Mycroft Holmes hadn't seen his brother bite his nails since they were young. As he paced, however, Sherlock bit at the edge of his thumbnail, slowly ripping it off. Mycroft watched him from his own armchair in Baker Street. It wasn't half as comfortable as he was used to, but in the mindset his brother was in he hadn't attempted to take the doctor's more comfortable one.

His brother had been pacing for hours, mulling over the problem. Mycroft had already determined that there was no way to track or identify the criminals from the crime scene, but Sherlock had spent over twelve hours trying, finally dragging himself into Baker Street in the early hours of the morning and sitting at the dining table pouring over the newspapers from the past few weeks. He'd collapsed for about fifteen minutes until the gracious Mrs. Hudson had come with breakfast which Sherlock had rudely ignored.

She had been worried, clearly, seeing that he was still there and the doctor was not, but she did not say anything. Mycroft had graciously finished the breakfast so she'd feel better, then waited patiently as Sherlock paced and thought. After only an hour he'd begun to wonder how the doctor did it; just watching his younger brother and all the nervous energy he had was exhausting, not to mention that his own patience was slowly wearing thin.

"Sherlock…" he began to say when he sensed a break in his brother's thoughts, but his brother gave him a glare and he shut his mouth. Sherlock's look softened.

"I could have saved you both," he murmured.

"How would you have accomplished that without getting yourself killed?" Mycroft asked simply. "I can see no way."

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted, "but there must have been a way. They were clearly after you, so I had to protect you, but they'd mistaken Watson for you, so I should have gone to him. He was injured and therefore vulnerable to further attack, so I should have helped him. But surely they would see he wasn't you and come after the real Mycroft, so I needed to protect you. And yet how could I leave him like that, bleeding on the ground like a martyr? And not just any martyr, an unwitting martyr for your cause. If he's dead, does he know why he was killed?"

"If he is dead," Mycroft said, "It does not matter."

"Don't be..." Sherlock started to say, then paused uncharacteristically as if he didn't know how to finish. Mycroft knew what he meant, though, without even having to read his facial expressions.

"Are you still brooding, or may I point out some things you might have missed?"

"No," Sherlock snapped, then stopped his pacing and ran a hand over his face. "Yes, of course, Mycroft," he amended himself. "Of course I want to know what you think. But I am well aware you know nothing more than I do for you have seen nothing more, and I'm very much afraid I am not currently willing to accept any confirmation of my own worst suspicions."

"I am not going to confirm them. I have every confidence that the doctor is alive."

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly.

"Your doctor is a man of quality, Sherlock. He will soon realize he has been attacked in error, and I have no doubt in my mind he will not dissolution his captors, not for his own self preservation, of course, but in protection of myself and of you. That would, inevitably, be his best course of self preservation, for they will have no use for him if they know the truth, but I doubt that will be in his mind. He is quick and intelligent, but like most people his first instinct would have been to insist he's not the person they say."

"I agree," Sherlock said softly, "except that he'd been shot, Mycroft. In that kind of pain-induced delirium who knows what he may have said to them as he was forcefully taken? I almost hope that the wound was severe enough that he lapsed into unconsciousness, to save him the pain and from unintentionally giving himself away. And yet of course I wish for him to have the least possible amount of damage to his person. What if they don't give him any care? There's little time left for us to save him before infection sets in if that's the case."

"I very much doubt they would take the time to physically take him when, if they wanted to kill him and already had him laying helpless, a bullet through the head would have sufficed."

Sherlock grimaced, the mental image of a bullet going through his friend's head clearly too vivid in his mind. Mycroft wanted to be sympathetic, but there would be time for that later if it occurred that the doctor really was dead.

"Now, Sherlock, if you will kindly let me finish," he continued, "I will tell you what I think regarding the situation. Having established that your friend will not betray us knowingly and that he is likely to be alive, we ought to focus our attentions on who is doing this and why. To that end I have a very reliable man, my personal assistant, who has been investigating on my behalf as ardently as you yourself have and should be coming to us soon. Do you know Mr. Jonas Whitaker?"

"No," Sherlock replied distractedly. "Should I?"

"Perhaps not, but here is something you would like to know: I hired him because of Doctor Watson."

"Hmm? What are you referring to?" Sherlock asked, finally intrigued.

"You will soon see," Mycroft said, and he did.

When Whitaker walked in, it almost looked like Watson had returned. He had the same physical build, was roughly the same height, had the same military style moustache, face shape, brown eyes, and hairstyle. He even had some of the same mannerisms: the same stiff way he held his arm, and the same way of looking around the room thoroughly, not to deduce anything but to look for any possible danger. He was evidently a former military man, and there was something undeniably strong and steady about him, just like there was about Watson.

Sherlock looked over at his brother, understanding in an instant what Mycroft meant, why he'd prepared him for this. This man Whitaker wasn't the kind of man Mycroft would usually hire; he was too injured, too paranoid, and too average. Mycroft would normally never choose anyone who wasn't mentally and physically the strongest and sharpest, and Whitaker wasn't in that category. But Mycroft knew Watson, and Watson was injured and slightly paranoid and in most respects average, but he was also a man of incredible courage and loyalty and was completely invaluable. It was because Mycroft knew Watson he'd taken a chance on Whitaker, and he clearly didn't regret it.

And, because he'd hired Whitaker, Watson had been shot. Sherlock shut his eyes, the pain of understanding dawning. He knew his brother's office layout, knew that his personal secretary would be in the normal secretary office and his personal assistant in the office one would normally assume was his. His own office was tucked away from view, not for any safety concerns but because he didn't like people and wanted to ensure any visitors had to pass through two rounds of secretaries before seeing him, which meant they ought to have a very good reason for coming. To any casual observer, therefore, Mr. Mycroft Holmes' office was occupied day in and day out by a man who looked just like Doctor John Watson.

All these deductions passed through Holmes' mind in a moment, and he leapt to his feet, anger and despair combining into an emotion he didn't know the name of. "Did you do it on purpose?" he cried. "Did you- dear God, Mycroft- did you send Watson out there knowing you were being targeted? Knowing he would be mistaken for you?"

"I knew," Mycroft said slowly, "that there was a very good chance he could be mistaken for me. Yes."

And then the emotion solidified itself in Sherlock's mind: betrayal. He was feeling undeniably betrayed by his own brother. He knew it was irrational, knew Mycroft had done nothing wrong, but he felt it nonetheless, and he knew his brother saw it.

"It was not an intentional ploy, my dear," Mycroft said softly. "You know it wasn't, for even if it was there would be no reason I would put your friend in danger over one of my own loyal, trustworthy, and willing troops. Yes, I knew he might be mistaken for me, but I found it amusing only and failed to draw any conclusions or have any suspicions, and I deeply regret it. I apologize, Sherlock. I swear to you I foresaw no danger."

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He noticed how Whitaker stepped slightly in front of his brother as if to protect him: apparently loyalty to Holmes only worked one way, and he almost wanted to laugh at such an absurd thought. "Who did this?" he asked, getting back to the topic at hand and deciding that, as far as emotional outbursts go, his was relatively mild. He glanced at his brother, hoping he'd understand; after all, he was well entitled to one.

"Whitaker?" prompted Mycroft.

"I have a few suspects, sir," Whitaker said, pulling a sheaf of papers from his jacket. "I will start with the most likely: Robert Blackwell."

Mycroft leaned back and closed his eyes. "I've heard that name before," he murmured.

"I know him," Sherlock said. "He was head boy when I first arrived at Canterhouse."

Mycroft opened his eyes. "Yes," he said. "I remember now. I was head boy during his first year. I recall there were one or two incidents he was involved with, but nothing major."

"He was a braggart, and a bully," Sherlock said. "He was only head boy because his father donated so much to Canterhouse. Why is he a suspect, Whitaker?"

"He has been connecting with fellow alumni from your old boarding school, sirs," Whitaker said, addressing them both. "He has been somehow involved with every invitation you've received to join your schoolmates for something, including your old cricket team's charity game. That might not be suspicious, of course, except he's become an active member of an anarchist group that calls themselves 'Sons of Apollo.' He's made several speeches rallying against England, and his meeting dates for the past few years have coincided with reunions or events involving members of your boarding school."

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a look. "Where were these meetings held?" Sherlock demanded. "What do we know about the 'Sons of Apollo?'"

"The meetings were held in various locations around London," Whitaker answered, and he pulled a sheet from his stack and handed it to Sherlock. "As for the group, it's no higher of a priority than any others. We've had a spy in all the meetings, but it's the usual stuff we see with these people: mishmash of men who may or may not really be devoted to the cause, speeches, arguments, drinking, fist-fights, and nothing at all getting done, certainly no plots to kill or kidnap government officials. According to these notes, however, Blackwell had a small group of friends within the larger group, so it's possible there's something going on between them that the others don't know about. These anarchists hardly ever get along, so it's possible."

"And Blackwell himself?" Sherlock asked.

"Apparently is no longer the rich, braggart bully you remember, Mr. Holmes," Whitaker answered, addressing Sherlock. "He inherited his father's business but ran it into the ground with consistent bad management. He's been scraping by ever since, which likely explains the appeal of anarchy. One assault charge, but nothing else to put him under anyone's scrutiny. Until now, of course."

Sherlock Holmes grabbed his coat. "I'm going out," he declared. "Mycroft, listen to the other suspects, but I can't sit here any longer: I need to go investigate, and the meeting dates Whitaker discovered can't be a coincidence."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft started to say, but his brother had taken the paper Whitaker had given him and was already out the door. Whitaker looked to Mycroft.

"Let him go," the elder Holmes sighed. "He will do nothing to endanger our own investigation."

"With all due respect, sir, your brother's actions and appearance seem to indicate that he doesn't have a level head at the moment."

"Be that as it may, Whitaker, my brother is not a reckless man. If we are dealing with anarchists here, he will do nothing that would put England in jeopardy. He may be devoted to his friend the doctor, but they are, both of them, men of honor and integrity. Between myself and the doctor's life, he will choose to abandon his friend, and for England herself he will do no less."

"And you are certain of this?"

"Yes. Whitaker. I am certain, and it is not speculation. I know it is true because, whether he realizes it or not, he already has."

Authors Note:

Canterhouse is entirely fictional and is based on nothing.

Thank you to everyone who has left a review :) To answer a question: I do not know how long this story will end up being; it is currently seven chapters all about this length.