Chapter Four – City of Light

I woke up in a strange room that I figured must have been some kind of hotel in yet another foreign country. I pulled myself up with difficulty as my entire body was sore and aching. I made my way into the bathroom and looked at my reflection – I had not seen myself change over the months; there is hardly time to waste on appearances when you have an organisation to stop. My hair was long and raggedy, streaming past my jaw. My cheek was lined with thin healing scratches I had gotten in Hungary; my shoulder bared a scar from Poland; my hands were darkened by mud and gunpowder. Ten months had passed and I could barely recognise my own reflection. I started to run a bath for myself, turning my gaze away from the mirror. I sunk myself into the bathtub with a painful sigh.

A while later, I had dried and dressed myself in a suit I found in the wardrobe. The room was simple yet elegant… a theme of red and white, with dark oak furnishings. A desk opposite the bed had a room service leaflet – all in French. I opened my curtains and let the moonlight flood in. From what I could tell it must have been around eight in the evening; it was December 18th when I had left for Ukraine… allowing travel and the amount of time I was held for in the building before my escape, plus the high probability that I had been asleep for a day it would mean that today was the winter solstice.

Paris… that was where I was… The City of Lights – it looked so beautiful from my window. It was the best thing I'd seen after months of tangled forests and greyscale buildings.

"Quite remarkable, don't you think brother dear?" I hadn't noticed him entering my room and flinched slightly at his voice, however my gaze upon the city did not shift.
"What happened in Ukraine Mycroft? Why am I here and not on my way to the Balkans, hm?"
"My agents should have alerted you… but I suppose you were a tad preoccupied at the time..." He walked to my side and looked upon the moonlit city.
I had to think for a moment to what they had said. "Um… Oh of course, you had a mole tell you that it was a net for me to fall into… But a simple message to warn me would have done just fine…"
He frowned at me. "No Sherlock, it was not a mole… a source with links to Moriarty himself…"
I stared at him with disbelief. "This wasn't your actions? You took a hint from someone who most likely planted the information?! Mycroft I thought you would be able to notice such an obvious trick!"
"The information was reliable; there was evidence. Also when we searched the building it was clear that what they had said was true. Besides, you had already taken care of the larger areas of The Web, it would be impossible to rebuild with the lack of a leader and connections." He responded calmly. Snob git thought he was in the right.
"Mycroft that can't be enough to change your mind-"
"But it was." He turned to me with a look in his eye that I could not recognise in him. "Sherlock, you must understand that despite what you may think, I would not want to end up attending your funeral - especially if I knew I was the one who put you there."
"Don't attend then." I turned away from him, getting the TV remote and sitting back in the bed.
He sighed and closed the curtains. "What would be point in faking your death at all if you went and got yourself killed? How would that be of any benefit?"
I chuckled "I would be remembered… apparently." I was grinning at him. I loved sarcasm with my brother because he was just rubbish at comebacks… "Joan of Arc, Darth Vader… Jesus' death is remembered by a national weekend of chocolate bingeing. Doesn't seem all that bad if I'm honest…"

There was a pause before he responded. "I don't recall John having his own holiday… do you?"

He was standing in front of the television now but I hadn't noticed him move since the mention of him. "Thought not... You do remember that you decided to carry on, despite the increase in probability that you would be killed, because of John. The man who was, quite literally, caught in the crossfire..." The corner of his mouth twitched at the look on my face. Ten months I had not heard that name from another man's mouth and he was mocking his death.

"You think this is a joke?!"
"Of course not! It is a reality check because of this stupid behaviour Sherlock! You could have been killed and I got you out!"
"You got me out? I never wanted to leave, I was so close! And you decided to listen to a man who was most likely lying?! Do you even know him?!"
"It was an anonymous tip. I had it checked. Leaving you to face that would be murder!"
"Oh really? Because I faced a lot more in the past ten months and yet you pull me out now!"
"I am aware Sherlock but it was too much for you to handle!"
Mycroft was yelling louder than I ever heard him before – and I wasn't exactly calm either.
"So let me get this straight…" I got up and walked towards him. "You doubt my ability to do this and make me fail?! Try again Mycroft because that is one crap excuse!"
"It is the truth! Do you really think that John's death would make this any easier?!"
"Of course not!"
"Then you understand that this was likely to happen!"
"I do. But I didn't get the chance to fail on my terms because of you!"
"Your failure would be your death and that is one thing I could not live with Sherlock because I actually care!"
I was taken aback by his words but fury still pulsed through my veins. "And when exactly did you start caring brother? Hm? When did the whole 'caring is a disadvantage' thing go out of the window?!"
"I have always cared Sherlock! I taught you that so you wouldn't get involved in it! And yet you have ignored me and look where it's gotten you! Practically writing your own death certificate all because of one man! I told you - don't get involved."

"Well you know what? Why don't you take your own advice Mycroft because I certainly do not care about you." He looked hurt at my words, but I was blinded by rage by that point.

Yet within moments it seemed as if all anger; all emotion; had drained from his face leaving an empty look in his eye and a plain facial expression. His stance straightened and his grip on the cane of his umbrella had loosened.
"As you wish. Plane leaves at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Don't be late." He turned at once and left the room. I had no words to say.

I did not care for my brother, I cared for my friend: John Watson