A/N: Time to wrap this up. I took liberties with Mycroft's residence, but hopefully inkeeping with the little glimpses from series 3 and 4. The blurred ending is a gift, and you can read it as you like.

Still not British. Or a writer. You know that by now. -csf


5.

Organised. Methodical. Analytical to a fault.

Harsh lines. Sombre colours. Slick metal surfaces juxtaposed with rugged cold stone and the odd overindulgence of a gilded baroque chandelier. A regal display of solid tradition and sombre civil service.

I glance at Sherlock, the younger brother, to assess his reaction to the older brother's house. He knows the premises already, of course, and navigates through the rooms dutifully with no surprise.

I start paying more attention to those pursed lips and knitted brows. Sherlock keeps up some indifference act, probably a self-defence mechanism learnt from childhood, completely useless as we are virtually undetectable right now. Sherlock would keep his act even if I wasn't here, I suspect. But he must know I can see past it.

The carefully crafted decor on the large area around us is so different to Baker Street, with its warm categorised chaos, the same creative hierarchical structure and thought process that guides the genius in his intricate mind processes. Like a complex symphony, full of undertones and comebacks on ideas and feelings, thoughts linked into stringed sentences and balanced by the emotional expression of the philosophical mind.

Mycroft's, in contrast, is cold, clean, aseptic and highly staged. His rooms belong in an austere catalogue or museum. They are uninspired, stable, proper. They let on nothing of the man who takes up residence here.

There's an ignored flight of stairs and Sherlock keeps leading the way. I feel like opening a closet by chance, just to check for hidden skeletons. No one should be this clean, tidy, perfect... Boring.

I'd welcome an actual skeleton, to be perfectly honest.

Even in his personal quarters Mycroft Holmes is the master of strategy and plays our perceptions, remaining a cool detached presence, high above us all. This house – hardly a Home in the sense that 221B is to us – is the very projection of the space a man like Mycroft should inhabit. A farce. A carefully crafted stage upon which Mycroft comes in, engages with the guests, impresses them, controlling their perceptions, eluding them by providing only what he wants them to see. As he deems to be perceived.

If I have thought, at times, that Sherlock can be a big controlled and could use to lighten up, Mycroft blows the scale on social contriteness.

I sigh quietly, because it's stark to me now how little enjoyment Mycroft allows himself. In here I won't ever find even a tea stained cup on the sink, a chair misaligned with the table, a shoe fallen off the rack. They'd be cardinal sins in Mycroft's perfect stage.

I see now the origins of Sherlock's esteemed sock index.

And I pause and wish I could see the real Mycroft. The one that must inhabit the primed, three piece suit man I know. The one Sherlock still sees when he glares routinely at his older brother as he pops in for an unscheduled visit (or inspection, however you want to call it).

I find Sherlock looking intently at me. As our glances meet he dismisses: 'Obviously my brother is a neat freak. Do recall that the next time I set off the fire alarm for leaving my Bunsen burner unattended, John.'

.

Sherlock unites his hands behind his back and with his most urbane smile he ushers me: 'Shall I lead the way to my insufferable brother's room? That is, I believe, the objective of your insistence to visit Mycroft, to see him. Hopefully, not to wake him. I must warn you, there will be no midnight reconciliations.'

I nod, vaguely. Still disturbed by an instinct that this place is somehow wrong. As if I had stepped into a fake home, the real one hidden behind the mirrors.

I'm itching, in the very least, for a secret bunker, really. Where Mycroft stashed his cake and washes crap telly – or his planted cctv, it's very much the same – from a messy sofa with mismatched cushions.

Sherlock and I walk the impressive corridor under the vague light torches from our phones, past symmetric Ming dynasty vases (probably the real deal), our steps muffled by the cashmere threaded rug. All the best money can buy, yet soulless as an empty vessel.

'Wait!' I stop the detective, as I catch a glimpse of a dimly lit desk lamp, the soft glow animating the very end of a modern fitted kitchen where an old cast iron construction stove warms the house with the lingering scent of burnt logs and spices and confectionery. Cake, Mycroft, cake. We detour our house inspection through the open plan kitchen with an odd wallpaper repeating the image of cinder block walls. Here's that bunker. A chromed refrigerator, taller than Mycroft himself, overpowers the empty back wall. Pristine shelves and hours, wide French window with a clear view to the night that has settled over the inanimate garden.

It's in the warm light of the disproportionately big kitchen that we find the human side of Mycroft Holmes I was looking for. There, on a humble wooden side table, bundled up is a discarded light throw (royal blue, of course), draped slightly over the nearby radiator, by a stack of papers, newspaper clippings, Polaroid pictures (anyone still resorts to those?) and cryptic notes.

Sherlock lowers a hand to the abandoned chair.

'Still warm. My brother's been working late. He's gone up now, after a drink of water. My brother always has a drink of water before bed.' Glancing at me, he adds: 'It was his excuse to wet the bed when he was a child.'

I chuckle, knowing better than to take the younger Holmes seriously.

'What's he been working on? Are- are those submarine plans?'

Sherlock's hands circle my shoulders and he very determinedly steers me away from the international secrets laid out on a kitchen table.

We take some small stairs located at the back onto the upper floor. Sherlock is more jittery now, not allowing the time to study the place - other than emergency exits, possible hideouts and all the other area reconnaissance the army instilled deep in me and that comes as a second nature now.

There's half a pang of guilt as we illicitly make our way into the master bedroom, but Sherlock is deeply focussed on his brother now, more than in trying dig out dirt for future blackmail. He'll multitask anyway, he's Sherlock.

The moonlight crosses the window pane of wide windows with drawn out curtains, bringing a hazy white glare to the spacious bedroom. The bed is stately to say the least. Four poster bed with draped velvet fabric hiding from view the man of the house. His thin gingery hair is a bit dishevelled, as if he had often ran his fingers through it. His eyes are red rimmed and black circled as if his been nursing constant worry. His posture is natural, grabbing on to the pillow and bedding in his sleep, but the stillness of his silhouette is drastically off putting. I can sense how disturbing it is for Sherlock when everyone in the world seems frozen like this, how he'd reach out to me, bringing me out of this unnatural state, and how much he must be containing himself not to do it again with Mycroft.

'What's that?' I remark, pointing somewhere across the room. An overnight bag; expensive leather concealing together a small stash of personal belongings. I go check it out, if only to give the two brothers some personal space.

Sherlock follows me at once, ignoring the offered chance. 'It appears my brother is travelling.'

'There will be rejoicing and celebrating in the commonwealth, I bet.'

Sherlock ignores my tirade. 'My brother's territory is London, John. Wales at a push. He really avoids Scotland for some reason, and he's careful to avoid being spotted in Northern Ireland since— No, delete that, John. He can tell you all about it himself next Christmas.'

I shake my head, smirking. I know Sherlock is making this up. They do that, the two Holmes brothers. Make legends of each other. It's a twisted form of praise, really.

'Sherlock', I start, glancing inside. 'That's not a traveller's bag. Your brother is not going on holidays.'

'He's really been promising himself holidays for ages', the younger brother is particularly hung up on that idea, I notice. As if unannounced holidays were a breach of a sibling contract.

I take up a bottle of pills and read the label at the dim light of the moon filtering through the window.

'Sherlock, your brother is having minor surgery in the morning. He's staying at the hospital.'

'Nonsense!'

'Okay, private hospital.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

'Less nonsensical but still preposterous, John. Mycroft would have told me!'

I nod. Of course he'd have.

'Sherlock, after I went to bed, last night...' Feels like way longer than "last night" for some reason. 'Did Mycroft phone you?'

Sherlock's tense features contract into something akin to a lightning storm. He pales but his gaze grows stronger.

Some blurred memory is being retrieved by the consulting genius as we speak.

Why did he feel the need to file it away?

Too emotional. He didn't know how to properly handle it, but to distance himself from the knowledge that his brother – his only brother – had sprung on him. Certainly last minute to avoid the weight of apprehension on Sherlock to have been more prolonged.

Hit Sherlock like a ton of bricks, that did.

'Sherlock?'

The detective whispers, in a familiar voice now drained of his usual confidence:

'He came over. He sat on your chair. He told me about it, the surgery. I got worried, he laughed it off. Told me I was being dramatic, calling for attention, he wouldn't have that. "Pull yourself together, Sherlock, it's a simple procedure, done by one of the best surgeons in the field, there's absolutely no room for drama", he said. But I could tell, there was trepidation in his features, he was brisk, almost uncontrolled, almost not Mycroft. I could sense his apprehension. And I wished time would come to a standstill.'

He looks at me, haunted green eyes asking for leniency as he gives in minutely to the emotion. I give my friend a strong smile and note:

'It's a smallish overnight bag, Sherlock. The medication is minor, really. And he's not shown any medical symptoms you'd have picked up on. As far as I know he's getting a beauty mark removed or something like that. You needn't to be scared. Besides, you've got me.'

'I've got you', he repeats, slightly confused; baited by my words, veering away from that panic I just saw pooling in him.

'I say your brother is always stalking me. I can do a bit of stalking back. Quid pro quo. I'll see who's the surgeon. I may even work my way into the operating theatre if it helps.'

Sherlock nods, oddly tantalized by my face, searching for some sign of deception that would keep him from accepting the hope I'm handing him.

That sibling rivalry is on hold for now.

'And', I add for good measure, 'if your brother has any weird tattoo beyond the standard issue disposable gown, I'll be sure to let you know.'

Sherlock's eyes sparkle at what I'm sure the medical deontological code would severely frown upon.

'Oh, I already know about that one... Tell me if there's more, John.'

I glance at the sleeping man on the bed. You've no idea how much your brother actually loves you.

.

'Let me get this straight. First time when time stood still for you, Sherlock, your brother was leaving home. Second time...'

'Victor was an idiot and not worth scrutinizing, John', Sherlock almost growls. I raise my hands in surrender to pacify him. I'm not prying, honest.

'Third time', I pick up, 'you were worrying about your brother's surprise surgery.'

'Minor surgery', Sherlock corrects with a controlled breath intake.

'Chances are this is your dream, mate.'

He hums in agreement.

I start again. 'You can go to bed and we'll wake up back to normal tomorrow.' He nods. 'And I'll go make sure your brother is in safe hands and he's minor op goes according to plan. You can find out where he's doing his recovery and plan ways to torment him. Lovingly, I mean.'

'On it already, John.' He flashes a genuine smile.

I smirk.

'Thanks', I add. 'For calling me in.'

We've been walking a long time and we're back at 221 Baker Street, stopping at the front door, hesitating to break this up. I'm sure there's more to see in the unusually still London we know as frenetic and demanding.

Sherlock smiles again, his attention never wavering from me, as he steps closer, shortening the already narrow distance between us. Due to our difference in heights, he's towering over me, but I find that's alright, it always is, with Sherlock.

His smile is precious as his gloved hands cup my face to make me look at him.

'Just drop it, John. There's still one thing I must do before time and accountability restart.'

I blink. Really?

He comes closer, his eyes are blazing emeralds under the lamplights and the reflected light from 221B, we seem to have left them all on during our absence. Don't suspect there was a reason to worry about the electric bill.

Sherlock smirks, dangerously. I'm not opposed to a bit of danger.

Rain starting falling hard on the pavement around us, bouncing off the concrete with elasticity. A car crosses the corner, too fast for a residential area. And I vaguely recall we still have a dead body on our front step.

We never seemed to notice the moment time restarted its inexorable run. In fact, I think time has stopped for us alone some more.

Time to call Lestrade, though, and let him know Sherlock's already solved the case. Again. Lestrade won't even find this amiss.

.