Chapter 10

It was a week later, and Mycroft was still mulling over everything that had just occurred to him. Sherlock had caught John up on everything, going into the details as only someone like Sherlock could. Mycroft still found himself mulling over a sentence that Sherlock had told him after he had shot Moriarty, a sentence that had only consisted of two words, yet they were two words that had been bugging him day and night.

When Mycroft had asked Sherlock how he knew that the shot he fired at Moriarty wouldn't be a false one, he had claimed not to know. Sherlock admitting that he didn't know something, and in truth really not knowing it, was one of the oddest occurrences in the history of the world. He had finally admitted he didn't know something instead of doing what he usually did, which either consisted of him going complete silent like the grave while he thought of another solution, or caused him to mope for days on end.

Mycroft meant to pull Sherlock aside, and question him about it, but soon thought better against it. Besides, it wasn't like he could. His life had gotten busier as of late. As soon as Moriarty had been captured and turned over to the Yard, the press was all over Mycroft and Sherlock like ants at a picnic. They had to answer a series of questions to satisfy everyone's curiosity. (Even some of the people that worked at the Yard, like Lestrade and Donovan, expressed immense interest in how they had managed to foil Moriarty's plot).

Of course, all this questioning meant that the truth was in danger of coming to light, which was something that Mycroft wished to avoid. Before anyone could get to the scene though, he had talked matters through with his brother, and together, both of them had managed to come up with a story that was part fiction, but mainly the truth.

They told the press that after Moriarty had re-announced his presence in London, he was intent on taking a new approach to taking Sherlock down. This new approach including kidnapping his brother, Mycroft, and holding him for ransom, (which is where the fiction part comes in as I'm sure you readers already know from having read the story thus far). Sherlock, once he had heard that his brother was being held for ransom, quickly sprung into action, but didn't alert the Yard to what he was doing because he wanted to work alone. To get close to Mycroft, Sherlock had to cut his hair and blend in as one of Moriarty's men. In the end though, the disguise hadn't been enough to fool Moriarty and the two of them were forced to engage in the viscous game known as Russian Roulette. Sherlock, being the masterful detective that he was, figured out which chamber housed the solitary bullet, and used his knowledge to his advantage, lodging the bullet in its new home in Moriarty's shoulder.

Even with the story spun, to both the Yard and the press, questions were still being flown at them left and right. There were days where Mycroft didn't bother showing up at the office, preferring to work at home in quiet and solitude. Today was one of those days.

Mycroft looked up from the paperwork that was in front of him to see that Sherlock was lying on the sofa, eyes closed as if in a state of sleep. He knew fairly well that Sherlock was not asleep though, and only pretending to be so so that he would be left alone to his own devices and thoughts.

"Sherlock, I have a question to ask you."

As he had rightly assumed, Sherlock was not asleep, his lips moving slowly, forming words before actually pronouncing them.

"What question might that be, brother mine?"

"A question about that Russian Roulette game we had engaged ourselves in last week."

After Mycroft had said that, he noticed something visibly change in his brother's body language. Sherlock shifted slightly on the sofa, his muscles appearing to tense up slightly as he cracked open one of his eyes to look at his brother, something troubling stirring within his crystal blue sphere.

"What about it do you wish to discuss? Surely you don't wish to go over the possibility of one of us getting shot-"

"Of course not," interrupted Mycroft, shifting his position in his chair to appear as relaxed as he could be discussing such a topic as they were. "I was merely curious about what you told me once the so called game had reached its conclusion."

This time, Sherlock sat up on the sofa, opening both eyes and training them on his elder brother. Sherlock reached up a hand to run it through what remained of his raven curls. (Sherlock had gone to a barber once the incident was over and received what people called a 'proper haircut' which included getting his hair cut until it looked like it had been shaved instead of mowed off).

"You mean about me not having knowledge about where the bullet truly was? That I took a lucky stab that the round I shot at Moriarty would indeed be the real one, even if that meant if it wasn't that I'd be risking my own life?"

Sherlock raised a slender brow, waiting for Mycroft to volley back an answer.

"Yes, indeed. You have deduced what I am asking. Are you honestly telling me that you indeed had no prior knowledge of where the bullet was? Or are you just jesting with me?"

Sherlock tore his gaze away from Mycroft, focusing instead on anything else but his brother's watchful gaze. He let out a sigh, leaning back against the cushions on the couch, clearly debating what kind of answer he should feed Mycroft that would be satisfactory enough to satisfy him.

"I speak the truth to you, brother mine, when I tell you that I indeed did not have any prior knowledge as to which chamber the bullet was housed in. Is it so odd that I not know?"

"For you, it is," commented Mycroft, staring intently at Sherlock. "You always know things that others don't."

Sherlock smirked at that, rolling his eyes up to focus on the ceiling while he thought about his answer.

"I have to start by saying that I was not in a right state of mind whilst playing that game. The knock to my head could be such that it could cause a concussion under some circumstances."

"Luckily, we all know you have a hard head," chuckled Mycroft, hints of laughter creeping into the seams of the dark subject they were discussing.

Sherlock managed to chuckle slightly at that playful jest.

"Very true I suppose."

The laughter soon died from his voice, his voice soon returning to its melancholy state.

"I was more worried about your safety in that moment. Panic got in the way of my usually rational thought process. Luckily, it happened to be panic that was beneficial to both of us. I happened to get lucky."

"It's like the anonymous saying goes, I suppose. 'Luck has a peculiar habit of favoring those who don't depend on it'."

Sherlock chuckled again at the saying that Mycroft said.

"Well, I suppose Moriarty isn't a very lucky Irishman then. Aren't they suppose to be the ones that have all the luck?"

"Supposedly," agreed Mycroft with a small snigger.

He stood up from his chair then, arching his back slightly as he stretched. He liked seeing the tense nature that had taken a hold of Sherlock during their discussion leave him. Even if he didn't dare admit it to himself, he was gratefully for his company, and also grateful that he managed to save his skin. If it wasn't for Sherlock, he might not have his position, let alone his life.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled softly at his brother, nodding.

"That would be wonderful. Thank you."

He smiled, turning to walk off to the kitchen to start the brewing. He was nice that this whole business was behind them.

Or at least he hoped it was.

AN: I apologize that the update took so long. I shall try to be more vigilant with updating it, though I am rather busy. I can only promise I'll try my best. :)