able to hear his death coming? That was when a sound registered itself in the ear.

It was not the sound of a gunshot though.

Instead it was the sound of a gun clattering to the pavement.

He opened his eyes to see that the security guards had revealed themselves, one pinning James's hands behind his back and the other clamping their hand over his mouth. James glared at him with a fiery fury, jerking and twisting, trying to break free of their strong grasp.

"You shouldn't have tried to kill me," said Mycroft, trying to regain his courage, managing to bit by bit.

James said something, but Mycroft couldn't understand it because of the hand clamped firmly over his mouth.

"Take him away from here," said Mycroft, looking at his guards.

James put up an even harder fight, not willing to be dragged away that easily. He nodded toward one of the guards to indicate to them that they should do something about his obvious display of protest. In response to the nod, one of the security guards grabbed a cloth out of their pocket and proceeded to clamp it over James's mouth in place of the hand. The cloth was soaked in chloroform and immediately made James slump, his fight lessening. Once he was completely unconscious, the guards proceeded to drag him toward a car that was awaiting nearby.

Mycroft watched James as he was placed in the car. When the car took off down the road, he looked at his watch. Good. At this rate, he should make it to his house before Sherlock showed up to avoid him questioning him about where he had been. If everything worked out in his favor, he'd be able to get home and slip into his bedroom, pretending to sleep, so that when Sherlock got there, he really wouldn't bother him.

Being brothers, they could each read each other like an open book, even if they didn't want to be. Sherlock could read him much better simply because he was good at identifying all the signs and knowing what it meant. Mycroft knew that if he sat in the same room as Sherlock for too long that Sherlock would figure out what was going on. He couldn't allow that to happen, especially now that he had kidnapped Moriarty to keep him silent.

He wasn't about to resign, nor was he ready to lose his position. James didn't know what he was stepping into when he tried to make a deal like that. James may know how to play dirty, but so did he if he had to.

Mycroft hailed a cab and soon arrived back at his flat. Sighing with relief, he dug out his keys and started to unlock the door. If Sherlock had beat him home, (which he highly doubted), he knew where he hid his spare key. As Mycroft pushed open the door, he saw that his flat was undisturbed, and sighed with relief.

He placed his keys in the bowl by the door after shutting the door, hanging his coat up on the hook. He walked into the main room, digging out his mobile to flip through missed calls and messages. He was jerked out of his thoughts by the sound of his younger brother's voice.

"Busy day at the office?"

Shocked, Mycroft looked up from his mobile to look at Sherlock. Sherlock was seated in one of his armchairs, his legs crossed in front of him, his hands steepled in front of his lips.

"You could say that," said Mycroft. "I didn't expect you to be here so early."

"The lead that I was chasing was a dead end," said Sherlock. "To be honest, it wasn't much of a lead to begin with."

Mycroft sat in a chair across from Sherlock, placing his mobile aside.

"It doesn't help that the person you're searching for was presumed dead anyway."

Sherlock nodded.

"How about you tell me what you were up to?" suggested Sherlock.

"You know my work is classified," said Mycroft. "I can't do that."

"Fine then. I'll deduce it," said Sherlock.

Mycroft sighed, standing up from his chair, grabbing his mobile.

"Go ahead. You won't get very far."

"Doubt that," said Sherlock, standing up too. He walked over to Mycroft, starting his deduction. "You jumped up as soon as I said I'd deduce what you were doing, which suggests that my deduction of you is making you nervous. You wouldn't be nervous unless whatever you were doing for work is something that you want to keep hidden. When you jumped to your feet, you also grabbed up your mobile. I realize that you work in the government, so your mobile is, in a way, your life, but it also suggests that you have something on your mobile that is attached to the work you don't want me to know about. This fact is also cemented by the fact that you were looking at your mobile when you entered this very room."

Mycroft turned away. He was not going to give in to Sherlock's deductions. He wasn't going to let him get that answer out of him. Sherlock edged closer to him, and before he could stop him, he had taken the mobile from his hands. Mycroft tried to grab it back, but Sherlock held it out of his reach.

"You're quite a predictable man. There are only twelve viable passcodes for your mobile, and I can narrow that down based solely on which keys have smudges on them from your grubby fingers, which also show that you have been up to something."

"Sherlock..." He said slowly, holding out his hand for his mobile. "Give it back."

Sherlock ignored him, his fingers flying across the buttons of his mobile.

"Got it!" He said with a satisfied smile.

Irritated beyond belief, not caring if it was rude or not, Mycroft lunged forward, yanking the mobile free of Sherlock's hands before he could read any of the files.

"You don't need to know the answer to this mystery, Sherlock. Goodnight."

Mycroft left Sherlock standing there, puzzling, as he walked into his bedroom and shut the door. He tucked his mobile safely away in a drawer and sat on the bed, holding his head in his hands. What mess had he gotten himself into? Why couldn't he tell Sherlock the truth?

He laid down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. It's because if he told him the truth, he'd see a side of him he didn't want him to see.

The vulnerable side.