Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"You came alone." Sherlock observed. Mycroft's suit was immaculate, not even temporarily creased in the back and knees, suggesting a car journey.

"Of course." Mycroft replied, steely grey eyes betraying both determination and concern. Sherlock knew that despite his confusion, he was ready and willing to oblige whatever he needed, but the circumstances would certainly have raised his most suspicious antannae. "Your message rather worried me, as well you knew it would." He added, never one to bother denying irritation.

"I had no choice about that." Sherlock replied, stepping out of the shadows and facing his brother. Mycroft had positioned himself in the middle of the room, assuming an approachable stance that he evidently hoped would encourage Sherlock not to change his mind about asking him to meet him there. He hadn't even brought his umbrella.

Mycroft's eyes shifted, taking in Sherlock's appearance at lightning quick speed. It was no more than a second, before he raised an eyebrow, conclusions reached.

"I see." He spoke quietly.

Sherlock was unable to keep momentary alarm from his expression, which only served to confirm Mycroft's deductions.

"How?" Sherlock demanded, eyes narrowing. He had been careful to give away nothing beyond the obvious. He was certain even Mycroft was not that clever.

"Most is obvious. You're aware you're giving away your fatigue, concern and the fact you've recently had to make a decision you didn't want to make." Mycroft replied, offering his statement as something approaching a question, to give Sherlock a chance to agree, that much was obvious.

"Generally looking tired, wearing yesterday's clothes is a sign of distraction, not something I'd do even if bored, frustrated or busy so I must be worried about something…" He glanced down at his shoes and smiled. "Slight scuff on one side of my left shoe, indicating I was pacing, but not paying attention. I only pace when trying to work something out and if it was for a case, I would not have been so absent-minded as to walk into the fire place."

Mycroft gave a rather dark smile. "Excellent, Sherlock."

Sherlock's smirk disappeared instantly, as he remembered Mycroft knew far more than that. "But the rest?"

"There is only one scuff mark and no sign of any other abrasions. If you'd really been trying to think, you would have played your violin and the indent in your right thumb would be more pronounced. So while the decision was not one you wanted to make, it was also no real question. It took you less than a minute to make it."

"How can you possibly know that?" Sherlock demanded. Mycroft's deductions were flawless, there was no point in denying it.

Mycroft raised his eyes to the grey concrete ceiling above them, an expression of concentration. "You walked into your flat. You looked around to check you were alone. You went into the kitchen and finding Mrs Hudson there, pretended to be putting the kettle on. You returned from the kitchen having only held your hand over the kettle for a moment. You brushed your cuff in the steam, staining it slightly yellow. You left the kitchen and looked out of your living room window – guesswork, but you would have just left your informant and wanted to check they were gone. You then walked up and down in front of the fireplace, maybe twice, before you sent me the text that brought me here. Estimated time taken, under sixty seconds."

Mycroft smiled again when he'd finished. "But those are not general deductions. I couldn't have made them about anybody else." He admitted with a shrug.

Sherlock nodded, accepting and dismissing Mycroft's summary explanation. "That doesn't explain how you know why I'm here."

"No." Mycroft agreed. "But it's not so difficult a leap, is it? You asked me to meet you here, so you need something from me. You're worried, so your flatmate is almost certainly in danger. A decision made that quickly could only mean you had to choose to protect him or someone else and that it really wasn't too difficult a decision.” Mycroft paused, his sinister smile shifting to an altogether more knowing smirk as Sherlock made no argument. “Your many enemies aren't to know that. If I was threatening you, I'd consider either John or myself to be obvious targets."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock offered, voice cold and indifferent, eyes not wavering from his brother's.

Mycroft nodded. "Don't be. It was the more sensible option of the two, whether or not that in any sense influenced your decision."

"You're not going to do anything?" Sherlock asked, curious. He had suspected that when Mycroft understood what he was there for, he would submit without complaint. He had also assumed that he would at least make some token gesture towards controlling what Sherlock was about to do. As it was, he seemed to have remarkably few questions.

Mycroft considered him quietly for a moment. "Do you have a plan, beyond the obvious, Sherlock?" He questioned after a short pause. "I'm not planning to impede you in any sense, no, but this will need to be convincing and no sign of self defence, will not be."

"I had thought of that." Sherlock snapped, annoyed his brother would think him so incompetent. Mycroft gave a rueful smile and Sherlock felt a remote shiver of discomfort. Sparing Sherlock's ego was not likely to be high on Mycroft's list of considerations at that moment. "I reported my phone missing to Lestrade earlier."

Mycroft's eyes lit up. "Ah." He sighed softly. "How ludicrously simple. Ingenious, Sherlock, I must congratulate you."

In anyone else, it would sound like an attempt to placate his little brother, or at the very least, make him feel guilty. In Mycroft's case, Sherlock knew the elder Holmes would be only too aware of the futility of both. There was nothing Sherlock did that was not fully calculated to be simply the most pragmatic option available to him. Beyond that, he knew himself, there was a simple sort of genius in his plan.

If Sherlock's phone had been stolen, it meant someone else had messaged Mycroft and lured him to the abandoned warehouse. Mycroft was a genius, everybody knew it. Mycroft knew when he was talking to his brother. As Sherlock's phone had remained in his own keeping, there had been no reason for Mycroft to suspect anything amiss other than Sherlock needing something from him. When it became clear that the text sent from Sherlock's phone had lured him to a trap, it would certainly look as though he'd been fooled. The plan relied entirely, but only, on Mycroft showing up at the warehouse, which he had done.

”But what about the self-defence issue?” Mycroft added.

Sherlock nodded slowly, acknowledging the compliment and the question this time, keeping his temper in check. "Thank you." He replied, with sincerity. He knew after all, such words were high praise, from Mycroft.

Mycroft didn't move as Sherlock closed the gap between them. He drew level with Mycroft and turned his head to the side, thinking. Mycroft returned his gaze, but stayed otherwise still. Sherlock saw the flicker in his eyes as he made the minute movement required to shake a hidden object from his coat sleeve, into his grasp. In the split second Mycroft had before the needle plunged into his leg, Sherlock could see he surmised what it was. He understood that Sherlock was answering his question. He made no move to prevent the action.

Though he cooperated in the moment, staying rigidly still as Sherlock emptied a sedative-filled syringe into his bloodstream, Sherlock could see that this part of the plan had taken his brother by surprise. His eyes widened, before closing against instant and overpowering exhaustion. Unlike Sherlock, he did not have five years of addiction to have built up any kind of resistance to the drug delivered into his veins. He would be incapacitated almost immediately. Likely unconscious shortly after. Sherlock gripped Mycroft's right shoulder in one hand, pressing down, decreasing the time it took his muscles to give way and Mycroft to fall to his knees.

Mycroft's eyes were glazed as he sunk to sitting on his calves, staring forward, no longer able to watch Sherlock or offer either cooperation or refusal to his plan. Sherlock's eyes rapidly scanned his upper body, watching his chest for even rise and fall, evidence he was not struggling to breathe, watching his face for red or blue hues, any form of danger signs beyond the expected sedative effect. Without any movement of his blank gaze, Mycroft's right hand gripped Sherlock's sleeve where his hand sat on his shoulder. A faint grunt escaped him as though he was trying to speak.

Sherlock swallowed. The clock was ticking. He needed to get this over with as quickly as possible, and remove himself from the premises. He removed Mycroft's clawing hand with a perfunctory shake and let him collapse the rest of the way to the floor, landing hard on his side.

"I'll take your congratulations as implied, on this part." Sherlock told him, kneeling beside him. "Because you're right, you would have fought back and you'd have inflicted damage had you wanted to. But even you, the even greater Holmes, thinking you were meeting me, could have been caught unawares this way."

Mycroft shuddered where he lay on the cold concrete. Awake, but awareness quickly deserting him. Sherlock remained crouched next to him for a moment, watching until the drug had pulled him most of the way under. He was lying still on his side, eyes open, half-awake, but utterly unable to move. Sherlock leant down and spoke in Mycroft's ear, knowing from experience that he would still be able to hear, long after he stopped being able to move or otherwise respond, even see. "It's just a sedative. I'd need to incapacitate you to make it convincing and it was either this or a head inury. It'll make it easier on you too."

Sherlock didn't expect a response of any kind from Mycroft, nor did he receive one. He didn't have any choice about what he had to do, but he didn't need Mycroft to suffer unnecessary pain or fear. He stood up almost as soon as he'd finished speaking, and with barely a moment's hesitation, booted his brother in the stomach with brutal force.

It didn't take long. Sherlock had seen and been involved in enough physical altercations to know how to cause efficient damage, but equally, he knew the difference between visibly unpleasant injuries and more life threatening ones. When he was finished, Mycroft's nose, lip and ears were bleeding, one of his cheeks rapidly swelling, several of his ribs broken and his arms and stomach badly bruised. Mycroft had slightly curled in on himself, more as a result of repeated blows to his gut than any conscious effort. He was still barely stirring, when Sherlock knelt beside him once more.

Mycroft remembered the sound of cautious footsteps, followed by running feet. He was confused that it was a familiar voice that tried to break through the drug-induced fog and drag him back to the waking world.

It was hard to tell how long Sherlock had been gone. He'd been taken by surprise, most unpleasantly, by just how frightening the physical effects of the drug had been. He'd made no move to stop his brother and he had no doubt he was right, that the drug had made the minutes to follow much easier to take. It had also given him no choice about taking it. The effect on his mind, the complete lack of options, that was intolerable.

Sherlock didn't have superiors, while Mycroft did, technically, if not intellectually. Sherlock did not react well to not being in control of those around him or his own decisions, whereas Mycroft was used to having mentally inferior suits control his decisions and ignore his advice. He had never, even once, surrendered control of his mind. He didn't even drink much, for fear it would damage his formidable brain. Sherlock had damaged his own, willingly and habitually, for five years of his life. Mycroft had never experienced anything quite so vile.

He was trying to concentrate on keeping track of the injuries Sherlock caused, which were, as expected, superficial but ugly or debilitating. Instead of allowing this cataloguing process to take place, along with his intent to remove any traces of evidence Sherlock had overlooked, his mind refused to stop slipping into utter chaos, like a prolonged scream only he could hear. It was pointless and damaging and yet, he couldn't think about anything else, after just a few seconds of Sherlock's attack.

The effects of the sedative didn't remove his awareness entirely. It just pushed his attempts to focus on Sherlock to the sides, peripheral to what his abused mind deemed important, like internal screaming at his lack of control. It numbed his body, but it didn't stop him feeling the pain Sherlock inflicted. It just made him feel strangely removed from it, as though his body belonged to someone else. He heard, and felt the reverberations of his ribs cracking under Sherlock's foot, rather than any particular experience of pain. Christ, surely that's far enough…

Sherlock must have agreed he'd done enough, as he knelt beside him for a second time, lifting his left arm and intertwining their fingers. Somewhere in the suppressed, still functioning part of his brain, he knew it was not a good sign. The much louder, more controlling part, didn't care what kind of a sign it was. He tried to look in the direction of he and his brother's hands, bleary-eyed and half-blind with blood, but he couldn't move, even if he could have seen with any clarity. It didn't really matter that Sherlock Holmes had never offered simple human comfort to anyone, or that Mycroft Holmes had never wanted or needed such dull and pedestrian solace. It was a distraction from the sharp, searing sensation of wrong in his ribcage, the strange burning in his chest and the mental din holding court in his mind.

He felt Sherlock freeze, as Mycroft used all of the remainder of his energy, squeezing the hand in his. Sherlock said something, but all Mycroft made out was something about a warning and 'convincing'. He closed his eyes, not wanting to listen, noise amplified and distorting unpleasantly in his head. He was entirely unprepared, as Sherlock made a sudden and vicious twisting movement, causing a series of cracking noises like gunshots to explode in his eardrums.

His hand dropped to his side, frissons of electricity shooting through his fingers. His back arched against the pain and Mycroft screamed. He felt something warm clamp over his mouth and cut off his agonised cry, leaving him writhing in pain, still frantic, but muted. The internal screaming grew louder and darkness began to obscure the edges of his vision. When the torturing noise reached its crescendo, darkness closed in and Mycroft felt himself sinking.

The sound of running feet, and that unexpectedly familiar voice, had woken him. As far as Mycroft could make out, as the chaos started to recede, he had been joined by three, possibly four people. The authoritative sound of their voices suggested they were likely to be police.

"Come on, Mycroft, wake up." One of the noises buzzing somewhere above him, formed into something he vaguely understood. The note of impatience told Mycroft he'd been unintentionally ignoring his new company for some time. A strange rumbling in his chest turned out to be him starting to laugh, without his consent, at the notion he'd been undiplomatic in being too unconscious to acknowledge the familiar voice trying to rouse him. Familiar though. How?

"Easy." The voice soothed as Mycroft opened his eyes and found a blurry outline of a man leaning over him. "There's an ambulance on the way, Mr Holmes. You're going to be fine."

Mycroft snorted. Now he was awake again, his companion had gone all formal. Mycroft couldn't quite hold back a groan as the man continued to try to comfort him. "I've called your brother, is there anyone else you want me to contact?"

He couldn't speak to respond. He made a poor attempt at shaking his head, hoping at the very least, Sherlock had prepared for having to fake surprise and a believable response to the news. He remembered Sherlock telling him years before, in that delightedly victorious way of his, that what the law had gained, the stage had lost in him. Mycroft had to agree, even while wondering who on his staff, Sherlock had convinced of what. Sherlock was a brilliant actor. He supposed the news of his own assault on his brother, wouldn't have been too difficult a reaction for him.

"Mr Holmes. Mycroft? Can you hear me?"

He could, but there was very little he could do about it. Though the fog on his brain had begun to recede, allowing him to think with slightly more clarity, exhaustion stole over him. He heard the other man continue to try to keep him awake, but as the first, numbing effects of the drug began to disappear, so too did any relief from the pain in his ribs, head and hand, or his struggle to breathe. He gave in to the rising darkness willingly, confident that when he woke, his people would have stepped in and he'd be safely at home, where no one would ask any awkward questions.

Chapter Text

James Moriarty was not the only criminal in London with a considerable grudge against Sherlock Holmes. He was one of a dozen, all of whom had many others working for him. The total number of crooks who had had the misfortune of crossing Sherlock's path, was many hundreds.

Sherlock would not have lasted long if he did not have his own network of informants to rely on. The man who came to him was not a friend. He didn't have those. He wasn't an acquaintance either, he was a criminal. For the right price, he served as extremely effective security to many of London's less than desirables.

"What is this about?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to attempt deductions in the dark. The man was standing in the shadow of an alleyway, while Sherlock leant against the wall of adjoining road, giving no indication he'd seen the other man. It was a busy day, no one was paying attention to either of them, one undetectable in the shadows, one seemingly standing alone. It made for an admirable meeting place for anyone wishing not to be overheard, Sherlock had to admit. Hiding in plain sight.

One of his homeless network had delivered a handwritten note, with an address, a time and the simple message 'you'll want to hear this'. Sherlock deduced from the haste with which the note was written, that the writer had feared he was being watched and from the fact he had not delivered it to Baker Street himself, that he would risk no association with Sherlock. The fact that despite both of these things, his note gave no indication he had a case for Sherlock, suggested it was not a hostile meeting. He clearly felt he was at risk, yet he didn't seem to want anything from Sherlock. He had come armed, just in case, he was not so reckless as to assume, but he was confident his unnamed companion was in some sense, a friendly one.

"You've just finished working on a case, involving Sam Merridew." A low, soft male voice responded.

"Unsuccessful. No proof." Sherlock replied, hoping the other man was intelligent enough to know what he meant. Merridew had gotten away with his latest venture, while the man working for him had gone to prison. He was not about to discuss the details of the case in public, however difficult it would have been to overhear. There had been more than enough proof to convince Sherlock, it was just that once he'd worked something out himself, it wasn't always possible to provide evidence that could be shown at a trial.

"Merridew wants to warn you off in future." The voice told him, apparently understanding.

"Many do." Sherlock breezed, though he was intrigued, wondering who would go to such lengths to tell him the rather obvious fact, he'd annoyed a few criminals in his time.

"He has paid an agent to send you a message, via one of two targets."

Sherlock froze, alarm suddenly seizing him. By targets, he meant people, which gave him a very small number of possibilities if Merridew wanted people he was going to care about getting hurt. Even before he'd spoken again, he was running through a mental list of approximately five people, where they might be and what their chances of self defence were. He almost wasn't listening, when the voice continued.

"The agent has been instructed to make his point very clearly, but not to kill. He wants, to quote verbatim, 'for Holmes to look the victim in the eye and know they were maimed, for him. Make sure he won't meddle in my business again.' He narrowed the target down to two, at his agent's discretion."

Sherlock's heart was thumping violently against his chest, anger burning in his veins. He clenched his fists behind his back, forcing himself to retain his neutral posture. "Based on what?"

"Expedience. One is a more difficult target, but to get to him would certainly show you how powerful a man you're dealing with. The other seems likely to hurt you the most."

"So, whichever of the two the agent judges to-" Sherlock trailed off, comprehension dawning. Who Merridew's target's were, was obvious given his companion's description. A powerful man and the man closest to Sherlock. His brother and his flatmate. What had taken longer to sink in, was that his informant had directly quoted Sam Merridew.

It took every last ounce of his iron will, not to turn as he spoke again, voice low and steely. "You're the agent. You've been paid to attack one of them. If you-" Against his better judgement, Sherlock started to threaten, but he was cut off by a sharp, but calm interruption.

"-I don't do personal grudges, but the man with the money doesn't know that." The voice replied evenly.

Sherlock's brow furrowed, confusion starting to worm its way between his clinical deductions. If this man was telling the truth, then what did he want? If he was not telling the truth, who was he and what was he planning? "Then why are you here?"

"I could have turned Merridew down and he would have found someone else to do the job. As it is, I think if Merridew has an issue with you, then he should deal with you."

"How noble of you. But if you don't do it, someone else will. That's what you're here to tell me?" Sherlock growled.

"Mr Holmes, I don't waste time placating the victims of any job I take. I'm going to tell you the facts and you do what you want. Merridew will get this done, one way or another. At this moment in time, he thinks I'm going to do it. I have no intention of. I will either return his payment and tell him it's not my area, or I won't, understand?"

Sherlock's mind spun so fast he was sure it must have been audible to the oblivious passers-by. He couldn't go to the police, they could only offer so much protection and if John and Mycroft were too heavily guarded, they would simply move on to others, or resort to more remote, more deadly methods. If he asked his mysterious companion to turn the job down, it would be given to someone else who would certainly carry it out. Sherlock couldn't know when, where, who, or how to prevent it.

Yet Sherlock remained confused. His mysterious companion had said he didn't do personal grudges, meaning he was not going to carry out his instructions. So what was his intention? He either would or wouldn't turn Merridew down. What was Sherlock supposed to understand by that? Fear and dread rose like bile in his throat, as the implication became clear. One way or another, Merridew had to believe the job had been done. The only way he was going to believe that, was if it had been. Sherlock could either let his companion turn it down and some other thug do it, or he could allow the other man to take the credit, for something he himself had done.

"You want me to hurt one of them, so that you'll be paid for doing it?" Sherlock asked, unable to even inject anger into his hollow voice.

A shallow laugh emanated from the shadows. "You think this is about money? Money wouldn't buy off Merridew's men if he knew I'd double crossed him, and I'm guessing it won't protect me from you either, if I do as Merridew asks. I'm giving you the opportunity to control just how badly hurt one of them gets, because I can't do anything else. Not doing it myself, doesn't mean it won't happen. This is simple, Mr Holmes; either you do it, or someone else will. You've got two hours before I say no to Merridew and wash my hands of this. Act before then, if you want to limit the damage."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, audibly desperate as the shifting sound behind him indicated his informant was leaving.

There was a pause, during which Sherlock felt a sinking in his gut, telling him he knew he had no choice. "A case of yours, led you to me years ago. You didn't hand me over to the police. If you had done, I'd probably be dead. Call it returning a favour."

Sherlock barely registered his return to Baker Street. He could feel his body trembling, irritating him with it's utter pointlessness. Another day, he might have been curious as to which of the many petty criminals he'd let escape the law, could have been his informant. At that moment, he couldn't care less. He wanted to be angry at being put in such a position, but if he hadn't been, he'd have been getting a call within the day, to say either his flatmate or his brother had been seriously injured.

He supposed calling the police was an option. Mycroft had his own security. It couldn't be beyond the realms of police capability to protect just John from attack. But at that moment in time, both were only in danger of assault, as a warning to Sherlock. Going to the police would give away his informant and make Merridew very angry. Sherlock knew what he was capable of. Somehow calling the police felt a lot like a warrant for Merridew to call in a killer. Sooner or later, he would succeed and Sherlock couldn't stop him. His informant was right. He had one, single opportunity, for damage limitation, that was all.

He entered his flat in a daze, but had the presence of mind to stop as he reached the top of the stairs, to check to see if he was alone. A quick glance around showed him an empty room, but he moved through to the kitchen to be sure. He almost collided with Mrs Hudson, coming out. He made a sarcastic remark about her not being his housekeeper, while hovering around the kettle to look busy so she'd leave. She did so, tutting at him in her put-upon way, not noticing he left the kitchen and moved to the window even as she was closing the door behind her. Nothing there. He moved to the fireplace, glaring at his skull. It had to be done. Then which one? He turned and almost tripped over the fire grate. By the time he'd turned back once more, his phone was in his hand.

He text his brother a simple location and a request they meet, somewhere he knew Mycroft had taken John before. He knew the message would strike Mycroft as odd and he was relying on precisely that. Mycroft would respond to the implicit urgency of such an incongruous message, and all Sherlock needed was to get him there. He still didn't have a reply, when John came in for lunch. If Mycroft had suspected anything amiss, he'd have phoned. With this assurance that Mycroft would meet him as planned, Sherlock borrowed John's phone, called Lestrade and reported his own phone as stolen.

John was naturally worried by this. It was a more than reasonable concern as such a thing was wholly unlikely, but it struck Sherlock as strangely funny, that in the horror and urgency of the decision he had had to make, John's confusion was the only thing that held him up.

He waited for John to leave again, before slipping out of the flat. He was no longer shaking, no longer feeling violently sick. It was a simple solution and Mycroft would probably agree with him. He would catch Sam Merridew another day and when he did, he'd make him pay. In the meantime, he knew what he had to do.

"John?"

"Lestrade, it's Sherlock."

"Oh hello, everything alright?"

"No, my phone's been stolen."

"What? How?"

"I have no idea, I'm pretty sure it was in my pocket."

"Someone pick pocketed you? If you want me to investigate this Sherlock I'll only have one suspect. You could probably save us both some time and just ask your brother to give it back.

…Sherlock?"

"It wasn't Mycroft. I haven't seen him this week."

"Alright, send me the details, I'll see what I can do."

Lestrade couldn't explain why Sherlock's missing phone was bothering him so much. Sherlock had sounded worried and it didn't take a genius to work out, there could be information on the consulting detective's phone that was worth worrying about. It was also possible that Sherlock was just annoyed at someone managing to blind side him successfully enough to steal one of his most valuable tools.

Usually, a missing phone was not something any police officer investigated, let alone a detective inspector. He didn't think Sherlock would be satisfied with receiving a crime number in the mail. It was possible for the police to trace most phones to the last location at which it had been switched on. It was just not usually worth tax payers' money to bother.

Having pleaded the case to a very confused and agitated sergeant he made sure was not Donovan, Lestrade convinced himself at least, that finding Sherlock Holmes' phone could be considered a matter of national security. For the moment, they'd consider it an important piece of evidence in an as yet unknown crime. It had to be someone of note who had successfully robbed Sherlock. It seemed unlikely to have been with friendly or benign intent.

He and one very cooperative sergeant, got hold of the phone company, traced Sherlock's number and had it tracked to a GPS signal.

All the while they were following the signal, Lestrade waited for something to go wrong. It couldn't be this simple. Who would go to the effort of robbing Sherlock Holmes, who didn't know a mobile phone was so easy to trace?

He waited to find a dumped battery or a phone without a sim card, but the signal kept moving and the closer they got, the more it looked like it was still in the possession of a person, who seemed entirely unaware that the police were closing in on them.

Lestrade and his sergeant tracked the phone signal to an abandoned warehouse, where it had stopped moving. The signal could only tell them it was somewhere in or immediately around the building. Lestrade circled the building once. There were three stories and a roof. There were no signs of life from inside, but the phone hadn't walked itself there and Lestrade could think of no innocent reason for whoever had, to be there. It was a hunch, but he instructed his sergeant to call for back up.

While the call was being made, Lestrade tried calling the number. It was unlikely the phone would be turned on, but as he couldn't do anything until back up arrived, it was worth a shot.

His sergeant turned abruptly, as the distant sound of a simple ringing tone reached them. It was faint, but Lestrade looked up immediately, locating the sound to the third story, where there were no windows, but open ledges all the way around. Nothing to prevent the sound reaching them.

"Sir, we should wait." The sergeant spoke, as Lestrade made a b-line for the concrete stairs.

"This place is deserted, and if it isn't, I want to see whoever is here before the cavalry give them enough warning to escape." He replied, tone brusque and not inviting argument.

Lestrade climbed the steps as quietly as he could, alert on every floor, for signs of life, though he was certain the ringing phone, had come from the third. There was nothing to be seen on the first or second, the building was eerily quiet, even just from the stairs where the nearby traffic was still audible, it deadly quiet inside.

An uneasy feeling had crept up on him, as he inched towards the concrete entrance to the third floor, which had at some point been a car park. It didn't make any sense. To successfully pickpocket Sherlock Holmes, that was hard to believe. To do so in order to either simply keep his phone, or to leave it in an abandoned warehouse, made no sense at all. He'd almost made up his mind he was walking into a trap, when he spotted the body huddled on the floor in the middle of the room.

He strode forward, all sense of caution deserting him for an instant, until he stopped, slowing down and hovering several metres away from the still form. "Hello?" He tried, either to attempt to uncover anyone else, lurking nearby, or test whether the other man was conscious.

Receiving no response, he crept forward, still unconvinced he was not following a trail of breadcrumbs, but unable to stand by and do nothing. He was within a yard of the man, before thining brown hair and familiar, angular, proud features came into view. His heart leapt to his mouth.

"Oh my God-" He breathed, making a sudden, hurried movement to the man's other side and dropping to his knees. One hand searched for a pulse, while the other reached for his phone instinctively. Relief flooded over him as a faint, but steady pulse beat against his fingers.

"Mycroft?" He called, squeezing the elder Holmes' shoulder as he dialled he held the phone to his ear, calling for his sergeant.

"Call an ambulance, then whatever back up arrive, bring them up here."

His sergeant sounded confused, but he didn't argue. Returning his attention to Mycroft, Lestrade grimaced as he assessed the other man's injuries. He was covered in blood, which at first seemed alarming, but on careful inspection, seemed to be mainly coming from his split lip and bleeding nose, rather than any more serious injuries. The way he was lying, half curled in on himself, suggested several blows to his midriff. Lestrade did a quick check, but could find no signs of any kind of weapon used, which seemed to be a positive sign. It was Mycroft's left hand, splayed gracelessly, bent and twisted at disturbing angles at his side, that caused Lestrade to wince on sight.

It was no accidental injury, that much was clear. The whole situation in fact, had an air of a deliberate message about it. If he'd found it hard to believe anyone could succeed in blind-siding Sherlock Holmes, it was beyond comprehension for Mycroft Holmes to have been caught off guard. He had only met the man once, though he'd recognise him anywhere, with the striking facial resemblance between he and Sherlock. Sherlock could be difficult to deal with, but Mycroft was nothing short of scary.

Mycroft didn't stir, despite Lestrade's attempts to wake him. As he took his phone for the second time, knowing he had to talk to Sherlock before the ubiquitous detective somehow found out of his own accord, he'd forgotten all about the reported robbery that had brought him there. Lestrade nearly jumped out of his skin, as Sherlock's phone rang from the floor beside Mycroft.

"Jesus-" He breathed, hand on his heart, utterly baffled as he reached for Sherlock's phone. Even under the circumstances, he couldn't believe he'd forgotten about it. It was a hunch, but even as he checked Sherlock's phone memory, he had a feeling he knew what he was going to find. His mind fogged in confusion, as he found the last message sent to Mycroft, asking him to meet him in the warehouse in which Lestrade had found him, beaten unconscious.

Swallowing back rising anxiety, Lestrade dialled John's number instead. For the time being, he had to get Mycroft to hospital and inform Sherlock of what had happened. He didn't want to think too hard about what might come after. He remembered all too vividly, what had happened the last time one of London's great criminals had taken on the Holmes Brothers.

Chapter Text

"John, are you at Baker Street? I'm looking for Sherlock."

"I'm just getting in the door now. Did you find his phone then?" John asked, surprised, but relieved at the quick work of the Scotland Yard detective. He didn't really want to imagine what kind of information might be found on Sherlock's phone, but he trusted it was not safe for public viewing.

"Yeah I did. There's something else though, emergency. Could you put him on?" Lestrade replied, unable to keep the pained note out of his voice.

John hesitated, about to ask what was going on, feeling a twinge of anxiety clench his chest. Sherlock looked up as he entered the living room, still holding his phone to his ear but frowning in silence. He held out his phone to Sherlock, thinking better of questioning when Lestrade had said it was an emegrency.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, expression unchanging, but a slight twinge of concern in his voice.

John tried to listen in the pause, but could make nothing out of Lestrade's voice responding. A tiny frown line creased Sherlock's forehead.

"Did you find my phone?" Sherlock asked when the line went quiet.

There was a short pause on the other end, before the unintelligible voice spoke again. Lestrade must have been about to end the conversation, as Sherlock interrupted him hurriedly. John's heart jumped as he saw a flash of something altogether less calm and cool as Sherlock always appeared, cross the detective's face. "-Lestrade. Where is he now?"

Lestrade's voice was quieter suddenly, no more than a distant hum in Sherlock's phone, to John.

"Right." Sherlock murmured. "Half an hour."

Sherlock pressed the end call button, staring into space, while John looked on. He gave the detective a few seconds, before his patience ran out and he asked what was going on.

Sherlock remained staring into space, a look John was used to, as he concentrated on the tiny clues no one else noticed in his mind's eye.

"Mycroft's been attacked. Lestrade wants me to meet him at Scotland Yard." Sherlock mumbled calmly.

John's heart gave a second jump, racing as he stared, confused and stunned. "What? How? Is he okay?" John asked in amazement. Lestrade's call was supposed to be about Sherlock's phone, not his brother. John also didn't want to think about what kind of a man could successfully attack Mycroft Holmes. He was less a man, more an institution.

"Lestrade said he thinks he will be." Sherlock replied, voice robotic, not looking at John. "I'm going out, I'll see you later."

John didn't try to stop Sherlock leaving, or attempt to get any more information out of him. The flat, monotone of his voice was familiar, the calm, deliberate stance also carefully controlled. John had seen it too many times to bother arguing. He watched Sherlock leave, mind jumbled between anxiety and frustration, not wanting to leave him alone but aware of the futility of trying to follow him. He left it about thirty seconds after Sherlock left, to call Lestrade and attempt to get answers himself.

'Myc, need to talk to you. Important. 12 Bolton Rd, level 3, 14:30. S'

Lestrade had been staring at the text sent from Sherlock's phone for over ten minutes, without working out what was wrong with it. John had called, a few minutes after he'd spoken to Sherlock, but he'd ignored it. Dealing with Sherlock's worried flatmate, he would have to leave to the detective himself this time. He was more concerned with who had sent Mycroft Holmes the text that had nearly gotten him killed.

Mycroft had woken up just seconds after Lestrade had finished talking to Sherlock, though he passed out again almost immediately after. It had been long enough for Lestrade to suspect he'd been drugged, another feat he would have considered near to impossible. The ambulance had arrived a minute or so later and from there, Lestrade knew he could be far more useful to both of the Holmes brothers, from his post in Scotland Yard. Sherlock wouldn't be long in following, as he'd given Lestrade a maximum of thirty minutes to meet him there.

As he'd arrived at Scotland yard, he'd been given a message from the desk from his sergeant, to say someone called Anthea had taken over at the warehouse and that Mycroft had been taken to a private hospital somewhere. Lestrade fought the urge to roll his eyes. Mycroft was unconscious and he was still somehow running the show.

He sat at his desk, glaring at Sherlock's phone in frustration. Something was wrong. The ostensible problem stood out like a sore thumb. If Sherlock ever bothered to address his brother by name, he filled it with open contempt. Theirs was not a relationship given to affectionate nicknames, nor would the thoroughly dignified elder Holmes, allow such a thing. Something else was bothering Lestrade, the more he looked at it. If he knew at a glance, it hadn't been written by Sherlock, Mycroft must certainly have known. So why had he followed the instructions and done so alone?

Lestrade's frustrated musings were interrupted by the bang and clatter of his office door. "Where's Mycroft?"

Lestrade jumped, head snapping up to his doorway as Sherlock entered without warning. Regaining his composure, Lestrade put Sherlock's phone down on the desk between them and gestured to the seat opposite him. On a normal day he'd have gone through the motions of asking how Sherlock had gotten into his office without him being forewarned. On a normal day, Sherlock would have ignored the offered seat. As Sherlock sat down, Lestrade frowned deeply.

"I was told he was taken to a private hospital. I imagine someone will inform you directly, rather than go through me. I called for an ambulance, his name entered a Government controlled system and his people took over from there." Lestrade answered honestly. He suspected Sherlock knew more about his brother's influence than he did, after all.

Sherlock's stare remained impassive, but Lestrade read an air of disdain in his eyes. The younger man seemed to be struggling with something. He went to speak once, but cut himself off and started again, before he managed to get a full sentence out. "How is he?" He asked, staring down at the desk in front of him.

Against the sombre mood of the day, Lestrade was filled with an ill-timed urge to laugh. He knew Sherlock and Mycroft didn't get on. Anyone who had ever met either of them knew it. It was also common knowledge within Sherlock's limited circle of people he could stand, that Mycroft went to extraordinary lengths to watch over his younger brother. For Sherlock, it seemed despite this, admitting he was interested in whether Mycroft lived or died, was quite a challenge.

The memory of how he'd left the elder Holmes, wiped any hint of a smile from Lestrade's face. "He was unconscious when I left him." He started, voice gentle, even if Sherlock would never admit to being truly worried. "It looked mostly superficial to me."

Sherlock raised his head and met the DI's gaze. "Mostly?"

Lestrade fought back a shudder. "Yeah. Yeah it's pretty much just cuts and bruises, few broken ribs. His left hand was badly broken though, it looked like whoever it was twisted his fingers right-" Letsrade cut himself off at the suddenly sickened look on Sherlock's face. "He's going to be fine, Sherlock." He offered, quietly.

Sherlock gave him a humourless smile and nodded. "Undoubtedly. You called me here because of this, I presume?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to his phone.

Lestrade took his abrupt change of subject to mean he was finished discussing his unfortunate brother's health. It was none of his business really, so he didn't say anything more. Still, it was hard not to feel sorry for Mycroft. Usually it would have been more or less impossible to do so, but that was when he was playing his role as scary, inscrutable, Government personified. Seeing a man beaten unconscious wasn't ever pleasant, but with Mycroft it was somehow worse. He wasn't supposed to get hurt. Who even knew he was made of human parts.

If it was horrible for him to witness, having only met the man once or twice, it must have been worse for Sherlock to hear, regardless of how determinedly he pretended not to care. Lestrade moved onto his official role without further comment.

"Yes. How long had your phone been missing, before you contacted me?" He asked.

"I don't know, I called you as soon as I noticed, which I wouldn't imagine could have been long after." Sherlock responded, his voice giving nothing away, neither discomfort nor curiosity.

"The thing is, Sherlock, Mycroft being attacked would suggest the kind of Government muddy waters we don't get to know about, but your phone and the message sent to him from it, point to something far less aloof." Lestrade explained, trying to point Sherlock in the direction of his own concern, without having to say it outloud.

Sherlock have him a look that could wilt spring blossoms and Lestrade realised he'd misunderstood. "I know you didn't send it." He clarified.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his deduction, but Lestrade chose to ignore it. "I mean, that using your phone to ambush your brother before leaving it with him, is more likely to be a message to you, than anything personal against Mycroft, don't you think?"

He asked, since Sherlock was apparently making him spell it out.

"Comprising a list of suspects of people who have a grudge against me, won't narrow things down for you much." Sherlock answered dryly.

Lestrade shrugged, seeing no reason to mislead Sherlock in his motives for asking. He had to question him as protocol, but it didn't have to be a complete waste of time. "Maybe not, and I can't really ask for your help in this case, but I'd like to know we're on the same page, before I start."

If he didn't know better, he'd have said Sherlock looked a little ashamed, as he realised Lestrade was asking for his opinion. The impression vanished almost instantly and he gave Lestrade a sharp, contemptuous look. "Yes, well, so much for the obvious." He snapped, with familiar impatience.

Lestrade was careful to cover his relief at the sound.

"If you can't accept my help in this case I'll leave you to it." He added, standing up abruptly and pushing his chair back.

Lestrade didn't attempt to stop him, concern still churning in his stomach at the younger man's obvious vexation. He couldn't let Sherlock work on their case. Apart from anything else, he was a key witness and most likely the real target of Mycroft's attack. Sherlock would of course, take matters into his own hands and Lestrade couldn't stop him. Involving him in the official investigation however, smacked far too much of the early stages of Moriarty's war. The case in which Sherlock had started as a consultant and turned into the prime suspect. Lestrade was not going to go there again, if it was in his power to prevent. He was relieved, if a little surprised, that Sherlock didn't try to argue with him.

Sherlock turned back as he reached the door. "Lestrade." He started, sounding wrong footed all of a sudden. Lestrade fought hard not to visibly squirm. As in every moment of passing vulnerability he'd shown so far, the uncertainty was shut off almost as suddenly as it had appeared, disappearing behind Sherlock's familiar mask. "Let me know when I can have my phone back."

Lestrade breathed out heavily as the door closed behind him. He didn't like the case at all. Something felt very, very wrong and for the first time in his career, he was rather glad that a Mycroft-ordered hand from on high was very likely to take it off him before long. Sherlock would be safely uninvolved or at the very least, protected by Big Brother. Until the man himself could be relied upon, Lestrade thought he'd better return one of the many calls from Sherlock's fretting flatmate and bring him up to speed.

Mycroft had known that the moment his name was given to the police, his own people would be alerted and would take control of the situation, without him having to do anything. Taking action himself had been out of the question as he'd been unconscious, but it was comforting to know his office was just as organised and omniscient as he liked to imagine.

Avoiding a trip to some form of medical facility was impossible. His hand needed resetting, apart from anything else; a more unpleasant experience he hoped never to encounter again. He'd been awake by that point, feeling much worse for wear and had been told that they couldn't administer painkillers as he was already heavily drugged. Not nearly heavily enough, in Mycroft's opinion. It had taken every last ounce of his not inconsiderable will, to remain stoic during the post surgery cast setting of his hand and wrist, for which he'd been conscious.

Once it was finished, he instructed his enigmatic PA that he would be in his own house within the hour, by any means necessary and that she would be advised to procure said means. He didn't particularly like threatening her, as she was his greatest asset, but then he knew he neither looked nor sounded particularly threatening at that moment. 'Anthea' wouldn't mind.

He knew that within moments of returning to his own home, he would have superiors (in the technical sense) questioning from all corners. He wasn't concerned by that. He could assure them very truthfully that it was not a politically motivated attack. It looked exactly as it was meant to look; like he'd been used to send a message to his younger brother. That part was much more of a concern. He'd been successful in his effort to scare the intensely private hospital staff with his sheer apathy towards his injuries and attack. His own staff were used to the same pretence, but at least a little bit surprised to find Mycroft genuinely unfazed, especially given his maimed hand and the clumsy impractical claw with which the plaster cast left him.

Mycroft ignored the distant, gnawing irritant, whispering traitorous reminders that he had not been nearly quite so cool, during the incident itself. Focusing on the more practical issue to hand, Mycroft knew he had to talk to his brother. His people would be taking over whatever case had led to the morning's unpleasantness, which he knew was not going to please Sherlock, but before any of that, he needed information only Sherlock had. He intended to ensure it got no further than himself and Sherlock.

Lestrade would still have Sherlock's phone, so it would certainly look somewhat suspicious for Mycroft to call or text him. Probably text. His throat was raw and painful, leading him to surmise and subsequently remember, he'd indulged in some thoroughly undignified screaming. He had been under the influence of some very unpleasant chemicals at the time, which he felt excused him. In ordinary circumstances, it would have been a near impossible feat, to make him give away such levels of distress.

Some years previously, he had been subjected to sensory deprivation torture at the hands of some overzealous and ill-informed counter terrorist intelligence agents, for several days. In the entire time he had not made a sound. Sherlock's attack, while not likely to be his fondest memory, wasn't so terrible by comparison. But even he couldn't always control his body's reactions. Drugged and struggling to breathe, apparently made having his little brother break his hand in nine places, (his doctor had informed him) too much to take quietly.

He shuddered slightly at the memory. A frisson of anger surged through his veins, partly at himself for his reaction, partly at Sherlock, for taking away his control, but mostly, at whoever had put his brother in such a position. Sherlock was a selfish, tactless, arrogant little git, but he was not cruel or spiteful. He used violence only when necessary to defend himself or the handful of people in the world about whom he cared. He made a mental note to try at least to give Sherlock a chance to find the man himself, under his watchful eye, before making any final moves of his own, or allowing the same of his team.

As he couldn't text Sherlock, the obvious method seemed to be to text John instead, but a text in such a situation, to an acquaintance, seemed inappropriate. His throat would just have to cope.

John stared at his phone display, unexplained anxiety gripping his chest at the name. John knew Mycroft was seriously injured in hospital. Lestrade had called him to update him, explaining the elder Holmes had been unconscious when last he'd seen him. He also knew, that thinking one of the Holmes brothers had contacted him when it had not been possible, was what had put him there. Still, he knew he couldn't ignore it. It could be a clue as to who was messing with Sherlock.

"Hello?" He spoke hesitantly, raising the phone to his ear.

"Hello John." Mycroft responded, voice calm and tinged with an audible polite smile.

John's brow furrowed in confusion, mind racing. "Mycroft? What's going on? Are you okay?" He asked, trepidation increasing at the sound of Mycroft's voice. He sounded exactly as he usually did, if slightly hoarse. Was it possible someone had got to him again? Was he being made to call him?

"I'm fine, John, thank you. I was just wanting to let Sherlock know I'm at home, as I assume the police have his phone." Mycroft replied. There was a short pause, before he continued. "…Are you quite alright, John?" He added, with the tone of a raised eyebrow.

John ignored the tone, as he was well practised at doing. "What? Yeah I'm fine, but why are you at home? I thought you were in hospital?" John demanded, starting to get annoyed at being asked such a question while he was very reasonably worried about kidnapping.

"Yes I was, hence I wanted to let Sherlock know I am no longer. I imagine the police wanted him for questioning. Has he returned?" Mycroft inquired, waving off his earlier stay in hospital as though he'd been out for a stroll.

"No, not yet, but I spoke to Lestrade and he said Sherlock wanted to know where you were. I could phone him and tell him to pass on your message?" John offered wearily.

Clearly, Mycroft was not in immediate peril. He had seemed inhuman to John in the past, but his apparent ability to shake off what Lestrade had described as a vicious attack, within a few hours, was strangely alienating even by his standards.

"Thank you John, that would be ideal." Mycroft replied, sounding at least, mostly sincere. "How is he?" He added, leaving John confused for a moment.

"How is who?" John asked, failing to hide his confusion to any degree.

"Sherlock." The dry response sounded.

John frowned, relieved Mycroft couldn't see it, if suspicious he could hear or sense it. "Oh, um, yeah, he seemed fine." John felt embarrassment rising as he spoke. Was it a little bit tactless to tell Mycroft that Sherlock hadn't really reacted at all, to the news he'd been attacked? "Well, you know Sherlock." He added, realising his efforts were somewhat clumsy.

A dry, hollow chuckle sounded in his ear and John gave an involuntary shudder. "Oh yes. Thank you, John."

Chapter Text

Sherlock returned from Scotland Yard not long after Mycroft phoned. John had been about to tell him to call the scary old sod, when Sherlock's glazed, vacant expression gave him pause.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" He asked, alarmed suddenly.

Sherlock stopped by his skull and glanced at John. "Me? I'm fine." He murmured, sounded distracted. He seemed to sense John had not been satisfied and looked back to him once more. He cocked an eyebrow. "Are you alright, John? Has something happened?"

He stepped away from the mantle piece towards John, voice making a sudden rise in panic. Confusion flooded John's brain. For the first time he thought he understood Sherlock's hard drive analogy. He felt he was having a system's failure.

"I'm fine, Sherlock-" He started, entirely at a loss. "Nothing's happened to me. I'm worried about you, or your brother, really. What happened at the station?"

Sherlock looked relieved. Or at least, the sudden panic disappeared. Sherlock's neutral, inscrutable expression was as close to relief as John remembered seeing from him. The conversation with Mycroft returned to him, his discomfort at the elder Holmes asking after Sherlock, given he had barely reacted to the news. It appeared Mycroft's instinct of concern for his brother was well founded. John didn't have Sherlock's deductive skills, but the initial bewilderment at Sherlock's sudden panic, gave way to aching understanding. Sherlock knew his brother had been attacked. The knowledge made him scared that other people he cared about might also be in danger.

"Lestrade needed to ask me about my phone. It was found next to Mycroft. There was a text from me, asking him to meet me." Sherlock started to explain, though his mind was evidently elsewhere.

John felt rather ill at the implication. Whoever had attacked Mycroft had used Sherlock as bait. No wonder Mycroft had been worried. Sherlock didn't need to like his brother, to be driven to unreasoning rage at such a stunt. Sherlock would be angry, and whatever his version of 'scared' was, but worse than that, was the realisation that Mycroft had been fooled. Every fibre of John's being, felt unwilling to believe it.

"Lestrade said Mycroft would be fine." Sherlock added, a statement so casual and without emotion that John had to fight not to flinch. Sherlock spoke as though that element of his tale was not the important part.

"Yeah, I know. He called." John replied, shaking off his shuddering disgust and trying to remember that even Sherlock was probably somewhat stunned.

Sherlock spun round to face him, attention fully engaged suddenly. "What?"

"Mycroft, phoned, just before you got back. He said he's fine and asked me to let you know he's at home. I was going to call Lestrade but-”

Sherlock frowned, his expression still unreadable. "He's at home already?"

"Yeah. Gave me a bit of a scare to be perfectly honest but then that's Mycroft." John offered with a weak smile.

Sherlock ignored his joke, but that was only fair as John was equally trying to ignore the note in Sherlock's voice that didn't seem overly pleased that Mycroft was out of hospital already.

"John-" Sherlock cut him off before he could speak again, impatience in his voice. "I have to go. To see Mycroft, I mean. Lestrade said he can't ask for my help with the case but…"

John grinned. "You'll naturally be investigating yourself and grilling your brother anyway."

Sherlock smiled faintly, turning towards the door again.

"Sherlock." John called after him. Sherlock stopped, turning his head a fraction. "Lestrade has a point you know. Take care."

As Sherlock left, John realised he wasn't sure whether he meant of himself, or with Mycroft.

Not many people visited Mycroft Holmes in his personal residence. It was one step more reclusive of him than his infamous club. While the Diogenes did not encourage speech, or indeed, in many of its rooms, tolerate it, it was at least a form of social gathering. Mycroft's home in Pall Mall, rarely witnessed such pleasantries.

Sherlock himself had been there three times: Twice at Mycroft's summons and as proved necessary, deliverance; and once for an armed robbery. Mycroft had not been impressed. He felt a stirring of amusement as he recalled one of the stranger admonishments he'd given his impossible sibling.

"Of what possible use is there in pointing a gun at me, do you imagine, Sherlock? I could have you picked up from here and dropped into the North Sea without lifting a finger. Now stop displaying your amateurish foolhardiness, find whatever it is you want and get out. And tell Dr Watson to reconnect my alarms on the way out."

As he recalled, Sherlock had seemed greatly pleased by Mycroft's sudden turn to vulgar expression of his formidable power, much to Mycroft's exasperation.

Given his previous visits, Mycroft found the fact that Sherlock announced his first ever unsolicited and non-criminal visit with a simple ring of the doorbell, rather depressing.

Anthea answered the door for him, as he was neither in a standing up mood, or able to unlock his front door with his mangled hand. Anthea did as instructed and let Sherlock in, before leaving herself. She directed Sherlock through to the bedroom, the only room in Mycroft's lodgings which he had never seen before.

Sherlock's expression seemed to agree it was far out of character, as was the fact Mycroft didn't stand as he entered. He had even done so when Sherlock had kicked his door down and pointed a gun at his head. He walked slowly into Mycroft's bedroom, where his brother was sitting up in bed, with his laptop beside him, discarded just as Sherlock entered.

"Sherlock, forgive me. I'm…" Mycroft trailed off, not quite sure what the appropriate phrase might be for not wanting to stand up for fear he'd fall back down again.

"Right." Sherlock replied, despite his unfinished explanation. Sherlock's face was a mask of control as ever, but to Mycroft it wasn't difficult to read, so obvious a mirror of his own. Sherlock cast a critical eye over his appearance, reading the damage, possibly the repercussions. Mycroft was wearing a long sleeve t-shirt that covered his bruised upper body. The slight bulk over the middle of his chest, showed his ribcage was bandaged, as the slight catch in his breath indicated several of his ribs were broken. His bottom lip was split and his left cheek swollen, yellow bruising already forming. Dark circles under his eyes indicated he'd have at least one black eye by morning. His left eye was half-closed. Sherlock's gaze lingered over Mycroft's hand.

Mycroft glanced down at it himself. All but the tips of his index finger and thumb where encased in plaster-of-paris. "Ugly, but rather well conceived I have to say." He commented airily. He had decided it would be better to get this part of proceedings over with.

Sherlock's gaze snapped up to meet his. "I am…I didn't want to do that." He murmured, staring at his hand again.

Mycroft almost laughed, as even at that point, Sherlock couldn't quite bring himself to apologise. It came as a strange kind of relief to him, to hear Sherlock's defiance held fast. "I'm delighted to hear it. It's not a serious injury, but it is an unpleasant and gruesome looking one, which I assume was the point." He offered in frank assessment. Sherlock grimaced, but nodded, looking as though he wanted to say something else, but not quite knowing how. “Well it served its purpose. The police will release a press statement with details of the incident sinister enough to be clear there was a serious injury of the kind grusome enough to not be fully described, and if whoever threatened you has eyes on me, it will surely satisfy them.

Mycroft studied Sherlock for a moment after he was done, taking in the rigid, downward angled stare which he could not seem to help drifting back to Mycroft's cast-covered hand. Mycroft would have reassured him he wasn't angry, if he'd thought it would help, but it was all too likely to result in Sherlock lashing out.

"Sit down." Mycroft spoke when Sherlock did not respond, nodding to the bed as there were no chairs in the room. Sherlock didn't look pleased. His instinctive will to do the exact opposite to anything Mycroft asked of him, battled with the knowledge taht he had really stepped beyond the realms of sibling rivalry. It was clear he was also uncomfortable with so informal a gesture as sitting on his bed. Mycroft waited patiently, until Sherlock sighed and perched on the end of the bed, facing Mycroft.

"That was the intention, yes.” Sherlock agreed, once he was sitting. “I thought I should explain." He added quietly, presumably in explanation for his visit.

"Yes, if you would. Aside from the obvious, I'm at a loss." Mycroft admitted, without reluctance. It had always come much easier to Mycroft than to Sherlock, to admit to the problems he couldn't work out.

"Tell me the obvious?" Sherlock requested, sounding weary. It was unusual for him to be willing to allow Mycroft to flex his deductive skills rather than just show off himself.

Mycroft obliged him without hesitation. "You needed to make it look like someone had attacked me, as a warning to you. The only possible motive I can think of for that, would be if you suspected that someone else was planning to do the same." Mycroft paused, leaning back against his headboard as talking made his ribs ache. "You were obviously panicked when you sent your message, so you must have had proof and that this threatened attack was imminent."

He paused again, unsure how to phrase his last theory in a way which would not sound like a reproach. "I would imagine that just doing it yourself would be a rather dramatic reaction, if I alone was threatened. You thought if someone didn't believe I'd been attacked, then it might be John instead. John is a guess of course, but an educated one."

Sherlock had already confirmed all of his guesswork that afternoon, so he merely nodded to himself at the stages of deduction. He gazed at the ceiling for a moment, his eyes flickered back and fourth as he catalogued through his hyperspeed thoughts to a point from which to begin explaining. "I had a big case, a few weeks ago. A man went to prison, but not the one I was after. Someone who worked for him took the blame."

Mycroft nodded. It had taken some awkward phone calls to cover the damage of a fight Sherlock had gotten into with a suspect in the middle of it. "Sam Merridew. Yes, we know about him." He spoke quietly, processing the identity of his new quarry. The "we" he used meant the Government. Sherlock would normally have expressed some disdain at the connection, but his expression remained blank.

"He hired a hitman to warn me off. The hitman was instructed to 'maim' to use his own phrase, either you or John." Sherlock continued, eyes still on the ceiling.

Mycroft frowned. The moment he'd seen Sherlock that afternoon, he'd known he had contacted him on grave purpose. There had been more to his deductions than he'd explained at the time to Sherlock, but he was smart enough to have worked that out for himself. Sherlock's chosen meeting place, the manner of his text, how he'd looked when he'd arrived, his lack of rudeness, sarcasm or insincere charm, had all been huge clues before any real deductive prowess was needed. Mycroft had assumed - he supposed really without any evidence to back up this assumption - that Sherlock had been directly threatened, to lead to such a rash course of action. He'd assumed someone had had eyes or worse, a weapon, on John.

Sherlock went on, oblivious to Mycroft's confusion. "As it turned out, the hired hand he'd chosen was someone I've encountered before, though I'm not sure who yet. Apparently I kept him out of prison once. He told me what Merridew had planned and said he wouldn't do it, but that he'd give me two hours to make it look like he had done, rather than turn Merridew down."

"Because if he'd said no, Merridew would just have hired someone else." Mycroft interrupted, seeing the end before Sherlock got there. "A clever ally you made, somewhere along the lines then."

Sherlock glared at him. "If I stopped him going to prison it was because he didn't matter." He snapped, annoyed by the suggestion that the man he'd quite wanted to kill that morning, was a friend of his. "I won't deny I was glad of his information."

Mycroft shrugged, causing a protesting stab of pain through his midriff to his shoulder blade, making him really wish he hadn't.

"So-" He tried, voice slightly strained. "You agreed with your informant. Either you had to inflict some kind of convincingly unpleasant damage on me or John, or one of us would be much more seriously hurt."

"Of course I did. He was right." Sherlock replied, with a questioning look. "Why, do you not?"

Mycroft knew Sherlock well enough to tread carefully. "I quite understand your course of action and you did it well too, both convincing and superficial."

"But?" Sherlock prodded, a note of annoyance starting to creep into his voice.

Mycroft found himself once more fighting back the bizarre urge to laugh. The idea that Sherlock was now getting angry at him, given how they'd spent their respective afternoons, was unreasonable even by Sherlock's standards. He didn't particularly want to point out the hole he could see in Sherlock's chosen course, given that it was a little late to take it back, but if Sherlock was going to push him, he was not too proud to admit his regret.

"I could have helped, if you'd just asked." He sighed, looking at Sherlock straight.

Sherlock's irritated look faded into surprise. Mycroft could see the mechanisms of his brilliant, yet strangely limited mind, whirring. "I couldn't… It was too much of a risk." He replied, voice halting in his confusion. He had asked for help, when he'd asked Mycroft to meet him. To him, needing to use someone as a means to an end was what help meant. Not considering whether they might have resolved the situation better than he could.

Mycroft lowered his gaze to the bed in front of him. Sherlock wasn't going to understand that had he known how and by whom Sherlock had been threatened, he probably could have made the problem go away, without it being spelled out so clearly that he'd get angry. Mycroft really didn't have the energy to fight with him.

"Of course." He agreed with a somewhat forced smile. "Merridew continues to be a threat, however." He went on, as though changing the subject. Really he was pointing out the flaw in Sherlock's plan, but he doubted the great detective would notice.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Yes, but he won't be for much longer. He thinks he's made it clear to me I have annoyed him and need to tread carefully. I'll have to make sure I catch him next time before he sees any need to try again."

Mycroft agreed that this was probably wise, but it was not without its own problems, namely, that there was no possibility of MI5 sitting around waiting if they thought that Sam Merridew had orchestrated an attack on one of their own. "That would necessitate waiting for him to commit another crime." He pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged. "People like him always do."

He wasn't sure whether it was Sherlock's lack of tact, or his own understanding of why he was so dismissive, but Mycroft saw red all of a sudden. It was one thing to accept that Sherlock had moved to neutralise Merridew's threat, without thinking to check whether Mycroft could have helped him first. He'd done that, because the primary goal had been to protect John Watson. That much, he understood. He was the much more sensible option if Sherlock had to do the damage himself.

Mycroft, like Sherlock, had an almost machine-like detachment. He worked on logic alone. Logic said that between such a mind and John's much more sympathetic mind, he would be the less affected by Sherlock's attack. He could appreciate the simple pragmatism of Sherlock's decision. Mycroft and John had Sherlock and a distinct lack of other significant people to care about, in common. They were both, however, capable of seeing the intrinsic value of other people. Sherlock, it seemed, was not.

Mycroft said nothing, but his expression must have lost its legendary stoicism, as Sherlock's gaze sharpened suddenly. "What?" He demanded, immediately defensive.

Mycroft hadn't planned to voice his thoughts, as he knew there was no point. He also knew Sherlock wouldn't let it drop and he did not feel inclined to lie to him. "Merridew's crimes so far have all involved peripheral violence of some kind. Drug smuggling and money laundering with a rather bloody trail. There is at least one instance of premeditated murder." Mycroft explained, with patience bordering on miraculous. "I realise that you were successful in your aims in intervening, this time. I doubt his next victim will agree that any harm perpetrated against people who aren't John Watson, is so easily dismissed."

Sherlock looked angry, but even at that point, Mycroft could see he was mostly irritated at the distraction, not offended by the implication. He was still, somehow, managing to be bored. "I'll save much more harm by stopping Merridew. People get hurt everyday, Mycroft, I can't stop them and you don't care about them anymore than I do."

Mycroft almost smiled at that. It was true, up to a point, but Sherlock was still missing his. "On a sentimental level, that's certainly true. I do give their lives value, however, which if you're content to wait until Merridew strikes again, you don't."

"An entirely useless observation as stopping him without a crime comitted isn't possible." Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation.

"For you.” Mycroft interrupted before he could get any further. Weariness was beginning to steal over him and he was not inclined to fall asleep with his brother still there. Sherlock's narrowed stare demanded he explain, immediately. "I'm merely pointing out that this case pursued with that method will end badly for someone. My people will go after Merridew. Please, do me this one favour and leave it to my team."

Sherlock's eyes flashed in anger. It was a distinctly bizarre feeling to have him looking so furious while so domestically perched on Mycroft's bed. "No, Mycroft. You can't just steal my case!" He protested, indignation ringing in every syllable.

Mycroft bit his tongue, hard, until he could trust it to remain civil. "I'm not stealing anything, Sherlock. I'm informing you that neither me nor my department are going to let Merridew go unchallenged until his next crime. It can't be done. You said yourself that you can't do anything until he commits another crime. I don't intend to let that happen."

"If you bring him in now, everyone working for him will disappear. I can catch all of them." Sherlock argued, obstinacy in his voice that told Mycroft he would ignore any counter argument.

Mycroft resisted the urge to point out that the last time Sherlock had resolved to catch a great criminal and all his merry men, he'd been forced to jump off a building. "This is entirely out of my hands, Sherlock. My department already know about Sam Merridew. He has upped his game as far as they know to a direct attack on the Government-" He paused and gave a grim smile at that. "Just to warn you off. Do you honestly imagine they're going to sit back and wait for you to catch him?"

Sherlock pouted. Mycroft wanted to described it as frustration or offence, but it was definitely sulking. "So that's it? You hand down your decision from on high and my big case becomes your big case?" Sherlock demanded, petulant, but clearly angry too.

Mycroft did understand, Sherlock's interest was far more personal than usual. He tried to stay his own waning temper, battling against pain and fatigue to not shout at his brother. "I'm not Scotland Yard. I'm not trying to work a case without you, or ignore your insights. I know that any not-listening to you I do is the act of a fool. It's not my case, it's something MI5 are now looking into. Any help you can give will be passed on and considered." He offered. He didn't expect Sherlock to be pleased, but he did imagine under the circumstances, he'd know to back down.

Instead, Sherlock gave a most unattractive sneer. "Why would I help you?" He snarled, eyes narrowing in disgust.

He meant why would he help the Government in a case going over his head and Mycroft knew it. He knew that Sherlock was just annoyed he'd have the case taken out of his hands and yet be expected to still do the legwork. He was thinking only of the future of the case, not of its progression so far. He didn't mean, why would he help Mycroft.

Weary and in a considerable amount of discomfort, Mycroft still couldn't help anger and resentment bubbling. He glanced down at his bandaged hand before fixing his brother with an icy stare. "Why indeed. After all, between the two of us, clearly you are the one who ought to be complaining." He commented, tone dripping with somewhat uncalled for sarcasm.

Sherlock's eyes widened, a visible truss between surprise, anger and what might have been shame, in his expression. Mycroft lowered his glare immediately and examined the perfectly manicured nails of his uninjured hand. "Your help would be appreciated." He spoke quietly, meeting Sherlock's stunned gaze again. "But it is certainly not mandatory."

Sherlock's expression cleared of all emotion besides annoyance, features set in a hard, unyielding glower. "Fine." He ground out, standing up with a jerky movement that caused a sharp stab of pain in Mycroft's ribs. Mycroft chewed the inside of his cheek and kept his expression stoic. "Do it your way, I'll do it mine and for the record, Mycroft, you aren't going to make me feel guilty for ensuring Merridew didn't leave you in intensive care."

Mycroft sighed heavily as Sherlock stormed out. He hadn't handled that especially well. He'd intended to encourage Sherlock's own case, while warning him that MI5 would be running their own. He hadn't meant to tell him his planned approach wasn't good enough. He didn't even have the energy to be offended by Sherlock's parting comment. He had not been trying to make him feel guilty, nor had Sherlock's aim been to stop him from ending up in intensive care, but he supposed it had been a vague possibility.

Sherlock just leaving was rather inconvenient. He had meant to talk to him about making sure the true perpetrator of Merridew's latest misdemeanour was not revealed. Sherlock wasn't likely to shout about it, but with the police and Mycroft's team investigating, there was a risk someone would work it out. He supposed it was unlikely enough for him to leave any plans on the subject until Sherlock was in a more approachable mood and he was in a better state to deal with him.

Until then, he couldn't simply sleep as he dearly wished to. There were a number of important phone calls he had to make, starting with one Detective Inspector Lestrade, whom he seemed to remember had been with him when he'd briefly awoken in the warehouse. Lestrade was running the police investigation and Mycroft was sure the only reason he hadn't tried to contact him was that he'd assumed his own people were taking over. He was right of course, but if Sherlock was going to continue his own investigation, best to warn the Inspector and ensure he was keeping an eye on him.

Chapter Text

221B was quiet when Sherlock returned, but he knew John was there. Sure enough, as soon as he closed the front door, John's bedroom door opened and his reliably concerned expression greeted Sherlock.

"How is he?" John asked, a required social nicety which didn't quite disguise his concern for Sherlock, ahead of his injured brother.

"Insufferable, as ever. His injuries are fairly minor but somewhat unpleasant. He's decided to take over my case." Sherlock growled in response.

He wasn't actually angry, more just choosing to ignore Mycroft's plan entirely. Merridew had made it personal and Sherlock was going to make him pay, with or without Mycroft's intervention. He'd already known he'd have to circumnavigate Scotland Yard. What was MI5 to add the pile?

John stared at him for a minute, before raising his hand and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You had a fight?" He asked, with a tone somewhere between mental exhaustion and parental disapproval. "He could've been killed, you visit once and manage to have a fight?"

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. John simply never failed to overlook the big picture. "It wasn't a fight, it was a conversation. We disagree about who will be finding Sam Merridew and ensuring he doesn't escape prison this time."

John's eyebrows rose, irritation disappearing in favour of curiosity. "Merridew? You think he attacked Mycroft?" He asked, a note of indignant anger in his voice.

Sherlock smiled to himself. Mycroft had never been John's favourite person, such a thing wasn't possible. Clearly, that didn't stop his fiercely loyal streak being offended by his attack. Sherlock felt a twinge of discomfort at the question all the same. "No." He replied, distractedly. "Merridew would never be so stupid. He hired someone else to do it."

"To warn you to drop your case against him?" John asked, having reset to his default of concern.

Sherlock shook his head, trying not to let his impatience show. "He's hardly the first, John. His threats make it more important to catch him, not less."

"Threats?" John asked, confused.

Sherlock tingled with displeasure at his slip up, but he knew his expression had betrayed nothing. "Threats." He repeated, fixing John with his most wearied and superior look. "Do you not think there's a significant threat implied in attacking my brother?"

John visibly bristled at his tone, but as always he shook it off, refocusing on Sherlock with an equally obstinate look. "So, you would be annoyed at Mycroft for taking over the case, why, exactly?" He asked, as though talking to a stubborn teenager.

"Because it's mine!" Sherlock snapped, before he could stop himself. He was immediately annoyed he'd vindicated John's condescension, but John just stared at him for a second before giving a snort of laughter. Sherlock felt an irresistible urge to join him.

If one thing had surprised him more than any other, about his ability to make a friend, it was how often John caused him to take his mind off a case, because they suddenly got the giggles. He couldn't remember a time it had been less appropriate. "Mycroft is a pain in the neck, John-" Sherlock started, as their laughter subsided, atmosphere less tense and distant. "-But he has nothing to do with Merridew. I'm going to beat him, whether Mycroft tries to get there first or not."

John shook his head, a glint of amusement in his eyes telling Sherlock he thought he was feeling sentimental. "I get that you want to get him back, but surely the important thing is stopping him, whoever does it?"

Sherlock must have been visibly unconvinced, as John shrugged and tried a different tact. "Mycroft was the one who got beaten up, Sherlock. Couldn't you just give him this one?"

"Merridew just used him to get my attention, now he has it. Mycroft is in no fit state to take the case on himself. I won't be undermined by MI5." Sherlock responded, ice coloured eyes flashing.

John seemed to think better of arguing. John thought he was being selfish, but Sherlock didn't care. John, much to his relief, couldn't work out that Merridew had done far worse than have his brother attacked. Sherlock and Mycroft shared the view that caring could only be a disadvantage. They also both knew that it wasn't always possible to avoid. As such, Sherlock was going to ensure any criminal who decided to use it against him, would be taught a very swift lesson in return.

Just as John emerged from his bedroom the following morning, rubbing his eyes sleepily, Sherlock called from the kitchen. "John, I'm going to check Mycroft hasn't gotten any further with Merridew. Are you busy?"

John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock's was not all that convincing. If he wanted to check what Mycroft was doing, he could text him. Mycroft hadn't tried to hide anything from him up to this point. Sherlock wasn't looking at John as he delivered his offhand request, a familiar avoidance tactic of his.

"Not especially, why? Do you want me to come along? Just to check where he's up to?" John asked, feigning innocence. "It won't be him conducting the investigation will it. Didn't you say he was in no fit state-"

"He'll have all the information I need." Sherlock interrupted, dismissing John's questioning with impatience. "Besides, you can tell me exactly what state he's in."

John smiled, no longer bothering to hide his belief there was more to Sherlock's motivation than sibling rivalry. "So you know how far with the case he's likely to get, obviously." He asked, with a smirk Sherlock was used to ignoring.

"Obviously." Sherlock agreed.

John grinned and said nothing more as they left the flat. Sherlock's front wouldn't have fooled one of the more dunderheaded Scotland Yarders. It would be a cold day in hell, apparently, before he would admit to feeling concerned about Mycroft.

Mycroft's flat was silent as Sherlock let them in. John couldn't hide his astonishment at the fact that Sherlock had a key. Mycroft was either mad, or very daring. Sherlock smiled as he turned the lock, reading John's mind.

"He knows not having a key wouldn't keep me out-" Sherlock broke off suddenly as the pair stepped inside. The smile vanished from his face and stood still, alert as the quiet inside clearly alarmed him.

"Maybe he's asleep?" John whispered after a pause, wondering what was so unusual about not having noise greet him in Mycroft's home. From John's experience with the Diogenes Club, the man liked quiet.

"Hmm." Sherlock responded, closing the door behind him and leading John down a short hallway into an open plan sitting room.

It was considerably larger than 221B, but John had to admit he was surprised by the modesty of the place. It screamed very particular taste and it did look very stylish, but it was not as ostentatious as John had expected. The sitting room led to another door through which Sherlock led him, this one leading to an alcove with two bedrooms attached. Sherlock moved past the one nearest to them, the door was open and John saw the same simple yet elegant décor in there. The second door, farthest away from the front door as one could get in Mycroft's flat, as far as John could tell, was closed.

Sherlock strode over to it and rapped sharply on the varnished oak. The pair received no answer for a moment, while for the first time it occurred to John that Mycroft might simply not be there. He'd recovered quickly enough to have been out of hospital in a matter of hours, after all, it was surely possible he'd gone out.

Sherlock frowned, leaning against the door, trying to listen.

"Mycroft?" He called, managing to sound impatient, rather than puzzled as he clearly was. Or, John thought, God forbid, worried.

"Sherlock? It's open." Came Mycroft's thoroughly astonished voice from inside.

Sherlock's frown deepened, but he turned the handle and entered as instructed. John ignored the thrill of resistance which seemed to tell him that seeing Mycroft's bedroom was in some way obscene, like seeing the Queen's private chambers. Mycroft showed more of a personal touch in there than the rest of his flat, though his tastes were surprisingly gothic.

Mycroft himself, took John's mind off his fascination with his sudden insight into Mycroft's private world instantly. He was lying on his bed, fully dressed, though not to his usual ultra formal standards. He wore a white t-shirt with an open dark blue shirt and what appeared to be black linen trousers. Too uncomfortable for a suit, then. He was propped up by a pile of pillows, blinking in the manner of one who had just woken up. He was really only blinking in one eye, as the other was swollen almost shut. He had dark purple rings under both eyes, his bottom lip was split and one side of his face was swollen, blue and green.

"My apologies, I didn't hear you come in." Mycroft spoke quietly, shifting to sit up properly. He sounded calm, but he looked only slightly less confused than Sherlock. John noticed a slight catch in his voice as he moved.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, brow still furrowed in confusion. John had seen his face drop, eyes rapidly scanning the figure on the bed, which let him know that Mycroft's injuries looked worse than they had the day before.

Mycroft let out a slight chuckle which set John's hackles rising. It had an audible grating wheeze in the middle. "Well I was asleep." He replied. "I wasn't expecting visitors." He added awkwardly.

John hid a smirk at that, guessing Sherlock had been lying, when he'd claimed that he and Mycroft hadn't had a fight.

"Where's your laptop?" Sherlock asked, which struck John as a rather strange question.

To John's bewilderment, Mycroft grimaced in agreement with whatever unknown point Sherlock had made. He pointed across the room, where his laptop sat on his desk, not in use.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "You mean you haven't done anything?" He demanded, voice filled with incredulity. "I expected you to be back at work, trying to undermine me by now." He commented bluntly, though the surprise in his voice held a note of displeasure.

If Mycroft was annoyed by the pointed comment, he didn't show it. "Well yes, so did I, but today hasn't quite gone that way I'm afraid." He replied. His tone retained its usual impervious superiority, but Sherlock and John couldn't read his claim as anything other than admitting he was not up to work.

And he wasn't, John could see. Apart from the effort it was taking him to talk normally, he had an almost grey tinge to his face. The way he was sitting indicated he was in pain. His injured hand rested on the bed next to him, apparently not causing him any great concern, ugly though it was.

John didn't mention it, but Sherlock visibly paled.

"How many of your ribs are broken, Mycroft?" John asked quietly.

Mycroft gave him a sharp look. He could feel Sherlock's staring from his side too. "Three." Mycroft answered, eyebrows raised. "Why?"

"You shouldn't have discharged yourself from hospital. They haven't been treated properly."

"Sorry, John, I'm not especially in the mood for mysterious deductions." Mycroft chided him. "What are you talking about, Doctor?"

John smiled at the courteously given title. Mycroft was conceding that he probably knew what he was talking about, even if Mycroft didn't. John knew if he showed even the slightest level of uncertainty, Mycroft would move into his more usual, impossibly-aloof-politician mode and would no more permit John to examine him than he would admit to what was wrong. To avoid this, John shifted himself into assured-doctor and rather-high-ranking-soldier mode, without thinking.

"You're in pain." He asserted simply.

Mycroft laughed the breathy laugh again, making John cringe in sympathy. "Somewhat, yes, but that is to be expected. No matter though, I'll-"

"Let me take a look." John interrupted, before Mycroft could attempt to brush over it as though his ribs would heal themselves if commanded to with enough authority.

"That's really not necessary-" Mycroft began, a note of warning in his tone.

John was about to explain that yes, it was necessary, but Sherlock interrupted them both with a snort of derision. Despite his contempt, John could see genuine frustration in his expression. It had nothing to do with information Mycroft hadn't managed to gather. "Really Mycroft, how would you know? Just let him play doctor for a minute." He sniped, managing to patronise both John and Mycroft in one quick snipe.

John didn't mind and Mycroft didn't argue, though he looked displeased. John ignored his unfriendly expression and moved over to the bed. Mycroft's displeasure did not lessen any when Sherlock trailed behind, looking curious.

"Can you move to sit on the edge of the bed?" John requested, ignoring Sherlock for the moment.

"When I said I wasn't expecting visitors, I should have more heavily implied I was not accepting them." Mycroft grumbled, wrapping his good arm around his lower chest and holding his breath as he swung his legs off the bed to the floor.

John knew better than to try to help him. He didn't miss Sherlock's wide-eyed gaze and unnaturally still stance, for the few seconds it took Mycroft to reposition himself.

"For the record-" John spoke , hoping to break the tense silence as he pressed one hand against Mycroft's lower back and one against the centre of his chest. "It is necessary, because wrongly treated broken ribs are really dangerous, and painful."

"That is assuming they were wrongly treated. Quickly treated and badly treated are not equivalent." Mycroft argued, speaking through gritted teeth.

"No." John agreed, pressing down gently but causing a hiss of pain from Mycroft. "But a patient who isn't breathing properly does indicate one who hasn't been treated properly." He stated simply.

"Idiot." Sherlock snapped suddenly.

Mycroft glanced up in surprise, while John released his grip and half looked around at Sherlock too.

"What?" Sherlock demanded. "That is an idiotic thing to do. Not only have you let an incompetent doctor treat you just so you could leave faster, you've insisted on being left alone at home despite the fact you can't even dress yourself properly." He sneered, indicating Mycroft's open shirt and, much to John's embarrassment, the open top on his trousers, where his broken left hand had lacked the dexterity to work with buttons.

The areas of Mycroft's face not marred by bruising, turned an ugly shade of red. He directed his gaze somewhere between John's feet, offering no response. Before Sherlock could say anything else to humiliate his brother, John turned and broke in. "Sherlock, would you go and make us some tea, please?"

Sherlock stared at him in amazement. Of course he wouldn't. He never made tea. He never did anything domestically useful unless it was for the purpose of an experiment.

"Let me rephrase that." John answered Sherlock's surprised look, eyes narrowing in anger. Mycroft was, as Sherlock had stated, a bit of a pain in the neck, but even Sherlock knew not to kick a man when he was down. Besides, there was something fundamentally wrong in seeing Mycroft so wrong-footed. "Leave this room right now and return in about five minutes with a beverage-shaped apology, or I'll tell Lestrade you're still pursuing this case and have him put you under protective house arrest."

Mycroft looked between Sherlock and John in surprise, taking in Sherlock's glare and John's steady gaze. His surprise changed to astonishment, as Sherlock turned and stomped from the room, not just to leave in a strop, but apparently to do as requested. He laughed lightly as Sherlock left, but his expression turned to a petulant pout as John closed the door behind him and turned back to Mycroft, rolling up his sleeves.

"Thank you, John, that ought to give him time to find any of my official documents he hasn't already stolen and copied." Mycroft groused.

John smothered a smile. The resemblance between Mycroft and Sherlock was never more apparent than when they were sulking. "If you really minded that you'd stop him. Now, you might be the most important man I've ever said this to - take your shirt off."

Mycroft blinked, while John mentally reassassed his statement, slightly too late. "Might I enquire how many men you've said it to, of any social rank?" Mycroft asked innocently.

"Shut up and strip." John laughed.

"Well, I hope you were nicer to all the others." Mycroft muttered, using his good arm to pull his shirt down over his shoulders and drop it to the bed. Mycroft moved to pull his t-shirt off, but immediately stopped, eyes closing as he groaned in pain.

"Here-" John stopped him, holding one of his shoulders still and tugging his shirt up, manoeuvring with the least possible movement of his torso. Mycroft sat rigid, partly to avoid jarring his ribs anymore and partly in utter mortification at John man-handling him. John did his best to ignore Mycroft's death glare, albeit aimed at the floor.

Once Mycroft's t-shirt was discarded, John surveyed his taped chest with annoyance. "Mycroft, whoever did this doesn't know what they're doing. You can't bind broken ribs that tightly."

Mycroft met his annoyed glare, eyes slightly glazed in pain. "Well it hurt much more before he did that."

"Right." John snarked in frustration. "And you'd have been breathing much more before that too. Taping broken ribs was stopped years ago. It makes you breathe less deeply, shallow breathing can cause pneumonia, or a collapsed lung."

In John's opinion, Mycroft didn't look nearly as shocked by this as he should have done. If he'd been mistreated by a medical professional, he'd offer more than a raised eyebrow.

"Painkillers deal with the pain. The ribs just have to heal on their own." John went on, lowering his voice and managing to sound less like he was telling Mycroft off for someone else's mistake. "Here, let me redress this for you."

Mycroft acquiesced, more from exhaustion than willing. Despite his put-upon expression, it was hard not to feel sorry for him. Sherlock seemed to be insisting he made an instant recovery, him being Mycroft and all. Despite the stupidity of this, Mycroft seemed most chagrined he could not oblige.

It took a few minutes for John to remove the taping around Mycroft's chest and replace it with a looser bandage. Mycroft didn't complain, though it obviously worsened the pain. John gave him a dose of painkillers, made him lie back against his headboard and told him to breathe deeply until they started to kick in. All the while, Mycroft looked as though he was contemplating having John removed from the premises.

Still, it didn't take long before the drugs did their job. The strain lines betraying Mycroft's discomfort started to disappear and his laboured breathing slowly evened out. Sherlock returned to the room, carrying one mug which he put down on the sideboard without commenting on who it was for.

As Sherlock turned back to the bed, Mycroft sat forward and reached for his shirt, shrugging it on over his new bandage.

"Better?" John asked, smirking.

"Yes, much better, thank you." He offered, sounding discomforted, but grateful.

While John was watching him for signs of a healthier colour returning to his face, Mycroft murmured something about his doctor supposing to be the best physician in the country and was John looking for a job. He laughed and blushed at the same time. "I don't charge, especially not for Sherlock related services." He grinned in response.

Mycroft's smile disappeared as he looked at John sharply. "Sherlock related?" He asked. His voice was normal, but there was a hint of alarm in his expression. Sherlock said nothing, but he was glaring at Mycroft.

"Well yeah…" John replied, confused. "You two are related, aren't you?" He questioned, only half joking.

"Oh! Yes, I see." Mycroft spoke, looking relieved and rather embarrassed. Sherlock shook his head, but John was once again trying to hide his amusement. Mycroft had told John once he worried about Sherlock 'constantly'. John had assumed he being insincere and somehow threatening him. Sometimes, it was very apparent that Mycroft had spoken the truth, in his bizarre, rather scary way.

"John." Sherlock broke in suddenly. "Could you give us a minute, please?"

In normal circumstances, leaving the brothers alone wasn't a good idea. It felt like an even less good idea to leave them alone at that moment. Sherlock seemed determined to pretend he didn't care, as always, and Mycroft really wasn't up to sparring with him. He glanced between the two of them quickly, checking Sherlock was showing no signs of anger, nor Mycroft any reluctance to be left with him, before oblinging Sherlock's request.

"That wasn't very subtle, Mycroft." Sherlock griped once John was gone.

"What was I supposed to think?" Mycroft protested without enthusiasm. He did not have energy to put any real effort into his defence.

"I'll settle for just thinking at all, before you blurt out something that stupid." Sherlock snarled. His expression softened slightly, as he seemed to remember that Mycroft didn't owe him any favours. "If John knew what really happened, he'd be in danger. If Merridew finds out, you both will." He added, managing a reproachful tone, over a mocking one.

Mycroft nodded, unfazed by Sherlock's admonishment. It had been rather dim of him. "I know, I'm sorry."

Sherlock gazed at him blankly. He was as unable to accept an apology as he was to give one.

"On the subject, I did arrange one or two precautionary measures. John's surveillance level has gone up and I doctored all of the press reports."

Sherlock's eyes widened, premature agitation in his expression. "Press reports? The press don't get to leak information on attacks on Government officials Mycroft. Merridew will know it's a blind!"

Mycroft smiled. "I'm not an amateur, Sherlock, nor is this the first delicate incident of which I've had to influence the reporting. It's on the Home Office internal web page if you want to check, I believe you have my password."

Sherlock took out his phone and began flicking away. Mycroft watched him, starting to feel rather giddy on the free flowing oxygen he hadn't known he'd been missing.

The official police statement had appeared as Mycroft has predicted yesterday, before the identity of the victim had been officially know. In addition, a paraphrased version of the home office official statement had appeared in a number of the Daily Papers. It gave no name, no mention of Mycroft's job, but detailed his injuries, where he'd been found and that Sherlock Holmes was thought to be helping with the investigation. Merridew would never suspect anything amiss. Mycroft saw Sherlock smirking in satisfaction, as he returned his phone to his pocket.

"Good, that should keep Merridew quiet for while."

"Yes, about Merridew though, Sherlock, I also asked Lestrade to report to me on anything relating to this." Mycroft told him. "He doesn't know who he's investigating. Too much time spent around Scotland Yard by you, will make it obvious to Merridew that you haven't been warned off."

Sherlock gave him an irritated look. "So you told Lestrade not to let me work with him?"

"No, I told him to be careful. You'll pursue the case whatever I say. I think it's safer all round if I'm kept up to date." Mycroft explained simply.

"You're not going to try to stop me?" Sherlock asked, sounding suspicious.

Mycroft gave him a weary smile. "What kind of a fool do you take me for, Sherlock?"

Sherlock actually looked guilty at that. Mycroft rolled his eyes, certain he would never stop being surprised by Sherlock's version of emotions. There was no point feeling guilty for something he had no intention of stopping. Besides, he should know better than to let an answer as manipulative as that one, make him feel bad. It would serve its purpose, however. Sherlock might at least not try to stop Mycroft intervening.

"So, what?" Sherlock asked, testing the waters, questioning whether he was, albeit reluctantly, being given the green light to go after Merridew.

It made no difference, as Mycroft would be getting there first, but he wanted to give Sherlock a chance, and at least he had his attention. "Just make sure you've covered your own tracks, Sherlock. I'll handle Lestrade and the press, you handle John." He started. A wide grin stretched across Sherlock's face, knowing he'd won. Mycroft ignored it and continued. "Remember, you will lose your advantage completely, if Merridew works out what happened. If you're going to do this, I know it's an alien concept to you, but you're going to have to be very, very careful."

Sherlock watched Mycroft closely for a few seconds. He knew that Mycroft would also be pursuing the case, but that was not important. Now he didn't have to compete with the might of the Government and unlike most people, he was able to use the omniscience of Big Brother to his advantage. "Go back to sleep, Mycroft, you look like hell."

He strode over to the sideboard retrieved the mug of black, cinnamon coffee, placing it down on Mycroft's bedside without speaking. He turned and met Mycroft's eye before he left, coat swinging dramatically behind him.

Mycroft smiled.

Chapter Text

There was no way round it, Inspector Gregory Lestrade concluded as he sat in his office, staring at his desk in frustration. There was something wrong with this case. The sensation had niggled at him for the two days since Mycroft Holmes' assault.

He accepted that an attack on a Government official, especially one of Mycroft's calibre, went somewhat outside of his jurisdiction. Some hours before that case had come to his attention, however, Sherlock Holmes' missing phone had been reported. There were no MI5 agents planning to take that case off his hands and so he continued investigating. It was hardly his fault if the two perpetrators turned out to be the same. Sherlock Holmes was a civilian after all, it was the job of the police to protect and serve civilians.

He didn't have much in the way of hope he could protect Sherlock, but then he also didn't think for a moment he needed it, not with big brother looking over his shoulder. Sergeant Donovan had pointed out that a CID inspector investigating a stolen mobile phone was not exactly correct use of resources, but he had given his reasons for that the moment Sherlock had called him. Sherlock Holmes' phone, in the wrong hands, could well represent a danger to the public.

For two days he had fruitlessly trawled through old records of cases involving Sherlock, for anywhere to begin on who had stolen his phone and left it in an abandoned car park. He considered his recovery of the phone in said car park, to be the precise edge where his case met MI5's case; of the assault of the man found unconscious next to said phone. He was certain if MI5 felt he was getting in their way, his claims he was actually toeing the line as closely as was physically possible, would not stop them coming down on him hard. While he did not relish the prospect of demotion to the ranks - a not unlikely outcome of crossing MI5 - he found he could not leave the case alone.

Something was just wrong.

Lestrade was used to late nights at the office. Mostly, it was because he was swamped with paper work, simultaneously the most frustrating and boring, yet consistent aspect of his job. For three nights in a row he'd stayed late, working alone in the empty station. He felt he'd hit a new low in the frustrating and boring stakes this time. He was working on a case he'd told his unofficial consultant to stay away from, he'd been told by his MI5 superiors to stay away from himself and one which if he was entirely honest, he couldn't make head nor tail of one way or the other.

Despite the apparent pointlessness of his efforts, something about it all continued to niggle at him. Something didn't add up. When 'somethings' didn't add up, Lestrade's instinct was always, even in post-Moriarty days, to turn to Sherlock. He was more irked than he cared to admit, by being unable to do so. It was one thing to continue to consult Sherlock on a case when he knew it was inappropriate to do so. It was even a bad idea, but acceptable to Lestrade, to consult him for help when MI5 had told him to leave the case to them. What Lestrade could not do, was consult Sherlock Holmes, when Mycroft Holmes had told him not to.

Admittedly, when Mycroft had phoned, he hadn't quite sounded his usual, imperious, terrifying self. He also didn't sound like a man who'd been beaten unconscious and heavily drugged a few hours earlier. Lestrade had been relieved and pleased to hear from him, not only to hear he was okay, but because he thought Lestrade significant enough to contact at such a moment. Lestrade was not stupid enough to let this moment of pride go to his head; he knew he was useful to the brothers, but it did relieve the profound feeling of helplessness which went hand-in-hand with having cases taken over by higher-ups.

Once the necessary pleasantries had been dispensed with, which as always, didn't take long when talking to a Holmes, Lestrade had not tried to hide his theory about the case from Mycroft.

"This was about Sherlock, not you, wasn't it?"

Lestrade had expected Mycroft to give his familiar, polite, but superior admonishment, for Lestrade poking his nose into a case of which he was no longer in charge. Instead, Mycroft had simply agreed. "Almost certainly. You understand, Inspector, that without evidence, MI5 can't just assume, but nobody among the higher-ups really believe it was politically motivated."

"Even your people?" Lestrade had asked, trying not to sound too surprised he was being given information about his Government employer's highest ranks.

Mycroft had responded with patience, but sounding grave. It was evidently important that he got the purpose of his call across without fear of ambiguity. "My people were told by me, that it was not a political attack. They were by far the easiest to convince. That helps me gain their discretion and prevent anything entering the press that might provoke whoever is after Sherlock. It doesn't help you stop Sherlock trying to investigate. He's not going to let this one go."

"Well, you are his brother Mycroft, can you blame him?" Lestrade had responded. His defence of Sherlock, given who he'd been talking to, had been entirely unnecessary, and he had realised this almost immediately. The silence that followed was somewhat tense.

"Blame, is not the issue." Mycroft had replied at last, voice heavy. "Someone meant to warn him off and instead they've ensured he won't stop until he succeeds in beating them."

Lestrade had nodded, though that hadn't been much use to Mycroft. "I'm guessing you're not worried on behalf of whoever it was."

Mycroft had given a grim laugh. "No. I am more than a little bit concerned about Sherlock deliberately running into danger, especially now while he's in a rage and I'm not ideally situated to intervene."

This admission alone, had made Lestrade's guts clench in discomfort. "What do you want me to do?" He had asked, hoping he sounded more convinced that he could help than he felt.

"Just watch him." Mycroft had stated simply. "For preference, he shouldn't be seen around Scotland Yard more than is normal for any questioning you need to do about his phone. Give him any help he asks for, but keep me informed."

"It might not be possible for me to help him officially, Mycroft. I'm not on the case anymore."

As Mycroft had spoken again, Lestrade could hear the dark smile in his voice. "Thank you, Inspector. Good evening."

He had been gone before Lestrade could reply. Unofficial help it was then, he thought, rolling his eyes. He was sure, whatever Mycroft's mysterious job was, that it couldn't involve authorisations like that one. He still knew he would do as he was told. He couldn't ask Sherlock to help him solve the case, against Mycroft's orders, but he could be of potential use to Sherlock's unofficial efforts.

Lestrade had thought that this instruction from Mycroft would take his mind off the case itself and allow him to ignore the irksome feeling that everyone was missing something. Three days after Mycroft's call, he had nothing of use or concern for either Sherlock or Mycroft and he had not stopped pouring over the details of the case.

MI5 had not been there when Lestrade had been investigating Sherlock's missing phone, or when he'd found Mycroft in the Warehouse. They didn't know either of the brothers well, though Lestrade didn't know Mycroft well either. He did know that something was wrong, from the earliest tangents of this case. He also knew, that the two of them knew exactly who they were investigating. He didn't mind that, MI5 would too and it was none of his business anymore.

Try as he might, he couldn't get the fake text from Sherlock out his head. He had resigned himself to ignoring the bigger issue of who was sending Sherlock a warning, but continuing to silently investigate what exactly had happened the day Mycroft was attacked. He had no illusions he was going to get anywhere, but he knew he wasn't going to sleep well until he got to the bottom of his instinctive unease.

On the morning of day four, Sherlock text him to inform him he would be at the station shortly. He didn't bother to ask why. Sherlock would let him know in his own good time. Instead of wasting time on questions which he knew would not receive answers, he began clearing his desk of the near-mindless doodles he'd assembled while trying to work out the nagging puzzle of the text which had lured Mycroft to the warehouse four days earlier. Though he could not precisely explain why, he thought it best not to let Sherlock in on his obsession with that particular aspect of the case. Sherlock had a way of making him feel like a complete moron, for all the ways in which he and rest of the police force would completely miss the point of any case. The point according to Sherlock, anyway.

A knock at the door came as he was organising his desk, opening at his invitation.

"The files on the warehouse assault." Sally Donovan said as she dumped a slender folder on Lestrade's desk.

"Thanks." He muttered, distracted by the hand scribbled notes he was tidying about into drawers.

"I thought that one had gone above us." Donovan remarked, a note of impatience in her voice.

Lestrade glanced up at her, registering the implied question in her statement a few seconds slower than might have been polite. "It has, I just want to double check some things."

"Right." Donovan sighed, in a voice that let him know she thought he was anything but. The young sergeant didn't like it when Lestrade ignored orders from above. It was another of his eccentricities that belonged in the same category as consulting an unpaid sociopath amateur on his cases. "Well, Freak's here."

Lestrade looked up, attention engaged at last. "Get someone to send him up." He answered, standing up and shoving his drawer shut. He could deal with theories and speculation another time. He still was not at all sure what Sherlock could want.

Donovan quite audibly huffed at him. "Sorry Sir, but why is he here? We don't need him for anything at the moment."

Her tone made it clear that she didn't think they needed him for anything, full stop. Lestrade pondered the possibility that she had held back from criticising his continued interest in what was now MI5's case, because she was planning on moaning about Sherlock instead.

"If he's here, he must want to talk to me about something. I didn't call him." He answered calmly.

"Then why don't-"

"Donovan. Send him up." Lestrade interrupted, very much not in the mood for his underling's quibbling over his unofficial agent.

When Sherlock arrived, a few minutes later, Donovan was drilling him on what he wanted, while Sherlock pretended she wasn't there.

"It's got to be a low point even for you, just hanging round here even when you're not 'working'." She sniped as Sherlock reached Lestrade's office, having ignored her completely the entire way.

At her air-quoted, snotty remark about Sherlock's 'job', Lestrade felt himself begin to lose his temper. "Hi Sherlock, come in."

"Lestrade." Sherlock acknowledged, moving into his office without a backward glance at Donovan.

Lestrade, on the other hand, addressed his sergeant directly. "Donovan, his brother was the victim in the warehouse assault. Is it alright with you if he talks to me now?"

It was good thing she was too embarrassed to do more than stare for a few horrified seconds, before leaving with an awkward nod. Had she stayed, she'd have seen the dark red flush of anger and embarrassment on Sherlock's face.

"Sorry, Sherlock, she was getting on my nerves." Lestrade offered, wondering if he'd overstepped a line. Sherlock had never shown any sign of needing or wanting defence from anyone, when it came to his not entirely enamoured audience at Scotland Yard. If Lestrade was going to choose a reason to intervene, perhaps doing so on such a personal note was presumptuous of him.

If it was, Sherlock seemed to forget about it almost immediately. As suddenly as it had appeared, the dark look in his grey eyes vanished, replaced by a more familiar air of contempt. "I don't waste time absorbing the droning of the unintelligent and dull, Lestrade." He stated without so much as a blush at the considerable insult to one of Lestrade's officers.

"What can I do for you?" Lestrade asked, casting a searching eye over the man before him, as though there was even the slightest chance he'd be able to read him.

Sherlock looked back at him with one eyebrow raised, enough to show he could see the scrutiny to which he was being subjected and was decidedly unimpressed. Lestrade couldn't help a tiny smile. Sherlock's arched eyebrow retreated. With the unspoken discussion passed, Sherlock returned to the voiced one.

"I need access to your files on robbery, drug dealing and minor and major assaults in the last two years."

Lestrade felt sinking resignation hit him before he'd even started arguing. "Oh, not much then?" He asked, with a sardonic glare.

Sherlock only looked expectant.

"Do you have any idea how many cases that is, Sherlock?" Lestrade inquired, with minimal hope that Sherlock would see the question as so much as relevant.

"Before any filtering is done, taking into account the area, the monthly crime figures and the generous margin for error there-"

Lestrade chose to ignore this insult.

"-About five thousand." Sherlock replied with a shrug.

"Right and in what form, specifically, did you want five thousand case files? Delivered to Baker Street by freight truck, maybe?" Lestrade questioned, aware he was being facetious, but also that Mycroft had given him instructions. Sherlock's request had rendered the two elements of Mycroft's orders, directly contradictory. He had told him first, to ensure any time Sherlock spent at Scotland Yard would look natural for questioning on his phone and Mycroft's assault, which the hours, possibly days it would take to do any meaningful research on the police database for that many cases, would not. But he had also said to give Sherlock any help he needed.

"I have my own records, Lestrade and I know what I'm looking for. If you could find the files for me I can narrow it down to about a hundred cases."

Lestrade nodded, seeing his afternoon disappear and feeling unwilling to admit it had contained nothing more than fruitless obsession over Sherlock's bloody phone. "I suppose you know, MI5 have told us they've taken over this case." Lestrade added conversationally, as he began a systematic search through the police database.

"Which, given this is almost certainly about me and not my brother, wasn't very clever of them." Sherlock responded, eyes not leaving the screen. Lestrade smirked slightly at how close his wording had been to Mycroft's, but made no comment.

Sherlock was at the station for almost three hours, during which time Lestrade was forced to do some of his own paperwork to justify his salary and to obscure the fact that what Sherlock meant by help, had been more a request to borrow his computer. Once Sherlock had what he wanted, safely stored on a memory stick, Lestrade asked the question he'd been pondering and somewhat resenting, since Mycroft had phoned him.

"Look, Sherlock, I know you know Mycroft has asked me to keep him updated on what you're doing, but the key was to make sure no one else suspects you're nosing where you shouldn't be. MI5 taking over will have helped you there. I don't mind doing what I can for both of you, but what I don't entirely understand is why either of you are asking for my help, when you both know who you're looking for and I don't."

Sherlock had listened with his usual glazed expression, as though he was entirely on another plane of existence to those likely to be trying to make him pay attention. Lestrade knew him well enough to know he was listening, however hard he might also be judging.

"We know who's behind it." Sherlock answered slowly. "We know the puppet master. We don't have all of the necessary information yet and as you will have noticed, we disagree on how to proceed."

To ask any more questions would have been as much an exercise in futility as Lestrade's efforts to crack the case himself. Sherlock wasn't going to listen, anymore than either of the two brothers were going to back down and let the other take the case.

"About your brother's request then." He said instead. "You better steer clear of here until you're done."

"And Sherlock-" He added as the consulting detective stood and moved for the door. "Be careful. 'Puppet Master's' haven't ended well for you in the past."

From the comfort and privacy of his Pall Mall flat, Mycroft frowned at three desktop monitors, displaying surveillance tapes from across London. Sam Merridew had spent the previous few days doing very little, as far as Mycroft could tell, besides failing to notice he was being tailed for approximately sixty percent of the time. While Mycroft was concerned by the time Sherlock was putting into following the man, he was also grateful he could track both men at once. For the time being, Merridew was not Mycroft's primary concern, but it didn't hurt to keep an eye on him and if he could kill two birds with one stone, all the better.

Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft had not focused his case in a single direction. For the first day following Sherlock's attack, he had been so exhausted he couldn't do much by himself, but he could order others to act on his behalf. By the time he had dragged himself into his study on day two, his surveillance loops were all in place, with a list of known associates of Sam Merridew whom Mycroft intended to watch very carefully for a next move.

He was intrigued by the man who had come to offer Sherlock his grim ultimatum. It was an interesting prospect. Mycroft knew Sherlock had made decisions outside of the usual law enforcing roads more than once. It was not beyond the realms of possibility that one of them had a moral code outside of the generally accepted norm for assassins. Maybe one of them did indeed feel that they owed Sherlock a favour. Mycroft did not, however, find this explanation entirely satisfactory. Sherlock had made it clear he had felt he had no other options and Mycroft believed him. It was the anonymous tip off which had led Sherlock to this conclusion, which Mycroft distrusted.

He wondered at Sherlock's credulity in the matter, but that he found he could excuse, given the state of Sherlock's always unpredictable emotions when they'd met in the warehouse. Fear, caused clouded judgement, even in the greatest of minds.

If he was a criminal or the associate of a criminal, who had felt he owed Sherlock a life debt, he thought he might have offered a rather less specific ultimatum. Especially, given his claim that regardless of what Sherlock intended to do, he was not going to carry out Merridew's request. As Sherlock's actions could then have no influence on his own, why had the mystery man been so certain that Sherlock had to inflict damage on either his brother or his friend? As opposed to, for example, pretending to have done so.

It was possible that the mystery man was so afraid of Sam Merridew that he did not consider the possibility he could be fooled, but if that was the case, it threw enormous doubt over his apparent faith in Sherlock Holmes. If he was not aware of the full extent of Sherlock's powers, not least in deception, then why would he have trusted him not to simply turn him over to Merridew? Did it occur to neither man in fact, that their blind trust in each other was unutterably stupid? Sam Merridew had made Sherlock Holmes do his dirty work for him and the mystery ally who had apparently helped Sherlock, had done so risking Sherlock simply telling Merridew he had a turncoat in his web. It was exactly the kind of trump card Sherlock would greatly enjoy playing.

In fact, Mycroft could think of only one explanation which fitted all of the facts. Sherlock's decision was born of necessity, if only perceived necessity. It was the mystery man, who had managed to so frighten Sherlock at their shadowy meeting, who most monopolized Mycroft's attention.

Four days into his surveillance, he was becoming certain of two things. One, was which of Merridew's men was their mystery friend and two, that the entirety of Merridew's empire was deliberately trying to bore him to death. He had watched one of them do a grocery run for an elderly relative. What kind of assassin moonlighted as a devoted grandson? And why couldn't he save such things for when the police, or MI5 and not Jupiter Himself were watching his every move? Jupiter, like his brother, was easily bored. Especially when he only had use of one hand, with which to alternately work and throw things at his screens.

"Oh thank Christ." Mycroft breathed as his intruder sensors were tripped. Hopefully it was a good old fashioned assassin come to finish Sherlock's work. Or perhaps, come to offer to pick him up a few things from the corner shop, given his inoperative hand.

The intruder was at least moderately competent, in that they had disabled his house alarm. The intruder sensors were deactivated by keys turning in the front door lock and triggered by movement through the door without the lock mechanism being turned. It was an incredibly simplistic device really, but one easily overlooked while one was busy disabling alarms and picking their way through one of the most secure doors in the land.

He moved silently through to the main hallway, picking up his umbrella as he went. Less than a second later, he suffered the indignity of having to brace the confounded thing between his knees to unsheathe his sword, as he lacked both the dexterity to pull and the pain tolerance to really use his left hand at all. Still, he got the job done.

His uninvited guest had at this point made his way through to the office which Mycroft had recently vacated. As he moved silently into the shadows behind him, Mycroft watched with a dark smile as any attempt to activate the six consoles was met with the enthusiastic playing of a loud and vibrant children's television show about puppies solving crime.

Undaunted, his intruder continued attempting to bypass his security systems. Mycroft was thoroughly disappointed in the man's instincts. He stiffened, as Mycroft's sword lay flat against his throat.

"If you don't turn that infernal noise off, Sherlock, I will be forced to put this directly through the screen, which would inconvenience us both."

Sherlock raised his hands, less in supplication, more to indicate he was done playing with Mycroft's computers, all of which obliged him by returning to a blissfully silent black.

Mycroft lowered his sword. He was aware that in the same situation, Sherlock would have enjoyed toying with him, but he had never been as determinedly fond of infuriating people as his brother. Not, that he did so any less, as a result.

"How long have you been standing there?" Sherlock asked, turning to face him with speedily mustered dignity. He looked and sounded just ever so slightly startled. He really hadn't noticed he was there then, Mycroft thought with some relief. It would be just too much to know Sherlock simply hadn't cared whether his intrusion went unnoticed or not.

"Not long. I'm intrigued as to where you thought I was. You came straight in here."

Sherlock pouted. "It's late, I assumed you'd be in bed."

Mycroft laughed, partly at the remarkable oversight of having not checked this wild assumption before sauntering into his office and partly at Sherlock's obvious irritation with him for not acting as expected. The case was clearly blunting his senses.

"That, I imagine, is about as likely as you being, for the same reason." He pointed out. The lateness of the hour was hardly an indication that either Holmes brother, otherwise occupied, would be at rest.

"You have recovered, then, I assume." Sherlock remarked dryly. He did not voice his reasoning aloud. That three days earlier it had been clear enough that Mycroft was unable to walk, let alone have returned to a normal routine. Normal for them, anyway.

There was a glitter in Mycroft's eyes which told him he'd observed the truth in Sherlock's expression regardless. "Admirably, thank you Sherlock. Would you care for a drink?"

"While you tell me who you're tracking and why?" Sherlock swiped one hand out suddenly and flipped the handle of Mycroft's sword out of his hand, rotating it in one smooth movement to be levelled at Mycroft's chest. "Certainly."

Mycroft didn't so much as glance at the sword as he walked out of his office, towards the living room.

"You don't really need my help with that, do you?” Mycroft asked as he sauntered away from his brother. “Come on, Sherlock, deduce."

As he turned away, Mycroft saw the rather too knowing look Sherlock gave him as he followed behind him. He didn't break pace as he swung down to retrieve the abandoned umbrella in the hallway, returning the slender but viciously sharp sword to its sheath with a flourish as he joined Mycroft in the living room.

"You warned me off Merridew, so you're definitely trailing me." Sherlock spoke, studying Mycroft intently. Mycroft paused next to his drinks cabinet to watch the processes of Sherlock's mind. "Merridew would be an obvious target also, which would have made your life very easy in the last few days."

Sherlock's voice was mildly rueful as he realised he'd been doing a significant part of Mycroft's work for him.

"Good…" Mycroft prompted. He turned over two glass tumblers with his right hand and studied the various bottles at his disposal.

"You had questions about the man who warned me about Merridew's plan, so you'd be watching him also."

Mycroft almost winced at the preposterous leap of logic. He was interested in the man, certainly. It would be an odd mind indeed who heard the tale of Sherlock's mysterious ally but had no further questions on the matter. It did not follow that he was one of the targets of his surveillance. On the information he'd had to hand, such a conclusion was in fact, not possible.

"Join the dots, Sherlock. I do not know who said man was." His tone was rather more admonishing than he had intended.

He could feel Sherlock's attention on him. He would certainly not have missed his fraying temper... his fingers pressed against a crystal wine decanter while he attempted to work the heavy stopper loose with his thumb. His left arm was tense at his side, as though it took umbrage at being left out of tasks in which it was clearly needed.

"You're watching all of Merridew's men then, or at least, the main players. One of them is sure to be the anonymous tip off. Watch them for even a short period of time and you'll be able to work it out."

By this time, Mycroft was attempting to use a glass as leverage against the impractical, golf-ball sized stopper. He wasn't doing half badly either. He had raised the top by probably half an inch and he had so far managed to resist the urge to curse freely and loudly.

If one did insist on ridiculous, ostentatious homeware and gadgets like umbrella swords, then it was only fair to accept difficulties when not at peak efficiency. Or at least, that was what Mycroft told himself admitted defeat in his attempt to complete his simple task.

Mycroft didn't lose his temper and hurl the glass across the room, as Sherlock might have done. Probably twenty minutes earlier. He simply put the glass down, stood still with his eyes closed and breathed deeply. He had better control of his temper than Sherlock did, but he still had the same mechanism. Same will to lash out when frustrated.

He felt himself still as Sherlock's footsteps approached. He opened his eyes, but didn't move. Sherlock removed the glass from his hand with a motion he might have been tempted to describe as gentle.

"John would probably advise a sling." He noted, giving Mycroft's bandaged hand a cursory glance.

"Indeed?" Mycroft asked, not moving, not raising his gaze from the brandy bottle. Until he was certain he would see Sherlock as he appeared now, not in the blurred, indistinct and shadowy form he had appeared to his drug addled brain in the warehouse, he had no intention of moving.

Sherlock's hands moved into his eye line, holding the decanter still with one, removing the stopper with the other. Fascinating really, just how many simple things one took for granted. One damaged appendage, not even a limb, rendered him close to useless.

"It removes the temptation to ignore your injury and thus, exacerbate said injury." Sherlock quoted with a smile.

"That sounds like the voice of experience." Mycroft observed, directing his attention at the glass which Sherlock returned to his good hand, now containing extremely expensive brandy. "Although I doubt Doctor Watson used the word 'thus'."

"'It's to stop you being an arse, who is remarkably stupid for a genius', were his exact words."

Mycroft smiled into his glass. John was nothing if not reliable.

"Does it hurt?"

Mycroft's good hand tightened on his glass. Interesting, he mused, how closely aligned were anger and shame. He could feel anger, even offence at his little brother for the decision he'd made and for a split second, he thought perhaps he did. He looked up to find Sherlock's attention was preoccupied with his own drink. Anger yes. But not at him.

The injury was debilitating, that made him angry. He had discovered he was rather less infallible than he'd liked to believe. That made him angry too, but more, he despised the burn of shame it left. It was a detail of a case of Sherlock's. A side note, unimportant to the point it did not even have to have been him. John would have been equally acceptable. That, was hard to stomach.

Did it hurt?

Yes. Mycroft rather thought it did.

Sherlock's eyes had risen to meet his and it was clear now, Mycroft had been foolish to underestimate his powers of observation. He looked… unsure of himself. It would not do.

"Sherlock, I am certain a man of your experience, does not need a lesson from me in the effectiveness of analgesics. I cannot even feel it unless I am, as you so kindly point out, exacerbating the injury. It is inconvenient, I will admit, but nothing more."

Sherlock's grey eyes sparkled and Mycroft knew he was fooling no one. A fine performance, to an appreciative, but all too knowing audience. It was long time before Sherlock punctured the silence again.

"Did you see anything?" Sherlock asked at length.

Mycroft frowned into his brandy. "Nothing I didn't expect to see." He replied, studying Sherlock carefully. Mind returned to their simultaneous investigations, he was searching for signs that Sherlock could see the same problem that he could.

"What did you expect to see?" Sherlock asked, with patience for which Mycroft would not generally have given the younger man credit.

"Nothing, Sherlock.” Mycroft replied. “I expected to see Merridew showing no signs of criminal or even questionable activity whatsoever, with a similar turn to the tedious from his better known employees."

"He's unlikely to advertise his intentions." Sherlock replied slowly, a questioning note creeping into his voice.

Mycroft raised both eyebrows in agreement, waiting for Sherlock to make the deduction he had made three days previously.

"You think he is advertising his intentions." Sherlock got there at impressive speed considering he'd only been tailing one of the six targets Mycroft had been on top of for four days. He glanced at the wall of monitors. "We're meant to be watching this?"

Doubt. Not unreasonable. It was hard to imagine a master criminal calmly going about his obnoxiously boring life just to intimidate his quarry. Mycroft thought for a moment, before leaning back in his chair. His eyes took on the faintly glazed look they always did when he was hard at thought.

"Supposition. Merridew ordered a shall we say physicalwarning on one of two targets, five days ago. That being the case, the result is that his hired hand apparently does as asked, carrying out an attack on the more difficult of the two targets. The attention of MI5 is drawn to him, as is the detective he was meant to warn off."

Sherlock was watching him intently. The two of them rarely saw eye to eye; Sherlock didn't like Mycroft's tendency to be looking over his shoulder. At this moment in time he disliked that he was interfering in his case, however personally affected by it he might have been. In the past, Sherlock had suggested that Mycroft's official powers had blinkered him beyond repair. What he had never done, was doubted his fundamental brilliance. Mycroft could his mental struggle, as Sherlock tried to work out what he'd missed.

"So why isn't he doing anything?" Sherlock questioned, following Mycroft's train of thought without difficulty.

"More to the point, why isn't he looking like he even might do something?" Mycroft filled in.

Sherlock shook his head. "You can't seriously think Merridew actually thought his 'warning' would stop me coming after him? If anything he made certain I would!"

Mycroft was gracious enough to let that little admission go without comment. "No. I don't. So what exactly was the purpose of hiring someone to attack me or John?"

"To get my attention..."

Mycroft gave a mirthless smile at the conviction beginning to ebb from Sherlock's voice, realising what was wrong with his answer even as he spoke.

"Except he already had your attention. And if it wasn't direct enough, it certainly is now. So what, precisely, does he want? Because there would seem to be a contradiction there somewhere, would there not?

Why, where, how…The cogs began to turn with almost visible precision. Mycroft watched, fascinated and satisfied in equal measure, as Sherlock's mind began to spin in the same direction as his.

If Merridew wanted Sherlock's undivided attention, he'd gone precisely the right way about it. Sherlock had assumed this to be an end in itself. Mycroft, had made no such assumption. Possibly because in politics, there was basically no such thing as an end; just another step on a never ending journey for greater power. The idea of going out of one's way just to draw the attention of an irritating private detective was simply juvenile. And Moriarty was in almost all ways, an anomaly. So why did Merridew need to distract Sherlock Holmes by ensuring his attention was fixed on him at all times? What was he planning? And how close to achieving his real goal had he gotten, while Sherlock had been suitably distracted?

"I don't know Greg, something feels weird. Sherlock is worrying me."

John knew he probably shouldn't be trying to pry into a serious and indeed, MI5 run investigation, but he was, frankly, bored.

Sherlock had barely visited the flat in three days, ghosting in and out while he chased Merridew and his cronies across London. He hadn't said so, but John was also pretty certain he'd been keeping half an eye on Mycroft. Which was only fair really, as big brother certainly had more than half an eye trained squarely on Sherlock at the same time.

If either of the two brothers had been willing to speak plainly, they would admit that at that moment in time, their feelings aligned far more than normal. If indeed, they would admit to having feelings. They were both rather worried about the other. Mycroft, about Sherlock's hotheadedness and refusal to back down from an investigation which belonged in Mycroft's world, not Sherlock's. Sherlock, about Mycroft's attack. The all too obvious fact he'd been knocked for six and his failure to recover instantly had disturbed them both.

John remembered thinking Mycroft was inhuman, when he'd phoned on the day of his attack as though nothing had happened. He was neither dense nor bullheaded enough to have held on to that opinion once he could see Mycroft was in fact, merely masking considerable difficulties. Despite this, it was Sherlock, of the two, who was most concerning him. He happened to think Mycroft was right this time. Sherlock should leave well alone.

In the absence of any hope whatsoever that Sherlock might listen to this sage advice, or indeed an opportunity to give it, John had turned to the one source of information he had who did not make him feel like a complete and utter dunce. And Lestrade would both share his worries and freely admit to them.

“I can't be of much help to be honest. Mycroft told me to help him if he needed it, but I haven't heard much from him since he came to ask for those case files last week. He seemed normal. Strangely normal, all things considered.”

"I know.” John agreed, tone rather pained. “Obviously there's no love lost between he and Mycroft, but I'd still expect some reaction to the news he'd been attacked. He didn't react at all. And then yesterday, he blew up at Mycroft for being careless with his injuries. That was after he quite brutally refused his request Sherlock let him handle the Merridew investigation himself."

There was a pause on Lestrade's end of the line which caught John off guard. He'd been mostly venting his own concern and frustration with Sherlock, but he hadn't imagined he'd said anything ground breaking.

"Merridew? As in Sam Merridew?"

A sudden, very late jolt of alarm flashed through John's chest. The cold finger of dread at the possibility of exactly what he'd done wrong, trickled down his spine. "Fuck. I thought you knew." He managed at last.

"No." Lestrade confirmed. "But don't worry, it doesn't matter, I'm still only assisting Sherlock at the behest of you know who. Not officially on the investigation at all, in fact very much officially not on it."

John let a short chuckle disguise his breath of relief, even as his mind spun in confusion. Sherlock and Mycroft had spoken openly about Merridew in front of him. Both of them had spoken to Lestrade about the case. Why on earth wouldn't they have told him who they were investigating?

"Merridew, that figures." Lestrade went on, oblivious. "He'd be in the mood for revenge on Sherlock. At last count we think Sherlock has ruined three major drug smuggling efforts that were linked to Merridew somewhere down the chain, not that we ever got close to him. Quite a few of his henchmen behind bars though, most thanks to Sherlock."

"Revenge, yeah, but via Mycroft?" John questioned. "He'd have to be an idiot. More of an idiot than Sherlock made him look."

How there could have been an audible difference, he didn't know, but there was. The silence of Lestrade's end that time was…sharp.

"Greg?" John asked.

"Yeah, yeah maybe." Lestrade agreed vaguely. "Well, thanks John, I appreciate you talking to me anyway." He said, apparently forgetting it had been John who'd called him. "Starting to feel a bit like Sherlock's skull between he and Mycroft."

John laughed. "Welcome to my world.” He groaned. “Is um, everything alright with you Greg?” He tried not to sound too much like he was prying, but something had definitely changed in the inespector's tone.

"Yeah, yeah.” He repeated, clearly no longer listening. “Listen, John I've got to go, something's come up. Take care yeah?"

John stared at the phone as the line went dead. Lestrade had answered the call sounding his normal self, a little harried perhaps, which John had put down to him playing go-between between Sherlock and Mycroft. But then Lestrade had said that apart from the requests both had made immedietely following Mycroft's attack, he hadn't really heard from either brother. What had gone wrong, suddenly?

Something unrelated, surely. Lestrade was busy, he had a lot of cases that might have caused a sudden distraction. John had no idea why he could not shake the feeling he'd said something wrong. Something to do with Sherlock and Mycroft, and the case they both had Lestrade officially not-working on.

Lestrade hung up slowly, heart hammering against his chest. The text. That damned stupid text that just definitely had something wrong. The image swam before his eyes, unwilling to be pushed back but no longer feeling quite so elusive.

Because there was an answer to his questions. To all of their questions, in fact. They had presumably all agreed from the beginning, that the person who had sent the text apparently from Sherlock, was Mycroft's attacker. And they were right. But if Merridew was responsible for Mycroft's attack, how on earth had he gotten hold of Sherlock's phone? Why had he left it at the crime scene? And why would he bother sending it at all, when even Lestrade could see at a glance it was fake, so Mycroft certainly could.

Sherlock had said to him once - in that infuriating, condescending tone of his - something about obvious facts being deceptive. This he had said in reference to a conundrum which had nearly killed him.

Obviously, a clearly self-inflicted overdose is suicide. But it wasn't suicide. It was the serial killer who had made Sherlock's name. After trying to kill him, of course. The obvious fact had been entirely deceptive. Nobody would think to look for a serial killer from a suicide.

Sherlock's fake text to his brother was an obvious fact, entirely unconvincing even to the dimmest of observers. That Sherlock didn't send it, was an obvious fact. But that Merridew couldn't have either, was surely also an obvious fact? Once of them was deceptive. One of them was an incorrect conclusion, reached exactly as it had been intended to be reached.

Lestrade suddenly wished he had heeded the advice of his colleagues and steered clear of the case.

He wished the infuriating, Vulcan-logic of his consulting detective went straight over his head, as it did his sergeant and forensics expert.

He wished he hadn't been listening, when Sherlock gave him his best 'I'm so much cleverer than you', smirk and stated; "There is nothing so deceptive, as an obvious fact."

Myc, need to talk to you. Important. 12 Bolton Rd, level 3, 14:30. S

An obvious fake. Sherlock Holmes would never address his brother that way. An obvious fact.

Lestrade had never doubted Sherlock's brilliance. He'd never not listened to him, even when he didn't like what he heard, even when he could do nothing about his unofficial detective's insights either way.

He wished he had. Thanks to Sherlock, Lestrade knew who had attacked Mycroft Holmes.

Chapter Text

He was there to tell Sherlock he was officially and unofficially, off this case. That was it. He would usually cringe at the thought of telling Sherlock he valued his job too much to break the rules to aid Sherlock's cases, but on this occasion, he didn't care. It had nothing to do with rules, or his job, it was to do with knowing he could no longer trust anything Sherlock or his brother had to say.

He had considered confronting them of course, when cold realisation, followed swiftly by burning anger had first flooded through his veins. But in the end, he kept coming back to the same point. After days on end of wondering why one stupid text was weighing on his mind in the midst of an assault case, a new question had taken up residence at the forefront of his thoughts. What difference would it make?

If he did as the law, certainly his job, required him to do, what good could possibly come of it? He had no proof and every reason to believe the supposed victim of the crime had been in some way involved.

It was not a new or particularly unusual occurrence in his job. Crimes were often not what they appeared. Muggings staged to cover domestic violence. Burglaries faked for insurance claims. It was textbook stuff and the police were trained to look for clues.

But not when it involved Mycroft Holmes. Not when it involved a baffling robbery and a vicious assault, staged to cover… what, exactly?

An attack on Mycroft by his brother? Why? Their uneasy relationship was no secret, but this was far beyond that. Lestrade had been there, he'd seen the very real brutality of Mycroft's injuries. Sherlock was more than capable of causing said injuries physically, but was he capable of it in actuality? The attack had been the work of a thug, not a competitor. What could Mycroft have done, in reality or in Sherlock's mind, to warrant such an attack?

Was it possible they had arranged it? He knew the injuries were real, yes, but could they have planned it? Why? What would possess Sherlock to do it, or Mycroft to accept it? Needing it to happen. The cold and obvious answer came to him immediately. If either brother thought it was necessary for Mycroft to be seen to have been attacked, both would see it done.

There were other questions which came from that would which Lestrade was rather afraid to address. Why would it be necessary? What did they know, or what had happened, which neither had shared with Lestrade?

But he would be lying if he said it was those questions front and centre in his mind. He couldn't say he had any desperate need to know. What he wanted to know, was why they'd lied to him. Why, in the midst of what must, surely have been an unusual situation even for them, had they had to involve him in any way?

The hot flush of humiliation burned through him as he recalled his concern for Sherlock. His sympathy with Mycroft, believing him to be working hard to restore his unshakeable mask. He felt sick. He had been so stupid. He'd really thought he'd understood something they didn't. That he was helping them both, because whether they would admit it or not, the brothers loved each other and when one was hurt, the other bruised.

He didn't know what the reason for the 'help' he was giving both brothers was, but he did know for certain he was being played for a fool. He wanted to be angry, but if he was being honest with himself, all he felt was hurt. Embarrassed.

An image swum unbidden into his mind, Mycroft waking up the first time, groggy, drugged. Scared. Was he so good an actor? Lestrade could not say he'd ever thought so in the past. Had Mycroft not known in advance? He would protect Sherlock from anything, Lestrade knew that, but what possible reason could Sherlock have had?

None of them were questions Lestrade wanted to answer. He wanted to take Donovan's none too gentle advice and remove himself from any further involvement, but he knew it was not so simple. One or both of the brothers would contact him at some point, expecting their requests or instructions to have been followed.

Lestrade wondered if he would be able to pretend all was well, or feign continuing ignorance. He didn't think it likely he could conceal his ire from anyone, but he was probably wasting his time even trying, with the Holmes brothers.

So he didn't plan to confront either of them. He did, however, want it to be clear he was done with their stupid case. He felt a grim sense of anticipation at the almost certain eventuality of Sherlock trying to argue with him.

In the past, he had tried to reason with Sherlock when he was on one of his tirades. Reason, even plead with. Because he was talented and Lestrade knew he owed Sherlock some of their biggest diverted disasters. Because Sherlock was his friend and he cared about him. He had thought, somewhere deep down, Sherlock might care about him too.

By the time he reached 221B, he had worked himself up into a state of readiness for a fight which he would have thought extremely unhealthy on any other case. He was more than ready to tell Sherlock that he was not obliged to risk his job for the consulting detective's every whim. That having supplied the case notes Sherlock had asked for, the free reign of Scotland Yard and reports on his whereabouts that Mycroft had asked for, he was now backing the hell off and daring Sherlock to tell him he had a problem with that.

His righteous indignation died an immediate death on being let into the flat by John.

He didn't know. Lestrade had no idea how he was certain of this, but he was. He was not so naïve as to believe that if Sherlock had asked John to keep something from Lestrade, he wouldn't do it, but he was absolutely certain that John would not be sitting around the flat with Sherlock if he knew how his brother had come to be injured.

"Inspector Lestrade, this is a surprise." Another voice greeted him.

Mycroft. Fuck.

In less than ten seconds, his plan had fallen apart before his eyes. He had absolutely no desire to be the bearer of screwed up news to John, nor had his planned backing off of the case, involved speaking to Mycroft directly.

But he was there, in Sherlock and John's flat, as though Sherlock hadn't drugged and beaten him unconscious less than a week earlier. He did look better than he had done then, Lestrade observed. Then, it had been hard to see the full extent of his injuries through the blood. There were still blue, green and yellow bruises fading under his eyes, a scrape across the bridge of his nose and a still visible line through his lower lip.

Lestrade's eyes travelled down from Mycroft's, drawn irresistibly to his bandaged left hand, which now sat across his chest in a sling. A very normal looking sling, Lestrade couldn't help noticing. Not the immaculately tailored, Italian sling, fitted with James Bond-esque gadgets, which he had possibly imagined.

"Hi, Mycroft." He forced himself to meet the elder Holmes' gaze. "How are you doing?"

Mycroft's lips quirked in that weird, politician's smile of his that didn't reach his eyes. "I am very well thank you. Sherlock's in his bedroom, if you wanted to see him." His eyes flashed that time and his mouth didn't move.

Lestrade looked to John for help and found him grinning.

"He says he won't come out until Mycroft leaves."

"Oh good, nothing too childish then." Lestrade commented, grimacing slightly as it came out with rather more bite than he'd intended.

John rolled his eyes, noticing nothing amiss. "Never. Do you want a drink or anything? He might come out if he knows you're here but he might make you wait a bit."

"No, in fact this is pretty handy." Lestrade forced a light tone as he walked up to Sherlock's closed bedroom door. He saw Mycroft and John exchanging a vaguely impressed glance as he moved. He knocked, though he had no intention of entering.

"I'm busy, Lestrade." Came the answer from within. The tone, the condescending, dismissive, selfish fucking-

"Yeah, me too." Lestrade answered, keeping his voice level with some difficulty. "Listen, Sherlock, I just came to let you know Scotland Yard are off this case. That's officially and unofficially. If you need anything else I'm afraid you need to go elsewhere."

Mycroft's eyes fixed on Lestrade sharply. He felt it, but didn't turn to acknowledge either occupant of the room as he made his way back to the door. Behind him, he heard a scuffling of furniture and papers which told him Sherlock was crossing his bedroom in a hurry. "Seeya John. Mycroft." He muttered, eyes on the floor as he moved.

"Is there something wrong, Inspector?" Mycroft's voice spoke from behind him, in sync with Sherlock opening his bedroom door.

Lestrade did not want to turn. He wanted to keep walking, right out of the flat door. But even anger could not quite override basic manners. He turned back, planning to answer Mycroft, but Sherlock got there first.

"Lestrade, what are you talking about?" Sherlock asked. "You were already officially off the case."

"Yeah, well, like I said, now I'm unofficially off it too." He answered, forcing himself to look Sherlock in the eye. He was aware of John eyes on him without needing to look, confusion and concern radiating off him.

"I didn't know whether you needed anything else from me on this, but just in case, I thought I better let you know." It sounded a bit odd even to him, as he spoke.

Sherlock's blank face echoed Lestrade's thoughts precisely. "You came here to tell me you have nothing to tell me." He didn't quite ask.

"And am not going to." Lestrade confirmed irritably. "Courtesy call, but I don't need to be courteous if you'd rather I didn't."

Sherlock frowned, studying him closely. "Has something happened? What's wrong, why do you look so nervous?" He questioned, stepping forward and fixing Lestrade with his familiar scrutiny.

"I'm not nervous." Lestrade forced a breath of laughter, as though the drama of Sherlock and Mycroft's reaction was ridiculous. "Nothing's happened, I'm just busy. Scotland Yard don't assign us down time in case we happen to be working on something off the books."

"That's never been a problem before. Why now?" Sherlock asked, apparently unable to imagine Lestrade could possibly change his usual pattern of compliance.

"Sherlock, there is no problem." He stated firmly. "I'm going."

"Greg, are you sure you're alright?" John asked as he turned to leave. Unlike Sherlock, he sounded worried about something other than the case.

Lestrade looked over at him, sighing heavily. "Yeah, John I'm fine, really. I just don't have time for this-"

Sherlock stepped forward, moving between Lestrade and the door, not a trace of his bored look remaining. "I didn't ask for your time, Lestrade. This has taken time nobody asked for. What's going on, what aren't you telling me?"

Lestrade could have cheerfully punched him. He actually sounded concerned. For the first time he could remember, Sherlock seemed worried he might have put his official counterparts in a difficult position. It was just typical, that this would be the one time Lestrade actually didn't have the brass breathing down his neck because of his unpaid consulting detective.

He met Sherlock's penetrating gaze, wishing he could just tell him. Tell him he knew and that if he was honest, he didn't really care why, or how, or what. He could see that Mycroft was fine and that the two were clearly still on as close to speaking terms as they had been before. He cared that Sherlock had used him.

He should just have left, as planned. He knew that, but with Sherlock's forceful insistence he found his mouth worked ahead of his brain. "I don't think what I'm not telling you, is the issue, Sherlock."

The look that flew over his shoulder in Mycroft's direction was unmistakably alarmed. Lestrade would say panicked, except that Sherlock Holmes didn't panic. He certainly didn't let panic make him make sudden and insane decisions like snapping the bolt across the door.

"Get out of the way." Lestrade asked, closing his eyes and swallowing the twin urges to laugh and commit an assault of his own.

"What do you know?" Sherlock asked, voice low and faintly haunted.

Lestrade shook his head. He was not going to engage in this, however hard Sherlock tried. "Enough. Sherlock, move."

"What's going on, what are you doing?" John asked Sherlock, sounding utterly baffled. And no wonder. Sherlock had made some fairly bold moves in the past, both inside and outside of the law, but any action he took was usually against criminals, not against Lestrade.

"Sherlock, if the inspector is aware of more than he has stated, I do not imagine you can make him tell you by locking him in here." Mycroft interjected quietly.

Lestrade turned to face him, feeling a shudder pass through him at the calm control of the man. Sherlock's fear-driven stupidity made his blood boil, the arrogance of thinking he could force Lestrade to do as he wanted. But Mycroft, making no attempt to alter or impede Lestrade himself, yet clearly feeling completely in control, turned his blood to ice.

He looked between the brothers and John, feeling pity unexpectedly wedge it's way into anger. "This is your business, Sherlock. At this moment I have no plans to make it mine, but I don't appreciate being used. Now get out of the way, because I may be a trusting idiot, but I am not afraid of you."

Sherlock was clearly stunned. He wished he could be gratified at that, but scoring points off Sherlock was something his friends did. He stepped aside, staring into mid air, avoiding looking at either Lestrade or John, whose confusion was every bit as palpable as Mycroft's absence thereof.

"There are things you don't know, Lestrade." Sherlock told the ceiling.

Lestrade couldn't help the laugh that escaped him, though the bitter sound was unlike him in the extreme. "Oh believe me, that part I do know. And I don't need or ask you to tell me everything. But you don't have to lie to my face, Sherlock."

Why was he having this conversation? Was he expecting an apology? Sherlock hadn't apologised for letting him believe he was dead for two years. And he'd forgiven him, without condition, without question, he had been so happy to know he was alive. That he had not taken his own life to stop Moriarty, willing to die a self-confessed fraud to save his friends. He knew without needing to ask, that he would have some equally noble reason for assaulting his brother and this time, Lestrade just didn't care. He was not their pawn.

The silence he left behind him was thick as soup. John called after him as he descended the stairs, but he only called back to tell him to talk to Sherlock. He was done. Sherlock and Mycroft could clean up their own mess.

Mycroft could see John's gaze boring into the back of Sherlock's head as he closed the door behind Lestrade. Clearly, he planned to do exactly as the detective suggested.

"What in God's name was all that about?" John broke the silence at last. "What have you done to him?" He demanded. Mycroft suspected he was aiming for light-hearted, as though it might break the extraordinary tension in the room. The shaken sound of his voice removed any form of levity.

"Nothing." Sherlock groused with an impatient shake of the head. "Clearly he's not happy with the need-to-know basis of this case."

"Oh?" John asked with brittle sarcasm. "And those things he doesn't know or need to know, serious enough for you to try to stop him leaving, those would be things I don't need to know either, I suppose?" He asked, this time with undisguised anger.

There was flash of alarm in Sherlock's eyes, stronger than Lestrade had prompted. Mycroft could see it was not a good moment for Sherlock to need to respond to John's anger.

"Doctor Watson, it is in the very best interests of everyone involved, that no one beyond the unavoidable, are aware of certain details of this case." Mycroft interjected. If it had not already been clear he at least knew exactly what Lestrade was so upset about, it was now.

"Oh and Jupiter has spoken!" John barked, rounding on him with a sudden viciousness that took even Mycroft by surprise.

He took a step back, raising his good hand in surrender. "I meant no offence." He shrugged. He had tried, but it was not up to him to contain or direct John Watson in this instance. That was the deal he and Sherlock had made. Mycroft would handle Lestrade and the press, Sherlock would handle John. At that moment in time, he couldn't say either of them were doing their job particularly well. Still, it was in neither of their best interests for Mycroft to antagonise the doctor.

John rubbed a hand over his face, a gesture of stress Mycroft had seen more than once. He looked torn. His fairer side could see that Mycroft was doing his best to be both polite and understanding. Frustration at both brothers, concern at the scene Lestrade had caused, evidently made him disinclined to worry about manners.

"Mycroft, could you leave us alone, please?" John asked at last. He wasn't quite looking at Mycroft, but his voice was low and he had worked hard to remove the strong overtones of scorn from his tone.

Mycroft looked to Sherlock. He had absolutely no doubts that his brother would tell John the truth. How John would respond was more Sherlock's area. He had no desire to remain and bear witness to their fight, but on the other hand, he did not believe Sherlock was at his best, at that precise moment in time.

"I'm not entirely certain that's a good idea." Mycroft replied softly.

Sherlock's eyes flickered, but still did not engage with anyone in the room. "Go." He muttered.

John's raised eyebrows were somewhere between smug and expectant. Mycroft tried not to let this rankle him. He would do as Sherlock requested. And then he would catch Sam Merridew quickly, because the truth about his assault was no longer safe.

"Mycroft." Sherlock's voice reached him as he reached the door to the stairs. He turned, but remained silent. Sherlock met his eyes and spoke two words, voice flat and devoid of any indication he cared one way or the other. "It's fine."

Mycroft fought not to smile as he made his way down the stairs, a bloody awkward descent with only one hand free. Sherlock had put considerable effort into disguising it, possibly for John's sake, more likely for his, but he had just tried to be reassuring.

And he was right, that Mycroft was concerned by the prospect of John's reaction when he learned the truth. John had once told Mycroft that Sherlock could break him in half. He was quite possibly correct, but Mycroft had long suspected the same was true of John and Sherlock in reverse. If riled, he felt the doctor could beat the tar out of Sherlock, if only because he struggled to imagine Sherlock fighting back.

It was unlikely, all told. John would be angry he'd been lied to, but surely not so angry that he would consider adding further violence to the mix. He considered the possibility that that had not been what Sherlock meant. That perhaps, he had meant it was alright that John was going to know the truth. Not to worry about the leaking of their secret.

That was a question which required consideration. How had Lestrade come to work out the truth?

In fact, how was not the issue. There were two possible lines of inquiry to which Mycroft needed answers. Had Lestrade worked it out? If he had, then had he been able to do so owing to familiarity with Sherlock, or was there incriminating evidence that both Mycroft and Sherlock had overlooked?

Or, if Lestrade had not worked it out, who was his informant?

Mycroft's instinctive mistrust of the man who had tipped Sherlock off as to Merridew's intentions, tempted him to believe this second line of enquiry was the most likely of the two. But for what purpose? Why manipulate Sherlock into assaulting his brother, then inform the police? He could surely not imagine that Mycroft would allow Sherlock to be charged for his actions.

There was no remaining evidence, Mycroft was sure of that. Sherlock would not have left any traces of his presence in the warehouse. Mycroft had checked all cameras between and all possible routes between there and 221b in the hours before. They were clear, Sherlock had of course known how to avoid them.

That left two options. Lestrade had worked it out because he knew Sherlock, or someone had told him. Much as his instincts told him Sherlock's informant was not to be trusted, there was nothing to be gained from informing the police.

There was also another telling clue, in Lestrade's reaction. Sherlock had involved him in far worse. He had lied to him on a far grander scale and he used him without mercy all the time. It made very little sense for him to be so upset about this, even considering the added annoyance that this time he had been lied to and used by both Holmes brothers. But even that, was not a unique occurrence. His offence was clearly real, he showed signs of embarrassment, shame even, which were entirely unwarranted. He obviously felt he'd been foolish in some way he never had before. Perhaps he had given more time to the case than either Mycroft or Sherlock had asked him to and in doing so, had stumbled upon the truth.

In fact, Mycroft had not yet reached home when he realised what must have tipped Lestrade off. He had possessed only one piece of evidence that Mycroft's own people had never had reason to look at, which was Sherlock's 'stolen' phone.

Idiot.

Mycroft chided himself inwardly. Of course, Lestrade would see through Sherlock's text. It was clever, Mycroft had never suggested otherwise, but it was also far too distracting. Anyone who knew Sherlock or Mycroft, would be fascinated by the bizarre use of a nickname never used by anyone, addressing Mycroft.

Myc, I need to talk to you.

It had been the detail which had let Mycroft know the situation was serious and complex. He had barely blinked at it, assuming that Sherlock would have a reason for needing to alarm him and he'd been right. Lestrade, John, possibly Mrs Hudson, even Molly Hooper - these were all people who would be confused by the nickname.

Confusion gained attention. Looking at it for long enough, every one of them would have used Sherlock's own maxim to make the inevitable conclusion. Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the solution. Sherlock using an affectionate shortening of Mycroft's name. Impossible Mycroft being fooled into believing a text from a stranger was from his brother. Impossible. Sherlock using an affectionate shortening of Mycroft's name… improbable. And the solution.

Not a gigantic leap and one which Mycroft was annoyed at himself for not predicting. Lestrade was good, though Sherlock would never admit and of course, Mycroft only meant it in as far as the limited abilities of the police reached.

And his injured feelings. Those too, Mycroft felt he should have seen coming. He had asked Lestrade to keep an eye on Sherlock. He had heard the sympathy in the other man's voice. Remembered his calm compassion and assurance at the warehouse. He had allowed his sympathy to stand, in order to gain his compliance. Sherlock, Lestrade had helped in flat defiance of his job's requirements, because he had believed he had suffered the shock of the brutal attack on a family member meant to scare him.

Was it worse than their shared effort to pretend he was dead for two years? No, that was absurd. Did Mycroft understand why Lestrade had taken it badly in a way he never had the far worse lies metered to him by both Holmes brothers? Mycroft recalled feeling nothing beyond mild concern at waking in an ambulance after Sherlock's assault, yet feeling fleeting, but real, white hot rage and hurt at Sherlock's stubborn spite over Merridew. Yes, he couldn't help thinking. On balance, he understood perfectly.

He was scared.

Sherlock could see it as clearly as he could see the garish pattern of his jumper. He was acting as though he was angry, he was genuinely showing concern for Lestrade, but beyond it all, John was scared.

Because Lestrade wasn't the only one who had known something was wrong with the case. John hadn't known what it was nor had he sought to investigate, but despite Sherlock's claims to the contrary, John wasn't stupid. He had sensed the same underlying tension that Lestrade must have done, to work out the truth.

And damn him, for that.

His head rather spun at the hurt of the Scotland Yard detective. He 'didn't appreciate being used', Sherlock didn't 'have to lie' to him. Since when? Stupid man.

No, not stupid. Sentimental. And irritatingly quick off the mark in a way Sherlock had never seen him be before, which was just typical.

Yet there was a certain… resignation, in the way he'd spoken, which made Sherlock profoundly uncomfortable. A discomfort quickly stored in the background of his hard drive, as the front door closed behind Mycroft and he and John were left alone.

"Well?" John asked, voice flat and slightly unsteady.

Controlled. Doesn't want to fight, but will, should he not get an explanation. Sherlock did not have time for this. "I asked Lestrade for files relating to cases I thought might involve Merridew, nothing more. Mycroft asked him to spy on me as always. He has, one must presume, worked out that myself and Mycroft both know who we're chasing."

"You hadn't told him it was Merridew." John extrapolated with pleasingly little ado. If he'd had to explain in even more simplistic, child-friendly chunks, Sherlock might have said something he'd later be told he should regret.

"MI5 had taken the case off Scotland Yard. There was no reason for Lestrade to know the ringleader. It was hardly Merridew himself who stole my phone."

For up to four seconds, Sherlock wondered if he might actually have succeeded in distracting John from the question he'd really asked. Or indeed, in making him think Lestrade was upset not to have been informed about Merridew.

"He called me a couple of days ago, he hung up suddenly just after I mentioned Merridew.” John started, brow furrowed as he tried to work something out. “That doesn't make any sense, he didn't care. Why would he-" John broke off suddenly and the colour drained from his face. He looked right at Sherlock, eyes searching, possibilities visibly spinning. This in itself, meant that whatever he was thinking, it was not what had actually happened. If he'd worked out what had actually happened, the possibilities would have been narrowed to one.

He had, however, worked out that there was something wrong with Sherlock's version of events. "How did you know this was ordered by Merridew?" He asked, voice hardening but shaking all the more for his vehemence.

Bingo.

Sherlock gave a silent cheer for John's deduction, slow though it was. How were they so sure it was Merridew? It was not as if Sherlock or Mycroft could claim to have only one potential enemy at any given time. Sherlock had told John who it was immediately, not a suggestion of who he suspected it to be, but a certainty. How was that possible, even for the Holmes brothers?

"Because an informant came to me and warned me in advance." Sherlock answered calmly. He was not entirely sure why, but he felt the need to demonstrate that he was willing to be honest. John had asked a direct question, which up to that point, he had not.

"You already know who attacked Mycroft. Mycroft too." John frowned. He clearly knew he was still missing something. If they knew Merridew was responsible, knowing which of his minions had pulled off the actual attack was meaningless.

"Yes." Sherlock confirmed. There was absolutely no possibility that John was going to make the final leap on his own.

"Why-"

Sherlock cut him off, unwilling to wait any longer. Unwilling to wait for him to ask why Lestrade would be upset at coming to this same realisation himself. "It was me, John." He stated bluntly.

John closed his mouth, staring. He blinked a few times, while Sherlock waited. Outwardly at least, he appeared calm. "What?" John asked at last.

"I attacked Mycroft." Sherlock clarified, taking his opening. "He knew what I was planning and agreed. It had to be real and…unpleasant, but I aimed to ensure it wasn't deadly. That way Merridew wouldn't see a need to send someone else."

John made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a snarl. "You beat up your own brother to save a murderer the hassle?"

"No, John." Sherlock replied with patience he would not generally have been able to summon at any cost. "I had a very strong reason to believe Merridew had planned an attack on Mycroft, meant to warn me off. Merridew believes that that attack has been carried out. In the absence of a way to prevent it, I neutralised the threat."

Sherlock winced inwardly as John laughed. His voice rang with fury. "And you think Merridew will just back off? He threatens one of your toys so you break it yourself, that's somehow meant to change his plans?"

Vivid imagery. Sherlock blinked to shake away another vivid image, this one not formed by John's incensed imagination. Shock and fear in cold grey eyes. His focus redirected almost immediately. Clearly, John had rather misunderstood his explanation. "Merridew doesn't know it was me, John. Up until Lestrade's apparent revelation, only myself and Mycroft knew. Merridew hired a hit, but his man came to me. Gave me a head start, as it were."

If the term sounded facetious, Sherlock was certain that John could not miss the gravity of his words. He had not wanted to harm Mycroft. If, in their lifetime, the idea ever had appealed to him, it would have been in a fair fight. Not, a willing submission and a brutal assault.

Perhaps he did understand. Perhaps he heard the deep displeasure in Sherlock's voice, but whatever he felt, John's eyes hardened. "What the hell is wrong with you?" He growled.

Sherlock waited.

"You had pre-warning that your brother was going to be attacked and instead of oh I don't know, warn him, try to stop it, you just do it yourself? Are you actually, genuinely, out of your mind? Is that what happened? Did you finally blow your hard drive? God knows Mycroft wouldn't see it if it smacked him in the face. Or stamped on his ribs and broke his hand in nine places-"

"Alright, John." Sherlock broke in. He didn't snap, or raise his voice at all, but he brought an end to John's rising tirade, before it brought an end to his hold on his temper.

"It wasn't that simple." He murmured. "There is a limit to how much protection a person can be given. I have no doubt Merridew would kill if just a warning proved too inconvenient. I met with Mycroft and explained. He agreed." There was a slight lowering of his voice on the last word. Mycroft hadagreed, though he hadn't really known why it was that Sherlock needed him to agree at the time. His later question of why Sherlock hadn't asked for his help, suggested he had not entirely concurred with Sherlock's analysis of the situation.

"The safest possible position for Mycroft was if Merridew believed the attack had been carried out. His agent reported success, while I was able to limit the damage by doing it myself. It was damage control, not a solution. Catching Merridew will be a solution."

John was staring at him in undisguised disgust. "My God you really believe this don't you." He breathed. Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from an unwise response.

"You don't think there was anything at all you could possibly have done other than beat the shit out of Mycroft?" He asked with biting sarcasm.

"Not if my intention was to ensure his immediate safety, no. I could of course have acted to keep my own conscience clear, at the risk of his life." Sherlock spoke before he could halt the scathing suggestion.

John's eyes widened. Surprise took the edge off fury, yet sharpened his incredulity. "...That's... Jesus, Sherlock. Did you really not think there might possibly be any other options?"

One. Sherlock mused silently. One other option, which if he was completely honest, he hadn't actually considered for a moment. "John. Of course I thought there might. When I was finished thinking, I was left with one option, to prevent far worse harm."

John was already shaking his head. "Then why didn't you just tell me the truth?"

He hadn't asked why he hadn't told Lestrade the truth, Sherlock noted as John stormed out of the flat.

He hadn't told Lestrade, because he was a police officer and Sherlock had broken the law. He supposed in addition to grievous bodily harm, he had wasted police time and obstructed an investigation, both officially as well as in the more personal sense which had so upset Lestrade. He knew the truth now and he was duty bound to make his knowledge official.

He wouldn't, of course. Sherlock had no fear that Lestrade would turn him in, duty or not. If Sherlock had simply told him however, it would have been a different matter. Lestrade had been on the official investigation into Sherlock's missing phone at the time. To expect him to bury evidence such as a witness' confession, was somewhat beyond the pale even for Sherlock.

It irked him that Lestrade was so blind to this, busy with petty offence at a perceived slight on his intelligence. When was Sherlock ever so circumspect? If he wished to tell Lestrade he was stupid, he would do so without ambiguity. He hadn't told him the truth because doing so was more dangerous than not doing so. It had not been intended as anything other than the most rational course of action. Not, that rational action was in high supply at that moment, he thought, frowning at the empty staircase after John.

Why didn't you just tell me?

A question which meant he knew why he hadn't told Lestade. And yet, was unable to apply the same rationale to why he hadn't told John either. Because it was safer he not know. Safer nobody knew.

There was an irksome thought beginning to take up residence in the back of Sherlock's mind. That was two of them now, of the extremely limited number of people in whose intellect or other forms of knowledge, Sherlock would occasionally trust. Two, who thought he had this wrong. John had been very direct about it, refusing to accept Sherlock's claim he had no choice. Mycroft had, in his way, offered his support to Sherlock's decisions, but it was clear enough he thought Sherlock's attention was in the wrong place entirely.

It was possible. Sherlock was not so arrogant as to question otherwise. He could have made the wrong decision. He had calculated and dismissed all other options at the time, but he could have been mistaken. Turn his informant down, warn John and Mycroft. Accept his informant's offer, but fake an attack on either John or Mycroft. Accept his offer and carry out the attack himself. Limit the damage. John, or Mycroft.

Mycroft. He was the crux. Unlike John, he had all of the relevant information. He had followed Sherlock's reasoning without difficulty and he had concluded that his actions had been…understandable. Well conceived even. But incorrect. Both in his decision to act without laying the full scope of the situation before Mycroft, to see if he could help first, and in his efforts to pursue Merridew since.

But he wasn't wrong. Merridew had never put his head above the parapet in a way that made him accessible before. His criminality was invisible. His machinations turned and a trail of destruction was left behind, but Merridew himself, was never seen putting a toe out of line. Sending a warning to Sherlock meant he was either planning something different, or Sherlock had annoyed him more than the inconvenience of a henchman in jail the last time their paths had crossed.

Mycroft had heavily implied that Merridew was baiting him. Why draw his attention so obviously, then show him nothing? It was a trap. Mycroft was certain of it. If Mycroft was certain, Sherlock knew better than to doubt.

Where they differed, was in what to do about it. Mycroft was brilliant, without question, but he was no detective. He was relying on his surveillance. Sherlock didn't care if Merridew was laying a trap, he was going to catch him. Taking Merridew off the streets was the best thing he could do for the public, as well as his personal revenge. It was the only way to ensure John's future safety, as Merridew was hardly a man to indulge in fair play.

Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt as he realised he was still more concerned with keeping John safe than with Mycroft. But Mycroft knew what he was facing, Sherlock reasoned. Mycroft was already pursuing his own version of Sherlock's case, planning to intercept the most active of Merridew's people the moment one of them made a move. John had no idea that Merridew might have eyes on him too, which made him more vulnerable. Concern for him was only rational.

With effort, Sherlock pushed away the doubt and discomfort Lestrade's performance and John's response had left behind. His time trailing Merridew so far had only cemented his feeling that he was planning something big. Mycroft could continue to be his eye in the sky if he so wished. But whatever he was planning, Sherlock was going to catch Merridew and put him where he belonged.

Chapter Text

John was no stranger to adrenaline. The feeling of fire coursing through his veins was familiar enough, but it was not generally caused by an argument. He felt like he'd been running from a gun fight, rather than leaving his flat. He didn't stop walking at high speed until he was miles across London. His heart was pounding, his head was spinning, his entire body was shaking. There was a strong possibility he was going to be sick.

It wasn't anger.

He wanted to be angry. He certainly wanted Sherlock to believe he was angry, but in truth, it was shock. Cold, sick horror at the thought of what Sherlock had done. What Mycroft had condoned. An image of Mycroft's blanched face twisting in pain pushed itself to the forefront of his mind and bile rose in his throat.

Maybe it wasn't just shock. Maybe some of it was fear. By this point, surely he should know that Sherlock had no limits. If he got what he needed, be it resolving a case, or stopping a criminal from attacking his brother, there was nothing he wouldn't do. Including attacking his brother himself, apparently.

Staging an attack. He corrected himself with some difficulty. Surely, what Sherlock had done to Mycroft had involved planning from both brothers. It was clear that they both believed that telling no one was the best thing to do at least. John had no doubt that if it had come down to a physical match-up between the two brothers, Mycroft wouldn't have had a hope. But surely, surely, even Sherlock wouldn't have gone that far. He wouldn't just have gone to his brother and assaulted him without explanation.

He felt rising nausea at the notion of an explanation being good enough. The threat from Merridew was real, John didn't doubt that for a second. Mycroft was a strange choice of target. Most criminals never worked out that they were related and those that knew, like Moriarty, also worked out that threatening Mycroft wasn't the easiest way to get Sherlock's attention.

They were wrong, of course. Sherlock's disdain for his brother was skin deep. But still. John had to wonder why it hadn't been him. That was usually the way the script ran. Not that he was complaining at the change, just... it seemed more than a little bit foolhardy of Merridew to target Mycroft.

What the hell do I do now?

It was the question he didn't want to think about. The question which kept pushing its way through the layers of disgust and horror and shock at Sherlock. Because he'd stormed out of his flat, leaving Sherlock in what amounted to a very dangerous mood, but beyond that, he hadn't really thought of a plan. Where was he going? Did he imagine he could avoid Sherlock for long? Did he want to? He didn't know the answer to any of these questions, he'd just known he had to get away from Sherlock before he punched him in the face. Maybe kicked him in the ribs. Or broke his hand in nine places.

Really? Was that what he felt so aggrieved about? Did he want revenge for Mycroft?

John let out a breathless chuckle as he finally slowed his pace, decelerating to an almost normal walking speed, somewhere near Shepherd's Bush. It was a ridiculous thought. Mycroft wasn't made of marble, that much had been made painfully clear, but if he wasn't angry at Sherlock for his own injuries, it was surely unreasonable that John should be. It wasn't that Sherlock had done it, horrifying as it was. It was that he'd kept it hidden. He'd let Lestrade deliver the news to him and held on to the pretence of not having known. He'd let John worry about him, trying to work out how his brother's attack had affected him. Affected Mycroft.

John grimaced to himself, as he remembered it had been Lestrade who'd found him. No wonder he was so upset. As far as he knew, if he hadn't tracked down Sherlock's phone, Mycroft might not have been found in time. He'd been the one to tell Sherlock, believing he was giving him bad news. He would have been delicate about it. He would have ignored his knowledge that Sherlock wouldn't accept words as comfort and tried to be supportive anyway. From what he'd said to John on the phone, he'd been taking orders from both of the brothers. He was just soft enough to have been letting sympathy influence the extent to which he did as they asked, given he did have his own job to do. To have realised none of it was real, must have hurt.

Maybe that was what he should do. Talk to Lestrade, assure him that he too felt enraged and aggrieved at being lied to and that someone was on his side. It was almost certainly a better plan than wandering around London all night, but John could not quite bring himself to do it. Hands shoved in his pockets, he kept walking. He couldn't avoid Sherlock forever and it would probably be best if he didn't stay away for long. If he was going to go back to the flat tonight, he didn't need to get himself riled up again by talking to Lestrade and sharing in his justifiable anger. He just needed to calm down, clear his head. He kept walking.

It was a bad idea. Illogical, unnecessary and potentially inflammatory. In fact, Mycroft wasn't certain why the idea had occurred to him and stuck so rigidly in mind. It was certainly not the most practical way to get what he needed. Still, as he raised his phone and listened to it ring, it seemed he had made up his mind. The line connected and a deeply unimpressed voice spoke in his ear.

"Mr Holmes, you have an interesting sense of humour."

Mycroft allowed a faint smile, where no one could see it. "According to my brother, I have no such thing." Mycroft replied smoothly. "Inspector Lestrade, I need your help."

There was a short and somehow audibly annoyed silence. "Are you absolutely sure about the sense of humour?" Lestrade asked at length.

"You are absolutely free to refuse, as indeed you have been every other time I have asked for your help." Mycroft pointed out. He took it as a positive sign that Lestrade had answered the call, even if it was out of mere curiosity, but he felt the need to be clear, Lestrade's decisions, however regretted, were his own.

"In that case I refuse." Came the blunt response.

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes, though the inspector could not see him. "You don't know what you're refusing yet."

"Always a catch isn't there." Lestrade muttered bitterly.

"Inspector, you are angry because you were lied to." Mycroft spoke with careful patience. "I am offering you the full and unedited truth."

"And if I'm not interested?"

"Also your prerogative, but how would you know how much it interested you unless you knew what it was?"

"I'm hanging up now Mycroft." His voice this time was wearied, no longer torn between irritation and intrigue. No longer playing Mycroft's game.

"I need police protection for John Watson." Mycroft spoke, calm as ever, but allowing the urgency of his request to be heard.

"...What?" Lestrade asked after a bewildered pause.

It was all the opening Mycroft needed. The inspector was listening, which meant Mycroft was going to tell him the truth. "Eight days ago, Sherlock asked me to meet him. He used a form of code to let me know it was something serious."

"Myc." Lestrade filled in, in spite of himself.

"Indeed." Mycroft confirmed. "He explained, loosely, that for the safety of all concerned, he needed to make it appear that I had been attacked, as a warning to him. He has since explained that he was approached by a man in the employ of Sam Merridew. That man had been hired to give that exact warning. He was not intending to do it, he gave Sherlock the option of doing nothing, in which case he would refuse the job to Merridew and Merridew would have sent someone else. Or, Sherlock could do it himself and the man would tell Merridew it was done."

"I don't care.” Lestrade stated, impatience almost radiating from the phone. "What does any of this have to do with John?"

Mycroft paused and took a breath. "I don't know. Myself and Sherlock do not agree." He admitted quietly. "But in my view, Merridew is a drug dealer, not a showman. If he wanted to hamstring Sherlock, he's not going to stop at a few broken bones on a target that anyone with internet access and a liking for dramatic blogs knows is hardly Sherlock's weakness."

"You think he'll go after John." Lestrade surmised. A twinge of concern had edged into his annoyance.

"I don't know. I only know that Sherlock doesn't understand that all minds don't work like his." Mycroft stressed, feeling the need to make Lestrade understand that there was real danger yet to be faced. "Moriarty was a one off, a deranged genius. Most criminals are just that. Criminals, with plans and bank accounts and a very boring tendency to quietly dispose of people who get in the way of those bank accounts. They do not, as a rule, play games or create sufficiently interesting puzzles for detectives. I know that nothing I have said has quite penetrated Sherlock's awareness of the remaining danger."

It seemed he was finally starting to break through Lestrade's frustration, as his reply turned to the practical. "Fine, but don't you have John on surveillance?"

"Of course. But that does not negate all danger."

"What are you planning, Mycroft?" Lestrade pressed, a note of danger in his voice that seemed to be warning the elder Holmes of how quickly he would hang up if he felt he was being misled.

"I am planning to put Merridew in prison, but as Sherlock has pointed out, he alone is not the issue. One of his employees would simply take his place and his empire would continue. Merridew has already moved against Sherlock. I have to assume he will do so again, when he notices that Sherlock has not been put off."

On the other end of line, Lestrade was torn. When he'd seen his phone display Mycroft's number, he had been somewhere between amazed and outraged. Why was it that the Holmes brothers thought they could do anything? That there were no boundaries at all, or consequences when they were crossed? Mycroft and Lestrade were not friends. The elder Holmes called him when he needed something. Something related to Sherlock, without exception. The audacity of calling him when he had made it clear he wanted nothing more to do with either of them, was almost impressive.

Lestrade felt a deep stab of frustration at himself for the thought. It was this kind of thinking that had led him to getting mixed up with Sherlock in the first place. Every single other officer found his presumption to do their jobs for them, infuriating. Lestrade was simply impressed by his results. As they spent more time with him, Lestrade's colleagues found Sherlock cold to the point of inhuman. Lestrade had never found that element very convincing. He could have turned his skills to anything, but he chose to solve crime. And if Sherlock was such an unfeeling bastard, how had he built relationships of apparent loyalty with seemingly every homeless person in London? Money could buy paid help. Lestrade had seen the difference.

They were right. He'd chided himself, still staring at his ringing phone. Lestrade had been fooled into thinking he saw something in Sherlock that others didn't. That he wasn't just being used, as Sherlock used everyone and everything. But his fellow officers had been right. Sherlock Holmes didn't have a heart.

If Sherlock didn't, then Mycroft was surely one hundred percent machine, which gave Lestrade absolutely no reason to answer his phone to the man. Yet he had answered, compelled by the same idiocy he'd shown all along. He didn't want to be rude, or cruel. If Mycroft needed his wish to have nothing to do with either of them spelled out more clearly, he would do so. If he didn't, he'd just keep calling and Lestrade knew he didn't have the willpower to keep ignoring him.

But now he'd answered, Mycroft was asking for something that Lestrade was not at all sure he could refuse. Protection for John was absurd, in a sense. Since when did Mycroft Holmes' All Seeing Eye need help from the lowly police? But on the other hand, there was a ringing truth to his explanation. Surveillance did not negate danger. Mycroft could watch John all he wanted, but if he couldn't tell his people what had really happened in the warehouse, he would have no grounds to order more active protection. Lestrade had reported his feeling that Mycroft's attack had been meant as a warning to Sherlock, officially. He did have grounds to order protection.

"What are you going to do?" Lestrade asked at length.

He supposed he had asked the question before, in asking what he was planning, but that question had been nebulous enough for the answer to be entirely evasive. If he was going to do this, Lestrade had to know what came next. There was no question in his mind that Mycroft might arrange police protection the official way and then take no further part in the investigation.

"For now, I'm going to keep an eye on Sherlock and the man who convinced him to attack me."

The bluntness of the response rendered Lestrade momentarily silent. For some reason, the man who had informed Sherlock of Merridew's plans had not occurred to him as particularly important.

"Do you know who it is?" He asked at last. Stupid question. Of course he knew. And why was Lestrade still talking to him anyway?

"I think so." Mycroft replied. "I've been watching some of Merridew's people. There are only a small number of options. Sherlock could of course, confirm this for me."

"Don't tell me you're actually competing over this?"

"No. Well, yes, obviously, but that's not why he hasn't told me. I haven't asked him. We are not currently in agreement as to who or what we should be investigating."

"Alright Mycroft." Lestrade spoke carefully, irritated with himself for asking questions about Mycroft and Sherlock's ridiculous squabbles. "I'll get protection for John, but just so you know, I'm not doing it for you, or Sherlock." He would admit that this statement was probably a little bit childish, but he wanted to be entirely clear.

There was a short pause, before Mycroft replied slowly. "Thank you, Inspector. It did not occur to me to specify I didn't think you would do it for me."

As the phone line went dead, Lestrade was confused by the feeling with which he was left. He was uncomfortable, distracted, much like he had been while he'd been trying to work out what was wrong with Sherlock's text to Mycroft.

There had been a strange note in Mycroft's voice which prompted discomfort. He'd sounded confused. Confused as to why Lestrade was still mad at him? He was smarter than that, surely. Confused... as to why Lestrade would need to specify he wasn't doing it for him? Good. Then they were on the same page. They weren't friends. They hadn't been even before he had lied to Lestrade without compunction.

So why was his still burning anger shot through with a sudden, inexplicable sense of regret?

Lestrade worked fast, Mycroft gave him that. Mycroft had picked up John's trail as soon as he had returned to his own flat and, judging by his distance from Baker Street, the doctor had left very shortly after him. The conversation with Lestrade had occurred some thirty minutes later, and by the time John Watson had been away from Baker Street for one single hour, he had picked up a police tail.

Mycroft watched the unmarked car trail several blocks behind John for a few minutes, rather confused as to what they were doing. Officers protecting a citizen, did not hide themselves from view. Or at least, they weren't supposed to.

The whole purpose of asking for police protection was to have John picked up and returned to Baker Street. He could do it himself of course, or send his car, but that was certain to antagonise the doctor at the very least and Mycroft needed him to stay off the radar for a while. The simplest method would have been to order police protection himself, rather than go through Lestrade, but the end result was intended to be the same. Officers would pick John up and take him back to Baker Street, then remain outside the building as a nice, visible message to Merridew that Sherlock had taken his threat very seriously. It would be a stalling tactic at best, but it would buy time.

But these officers did not appear to be intending to let John know he was being protected. Mycroft watched in consternation as they kept a steady six blocks and usually a turn behind him. If he'd wanted John oddly stalked, that was certainly a job he could have done himself.

It was embarrassing, that it took him so long to notice. Eight minutes in fact, which judging by their careful distancing, was eight minutes more than it had taken the two PC's Lestrade had sent to protect John. They were not the only ones following the doctor.

Mycroft had been so preoccupied trying to monitor his other surveillance points and work out why his plan wasn't quite coming to fruition, he hadn't noticed another car, two streets over from the police car, taking a slightly different approach of overtaking John and parking for a few minutes, then letting him pass them by and get a way ahead, before driving past him again.

Mycroft felt his pulse begin to kick up a notch. Merridew would not make a move while the police had John in their sights. There was every chance his men were just gathering information, with no intention to act that night. They couldn't have known that John would storm out of his flat that day, but was it possible that they had been watching Baker Street, planning to act at any point he left? Surely not. In fact, it was only just getting dark. It would have been ridiculous of them to have planned a potential attack in broad daylight. Merridew himself was at home, Mycroft had checked, but not all of the others on whom Mycroft had been keeping tabs were.

He glanced at his monitors and felt the quickening of his pulse shift to grim decision, as he registered exactly which one of Merridew's henchmen was missing.

John Watson was not gifted in observation in the way Sherlock meant the term, but he was generally as aware of his surroundings as would be expected of a trained soldier. He would notice one or both of his followers at some point and when he did, he might try to lose them. If the one he happened to lose was the police car, he might find himself in difficulty very quickly.

With a rather put-upon sigh, Mycroft pressed the button on his phone that called for his car.

John had become aware he was being followed, after he'd been walking for around an hour. He ignored the car at first, because it was almost certainly Mycroft or one of his minions. John could think of no one he wanted to deal with less, that particular evening.

It was the subtlety of his tail that set the faintest niggling doubt into his mind. They stayed a precise distance away from him. They didn't avoid the street cameras, or make their presence conspicuous at intermittent moments. It was all a little bit pedestrian, by Mycroft's standards. But then, Mycroft had been unusually quiet at the flat. Quiet on both occasions John had seen him that week, in fact. He'd also seemed genuinely offended at John asking him to leave. Apparently, being assaulted by his brother had knocked some of the pomposity out of him. It was possible he was just choosing to tail, without meaning to get a reaction out of John.

After fifteen minutes without change, John would admit he was spooked. Injured, offended or otherwise, it didn't feel like Mycroft.

John glanced ahead, attempting to assess his location without making it too obvious. There was a junction up ahead. The car had overtaken him several times, before dropping back. It should have been behind him at that point by a few blocks at least. It was generally on his left. When he reached the junction he could cut a hard right and run.

As he took the last steps towards the turn, trying to face straight on and not give away his intentions, a car suddenly pulled up hard in front of him. Sleek black, ostentatiously opaque all over. John let out a breath, as the window rolled down and Mycroft spoke without looking at him.

"Lift, Doctor Watson?"

John wanted to ignore him. His heart was thumping in his throat, adrenaline coursing. He could very easily just have stuck to his plan and ran. Despite his relief, it was galling to need Mycroft's help. He thought about the car behind him and the sharp sense of threat it had given him, and made did the smart thing.

"So that wasn't you following me then?" He asked as he closed Mycroft's car door behind him, settling into the seat as far away from its other occupant as could be managed.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the question. "Well I was following you, fairly obviously, but no. Those are Merridew's men."

He was infinitely more punchable than normal when he was being overly literal and/or trying to be funny. John restrained the urge, only because he had been recently injured and it would not feel like a fair fight. He closed his eyes and counted backwards from ten.

"What are you doing?" John asked when he finally looked across at Mycroft and found him typing rapidly on his phone.

"Sorry?" Mycroft asked, looking up in surprise, as though he'd forgotten John was there.

"Who are you texting?" John clarified.

Mycroft gave him a look that suggested he was asking a stupid question.

John let out an irritated sigh. "You know, for two people who claim to hate each other, you're better at keeping in touch than most married couples."

Mycroft sent his text and put his phone in his inside pocket, pulling a faintly disgusted face. "Distasteful comparison." He commented. When John just continued to glare at him, he straightened his jacket, examining his fingernails. "John, I don't remember ever claiming to hate Sherlock. If he has done the reverse, it's never been in front of me. Did you want me not to tell him I got to you before Merridew did?"

"I really don't care what you tell each other." John muttered, irritated that Mycroft was making a reasonable point. He didn't want him to be reasonable. He wanted him to say something callous or inhuman, so that he could yell at him.

In the absence of any such comment from Mycroft, there followed a long and uncomfortable pause, while John glared out of the window.

"How can you not care?" John asked at last, studying his own reflection in the glass.

"Sorry?" Mycroft asked, once again appearing bewildered by the sudden question.

"Sherlock." John turned towards Mycroft and watched him intently. "He beat you unconscious. He broke your hand and your ribs. How can you just pretend it doesn't mean anything?"

Mycroft returned his steady stare, but from the way he shifted his arm in its sling, John inferred he was uncomfortable. "That depends very much on what you mean by 'mean anything'." He answered carefully. "It means some very dangerous men were threatening him and he made a decision under pressure."

"That's it. A decision." John echoed, audibly and visibly repulsed.

"He believes he had no choice, John." Mycroft replied with a barely suppressed sigh. "I am choosing to take him at his word. The alternative is to assume that he wanted to do it, in which case, he went a rather roundabout way about it."

John broke his glare at that. He didn't believe Sherlock wanted to hurt Mycroft, but if he did, John was certainly not willing to suggest it was what Mycroft should believe.

"What would you have done?" John asked quietly.

Mycroft smiled. "No opponent would be so foolish as to imagine I could be blackmailed that way."

"Except Irene Adler." John pointed out, voice and expression letting out just a fraction more smugness than he intended.

Entirely unfazed, Mycroft inclined his head in acknowledgement. "I didn't say it wasn't possible." He let the unspoken end to his train of thought hang in the air. He knew it to be possible, Sherlock was his one and only weakness. But nobody else thought that. Moriarty hadn't even bothered threatening Mycroft, after all.

"Then why you?" John snapped. "Why would someone threaten you, to get to Sherlock?"

"I could let you out and you could ask Merridew yourself." Mycroft replied dryly.

Mycroft stiffened slightly in his seat as John raised his hands suddenly, slamming them back down on his knees in mounting frustration. "The two of you, just lie to the people around you." He spat. "You seem to think you should just be allowed to get away with it."

"I can't speak for Sherlock, but I would say again, that depends very much on what you mean by 'get away with it'." Mycroft replied, voice becoming rather sharp. "I don't lie without reason. To the best of my knowledge, Sherlock doesn't either. It strikes me as highly unlikely that Sherlock intended to keep this from you indefinitely and had he told Inspector Lestrade the truth, his plan would not have worked and -I would still be in Merridew's crosshairs."

John glared out of the window, refusing to be backed into a corner. If he insisted that Sherlock should have told the truth, he risked implying that his own sense of injury was more important than Mycroft's life. If he agreed that Sherlock's lie had been a worthwhile exchange, it invalidated John's anger completely.

Mycroft too, remained silent. When John offered no further comment, he turned his attention back to his phone. He didn't appear to be typing anything this time.

"It's just, sheer arrogance." John's voice stirred Mycroft again less than a minute later. John watched Mycroft turn to him, eyebrow raised in question, the calm, unruffled expression serving to underline his insult. "You don't lie without reason. Your whole defence, 'I have reasons', 'I know better than you do'."

"Not better." Mycroft argued. "Simply more."

"And whose fault is that exactly?" John asked, rolling his eyes.

"That is hardly relevant." Mycroft replied airily. "The point is, that I had a lot more information with which to decide to lie, as did Sherlock, than you do in deciding we were wrong. Yet you have done. Is that not sheer arrogance?"

John's expression twisted in anger at having his accusation thrown back at him, voice lowering to a growl. "I don't give a toss whether you were right or wrong. I only know I can't trust you. Or Sherlock."

"You would be a fool to trust me. You have no reason to do so." Mycroft paused and lowered his head slightly, the expression of vague discomfort he'd been wearing throughout the drive, deepening. "I would be surprised to know that you thought the same was true of Sherlock."

John looked at him, agitation stalled by the change in Mycroft's voice. Taking in the poorly hidden discomfort on Mycroft's face, he let out a sigh. It was usually so easy to be mad at Mycroft. Somehow when he made it obvious he was worried, like a normal person, it became so much harder. "He lied to me." John stated simply.

Mycroft's expression morphed into utter bewilderment. For a moment, he just stared at John, as if trying to work out a puzzle. "To protect you and to save my life." He pointed out at last, eyebrow raised. "Have you never lied, Doctor? Or are you allowing your ego to make you a hypocrite?"

John went to answer instinctively, but closed his mouth, trying to exercise some self control. What was the point in repeatedly blowing up, if Mycoft's obvious concern for his brother was going to keep taking the wind out of his sails?

Mycroft took his silence as permission to press his point. "Do you think either of us will ever tell our parents who really broke my hand? We will lie, without compunction. To our family. Do you think we should tell them?"

John grimaced at the mere thought. No parents deserved that. "That's different."

"Of course it is." Mycroft let out a huff of air. "It's always different. You're different." He sounded faintly angry. "And you're not wrong. You are an anomaly in Sherlock's life. He would have told you in the end, despite all reason suggesting he should not. In our adult lives, I have never known him to let the opinion of another, influence his decision making, except you. As far as I can tell, the last five days have been considerably more difficult for him, than for you, or Lestrade, or me. I am able to trust that his decisions in this case were well-intentioned. Forgive me, if I struggle to sympathise with you failing to do the same."

John thought it entirely possible that his jaw was hanging open. He was absolutely certain that he was staring.

He felt he should be affronted, somehow. Mycroft was daring to tell him he was being stupid, possibly childish, definitely selfish. But he couldn't feel anything except surprise at the sudden dropping of Mycroft's aloof facade in favour of indignation on Sherlock's behalf. John felt his gaze dropping to Mycroft's left hand, where it rested in its sling against his chest.

Mycroft shifted slightly and John forced his attention back up. "...When you say 'well-intentioned'-" He started, voice coming out lower than expected. "Does that mean you think he was wrong?"

Mycroft gave him a flat stare. "There is no question of him being wrong. His plan worked." He stated firmly. "The question I asked him, was 'was it the only option?'. I'm guessing you were of a similar opinion. So added to whatever feelings he has about having done it in the first place, will now be all of the doubts our combined powers are able to raise in him, Doctor Watson. Mine of intellectual ability, yours of moral boundaries. What useful distractions to have while he trails one of the most dangerous men in London."

"Alright, alright, you've made your point." John almost groaned. He had to go back to the flat. "This isn't about me, I shouldn't be making it about me. I do keep forgetting that both of you think having feelings is a bad thing."

"Actually I think having feelings is entirely necessary. I simply don't believe in using emotions to manipulate others into behaving as I would like them to, as so many people seem to think acceptable."

"You're joking, now, right? You, Mycroft Holmes, are not actually lecturing me about manipulating others?"

Mycroft smiled and John felt a most unexpected jolt of relief. It was his politician's smile. "Goodnight, Doctor Watson."

John looked out of the window and found himself greeted by the sight of home. He'd been so busy ogling at Mycroft, he hadn't noticed they had circled around to Baker Street while they'd been talking. His chest tightened at the thought of going inside. He didn't want to talk to Sherlock. He wasn't rightly sure he knew how.

But Mycroft wasn't wrong. As much as he wanted to be angry, he couldn't believe that Sherlock had lied with malice, any more than he could believe he had attacked his brother with the same. He took a deep, slow breath and found for the first time since he'd exited the flat earlier in the evening, he felt a measure of calm on release.

He was most of the way out of the car and the door half-closed behind him, when he spoke quietly. "Night, Mycroft."

Inside the car, Mycroft barely heard him. His mind had moved on, focusing on the task ahead of him, to the car disappearing into London traffic somewhere behind them. Having possibly foiled Merridew's plans this time, Mycroft knew he was out of time. He had to move. Sherlock wasn't going to like it, but that couldn't be helped. He was going to close this case. This would end, tonight.

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s plan was good. Mycroft had never intended to suggest otherwise.

It was simple, both in concept and in execution. He would trail and shadow every connection to Merridew he knew of, until they led him to Merridew himself. Then he would catch the man in his next criminal act. Simple. Yet difficult and time consuming.

Mycroft had questions, naturally. He wasn’t certain that the best and indeed only response to the strange tip-off Sherlock had received had been to immediately incapacitate one of the two targets, nor did he like the idea of waiting for Merridew to commit another crime, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see that Sherlock’s plan would work, eventually. He had no doubts that it would.

Sherlock was right also, in that Merridew’s threat against Mycroft and John had been the first time he had revealed his hand, prior to a crime. Merridew was entangled in many, many criminal activities across London and far further afield, but there had never been a direct connection, before now. Sherlock was right to think that catching the man in a criminal act was the only way to ensure he didn’t escape conviction.

Sherlock had spent the six days since the warehouse incident, locating as many of Merridew’s men as he possibly could. He wasn’t doing it alone of course, he was using his network of invisible allies, littered all over London, but even with help, it was taking an extraordinary amount of time and energy. Mycroft would expect nothing less. He had learned the hard way in the past, that despite his superiority in the area of deduction, Mycroft couldn’t beat Sherlock at his own game. He was no detective.

Which was why, for this particular case, Mycroft had little intention of relying on detective work, or indeed, deduction. He had made only one deduction which he believed Sherlock had not. He had deduced that his brother had been lied to and used. Rather more egregiously, even, than the unfortunate Inspector Lestrade.

Lestrade had been manipulated into helping Sherlock and Mycroft, but he would have done so regardless. It was this, indeed, which Mycroft assumed made his resentment so strong. But Sherlock. Sherlock had been manipulated into a decision which Mycroft would not accept he ever would have made on his own.

As his car slowly picked its way through London traffic, less than a minute after leaving John at Baker Street, Mycroft raised his phone to his ear. “Bring him in.”

The voice on the other end of the line gave only the merest of confirmations, but Mycroft had no doubts that his instruction would be followed. The car turned a corner, moving in the opposite direction to his Pall Mall home, which would be his destination of preference. It would not be an option for tonight. He had work to do and it was not the kind of work which could be done at home, or in any officially registered government office.

There was a certain rather exhausting inevitability to the knowledge that Sherlock would be disgusted by his methods, if he came to know of them. It was this kind of thing which had caused and continued to cause the rather strained relationship between them. That he had the power to use the mechanisms of the state, behind the scenes and apparently without accountability. It required no deduction or intelligence, just the right access granted by his job. It often involved unthinkable, bureaucratic decision making and it rarely ever involved fair play.

Mycroft didn’t actually disagree with his brother’s take on any of this, he was simply intelligent enough to know that his part, however powerful, was one cog in a machine to which every individual in the country also contributed. There were far more citizens after all, than politicians. If they all decided that the murky behind-the-scenes of government and state needed to be stopped, they could act against it. They did not. Most people, however distasteful a notion it might be to Sherlock, were consciously or unconsciously comforted by the notion of Big Brother. That the really, really bad people out there weren’t in the news or being publicly charged or sentenced. That there was a force who would quietly disappear the worst of the worst and by doing so without fanfare, they allowed the public to keep their own hands clean.

This was not, in fact, Mycroft’s job. Despite Sherlock’s assertions, he was merely an advisor to the government. At his height, he could be described as the advisor. He formed the central balance of all of the disparate departments, those known to the public and unknown. He audited every single decision and forecast the consequences and costs, to each. He did not make the decisions himself. He had influence, certainly, and he liked to believe he used that influence positively. But in order to hold his position, he was obligated to do the one thing Sherlock could not. He followed orders. He answered to others. He was loyal to an institution. Ironically enough of course, this meant he was anything but unaccountable.

Still, tonight was not the time for pondering on the determined and long standing lack of common ground between him and his brother. His car pulled into an underground car park, devoid of any other vehicle save a small, nondescript, silver van. He gave a tight smile as he exited the car. His guest had already arrived, it seemed.

The man he had been watching most closely over several days of surveillance from his flat, had been one of Sherlock’s many targets, though not one to whom he had paid particularly close attention. Sherlock had been focussed on those he knew to be permanently employed by Merridew, which made perfect sense. Mycroft on the other hand, had been more interested in the prospect of a freelancer. A man who did not work for Merridew in general, but claimed to have been hired by him to perform a specific and rather unsavoury task.

It was both wise and risky for career criminals who intended to order an attack or assassination, to outsource. It made their involvement as deniable as possible. It also meant that one had to rely on a stranger, which was always a risk and in this case, Merridew had been incredibly unlucky.

Truly, incredibly. Mycroft crossed the car park and keyed in a code to enter a small, grey lift. A second code was entered on the inside to activate the lift which took him up by one level. Unnecessary, but then stairs could be rather too accessible to curious members of the public. Or perhaps his department simply enjoyed a certain level of finesse.

The lift opened into a narrow concrete corridor, still below ground, down which Mycroft strode with grave purpose.

“He’s inside, Sir.” Anthea spoke to her boss without looking at him. She was standing outside a small room off the corridor. The solid door had no window and Anthea did not look at it, or anyone she may have seen walking into it, at any point.

Mycroft spared her the merest half nod, before requesting she wait with the car. He did not blame her for the faint look of relief which crossed her usually implacable features. She was not without expression, by any means, but she rarely showed fear. In the dismal, clearly off-the-radar underground offices, he didn’t blame her for not wanting to stay a moment longer than necessary. In truth, he rather shared the sentiment.

Agent Love was waiting inside, standing beside an anonymous but heavily armed foot soldier of some description. Their guest was seated at a small table, looking understandably put out.

He was remarkably nondescript. Mycroft wasn’t sure what he’d expected really, nor why the man’s appearance in person surprised him, when he’d been watching him remotely for several days. The cameras had not shown him to be so ordinary. He could have passed for a geography teacher without any difficulty and for some completely irrational reason, this made Mycroft even angrier.

He was sitting there at the table, hands interlocked in front of him, knuckles slightly whitened as he tried to hide his apprehension. Very few people would face being plucked off the streets by an anonymous government vehicle and deposited in an equally anonymous underground cell, without at least a modicum of fear. But Mycroft wanted him to look smug. Or defiant. Or anything, really, other than nervous and normal.

“You have about an hour.” Love informed him on her way out. She didn’t need to tell Mycroft she would be watching on the monitors in the next room, but it made no difference to him. He did not especially need privacy for this conversation and someone monitoring generally meant someone knowing which sections of film to delete if needed.

Mycroft waited until the door had closed behind her, before fixing the man at the table with a cold, blank stare. The agent behind him stared into the middle distance, ignoring anything which might be happening in the room.

The man at the table first glanced over his shoulder, unease in his expression as he registered the pointed lack of attention of the guard behind him. The uncertainty slowly morphed to a look of a fox caught in the hen house, as his eyes roved over Mycroft. The immaculate suit. The calm, unmoving stare. ...The still fading bruising on his face. The sling holding his left arm in its plaster cast against his chest. The moment of realisation was not as satisfying as Mycroft had hoped.

“You’re the brother.” The man stated, somewhere between confusion and intrigue. The searching, curious look made Mycroft’s stomach turn.

His appearance had served its purpose, however. The man immediately revealed his knowledge of the incident six days earlier, which saved them both the tedious process of attempting to deny any understanding of why he was there.

“And you are the gentleman assassin who tipped off Sherlock Holmes to an impending attack, leading him to carry out the assault himself.” Mycroft responded with icy calm. He wasn’t willing to show his hand just yet.

The man raised his hands in supplication. “It was meant as a friendly warning. The man who hired me was going to get this done. And I’m not an assassin.”

“Sam Merridew.” Mycroft supplied, watching for the faintest twitch of facial muscle that let him know he’d hit his mark.

“I don’t know the names of the men behind the money.” The man replied immediately. A practised answer, one which came all too easily and let Mycroft know he was not going to be easy to dissuade from this point. Or at least, that he believed he would not be easily dissuaded. He also confirmed himself to be a liar, if Mycroft had needed any confirmation. Sherlock's account of his conversation with his informant, had included Merridew's name.

Mycroft smiled, the politician's smile which struck fear into the hearts of all in his employ. “A sensible precaution.” He acknowledged. “Indeed, I wonder at the decision of a cautious man, to take the risk you took six days ago. What if Sherlock had simply gone straight to Merridew and told him what you’d done?”

“It was a bigger risk for him than for me, and my previous dealings with Holmes made me think he would do the decent thing.” The man answered with something near a shrug.

“Ah yes, he let you go when he found you embroiled in one of his earlier cases.” Mycroft filled in. This little detail had certainly played a key role in Sherlock’s compliance. The claim of a returned favour, from one whose grudging respect he had earned.

“A true gentleman.” The man replied with a smile. Fascinating, how confident he must be in his ruse, to have shrugged off his nerves so quickly.

Mycroft let out a low, throaty chuckle. “Indeed. But that, again, is curious to me. You would not be the first criminal to whom Sherlock has offered grace, but to my knowledge, you would certainly be the first hitman for hire. I wonder what prompted quite such an out of character decision for him.”

“I’m not a hitman.” The man repeated. “I don’t kill. I wasn’t hired to kill in this case either. It just sounded more personal than I was willing to get into.”

“A man of scruples.” Mycroft spoke without inflection. “If what you say is true, then my brother has been uniquely fortunate. So many unlikely occurrences have fallen into place to allow him to take action himself, to prevent a far more serious outcome for myself or his friend.”

The man looked wary, bordering on annoyed. “What does that mean?”

“I have encountered many criminals in my time, Mr Kane.” Mycroft dropped the name without acknowledgement, silently noting the slight parting of lips and minute raise of eyebrows which indicated his guest’s surprise. “Most of them, to Sherlock’s unending disappointment, were extremely predictable. Sam Merridew has been involved in drug smuggling and money laundering for many years and while not all of his efforts have been successful, he has never faced any consequences. This is owing entirely to the distance he places between himself and the frontline of his crimes. Four of his escapades have been frustrated by my brother, to my knowledge. In all four incidents, someone went to prison and Merridew never made a peep. No revenge. Which would be exactly as I would predict. Only a fool would put himself in the line of fire for petty revenge.” Mycroft didn’t quite conceal his smile, as he spoke.

“Merridew is not a fool. So why now, would he take the risk of hiring a thug, who could only possibly draw Sherlock’s attention straight to him?” Mycroft paused, to observe whether Kane was actually thinking about the question or not. No movement of his eyes, indicated he was not. Which was to be expected, as he already knew the answer. “And if for some reason, Merridew did suddenly decide to expose himself in this way, what incredibly bad fortune, that his chosen thug should happen to owe Sherlock a favour, Sherlock having chosen at some point to let a violent criminal run free. Not only that, but this violent criminal happened to be of such remarkable principle, as to not only decide not to carry out the task, but to tip Sherlock off and take the risk of being exposed to Merridew. That’s Merridew, Sherlock and yourself, Mr Kane, acting in a way I would have found hard to predict. Remarkable, wouldn’t you say?”

The man’s expression showed increasing agitation. “Look, I told you, I don’t know this guy Merridew. All I know is I didn’t like the job and thought I’d give Holmes a break after he gave me one.”

This time, Mycroft didn’t bother with anything indirect. “Just suppose for a moment that I don’t believe that at all, Mr Kane. In fact I don’t think you were hired by Merridew for this job, I think you work for him on a rather more permanent basis. I don’t believe that Merridew’s ‘message’ was intended to warn Sherlock off. I think it was intended to distract him, because Merridew is planning something he does not want interrupted. I think in the last five days, you and the other five of Merridew’s closest associates have not left your homes. Yet at the very moment that I notice that two of those associates are tailing John Watson, I also notice you are no longer at home. You know exactly what Merridew is planning, because you’re part of it. While you are safely off Sherlock’s radar, the rest will distract him with the threat to Dr Watson. A threat only made more real by your own, rather impressive piece of theatre last week.”

Kane stared at him. His face had gone so rigid and determinedly still that Mycroft could no longer read anything in it but anger. That was fine by him. He hadn’t actually come here for information. “Mr Kane, I’d like you to tell me three things. First, that you do work for Merridew. Second, what Merridew has planned and third, the names of everyone else involved, who works for him. Then you can leave.”

Kane made a noise he probably meant to be a scoff. Equal parts derision and disbelief, leaving no room for any continued denial of Mycroft’s hypothesis. When Mycroft only continued to wait patiently, his expression twisted into an ugly scowl. “Now why would I do that, Mr Holmes? If you’re so clued up on Merridew, you know nobody who works for him would ever be so stupid.”

Mycroft smiled. If it hadn’t been for his sling, he’d have removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. In the absence of that option, he walked slowly around the table to the heavily armed agent who was still stood silently at the back of the room, and held out his hand. Without so much as glancing at him, the young man handed him a pistol fitted with a silencer.

“Leave us.” Mycroft instructed quietly.

Kane half turned in his seat, catching sight of the gun in Mycroft’s hand and turning a wary stare on the silent other agent, who glanced at Mycroft with deep uncertainty. “Are you sure, Sir?” The young man asked.

“Now, please.” Mycroft confirmed, slowly retracing his steps until he was standing in front of Kane again, holding the gun loosely in his right hand. His gaze fixed on Kane and despite the absolute immobility of his expression, he could feel the anger burning behind his eyes. “Perhaps, Mr Kane, I did not make myself clear. Six days ago you manipulated my brother into carrying out Merridew’s dirty work for him. Give me a reason to let you leave this room.”

The door clanged shut behind the silent agent and Kane scrabbled back in his seat, eyes darting to the door and around the room, half contemplating shouting for help. Mycroft turned and looked straight at the camera above him. “I won’t be needing an hour.”

‘I picked John up. Bringing him back now.’

The text from Mycroft had arrived less than an hour after John had left Baker Street. Sherlock paused in his intensive pacing of the living room as he read, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand on end.

‘What did you see?’ He sent back almost instantly.

‘One of Merridew’s men. Just scouting for now, as far as I can tell.'

Sherlock put his phone down and continued high speed pacing around the flat. He hadn’t exactly been expecting the information, but it did not surprise him either. Mycroft’s warning from several days earlier had been niggling at him. Merridew had gone to a lot of trouble to get his attention, only to do absolutely nothing. He was still doing nothing. Sherlock had had no word from his networks, which meant Merridew hadn’t moved. Still at home. Dull. But someone was tailing John. Apart from Mycroft, of course. Sherlock hadn't asked Mycroft to keep an eye on John, but he had been certain it was happening regardless. No question of mistaken identity - If Mycroft thought it was one of Merridew’s men, Sherlock wouldn't waste time on his own confirmation.

Just scouting. But for what? Merridew would of course have worked out by now that Sherlock was watching him, which meant the attack on Mycroft hadn't successfully warned him off. Was he moving his attention to John so quickly?

Possible, but unlikely, surely. Merridew didn't know Sherlock had been forewarned about his threat after all. As far as he knew, he'd sent a hired thug after Sherlock’s brother. He would know that Sherlock would work out who was responsible and assume he was meant to be warned off. But if his flatmate was attacked a week later, Sherlock was surely less likely to see it as a warning and more as a siege. It wouldn't prompt him to look the other way as Merridew’s crimes continued, more to prepare for battle.

Sherlock didn't like senseless behaviour from master criminals. He did not, however, have time to dwell on that for the moment. He heard the front door below and John's footsteps on the steps.

There were a number of possible options for what John would do on arriving into the flat itself. The first and most likely was that he would go straight to his room and refuse to engage with Sherlock until he was ready. He had allowed Mycroft to pick him up and bring him back, but that could well be simple pragmatism. If Mycroft thought he was in danger, he’d be a fool to ignore him. That didn’t mean he was any more willing to be around his flatmate than he had been an hour and a half earlier. He might also want an argument. He didn’t often walk away from them after all. He might want neither. He might have calmed down during his wanderings, enough to listen at least, though this seemed the least likely of options.

John appeared in the living room doorway and looked right at Sherlock. “I’m really fucking pissed off at you.” He stated.

Sherlock blinked. That had not been one of the options. Despite his words, John did not look or sound angry, so much as exasperated. “Okay…”

John went on without waiting for further input from Sherlock. “But, Mycroft seems to think you had good reason and as he’s the one you beat up, that’s probably his decision.”

“I had a very good reason.” Sherlock replied softly. He felt a flare of distracting and unhelpful anger in his chest and was not entirely successful in keeping it out of his voice. As though there was any question at all, he would have assaulted his brother without reason.

John’s spine straightened slightly at the edge of steel in Sherlock’s voice. “Is there any point in me asking why you didn’t just tell me what had happened?” He sighed. “I know why you didn’t tell Lestrade and I know why he’s upset about it, but I don’t understand why you let me sit here thinking you might really have just discovered your brother had been attacked.”

Ah, so that was the problem. Not that Sherlock had kept something from John, he surely knew Sherlock kept a lot of things from him. But that he had let him worry, let him feel concern and compassion which were not warranted. Or at least, were not warranted in the way John had thought.

“We don’t know what Merridew is planning.” Sherlock explained slowly, moving towards the wall a few metres from where John stood, leaning back, pondering the clearest possible statement. “Any information held by anyone other than me at this point, is dangerous. I wouldn’t have told Mycroft either, only I thought it likely he would notice.”

John looked surprised himself by the splutter of laughter that suddenly escaped him, but once he started, he couldn’t stop. Sherlock felt a twinge of relief, as he also started to chuckle. No part of the case, starting with the warning about Merridew, right up to that conversation with John, had been enjoyable, and he knew there was a lot of work left ahead. But if felt oddly good just to laugh for a minute. For he and John to move away from worry and concern to just be friends again, for a minute.

“More serious question then.” John breathed out as they slowly got their laughter under control. He looked sideways at Sherlock, where he leant against the wall beside him. “What are you worried will happen now that Lestrade knows the truth? Why did you freak out on him like that?”

Sherlock’s looked away from him, contemplating. “Yes that was not my most intelligent moment.” That was something of an understatement, he recognised. He was lucky that Lestrade hadn’t seemed to have any interest in revenge. He’d already been angry at Sherlock. Attempting to prevent him leaving their flat had been a foolhardy move which could have gotten him arrested.

“You can’t think he’d turn you in?” John asked, sounding certain he was right on this point.

“No. Not for that. He would know there would be no point, given the identity of my ‘victim’.” Sherlock grimaced faintly at the word. “I was worried about how he knew. Had I missed something, or had someone told him?”

“Wereworried? So you’re not worried now?” John pressed, sounding both curious and mildly admonishing as he had to press for more information, again.

Sherlock shook his head. He was not attempting to hide anything from John at this point, he was simply letting his mind return to the case. To his next move. “If there was a problem on that front, Mycroft would have told me. I can only assume that Lestrade worked it out and whatever his means, Mycroft isn’t worried about it. Which is annoying.”

John turned towards him, expression clearing of any emotion beside curiosity. “Why annoying?”

“Because it means we didn’t leave any evidence, Lestrade worked it out because he knows us. It must have been the text.” Sherlock strode across the flat, irritation clear. “I shouldn’t have missed that.”

John's face paled suddenly at the detail. The reminder of the text sent from Sherlock’s phone, asking Mycroft to meet him. When Lestrade had first called and Sherlock had told John about Mycroft's attack, John been horrified at the thought of someone using Sherlock to trap his brother that way. Sherlock understood John's visible disgust at the reality. That instead of a stranger using them both in such a twisted way, Sherlock himself had duped Mycroft into meeting him, using the text that implied in the strongest of terms, he was in trouble.

Sherlock felt the atmosphere in the flat shift as John finally asked the question he'd clearly been holding back. “When you met him in the warehouse, did Mycroft know what was happening?”

Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on the fireplace as he nodded. “I explained as much as possible when I got there, before…” He trailed off, not especially wishing to finish the thought. “I explained everything else after, when he was home. I gave him a heavy sedative just before, so he wouldn’t feel much. It wasn’t pleasant. But it was almost certainly the best of a series of unpleasant options.”

John nodded, and Sherlock could see him wrestling with himself. Pitting his knowledge that if Mycroft wasn't angry at Sherlock, he probably had no grounds to be, against his personal morale outrage. It was a minute or more, before he spoke again, an entirely different kind of anger in his voice.

“How are you going to stop Merridew?”

In spite of himself, Sherlock grinned.

Chapter Text

The tentative knock at his office door was well timed, as Lestrade had been just about to weaken. He’d been giving his phone furtive glances all morning, telling himself not to call Mycroft and ask what was going on with John. His team had reported John being returned to Baker Street by Mycroft himself, about an hour after they’d started tailing him and that he hadn’t left since. A simple surveillance job then. Nothing he needed to be checking up on. If they saw nothing in the next twenty four hours to indicate he was in danger, Lestrade would have no option but to call them off. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help thinking that as long as he was with Sherlock, John was about as safe as he could possibly be.

There was no reason, absolutely none, to ask Mycroft for an update. Which left Lestrade at a loss as to why he’d scrolled to his number ten times or more in the course of the morning. Why couldn’t he just leave well alone? That had been the point, hadn’t it? When he’d gone and ended up making a scene in Sherlock’s flat, the entire purpose had been to let them know he was done. So why would he voluntarily insert himself back into the latest three ring circus around Sherlock and his nearest and dearest?

He ignored the voice whispering that he might once have fondly imagined he fitted into that category. That his self imposed exile didn’t stop him worrying about John, or Sherlock, or make Sherlock’s deception any easier to take.

“Come in.” He spoke sharply, relieved by the distraction. He shoved his phone into the drawer of his desk as the door opened.

Donovan stepped in, looking faintly alarmed. “I can come back later if this isn’t a good time.” She asked, uncharacteristically hesitant.

“No, no it’s fine, sorry, I was thinking about something else. What do you need?”

“You erm, asked me to go over the Reigate file with you before the Cunninghams’ trial.”

“Oh yeah, it’s next week isn’t it.” Lestrade remembered, feeling a rising sense of dread at the memory. He didn’t mind going to court and the case was clear enough, however fervently the father and son duo continued to protest their innocence. What he did not like was going to court to present his own role in the case, knowing the vast majority of detective work had actually been done by Sherlock. Nothing would induce the great consulting detective to do the court testimony himself, of course.

If he had to do something other than brood with his day, Lestrade accepted that working on the trial with Donovan was probably the best distraction he could have hoped for. Her blunt and to the point approach didn’t give him any time to mentally disengage. Besides, the case had been very weird and the trial was sure to be just as interesting.

It didn’t take long before he was fully emerged in work, retracing the official steps taken and the building of their evidence against the defendant. It had to be foolproof, because the Cunningham family were the kind of rich that seemed more at home in Victorian novels than modern day and their defence team would rip the police to shreds if they could not account for every move.

It was a huge bonus that Donovan couldn’t stand Sherlock. There was no danger of her mentioning him, even as they went over evidence which he had more or less found and tied up with a nice red ribbon, while the police had still been chasing imaginary burglars.

The vast majority of the morning was gone, by the time Donovan closed the last file and confirmed they had everything covered. Lestrade would go over it again, several times, before he was called to give evidence, but it was good to know they had it all ready to go.

“Oh um, Sir-” Donovan turned at the door as she was about to leave.

Lestrade looked up from his notes to find her suddenly looking deeply uncomfortable.

“Is er, Freak’s brother okay?” She asked.

It was so tempting to laugh. Of all moments for Donovan to decide she gave a shit about Sherlock or any of his relatives. Of course the only reason she was asking was because Lestrade had deliberately made her feel bad for giving Sherlock a hard time, so even that part was his fault. Donovan wasn’t a monster. Despite her feelings towards Sherlock, she was not the kind to feel nothing when told his brother had been brutally assaulted.

He managed to twist the bitter sneer that crossed his face without warning into something that might pass for sympathy. “Yeah, he’s much better. Mostly bruises.”

Donovan looked for a minute like she might say more. The incident earlier that week hadn’t been the first time Sherlock had been the centre of a disagreement between her and Lestrade. Whatever she had planned to say, whether to acknowledge she had probably gone too far in her outburst a few days earlier, or to express her continued dissatisfaction at Sherlock’s presence in their work, she thought better of it, leaving with a brief nod.

Well, she didn’t need to worry any more. Lestrade was done with Sherlock and anyone else who couldn’t feature in his life without bringing the consulting detective with them. Which was a shame, really, because he liked John a lot.

He sighed heavily and opened the drawer holding his phone. He was going to have to find out what was happening. One more conversation with Mycroft, then that was absolutely it.

An odd sensation of guilt tripped him up as he opened his screen and found it still ready on Mycroft's number. Their phone call the previous day hadn’t been exactly pleasant. A fresh wave of humiliated anger washed over him just at the thought. When Mycroft had called him and asked him to keep an eye on Sherlock, but limit the time he spent at Scotland Yard, he’d capitulated without the slightest resistance, because he had sincerely believed Mycroft had been horrifically assaulted just two days earlier. And Mycroft had let him believe it. So why would he need to feel guilty for not being overly polite?

He would have pressed the call button in sheer temper, had it not been for a second, intrusive thought which followed the stab of anger. Mycroft had been assaulted. Okay, so it wasn’t by a stranger looking to get even with Sherlock, but it had still happened. Lestrade didn’t know what kind of planning had gone into it, but he’d gotten a very up close and personal look at the results. They were certainly real enough. So then, was the reason he was angry at Mycroft, that he hadn't ratted out his brother?

He was staring so intently at his mobile, trying to decide whether to call or not and how angry he should be when he did, that when the desk phone rang it made him leap about three feet in the air.

"Lestrade." He snarled into the line, heart trying to make it's way back into his thorax.

"Sir?" A confused sounding pc spoke in his ear. "A parcel has just been delivered for you."

… "And?"

"-Well, it was delivered by some MI5 looking guys in a black car. They said to make sure it got to you immediately."

"I'm on my way." He replied, even as he rolled his eyes hard enough to make him dizzy. Why couldn’t either Mycroft or Sherlock ever do something in a normal, non-theatrical way?

Of course, Lestrade wasn’t for a moment thinking that Mycroft had delivered whatever it was himself, but he was definitely thinking he'd sent his underlings to deliver a message on his behalf. What, why and definitely why couldn't he just use the post like a normal person, all crossed Lestrade's mind as he made his way to the front desk.

As he had no expectations as to what on earth it might be, it was strange that he was briefly disappointed by a flat brown package the size of an A4 folder, which turned out to house exactly one such folder. More paperwork. On Merridew, maybe? Mycroft had hinted that he did not believe Sherlock to be on the right track in his investigation. Was it possible that even now, after everything Lestrade had said, Mycroft was still trying to get him involved in this case?

He opened the folder on his way back to the office, reading the first page, an index of contents. By the time he reached the bottom, he'd been paused in his office doorway for almost a full minute. The second page had a memory stick attached. By the time Lestrade had finished reading that page, heart thudding against his ribcage as though it was trying to escape, he was already stepping back into the corridor, bellowing to his nearest team member. He needed about fifteen arrest warrants, preferably in the next ten minutes.

Sherlock's plan wasn't quite as simple as he'd implied to Mycroft. Where possible, he avoided giving Mycroft any information at all on his cases or indeed, any part of his life. While he recognised that the circumstances were unique and it was not the time for sibling rivalry, he was still disinclined to give away more information than necessary.

He was intending to catch Merridew in the act, just as he had said and to do that, he did indeed need him to commit a crime. But he wasn't actually intending to wait for the next time that happened organically. While it was certain to happen, it was surely just as certain to be like every other crime Merridew had committed or ordered, in that it would be impossible to prove his involvement.

Instead, Sherlock intended to smoke him out. As Mycroft would know from his surveillance, Sherlock had been trailing several of Merridew's men, trying to read a pattern in their movements. This was a minor detail in a much more widely spread surveillance operation. Surveillance, with just the slightest hint of harassment. He had his full network shadowing Merridew's every movement with two primary instructions. One, do not let their target out of their sight and two, make sure they were seen.

He wanted Merridew to know he was being watched and not from a distance. He wanted every report Merridew received from his henchman to say the same thing. If Merridew had been determined enough that Sherlock wasn't going to interrupt his business again, to send a lackie after his loved ones, then he was absolutely certain to lash out, when feeling cornered.

He would do something rash before long and when he did, Sherlock would have him. He was building up a rather impressive dossier on the other henchmen he was following too. Merridew needed to be the first domino, but from there, his organisation would fall.

On hearing him explain this, John had expressed some concern for the safety of Sherlock’s contacts. By having them follow him so relentlessly, he was setting them up to be the focus of Merridew's eventual loss of temper, but Sherlock did not believe this to be the case. Partly, the army of homeless or otherwise irregular network of London who acted on his behalf, were not easily caught out. Mostly, however, he was absolutely certain that Merridew would come after him personally. In his first attack, he’d gone for the jugular. When he realised Sherlock was toying with him, he would only up his game.

To this end, Sherlock had made sure that as much as possible of the following of Merridew himself, was done by him. That hadn’t been especially difficult in the last few days, as Merridew, like all of his henchmen, seemed to have become very attached to their homes and to doing as little as possible. Stationary targets were certainly an easier prospect, but Sherlock was always suspicious of anything which seemed to come too easy.

The window opposite him was partially covered by an artistic room divider, which left him enough space to see out, but made him a lot less noticeable in his seat opposite the window. The café was busy enough that it would be considered an unlikely spot for a stake out. Sherlock had been sitting in it, facing the window, for just under six hours that day. In total, while he’d been watching Merridew, he’d lost count. The café was owned by a loyal former client, who had arranged the divider to his liking and also kept an eye out for anyone who appeared overly interested in Sherlock himself. The café window gave a view of the entrance to the road on which Merridew lived in his attractive town house, but no view of the house itself. The road was open at both ends but the other end led mostly to a park, where, just in case, Sherlock had stationed a second watch. It wasn’t onerous work for the other watches, who used the park for their own business, regardless.

In the five days Sherlock had been at his work, Merridew had left only twice and both had been for activities so mundane, Sherlock almost suspected them of being staged. More than once, Mycroft’s multiple warnings returned to him. Clearly, Mycroft thought Merridew was baiting a trap of some kind. If that was true, then Sherlock was giving him what he wanted. What Mycroft did not seem to understand, was that it was what Sherlock wanted too.

His phone beeped in his pocket, but Sherlock ignored it. Whether it was John or Mycroft, at this moment, he did not need a distraction, because there was an unmarked van parked on the corner of the road he was watching and it was obscuring his view. He stared intently, willing it to move so that he didn’t have to, potentially revealing himself and not at a moment he meant to. His pocket vibrated again and he felt irritation rise. He was going to have to move.

It might have been his imagination, but Sherlock felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, before anything happened to alert him. All at the same moment, his phone began to vibrate without pause, not from a phone call, but from a series of texts in rapid succession, as sirens cut through the air. The sirens drowned out the buzzing of his phone, seconds before six police cars roared around the corner and disappeared down the road Sherlock had been so carefully watching. The flashing of the lights remained visible and the sirens halted just seconds after the turn, letting Sherlock and his fellow café dwellers know that the police had reached their destination.

Sherlock had his phone in his hand as he moved towards the café doors, feeling a wave of confusion and possibly annoyance rise. He had more than a dozen messages from his carefully placed network, letting him know their mark had just been arrested.

The sound of sirens was unremarkable in London, part of the cacophony of everyday life in the city. But six patrol cars did not tend to appear on rows of highly sought after London town houses, without very good reason. Sherlock jogged around the corner, no longer making even a passing effort to conceal his presence. He was almost certain of what he was going to find, before he skidded to a halt twenty feet away from the blockade of police cars.

Several of Lestrade’s team were there, though the man himself was not in view. Presumably, he was inside, carrying out the actual arrest.

Sherlock surveyed the scene, taking in the details. The number of police officers, the buzz of adrenaline and excitement coming off all of them in waves, the faint sounds of a commotion from inside the house. It meant the charge was serious, that the arrest had come as the result of an unanticipated emergency order, that the subject had not seen it coming.

He was still there, watching the arrest in which he had somehow had no hand, when Merridew was led from the house, Donovan and an uniformed PC on either side of him, Lestrade walking behind. Unlike everyone else present, Lestrade did not look excited or pleased with himself. He looked determined. Faintly disgusted if he happened to look at Merridew. But certainly there was none of the self satisfaction apparent in many of the others present.

Merridew's expression was much easier to read. Eyebrows drawn down, lips compressed and slightly raised on one side. Anger, with a more than considerable dose of contempt. He wasn't scared yet. He thought the police were making a mistake he would enjoy correcting. He didn't know how much they knew. Sherlock was reasonably certain he would be disappointed in this regard.

Lestrade looked up suddenly and caught Sherlock's eye. If he'd had more time to react, he might have been embarrassed by the lack of surprise in Lestrade's expression. Instead, he noted the lack of anger. He made no acknowledgement, just holding his gaze for a moment before turning his attention back to Merridew, gesturing to a patrol car to take him to Scotland Yard. When he next looked up, glancing back down the road where he'd seen his consulting detective watching, Sherlock was gone.

Mycroft was in his car when the phone rang. He glanced at the screen, intrigued. He supposed he had expected to hear from him, but probably not so soon.

"Inspector.”

“Thanks for the tip off.”

Lestrade’s voice sounded in his ear with more than passing sarcasm.

The information Mycroft had delivered was considerably more than a tip off. “It was information I felt belonged with the police.”

“Not MI5? I thought Merridew was their problem now?”

“MI5 were investigating an attack on a government official. I have no evidence to offer, relating to that incident.” The silence on the other end of the line let him know Lestrade did not appreciate his attempt at humour. “I trust you got your perpetrators?” He asked, when Lestrade offered no further comment.

“Yes, they’re all in custody. They’ll be charged straight away and most of them will be remanded before trial.”

Mycroft nodded to himself. It was as he’d expected. Proving a violent crime for all of Merridew’s employees hadn’t been possible, but he would pick them off later, if needed. If it looked like any who escaped a prison sentence had ideas of succession to Merridew’s empire.

“Why did you send it to me?” Lestrade spoke again while Mycroft was distracted.

“Sorry?” He asked, dragging his mind away from his next steps, back to the conversation at hand. “You seemed the most appropriate choice, being the inspector who first took the case.”

“No, I mean why me, rather than Sherlock?”

The sincerity in his voice was hard to ignore. His instinct to offer an overly literal, sardonic reply dissolved almost before forming in his mind. “I asked you to give Sherlock any help he needed on this and you did so, despite the lack of information given to you. It seems appropriate that it should be you who closes this case, now that there is information which need not be concealed."

The pause on the other end of the phone caused a tightening of Mycroft's throat that he did not wish to acknowledge. Why was it, he felt so disproportionately guilty at the offence he and Sherlock had clearly caused Lestrade? He had felt very little beyond exasperation at John, who had been lied to just the same. John had a very straight forward and specific set of morals, which he seemed to think were immutable rights and wrongs. Sherlock had done something he would not have done, therefore he had done wrong.

Perhaps that was the difference. John had been angry, where Lestrade had been hurt. Lestrade had offered no opinion on what Sherlock had done or why Mycroft had allowed it, he had just withdrawn, when he had realised he was being lied to and manipulated.

But no, Mycroft pondered. That was not the reason for his guilt. It was rather more simple than that. John could be angry at Sherlock or feel wounded by him and he surely often did. But John would be a damn fool if he doubted for a second how important he was to Sherlock. His anger was not part of a deeper feeling of doubt and humiliation, second guessing whether he had ever actually been Sherlock’s friend. Lestrade was hurt for exactly this reason. He did not have the certainty that John did. No one else, but John did, in fact. Mycroft included.

Despite this, Lestrade had always shown patience with Sherlock that even John had never mustered. He had accepted a situation in which he was a good and loyal friend, where Sherlock was a question mark. He had believed they were friends, even if Sherlock didn’t always know how to show it. Undoubtedly, when Lestrade had realised the truth about Mycroft’s attack, he had thought it meant he had been wrong.

Mycroft did not wish to dwell on the extent to which he could empathise with this feeling. Moments of uncertainty, when he’d wondered if all of Sherlock’s contempt was strictly farcical. If it wasn’t, how deep did it run and how strong was the well-hidden familial bond underneath?

For Mycroft, he had always been reassured by the fact that even in their worst moments, Sherlock had never stopped coming to him for help. Cursing his constant surveillance in one breath and requesting use of his high security access with the next. It wasn’t hard for him to understand what it meant to feel used.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Mycroft blinked at the phone, confused and slightly startled by the comment. He had rather lost track of the conversation in the silence which had followed his explanation, but he could not imagine where Lestrade’s quiet proclamation might have come from.

“Pardon me?” He asked, not bothering to conceal his bewilderment.

“Yesterday. I was angry and I lashed out at both of you, but there’s nothing wrong with you choosing to protect Sherlock. I didn’t need to be such an arse about it.”

“Inspector-” Mycroft began, feeling an odd defensiveness begin to rise. “Please do not think that giving you information relevant to your role, or acknowledging your willingness to help, was an attempt to change your feelings on the subject of either myself or Sherlock.”

Was it not? He thought even as he spoke. It had certainly not been meant to manipulate, but surely it had involved a hope that Lestrade would take it as a peace offering.

There was a strange tone in Lestrade’s voice as he replied, almost as though he was smiling. “Mycroft, I’m trying to say sorry.”

A myriad of pompous, condescending, imperious answers pushed themselves to the forefront of Mycroft’s mind, suddenly desperate to regain the surety of standing he had not noticed disappearing from underfoot. He did not need apologies from lowly inspectors. He didn’t need assurances or overtures of friendship of any kind.

Despite the indignation in his mind, the words that came out of his mouth were rather different in tone. “Thank you, Inspector. Congratulations on your successful case.”

Chapter Text

What had he missed? Sherlock had returned to the flat in the early evening, unable to shake the question from his mind. He was confused, angry and intrigued all at once, but through the buffeting emotions he kept coming back to the same question. What had he missed?

His plan had involved some risky elements, he knew that, he'd even acknowledged these to John as a form of olive branch for keeping the reality of Mycroft's attack from him. John had seemed concerned, but willing to accept that it was a risk worth taking. John was stupider than Sherlock often insinuated, if he thought Sherlock didn't know that the reason he wasn't overly worried, was because he knew Mycroft's surveillance would be all over Sherlock like a rash at that moment.

But his concern remained, nevertheless, and as Sherlock paced around the flat, turning over possibilities in his mind and swinging between raging anger and burning curiosity, John watched in very visible bewilderment. He tried to ask what was wrong, but Sherlock didn't have any answers for him at that moment. Partly, because the simplest answer was absurd. What was wrong? Merridew, the man he'd been relentlessly pursuing with a view to putting behind bars, was now behind bars. If it sounded ridiculous to him, he could only imagine what John would say if he voiced this truth aloud.

But how? Why? And if the answer to both of those questions was obviously Sherlock's omnipotent brother, what had he done to bring about such a decisive end to the case? And this had been his intention from the start, why had he let Sherlock waste so much time?

Sherlock stopped by the window again and snarled, feeling a fleeting sense of relief as the visitor he'd been expecting since he arrived home, pulled up outside. He'd known he'd come eventually, to let Sherlock know Merridew had been arrested, as though he might not already know. He was glad he hadn't made him wait long.

Mycroft pulled up short in the doorway of the flat, while Sherlock stood glaring at him. He glanced towards John, who merely raised his eyebrows, waiting with obvious intrigue to hear how Mycroft had managed to annoy Sherlock this time.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft greeted with a faintly wary tone. “Doctor Watson.” He added courteously.

“You did this.” Sherlock stated with absolute certainty, riding over a “hi” John had attempted to offer their visitor. He heard the anger in his tone, which rather surprised him. Annoyed though he was to have had his work wasted, he had assumed he had more questions than emotions to offer.

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose at the tone, letting him know it hadn't been missed, but he angled his head in concession to the mysterious accusation. “I did come with some news on Merridew, yes.”

Sherlock snorted in response and John continued to look between them as though he was watching an especially engaging tennis match. “It’s not news.” Sherlock assured him. “Merridew has been arrested and so have at least eleven of his people.”

“What?” Came an indignant question from the arm of the sofa, where John was perched, watching them. A rapid calculation on Sherlock's part let him know that John was unlikely to be annoyed that Mycroft had solved Sherlock's case, and as such, his tone was directed at Sherlock himself.

“Multiple arrests while I was watching Merridew this morning. Lestrade arrested Merridew himself.” Sherlock filled in. “I've been waiting for Mycroft to arrive and tell me exactly how that came about.” He added, in sort-of explanation for having not mentioned any of this to John through the morning. In truth, he hadn't wanted to analyse the possibilities out loud, until Mycroft was there to answer them. He returned his attention to Mycroft, ready to make his estimate of those possibilities, crystal clear.

“There has been no official evidence against Merridew in any previous case, so either you’ve known more than you suggested all the way along, or you’ve brought them in for something they didn’t do.” He stated, watching Mycroft closely for his reaction. He could sense John's attention in the same direction, silence questioning whether Mycroft might really have cheated, for want of a better word, to close a case before Sherlock.

Mycroft spoke with unexpected force, before a few seconds had passed. “Neither is the case.” He stated, a flat, self-assured, profession of fact.

Sherlock stared, confusion starting to rise. Mycroft wasn’t lying. Though he was beginning to look annoyed himself, he did not leave them waiting for an explanation for long. “I told you everything I knew from the beginning, including that MI5 and my people were working on this case. I would not have told you to keep investigating, if I had more information than I had shared. Matters escalated yesterday evening.”

Sherlock glanced sharply at John.

“Indeed.” Mycroft replied in response to John’s questioning look. “I thought it more than a little odd, given what we knew so far, that Merridew should have someone following John already.”

Sherlock caught John’s confused look and supplied an answer to Mycroft’s strange comment immediately. “Too aggressive. If he attacked Mycroft and then you a few days later, I wouldn’t take that as a warning.”

“Just an attack.” John replied, without need of further elaboration. The psychology of violence, he understood rather well.

“Precisely.” Mycroft agreed with John. “They were definitely Merridew’s men. I presume you noticed the police presence outside?” He added to Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. Of course he’d noticed. “Did Lestrade order that?” He asked, the faintest twinge of guilt sneaking up on him. For some reason, Lestrade's failure to appear victorious in any way at Merridew's arrest, prompted more discomfort than his angry outburst the previous day had done.

“At my request, yes.” Mycroft confirmed. “He was most obliging, which under the circumstances I thought rather impressive.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, amazed. Surely, Mycroft did not share his discomfort at the possibility they'd truly offended Lestrade? John's astonished expression seemed to share the same thought. Mycroft was continuing before either of them could question him further.

“I was not entirely convinced, but at least suspicious, that the men trailing John were planning an abduction.” Mycroft went on, ignoring the reactions of both guilt and amazement from the other two occupants of the flat.

“Why?” John asked. “Merridew ordered an assault on you. Why suddenly switch to kidnap?”

Mycroft nodded slowly, attention fixed on Sherlock, even as he answered John. “That was my question. The only answer of which I could conceive was that both were intended to have the same effect.”

“Distraction.” Sherlock broke in, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as his own central question returned to him. What had he missed?

“Indeed.” Mycroft agreed. “I suspected that Merridew was deliberately engaging your attention, Sherlock. I had one of the men following John last night, brought in for questioning. From this, evidence arose enough to lead to Merridew and several of his men’s arrests this afternoon.”

Sherlock broke a distracted, far off stare and looked straight at Mycroft as he finished speaking. Mycroft was returning his searching stare, trying to read his reaction to how the end of the case had come about. What evidence? If evidence enough existed to bring down Merridew's empire after one single interview, why had it never been before? What exactly had Mycroft done, and was the answer the reason he was not especially open to accusation from Sherlock or John at that moment? All of these questions and many hundreds more spun through Sherlock's mind, but what came out of his mouth was something else entirely.

“You gave the evidence to Lestrade.”

Mycroft paused, looking confused. “Yes. I understood that this was also your tendency when working a case. Why, did you want it?” He asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I would have appreciated a warning.” He replied, hearing the entirely disproportionate bite in his voice, but unable to hold it back at that moment.

There was a pause, as Mycroft seemed to consider this and accept Sherlock’s perspective, whether reasonable or not. “I’m sorry. I thought Lestrade deserved a confidence.” He replied after a beat.

“What could one employee possibly have said to get Merridew caught?” Sherlock asked, a harsh note of disdain entering his voice as he chose to ignore Mycroft’s apology and reasoning entirely. The feeling of anger was only growing, more with every calm and reasonable answer Mycroft offered, and Sherlock had no idea why. He focussed on the details of the case to distract him. On the point on which he'd been certain and Mycroft had flatly denied. That to take this case from him with such finality, he had cheated.

If Mycroft was also aware of the implicit accusation in the question, he chose to ignore it. “He outlined the job on which he was currently working. The reason Merridew wished your attention elsewhere.” He replied, voice remaining calm.

“And this was enough? One man’s word?” Sherlock asked with scorn. “Merridew will get off, even if he lets his people rot.”

“No, the man we questioned gave enough information to alert MI5. The current job involved people smuggling - we knew it had to be something big - that’s a national security issue. Our detainee provided a basis of where to find evidence. It was all traced and collated in the early hours of this morning.” Mycroft explained in more detail.

Sherlock stared at him, searching for any indication of the truth behind his eerily calm expression. “Why would anyone do that?” He pressed. “Merridew will have him killed.”

Mycroft’s eyes flashed and Sherlock felt a sudden and utterly unexpected lurch of his gut. Mycroft didn’t care if their ‘detainee’ ended up dead and not out of disinterest. It was sheer, unadulterated malice.

“He will certainly try.” Mycroft replied, averting his gaze as Sherlock felt nausea stir within him. He spoke with about as much interest as one might offer an insect trying to escape a window. “The agreement made with our detainee was that once all evidence was collated and verified - bank accounts, addresses, weapons, licensed vehicles linked to a dozen past cases alongside this current concern - he had a window of opportunity in which to disappear. We have eyes on him, however and should a move be made against him, we will find any of Merridew’s people we might not have laid hands on so far.”

When understanding hit, it hit like a bullet. The distant discomfort, the question of what he was missing, the growing anger in his mind all coalesced with perfect clarity in a single second and Sherlock had to concentrate not to recoil. “The informant.” He breathed. “That’s your ‘detainee’.”

Mycroft met his eyes with some difficulty as he nodded, but he managed it. No sign of victorious feeling there either, Sherlock thought vaguely.

“Wait, wait, I don’t understand. What informant?” John asked, attention flicking back and forth between the two brothers, worry in his expression.

“The man who came to tell me Merridew was planning an attack on one of you two.” Sherlock answered, voice hollow and flat.

Sherlock was no longer paying attention to either of the others, lost in the sudden understanding of just how stupid he'd been. What he'd done, on the word of a man who had been working for Merridew all along. He'd seen alarm cross Mycroft's face, before he'd turned away, studying his skull in lieu of breaking something, but he didn't pay it any mind.

“You mean the man who tipped you off? Who was turning Merridew down on the attack on Mycroft, but let you fake it?” He heard John ask, his voice emphasising the work ‘fake’, presumably without his awareness.

There was a brief pause, in which a small part of Sherlock's brain realised what he'd done, all too late. Just as John was realising the same.

“One of us two?” John's voice went through him like electricity.

Sherlock looked up, alarmed, as John stood up, staring at him, eyes suddenly bright and fearful. “You said you had strong reason to believe Mycroft was in danger.” John spoke, voice trembling, questioning, though he didn’t actually manage to ask a question. “That Merridew had ordered a hit on him.”

When Sherlock could not think of an immediate response, heart hammering in his chest, John raised his hands to his head. “Oh my God, Sherlock.” He stammered. He looked between Sherlock and Mycroft, the latter looking startled, but otherwise composed. “Oh God.” He turned away.

“It’s immaterial, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft spoke to the silence when Sherlock came up with nothing. “The informant who named the two possible targets was acting on Merridew’s instructions. It really didn’t matter who Sherlock chose, the other would then have become the next target. I was the most practical choice.”

True, Sherlock knew. He had wondered at the purpose of Merridew coming after John so quickly. Felt increasing relief in fact, that he'd taken Mycroft off the playing board at least temporarily, as it became clear that both original targets were in play, not just one or the other. Mycroft had indeed been the more practical choice, of the two. The one who would just do whatever Sherlock needed and ask questions later.

The truth of his statement didn't make it any less repellent to hear, to Sherlock, so he was not surprised to see the disgusted grimace which crossed John's face. For a split second, it looked like he was going to respond and Sherlock prepared to step in. Then the sickened anger in John's expression shifted as his eyes flickered over Mycroft's face, down to his hand. Sherlock guessed he was taking in his still visible injuries. The asymmetrical bruising causing one of Mycroft’s eyelids to droop slightly. The purple moons under both eyes. The formidable cast covering all but his thumb on one hand. He knew John couldn't see the rest. The tension in every inch of Mycroft's body, despite his outward composure. The faintest, almost invisible signs of uncertainty, knowing he was just ever so slightly less in control than he was used to being.

“I’m…sorry.” John murmured, not quite looking at either brother, not making it clear to which of the two he was apologising, or for what.

“Well, I am not.” Mycroft said after a rather awkward pause. “It bought the time needed to get ahead of Merridew. He knew Sherlock had been convinced by his ruse and it made him reckless, otherwise he would certainly not have continued to use the informant, who could be caught and persuaded.”

The word ‘persuaded’ held an air of menace, the entire statement more than a passing note of pomposity, which all came as an odd sort of relief to Sherlock, even as his gut churned. At least he knew now, why Mycroft didn't care if his detainee was killed. The man who had convinced Sherlock to attack him, on false pretences.

“Idiot.” Sherlock cursed suddenly, harshly reminded that his own stupidity was the cause of every aspect of the case, up to and including Mycroft's injuries and John's brand new guilt. His angry snarl punctured the silence without warning and made both John and Mycroft jump. “How did I miss that?”

Mycroft began to smile, but as Sherlock's fist smacked against the mantelpiece, sending his decorative skull flying, the smile disappeared. “You did not miss it. You made a perfectly reasonable deduction. Your plan would have led you to the correct conclusion.”

Sherlock snorted. “Eventually. It didn’t even occur to me to check that the informant was real! Of course he wasn’t. What kind of stupid decision would that have been?”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft all but snapped. “You are not inhuman. You were targeted and threatened in a very precise and deliberate way, to ensure you were distracted. That distraction alone prevented you from seeing the truth immediately. I wasn’t sure either, until last night.”

Sherlock rounded on him immediately, not mollified in the least. “But you suspected. That’s what you tried to tell me at your flat.”

“I suspected, yes.” Mycroft made no attempt at denial. “Because I had not been in the position you had. Sherlock, I’m not in the least sorry to have brought this case to its end, nor to have given the final dealings over to the police, but it is unreasonable for you to feel that either of these things reflect poorly on you. Two lives could well have depended on you doing as you did.”

Sherlock met Mycroft’s eyes, feeling a powerful combination of fury and shame. He wanted to acknowledge that Mycroft was right. That if he hadn't done as the informant had instructed, Merridew would have known immediately that he hadn't been fooled and that the informant was exposed. Mycroft wouldn't have been able to use him to end the case. He wanted to admit that he was not easily fooled and that believing he had a chance to protect his loved ones was not a failing. He wanted to not lash out at Mycroft again, because he was ashamed.

“Don’t patronise me, Mycroft.” He spat. Because it didn't matter what he wanted, really. He wanted to have not been manipulated into mutilating his brother and yet here they were.

The concern on Mycroft’s face morphed into instant disgust. “No? A minute ago you wanted me to have told you before the police, of the evidence we had collected. Is it less patronising to hand you a solved case, than to imagine you are not to blame for Merridew’s actions?”

Sherlock was a little taken aback by that. He'd somehow expected Mycroft to keep trying to talk him down, not snap back. “I don’t need you to solve my cases for me.” He muttered.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John wince. It was a familiar look, which told Sherlock that he was being petulant. In this case, that he was being petulant in a moment when it was so intensely inappropriate, that even John didn't know how to respond.

He wondered if Mycroft might just leave. He would be able to work out that Sherlock was not yet ready to face the reality of Merridew's case like an adult, and might choose to avoid further confrontation. In other circumstances, that might have been exactly what Sherlock wanted, too. In other circumstances when Mycroft being there or not being there made some difference as to what Sherlock could do. But it didn't, because he couldn't go back and not have been fooled by Merridew's thug-for-hire.

Mycroft's eyes rolled to the ceiling for a split second, before he took a slow breath. “I didn’t.” He spoke with unexpected softness. “I solved my own inquiry. You, unless I’m much mistaken, were attempting to goad Merridew into an open attack, for which he could then be charged. I was looking into his past crimes. I had no case to solve, we were fully aware of his past crimes as were you. I simply collected evidence and happened to do so before you had success with your case. On this occasion, Sherlock, there is no conflict to be had, no reason whatsoever to fight.”

It was more than reasonable of him. Sherlock recognised this. He also recognised, from the careful quiet of Mycroft's voice, that it was stretching the very limits of his patience. When Sherlock continued to glare moodily at thin air, Mycroft sighed heavily from behind him, before moving to leave.

What had he done, while interrogating Sherlock's informant, to make him give evidence against Merridew? How much of Sherlock's violence had been revisited on the man who'd convinced him to do it? The image of Mycroft's blood-splattered face swum through his mind. Semi-conscious, unable to hide instinctive fear.

“Why, Mycroft?” Sherlock spoke quietly, when Mycroft was halfway out of the flat door. He turned towards him, catching the relieved look on John's face, that he hadn't just let him go.

Mycroft paused, turning back, confused. Sherlock didn't give him a chance to ask questions. “You could have sent the police after whoever was following John yesterday. You could have done anything really, other than intimidate a suspect into a confession which will mean you now have to keep watching him for years. This was by a long way, the least efficient way to close this case.”

In the seconds to follow, Sherlock saw Mycroft's carefully controlled expression run the gamit from surprise to anger to sympathy, before landing on its most familiar form; concern. “I could ask you the same question. Merridew had the eyes of the entire state on him. He was neutralised for the moment, even if that was exactly his plan. Why have you spent so much time and effort on this?” He asked, voice all too quiet and gentle.

Sherlock looked away. He knew why. He knew why Sherlock was so angry he'd had the case taken off him, he knew why John was horrified at the idea that Sherlock had chosen between them, he knew all of it. “I made the decision to set the case in motion. It was my mess to clean up.” Sherlock muttered, instead of admitting out loud that he knew exactly what Mycroft meant.

“Merridew made the decision to set the case in motion. You made a decision to get revenge.” Mycroft stated bluntly. Sherlock felt his heat flush his chest and face at the words stated out loud. He wanted to deny, and his only means of doing so at that moment would have been to lash out, again. He felt a strange twisting of relief, when Mycroft didn't let him. “I did the same.”

Except it wasn't the same, was it? Even as Sherlock saw John's face practically crumble in sympathy with Mycroft's open admittance, Sherlock wanted to shut it down immediately. Mycroft wanting revenge because Merridew had been the reason he'd gotten injured, was not the same as Sherlock wanting to rip the still beating heart out of the man who, with such apparent ease, had caused him to harm his brother. How long had the conversation in the alleyway been? Minutes. Minutes, before Sherlock had made the decision to drug and assault Mycroft.

He knew why. He knew Mycroft was right, and that in the situation Sherlock had been in, with all of the information he had available to him, it hadn't been an unreasonable decision. Amazing, really, that John seemed to be agreeing with Mycroft on this, given his own indignation at the discovery of what Sherlock had done. He knew why it had been important that Mycroft had been sedated for the process, and yet it was that, he could not stop seeing. Mycroft had been willing to do whatever Sherlock needed, or more accurately, to allow Sherlock to do whatever Sherlock needed. But once the drugs had taken hold, willingness had played no part in his response. It had ripped his outer defences away and he hadn't been able to hide his pain or fear. He hadn't been able to stop the agonised scream of pain at his broken hand. Sherlock could still feel the warmth of his breath on his hand has he'd covered his mouth, muffling in his screams to prevent them being heard on the street below. See wild-eyed terror in his face before the combination of shock and sedation had claimed his consciousness. For that, Sherlock had wanted Merridew dead. It had been his only driving force for the long days of his case, even fighting with Mycroft on the subject didn't seem important, if in the end he got revenge on the man responsible for it all.

Now he knew that he'd been fooled from the beginning, it almost seemed churlish to want revenge on Merridew. Merridew hadn't hurt Mycroft, Sherlock had. Merridew hadn't seen Mycroft broken and bruised and barely able to stand just a day later, and yelled at him for wanting to take over his case. Merridew hadn't really done anything, except successfully distract Sherlock.

Mycroft had bailed him out of his own stupidity, as he had done so many times before, and here he was claiming that their actions had been somehow the same. He almost didn't notice Mycroft crossing the room slowly, closing the space between them, until he was right in front of him, sliding his broken hand out of its sling and examining the clumsy cast. Sherlock stood still, staring at the misshapen lump of plaster.

“Do you think you're the only person who has made questionable decisions through this process, Sherlock? I knew something was wrong when you sent your text, and yet I went to the warehouse with no back up, or contingency plan, because I thought someone I care about was in danger. Just like you did. To get Merridew off the streets, I broke the kind of laws that the general public don't even know exist, because he forced me into a situation I did not wish to be in. I know you wanted to beat him, and I know you won't listen to me saying you did beat him, he's beaten now and wouldn't have been if you hadn't done exactly as you did. God forbid we consider this one a team effort. And I understand, because if I had to choose which role to take in this, mine or yours, I'd take mine every time. I'm sorry you were put in that position. I refuse to believe you don't know why I wanted revenge on the person who put you there.”

Sherlock couldn't breathe. It wasn't meant to be like this. Mycroft wasn't meant to talk like this. He was meant to be pompous and aloof and even colder than Sherlock himself. He was being pompous, and rather grandiose. But it wasn't aloof in the slightest. His dark grey eyes seemed to burn.

“I could have killed you.” He heard himself mumbling, almost without his consent.

Mycroft's intense stare glittered faintly. “We both know that isn't true.” He stated without heat. Sherlock had planned meticulously, and apparently Mycroft wasn't in the mood to pretend he hadn't known that at the time.

“It wasn't...” Sherlock swallowed. It was this part, that made Mycroft's magnanimous position hard to take. “I wasn't choosing between you. I just knew you'd understand.”

John would have willingly died to defend an innocent life, but he could not have understood a need to let Sherlock hurt him, to keep him safe. Mycroft had done that and considerably beyond. Sherlock had known he would.

Something flickered behind Mycroft's eyes and Sherlock felt his breath catch. It was relief, he could see in his brother's face. Mycroft had wondered, even if he hadn't wanted to. Sherlock remembered the moment in his flat when he'd first gotten home, when Sherlock had told him he wouldn't apologise for not letting Merridew land him in intensive care. “I doubt his next victim will agree that any harm perpetrated against people who aren't John Watson, is so easily dismissed.”

Mycroft had stood by Sherlock and defended his every decision, even while solving the case for him, aware he was on the wrong track and wasn't listening to warnings on that front. But he had wondered. Had it been so easy to choose between he and John? Yes. But not for the reasons Mycroft may have imagined.

“Well then.” Mycroft spoke softly, his more familiar unreadable mask slipping back into place. “You must accept that I did indeed, understand.”

Calm, rather pompous...almost aloof. Sherlock felt a weak smile tugging at his lips. “I'm sorry, Mycroft. I really am.”

In other circumstances, Sherlock might have laughed at the flicker of shock which passed over Mycroft's face. From the grin crossing John's, Sherlock could see he was fighting the same urge.

Mycroft recovered quickly and cleared his throat, slipping his arm back into his sling and tapping his umbrella on the ground with an awkward flourish. “Don't be. Merridew is behind bars and will not be getting out in this lifetime.”

Sherlock nodded, feeling a painful knot in his chest starting to loosen, if not yet release.

“There is one other thing, Sherlock.” Mycroft stated as he moved towards the stairs once more. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and waited. “Inspector Lestrade. I have reason to believe he is not yet entirely beyond concilliation. Talk to him. Maybe let him know he's...valued.”

Sherlock blinked at him, hearing a softness in his voice he didn't quite know where to place. So he had not been imagining it, Mycroft was as discomforted as he was at the unexpected offence caused to Lestrade. Was that really it? That Lestrade thought Sherlock didn't value him as a person? And how did Mycroft know that?

Beyond the flash of curiosity, Sherlock felt a flood of familiar warmth. The offhanded tone, as though he was offering Sherlock a clue on a case. A clue which inevitably turned out to be exactly the truth which unravelled the case completely. Mycroft was back to helping him and pretending it was nothing.

“Mycroft.” He spoke as Mycroft got to the door. “Thank you.”

Mycroft avoided his gaze again for a beat, dipping his head in acknowledgement. With some visible effort, he looked Sherlock in the eyes before he replied. “Yes. Thank you, too.”

As the flat door closed behind him, John was still grinning in the background, a plan was forming to reassure Lestrade, Merridew was behind bars and his fake-informant would be on the run or in prison himself for the rest of his life.

It hadn't been the plan. It hadn't been the ending he'd wanted and it hadn't come down to his choice, at all. Sherlock recovered his skull from the floor where it had landed, returning it to the mantelpiece. As he picked up his violin and moved towards the window overlooking Baker Street, Sherlock smiled.