Chapter 11

Thanks to knightphoenix2 for some good chats on some of Mycroft's decisions.

Day 11

He cleaned his knife, wiping the blood that was dripping from it on an old rag. Dropping the rag, he returned the knife to its leather sheath. It had been …exhilarating. Sue had been a satisfying distraction but now that it was over, he was slightly disappointed. He looked at her body, toed it. It rolled slightly before settling again.

It never lasts, he thought. Oh well… Time for work.

He moved across the room to where his phone was under a sheet on the bench. Flicked it on and checked his messages. Read one or two and then check his video feeds. Everything was as it should be.

Sherlock was still in hospital. Still recovering from the aftereffects of the drug. It had been a drastic step he had needed to take but it seems to have done the trick. Mycroft Holmes had stepped away seemingly from his search. Was focused on his brother and his healing.

This is as it should be. And this has the good fortune to bring together a few of his plans to fruition.

He smiled. Closed his phone and dropped it in his pocket. Should be another day or two before he'd get the call.

He glanced at the body again. He sighed. He hated cleaning up but it was needed. Was worth it though, reminding himself he would have the benefit of those mental images he could replay in his head later. It wouldn't do if the body was discovered here.

No.

It wouldn't do at all.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"What was that?" John said as he increased his speed to keep up with Sherlock's pace. Sherlock barely glanced his way.

"Don't know what you mean." His friend said. "This way, John." He turned suddenly down into an alley.

"Uh…hold on. Shouldn't we wait for Lestrade?"

Sherlock stopped halfway down the alley. Huffed and turned to John. Clearly annoyed. "Why?"

"To make sure it's safe. Dark alley, Sherlock. Dangerous people tend to congregate in places like this, right."

"Oh for heaven's sake, John. Since when are you such a prude."

John's eyes darkened. His hands clenched as he glanced down the alley and then back at Sherlock. "You forget, Sherlock. I was the one left behind. Watch your empty seat for four months. It would be great if I didn't need to do that so soon again after your return."

"I'm fine, John."

John turned full circle. Ran a hand through his hair. Aware of where they were. The feeling of danger had stood up the hairs on his arm. It was exhilarating for all the wrong reasons.

"Well, I'm not." He said. Sherlock frowned. Glanced down the alley at the four indistinct figures that seemed to have noticed them. They were slowly stepping closer.

"Now is not the time," he said to John. "I do believe we were noticed."

The glint of a metal flashed in the darkness. John took a step towards the mouth of the alley. "Run?"

Sherlock nodded. "Run."

They turned as one. Made it to the main street before their pursuers caught up with them. Lestrade and two police officers were there, clearly searching for the pair.

"Oi. What was that?" the DI asked as they stopped by his side.

"I do believe your suspects are in that alley, Lestrade. If you hurry, you might catch up to them." Sherlock stated calmly. Straightening his jacket. Watched as the DI and the policemen with him moved away towards the alley. He turned to John.

"Explain?"

John's eyes widened. He looked around at where they were. The busy thoroughfare. The people walking past. The flash of red and blue in the not so far distance.

"What? Now?"

"Yes. Why not, John. Clearly you need to get it off your chest."

John took a deep breath. "Sherlock. Can we do this back at Baker Street? Preferably with a cuppa and some Irish courage."

"Fine," Sherlock said. Abruptly turned and flagged down a taxi. John glanced back at the alley where Lestrade had disappeared down. Sighed. "I'll just text Lestrade, shall I. So he doesn't send half of London looking for us."

Sherlock barely acknowledged him. The ride back to Baker Street was uncomfortable. Silent. John fidgeted. Sherlock seemed to have retreated within himself. Something that wasn't uncommon since his return from Oliver. A melancholy that just seemed to deepen at times. John didn't like it. Felt it hard to reconcile with his friend from before Oliver. Giles had told him that it was normal. That Sherlock needs to find his own way back. To allow him to grieve. It was barely two weeks since Oliver's death.

And here they were, running around London after murderers. It was great but at the same time, he felt uneasy. A caution that wasn't there before. He just couldn't reconcile the two.

If he was honest. He was afraid. Afraid for what would happen if Sherlock got taken again. Got hurt. He wasn't sure if he could deal with it so soon after Oliver.

He made tea. Add a dash of whiskey to each of their cups. Sat down in his chair after he passed Sherlock his own cuppa. Sherlock took a sip. Placed his cup down.

"You were concerned?" Sherlock said. His hands fidgeted with his trousers. He refused to look at John. In the end, he picked up his cup again and took another sip.

John cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. You were a bit rude with the victim's wife, weren't you?"

"She clearly lacked compos mentis."

"She was grieving. Grieving people don't always think straight."

"I got the information, didn't I?"

"No. You terrorised an old woman. What were you thinking?"

Sherlock was quiet. He looked guilty but John wasn't entirely sure. This was something else.

"So, what happened in there, Sherlock?"

"I thought we were discussing your fears, John?"

John gave a derisive chuckle. "Uh no. Later. What we are discussing right now, is why you thought it perfectly okay to almost scare an old woman half to death."

"She wasn't that old. Barely in her sixties."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock threw his hands up. Got up and fetched his violin. Pulled on a string and started tuning it. Then John was there. Hands over his and he gently removed the violin.

"No. You're not doing this, Sherlock. I won't let you."

Sherlock looked up. His eyes spoke volumes. A whole story of terror not told.

"What happened?" John asked gently.

"It was the cellar." Sherlock said. Shifted in his chair as John sat back down on his own. "It uhm…" he trailed off. Pouted. Sighed. "The memories it brought forth are not pleasant, John. I uhm, I needed to get the information so I could get out of there."

"Okay," John said. "So you found another trigger?"

Sherlock looked embarrassed. He gave a small nod but his attention wasn't with John. He was staring at the fireplace. Clearly trying not to get lost in his memories. John could see the effort his friend was expanding on staying in the room.

"Sherlock. Hey. You with me?" he asked a grounding question. One Giles had taught him to help his friend stay present.

Sherlock looked away from the fireplace. Met his eyes. Which was good. It meant his focus had shifted. "I'm fine, John." He said again. John didn't believe him. "Can we please move away from my unpleasantness to you."

John was surprised. Sherlock had changed. The old Sherlock would never have bothered to remember what he'd said earlier. Would've swept it under the carpet and just continued on.

"Forget it," he heard himself say. "It's not about me. I'm fine." Silence stretched out. It was uncomfortable and they both fidgeted.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said softly in the end. His hands tapped on the armrest. A beat that seemed familiar to John. John fetched the whiskey then. Decided to forgo the tea. Both of them needed a bit more Irish. This was getting too personal. He regretted his earlier outburst in the alley. He shouldn't have said what he did. It had been a moment of weakness. He got two shot glasses, poured a generous measure in both. Gave one to Sherlock.

"Drink," he said. "If we're going to do this, Sherlock, I need to be at least tipsy."

"You know that there's a science to this."

John looked up. "What?"

"Getting drunk. If we take the weight of a person, take the alcohol percentage and the amount consumed, you can with accuracy predict how long it will take to get inebriated."

"Okay. That's good then. How many of these will it take?"

Sherlock gave a half smile. "Half the bottle?" John nodded. Sherlock was clearly having a go at guessing. With his body weight it won't be far off maybe. And he didn't consume alcohol often enough to have built up a tolerance. He poured another shot.

"Second round." He said, lifted his glass. Sherlock joined him after a moment's hesitation. Downed his own. Grimaced. Clearly wasn't used to it. John poured a third. He could feel a slight buzz starting. Thought four should do it before he'll be ready for any discussions of personal matters. Maybe five or six if he was completely honest.

Downed the fourth. Leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. "What did you do with the hatstand?" he asked. The whiskey was a warm glow in his stomach. He peered at Sherlock.

"What?"

John poured another measure. Lifted his hand in salute to his friend. "Hatstand. The day you disappeared it wasn't at its usual place."

Sherlock frowned. Looked at his glass and then downed it. "I chopped it up."

John looked at him blearily. "What?"

"You left me no choice, John. I was going to burn it. You took my wood away."

John chuckled. "Really. I didn't think you'd go that far. Okay, I'll have to rethink when I take away your toys that are dangerous."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Had a little difficulty managing it. "It was a controlled setting. No danger of burning the flat down. You should trust me more…" he slurred the last few words. Looked at his glass and held it out to John. John obliged. Tipped another measure into his own glass.

Okay, might have to stop after this, he thought. Otherwise, we're just getting drunk for no reason.

Then he thought. Might not be such a bad idea.

"Did you really miss me?" Sherlock asked after a while. Blinked at John.

John swallowed the lot that was in his glass. "Uh…you know. Maybe."

Sherlock chuckled. Swung a finger at John with a wavy hand while he held out his glass again. "You know I ….I…uhm can deduce you…even drunk," he said. Squinted at John. Looked him up and down. "Okay. You saw at least two…two snotty nosed…uhm….kids today. One new-born and an older g…gently…gentlre….genr…guy with prostate…oooh….really. That bad." He giggled. "And you're afraid," he said trying to look serious. Failed badly at it. Took another swig of the whiskey John had managed with great difficulty and concentration to pour.

"Yes, Sherlock," John said. Leaned forward, tipping the bottle the wrong way. Watched the liquid pour out on the carpet before he could stop himself. "It sucked not knowing…not knowing where you were. I…I can't deal with that again." John put the bottle down. Decided they had enough. He was feeling decidedly more than tipsy. Wondered if he'll remember any of this tomorrow.

"Well, I'm…f…fine. Told you," Sherlock said. Tried to stand up and fell back down in his seat. "So stop acting like…a damn ….mother…hen. Oliver's dead."

John giggled. "Deader than dead," he warbled. Gave a brief middle finger salute. "So dead. Bye bye Oliver."

Sherlock laughed. It turned into tears. He wiped his face. Looked surprised at the wetness on his hands. "He sucked, John. He wasn't …nice."

John blinked. "Sorry mate. Wish I was there…"

Sherlock shook his head. "No…better you ….was..ws..wasnt."

"Really," John said. Looked hurt. "It jus…just…Mycroft had a plan, you know." He managed in the end. "Jim isn't nice either," he said. Wiped his eyes. "He liked to uhm…show off. Show me what…they did to you."

"Oh," Sherlock said. Went quiet. Wiped his face as he stared at the fireplace.

"Yeah," John managed. Leaned back in his chair. Took a swig from the bottle. Looked at the amount left and then leaned forward. Passed the bottle to Sherlock. He squinted at the liquid. Took a good glug.

"I think John," he said as he put the bottle down carefully on his table, "that Molly is going to be mad at us." He seemed pleased that he had at least sounded a little coherent.

"Doesn't matter," John slurred. "Molly'l und'snd."

"You think so," Sherlock sounded hopeful.

"Sure mate…" He waved a hand. "Cause we're sharing…perspenal stuff you know…getting it out there."

"Ha. That's true…are we done?" Sherlock asked, his body wavering a bit.

"Yeah," John said. "Done."

"Good. Cause I think John…I'm going to pass out now."

John scrubbed his face, rubbing the sleep away. He vaguely remembers that day. Wondered why he had dreamt it. It was the only time really that he and Sherlock had actually attempted to talk about what was going on inside their heads. Both of them had such bad hangovers the next day. Molly had not been pleased. He winced. Her anger had scared him and Sherlock into promising not to do it again.

He groaned as he shifted on the chair. He was really getting too old to sleep on chairs. It had been a fairly good night for Sherlock. John had settled on the chair after Mycroft had left. A nurse had brought him a pillow and a blanket and he'd managed to somehow get a few hours of sleep in.

He looked over to where his friend was sleeping and did a double take. Sherlock was awake and looking at him.

"Hey mate, how're you doing?" he asked as he got up and made his way over. Sherlock didn't answer him. Just watched him. John frowned.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock shifted at this voice. Eyes that met his own were clear. But it was as if Sherlock wasn't comprehending what John was saying.

"Sherlock?"

The consulting detective turned his head away. Shifted slightly in the bed, grimacing. John could see his heartbeat was elevated. Knew then that Sherlock was hearing him. He gently took Sherlock's chin in his hand, brought him around to face him.

"Hey, can you hear me?"

Sherlock met his eyes. Seems to contemplate the question. A small frown fleeting across his face before his face set itself to a neutral expression. He gave a small nod then, eyes leaving John's and darting around the room. A frown settled again and he shifted once more.

"There's no one here, Sherlock. You're safe. I promise."

Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look. Rolled his eyes and lifted his head. Eyed the closed door.

"Okay," John said, trying his best to hide his concern and knowing that he was failing. Do basics first. Get the patient settled. Focus on what is working. He glanced at the monitor again. Oxygen was good. Heart rate is a little elevated but understandable. Not medical but mental strain. Blood pressure a little high but not concerning yet.

He tried again. This time he slipped his hand in Sherlock's. Gently leaned in, focusing Sherlock's attention from searching the room to his face. Grounded his friend as best he could. He could see a panic attack forming and he wanted to stop it developing into a full-blown attack.

"Hey. Look at me, Sherlock. Can you focus on me?"

Eyes filled with shimmering tears centred on John.

"That's it. You're good, Sherlock. You're going to be fine. You're in hospital, mate. Just a little hiccup, okay. Nothing to worry about for now. We can discuss it later. You'll be fine."

Sherlock nodded. Took a shuddering breath.

"That's it. Breathe. Three seconds in… …four seconds out…" John watched as Sherlock took effort to do the breathing exercise that Giles had given. His eyes didn't leave John's face. Searching. Trusting. Focusing.

He breathed with Sherlock for a full five minutes, not moving from his spot.

"Good. Better?"

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to talk and then he snapped it closed. Broke his gaze and looked around again, fearful.

"Hey, look at me, Sherlock."

Sherlock shivered. Shifted beneath the blanket. Grimaced and then managed to shift his attention back to John. "That's it, Sherlock. Focus on me, okay. Can we do a few tests. Make sure everything is working as it should?" John said, hoping it would distract Sherlock from whatever was going on inside his head.

Another soft nod.

This was concerning on so many levels.

He gave a small smile. "Okay. Can you wiggle your toes?"

Sherlock frowned. Pouted. John knew that his friend was telling him off for idiocy. But he had a plan so he persisted. "Wiggle toes, Sherlock."

Sherlock lifted one leg and then the other. John gave a small chuckle. "Guess that's working. Now fingers."

He got the middle finger on the hand he wasn't holding. "Clearly there's nothing wrong with your motor reactions." Sherlock closed his eyes, shifted again on the bed. His hand moved up, pulled on the nasal cannula.

"Uh, no buddy. That is staying for the moment, okay. You uncomfortable?"

Another soft nod. Blue eyes opened and met John's. They spoke volumes.

"Sherlock," John started softly. Squeezed Sherlock's hand briefly. "Can I get a verbal confirmation, please."

Sherlock's fingers tightened around John's. His grip was surprisingly strong for a man that had been unconscious for the better part of two days. Had only barely started to waken a day ago. He opened his mouth again and then something seemed to veil his thoughts and his eyes darkened.

"Can I get a verbal confirmation?"

Sherlock's lips thinned as he pressed them together. He shook his head.

"Okay. That's okay. Your throat sore?"

A shake of his head.

"Something else?"

A nod.

"Something to do with Oliver?"

Fingers clasped tight, hurting John. The heart rate jumped on the monitor. John gently pushed Sherlock's hair back, trying to bring comfort. Suddenly aware of how unqualified he felt. He needed Giles. This was something else.

"You know Oliver is dead, right?"

Sherlock shook his head. Looked away. Tears threatened again.

"Hey mate. I was there okay. Oliver is dead."

Sherlock ignored him. No amount of coaxing could get Sherlock to focus back on him. It was like he was shutting down inside his head. John continued to hold his hand. Not sure even if he wanted to, whether Sherlock would've let go of him.

He stayed by Sherlock's bed until his breathing deepened and his friend had slipped back into sleep. Only then did he carefully extract his hand, wiggling fingers to bring some blood flow back. He looked at the time. Another hour before Molly was due to come in. He quickly made his way outside the room, closing the door carefully as he made a call.

"Hey."

"Hello John. I'm assuming Sherlock is awake?" Giles said.

"Yeah. About that. He's non-verbal."

"Explain."

"He's not talking. For some reason he's got it in his head that Oliver is still alive."

"Okay."

"He's sleeping now. His body is still recovering. This had been the longest he had been awake. I estimate he'll probably be out of it for another few hours."

"I'll make sure to be there by 10?"

John took another look at his watch. It was only 6. He couldn't believe it. "Yeah. Think that would be wise. I'll try and prep him that you're coming. Prep Molly. This will be hard on her."

"Very well. 10 then."

John closed the connection. Opened the door and looked in. Sherlock was still asleep, worry smoothed away. He closed the door again and made his way towards the nurse's staff room.

Time for a coffee and something to eat. And then the day can start.

Mycroft was at home in his study. He had asked Anthea for the records of Sherlock's flat the night of his overdose. Something John had said had set off alarm bells. He couldn't pinpoint why exactly to his own frustration. But something was definitely off.

He was watching the video feed that showed Sherlock's door. It was closed right until the point that John came into view. He could see him try the doorknob. When that failed, he slammed a shoulder against the wood. Again, and again until the door splintered open. A moment later his back was barely visible in the darkness of Sherlock's room. He disappeared inside and then Mycroft paused the video.

Coming out of the bedroom was another man.

Mycroft wiped his face, leaned back against his chair. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. It just wasn't possible in any realm of reality. But the video, even grainy from the low light was unmistakable.

Somehow Oliver had been in Sherlock's bedroom.

Somehow Oliver was alive.

Bloody hell. No wonder…

He opened his phone, looked at the numbers. Searched until he found the right one. "It's me."

"Yes?"

"I'll be coming over today. Have him ready for me in two hours."

He closed the connection. Eyed the screen again. His lips thinned as he contemplated the meaning behind what he was seeing. The power play was coming, he knew that. Could see it clearly.

And his brother was somehow the key.

"What the hell…"

John stood in the doorway to Sherlock's room. The bed was …empty. The monitor silent, having been switched off. The nasal cannula draped over the pillow. The Foley dripping. The IV hanging forlorn by the drip stand.

"You bloody moron," he thought as he quickly checked the bathroom. As expected, it was empty. John dragged hands through his hair as he wondered what to do. Sherlock was in no position to be up and about. How he'd managed to pull out the Foley and drips was beyond him. But there was no doubt that his friend had done all of that, successfully and without managing to alert any of the staff.

How the hell was he not passed out somewhere?

He exited the room, looked up and down the corridor. But there was no convenient huddle of concerned nurses around the unconscious body of Sherlock. Just an empty hallway.

Where would he go? He barely had strength…

Dammit Sherlock!

He turned left, made his way past the nurses station, eyeing the lifts. But there were just too many people. There was no way Sherlock could've gone that way without someone asking questions. He turned back the other way, making his way to the end of the hallway and the emergency stairs.

The stairs were empty.

This was so not good.

He fumbled with his phone. Pressed numbers as he wrecked his brain on what to do.

"I'm busy, John," Mycroft's voice came. Wherever he was, it was loud.

"He's gone," he stated flatly.

A pause. Silence except the noise and only then did John realise that what he was hearing was the wine of a helicopter engine starting up.

"How long?"

"I don't know. Maybe 15 to 30 minutes. He was asleep when I went to the kitchen for breakfast. He's definitely not well enough to be walking around London."

"I see. Phone Lestrade. I need to do something that has importance to Sherlock's behaviour. Text me if you find him."

"If…What do you mean if? Mycroft…Mycroft!" John shouted into the connection that had already been terminated.

"Why can't the Holmes brothers just behave like normal people," he raved, slamming his hand against the wall. The pain flaring from his knuckles is enough to bring him back to his senses. He phoned Lestrade while he made his way back to Sherlock's room.

"Hey. Sherlock has gone on a walkabout."

"What? I thought he was barely conscious."

"I don't know. By all rights he should be passed out somewhere."

"Okay, I'll set an alert out. See what we can find. We need to check bolt holes. He can't have gone far."

"Who knows with him. He's a bloody idiot. I'll check Baker Street."

"John. Stop. You need to think. Molly…"

"Okay. Yeah. Right." He looked at his phone. Almost 7. "I'll intercept her. She's bound for the hospital soon."

"Don't worry mate, we'll find him."

"Yeah. Okay." He hung up. Closed his eyes and brought his breathing under control. Phoned Molly.

"Hey, you left yet?"

"No, why? Is Sherlock okay?"

John grimaced. Okay was very relative at the moment. "He's not with you by any chance?"

"No, why would he…" Molly trailed off. "John, where's Sherlock?"

He sighed. Ran a hand through his hair again. "I don't know. He was sleeping when I went for breakfast. When I got back he was gone."

"How? He's sick…"

John gave a derisive chuckle. "Obviously not sick enough." He took a deep breath. Tried to calm himself. "Look, he's going to need medical attention very soon regardless of how he managed to get up and out of the hospital."

"What do you want me to do?" Molly asked. John could hear her moving in the background.

"Uhm. Lestrade is looking. I think just stay where you are in case he goes back to Baker Street. I'll check in with Lestrade. Hopefully we can get him back here before he's done too much damage to himself."

"Yeah okay…John," Molly's voice was tinged with tears. "Why?"

"If I knew that answer, Sherlock would probably still be here."

Mycroft entered the room, closing the door. He eyed the only occupant, seated on a chair. Hands and feet were shackled, chain bolted to the floor. Brown eyes dark with mirth followed him as he moved into the room and seated himself in the only other chair in the room.

"How many did you find?"

Mycroft tilted his head. Inspected the man before him. "Interesting question to start with."

A small chuckle came forth. "Why be obtuse."

"Why indeed. You know why I'm here?"

"Not that hard to guess. How is my favourite consulting detective?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "He's fine."

"Not what I heard."

"Should we play these games, Jim. They are tiresome."

Moriarty leaned forward. The chain clanked. "I told you. The game isn't over yet."

"So you say. Yet here you are. Impotent. In chains."

"Okay. I'll play it your way, Mycroft. What do you want?"

"Tell me about the side project Oliver had going."

Moriarty smiled widely. Leaned back in his chair. His eyes gleamed. "Which one?" When Mycroft was silent, Moriarty sighed dramatically. "It would be helpful if you share some more information, my dear. Oliver was a busy little bee. You just have no idea…" Brown eyes met his.

"Pertaining to my brother…"

"Everything has to do with Sherlock. Haven't you realised that by now."

Mycroft frowned briefly. Tented his fingers beneath his chin as he stared at Moriarty. Silence filled the room for the next five minutes.

"I don't think you know as much as you pretend," Mycroft said, standing up. "You've been out of the game for a few months now. Your organisation is almost completely dismantled. Good day…" He made his way to the exit. Hand on the doorknob and Moriarty spoke up. "Dismiss me at your peril, Mycroft."

He turned, facing the other man. "Explain."

"No. I don't think I will. Tell me. How is your little brother doing? Really? Nightmares any better yet? Heard he overdosed the other night."

"How would you know?"

Moriarty pursed his lips. "I have my sources." Eyes dark and malevolent focused on Mycroft. Voice gone dangerously soft, Moriarty asked, "How is Sherlock?"

"He's fine."

"No. Not how it works. Truth for truth. You want me to share, then you do the same."

Mycroft thinned his lips, contemplating. Moved to the chair and sat down again. Crossed his legs. Faced the psychopath fully.

"You're obviously aware. He's in hospital. Recovering."

Jim nodded. "You found the drug lord?"

"Yes."

"He's not the first. How's Sherlock's nightmares?" He giggled. Placed a hand in front of his mouth. "Oliver really was very good, wasn't he? Gave our favourite consulting detective quite a few to remember him by. I'd like to think I made a small contribution. That Sherlock remembers our time together as fondly as I do."

"Getting better." Mycroft said succinctly. He wasn't about to indulge the other man more than he needed to. "Professional assassin?"

"Uh no, Myc. I want a little more detail than that. Or this ends now."

Mycroft was silent. The decision tree inside his head branched out. He could see the pathway in front of him.

Forgive me, Sherlock.

"He's still struggling with his nightmares. You're clearly well aware, Jim."

"Which ones?"

"My brother doesn't share that with me. I couldn't even begin to hazard a guess." He lied. "My turn. Professional assassin?"

"No. Well, yes. Depends on how you look at it. My turn. Did you enjoy reading Oliver's files?"

"What files," he countered.

"Tut tut, Myc. Oliver kept files. You burned them after you read them. Naughty. What would the justice system say if they knew you got rid of evidence?"

Mycroft nodded. "Oliver's dead. You're here. Sherlock will never have to face a courtroom on what was done to him and Ms Hooper. There's no need for the files anymore."

Moriarty laughed. "Brilliant." He stopped. Turned serious. "That was a mistake, Mykie. One you'll regret. Let's move on," Moriarty said, leaning back in his chair," Sherlock still hallucinating Oliver?"

"Yes. What's so special about the hacker girl?"

"Ooh. Good question Mycroft. She came really close to identifying him. Does he just see or does he hear Oliver as well?"

"Both, though less frequent now. Who is he?"

Moriarty grinned. Shook his finger at Mycroft in a slow pendulum. "No no no no. Naughty Mycroft. That is the wrong question. My turn. How long before Sherlock is utterly broken. I don't think it's going to be long now…not with what is planned for him."

Mycroft stood. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, brilliant. The great Mycroft stumped. Let me just savour this moment." Moriarty took a deep breath. Smiled. "Have you ever asked the question what Oliver's end game was, my dear? Why was he training Sherlock? Why was he willing to spend the time and money to remake him?"

Mycroft was silent. Didn't reply.

"Are you part of the ordinary people now, Mykie? Really?"

Mycroft buttoned his jacket and turned his back on Moriarty.

"Be careful, Mycroft," Jim said softly. "Your little brother is in for a world of pain. And then," he said as Mycroft turned to him, met his gaze fully, "Then he'll be me and you'll be lost."

The older Holmes turned away and hurried to the door. His hand was on the doorknob, turning it when Jim spoke up, "See you soon, my dear." Laughter followed Mycroft out the door. He waited until he was on the surface before he made a call. Made sure that he was alone.

"I want to upgrade the surveillance on Molly Hooper and John Watson."

"Sir?"

"Grade five. Active."

"Your brother?"

Mycroft closed his eyes. Remembered the conversation they had had on the bench in the gardens at the hospital soon after Sherlock's rescue from Oliver.

"Mycroft, I want your promise."

"Is this really necessary, Sherlock?"

"If I ever need to go off-grid or get taken again, that you will protect them."

"Sherlock…" he said exasperated.

"Mycroft. Promise."

"Very well. I'll have full protection on Molly and John if you ever decide to disappear again."

"Sir?"

"I want a full team searching for him. There's a list of bolt holes available from Anthea. Coordinate with Greg Lestrade at New Scotland Yard. Check the ones on the list first."

He closed the connection. The helicopter was already starting up as he exited the building. Seated himself and watched as Sherrinford disappeared beneath him as they rose. The wild coast of England filled the window as he flew back to London, all the while Moriarty's words were echoing in his head.

Your little brother is in for a world of pain... And then he'll be me and you'll be lost.

Dammit Sherlock, he thought. What have you gotten yourself into, little brother.