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Chapter Text

*Minds of Carat*

~WhiteGloves~

-Who needs season 5?-

WE DO! I demand another story line for the brothers!

While we wait for those brilliant writers to get fired up again :)

*Post S4 & really mental along the way*

*Warning for Mycroft being too awesome and Sherlock the not-so-obvious concerned brother*

-Enjoy Reading!-

Snatched

Sherlock doesn't like losing. Not on a simple board game, no. Yet here he was seated with most of his white pawns outnumbered and his Queen surrounded that made him chew his lips in contempt for he knew defeat when he sees one.

Tempted as he was to topple the board he was never going to win, Sherlock decided to move the last defence of the pawn—it got taken by the dark bishop in an instant. He knew that was coming anyway. Sherlock curled his lips as he the end flashed in his mind—every turn, every step, every movement to the last check—in his mind. It was an inevitable truth. Eyes flashing upward, the detective raised a narrowed look at that lone figure seated opposite him, the only one in the world who could outsmart him once—alright maybe twice—fine, more times than an average man for he was never average— the only man he thought worthy to be an opponent and with warrant to be on the opposite end of a chess game—

Dark queen takes rook.

"Jesus, you child, are you here to use your brain or not?" Mycroft scoffed as he put the white rook on his side with brilliant sharp eyes gazing at his younger brother. "If you plan to humour me I'm telling you, little brother, this is not the way."

Sherlock made no attempt to reply and let his pawn get taken too. That stung again.

"You're winning, why are you complaining?" he threw scathingly at that breathing brain with limbs.

Mycroft didn't even have to look up. "This is not winning—this is annihilation." White bishop disappeared on the board.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Again— why do you get to complain?"

"There's no victory for a superior mind that does not see a challenge." The older Holmes sat straight, chess puffed out and with that glinting look in his eyes as if he had been offended greatly but it was apparent he was enjoying his tiny speech. "This? This is no challenge nor anywhere near. This is an insult."

"You don't see me raising the white flag."

"I'll raise it for you."

Sherlock made a clicking sound of his tongue between his teeth. Just like his brother to be so impatient when the game could still last for another five minutes. But that's just like his brother to be playing cards at present but mind already ten steps ahead. Right about now Mycroft was no longer with him on the board—in his mind, he has already won and most likely drinking tea. Sherlock was impressed but the curl on his lips said otherwise as he went on—

"I think you should rethink of insult when you've sorted out how and why you allowed yourself to be here."

He received another glare for that as his last white pawn was taken.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mycroft was quiet but the detective saw him grip the side of his metal chair as if only just remembering where they were. Sherlock need not reminding—the very scene itself was new to his understanding.

"Just keep wolfing them down, brothermine." Sherlock whispered as let his last rook get taken and had to lean back the chair to see the board with both elbows on the side of the metal chairs, "I have no reputation to maintain when it comes to beating you— you're the eldest, you get all the pressure when I beat you."

"If—if you beat me." Mycroft's eyes glowed briefly. "And isn't it the opposite where the younger one feels disheartened by his older brother's accomplishment?" he tossed another white bishop on his stack side.

"Really? Where'd that dull idea come from? Your invention?"

"Don't be stupid. It's a family norm I observed from most siblings."

"I didn't know you're interested with sibling interactions—let alone any interaction."

"What do you mean 'interest'? I see it once and everything attaches itself to our brain worse than glue." Mycroft shrugged with an incredulous look at his brother. "Oh, pardon me. I suppose it's just my brain that does that." He pressed a smile that made Sherlock roll his eyes.

"Yes, yes your brain's excellent, carry on."

"As I was saying, observing interactions of humans is a natural thing and if you don't control it, you see everything around you and it is sometimes—"

"Overwhelming?" Sherlock suggested.

"Unpleasant." Mycroft ended with a sigh, "The sibling interactions I've seen were the worst kind just because of envy and pride... funny it always ends awkwardly for them and the next thing you know someone's dead."

"Not so petty our reasons to kill each other off then, in our family." The detective smirked while Mycroft gave him a long thoughtful look. Immediately the detective knew his older brother's thoughts just vanished away to the mysterious island somewhere on the north. Sherlock had to immediately wipe his smirk at that.

"No." The older Holmes agreed, "Her reasons were not petty. Still, the simpletons here still believe she did it out of revenge to me or to us. They have difficulties understanding brilliant minds and I suppose that's to our advantage. The lesser they know, the happier they will be."

"Quite." Sherlock stayed his eyes on the board game but he knew exactly the face Mycroft was making. By she both brothers know there was only one other sibling—unless Sherlock forgot to ask Mycroft again then he knew there was only one more— and she was not petty. She was brilliant. She tried to kill them and nearly managed to.

A poignant silence then—

"Be that as it may," the older Holmes cleared his throat afterwards, "if you're ever inclined to such envy to the capacity of my brain, brothermine—"

"Not interested." Sherlock leaned back on the table and played his queen safe. Mycroft put a dark pawn out as bait and went on—

"But since when have you taken refuge over me being the eldest when you lose? You're not going to make our seven-year-gap difference the excuse every time I defeat you, are you?"

"Mm..." Sherlock finally took the dark knight prancing itself on his area near his queen. "Only if it's convenient for me. But ever heard of age doesn't matter?"

Mycroft looked horrified for a second. "Oh dear god, where'd you learn that expression?"

"Mrs. Hudson—"

"Speak no more." Mycroft waved a hand with a traumatized look on his face. "I just saw the end of reasoning. Imagine a fine wine of sixties not labelled of date landing on the hands of toddlers who adds it on their beverage list after mixing it with blues and oranges or whatever colours beverages are supposed to be these days." He sighed. "Ghastly."

Sherlock was already smiling. "She did that."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he looked his brother in the eyes. "I know. That's why I said—toddlers."

"She's not bad."

"I have a whole set of other vocabularies to choose from."

"For god's sake, Mycroft, choose someone your own size." Sherlock eyed his brother's clothes grimly for it never suited his brother. It was not pleasant to the eye when Mycroft was robbed of his usual three piece suit and instead wearing a singular clothing "You lost some of it so it won't be difficult now."

"Believe me I wouldn't opt to talk about her even when she's around or when we're locked together."

"Mycroft." Sherlock said through gritted teeth as he shot his brother a glare. "That's quite enough."

Mycroft looked up haughtily. "You asked for it when you let me slaughter your side of the board."

"You sound surprise." The detective tapped his finger on the side of the table.

"Except that you're being quite amiable about it." Mycroft moved his queen for a check and leaned back on his chair for effect. "Normally we don't even get to see the end of a checkmate because you throw everything away."

Sherlock was contemptuous. "Sorry for being abnormal now but you don't have to be upset about it."

Mycroft Holmes let out a sigh so exasperated it rang in the small, cold room. "It bores me, Sherlock. Nothing quite says 'here, my treat' than you exceptionally losing at a game you like."

"Speak for yourself, I never liked chess."

"Then why are we playing this?"

"Oh, I don't know." Sherlock threw casually with an edge at tone of his voice. "Probably because someone couldn't stay out of prison to do other things."

Mycroft glowered at that because that was exactly where they were in— a prison.

Both brothers were inside a windowless, cold stone building with nothing save the white thick walls and security cameras surrounding them. It was one of those secluded and highly protected Her Majesty's Prison and once upon a time Sherlock remembered being kept there for a week after the fiasco of killing one Charles Magnussen until he was labelled to be unmanageable—yours truly by his caring brother— and got papers approved on being transferred to Eastern Europe. It was a sweet memory.

Then he was cleared of charges by Mycroft himself and his private associates who without a doubt were the controller behind the British Government—which here would mean the cleaner of mess in Sherlock's vocabulary as these experts made alterations to the truth. He was off the hook.

It didn't seem to be the case for his older brother.

Mycroft Holmes looked too out of place wearing the white plaid uniform but he didn't seem to mind. He seemed to have adapted to its appearance and now wore the clothing with much sophistication as he would his usual three-piece suit. Sherlock had rolled his eyes the first time he saw his brother thirty minutes ago. He only had just found out about his brother's imprisonment from his secretary who answered the detective's queries when Sherlock came to investigate the absence of his brother for two weeks. It was mutual to them to be always in touch especially after the events at Sherrinford. With his brother unreached, Sherlock was able to hunt the secretary down in half a day and she proved to be inept of hiding the truth but she forgot she was talking to Sherlock Holmes—fifty minutes later— here he was, well transported by a hired cabby. Apparently Mycroft holds no power during his incarceration, something which Sherlock was unprepared for.

Finding Mycroft waiting for him inside this tiny white room moments ago, Sherlock nearly smiled in amusement while his brother looked exasperated at the found smile. A chess board was on the table. Sherlock's eyebrows rose up on finding it and the moment he sat down, he began with—

"So the queen finally found out the real criminal mind behind her government?"

"Proud to say she doesn't know a thing." Mycroft pressed a common smile. Sherlock returned the opposite and humour left him as quick as it came.

"You plan on playing hide and seek with me?"

"With your persistence? I wouldn't dream of it. I lack the energy. There was never a game."

"And still I found you." There was a sound of dissatisfaction at that. "So let me guess, nobody knows you're here?"

"From your circle at least. But who'd be interested to know?" Mycroft had pointed out then, the chess board untouched.

"John noticed he hadn't been kidnapped for awhile."

Mycroft smiled. "I don't kidnap fathers anymore. Or at least he is off the hook. And so are you."

"Obviously I had to stalk your secretary just to get information." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother. "You didn't make it easy, you. I was a phone call away, you idiot."

The older Holmes pressed his eyes tight at that as if the sound irritated his ears and Sherlock thought of warning him for that word will be jumping out of his mouth judging by the situation. But Mycroft didn't seem disheartened.

"Please, can you imagine me calling you in the middle of the night telling you I'm here?"

Now Sherlock pressed a smile, making his brother's eyebrows rose up in the sky. "See? I won't make anything for your amusement, brothermine."

"Looking past that—you're still in prison. Who else can you tell but me?"

"You're right. But I have a habit of not involving dynamites to a fish pond." Mycroft was grinning. "But only two weeks? I thought you'd never notice."

"You'd be surprised."

"I am surprised." Mycroft admitted as he offered a hand towards the chess board, indicating his younger brother to take the first move for the white were his. Sherlock frowned at that and ended up sighing as his fingers landed on a pawn and ejected it forward.

That was half an hour ago and now that the game was over Sherlock was no longer in the mood for jokes, especially not after observing his brother closely. Prison didn't seem to agree with his older brother no matter how much Mycroft try to not to give away his discomfort. Sherlock gave a long pause with thoughts and observations overflowing in his mind that for awhile he had to shut all other concerns away.

"You trusted I'd be coming here." Sherlock breathed with a start again, thinking in many ways, his brother was snatched out of position. He didn't think Mycroft was that vulnerable.

"You always appear on places you were never invited. Only times when I don't see grass grow under your feet."

"I never stay put long enough. And what invitation?" Sherlock shook his head. "You got yourself locked up. Nobody in London should be having any grass growing anywhere anytime soon when headline reaches tomorrow: British Empire collapses for no apparent reason."

"You flatter me." Mycroft was smiling from ear to ear, "And yes, London should be worried about its time soon. Good heaven knows the kind of people handling the matter at the top." He gave a shiver and looked at the CCTV on his right. "It's gone all horribly wrong up there."

The detective looked sideways too and then back to his older brother who just seemed too untroubled by his predicament. Such paradox, his older brother was. He was already complicated before but then recent events turned him into an even more bad case of enigma. Sherlock had given up trying to know what was playing on his brother's head but after the events with their sister, Eurus, he could not understand how this brother of his was able to go through everything without feeling anything with all the death toll and their sister's condition— no trauma, no emotions, no heart, just—him. John did suggest an idea of Mycroft's well-being when Sherlock casually mentioned it during breakfast and the doctor said something about 'suppressed emotion'.

Something which Sherlock can see clearly now.

Or that's just Mycroft being Mycroft. Still, it didn't feel right. Not with how Mycroft was treated as Sherlock's eyes fell on his brother's wrists.

"You big idiot." He whispered curtly again that got Mycroft looking offended as he frowned. "Why would you let them treat you like this?"

"What? This?" Mycroft raised his wrist where Sherlock could see cuff marks were apparent. He had notice them the moment he stepped in and this didn't add to the detective's already sour look. "Things got a bit out of hand after the Sherrinford incident... certain personnel we try to avoid got wind of some of its details and well... somebody has to answer."

"And that person is you?"

"Who else do you have in mind?" The dead flicker on his eyes reminded Sherlock of the past event at the island too, and then his sister. It would take a great deal of head injury for him to forget all of that. "The Whitehall's been insisting on a full report about the island... I had to tell them some of its truth."

"And your associates didn't feel the need to alter some of the information?"

Mycroft shook his head, his face going blank like how it always does. "Well, it is only reasonable that the Whitehall would send a representative outside the Cabinet Office to investigate since the leader is the suspected instigator. I was presumed on comma on the duration remember? And someone had to take over my place. Information leaked and things were out of our hands even before we saw what was coming."

"You didn't see—?" the younger Holmes sounded so cross and Mycroft had to blink several times to understand the outburst and went on hesitantly—

"I admit... I was a little distracted during those days..."

And Sherlock understood as he saw his brother squirm on his seat all of a sudden, like how he did when their parents had confronted him and reprimanded him on his office, white and shaken. Still, Sherlock was angry enough at the end result of his brother being where he was that he couldn't help gritting his teeth.

"Why didn't Lady Smallwood act then? She's smart enough to do it, or even that so called Sir Edward—"

"Edwin." Mycroft corrected him with a strange look. "They tried, but the questioning from the representative and some other people—cunning people I give you— whom I've dealt with not so kindly in the past were a little... overwhelming."

Sherlock slowly nodded at that. "A case of reaping what you sow? Sounds to me like they don't like you very much."

"Flattery again, brother dear." Mycroft pressed another smile. "We never liked anyone."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he caught his brother's eyes. "Did you tell them about Eurus?"

"Of course." Mycroft met Sherlock's eyes of steel with blades in his eyes. "Worry not, I protected Eurus in my own way. They learned that she as my sister got used against me and against her will. Rest assure they will never bother her, I told them how... broken she was which is the truth. A bit twisting in the story is necessary of course, I was always commended for my ability to create story out of thin air in matter of heart's beat—you've got your first hand experience on that—but the end is still the same. Someone has to answer."

"So why you?"

Mycroft frowned. "Better than you, of course. The credit is just too out of your scope."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "What are they charging you with? If it was of mental nature of our sister, aren't there laws that gives considerations to—"

"I know the laws having made some of them." Mycroft shrugged. "But it was nothing complicated with regards to our sister... My crime was simply fraternizing with the enemy."

"What?"

"My contact with Jim Moriarty came into light." Mycroft met Sherlock's eyes and that was enough explanation as the detective gave his brother a different look that sent many meaning. The older Holmes ended chuckling softly. "If I remember correctly they said something like treason around the corner."

Sherlock sat quietly on his chair for awhile, his mind diving to the lone criminal mastermind that had been shut down at the deepest corner of his brain—now hunting him again because even when dead, Jim Moriarty still spelt trouble.

"Fair enough." The detective then sighed as he watched his older brother.

"That's what I thought." Mycroft agreed with a touch on his marked wrists.

Sherlock stared hard and long at his cuff marks. "So how long are they keeping you here? It's been two weeks."

"I hear things." The older Holmes looked above the cameras and for a moment there was a touch of darkness that eclipsed his eyes. "It shouldn't be long now. By the life of me, my other visitors make you look adorable."

"Language, brothermine," Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "If you don't like them don't accept them."

"I don't have the privilege." Mycroft answered simply with a lost look again, making the detective sense that something was indeed, wrong. But then, Mycroft Holmes being in a cell was already wrong.

"They realise they can't keep you here forever?"

"I should hope so."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Mycroft was about to answer when there were sounds of metal doors being opened from the outside and someone on speaker saying, "I'm sorry to cut short the visit, Mr. Holmes. Urgent visitor from the White Hall. Dr. Norton is here."

Mycroft and Sherlock's eyes fell on each other and the detective saw uneasiness swept his brother's brows.

"See?" the older Holmes sat straight as he put a hand on his forehead. "Anyone can barge in here whenever they want to or at least, those who knew the security and mind you—only a percentage of important people know about me."

Sherlock heard the door behind him get open and had to look behind him with Mycroft still speaking—

"And when they do know about me, it always connote they mean business. Sherlock."

The detective didn't wait for whoever was coming in as he shot his brother a look of defiance.

"You still have a visitor: Me."

Mycroft only gave a small smile but there was something in his eyes that alerted Sherlock to whoever was walking in them, especially when his brother whispered, "Hardly matters. So sorry, Sherlock, but you have to go. This person's mouth is loaded with foulness you can't even begin to fathom."

"What?" the detective was frowning even deeper when a voice spoke behind him that made his skin crawl as if the person's voice itself was enough to give him an idea of something loathsome.

"Hello, my jewel. Oh. I see we have another precious stone today. And here I thought you'd never let us meet."

Sherlock glanced quick behind him. There was a person in white robes atop his three-piece suit that snaked his way into the room without another word and stopped right in the middle of their table. From there, he took his medical bag and dropped it on the table where the chess pieces collapsed everywhere but this was not what made the detective cringe. It was the apparent aura of blood screaming out of him.

"What the hell are you?" was the first thing that came out of Sherlock's mouth. Mycroft looked distant and haughty with his eyes of steel appearing sharper than ever.

"Oh?" the man sounded surprised to a point of mockery as he eyed the younger Holmes and smiled nastily. "I should like to ask you both the same with minds like yours." He chuckled and turned to Mycroft merrily as if seeing something too sparkly it lit his eyes in amusement.

"Miss me?"

-To be Continued-

A/N: My skin's crawling. Oh so sorry Mycroft O.o

Brace yourself, Sherlock!

Thanks for Reading!

Chapter Text

*Minds of Carat*

~WhiteGloves~

That took longer than I expected ;p

And it's getting darker!

*Warning for Sherlock's monogame!*

-Enjoy Reading!-

2: Pawn

A vulture— an animal of decay and signal of death.

It was the image that flashed in Sherlock's mind when he saw the man come in from head to toe with his dark furrowed eyebrows and furtive eyes. The man had come in with a cold passing air on his wake, his very image of white robes and uncombed short dark hair reminded Sherlock of the omen of death; he was also old, give or take on his mid 50s with his glasses only magnifying his round sharp eyes which also spoke volume. His gait which was done in rapid pace whilst his long and bony arms moved about him convinced the detective there was more to him than that of a typical scientists or a medical man too. What were his readings?

No sleep. Still excitable. Drug induced. Doctorate degree. Blood. Lost a wife. Lost another. Affair with women. Left-handed. Monomaniac. Extreme. Hates outdoors. Manic. Owns a turtle. Hates gloves (?)

Sherlock frowned at that. He reeks with blood as his first impression had remarked. Splatters of it.

Sherlock had compared many people—who do not act like one—to their animal states like snakes, rats and hedgehogs, otters and goldfishes as his brother always quote, sharks on occasions, and even earthquakes. Seeing and sensing someone who seemed to be metamorphosing into one less than human added with the variety of his other readings made him as curious as to the man's purpose in the room where his older brother was confined at the moment. The underlying question of why a manic person who looked so unstable had the clearance to reach the Mycroft Holmes of the British Government bothered Sherlock as he dropped his gaze to his brother again who had gone silent—

Whoever sent his brother here with this person must've hated his big brother a lot.

"Who is he, Mycroft?"

"It hurts when I'm not recognized by people I know by heart." the comment was given with such an accent from the North that got Sherlock flashing a look in his direction. "All these years my face was plastered on the White Hall and you didn't notice?"

"Was that supposed to make you interesting?" Sherlock went flatly, then to his brother. "What's this doing here?" he noticed the doctor's hands and his eyes lingered there.

"Now, little brother." Mycroft hinted sarcasm, "Where are your manners? This is Dr. Thaddeus Norton, a member of Medical Sciences and a representative of the White Hall. Come on, try harder, you must've seen his pictures." There was an intriguing raise of eyebrows from his older brother too and a facade smile.

Sherlock paused with eyes narrowing. "Nope. Don't remember. Inexistent. Won't bother to remember. But why a doctor?"

"Really incapable of keeping memories, I see." Dr. Norton grinned down at the British Government Head, "That's why you've always been my favourite jewel. You'd be giving your brain to me as you promised?"

Sherlock gave an incredulous look at the man then to his brother who dismissed the case.

"Behave, doctor." Mycroft caught Sherlock glaring at him. "My little brother's capacity to store facts indeed is limited, but he has his occasional uses in his trade. You shouldn't underestimate him. People who did either shoot themselves or get shot in the head. Might be your end case someday."

Sherlock looked up at his brother with a start. Mycroft's lips were thin and his brows almost on his hair line. This was his brother advancing to intimidate but for whatever reason, it didn't seem new to the doctor.

"I don't like shooting the head, too precious." Norton was smiling, "I always do get on my knees when bodies come in the morgue with brains blown up and burn them away. They're useless dead what more without their brains when it's all that makes them valuable. Murderers with lesser intellect only do that. But my estimation is based on data, Mr. Holmes. Sherlock Holmes is with potential but since you're in the room... well, you two are the first people I want to see shown up in the morgue but least with brains scattered to pieces. Try your best to come in with brains intact, won't you?"

Mycroft actually smiled wryly when he saw Sherlock roll his eyes. "I know, brothermine. I told you."

"Now if we talk about your dolichocephalic skull—" Norton ignored them—

"Oh, please—not your obsession with phrenology again—" snapped the prisoner, "I'm not going to go through that. And leave my bloody damn brain alone."

"How could I?" was the horrified response. "I've already prepared its jar—"

"You lunatic—"

"What the hell are you cracked nuts talking about?" Sherlock suddenly found himself saying at the unexpected unison, his eyes travelling from one man to the other. Mycroft was looking extremely put out which was truly unusual. Then again—he was in a prison. He was entitled as Sherlock glowered at their adversary.

"Stop pestering my brother. Any more outbursts and he'll choke on his tongue."

"Thank you, Sherlock." Mycroft rolled his eyes in derision. "Most meaningful advice he's sure to take."

"You know you don't have to deal with him." Sherlock pulled a face, "Why can't you send him out?"

Because quite frankly if he can't, then Sherlock just knows the world had really turned upside down. It did next—

"He can't do that, sorry." Dr. Norton took that time to stand straight but his head was looking down. Following his eyes, Sherlock saw the doctor was stepping on a white pawn down the floor and was pushing it back and forth. "He has no authority as much as you when certain subjects are under security concerns."

"Security concern?"

"To the Government, Mr. Detective. Queen and country. Right now Mr. Holmes is a patient."

"Patient?" Sherlock saw his brother raise his chin. "I thought you're a prisoner?"

"A hair strand difference." Mycroft shrugged. "Still keeps a person in check so let's call it what we will."

Sherlock gaped, trying to understand— and realised Mycroft was not telling him something.

"You're slower too, granted." Sighed the doctor all of a sudden, jamming his hands on his pockets, "Still, you remain a person of interest, Mr. Detective. Your brain power is not of normal average and despite your memory problems, I still consider you an interesting subject in the least."

"Yes, please, invest your interest elsewhere," Mycroft's voice was levelled, "he still is struggling with his astronomy so I don't know what's keeping him on your list of potentials."

Sherlock scowled. It was not new to Mycroft that he, Sherlock, does eliminate unnecessary information from his attic. He didn't have the bigger hard drive as he was often told. His brother on the other hand, is on the other hand.

"Seems like you found yourself a banter mate and here I thought you didn't have it in you." Sherlock could feel his ears getting hotter as confusion continued to haunt him. Being confused was nothing new to him too since he was talking to the most secretive man in the world anyway. "Why is he here?"

"He's my psychiatrist and attending physician."

"And since when did you need a psychiatrist? You don't even need your conscience."

"Since I decided he needs one." Dr. Norton abruptly replied to the younger Holmes, his piercing dark slit of eyes boring on the detective like he was fresh meat. Sherlock couldn't be sure if those were traces of cannibalism he could see there.

"You?" Sherlock pressed on determined to put the places of these pawns in order. "Why you?"

Norton was grinning meaningfully. "Because me."

"To make a point," Mycroft cut in shortly, "Dr. Norton assesses mental capacities of his subjects because sadly they think I'm falling under the category." He exchange sudden dark looks with the doctor. "But we both know that is not the case."

"Far from it." The doctor unzipped his bag on the table and began meticulously pulling out his medical instruments for blood tests with even large syringes. Sherlock was frowning heavily and was already shaking his head.

"Is this necessary, Mycroft?" he asked in full wonder because he had been in the same prison and the only reason he, Sherlock, experienced having medical practitioners in his room was to test if he was still high as a kite. Mycroft was never so what the hell was this? He saw Mycroft's eyes pull away from the objects to look at him.

"As our good old mother said, we all should listen to our doctors."

"Unless they plan to mutilate us of course?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Mycroft smirked at him.

"You don't plan to stay long to watch this, do you? Or would you offer to take my blood instead? It's one of your habits if I'm not mistaken." The smile tugging on his lips annoyed Sherlock.

"I will ask again." He repeated and there was a dark note at the edge of Sherlock's voice. "Is all this necessary?"

It was a pointed question which required a definite answer because Sherlock wasn't confident with his brother anymore. Not with this unhinge doctor on the loose and not with the government the one initiating it. Something else was happening that Mycroft wasn't telling him.

Just like him to be so odd... Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"I have it under control." Mycroft said with his jaw lines clenching and eyebrows levelling into a complete blank state and when he does that, the detective knew there was no changing his mind. Still he waited.

Nothing came.

"Don't cry for help when it stings." Sherlock leaned on the table and gave his brother a narrowed look. "Unlike you who seemed to have all the time in the world to stay, I have other things to do than play."

He stood up abruptly and threw blades of daggers towards the attending physician.

"Mind you, I may have disappointed you for ignoring your existence till this very moment but I can assure you I know my brother's damage to last mark. If by chance I spotted any unnecessary adding, I'll deliver you all the scattered brains I can find just to make a point."

He pressed a huge grin with all his teeth showing—a smile so generous to the blinking doctor whose own gloating had subsided. Then off went the detective after one last look at his older brother who followed him with his eyes.

If this was Mycroft playing by the rules then, let him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Rules don't apply on the younger!

John Watson hadn't seen Sherlock Holmes in a week.

But then stranger things have happened.

The last time he saw his best friend was when the man told him he'd be flying to Sherrinford for a visit then disappeared to hell knows where. He didn't get in touch. The first three days were understandable, John had been busy with Rosie and his patients there was hardly any day for rest.

The problem was the black chair in 221B remained empty for the next two days, and the bed left untouched that got the doctor checking for any helicopter that crashed on the sea. It was because even when his best friend was on a case and fail to show himself in the morning, his bed would always appear like it had been slept on. But a week had gone past and everything remained untouched so John resorted to the solver of the team— and tried calling Mycroft. Unexpectedly, however, all he got was Mycroft's voice mail for the next couple of days too. He tried calling again and again but it was as if the number had been forgotten and its owner a lost man.

Mycroft Holmes was not showing any sign of wanting to get in touch and this, beyond anything, was the alarm that got the doctor squirming on his seat.

For Sherlock and Mycroft to be both out of reach? That couldn't have been a coincidence! So he knew something was cooking in the middle of that sunspot London as he paced the floor of 221B. He was wondering when England would fall and was almost bracing himself for it when that call came—

"Where the hell are you now?" he exclaimed on the speaker upon recognizing his flatmate's voice.

"Do calm mother hen." Sherlock answered quietly, "I need you to bring an item."

"So what, now I'm your errand man?" There was a long pause on the other end that made John shut his eyes close and cursed himself. "What do you need?"

Fifteen minutes later he was on a cab and headed his way towards the empty street onto the curb where a lone building, half way finished, was standing. The doctor jumped out of the car after paying and stood right there on the street with eyes on the top of the infrastructure. There was an exasperated look on his eyes as he sighed and began treading the way to the lone complex.

Abandoned was an understatement for the building. It was forgotten. John had to skip a few broken blocks before finding himself on the fourth floor where he saw a dilapidated den was made. Shaking his head, he went closer.

"Did you bring what I ask?" the detective spoke in the dark and John was forced to look on his side to find the man seated by a long, worn out arm chair with a broken table in front of it. There was a small lamp on the other side and as John walked towards the shabby den, he noticed more drapes and old carpets on the floor—only to recognize—

"Are those our burnt out carpets from 221B?" he began as he stopped in front of the detective.

"Just charred." Sherlock corrected in his sonorous voice, his eyes staring but not seeing John who had blinked many times as he got to look around. He could see things albeit not so clear and recognized the chair to be the one they had from 221B indeed, the tables, the curtains, even the piece of horn—all collected and in one spot.

"How did you get all this?" he asked with his eyes falling on his friend.

"I didn't throw them in the first place. What's the point, they're useable."

"Let me guess— you made this other flat because it's messier?"

"Because it's nearer." Sherlock leaned on his knees and nodded to the glassless window with the wind softly blowing on the rag like curtain. John moved towards it, took a peek outside and found that opposite the building, with Thames River in between was—

"The Parliament." John stared at the long government building. "Your new case involves the government now, huh? Did your brother give you the case?"

"Forget him, he's useless." Sherlock offered John his hand when the doctor returned to his spot. "Give it to me."

The doctor paused, and then passed the brown envelope he had been holding on to the man who took it briskly and became sombre as he felt it with his hand. Sherlock's eyes could be seen glinting from the tiny light on the lamp.

"What's going on? Are you in trouble?" John began again, sensing that something was troubling his friend.

"We're all in trouble." Sherlock's voice was too deep. John found it unsettling especially when the detective went on more gravely, "Times like this, no one is safe. Nobody knows it, it gives them bliss."

"Sherlock?" John frowned and stepped closer. He knew Sherlock was digging deep in his mind, maybe even unmindful of his presence. And he kept tracing the envelope thoughtfully, even putting it on his lips. "What's going on?"

"It's a wicked world, John... And the wickedest crime is always done by those with the most brilliant of minds. Wicked and brilliant. Imagine people with this brilliance use it and turn their brain to crime, it's the worst of all. But then imagine them holding power, so much this unprotected world can do to withstand when such wind blows..." Sherlock found his friend's eyes. "You're a doctor but you lack creativity. Certain others have and they've been practicing."

John hesitated, deciding his friend was on one of his mania. "What's this about?"

"Faith." The detective said as he opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper folded into two. John knew the content of the paper, having been the one to secure it inside the envelope and watched with less anticipation as his best friend spread it out on the table, revealing the scribbles of a client they never had.

Faith Smith with her 'I need to kill someone' note. A message taken from her father Culverton Smith. John stared at it and knew without the luminous light that invisible on it was the famed Miss Me line which came from Sherlock's sister.

It sent chills on his spine.

"What's going on, really?" he said hastily as he pulled his gaze away from the paper. "Are you on one of your fixes again? That's it—I'm calling Mycroft—" he had just pulled out his phone—

"I told you he's useless. He's in prison." Sherlock drawled on.

John's jaw dropped open just as Sherlock stood up from his chair and walked up to a wall hidden in the shadows. There he pinned the note while the doctor gaped at him.

"What?" he bellowed. Mycroft in prison? That was like sentencing the free world to a wage of war. Then again—

"He had it coming." Both friends said in accord and for a minute, there was silence. Till Sherlock broke it.

"Never mind him, he's playing under cover. It's boring. Carry on."

"What undercover? Excuse me? So we're not helping him?"

"He's the help he'll ever need."

"Why is he in prison?" he tried to get the detective's attention, even going as standing behind him but the man kept his eyes only on the dark wall as if disinterested of anything else in the room.

"Treason. Something about playing with Moriarty in Sherrinford without the queen's permission. You said it yourself—what goes around comes around."

"But this is Mycroft! No one can send him to prison!"

"Well, apparently, someone can." The man's back spoke, engrossed by what he can only see.

Incensed, John crossed the room towards the glasses window and pulled the dirty rag curtain with all his might—filling every corner of the room with afternoon light and cloud of dusts flying around. John coughed a few times with eyes closed tight but he stopped the instant he saw the wall Sherlock had been staring into.

It was his usual wall of info with strings here and there, connecting people—and there were many photos of people John recognized to be mostly politicians and other influential ones. A number of faces were particularly from the Royal family and even the Prime Minister himself. At the very centre of it where all the line and strings were focused was a blank spot between the photos of one he recognized as Lady Smallwood—a former client of Sherlock—and a man with thick furrowed eyebrows and balding head. Written in red marker on top of them was the word Cabinet.

John walked closer to the wall in awe. He knew Sherlock too much to know his reasoning by now and could even follow the lines. "These people... what do they have in common?"

"My brother."

"I thought you said you're not helping him?"

"He never asked and I never spoil him."

"I can see that... What are we looking at here?"

"His enemies and non-enemies."

John blinked and sighed. "Non-enemies? Can't even be called a colleague?"

"They're all his goldfishes, nothing more."

"Was that empty spot reserved for Mycroft's photo?"

"I don't need his photo I can see him clearly."

John smirked. "So what's going on? Is the Parliament on fire now? How long has he been in prison?"

"A month now."

"What?" the news blasted John in the face.

"I visited him last week. It was uneventful."

"What do you mean uneventful? And you're only just telling me now?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Didn't see the point in bothering you with another family drama."

"Don't give me that." John gaped and shook his head. "Why's he arrested? This is Mycroft for god's sake."

"Being him doesn't change a thing, it seems." Sherlock turned back to the wall and touched the note from Ms. Smith. "He's powerless now John, that's why we need to make our treads carefully. No Mycroft to fall back now."

"What tread?" the doctor faced his friend attentively. "Are we breaking him out of prison?" he hoped it wasn't as he saw Sherlock's eyes glint for a second, but it disappeared as fast as it came as he bolted away from the wall. "What?"

"One too many reasons."

"You can always elaborate you know." John shrugged at the silence that followed.

Sherlock threw himself on the worn out couch and pressed his face on his palm.

"First thing you have to understand, John is Mycroft is always prepared. Always. When I saw him in prison I knew he's brewing up a scheme that would blow any of his enemies aside. Naturally it meant he is undercover. You have no idea how many times he's enjoyed himself outside his three piece suit to wear soldier's clothing, a mailman, cabman, even a Soviet spy and recently a boater—you probably remember that one. He loves his disguises as well as I but he can be difficult to convince unless it's an emergency."

"So what's dressing up got to do with anything?"

"Look at that photo at the left on top of the article about the musician."

John followed and crossed the floor again until he was on the left side of the wall. The picture he was looking at showed the front of the White Hall where the Prime Minister was standing with a representative from Germany. Why was Sherlock asking him to look— John's eyes widened as he found out why—for there, standing beside the German was Mycroft Holmes, wearing a plaid dark green uniform with the emblem of the German flag, and even went as far as wearing the proper cap.

"What the hell..."

"He disguised himself as a German interpreter. Obviously."

"Why?"

"He does that when he wants insider's opinion so badly he couldn't even leave it to spies with photographic memories. Now turn to the left, just above Faith Smith's note."

John did and like the first photo, he saw two men in the picture this time outside a hospital. The first man was familiar to him having seen him with the label Cabinet across the board. The other was obviously a doctor with the long white gown.

"I don't see Mycroft here; don't tell me he's the nurse in skirt at the back?"

"No. He's supposed to be in coma in that hospital. That was taken the day we infiltrated Sherrinford with Mycroft. Mycroft had it under surveillance in all probability to see how many would go on his death bed, there were three. Lady Smallwood one of them. Imagine that John, an exposure happened right there."

"Who's the other one aside from this other Cabinet member?" he pointed at the man on the picture. At that Sherlock raised his head up, his eyes glinting meaningfully.

"The doctor."

"What?" John blinked at the doctor on the photo. "What do you mean the doctor? Of course there should be a doctor." he turned but was surprised to find Sherlock already beside him and staring at the photo too.

"No." He said deeply, "That man is different. He's not from there. He's the one."

"Who is he?"

"Culverton Smith's brother." Sherlock jabbed his forefinger onto the note and John noticed the absence of his photo— apparently not wanting to see any more of the previous madman they encountered. Faith's note seemed to suffice.

"Culverton has a brother?" John raised an eyebrow. "How did you know?"

"See that? It's the same signet ring as Culverton's, there could only be one connection." the detective transfixed his eyes on the picture, "Of course. Here's another elite in the group of predators... and he's under my very nose all this time with power more influential than that serial killer... what kind of killer is this one now, I wonder..."

John sighed again for the man to remember his presence. "So what's he got against Mycroft?"

"Too plain to answer."

"You think it's about Culverton?"

"Yes... or more... That's what got me on the loop..." Sherlock inclined his head on the side. Then he made a clicking sound of his tongue. "I should go ask Mycroft now."

"You should have done that earlier."

"Tried. But you know how a tease he is. But if I don't get my answers then it shall be a yes. I can't leave him to be on pawn forever with a disturbed doctor."

"What disturbed doctor?"

"I said yes."

"What are you yessing at?" cloud of confusion filled John for the last time.

"I'm breaking him out of prison." Sherlock finished with a grin as if he had been plotting it the entire time.

John stared at his best friend in disbelief and shook his head. "I thought you said he's undercover?"

"Wouldn't be the first time I blew it, right?"

"Can I come?"

"Nope. Security requirements. I'll text you."

John sighed. Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse.

Sherlock had to wait for a whole thirty minutes before the security clearance from Lady Smallwood herself allowed the visit. That kind of high clearance wasn't necessary before and now that they were issuing it, Sherlock couldn't help but feel suspicious as he watched ever corner of every step he was taking. The penal complex was as dark and gloomy as the detective remembered it but the assurance that his brother was still there and not transported without his one week absence was enough for him to keep walking. He had just realised the severity of leaving his brother alone with a monomaniac but then—someone like him who's practically begging his brother's brain wouldn't inflict any damage that would cause be permanent— Sherlock was sure of that.

He found his brother securely sitting on the chair he last remembered him to be sitting. This didn't help Sherlock at all as in his mind's eyes a flash of his other sibling in an entirely different compound seated by her lone chair shook his memory. If there was anything so similar in the world right now...

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Seeing Mycroft's dead colour under the dim light didn't add to his mood.

"You liar." He began the moment he sat down and found his older brother's eyes on him.

"Why?"

"You hinted you were undercover." Sherlock clenched his jaw. "Turns out you were really just a prisoner."

"I don't remember saying so, you made the conclusion yourself." Mycroft let a small smile linger on his pale face.

"You gave me the idea!"

"Ideas can be manipulated. Isn't it funny how small actions can lead from one thing to another because people make wrong conclusions? Bless you, brothermine, and you call yourself a detective?"

"And you call yourself the British Government Head getting locked up by your own people?"

"I made no such claims." Mycroft shook his head tiredly and reached a hand on his right arm. "You're the only one thinking it's always something big. Didn't it ever occur to you I might just be holding a small office?"

"A small office directly below Buckingham, you mean?"

"For god's sake—"

"Isn't it? So what are you up to with Milverton Smith?" Sherlock didn't see any need to prolong the secret and the reaction was what he had anticipated—Mycroft looked up at him with mouth slightly opening—but what Sherlock didn't expect was the sudden frown and lost look on Mycroft's face as if the name was unfamiliar.

"Milverton Smith..." he repeated blankly. "Oh him..." there was a slight pause in which Sherlock saw his brother touch the side of his right arm again and resurfaced with a deep frowning face. "Yes, of course... him... It took you... how long to find out about him?"

"Tell me what you're up against." Sherlock found the sudden blinking of his older brother's eyes disturbing. "What's wrong?"

"Him... Milverton..." Mycroft was saying amidst his slight confusion, "Oh yes, he's notorious. Just like his little brother."

"So is this about him?" Sherlock saw his brother press on his arm again. "Just because he is the leader of the Academy of Medical Sciences under the Royal Society... how did he snatch you out of your position? Was this his doing? Was he also the one who appointed that monomaniac as your psychiatrist?"

Sherlock fell silent and felt like a balloon just popped in his head. Mycroft had stopped answering. That never happens— something was definitely wrong- especially when his brother tried to reach for his arm again. Sherlock was quick this time as he seized his brother's right arm and turned it upside to show his wrist—

And there Sherlock saw a plastered band aid covering half his brother's skin—a sign that medical supplement had been incessantly added on his system. Sherlock looked up at his brother who seemed to just notice the spot and was looking at it in confusion too, as if he hadn't notice a thing.

But the detective all knew what it meant as he slowly stood up, eyes transfixed on his brother— and the names flashed before his eyes— Culverton Smith, Faith Smith—Milverton Smith.

TD12.

"No..."

-To be Continued-

A/N: On to Mycroft's brain we go next!

What's left of it ;X Hopeful to reach 5 chapters^^

Thanks for Reading!

Chapter Text

*Minds of Carat*

~WhiteGloves~

Let there be some light!

I miss the Holmes brothers terribly -.-

*Warning for Mycroft's master plan*

-Enjoy Reading!-

3: Crack

Six weeks ago...

"No, thank you. No. Don't say another word. Now just update me on the subject's status instead, tell me the progress, I have two days to see to it. That's the best thing you do."

And Mycroft hung up on his phone, his sweaty hand dropping his mobile on his desk hastily it was as if he lost his grip and let it fall with a loud thud. It was because his hands had decided not to cooperate with his body, it was too numb. Still, Sherlock and John were safe, a probability he thought too slim there was not enough solidity to hold into... but they were safe—a miracle he knew his younger brother was capable of pulling even at the last seconds—they were alive. And so was he.

He never felt so alive and disturbed. That was what Sherrinford can do to you.

The British Government Head's eyes lingered on his phone for a moment as he leaned on his flexible chair, and then clapped both his palm on his cold face as events of his recent activity began pouring on his ever detailed brain. He remained silent. The memories were too fresh and too strong it was taking him an amount of effort to steady himself.

But there was no time to be pathetic! There was job to be done!

Mycroft gritted his teeth and resurfaced from his hands. He could feel a growing tremor on his fingers but there were darker things to happen. He felt it; saw it. Especially when the person who actually managed to free him from the overtaken fortress of Sherrinford was none other than Sir Edwin himself.

Didn't the relief he felt upon seeing his associate disappear instantly the moment he saw Sir Edwin's face who came to Sherrinford with the force of the Secret Service—Mycroft's ultimate rescue—but the way Sir Edwin had looked at him made Mycroft realise worst things were to come? He was particularly looking grave and sinister.

Then Sir Edwin told him what had occurred while he was locked there for hours. How the government faired while he was gone playing games. What the government found out about him. That was when Mycroft realised—shaken as he was— that he didn't have much time.

"You should have gone directly to the hospital." Lady Smallwood's soft voice said in front of him, making Mycroft look up as he reminded himself of her presence; he then slowly let both his hands fall on the sides of his chair with a long quiet sigh. They were in his darkened underground office but somehow even its ambience that would usually calm him was of no effect. On the contrary, every corner of the room was suffocating him—reminding him of the walls of Sherrinford he had left not an hour ago. Not an hour or so...

But Sir Edwin's news made it all less important now at how things had escalated faster than Jim Moriarty's Miss Me around London. Matters had unexpectedly developed out of control. But then he noticed his hand had begun its tremor again. Lady Smallwood pressed her thin lips as she saw it.

"Mycroft, maybe this isn't a good time."

"There isn't any good time." He answered, his voice low, as he closed his fists tight, waving away the unusual characteristic of sympathy between them.

"Who was it on the phone?" she clearly was being considerate given the tone of her voice. So concerned.

"The Detective Inspector." He looked at her but he could just feel the numbness of his jaw. "Apparently my brother had wanted me to be looked after for some reason."

"How decent of him, for the first time." Her eyes were sharp as she leaned forward a little. "And quite right too. Mycroft, you just went through an ordeal just now. Maybe we should have this meeting once you have time to rest—"

"By which time I would be incarcerated leaving my siblings unprotected and the free world prey to those who want to take advantage of it. No." The man sat straight as this set focus on his unbalanced mind and found ground to be stable on. Priorities. "I need to mend it even just a little before I go. We have plenty of work to do like setting pedestal on those that shouldn't be touched while I'm gone."

There was a brief silence as they caught each other's eyes.

"You really think they will take you?"

Mycroft's eyes sparked as he raised his chin.

"Nothing's stopping them if it isn't me."

"Sir Edwin was careless with information but he was adamant he was on the right. He didn't think he was setting the Cabinet on peril."

"He didn't think. But, well, it was my fault I didn't confide in him. Between the three of us, I was inclined to suspect him of releasing my sister in the first place." Mycroft smiled a little as he put a finger on his lips. "The three of us were the only people who know about the existence of the island and its people. Setting an explosion on 221B while I'm in the area requires background support from someone on the higher up, I could only guess who it was. Turns out, I was wrong again. So I forgive him for the lack common sense not to tattle on known enemies."

"I don't." She looked him in the eye. "He accessed information limited to you and found you were in Sherrinford with your brother, after the call he received from the governor of course. He checked the last CCTV sent by their personnel and easily recognized your disguised. You should have seen him when he came up to me with Jim Moriarty's folder and asked if I had any idea you had contact with him on the island."

"Naturally, you don't."

"I don't. Which he was most vexed about because Moriarty was a top security concern. He even thought you'd gone wild with your brother— and you know he's been having qualms about your loyalty to your little weak spot—"

"I can imagine—"

"But what I didn't expect was him informing them. If I had know he would—"

"You could have joined him—?"

"Mycroft!"

"You didn't know either." He gave her a lingering look. "What I was doing with Moriarty."

"I myself would have sent you to prison." She said simply and with every bit of indignation on her sharp eyes. Mycroft pressed his lips tight as she continued— "There was no excuse, Mycroft, you compromised with him."

"You don't see me struggling on my imminent arrest." He shrugged a little that made her flash him a look.

"Do you know how much credibility the Cabinet will lose once this is out on the Parliament?"

He raised an eyebrow. As if he didn't. She saw the reaction and looked even severe.

"If Sir Edwin had only realised the damage—"

"No point talking of 'if's' now, what's done is done. He was only taking actions based on his impartiality; we can't expect any lesser especially with what I threw on his hands." The older Holmes put both elbows on his desk and clasped them together. "There's only one way to remedy this: we have to sacrifice time— my time in confinement. Get through that and we'll get everything fixed. This is merely a power play and once they see that they cannot contain me as well, they might find another use for me. This is not out of hubris, of course, I am speaking of truth—no cell can contain me without the immediate fall of the government."

He paused as a sudden flash of a woman's face with black hair appeared on his mind and gripped his hands tight. Didn't they say she was getting transported back to Sherrinford as they speak? He swallowed hard and raised eyebrows at his colleague. To find his jaw uncooperative. Lady Smallwood continued frowning at him.

"You're looking paler. You should drink wine, it settles the nerves."

But Mycroft dismissed the suggestion. "I have... a few points I wish to discuss with you... about Sherrinford."

"I will listen once you've stopped trembling. I knew I should have sent for an ambulance first thing when I received your message that you wanted to meet here after everything I—"

"Lady Smallwood—" Mycroft started with edge at his voice. He didn't need this now—he needed to busy his head while he was still able to because he knew if he stopped thinking the memory of everything on Sherrinford will swallow him. Why can't she understand that? But the firmness that could be read at how her lips turned down only made Mycroft shut his mouth and is reminded of a certain someone from 221B who liked serving tea. Still, he was on no mood to humour her too. "Please, can we just go about our business?"

"You're about to go to prison, Mycroft. In your state even I wouldn't recommend it."

"Too bad telling them I'm not fit for any examination at the moment would only set their teeth on edge. Even throw me directly on an asylum." Mycroft gave a slight frown. "Some of them had been waiting for that for a long time."

"They always thought you were too smart— dangerously smart." Lady Smallwood's eyes weren't blinking, her blue eyes transfixed on the Cabinet Office's head, her tone severe yet bearing apprehension. "That's why at the slightest sign that you have been derailed or influenced by any means guarantees they themselves will come for you. We are now at that position after Sir Edwin's mishap, Mycroft, thus this meeting. I'll give you five days before the arrest."

"Three days." Mycroft nodded and they both know his estimation was correct. "They will come after me in three days. Enough time for me to arrange matters with my brother and my parents... I'm sure nothing will stop Sherlock in letting our parents know about our sister so do try to understand why I rush things." He stared at her. "I will need you."

Lady Smallwood looked a little sceptic. "This is more than just your brother. For once look after yourself, Mycroft; I'm sure they send someone who's outside your influence."

"Better." Mycroft nodded lightly, "I can always spell him his favourite childhood vacation spots, his habits from school, his recent endeavours on his career—his lifespan if necessary— and basically his lifestyle."

"You never apply those skills out loud I have forgotten you can do it." She smiled.

Mycroft leaned back on his chair. "Only when circumstances asked for it. I don't make it a habit of indulging myself in reading people—it is too unpleasant for me." He frowned and raised eyebrows, "And the act itself is quite elementary I never understood why so many are too easily impressed. When noticed by people they begin to ask questions and it makes me aware just how... simple they are. Like goldfishes. I don't bother."

"Your brother appears to be quite the opposite."

Mycroft chuckled. "Well, you are putting your foot down a precipitous path. Sherlock."

She sighed next with her eyes falling down his phone that was left on the table.

"What about him? Are you going to tell him?"

"It's not yet Christmas." Mycroft snatched the phone from the table and caught her eyes again. "This imprisonment is under our control provided I can manipulate the questioning directly. Proven wrong, they'll leave the Cabinet alone and we can go our separate ways. Granted of course, I show I'm still capable if they want to reposition me."

"Well, you have no way to find out unless you get out." Her tone turned flat again. "I cannot look after you from where I am, they will see to that. No outside help, Mycroft. Not Buckingham, not the Diogenes, just them."

"I know what they're capable of." Mycroft tapped his finger on the armchair looking thoughtful, "The fact that it is already me doesn't change anything."

"The fact that it is you changes everything. We just gave them means to destroy the Cabinet system whose authority they had been targeting. You know the Cabinet cannot survive without you." She sounded cross. "They want answers but it does not guarantee you'll be out of prison in the process. And we both know a prison's the last place you should be what with Milverton Smith—"

"Milverton Smith does not hold any card against me. He's nothing." His eyes glinted at that, remembering the large blonde man who had wanted his attention badly because reasons.

"I heard you had a secret meeting with him last week."

"If I had wanted it to be a secret, you wouldn't know about it."

She closed her eyes patiently just as Mycroft had began flexing his fingers as he could feel cold sweat running down his back. He wondered when his temperature would start rising? He had been profusely sweating...

Lady Smallwood's hawk eyes caught his distracted mind.

"You said Milverton may be one of the 'necessary' evil in the government but letting him get the advantage of you especially given his position... you know he's going to add fuel to the fire after the debacle with his brother."

Mycroft let out a sigh, his mind racing to that meeting he most find nasty. "He doesn't care about Culverton, you know."

"Which is beside the point, the arrest of Culverton Smith added more enemies on our plate, you know that. His little band of people making all the noise after reports had gone wild."

"I don't know what one earth makes them think he is likeable." Mycroft ogled at her with sudden curiosity, his face sour. "I've never received so much letters of inquiry about one person when for the life of me there was nothing less charismatic in my experience." He huffed after that.

"Take this seriously, Mycroft." Lady Smallwood insisted with her white knuckles showing. "It may not just be about the Smiths. They have begun doubting you."

"Oh good, they've started to become reasonable. Long ago they were only too happy to have me on the job given my background..." The unexpected white face of his sister flashed on his mind again that made Mycroft silent for a moment. Too soon to forget...

Lady Smallwood watched him and when it was apparent he planned on shutting for a second, she went on—

"Culverton's case is not the only reason why they are concerned at the top— all of the fuss in the White Hall after the events with Moriarty, the incident on Appledore. So few believed his death was an accident from one of our men's excited finger— you know what they really think— they think it had been staged, a set up just to get rid of his power, which we both know isn't too weak. Then Culverton Smith who's also in very good terms with Prime Minister and some members of the Royal family, and his brother as you know it can do much more. You're the only balance why these different powers haven't taken over London. And they know you. We both know they've all been waiting for that crack in the system to pull you down. And now they've been presented with your evident connection to that terrorist, Moriarty, and a sister within the Sherrinford vaults, it doesn't make things any lighter."

Mycroft nodded again, the spasm of his mind slowly getting controlled.

"I concur... Ideas and doubts, those two things have always been unforgiving. So here we are, to answer the call. As I said, they will come after three days. Enough time to manage the Cabinet's course of action. If things go right by me in prison, I can handle it swiftly and be finished with it before the Prince announces his next offspring. You have to brace yourself for the impact though; you and Sir Edwin will be the last defence if I am to be contained shortly—"

"If you allowed yourself to be contained."

The tone of her voice made Mycroft glance up at her again, his expression shrewd. Lady Smallwood hesitated not for a second as she eyed him and continued with every word on emphasis.

"Call your brother."

Mycroft's brows furrowed that threatened the beginning of another cold war.

"Why would I do that?" he knows exactly what she means and grinded his teeth for it.

"You know why. It's time like this that his expertise is used. And he was there with you. You know this government can't have you gone elsewhere not now. We have major threats on every corner, activists, terrorists, our own people with political agendas and the ever changing system abroad, particularly Washington. As much as they need to understand that, you know it will take them awhile to actually see. Your absence will be most damaging even for a short period. That's why Sherlock Holmes—"

Mycroft had lowered his head, his chin resting on his neck as he raised a finger to stop her. A few moments and he raised his eyes, darker and sharper than ever with some colour rising on his face.

"I shall not make of an escape goat of my brother."

"Mycroft, look at the bigger picture—"

"I can see it clearly that's why I'm saying— leave my brother out of it."

She opened her lips one last time but with a single wave of his hand, he brought end to something that never even crossed his mind as he remembered his little brother who has gone through enough.

"Sherlock Holmes shall no longer be subjected to this government's disposal. Not on my watch."

Present...

Mycroft waved the memory away as he put it securely inside one of his file cases inside his mind palace. Looking up the giant stacks of cases in his brain, he wondered why there was flying information about. Flying papers of his memory to be exact. His mind had always been tidy to the point of envy so how come there were pieces of paper scattering in the air? It had never by the life of him, happened before.

What happened?

TD12. Sherlock had said. Mycroft knew all about it from its basic component to the last atomic level it contains. Even before Sherlock had introduced it, the Government Head had known its existence for some time, having been subjected to one when he was having some root canal problems years ago. But the Academy of Medical Sciences had approved of it also and there was his link.

How quick of his brother to immediately think it was limited to TD12 though. Something so lightweight wouldn't even be able to touch his memory with the capacity of an ocean.

It did just now. How many times had he been subjected to it? His thoughts flew to his manic doctor—sent truly by the same enemy— and had to curse. So he had been tampering with his memory? It made him open his lips and let out a sigh at the irony of the situation gave him a firm connection to the mastermind behind it all.

So this was how Smith wanted to play?

Mycroft opened his eyes to find himself seated on a metal chair in front of a table while his brother was pacing the small cell in agitation. It had been moments ago when the cat flew out of the bag in form of injection marks. Mycroft just knew why his brother was so concerned for TD12 was never something to mess with. Not for people with brains like them. But he never remembered taking some.

The drug's beauty.

So he watched Sherlock paced the room in his most disturbing break of character yet, then had to close his eyes again and massage the bridge of his nose. He felt light headed and drained he wanted to shut all the flow of information his sight was taking in from his brother's dusty coat that could only suggest he had been on one of his shabby boltholes again, one that is abandoned and very near a waterside to the small foot prints and thin patterns of wheels on the floor that suggested someone had been pulling carts around. Mycroft closed his eyes.

Sherlock continued pacing the floor.

"God, Sherlock, stop circulating the room it's making me dizzy as it is." He put his finger at the side of his head and opened his glinting eyes. "Times I really prefer the company of cactus."

Sherlock glared at him— such an angry glare coming from a person who was supposedly troubled.

"You're fine?" was the first thing that came out of his curved lips however. As if it was important.

"I'm fine." Mycroft gave him a look. "I was only momentarily caught... this..." He reached a free hand on his right arm and pressed it with a dark look on his expression, "should not have happened... I should have calculated the risks with psychopath as an enemy."

His younger brother straightened and walked towards the table where he put both hands and lean on to have a closer look at him. Mycroft didn't even have to think about it to know his brother hadn't seen much sunlight in the past week. That or London had been on one of its bleakest weather.

"Milverton Smith." He whispered with their eyes locked and it was clear his brother knew who the mastermind of the plan was, "What was he doing outside the hospital your decoy was supposed to be in with that Sir Edwin? I'm guessing he's tried to pull Culverton out of prison but because of your influence even he stood no chance."

A light smile appeared on Mycroft's face.

"Of course."

"So what is this—some sort of revenge? Make you pay for your decision and plan to revise it by drugging you to forget? Seems whimsical." The detective shot up and began pacing again, his impatience clearly showing, his mind already on other things. "I followed him for three days back and forth from office to his hospitals and his labs—just like you he has his rails. He isn't the leader of the most advance Medical Sciences organization in London for nothing. Unlike Culverton though he is not pleasant at all—"

Mycroft chuckled, causing his brother to look at him with a narrowed look.

"I told you my visitors make you look adorable."

"Does it now?" the younger Holmes advanced towards him again, "You've met him once, twice, thrice in a secret meeting?"

"You really think I'd fall for that?"

Mycroft smirked because just then his brother was confirming his secret meetings that shouldn't be made public. How mentally damaged does his younger brother think he was not to see through it? Sherlock looked disgruntled for awhile as he went on pacing the floor again. Impatience was building in on him without a doubt. Mycroft followed him with his eyes and watched as his brother engaged talking to himself.

"This is what I get for asking. Nothing. Pointless even going here but what do I know now? He's after you because you're the only person between him and his naughty little brother who happened to be a serial killer." Sherlock looked wildly around, unconcerned of the brother watching him, "But why so desperate even to go to such lengths to crack a diamond like you— did I say diamond—where did I get that word?"

The older Holmes actually choked on that too. "Excuse me?"

But Sherlock wasn't listening as he deduced the case on his head.

"Nobody in their right mind would even think of going against you because Mycroft face it, you can telepath people thinking about you. Which means it has to do something with a dark secret he and his brother share—something so illegal and career changing— something that has to do with their character and status—both from wealthy family, have positions in the society, well known, with titles, have connections, cunning even and have the power to do so... one a philanthropist who supports charities and hospitals and another an actual head of a medical sciences academy... which bottom line means has something to do with drugs... and illegal drug distribution."

Mycroft had watched him the entire time and couldn't help frowning at how noisy his brother could be. "Can't you keep your mouth shut? Isn't that why it was called thinking? The additional 'out loud' was highly disturbing."

The detective ignored the comment and didn't avert his eyes from his eldest.

"So they're both drugs related. Big fishes on the net? The head of the Medical Sciences is part of an illegal drug organization? And now he's going around infusing you with drugs—to make you forget— why?"

"I haven't forgotten anything. I believe this is him being serious in discrediting me. If I appear out of sorts in front of some people... like how I just did now I might be staying in this prison longer. 'They' would want to know if I am still mentally able."

"Who's 'they'?"

"The Queen's Government."

"That's you."

"Point taken—I'm not untouchable." Mycroft's eyes twinkled in interest. "There are people up there 'watching' our move... people who knows about 'us' siblings. They've always been 'wary' of our abilities because frankly with just one mistake people like us can become 'deadly'." Mycroft smiled. "A gift and a curse, brothermine."

"In short we're all security concern from the beginning. Even you?"

"Apparently."

"You'd make a decent criminal, brothermine." Sherlock's eyes softened.

Mycroft was lost for words for a second then. "How tempting."

"So why did you have to wait for things to go sky-high like this? Overconfidence?"

"I'm not such an easy person to read. The matter is intricate, Sherlock, it needs planning." Mycroft frowned. "I had been trying to wrap my net around Milverton but he proved to be quite as cunning as he is expected to be. I told you many times, I don't need any deranged genius terrorizing the country—I have full of them right on my nose inside the very government, side by side."

"Then why not arrest him if you had your suspicions?"

"I had been discussing it with the..." sharply, the British Government Head looked up at a CCTV and lowered down his tone. "Government and had been making progress ever since Culverton himself confessed—unfortunately he is dead."

Sherlock's eyes rounded. "He—?"

Mycroft didn't even bat an eye. "He killed himself. I don't know how but forensics suggests poisoning. It appeared self administered... but one can always have too many conclusions." He gave his brother a flat stare. "He had already confessed, yes. He really doesn't like his brother and that's what Milverton is most concerned about. See, unlike me he has absolutely no control of his younger brother." Sherlock grunted loud. "Haven't I told you how I observed sibling interactions outside our family? How one of them would always end up dead at the hands of the other? It's a typical pattern among brothers; you should see some classics, say Hamlet? Although I should think—we've passed the test, remember?"

And Sherlock knew his brother was talking about that particular time he had pointed a gun at him.

"Stop it. So Culverton killed himself which leaves you who knows the truth about his brother. So why is Milverton still free?" he asked coldly, erasing the memory or still trying. "You usually do something before they get out of hand like now."

"Because I was caught up... with an emergency I could never disregard." Mycroft looked down at his hands and Sherlock saw his wrist again and the marks of handcuffs almost fading. "We were at the final stage and on the most complex part when Eurus made contact. I had to push things aside. Then I returned from Sherrinford and found myself at their custody because of an error I had made five years ago... you know what I mean. Moriarty."

Sherlock's eyebrows contorted. "Sir Edwin and Milverton meeting outside your hospital bed..."

"An accidental meeting where Sir Edwin was most frustrated after finding out I'm in Sherrinford. Milverton Smith had heard of my condition and—heaven forbid or not—must be planning something terrible. My word was against him on the Cabinet office, it was definite they will listen to me. Now imagine discrediting me by having me labelled 'mentally unstable', brothermine—"

"No one will believe your word about Smith. And if they decide you're not fit to continue doing your job?"

"That's a very interesting question—"

"Mycroft!"

"It doesn't matter; it won't reach to that point—unless you make a proper use of yourself."

"What?" at that exact moment there was a long beep on the speakers around them, making the brothers halt their conversation to look up at the CCTV as a voice went on with the same message: Urgent visitor from the White Hall, Dr. Norton to see you sir.

"And I was having such a nice day..." Mycroft whispered as his eyes immediately caught his brother's. "Don't do anything stupid. The last thing we want is for them to have you in prison too."

"He gave you shots of drugs who know how many times you're lucky you can still remember me."

"Stop being dramatic. It was only for brief seconds—"

"How did they manage to make one singular name absent to you?"

"Sherlock, I'm warning you—"

"Why, what do you think I would do?"

"You didn't study baritsu for nothing, brothermine. Now listen up, I have something I wish you to do." Sherlock was in all attention as Mycroft continued with an impassive face. "I want you to get my umbrella."

"What?" a blank expression fell on the younger Holmes' face, making Mycroft to level his gaze at how slow Sherlock was and even made him wonder who got dosed with memory drug?

"My umbrella. Culverton hated it. I want you to bring it home."

Sherlock frowned at his brother for a brief second, before dawning comprehension appeared on his face. Mycroft smirked openly at him just to annoy him. Slow, brothermine. Slow.

"You mean the bright orange one?"

"Yes."

"Where is it?"

"It should arrive soon. Wait for it."

"How soon?"

The doors opened and there he was again, the familiar sound of the doctor's step made Sherlock bite his lips as he eyed Mycroft who slightly shook his head at his brother. The doctor was walking towards them with the detective' back on him and Mycroft could just see what was on his brother's creative mind. "Sherlock, don't even dare."

The younger Holmes beamed innocently that got Mycroft blinking.

"Our paths crossed again, Sherlock Holmes?" the sound of his voice made Mycroft unconsciously tap on his spoilt arm with eyes on his brother. The younger Holmes was munching his lower lip as Dr. Norton paused in between them again, carrying nothing but his bag. "I was hoping to see you soon, you went ahead too quickly last time we didn't have much time to talk."

"Really?"

Mycroft saw a dangerous twitch on his brother's brow and had to give him his most penetrating stare.

"Don't lay hands on him." He spoke to that dark curly head who was evidently simmering. "Just go, would you?"

"Are you talking to me, Mr. Holmes?" Dr. Norton turned to him, then his eyes fell on his exposed arm. "I see you've removed our boo-boo detector? Was it itchy? Forgive me but we'll have to apply more on that so you'll have to hold still. Endure more, for me, would you?"

Mycroft wasn't even looking at him but he knew exactly how offending his smile looked like. He'll have the man arrested too; he just had to be patient. But then he had more pressing matters at hand when slowly, he watched his brother stand up from the opposite chair with that brilliant eyes of his glinting of mischief.

"Sherlock—" his brows furrowed as it could only suggest one thing when his brother was smiling. Sherlock's eyes were upon him and then travelled to that side of his arm he was keeping under the table.

"Going away too soon?" Dr. Norton was ogling at the detective. "I've read your blog—why not stay for a little ch—"

Blood came surging everywhere next after such a loud thud in the air—Sherlock Holmes had just brought down his forehead on the doctor's face who gave a loud yell as he dropped on the floor clutching his nose. It was followed by loud sirens everywhere but the younger Holmes didn't seem to care.

Mycroft had stand up with an incredulous look at his brother.

"What have you done ? I said—"

"No hands." Sherlock pointed out as they both gazed at the old man cringing by the floor with a broken nose, if not a cracked skull. Mycroft suppressed a sigh as guards came filling the room and exchanged looks with his younger brother.

"That's not what I meant..." the older Holmes sighed with eyes shutting in exasperation. "Oh, Sherlock."

-To be Continued-

A/N: On to Sherlock's action and Mycroft's fate!

: so saddened with the Westminster incident!

Go London! ;o

Thanks for Reading!

Chapter Text

*Minds of Carat*

~WhiteGloves~

New light and feels~

*Warning for conspiracies and Sherlock's findings*

-Enjoy Reading!-

4: Broker

Sherlock saw the doctor moan on the floor while clutching his bloody nose and this above everything made his day. A split of smile appeared on his face as he watched the man try to support himself while his brother stood, immobilize beside him. Glancing in his direction, Sherlock saw Mycroft put a hand on his forehead with the most exasperated expression.

"What?" the detective began again in defence as he caught his brother's glaring eyes, his hands both inside his pockets to show no contact was made. "He's drugging you to death; I'm more surprised you're even calm considering you never let me forget how cross you were with the punch last Christmas."

Mycroft eyed him with the alarm still ringing around them.

"That is entirely out of question—this isn't an occasion for a display of temper!"

"Yet you're angry." Sherlock pointed out, leaving Mycroft to stare at him again and watched his brother look back at the doctor with a bemused expression at what to do next just as three officers flooded in with guns out, pointing in their direction—

"Don't move!" one of the men shouted at Sherlock who stared at them flatly.

"It's alright," Mycroft said as he stepped in front of his brother with one hand up as two of the guards advanced towards them while one went to help the assailed doctor, "he's harmless now. And keep those guns away, for Christ sake."

But before Mycroft could take another step, he was violently seized by the shoulder and was forced to sit down on the chair with the guard's firm hand holding him down and a gun on his face. Sherlock, who didn't quite expect this, moved on instinct and was almost on top of the guard if he hadn't been shoved backwards followed by outrageous orders that didn't appear comprehensible to his ears. His eyes were burning holes on the man pointing a gun at his brother.

Mycroft seemed to be thinking the same as his eyes levelled with the gun.

"Put it down." He said so coldly that Sherlock didn't even have to see his expression to know how his commanding side had resurfaced from its lair. "Or you won't have an easy existence with your feet on this land."

There was a momentary hesitation on the guard's part as he exchanged glances with his companions while Sherlock continued boring his dark eyes at them with ears hot. Mycroft had never been manhandled by anyone—except for him and never on his presence. What he just saw was so raw it made him clench his fist.

But above all was the gun—never mind what was pointing at him—the gun towards Mycroft was most unforgiving as flashes of his memory on the island made Sherlock take a step, making the gun pointing in his own way to get pressed on his chest. If they don't remove that now...

"Not on the head, you imbecile." Came a sudden voice as Dr. Norton stood up ungracefully with his hand on his nose. "It's more than all your government's head put together." He straightened up, his nose still bloody and Sherlock watched him wipe it gingerly with the back of his hand. Then the doctor's eyes were on him.

"Always so violent and moody, you were then and now Sherlock Holmes."

The use of his name in the tone of menace rang something familiar at the back of Sherlock's brain.

What was that?

But Sherlock was angry for another reason. "I told you not to mess with my brother."

There was a pause from Norton as Mycroft stayed silent then—

"It's all part of his recovery."

"Liar. What drugs have you been giving him?"

"Now now, stop making theories," Norton sniffed and spat on the ground, then turned to him again. "You were always the stupid little boy."

That was when Sherlock felt a sudden ring in his ears and a tightening around the stomach—and for the briefest second he thought he heard the same man's voice somewhere inside his own head repeating it over and over like an episode that felt so real.

In his memory, it was Mycroft's voice deep in his head that repeated it but it was all turning and recognizing Norton's tone... like a puzzle piece fitting itself. As if it had been there, buried like so many others. Like a part of a memory he failed to remember yet again. Like another unclear memory...

Confused, the detective looked away as he felt cold sweat run down his face.

What?

Momentarily blank, he then heard his big brother's icy voice.

"Say another word, doctor, I swear."

Sherlock blinked and glanced towards his brother's direction in time to see him looking at Norton with daggers in his eyes. And that's when Sherlock figured out there was more to this doctor and his brother than what they seem to be showing. That there was something else going on that actually involved him. Burning questions jumped at him one after another that it was taking him all his patience not to ask that ever enigmatic big brother of his who couldn't even tell him straight in the face their sister killed his best friend.

And Sherlock made a mental note to have a session with his big brother where he gets to ask all the questions and not give him the chance to pass. Maybe even tie him to a chair.

Norton had smiled down at Mycroft and seemed to have backed down in understanding as he wiped his nose again.

"All right, your will be done. As a matter of fact I won't even be pressing charges, for old time's sake." He looked up at Sherlock with an unknown elation in his eyes that disturbed the detective. "I am hopeful that this would be the last time we will be seeing each other, little boy." He grinned.

It was all Sherlock needed as flashes of the same man's face—albeit younger—shook inside his memory, making the younger Holmes gasp violently. Norton blinked but his smile ever remained.

"What's the matter? You look like a lost ball in the weeds."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock snarled angrily as the man's face flashed in his mind again and again— who was he?

"Take him out."

Sherlock heard silence next as he recognized his brother's firm voice. Looking up, he saw Mycroft watching him this time with the most confusing expression. Mycroft looked incensed with the curve of his mouth but worried on top of his brow. Like how he had looked like with the aftermath of the clown in his house. Cold in the hands yet blazing in the eyes. Sherlock had always wondered how his brother was able to conceal his fear that night when he came calling to Baker Street the next morning. He was the opposite when he came, all calm, poised and most of all, indifferent.

But is it alright to leave his brother as is? He glanced at Mycroft and saw his glare—as if the man knew exactly what was on his mind and was daring him to say it. His expression was a combination of all—anxious, yet firm... worried, yet trying hard to be in control. Sherlock knew his brother all too well to know another storm was coming. A storm involving him and their past.

Before he could say another word, however, he was taken by the arms and was jostled towards the door. Sherlock would have struggled hadn't it been for the way Mycroft was looking at him again—as if reminding him of the job that had to be done. The urgency in his eyes pushed away all other doubts in Sherlock who gritted his teeth and swore...

They'll be dealing with it later... he eyed the doctor contemptuously. Why was Mycroft behaving so... behaved?

Sherlock had looked back at his brother but Mycroft was to have the last words.

"Send the regards to mother. I'll come by to arrange tea next time again."

The younger Holmes pressed a foot down to stop the haul. Mycroft had the most impassive expression.

"If she knew about this, she'll be poking you with the umbrella." Sherlock promised.

"Well, take care of it. Or it'll cause you an arm and a leg."

Time was of essence if Mycroft was to stay put with that vulture Sherlock thought as once outside the building he quickly took his phone out and dialled John's number. Urgent, Urgent, the words were pumping on his very vein. He stepped into the clearing, intending to be out and about when out of nowhere; a police car drove in front of him on the sidewalk and stopped inches away from his feet. The detective didn't have to know who was behind the wheels when he pulled the door and slid beside the passenger's seat.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, annoyed as the car drove on to the road, leaving behind the dark walls of the prison into the mid afternoon light. Detective Inspector Lestrade looked at his rear view mirror and then cast his eyes back on the road.

"Following your brother's instructions, the usual."

Sherlock sighed and turned on his phone and started a message instead. Then it occurred to him.

"When was it?"

"Last month." Greg turned the wheels and they were on the main road next, "He said to be here at this exact time because I had to take you to the precinct. He said you'd attack someone so I had to make sure you'll be in my division's custody. Didn't seem like they wanted to take you anywhere else, eh?" he turned to the detective and was surprised to find Sherlock staring at him transfixed. "What?"

So Mycroft had anticipated this behaviour up to a month? Typical.

Until when did he see things turning? Sherlock clicked his tongue and continued messaging a number of people.

"I did break someone's nose but we both know it's always well deserved."

Greg shrugged. "Sometimes, maybe." He looked at Sherlock. "You know I follow your brother's orders to the last letter but I can't help feeling things are a bit getting serious up there. I've been hearing a lot of things from the force too, luckily I'm on a special division but that does not make me invincible—"

"What kind of things?" Sherlock patterned his brother's coded message before he left the room and knew his next location would be. Then he remembered Greg beside him and waited for an answer.

"Security details, head of different divisions... there's a power struggle up there, one I've never felt so true before."

"That's what happens when they lock up my brother." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "And you were supposed to make sure he was looked after. What happened to that?"

Greg gave him the oddest look and scratched his left ear uncomfortably.

"Yeah, imagine me telling that to your brother, I thought I met my commandant back in the academy again. He doesn't need looking after. I did try you know—suggested he take a break? He told me if I don't stop I'm the one getting the break. Then told me to not say another word and when he says that you just listen."

"Hmm... funny how it works so well to other people."

"You don't know your brother—"

Sherlock only had to give him another flat stare.

"I mean—he's been doing this for a number of decades now, eh?" Greg half glanced at him and then at the road for the road was not empty, "He's the kind of person who always knows his job and really too good at it. He's already indispensable."

"And look where he is now." Sherlock's eyes glinted darkly. "Indispensable, indeed."

"If you had wanted him looked after from the start you should have tried too, you know." Went on the inspector, "If there was any time he was vulnerable you must've known it was after that incident in the island. Just remembering the details still bring chills to me, what more—you're family member. I could totally see your brother deciding her containment though, but then he's always been tough. So there was no better chance of getting through him than that day, what say you?"

The detective fell silent for awhile. "I had... a few matters at hand there too."

"Yeah, I suppose... and he would have scolded you in the end though. Big brother that he is."

"Big brother that he is." Sherlock looked away on the window and gave a silent sigh. Who would have thought this was already happening to his brother? The moment he returned from the island and was able to get a grip of himself after everything, all Sherlock could think about was how to make contact with her again. Forget about everything, his sister needed his help and he owed her that.

Mycroft never said a word. He never says a word of things that actually matter!

Sherlock has had suspicion his brother was holding back even when their parents had confronted him and even felt ready to defend him because whatever Mycroft did, he did out of his belief that he was doing them good. He knows that now. Mycroft was never the selfish brother he imagined him to be just to loathe him. He knows that now. Mycroft who was never present but always available should the occasion rise and when his little brother was in deep trouble.

Even when he was just bored and left alone Mycroft was there to keep him company even humouring him with games the both of them secretly enjoys. Then there was after Sherrinford. The way Mycroft was so silent during those days they were trying to get their sister from her own world, Sherlock should have known.

But why didn't he ask his older brother? Why didn't anyone ask how he had been? Lestrade did but surely there were other people closer to Mycroft who should have done so? Their parents? Himself? A person he can confide with—

To whom can Mycroft confide into? The answer was almost absolutely— nil.

Mycroft was not the type to open up, no matter how hard one tries. Unless there was the clown—Sherlock had a sudden vision of a man in white coat and a bloody red nose. It made him suck another lungful of air, his head momentarily confused... the next thing he knew, Lestrade had resumed talking beside him.

"Your brother said if you aren't to be sent to prison I should bring you back to Baker Street. He said he sent a package there that would come soon today. That place or the bolthole you've been using. Which would it be?" He looked inquiringly at Sherlock who had pressed his eyes tight and stared at him flatly.

"You know my new bolthole?"

"Yeah, the one across the Parliament? The abandoned building? It wasn't so abandoned before you used it—you know the homeless— then your brother had it vacated because he knew you'd be using it."

Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"Of course he'd know the perfect spot I'd choose, that Machiavellian." He muttered to himself and shook his head. Who else know his mental capacity other than his brother? "What else did he tell you in advance?"

"Well," the inspector went on, "he said you'd be giving something to Molly and me. I have her waiting at her lab now. Your brother called her a month ago too."

Sherlock shot him a quick look of surprise. "What?"

"He was guessing you'd be bringing a tablet or what? Penicillin?"

Sherlock turned and looked ahead of him. They had made it through the busy central street with people moving in packs without stopping. Then he was silent for awhile but the way he chewed on his lips was enough to make Lestrade glance at him in curiosity. Sherlock really had to give it to his brother to know even his slight sudden impulses in mind. Not to mention the probability of it all happening. Mycroft was the real deal.

Taking a dose of my own medicine huh? Before he knew it, Sherlock was chuckling.

"What's happening?" Greg asked sounding apprehensive. "What's on your mind?"

"Only Mycroft Holmes can pull this one on me." Sherlock said as slowly, he put his hand inside his coat pocket and took out what looked like a syringe. Sherlock stared at it as he raised it on his eye level. The syringe was half full with a transparent substance that cannot be mistaken from water. And in his mind's eye, Sherlock remembered how he knocked the doctor's head while his hand slipped inside the doctor's coat pocket in the speed of light.

Mycroft anticipated all that?

Does that mean his brother knew all along what he was getting himself at? That he would be drugged inside prison? He seemed too surprise when they both found it out moments ago; it was what actually made Sherlock doubt his brother. He seemed truly flabbergasted at the injections? But then the idea of Mycroft not knowing was laughable—he figured out his enemies' moves and his brother's moves to the last dot—why then does he looked surprise with the TD12 or whatever substance this was?

Or did he already forget? Was Mycroft's memory already deteriorating?

Sherlock had the sudden impulse to return in the prison and gritted his teeth for he knew Lestrade's ready answer.

"Take me back."

"Nope." There wasn't even a fraction of hesitation there and Sherlock knew Mycroft's bidding was still on the work.

"Fine, stop the car." He began fumbling on the car's handle, making the inspector groan at him and stopped the car near the block. The detective threw the syringe on the detective's hand as he slammed the door behind him. "Get this to Molly and get in touch once you know the compounds. Text me." He said, his mind already flying to his brother's last message.

"Where are you going?"

"As if you didn't know. I'll disprove his readings and get my on my own path. Not everything can be calculated by my brother." The detective muttered under his breath as he hailed a cab and finish what Mycroft could not. Who else aside from his brother knows about this Milverton Smith? The answer was right under his nose.

Back in the car, Detective Inspector Lestrade put the syringe inside his chest pocket and turned the car's lever stick just as he muttered to himself—

"Yeah, your brother said you say that."

Sherlock took in the dark room, waiting. He had positioned himself on the chair his brother usually occupied and sat there, two feet on top of the table, his palms pressed together and quietly let the information flew before his eyes.

On the air floated the word Conspiracy. Then there were others words in varying sizes:

Sherrinford, Royal Society, They.

Porlock, Love, Antarctica, Napoleon, Medical Society, British Government... Queen. MI5 and MI6... The Secret Service.

Thaddeus Norton, Milverton Smith, Culverton Smith...

All of which were his brother's words. Surely by following his train of thoughts, Sherlock too—can identify his brother's next move if not his plan.

Sherlock smirked to himself that didn't reach his eyes as he sat in an isolated room with only a lamp on his side as company. His brother's office always gave him a tranquil atmosphere with side mirrors and a red phone sitting by the table in front of him. The last words of his brother was still ringing in his ears as he sat in silence, his mind already deep within his mind palace.

"Take care of it or it will cause you an arm and a leg."

It didn't seem like a false threat.

So what were the facts? That Mycroft was imprisoned on his own accord while the government—or whoever he was in contact with— was setting the net on Milverton Smith who must have been such a dignitary if Mycroft was involved. Mycroft does not let himself get involved easily. Which would mean this was something big for the country.

Sherlock's thoughts lingered on the British Intelligence... and this Milverton Smith...

Sherlock locked his jaw as he tried to pry information from his mind—of the little knowledge he's taken from what he remembers from Culverton's case. He had transfixed himself on Culverton that nothing else divided his attention—apparently not to that big brother working in the government as his data suggested. Milverton had a clean background too: his connections were great and his expertise in the field of science got his the highest notable awards, even ones recognized by the Queen.

So he was not such a small fry as Culverton. Mycroft never paid attention to Culverton anyway so that in itself was a statement. Only to realise the British Government Head was actually drawing nets around the big brother for reasons only those above Mycroft's protocol is allowed to know. Sherlock couldn't have access to such data without his older sibling who knows everything.

So the idea that Culverton despised his brother for some abhorrent reason only psychopaths understand was new to him. With the aftermath of the case of Mary and with John forgiving him, Sherlock could careless of what happened next to Culverton Smith. Who would have thought he would be a key in unlocking one of Mycroft's most awaited Pandora's boxes and that Milverton tried to go against Mycroft but it was like a tiny ship facing a wave ten times its size.

Milverton must've realised he was ruined if Culverton was persuaded to talk; or if his brother needed any persuasion at all because as Sherlock understands it, the man was much too willing to take his own brother down. Truth be told, Sherlock was fascinated by the very idea. He had had one too many cases of sibling killings in John's blog and even before him the detective had recorded history of brothers falling on the hands of the other. Cases like that come and go, it was like Mrs. Hudson and her unfailing chitchats six times a week. Bloodshed amongst family members was something even the Royal family couldn't escape, it was a legacy.

Funny, wasn't that what he has been dreaming of with Mycroft? Not too long ago he would have attacked Mycroft on his bed just to spite him. Many times he had tried sending death threats to his brother anonymously only to return to him with the most accurate details of what was on the detective's mind. Mycroft had always been able to read him and Sherlock doubted the man doesn't know how many times he has plotted his big brother's death while bored.

Mycroft would even welcome him for trying.

Then again, Sherlock was sure there had been previous attempts but none succeeded as his sister who had to work with Moriarty just to take Mycroft down. A chanced kill out of nowhere in the middle of the sea. Was that how dramatic his brother thought he'd die? Because Mycroft even allowed it. His brother who never really outweighed death in his chosen career volunteered to die in the stead of his friend. Death by dire need, Mycroft's action was screaming of it back then which happened to be the moment Sherlock realised how very much he does not want his brother dead.

In the words of others—they both have each other's back.

In that respect, Sherlock does not understand killing a sibling so easily. Or maybe long ago he did... but not anymore. The detective closed his eyes and remained still for a few more minutes till he heard the sound of oncoming footsteps. In the sound of three-inch heels.

Lady Smallwood came into the room.

Sherlock put his feet down and faced her with every bit of seriousness in his features. Something which Lady Smallwood seemed too unaccustomed with the way she raised both her eyebrows at him—and Sherlock knew Lady Smallwood does not think highly of him. He went back to the last time they met, an occasion where he blatantly accused her of being the mastermind behind the A.G.R.A case and then of course, acting high as a kite during his session with the Cabinet office. It made him a little sheepish. It made him thread a little slowly for this was after all the only one in power still helping him to visit his brother and the only person who could shed some light in his brother's problems.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a little as she stood in front of the table, her eyes gazing around the table to the tiny details of the electric fan, notes and pen. Possibly the only person who cares for that big brother of his...?

"I hope it's not an inconvenience..." he began, sensing a new feeling of awkwardness at what he was reading from her.

She was looking straight at him. It was clear she was not like any other women. Someone who shares the same power as his brother surely could not be compared to common ones. Still he'd choose Mrs. Hudson any time any day for Lady Smallwood reeked with the same aura as Mycroft—secrets and deceits.

"I could ask the same." She replied quietly with eyes falling down the chair in front of her and then looking up at him again, "Isn't it an inconvenience for you to be here when you could have gone to Sherrinford instead? I heard she's been making progress."

Sherlock pressed his lips closed as he looked at her. Oh yes, she was angry about something.

"Would you like to take a seat, Lady Smallwood?"

She did and gracefully at that. Then she put both her knees together, her handbag on her lap with two hands on top and then went on watching him again with her sharp eyes. Sherlock could have sworn she looked a tad like his mother with the way she was ogling at him. He shook his head and cleared his throat.

But she beat him out of it.

"For all it's worth... your brother isn't as strong as he thinks he is."

Sherlock stared, struck at her sudden remark and how she seemed to have seen what he thought only he could see.

"I know." He whispered, looking in confusion at her intense gaze.

"I don't mean to pry to whatever relationship you two have, but it just seem too unfair that he is left to himself right after what happened on the island. Your brother is useless when it comes to emotional side—a point blank helpless for that matter. So it was a concern to see him struggle like a fish out of water during those times he was left to himself... thank god there was this case to occupy him; arguably he isn't one to ask for a help either. That's why he is an idiot. I could only wonder what he feels being stuck in that singular cell."

Sherlock looked down the table, speechless. Was he supposed to apologise? But the lady seemed unmindful as she went on again, "I haven't spoken to your brother since he was taken. It would seem too suspicious that I go there knowing I am being monitored myself."

Sherlock's eyes sparked with interest. "Monitored by whom?"

"Them." She said furtively.

"But who's them? I've been hearing about them from Mycroft but all I could get would be those beyond the Prime Minister as if you lot couldn't even be more specific."

"Why, who do you think is beyond the Prime Minister?"

"My brother." Sherlock said simply. Then he shrugged. "Intelligent wise."

Lady Smallwood was firm. "It is this intelligence that is the root of the problem. Nobody denies what Mycroft can do but we are in a situation where he no longer holds the power and that being him alone is a threat to the new office. You know what I mean."

"He knows everything from all corners, the shadow of the government." Sherlock supplied his deduction, "Once it's proven he's no longer mentally capable the risk of him still living out there where he could breath Military Intelligence or chances of him being overpowered by national terrorist means Britain's downfall."

"Doesn't sound too heavy, does it?" she remarked in ill humour but Sherlock just watched her every expression. "So it shouldn't come as a surprise that we are in a situation where your brother could be killed by Military Intelligence any time?"

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, and then arched an eyebrow a little as his suspicion was cleared.

"It sounds bad when said like that. That's the worst case scenario. Isn't that why he's trying to behave in his prison? So that things don't spiral too out of his control?"

"He's almost positive it won't come to that." Lady Smallwood transfixed her eyes on the detective again. "That's why you're here. This—" she produced a short brown folder from her bag and placed it on the table in front of him," is all we have about Milverton Smith and his affiliation with the government. I broke it out from the new security on the MI5 archives. Mycroft knows it but he's not one to print out information when he can just remember it, am I right?"

"Will you be all right?" Sherlock gave her a look but she didn't seem alarmed.

"Only time can tell what shall happen once they find that out. Let's both hope your brother's back when it happens. Anyway, you'll find from the profile that Mr. Smith is a capable individual and is the leader of one Military Operation that Mycroft does not agree with. He has been going head to head with Mycroft for some time now but he never wins... the last straw was of course, his brother Culverton Smith who has given a statement about his brother's illegal activities."

"Drugs and the sorts?"

"Much more." She nodded at the folder. "You'll find he is someone Mycroft considers to be 'foul' and 'hateful'. I rarely hear him speak so fervently about humans, as you already know."

Sherlock's eyes lingered on the profile with his mind impatient upon its content.

"Culverton knew all about his brother's illegal activities... then he died."

"Then he died." She nodded. "The exact day Mycroft disappeared from his house and was found in Sherrinford." Sherlock sat straight. Her eyes were speaking volume as she went on, "Many things happened when it was spread around the Cabinet and Ministers that he was dying, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And in that brief period something happened... including Culverton's death. You and I can safely assume we're all in for a conspiracy and your brother's in the middle of it. And if by chance... might also be falling under the collateral."

"No." Sherlock whispered, eyes glinting at the Lady, "I won't let anything happen to my brother."

"You and I both can commit to that." Lady Smallwood answered with a press of her lips. "Mycroft's dilemma was Milverton could start propaganda against the Cabinet involving its leader's mental state. Without Culverton's statement alive, and Mycroft in prison because of his affair with Moriarty, no one will believe him. It is only a matter of time before someone takes him out and sentenced him for the worst. Your brother isn't someone the military intelligence can let go easily. So without him to lead... what do we do, Sherlock? Your brother had asked me to believe in you."

Sherlock blinked at her sudden change of pace. Mycroft had always believed in him too.

"Milverton Smith." He then said as he sat straight and took something from underneath the table and revealed the long, well known black umbrella of his brother. "Shall be going down tonight."

"How—?" she began with a frown on the object but was thunderstruck as she watched the detective reached his thumb on the umbrella's handle, turn it a little—and then pressed the bottom side where a loud click was heard and the next thing the handle opened, revealing a small electrical device—a sound recorder—

Lady Smallwood gaped as then the late Culverton Smith's voice spoke—

"You see, Mr. Holmes, there are people in power like you who wield it much more...say for instance, my brother?"

Sherlock and Lady Smallwood caught each other's eyes. Then the detective made a face and pressed the umbrella again—revealing the lower surface to blink red and the next thing—another part of the rod opened and out came a micro chip.

"Oh look, a video recorder storage. What devilish technology my brother possess." He looked up at her with a huge smile. "You see, that's why Culverton hated the umbrella."

Mycroft had watched Dr. Norton dust himself the moment Sherlock was gone and had to sigh patiently when it took forever for him to wipe his broken nose.

"Couldn't you come back later? I can barely look at your appearance, let alone with a broken surface." Mycroft clicked his tongue and shook the hand of the guard's man on his shoulder. It was too heavy for starters and he didn't like what he saw on his readings for the man's hand was bare.

"It's gone." Norton then said as he turned around in circles like a confused dog going after its tail, his hands rummaging in all his pockets. "It's gone."

He stopped and looked at Mycroft straight in the eyes. The way his eyes were so round alerted Mycroft to some form of mental attack—people with such intelligence as this doctor tend to turn out to be psychopaths, that really was certain.

"My new mixture's gone... and I was supposed to use them first hand on you." He stepped closer to the older Holmes who sat straight warily, knowing full well what had happened.

"That's why..." he said with each word crystal clear, "come back later, doctor or I shall be making a complaint. You had been infusing me with medicine without prescriptions; I can have you sued for that."

"It's all legal, there's no file you can address."

"Yes, with all the twisted personage behind you isn't it?" Mycroft licked his lips and sighed inwardly, "I figured as much. Still... to be using new drugs on me just to incapacitate me... my enemies sure have taken the low road. So desperate for my defeat..."

"Only leverage they can pull if they wanted to take you down, Mycroft."

"Don't call me by my first name." Mycroft said irritably.

"But I've always done that, to you little boys." He went toward the table in search of something while Mycroft closed his eyes as he indeed, remembered. How could he escape such a man who was part of his childhood?

"Not here." The doctor sighed as he looked up in time to see the British government head looking his way. "Oh well, no harm done, I suppose it's time to take you to it."

Mycroft's eyes rounded as Dr. Norton smiled.

"Let's break you out of prison?"

There was the most intricate pause and then Mycroft whispered—

"And I suppose there's no point asking if this is all legal?"

"I'm your legal doctor under the law so none at all."

Mycroft slowly looked down the ground, his mind racing and with what he could see from his mind's eye, things had just begun to really go downhill. Not that he didn't see it coming, it was all calculated...

He instinctively put a hand on his arm where the marks of the injections were.

So riskily calculated.

He just hoped he could be resilient before Sherlock could come back barging in.

-To be Continued-

A/N: We're all behind schedule T_T

I'm so sorry, my laptop crashed and then series of earthquakes happened! Tends to get your hands full xD

So when Sherlock asks 'Are you having an earthquake?' I'll jump up and down and cry YESSS!

But oh well, on important matters~ roll the chapter ;)

Thanks for Reading!

Chapter Text

*Minds of Carat*

~WhiteGloves~

-Bombardment of findings~ bear with John ;)

*Warning for HEAD ACHE!*

-Enjoy Reading!-

5: Crystal

John Watson walked briskly onto the pavement with a dour look on his face. He had been walking for some time now after the cabbie had dropped him off the wrong street—well not really the wrong street he was the one who gave the address of the community college to the cabbie, only to receive a text message telling him to walk down the street and find this cafe. And no, this wasn't the Speedy's cafe—it was Drury Tea and Coffee—all the way to South East London. Imagine Sherlock in a coffee shop. With his eyebrows contorted as he was just summoned by his ever wilful friend, John stopped in front of the cafe of this title with its green and white exterior of a coffee house, to its window glasses and the red chairs and tables that surrounds it with people already occupying them. The doctor pressed his lips and looked around next; there he spotted the detective easily in his thick black coat and unruly hair seated in the open air by the wooden wall with a newspaper and cup of coffee in front of him.

John made his way to the detective and shook his head once he was a foot from the table.

"Isn't it too hot to be still wearing that?" he helped himself on the chair in front of the man who raised his eyes at the doctor and glanced back on the paper.

"Really? I feel comfortable, I'm even having coffee. Problem?"

"You're attracting attention."

"Thank you."

John sighed and looked around again with both arms on the table. "So what am I doing here?"

"You're a medical man, I need your expertise."

"Piss off. That's always your excuse. Why not just tell me you need someone who'd cheer you every step of the way."

"That too."

"So what are we doing?"

"Observing."

"You mean spying?" John knew Sherlock too well as he glanced around him and cleared his throat. The civilian around them were all young and more like in mid twenties. As the doctor could see, they sat in groups or twos he could actually count those seated by themselves. All those textbooks, he remembered his own college years. His curiosity aroused at what they were doing at such environment and at the middle of a very important case involving Sherlock's brother, John glanced back to his friend and looked him from up and below. Talk about an expert at spying.

"Aren't you supposed to be more inconspicuous if you're trying to blend in? You're not exactly a 'nobody' you know."

"We're inconspicuous enough, that's the art of blending in, the safest place to hide—"

"Yes—I know—plain sight, you've said that before. Who are we spying on?"

Sherlock suddenly diverted his eyes to the young people on the table far opposite them. John following his eyes saw which group he was looking at and frowned.

"Kids?" he said abruptly. "We're spying on kids?"

"Yes. Clandestine aren't they?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Observe them, John, and tell me what you see. Off you go then, what can you see?"

The doctor shut his eyes and bowed his head. "Sherlock, if we're in a hurry—"

"Always the outside opinion, John." Sherlock gave him an odd look, "Always important."

Which was always hard to resist so John casted his eyes back on the group of five three male and two females with books arranged and two cups of coffees in front of them— the usual picture of people their age hanging out.

He began.

"They're college students... working on a project, thesis maybe? They'll be having a presentation soon, I can see them cramming they have lots of books. They hardly looked like they sleep. Uhuh... the girls look like they're the smart ones with glasses and all." He thought he saw Sherlock smirk at the corner of his eyes. "They're not couples, probably just a study group, restless, boy do they need sleep, and they look high. Above that, what I can't see is what they could possibly have done to even make the famous Sherlock Holmes to tail them?"

Sherlock smirked. John shook his head quickly.

"I don't want to hear what they've been doing privately, Sherlock. Just tell me what I didn't see."

"Everything."

John sighed again as he saw his friend's eyes twinkle and prepared himself for loads of information—

"You saw everything unhelpful— you only saw them as students because of the IDs hanging by their bags. They come from Greenwich Community College and going by the number of books they have they'll be having exams soon and yes, they take it seriously as they are in a scholarship program I can see it with their right hands, all writers, bookish, studious, plus the indication of scholarship on the ID. Also did you not observe the number of coffee? You practically skipped it. Two coffees on a group of five students cramming. No, they don't need coffee. Yet they look like a group without enough sleep. You said they look high, just what I expect from a doctor. So inference, they've been taking something much more than caffeine, something that could make them lost appetite judging from the absence of bread or cake on their table; something that will help them study further—but they haven't opened their books yet, they're just talking. Imagine that, at the end of the line with exams coming, they don't even look on their books. Suggesting confidence despite the lack of sleep—what does that tell us?"

"That they are pretty smart, simple?" John frowned at his friend at how he seemed on edge.

"Not smart enough."

"You can't be comparing them to you—"

"Have you heard about modafinil, John?" Sherlock went on more quietly. John actually blinked twice in understanding and looked at the students again. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Modafinil, also called the wonder pill. The study drug, as literally as it could. It's been around for years and particularly popular to this age group. The drug can improve concentration skills and alertness to information perceived by the brain. Basically a brain enhancer. It's normally prescribed to treat narcolepsy but our generation found a better way of using it. Well, practically everyone's hyper at these changing times. Even bored."

"That's like having a community of Sherlocks," John turned to his friend sharply, "but the drugs' not really prohibited, is it? Go to London universities I bet you'll find a much larger crowd who uses it so why are we in Greenwich? Unless we're after the supplier. Are we after the supplier?"

Sherlock's eyes smiled and John was proud of himself. Of course they were. Wasn't the man Sherlock was targeting the head of the Academy of Medical Sciences? What are the odds?

"They're not opening their books, not drinking coffee." The detective with the same vigour, "They're just waiting."

"So we're also waiting for him? How random is this that you find a college community with people selling this stuff—ahh... your networks." John sighed and raised his hand to get a coffee.

"This is never random, John, don't be absurd." Sherlock's eyes twinkled. "It's just me. Nobody ever notices these things except me."

"And your brother." John pointed out with a look, reminding himself how indeed, both brothers are the same yet different at the same time. "You two really are... exceptional people. I remember him figuring me out with only my left hand. How is he?"

"Hilarious." Sherlock slowly travelled his eyes to his friend. "And thriving to survive."

John didn't like that glint behind the detective's eyes. "He's really in that deep trouble?"

"Yes, but one has to be discreet when one talks of high matters of state." Sherlock looked sideways just as the waitress came in and gave John his coffee. The doctor thanked her and waited till she was out of earshot but Sherlock didn't seem interested to continue. John stared at his the man for a moment, and then down the table. The newspaper headline was about some outrageous leader of another country setting off bombs to Afghanistan. Changing times, indeed, but still the same for Afghanistan. Now eyes have turned to this particular helpless country and John could just imagine its residence. People who had never been to war would never understand the victims, starved and dying. All because of some stupid power struggle. Everyone involved in the war was making Sherlock Holmes seem more human to him.

Oh wait, he is.

John was suddenly alerted to Sherlock nudging his hand on the table and pointing his chin back at the group of college students. Looking up, he saw the group get approached by another male student with a back pack. He didn't look any older than the rest of them—in fact he looked younger. Blinking, the doctor posed the questioning look at his friend who nodded.

"That's him alright."

"Another kid's a supplier?"

"Don't be deceived now, John. That's not a student." Sherlock sat straight and transfixed his eyes at the new arrival, "No..." his eyes widened and the doctor just knew the man was not with him anymore, "He's a pharmaceutical scientist."

"Yeah, I need help with that. Elaborate."

"Look—just look at him—he breathes a different air. He's not used to open air— that means a face mask. He wears the same ID because he looks young but he's not from this college—tickets on his jacket John— his hair is too short, too clean like yours— there are linings at the edge of his eyes, around his eyes and mark at the bridge of his nose— suggesting thick goggles—they don't make markings like that if you don't regularly wear them. And look at his watch—much expensive you don't find those on college students. Hands... ah... nails clean, different colour than wrist, paler—always using gloves—nitrile gloves? Yes, they're thicker, but still susceptible to chemical, look at his right arm, there it is, a chemical accident... you don't see that kind of bruising on a simple chemistry lab... and he works maximum eighteen... to twenty five hours a day. He's our man alright."

John snorted, "How did you know he'd come?"

"Because I've been waiting for him. If someone's supplying these students with drugs it's obvious they'd want to be close enough for inspection of the effects."

They both watched the transaction between the students with John frowning at how easily Sherlock could spot them suppliers. Then again, this was Sherlock. He then proceeded in watching the newcomer sit with the group but then like he felt it, the man looked up straight at him. John blinked, and then turned back to Sherlock when he saw the kid looking his way.

"Sherlock. Don't look."

"You don't look."

"I'm serious, he can see us—he knows you— Jesus you're Sherlock Holmes!"

"Point, isn't it?" Sherlock's eyes didn't budge watching till John noticed him stand up without a word—making him halt a second then jump to his feet to follow him. Looking back, he saw the pharmaceutical man watched them go before he sped up to catch up with the detective.

"Sherlock—hang on—Sherlock—"

"We're done here."

"What—where are we going?"

"The Stadium."

John paused and then blinked as he exclaimed—"Why?"

If Sherlock had explained the purpose, he must've done it in his mind for he remained silent and John was compelled to remind him of it later. Half an hour later, John found himself standing outside walled Olympic Stadium in the middle of London, alone. Sherlock was bouncing up and down the side of the stadium with people already curious of what he was doing. Plenty of tourists were taking pictures around and it took John two tries to find a place to stand where people won't excuse his position. When it seemed that Sherlock won't be stopping any time soon, the doctor walked up to him.

"Alright, tell me what's going on?" he shot at the detective who was now looking straight up a security camera. "You better tell me now Sherlock or I won't be able to help, you know I want to help."

Sherlock glanced behind him to the security guards then to the stadium once more.

"It's massive, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"Good. Let's go." And off he went, driving John nuts as he swore under his breath but following all the same. "To hell do we go this time?"

"Winfield House. Come on, John, we're on schedule."

"What schedule? And how many more places to go!?"

"Five more!"

Running around was no problem, it sent excitement right down John's adrenaline. Still, Sherlock did not bother telling him anything and it was probably for a reason but following his reasoning and his actions, John could just guess his friend was trying to be obvious. He kept glaring at security cameras, kept on being seen by people he was monitoring and above all, making a scene.

The last was him actually stepping into the road just to look a suspected man for drug abuse see him face to face. John hadn't had enough though. It was around past noon when John had found himself yet again inside the unoccupied building Sherlock had been using as his bolthole. It was as shabby as he remembered but he didn't mind dropping himself on their old couch and letting his head fall behind him in exhaustion. Sherlock had already removed his coat and was now pulling his sleeves up to his elbows.

"You made your point." John breathed out with eyes tightly shut. "What is it all for?"

"Setting a distraction." Came the dry reply.

"You think I didn't notice that?" John sighed as he stood up to join his friend who was now standing by the wall of threads he had built. Sherlock was as steady and as focused as he could ever be and John realised how the man was point serious to everything he did. Such dedication.

"Right, setting a distraction for whom?"

"For the main event."

"I'm guessing Milverton Smith is the occasion?" John had a good look at the wall. Unlike the last time where snippets of pictures of different people were found, this time there was only one in the middle: Milverton Smith. John easily recognized that face he saw outside the hospital. Unlike Culverton however, this man was pale and lean, thus Sherlock scribbled a white note under his name Thin Man, and his blonde hair was neatly plastered on his head it was like seeing a mannequin. Still, it was his dead eyes stare that got John to weigh him.

The guy who had his brother killed. John's jaw tightened. Culverton Smith may have been a menace but no normal being would want their family dead. Certainly not him. Certainly not Sherlock. It was a betrayal of a kind.

There were other information in scribbles and notes that registered to the doctor who recognized Margaret Thatcher's photo and name and some article about her; the current Prime Minister on her right, followed by the photo of the Royal Society president. To John's amusement, there were no photos of Mycroft except that scribble of Fat Man just above Thatcher's—does Sherlock really think so? Didn't the detective say Mycroft was losing weight? On the side of Mycroft's tag name was another photo of another doctor, an old one. He blinked as he recognized him.

"Norton? Dr. Thaddeus Norton from the Whitehall? Blimey..."

"Of course you know him..."

"Of course I know him, isn't he the face of Royal Society? He made this very insightful review about human psychology and neurological analysis that got printed out last month. I didn't quite understand some of the bits but it was fascinating, you should read it..." He turned in time to see his friend's face was grim.

"I have read it." Even his voice was levelled and too resonant. John sensed something uneasy there.

"And uh... what do you think?"

"Considering he's the one mentally torturing my brother, I'm not at all a fan."

The look John gave Sherlock was a mixture of horrified and bafflement.

"M—mental torture? How do you mean?" But Sherlock didn't say another word as he crossed the room towards the table with John right behind him— "What d'you mean mental torture? Is Mycroft okay?"

"He'll live..." Sherlock muttered as he took a piece of paper on the table and walked pass John again who continued to strut behind him, "provided I get them first before they get him." He plastered the note on the wall, beside Thaddeus Norton's name and it read Little Boy. John stood staring at the note. What has Mycroft gotten himself into?

"But is Mycroft alright? Why would Norton be doing that—?"

"I thought you read his review? Psychopaths—they're natural to medical men—no offence."

"Yeah, but is Mycroft alright?" John insisted with clenched teeth as he blocked his friend's way and stood firmly on his ground with their faces nose to nose. Sherlock looked demented, it was obvious he was affected but so was John. It hadn't been two days since he found about Mycroft's imprisonment – it wasn't long ago when he was just having his morning tea peacefully—only to realise something of the sort was already happening to a person he knew well—of course Sherlock had to be made to talk!

A moment passed as the dark look on the detective's face disappeared to be replaced by a pale one. John blinked.

"Sherlock—?"

"He's someone from our past... I could remember him a bit."

"Norton?" John breathed out

"Mycroft knows him, that's obvious or he wouldn't have tolerated the man," Sherlock looked down the floor, "He's someone from our early childhood... with Eurus in fact... I can't quite place him yet but if he's been in my memory with her, it could only mean he knew about her, and me apparently." He sucked in some air before meeting John's eyes, "I think he's our family doctor."

John gaped. "W-what did Mycroft say?"

"He's in prison, he can't help." He looked back at the wall, "Only way to know now is to get this done."

"You think Mycroft's safe with him if he's your family doctor?" John had to ask.

"I don't think Mycroft is safe anywhere in London."

John had to take that all in and deep inside him he knew—people like Mycroft tend to die in secret. He had to reprimand himself for that because if he realised it—then what more Sherlock? Still, he didn't need to rub salt on the wound and was almost apologetic when out of nowhere, Sherlock's phone rang.

Sherlock quickly dropped his sombre face as he looked at the caller ID, hesitated a little, and then clicked the answer button. "It's me. Hello, mother."

John turned slowly away and focused on how to help since Sherlock got his hands full. He saw more scribbling and then noticed the map of London where the areas they have just gone into was encircled. There were a couple of other fields included too, a few more stadiums and parks that stringed to a note that says GLL. That was familiar. Frowning, John saw a note right under the map that said Project Y.

Sherlock had resumed wandering behind him again after he hung up.

"Does she know?" John said in wonder as he turned towards his friend, "about Mycroft in prison?"

Sherlock shook his head absentmindedly. "No... no they' don't know anything."

"You're going to keep it a secret." John concluded quietly, their eyes at one another.

Sherlock hesitated. John doesn't like seeing Sherlock hesitating at all.

"It's kinder." The detective said quietly, making John suddenly picture Mycroft who had gone and made the same decision back when he was made aware of their sister's fate. Sherlock seemed to realise the same as he breathed out and put both palms on his eyes. He looked like he was about to burst be it shout—anything—just to get rid of his boiling emotion. And John wouldn't have blamed him—here he was, Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective and crime solver, a national hero—yet he couldn't do anything for his siblings who were both prisoners of his country left and right. Not to mention it wasn't long ago when he found out the truth about his sister... what emotion was Sherlock going through...?

John could honestly imagine.

But just as John thought the man would roar, he saw Sherlock's shoulder relax till the tension was gone. Then he wiped his face with his palm, showing his red face but calm expression. It was the same sentiments he had to battle over saying I love you to Molly that made John wonder... did Sherlock ever leave that maze?

John cleared his throat. "What does your mom want?"

"She wants to pay her a visit, my sister." Sherlock sniffed and cleared his throat, "She was wondering why Mycroft won't answer her call. She and my father are on their way, they'll be here tomorrow morning."

John nodded again. The parents who were always oblivious. Not that it's their fault their children were extraordinary to begin with—one who runs a country, two who runs and chases criminals and three on her own world but once set loose could damage half the globe. Not the parents' fault? It's in the genes isn't it?

"So that's your deadline, isn't it?"

"Yes." Sherlock responded with his phone receiving a text. "Gonna bring my brother home."

John's eyes lingered at his friend for a moment. "Care to explain what this is about?" he called out, "Project Y?"

"In good time. Right now were at the mouth of an intricate plan, an important catch. If we fail it could mean the total annihilation of the country."

John nodded knowing full well Sherlock must've been citing how important his brother is. It was the truth, Mycroft could really be full of himself at times but he was so good at his job that John was forced to believe Great Britain would not be as it is without him. An indispensable guy. If only they could add a heart.

But then John knew full well Mycroft does have one, he's just too embarrassed to show it.

The Holmes brothers. They need a little tinkering to get out of their boxes. Sherlock did. Mycroft needed a few more budging. Nevertheless, he hoped Mycroft was alright. Sherlock may not show it but between the two of them it was apparent Sherlock had developed a certain fondness for his big brother right after Sherrinford. It may have been the idea that his brother was willing to sacrifice for them, a rare behaviour Sherlock always had inclination with; certainly not he expected from his brother and now that he did, it was just too soon to lose him.

And the idea that even his big brother could make mistake... so human.

Plus the fact that he was vulnerable as any of them could be.

Now here's Sherlock, going in circles just to get his brother back so what was he, John, to do?

"Obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock said beside him, making John look his way in surprise. Sherlock was furiously typing on his mobile phone. "We'd go with the plan." He sent the text and looked up.

"What's going on?"

"The plan's in motion. Everything is at stake by evening."

"What? What plan?"

"No time," Sherlock raised a hand at him, eyes serious, "Now John, you go and take Rosie and Mrs. Hudson—take Molly too if you can convince her and go to my parent's house. If things go the other way tonight, my parents might be returning there after all, let's hope this case scenario does not happen cause it's going to be bad for all of us."

John, who was used to Sherlock explaining things randomly without prior warning, shook his head.

"Why would I go to your parents' house?"

Sherlock blinked. "To save yourself and your daughter—what else?"

"Yeah—but what's going on!?" It was the last straw and John, having heard such urgent command, had to put his foot down. Sherlock had gone and forget again that he hadn't explained himself from the start. How was he to understand?

Sherlock gaped at the doctor. "I thought it was obvious—you saw the wall!" he pointed at it, "Everything on the string of my mind's already there—we don't have time!"

"Then begin telling!"

"Dammit—" Sherlock muttered and then went near the wall and pointed at Project Y. "This—doesn't this ring a bell? It's a location John—"

"I know it's a location—do you think I wouldn't notice it's under a map—?"

But Sherlock was speaking to himself this time, eyes unnaturally transfixed at the note—

"Project Y— in 1943 to 1946, a code name for Los Alamos Laboratory in New Mexico—a secret laboratory established by the Manhattan Project that operated during World War II. It's the place where chemists developed methods of purifying uranium and plutonium thus creating what we know today as Thin Man and Fat Man and eventually Little Boy— the nuclear weapons that changed history—well, technically Thin Man wasn't used because the concentration of the isotope for plutonium was too high and the scientists basically wanted something pure. Had they used it Thin Man would have blown itself apart during initial formation—"

"Sherlock—"John blurted out, feeling stones hitting him hard on the head—

"— the distance required to accelerate the plutonium to speeds where predetonation would be less likely would need a gun barrel too long—yes, John?" he looked at his friend with his face impassive, like a lecturer giving his notes about Chemistry and even blinked casually at John who had reached a hand on his friend's arm and tugged at him.

John was gaping more than ever. Did Sherlock just...?

"Are we... talking about atomic bombs in London?"

"Nuclear weapons, yes. What better way to hide such an intricate laboratory other than those controlled by the Academy of Science under the pretence of a charitable, social enterprise, promoting healthy and active lifestyles, giving communities access to facilities like gyms, playgrounds—world class venues—parks, stadiums—"

John gasped as he understood once again. Did they just do all those hunting to find a laboratory keeping nuclear weapons?

"Yes." Sherlock answered with one swift look at John who was still too numb to say anything but the detective had no problem figuring out. "GLL works the facilities all around London. We've been to some just now Marshall Street Baths, London Leisure College not far from Greenwich Community College, The Olympic Stadium, London Fields, Crystal Palace National Sports Center, Putney Library. All controlled by GLL. Yes, I'm talking about an underground base, John."

For the very thought just crossed the doctor's mind whose eyes had lingered at the parks and stadiums indicated on the wall. It took him awhile as Sherlock kept on talking, to take in everything that in the end only one question remained unanswered—

"How did you know? And for god sake don't tell me because you just know—"

Sherlock pressed his lips closed. "My brother. It's on his secret files about Milverton Smith, MI5. Everything Smith has done and is working on is there. Underground laboratories for his drugs and chemistry projects too big for the country. Of course my brother is aware of that, why else would he be so concerned of Milverton's arrest? And nuclear weapons isn't really new to Great Britain but there are certain limits even Smith should know—"

"Yes—but nuclear weapons under London!?"

Sherlock blinked. "Don't be an idiot—we're not talking about nuclear reactor under London—you think my brother would approve that? It's just a secret laboratory developing something far worse than just exterminating a whole city using medicine. A virus of a kind, a poison—in our case, something that can be used to intimidate other countries in the future... something that will again, changed the course of history. Something only a Milverton Smith is capable of doing with his money and connection. The wonders of science, John... you are a doctor, you know it."

"Was that also on your brother's file?"

"No. It was on his recordings from Culverton Smith. Mycroft was livid when he found out. The Queen would flip if she finds out what's been harbouring on her garden."

John breathed like he had just run a marathon as he too stared blankly at the wall. Ignorance is really bliss, then, as Sherlock often said. The more John had listened to it, the more absurd it sounded, especially the extent of the effect—was this the type of people Mycroft Holmes always deals with? Talk about criminals with class! It was all deadly and impossible that if one wrong move was made—it really would be a catastrophe.

"So what do we do?" the doctor asked finally as he reached a hand on his temple.

"You have to leave now." Sherlock turned to his coat and wore it. "I have set of things to do before the final count down."

"What are you going to do?" he watched Sherlock cross the room again into one of their old cabinets. How did that cabinet survived? He asked the back of his mind but Sherlock running around dismissed the thought—

"Set up Milverton Smith so that he doesn't do anything reckless. It's the most important part Mycroft would have done had he the leisure but well, brothermine prison and all—"

"You think I'd be leaving you after what you just told me? Bloody hell, are you even talking about the burn of London to the ground?"

"Yes, that's why you've got to take Rosie somewhere safe." Sherlock answered eyes on his friend. "You can't stay, John. You have to protect her."

"And you're staying because you're protecting your brother." John frowned deeply, it was all crystal clear now. "No, I've got to stay. You need help on this one Sherlock."

"John—" he whirled around to face the doctor whose eyes were too penetrating to ignore.

"This is much more than Rosie and me, Sherlock, much more than you and your brother." He said the words carefully so that Sherlock would understand with his buzzing mind already somewhere far. He needed Sherlock to understand.

"I want to help."

Somewhere along the line, he knew Sherlock could never refuse.

Milverton Smith was a very patient man.

One of the perks of being a scientist; hard work, wit, perseverance, creativity and above all, patience were one of his favourite virtues. Without waiting for a hard earned result, he wouldn't be as successful as he is now today, would he? No. He was a very patient man.

How else would he be in a position where his most notorious adversary in the person of Mr. Mycroft Holmes be found locked in a cell because of his own miscalculation? And at the right time too considering the results of his experiments were positive, even Mycroft would admire him. Smith heard it was a family affair that got Mycroft spiralling down, one he was not truly intrigued because he had his own matters at hand with his own brother shifting sides so easily; he never expected much loyalty from Culverton anyway. Surely his brother did not expect the same?

But he was a good brother; Milverton did his best to take his little brother back from the many connections in the Royal Society. It was dangerous to let such a loose end run free in the hands of the enemy, Culverton must be taken back.

Alas, then dawned Mr. Holmes.

Such a trump card for the nation, he was the biggest wall. They never agreed from the start because the leader of the Cabinet was much clever. No wonder Mycroft Holmes was deemed the most dangerous man in the government. The medical society unit of Great Britain would have been under his control now hadn't it been for this man who was working in the shadow government with ease. Milverton had to admit Mr. Holmes was impregnable. Many people from the Parliament do regard Mycroft Holmes the entity of power. And he wields it all too carefully and perfectly there wasn't even a trace of surfeit left on his wake. So people like him, Milverton with his ventures on the dark needed to be very careful with Mycroft Holmes breathing on their neck. He was very troublesome. Very smart and omnipotent.

Then came Sherrinford. Oh, how the odds had turned in his tables.

Patience does bear fruit.

Mycroft falling under his own spell was ingenious. It was one of those windows Milverton had been waiting for right after Culverton's arrest. Such wonders, the work of the universe sometimes, it sent chills on his spine.

What does he do at the first breath of freedom?

Eliminate his brother.

Now it was only a matter of time before he could really get Mr. Holmes off his plate. The Prime Minister, not to mention, the Royal Family had full trust on Mr. Holmes but a few more rumour and name calling and Mr. Holmes would be discredited by the very government that he served for years. How amusing, considering he was one of the powerhouses that built it, one that also needed to disappear if they wanted the government to advance. Science was there to push the limits of every man's belief.

Mr. Holmes just doesn't understand the importance of his ambition for the country. Nuclear Weapons were old school, it will be a matter of time before each country has it and by the time everyone does, threats would be part of everyone's meal. They needed something more powerful, something more deadly than just boom.

Chemistry at its finest.

"You fool."

Milverton could hear Mycroft's last words on their last meeting ringing on his ear. It made his thin lips go thinner. It was one of those singular occasions when he explicitly had to explain and to answer Mycroft Holmes' summon. The man, with his overflowing influence on the Secret Service, had an intel of his recent endeavours on chemistry and nuclear. Mycroft who had been behind the project at its first stage was angry enough when he realised Milverton's intent to 'nuke' countries with a serious aerial virus with medicine only available in the country. A scientist and businessman all over again. Where else would Culverton get his eccentricities?

And Mr. Holmes can just stay trapped in his own mind with the infamous Dr. Norton to handle him. Without Mycroft Holmes, who was left to counter him? Even if the Queen disapproves it, everyone knows you can always go straight to the Prime Minister who is more reasonable when it comes to his defences. Who does not like an advantage from those countries already making scene in the globe and showing off who is the most powerful? Mr. Holmes has made the country too domesticated and unaware of the horrors of the world. Great Britain was better off without him.

Though he had to thank him somehow too, for people were comfortable in their own skin because of the protection he provided the country for so long. Now, however, things had changed and some new power is ready to take over. Milverton Smith bathed in his success; he was able to accomplish what others could not. There was Mr. Holmes no more and now England was his oyster. Their oyster.

Except that one tiny speck, one singular error that was left behind by the enigmatic Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes.

The Holmes brothers. Most of his colleagues would cringe at their name. Milverton had heard about Mr. Holmes' younger brother, oh he had a reputation alright. He was after all the reason one of his most charitable sponsor was dead. Make that two—Culverton wouldn't have found himself dead too if he hadn't mess with the consulting detective in the first place.

Sherlock Holmes who lays waste to everything he touches. Milverton saw him as a threat— they were warned he was. So hearing that the man was most likely be after the aggressors of his older brother, Milverton waited patiently again for the man's next move. He heard news from his men how the detective was seen lurking by one of his institution at Greenwich. It was apparent Mycroft had left his brother a message; the next thing Milverton knew, Sherlock Holmes was all over the city in all the places connected to the organization. So be it, the man was working for his brother no doubt—but to what end?

For a moment, Milverton was alarmed at the thought that Sherlock Holmes knew of the weapon even the government was not aware of yet. But then one of the latest news he heard was Sherlock Holmes with the Scotland Yard running through a drug den at the South East just now. A detailed account told him of Sherlock Holmes' ventured in finding the manufacturer of the study drug, the Modafinil one of his hosted medicine—but something that could never be traced back to him. It was just one of those wonder drugs his company had given birth to, a very small portion of other drugs available in the black market unbeknownst to those who don't look for it. Sherlock Holmes with his eyes on the drugs surely would be next to finding other small elements, but he would never find who was at the top.

He didn't the last time.

That was fine, this other Holmes can give all his energy and busy himself in gathering all drug dens and drug suppliers in the country, it would not affect him in the least. What matters was there would be no nose of any undercover detectives spoiling his main course. It took patience to get there, no second brother would be taking it from him, Culverton was a witness to that.

So with his mind at ease, Milverton went on his way back to his office. It was such a grand day having Mycroft Holmes officially out of the concern and his stupid brother running amok far away from the target. Everything was going as planned, all he needed to do was to make the Prime Minister agree—that was absolute.

And even if he did not, there was no way Milverton Smith would be stopped, being a business man that he is.

Patience was everything.

Until he went on his table and noticed a message left on the screen.

Frowning, Smith looked around the room before sitting down and opening the dialogue box, it went like this:

You had been compromised. Sherlock Holmes knows.

Crystal Palace at once.

M.

-To be Continued-

A/N: I said it was only for 5 chapters. I'm so bad at calculation ;X

But anyway, let's try two more chapters, mates?^^

I'm loaded, thank the internet for those info -.- Mycroft is indeed WIKIPEDIA!

Thanks for Reading!

Chapter Text

*Minds of Carat*

~WhiteGloves~

-If your heads haven't exploded yet, I'm cheering for ya ;)

*Warning for spoilers!*

-Enjoy Reading!-

6: Carat

A needle shot out a straight line of transparent liquid into the air with Mycroft Holmes watching on the side. By the life of him he doesn't know the meaning of apprehension except when the occasion calls for it—like when he was in Sherrinford where he watched people get killed or when his sister had asked him to shoot the governor, or when the governor killed himself in front of him with his blood oozing on the floor— oh not there. Not yet.

Mycroft immediately shut his eyes closed as the memory resurfaced out of nowhere and thought how he would take on any number of injections instead. He'd rather that than let the events in Sherrinford take over his mind for the memory was quite fresh. He needed something to get occupied.

Something that would not make him linger on the thought of his poor sister... and the death toll on her hands.

And so he watched and even waited patiently for the drug to enter his system. The needle pricked his skin and he watched as the content got emptied. He closed his eyes next and sighed as he felt the hairs of his skin stand up, even a little tingling sensation around the neck he would not mistake as his nerves.

Something to occupy his mind.

He took a deep breath, flexed his right hand and then sighed before looking up at the doctor who administered the injecting. Dr. Norton. They were both in his office in a lab Mycroft knew all too well.

"I do hope this... pilot testing... is something for the betterment of humanity."

"Sure." Norton nodded as he carefully placed the syringe back on its tray. "If that betterment meant sacrificing few numbers of healthy living mortal, I don't mind."

"You shouldn't be too expressive of your actual intent." Mycroft scoffed dismissively as he pulled his arms away from the table and began straightening the sleeve of his white shirt. "You remember the case on TGN1412? The approval the government gave was still a shock to me. Nobody ever forgot it."

"So? Elephants go to heaven."

"Doctor." Mycroft gritted his teeth, remembering the awful event in 2006 involving human drug subjects that went horribly wrong now called the Elephant Man and how, exclusively, the same doctor beside him was one of the consultant. Mycroft never did forget. "They should have listened."

"Well, I am a neuroscientist major with PhD on neurology, your psychiatrist, even your guardian at times... what do I know about the physiological effect of them drugs?"

"You always know." Mycroft sighed again as put a palm on his face that had become cold all of a sudden. "You're not my relative for nothing."

"Admitting it now, are we? I thought you wanted to play games with me and your brother in front of your little camera trick?" he suddenly clamped his hand on his coat pocket to look at his phone, frowned heavily and threw the gadget on the table. "Still on to hiding things from your family, eh?"

"You should not be the one to talk." Mycroft glared, feeling sudden warmth on his eyes. "and do tell—what have you given me this time?" he could feel his face now warming up.

"Nothing bad." Doctor Norton glanced at him ever slightly with the tone of his voice too calm, "Just... something stronger."

Mycroft swore he would never make a mistake a second time but now it was all happening just a month later. He wanted the occasion at Sherrinford to be one of a kind, one he had treated as a warning to himself, and that never again would he make such an anomaly to his ever perfect track record of being always right. Yet now here he was, doing the same irregularity as he stepped out of the safety of his cell. He knew something was bound to happen when this doctor got his hands on him— that was always his quote when Mycroft was a child—that he was the favourite among them three.

That he was the finest jewel—a carat of a kind.

Mycroft knew how dramatic family members can be—and he found it first hand from him.

To think that he... with his... what was he...?

Mycroft shut his eyes close as he felt a pulsing sensation at the side of his temple too painful to bear; and deep within him he saw his mind palace crumble into darkness.

Why do you have a gun...?

...

Are you going to kill again on the pretence of saving others?

Be quiet...

Too much blood, brothermine...

Hush...

Stop thinking like me, you can't...

I said shut up...

Make me.

"Shut up, Mycroft."

Sherlock snapped into attention after the sudden hissing sound and then squinted— haze of black and white appeared before him and a ringing buzzing sound by his ears told him he was back in reality and out of his mind palace.

There he found himself seated in one of the pub in South London boroughs of Crystal Palace, just across the street of the Crystal Palace National Sports Centre where all lights were on and loud cheering noise could be heard from the inside. An event was going on at the park and surrounding areas were full. The pub itself was filled with people with blasting volume of the telly up its rack. It was one of those long nights that people liked hanging out.

To watch and shout at the telly? Sherlock dismissed the trivial thought when he heard a voice beside him.

"You okay?" John tried peering at him but Sherlock only looked at his watch. It was a half past six. He pressed his lips as a sign of impatience and paused for awhile, before sliding his hand inside his dark suit's inner pocket and took out his gun. John's eyes widened and looked immediately around to the people surrounding them who were all minding their own businesses before the doctor turned to his friend.

"Are you mad? Keep it in your suit!"

"I may not use it after all."

"What?"

Sherlock stared at the gun for awhile before sighing. "I may not have to kill him."

"Who said you have to kill him?"

"I did." Sherlock admitted with a glance at his friend's direction then shrugging. "Crossed my mind, hard to ignore the temptation."

John blinked and then took custody of gun before anyone else sees it. "You don't have to kill him—we just have to make sure he complies and not do anything stupid. If what you think is right and really implanted a self destruction device to the underground lab—"

"Mycroft said so—he's never wrong— I was just with him."

John paused and blinked again. "Right. In your mind palace. You've been having conversation with your brother in your mind palace and somehow you just know what he's thinking." Then the doctor was chuckling as he drank the glass of beer he ordered. "Just incredible."

Sherlock nodded quietly and looked away. "I know my brother a lot. Better than my parents. We both do."

"Right, and he's instructed you to go meet this psycho because he'd come?"

"Oh, he'd come." Sherlock answered pensively as he turned his eyes straight to the glass wall but not seeing, "He thinks I'm on the other side of London so of course he'll check."

John put down the empty glass and then put both arms on the table.

"If we catch him, your brother will be pardoned? Doesn't sound so fitting to Mycroft. Imagine him giving pardon to himself?" the doctor snickered and Sherlock couldn't help but smile a little too.

"He'll crown himself when he gets the chance."

"Didn't he already?" there was an outburst of laughter from the companions but their sound was nothing compared to the booming voices of athletic figures surrounding the pub. It was a very crowded place; perfect spot for an undercover. John cleared his throat after awhile and stared at his friend.

"But he will be set free though? He'll be our Mycroft again?"

"That's the plan." Sherlock's mood dropped a degree as he took his phone out with eyes impassive. "Lady Smallwood will be taking care of the matter while we're at it."

"But the doctor—?"

"Their initial plan was to dose my brother with drugs that would make him seem unfit for the job; I'm certain it's nothing permanent. This doctor won't inflict anything serious to him, I'm sure... or he'll lose his precious brain he's been asking for donation."

"If that isn't mental..." John murmured with head bow. "Still, you sure it's alright for Mycroft to be with him? What if he's actually one of them and is already plotting something..." he paused for some euphemistic word and shrugged and went on, "nasty?"

Sherlock's eyes glinted. "Let's hope my brother can handle himself for awhile longer... He wanted me to focus or it's an arm and a leg... code words, brotherslike. Means fatal mistake is not tolerated and the punishment is to stay home with our parents for a month. Which would literally want you to cut off someone's arms and legs. Even neck."

"How sweet." John nodded.

"On technicalities."

"Your parents are not that bad."

"Save me the trouble." Sherlock cleared his throat again as he turned his eyes to his friend. "After this I get to settle the score with him bullying the choices I make when he goes and make these... It's really something if he's the one acting stupid. And it's not every day I see him forgetting stuff... He's getting old."

"He was dosed with medicine. Who knows what effect it has on him... remember the one in Baskerville? Where you used me as an experiment with the sugar cube?"

"Nope."

"Liar. And are you enjoying this?"

Sherlock turned to his friend with a winning smirk. "It's about to end tonight, Mycroft's practically free. He'll be so annoyed when I'm done with him. His mistakes keep piling up."

"Just shows nobody's perfect."

"Nobody tries to be. Nobody needs to be. Speak of the... well." The detective suddenly received a message and followed by his phone ringing. John took one brief look on the phone and knew it was Mrs. Holmes. "Yes?" Sherlock answered.

"Why won't your brother answer—he always answers?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and let the air slip through his partly parted lips. In the face of actual danger, his brain would work faster than the speed of light and even faster than its owner but right now didn't seem to be the case as he spoke at the end of the telephone line to his mother. His brain was a bit dull; he couldn't even get one word out to tell her for Sherlock never lies to his mother. There were always subtext of some sort when he was up to something but now—just now—with her asking for Mycroft his creative mind had stopped working.

Was he supposed to tell her the truth?

Mycroft would not agree.

But since when did he care if Mycroft agreed or not?

Since now when his life is in danger and you're literally his only hope. The one and only or he is lost.

Sometimes it amuses Sherlock how John seemed to have occupied a part of his mind too. The again—talking to himself? Nothing new.

"Maybe Cabinet meeting..."

"He is not missing this meeting, Sherlock, you tell him that."

"Yes, yes." Just like his mother to prioritize things than the world. "I'll tell him—you just—hang on—" he turned the hung up button when he saw a text message hanging on his screen that came from one of his networks. It's On.

"John," he said at once that alerted the doctor. "He came early."

Before John knew it, Sherlock was already on his feet and pulling his thick bundle of coat from behind the chair where he left it. John didn't move an inch and remained on his seat; he even raised his hand for another shot of alcohol.

Then Sherlock came treading back behind him.

"Gun please."

"Be careful." John handed it swiftly with his face still impassive and let Sherlock Holmes on his way.

Smith nearly crushed his phone for no one was answering him. His car was already outside the building entrance where the green banner that said Crystal Palace National Sports Centre could be seen. Still he did not get out of his car; there were just too many people. It was because of the London Marathon upcoming next week and people involved in the committees were there using the grand stadium for their meeting. Such a jolly week again for British citizens. He looked at his phone one more time to check the email he received.

It was still from M.

Why would they get in touch now?

Didn't they all decide not to use the initial anymore after their head's death? Not after Mycroft Holmes initiated the purging of the government with any link to the Moriarty organization. No one was foolish enough to brand themselves the name when the Cabinet office leader was the one behind the eradication. And Mycroft Holmes was not one anyone would willingly go against; not when the man poured all his energy in avenging the death of his brother, which at that time made the headlines. Eventually and quite expectedly without the ring leader, the organization sunk down and ultimately got wiped out even the international ones. Those past few years were terrible for even a speck to survive the relentless Mycroft Holmes. Only to find out he was working with his younger brother too who had survived his fall.

Milverton remembered how this fellow from the Cabinet, Sir Edwin had informed him Mycroft had had a secret meeting with Jim Moriarty long ago. He couldn't help thinking then that his previous leader had something else in store—something that involved finally getting rid of the last wall of defence keeping England and the whole Britain from falling.

Moriarty surely would not miss the opportunity of taking this Mycroft Holmes with him to the grave?

How glad was he when he found out Mycroft was already on his death bed in the hospital? Turned out—it was all a hoax and that Mycroft was on some mission out on the northern sea... the next thing, he had fallen into a trap set truly by none other than Moriarty.

Moriarty.

M.

Now the initial has resurfaced, Smith wondered to whom it will lead back for Moriarty was dead. They might have heard Mycroft Holmes' arrest so they began stirring, like mouse on the absence of the cat. And now even warning him of the apparent closing in on the younger brother out there on the strike to help for his brother. Whoever said Mycroft Holmes was one of a kind? And whoever said he was on his own? The Holmes brothers, such terrors to the criminal agents.

All the same, Sherlock Holmes on the case of snooping around indeed was urgent, but Milverton was not feeling it— he still has one trump left. Why else would he be setting up laboratories under social areas and gigantic stadiums? What else? He looked sideways on his window and smiled. Too many people.

Even if Sherlock Holmes does find the place, the fact that Crystal Park was not empty was already to Smith's advantage.

He glanced at his phone and found no reply from his associates, especially not Dr. Norton. He should have gotten rid of Mycroft Holmes at the first notice too—only that the doctor was also in control of his peculiar patient. Milverton had once or twice suggested the very idea, only to receive such petulant response of an old man speaking of his toy.

Oh well, Norton can do as he pleased as long as he renders Mycroft Holmes incapable of thinking straight during his final assessment. Looking at his watch finally, he realised it was seven. Who among them would he meet? He closed his eyes and sighed. He'd have to stop dodging the bullet called Sherlock Holmes in the future. He just needed more arsenals.

He walked on the steps with bright lights ahead, his hand on his pocket. He was aware of his surrounding as he quietly headed to the entrance. The stadium was especially open for the committee members of the London Marathon event and Milverton could only be glad of their presence even though it was crowded. He had to make way for even children were running about and gangly teenagers that caught his attention when he had to zigzag the group who all glared back at him.

The lot look like a bunch of Culverton. He snorted.

He then entered the glass door of the Sports Centre, gave the guard a piercing look and headed straight for the crowded corridor. Again, too many people to dodge that made him cut through lines; shove few shoulders till he found the green with the Better Logo wall which was for executive use only. He looked behind him and saw people but he was separating himself well from them. Heading straight, he saw the security cameras were on. He had to review it then, and if a single shot of the detective was found...

He used the exit doors and finally on to the dimly lit, long corridor that headed straight to that one special door no one else had access too, except him. He lengthened his steps and strode quickly.

If there were any sign of forced entry or any attempt to open the lab, he would know. There were installed security program to his phone and it hasn't rung at all. Plus the fact that if indeed, he had been compromised, it will take one phone to send everything spiralling down.

He finally reached the entrance and saw no mark of entry. He went ahead to check his telephone for the security key code was there—only—there was no phone on his chest pocket.

Alarmed, Milverton searched through all his pockets and literally found none—not his phone, not his wallet, not even his office keys and house keys—what in the blazes...?

"There's a security key code on your phone." Said a heavy, drawling voice behind him that got Milverton to straighten up. "Luckily, I've dealt with a much heavier secured phone before... it even had acids on its case. I don't think you're brave enough to put acids on this one though, even considering you're a doctor."

Milverton compressed his eyes shut and then turned around.

"Sherlock Holmes."

The consulting detective was standing meters from him in his dirty dark coat, heavy black gloves that held the phone which was supposed to be inside his pocket just moments ago. Milverton gritted his teeth.

"Give me that." He held his hand out and said the words carefully.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and put both hands in his pockets. Then without words, turned his pockets out and let objects fall down the floor—all of which Milverton recognized everything to be his.

"You thief—?" he began in an acid tone—

"Oh no," the detective answered with eyes moving up to his prey, "Not exactly. They were just handed to me by my... trusted lot, networks. That happens when you mingle in a crowd... you get things lost."

Milverton raised his chin up. "So this is what you do—consulting detective? Pickpocket your enemies to surrender?"

"Oh, you're quick on picking on that." Sherlock commended him, "That we're enemies. Still, it's always useful to know you have nothing left on your pockets, not even say—a gun?" the man produced another object from inside his coat, revealing a hand gun the size of his palm with it pointing to the ground. "Not suicidal are you?"

Milverton clenched his fists. "I can have you sued over such an action, Sherlock Holmes. You'd be headline tomorrow."

"Me being on headline is so four years ago, you can be more original."

"What do you want from me?"

"Oh, don't act." The detective's eyes were glinting darkly and his voice was turning sonorous, it was echoing in the silent hall, as he took something from his outer pocket this time. "We both know why I'm here—why you're here. Something we have in common. Then again—you killed yours while I'm trying to retrieve mine. And yours tattled."

Sherlock suddenly clicked the device he took and in that spacious corridor, Culverton Smith's voice rang—

"...he's got everything there... all nicely wrapped in his cylinders and beakers... you've got to see it, Mr. Holmes, I had to be threatened thrice not to speak of it but here I am telling you... the amount of deadliness on the air, the stench of sulphur—I've never seen such intoxication in my whole life—and all the works of my brother—"

Sherlock clicked the device, leaving Milverton with pulsing vein at the side of his head as he stared at the recorder on the detective's hand.

"Of course to surmise, he made a dramatic retelling of how you've been smuggling other chemical agents and sensitive technology and equipments in the black market; equipments that detect chemical warfare, meters used to measure chemicals and their compositions, flow meters for measuring gas streams, stirrers for testing chemicals—just about everything nuclear. Apparently you're also exporting them to Syria through Black Market." The detective grins and the look on his face just reflected how he was most amused and amazed at the scheme at the same time. "I know exactly someone who was like that and he goes by Moriarty."

Milverton was burning holes into the detective.

"You have no idea how you will—"

"I've heard that before—frankly you're no Moriarty so you can't escape this one. Oh—Mycroft got your brother to confess before you killed him, just in case you're wondering."

Milverton was breathing heavily this time—to which Sherlock nodded appreciatively again.

"Okay, no reaction—silent agreement—you did kill your brother, thank you for confirming that. This recorder by the way isn't the only copy. It's just one of the multiple copies I sent to the NCA, MOD, MI5 and MI6... to the Defence Secretary... even the House of Commons should be debating already. I wonder who'll make the top news tomorrow. Certainly not me."

Milverton felt his body shook in anger. That idiot... that truly idiotic...

"Are you going to come quietly?" came Sherlock's voice again as silence filled the air.

Milverton chuckled. "You were supposed to be on Greenwich hunting down drug sources..."

"Diversion, simple." Sherlock put the gun down.

"I figured."

"Stopping someone like you whom my brother had to take precautions before finalizing an arrest deserves the credit. Especially with such a large laboratory underneath... who knows what you've been mixing up in there? What you've been doing hidden beneath... not that I don't know. My brother's file was simply too accurate."

"Let me guess—you're thinking gas leak?"

"Oh, something much more creative."

"Then you also know that I wouldn't have gone here with an empty card?" Milverton slowly backed down to the laboratory's doorway with eyes going to his side. "You couldn't imagine all the trouble... just keeping your brother off my shoulder... and just when I finally have him where I wanted him to be, you would thwart me? You think yourself capable?"

He turned around, aggressively this time as he hit his palm on the scanner—rendering the double doors to automatically open—only to be surprised by Greg Lestrade and a couple of other Metropolitan Police pointing guns at him from the inside. Milverton was left with jaws open.

Sherlock spoke behind him.

"Culverton was just adamant to help; he even gave the addresses of your scientists who have access to this top medical lab? And what else to better prove that this is your lab than you actually opening it?"

"Hands in the air now!" Detective Inspector Lestrade commanded out and two officers from behind him rounded to Milverton, turned him around have him on handcuffs, leaving the Head of the Academy of Science staring coldly at the man in front of him. "Mr. Milverton Smith, you are arrested for keeping an illegal laboratory with arrays of dangerous chemicals, endangering the civilians and of treason. You are presumed innocent until proven guilty and everything you will say afterwards will be taken against you—" but the inspector suddenly turned to the detective. "You sure he's got no means to blow this place apart?"

Sherlock raised the phone to which Milverton glared at.

"Key codes. Mycroft's been very specific about this or half of London will be under red alert. He never risks it especially when people always crowd above the lab." He glared back at Milverton. "He chose places where crowds would gather so if a time comes that he would be compromised, he can make a negotiation with authorities... that all he had to do was push the right numbers and boom... gas leak all over London."

Lestrade turned to the man. "Isn't that sick? Take him."

They have just begun moving on the corridor again when John Watson came running toward them with a group behind him. The detective inspector immediately raised a hand and pointed at the direction of the door.

"Sherlock—it's over... damn..." John stopped in front of the detective, with a special group of police officers with kits and tools for the lab. "I've evacuated all your stubborn friends... they're back on the London streets. Can you tell your network next time they have to listen on the first warning on the megaphone?"

Milverton frowned at the two.

"Everyone you saw up there on the stadium is mix ups of police officers in civilian clothes and my networks, obviously." Sherlock admitted, making Milverton press his thin lips. "It's an elaborate plan just for you—you should be proud."

Milverton couldn't still believe how things had unfolded as he was stirred by the officers to move ahead. This was not the plan he had on mind when he received the messaged from M. Certainly not the end case he was expecting when he was able to dodge Mycroft Holmes! And all because of one younger brother—

But no matter... there was one success he could see.

"Well, I think your brother will be very proud too... if he makes it." He glanced back at the detective and was glad he was making the effect he meant to take. Sherlock Holmes looked at him with undivided attention.

Someone was walking on a deserted hall, humming. Camera saw him walk by like a passing line of grey and white. His hair was uncombed; his coat whipped after every step, his gait was with purpose. The silent corridor rang with his light step, tap, tap, tap with the addition tune of his hum that could not be mistaken for the God Save the Queen anthem.

He stopped on a doorway and took his keys, turned on the light on his office and headed towards his table. Five minutes later found him still standing by the table with a black folder at hand with label confidential when there was a soft knock on the door. Looking up, the grey haired man with his sharp spectacle found a young lady standing by his doorway.

"Doctor? We've been told you have arrived, we've been expecting your return since this morning, Mr. Smith was asking for you. He said it is a must for you to always carry your phone. He says it's urgent."

He glanced at her once and returned his eyes on the black folder. "Urgency is a mental activity—if not bodily—the body releases chemicals that sharpen the mind, prepare the reflexes and enable the body to act quickly. You telling me it's urgent in manner of speaking do not change my reality that I am not affected—I am on no alert whatsoever. Hence, what he considers 'urgent' I call mediocre. I have other high conscientiousness to what I have on my hands than his neuroticism."

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

He looked up at her dismissively but then noticed that she was giving him an odd look: a look of pure incomprehension, gullibility— an overall dumb look. Always fascinating how their brain works. Always intellectually challenged. Pity, pity. Usage of common terms to adjust is a must on this one, he forgot he was no longer speaking to his favourite jewel.

"Simply put, I'll see him when I need him, can you pass the message, love?" The doctor turned pages upon pages but then noticed her shadow still present. He looked up at her questioningly and found her still standing there, hesitating.

For the love of—

"Your article doctor—it's been prying on my mind?"

An eyebrow rose up high on the sky. "Really?"

She blinked at him and he would have accused her of being one of those journalists by how she was all with the judging look. Terrible, really to be sized up by people whose brain capacity was less than 5. They never understand.

"Yes, doctor, it's a compelling article on Nature Neuroscience*. You mentioned there that you can determine that some brains are better than others because of how they're wired? You said you are closer in determining which precise brain it is and how it got that way?"

The doctor just watched her.

She braved it through. "Do you plan to... alter brain wirings in the future?"

The doctor closed his eyes and out both hands inside his white coat with the black folder neatly tucked in under his armpit. Well, all humans have brains and sometimes the brain does work in mysterious ways. Even for her.

"That's the plan, yes." He told her in all honesty and stepped closer to her. "Imagine everyone being able to use their brain at its utmost potential? Imagine living in a world where intelligence is not just by human title—but is true. Imagine no brain wasted... wouldn't it be amusing?" he stopped in front of her. Isn't that the very idea of why they made modafinil in the first place? Sadly the drug itself was a failure for him—it was only after all temporarily.

She looked at him in an uncertain way but the doctor's eyes were on her temple. Not such a wasted brain after all.

"Yes, doctor but isn't the wiring going to require mapping?"

"Oh, you've been reading." He found her eyes.

"Yes, which is why I've got to ask—you're going to need a pattern for mapping? Are you going to align it with Einstein? Are we gonna be like Einsteins?"

He looked at her thoughtfully. "Einstein is very dead. Even if I have whatever's left of his brain extracted he's no use to me rotting. But don't you worry—I have exactly who I need."

And he smiled brilliantly, tapping the black folder on his side. She smiled and he could just read the gratitude in her eyes. That was fine, they can call it research studies for all humanity like a philanthropist for all he cared but deep inside him he knew, this doctor just knew— that collecting gems was better than dimes; that collecting living, breathing sample of magnificent brain on the work was better than it on a display case.

If he was as brilliant as he already is—unlike his unstable brother and sister—then what could be the better subject of his study of amphetamines, wonder drugs, study pills and other brain enhancers than him? The man who was the product of natural brilliance—and the possibilities of other discoveries for a well developed mind.

Who cares what troubles Milverton Smith got on his arse this time? When he's got his hands on the very subject he's only too eager to have? Something much precious than his other tedious subjects and only one of a kind?

The brain so orderly and fine it was to die for?

He hated waited too long for the fruit to ripe and now it did, and now it was on his hands, he was not planning to lose it.

"What do you mean he's gone?" Sherlock said on the phone with Lady Smallwood on the other end. He and John were already standing outside the Crystal Palace sports center and what Smith told him awhile ago invoked such a call to the Cabinet member. "You were supposed to get him out—!"

"I know—but even the guards couldn't tell where he was taken by the doctor—"

Sherlock inhaled as the file of Dr. Thaddeus Norton was scattered around his mind palace—trying to identify, trying to find all the location that he was ever sighted on and at the same time snapping on the phone—

"Tell me there were security cameras—trace the car—all of them! A lunatic doctor's got my brother— what have you been doing!?"

"Sherlock—" John licked his lips as he looked around at the vicinity too where a number of police were already securing the area and crisscross of the yellow tag labelled no entry surrounding them.

"We have already tried that but we lost sight when it left the prison—it's difficult to say—the MI6's already on the hunt for the doctor." She sounded strange but Sherlock didn't care, he just slammed a hand on his face and took a deep breath. "What do you know about Norton? Do you know him personally? Does Mycroft speak of him?"

"I'll send you the files I can gather." She spoke softly though in the end, she cleared her voice. "I'm sorry."

She hung up, leaving Sherlock silent for awhile and John to worry.

"What happened? Is your brother okay?"

"I have to go meet my parents." Sherlock announced after a brief silence and glance around the police, "Tell Greg what happened, tell them to search about Norton."

"Where are you going?"

"My parents wanted to see my sister remember." Sherlock turned away with the hem of his coat whipping after him. John blinked several times before shouting to his friend who was already disappearing amidst the number of officers—

"Seriously—at this time? SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock met his parents by the helicopter provided by the government early that morning with his hands on his back, his face placid and his eyes unclouded. He watched them be escorted by one the secret service, those who had been guiding them towards Sherrinford on weekly basis ever since Mycroft gave the command. His big brother then had arranged all of it—days before he was taken into custody no doubt.

Just like Mycroft to prioritize without asking for anyone's opinions. Sherlock gave out a silent sigh and quietly joined his parents in the chopper. Since last night, he had been battling to himself whether he should make them aware of their eldest son's predicament or not. The weight of being responsible for his brother was making him hesitant— and the fact that his parents were already concerned of Eurus on the other...

But there was no way they would not know especially after he asks that important bit of information so he waited till the chopper had landed, till the noise had gone, and they were already in the well known stillness of Sherrinford did he ask:

"Do you know Dr. Thaddeus Norton personally?" they were already walking on the corridor after a brief scanning of faces for recognition. He watched them exchange looks of bewilderment.

"Doctor who?" Sherlock's father had turned to his mother.

"I've heard his name, but only because I subscribed to the Reader's Digest Medical Society." she blinked at Sherlock as if the question had mysteriously opened some uncomfortable memories to her brilliant mind. "Why do you ask?"

"Mycroft acts different around him." The man blinked to himself and then continued walking, almost leaving his parents behind. So they had no idea who Norton was? So how could he be a family doctor? How could he know about the Holmes siblings and their childhood? Who was he to know so much even Mycroft was acting differently around him?

But then—Sherlock's mind snapped and it felt like a comet suddenly bursts in his eyes.

Eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably—must be the truth!

His pace changed and he suddenly found himself striding quickly with his mother calling after him—

"Mycro— why would he be with a psychiatrist? Is your brother alright?"

"He's gone!" he called back, unable to compress the sudden thought of his brother lying to him again—to his parents! Seriously, his brother... such a Machiavellian mind! Even when his life was already in danger. Before he knew it, his brain had snapped and his feet was dragging him off towards Eurus' cell with his heartbeat racing sporadically—

And then he was by the glass wall in front of her, unmindful of the ever warning of 3 feet. She was silently standing opposite him already as if she knew he'd be there. As if she knew it'd be urgent.

"Eurus... I need your help..." Sherlock touched the glass as she stepped closer with her dark eyes like a magnificent black marble. "Eurus... who is Thaddeus Norton... Who is he?"

Eurus took a moment with the inclination of her head on one side, her eyes transfixed on the detective. But she didn't speak. Sherlock gritted his teeth and took a deep sigh as he looked his sister in the eye.

"He has Mycroft... please..."

The doors behind Sherlock opened as their parents joined them—

And Eurus spoke—for the first time after a long while—

And the words were:

"Uncle Rudi."

-To be Continued-

A/N:If you even reached the name there, congratulations xD

You just read another long fic~.~

And I'm off to pick my brain somewhere, I dropped it along Sherlock running around ;p

Do we get another chapter? xD

Thanks for Reading!

Chapter Text

*Minds of Carat*

~WhiteGloves~

We are near the end! And what end could possibly be suitable~?

*Warning for flying portraits!*

-Enjoy Reading!-

7: Chest

There was never a mutual relationship between Mycroft and his uncle, as far as the older Holmes could tell. Not anymore. No remaining fondness, no. Certainly not familial love. Mycroft could remember the series of his contact with the man and yes, though there may be moments that a connection or some sort was established because it was his uncle who could understand him and his siblings more than their parents ever had—he would not label it with sentiments or such.

Because just as Uncle Rudi knew him and his younger siblings like the palm of his hand, Mycroft also knew his Uncle like the back of his hand. One thing Mycroft learnt from being with him since a child, that there was no in between him being good or bad. That he was the man Mycroft always thought him to be.

He had found that in the olden days...

He was very formal as a kid; Mycroft knew his parents could give their word for that. He doesn't like strangers too and would opt to stay in his room whenever guests would come visit them in the old house. Lots of times family gathering could not be helped, and lots of times it would happen in the ancestral house they occupied. Mycroft knew the family tree from their country folk squires, his grandmother's sister, Vernet—the French Artist, his relatives that were knighted form even the time of King Charles, even those that owned land at Sussex' to the last distant cousin that owned a pottery shop. His mother had made the courtesy of showing him the family albums as a kid that had glued itself to his brain, like the usual.

Mycroft then remember his mother calling him inside his room when he was six years of age. Mummy was pregnant then and he didn't want her going to the trouble of climbing the stairs just to get him, so dropping his copy of The Great Expectations on the bed, he sauntered reluctantly down the stairs to meet the relatives who he neither cared nor was curious about. He had seen all their pictures on the albums and with a mere glimpse it felt like he knew them. Though looking at them in person may confirm his hypothesis and may even prove him correct, but then again he never liked the trouble either. He had no excess energy to go about looking people in the faces and hands. It was bothersome.

So walking slowly down the stairs, he stopped amid the steps and sat there. He was a tiny person by height and he could tell his stomach was rounding, but the people beneath were taller. He knew sometime in his life he too would be taller because it was obviously hereditary according to the Biology book mummy lent him. He watched them exchanging brief talks and laughter... he recognized them... knew their work from the haunches of their shoulders, the ink splattered on their dress, who had just fixed the sink of their home... he can even count who was still smoking and those with ailing sickness they were trying hard to hide. He knew who were driving and should not be touching his father's wine... he knew how many were left handed... even knew who lived in the city by the colour of their skin...

Even those without wives because of the colour of their collar for his mummy would always make sure his father's was clean. He saw one of his eldest cousins with a dirty collar but he had his wife beside him.

Oh. Maybe his wife hated him.

All these played in his mind as he watched them while he stuck his little face in between the stairs' wooden railing. There were so many to see but he was growing tired. He wished mummy would see him so that he could go upstairs; just to prove that he heard her when something caught his eye.

A man just entered the door wearing a brown suit. Mycroft blinked for he had never seen the man, not on his mummy's album anyway. His hair was black and curly; his face was long and pale. He had this eyes he squints on with the end of his chin unshaved. Mycroft looked at him with curiosity and knew by glance the man was deteriorating. He then blinked as he watched his first uncle, followed by his father spoke to the man in an angry tone that made Mycroft stand up and hold his hand on the rail. The others were watching just like him too with the intensity felt in the atmosphere that surrounded them.

Then the young man with black hair snarled loudly before stomping away into the garden. Mycroft followed him with his eyes. He looked back at the tall people under his gaze before making a mental note how his father seemed to be comforting his eldest brother. But Mycroft had no curiosity left for them. He was most bothered by the man who just entered and went down two steps at a time till he too was by the garden.

He found the man in brown suit smoking just by the bushes into the gloomy air. Mycroft stopped on his tracks and knew his presence was unwelcome. Then the man spat on the ground.

"You shouldn't spit there... I don't want to get contaminated."

The man turned around and for the first time Mycroft saw his red eyes. The child blinked once as this tall, unwanted relative of his stood there gaping at him with his arms crossed. Mycroft gave him another blink.

"Are you high?" he said with a little inclination of his head.

This above anything made the grumpy man smirk.

"Is that what you've heard from them? Those geezers?"

Mycroft took a moment as he travelled his eyes on the man's face.

"They never talk about you." He confessed as he scratched his itchy arm. He never liked the outdoors really. He found the unknown man frowning at him. "I don't even know your name, they never say it."

"So why are you asking stupid questions?" came the irked reply from the man and this above everything made Mycroft curt his little eyebrows.

"It's not stupid."

"Yeah? Maybe I am stupid for arguing with a boy." There came a derisive chuckle from the dark haired man as he looked away whilst shaking his head. "Talking to a boy who doesn't know anything that's... that's really smart..."

Mycroft bit his lower lip.

"I said I don't know your name, doesn't mean I don't know who you are."

He earned a frown from that and a whip of tumbling white smoke on the air.

"And do tell what does a boy know about me?"

"I know you're a doctor by practice..." Mycroft began with eyes on the man's features, "you've got a pen with the emblem of your hospital written on it. And you always wear surgical gloves so..."

The man looked at his bare hands and then back at the child.

"Whose child are you?" he took a step towards Mycroft.

"You're not a surgeon are you?" Mycroft squinted curiously at the man's hands again. "Your fingers don't have cuts... but there're plenty of punctures on your wrist maybe going to your arms? That's a sign of a drug addict."

"Well, aren't you smart." A pause came then, "Go back in the house and annoy another person, little boy."

"I can't. You're dangerous."

A puff of smoke came out from his lips, and another chuckle, "Why? Because I smoke?"

"No, because you have a gun in your chest pocket." Mycroft could barely make out the bulge in the pocket but he was sure it was. This man was slightly off balance on his left that his left chest pocket was screaming of its shape. Mycroft had often visualized characters on his books with guns on their breasts and wondered why most other characters don't see it. Then again it was the author who was mostly to be blamed. When the author's blind, then so were the readers.

The man was now ogling at him like he had never seen anything exceptional, he even dropped his smoke on the ground that Mycroft slightly found disturbing he didn't even realised that the unknown fellow was already standing in front of him. When he did, the child pursed his lips.

"That can cause fire."

"No, it won't." The sudden change in the man's voice was confusing, especially when he knelt in front of him, making their faces on level. Colour had risen on the man's face too and for awhile Mycroft thought him excited about something.

"What's your name boy?" even his voice sounded too happy.

Mycroft hesitated for he was never allowed to say his name to strangers but this man was a relative. A hated relative.

"I am Mycroft Holmes. Mummy calls me Mike... I hate that so don't. But then you will, because most people like doing what they're told not to. Which makes them stupid. I'm not stupid."

"Of course you're not..." said the delighted tone of the red eyed man, "and a Holmes? Must be on our side even then... your mother's a handful too... I won't call you Mike, I'm not stupid either... and you... you're not like most people... how old are you?"

"Six."

"And? Do you know... about surgeons and other things?"

Mycroft blinked up at him. "I read a lot."

"And everything you read... do you remember?"

"Mum made me recite the chemical element chart and multiplication table."

"Was it hard?"

"Not really. They were just figures and unchanging. Constant things are easier to memorize."

"Yes..." something like fire seemed to get kindled in his dead eyes. "Yes...yes too easy... I have to agree."

It was then that out of nowhere, the dark haired man took something from inside his pocket and showed it to the boy Mycroft who curiously looked down his palms and two white tablets of no brand or name.

"What is it?"

"It's medicine."

"I know it's medicine." Came the six year old's cold reply. "I meant what is it for?"

Another chuckle and then— "I want you to choose. Whatever you choose, I'll take it. One is penicillin and the other made of poison—you can't tell the difference, right?"

But Mycroft was already pointing at the tablet on the left that gave the man a start.

"Y-you sure?"

"But this one came from a packet while this one looked like it was made specially from... materials, it isn't even pure tablet yet, they made it wrongly."

The man blinked and looked at the tablets sitting by his palm, gave another startled laugh and tossed the one Mycroft had pointed into his mouth. The little boy looked in wonder at the only remaining drug, but the man had pushed it back inside the pocket of his trousers.

"So what's your name?" Mycroft knew it was right of him to ask. "Are you a Holmes too?" Because technically not everyone on their family tree bore the surname. And this fellow only looked smart too, his earlobe was very thick. So was his mummy. It was believed to be a sign of intelligence. Mycroft was beginning to get curious.

"No, I'm on another side of the family; you can call me uncle... Your Uncle Rutherford... Edward Rutherford. And we're going to be the best of playmates, Mycroft."

"What do you mean Rudi?" his mother cried out in front of him as they stood around the governor's office, Sherlock, his parents and the governor who was looking at them with mixed expressions, "Sherlock—what is this—and what do you mean your brother's gone?"

"I don't know." Came the detective's sigh.

"What do you mean you don't know—you always know!"

Sherlock hesitated and shook his head and pointed at his sister on the screen—"Look—wherever he is—I'll find him—just—just tell me who or what Uncle Rudi is!"

His parents exchanged another look before his mother answered.

"Your Uncle Rudi's dead! Or I would have slapped him the minute I realised he's initiated this horrible scheming of my daughter being kept in this facility." She paced the floor for a second before finally sitting down the chair that had been offered to her when they came with her husband behind her. "He died of drug overdose... he never did quit the hobby. And we kept telling him to stay away from it."

"Plenty of people fake their deaths." Sherlock admitted with a press of his lips. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"But why would he?" countered his mother, "what's he got to gain—"

"I don't care—my concern is why would my brother trust him if he's an addict?" Sherlock was looking at his mother strangely. There were many things Sherlock wanted to ask her, plenty of things including why they seemed not to know... but then he realised too that it was not them... whoever did this to his family, it all had began with this Uncle Rudi whose face he can't even remember and now suddenly thinking Norton's image on the name.

How far has Mycroft lied for him?

It made the detective close his fist tight and promised to knock some sense to his brother once he finds him.

And make no mistake—he will.

Sherlock then found his mother sighing and shaking her head.

"It was us, we—we let him. Edward got better—"

"Edward?" Sherlock's eyes flickered.

"Your Uncle's real name, obviously." Mummy looked at him like he had forgotten his alphabet, "Have you forgotten about him too? But I suppose given your trauma... but Uncle Rudi that's what your brother's been calling him."

"Interesting."

"You really have no recollection of him have you? He used to tease you a lot for always crying... but then he's always been fond of your brother and later your sister. One day he turned up on our doorstep all new and clean years after we've last seen him on a family gathering he attended without notice. He claimed he was on this new research study in his profession that got his attention—he's mighty clever when not under the influence. He's a psychiatrist by profession but he could do more. He visited a lot to inquire of my own mastery, I fascinated him, he said."

She looked up at his husband who nodded.

"He also seemed to be fond of Mycroft. They always share the afternoon tea when you were just three and your sister on your mother's arm. We didn't have much time for your brother so we were glad Rudi was around. He made plenty of progress with his work with your mother's help. He was a company to Mycroft, and your brother... they get along well enough."

"Almost inseparable had it not for your sister..." Sherlock's father stopped and glanced silently at the governor who took a moment to realise his unwanted presence. Sherlock watched him go and then turned his eyes to his father again once the governor was out.

"Let me guess," said the detective, "he made you both agree for psychiatric evaluations when you saw she was strange."

"Yes." His father nodded quietly, his eyes not leaving his son's. "He's always been there to help. He even took us to one of the wards of the city to oversee the matter and assessed you three. He then told us it was high intelligence that grips your sister. He suggested a lot of institution but we refused. No child must be put through things like that, not your sister in least."

Sherlock took it all in, like another film playing in his mind as he saw the steps his parents took in order to maintain the family together. And then there was Mycroft who knew what was happening even then... and him as a child who could not remember a thing except his friend. Sherlock closed his eyes and his mother began telling of Victor's fate.

"He was your distant cousin whose parents were abroad. They never had time for him and seeing that we had a child the same age as him, we took him in. Mycroft was already busy with his advance studies, I sometimes find myself glad he was able to borrow more of my references, he's always been proficient... then there was your sister and you and Victor playing together, till he disappeared one night."

She stopped, and Sherlock just knew the grievances they had before were being uprooted but he could not stop it. It was part of their past, it will haunt them. They had been spared for many years because Mycroft did his job of a kind son... but nothing was ever a secret. And not even Mycroft can always protect them from the truth.

And Victor was dead.

"Was it the fire?" Sherlock abruptly said to save himself the image of a young child with a pirate's hat and a well behind him. The detective cleared his throat. "The fire changed everything."

The couples exchanged glances and his mother nodded.

"She won't tell us what she did... she just won't talk, not to me, your father, Mycroft—not even to Edward who was her psychiatrist at that time. We kept telling him we can't make her do anything, and he insisted of taking her to a psychiatric hospital. We told him no. Till she set the fire at our house and there was no other excuse but to let him take her."

"They took her away." Sherlock whispered, quoting the words Mycroft had used to describe the situation.

His parents nodded.

"What happened to Uncle Rudi?"

"He kept in touch to tell us her progress... and then...we later found out of his death. We mourned him." Mr. Holmes looked at his son straight in the eye. "Mycroft, your brother, he never looked so mature back then, mind you and he was only half his age now. If he knew his uncle was alive, he didn't show it."

"Of course..." Sherlock muttered. That's when the entire lie expanded... Mycroft with the influence of their uncle...

"And then you know the rest." His father went on, "I'm sure your older brother has told you in much detail of what happened afterwards than he did to us."

"Apparently not." Sherlock gave an inward sigh, "or he would've told me why this same uncle was disguised as a scientist who's supposed to be dead. Seems like my brother's been pulling some strings again. Nothing like an ordinary day with brother Mycroft." He smiled at his parents and grabbed his mobile. "Anyways, time to find him and make him see the error of his ways." He began bouncing towards the glass door, "I should be using the helicopter so please make yourself at home—"

"Sherlock—?" called his mother as she stood up with his father watching him too.

"I'll be asking them to return shortly so you can—you know—scold him again—" he was already at the doorway—

"Sherlock." His father called quietly that finally made the detective stop on his tracks. "What's going on with your brother? Where is he?"

Sherlock's face turned serious as he kept his back to his parents. There was no use telling them, it would only make them worry for their first born. But then so many secrets had been unfolded, and many things had been missed because they had been taken for granted. Even their children.

If Mrs. Hudson were here... she would slap them one by one. Sherlock would even offer Mycroft's cheek for the honour. The idea of his lost brother made him sigh and finally turn towards his parents.

"I don't know." He whispered as he turned, his eyes uncertain. "I really don't know."

He eyed them, saw their expression turned from surprise to fear; he saw them held each other's hands and found it more difficult to look at them without feeling guilty. It was his fault he was so occupied with the Milverton case that he had forgotten what was more important... but then Mycroft would disagree as he would say the capture of the suspected criminal was of priority... and that even he himself was of no worth when weighed between himself and the country.

Hadn't he made the testament clear when given the choice to die?

"Please just," his mother's eyes had become watery and Sherlock was so unused to it that it took him moments to realise he was staring at her intently, "just bring your brother home... and be home too, the two of you."

John Watson sighed as he came walking briskly into that empty house. He walked on the corridor and found the portraits a mess; it was the same in the main hall, the armoured knights were also down the floor. Sighing, the doctor looked up the tall ceiling with high chandelier and crossed the stairs for bloody knows how long up, and found the room that was indicated on the text messaged he received from Sherlock.

He entered the said room with eyes looking on the left side first as he heard scratches on the wall and tables being turned. He looked on his right in time to see his flatmate overturning the tapestry bed with his whole might with his coat off and his white collared polo half unbuttoned, and his sleeve up to his elbow. Around him was like a picture of a room that had just been shaken by an earthquake. From what Sherlock said—this was supposed to be Mycroft's room. John had always pictured Mycroft—who was known to be OCD—to be all clean and tidy. The room was not clean and tidy—it was the exact opposite.

Was this really the effect when Sherlock was in the room?

"Spring clean?" he suggested when Sherlock had looked his way. "What are you doing? You said we'll find your brother—you didn't tell me he was playing hide and seek inside his own house?"

"He's playing hide and seek alright," Sherlock breathed as he crossed the room towards the cabinet by the wall and moved it with John behind him, "But he's got no control where he's hiding so—"

"—so we upturn all his furniture?"

"Sounds about right."

"We're literally seeking him?"

"No—don't be an idiot John—we're looking for a portrait."

"Oh." John followed the detective with his eyes and then paused awhile then—"What portrait?"

"It's a clue." Sighed the man as he straightened and looked around the room again, before crossing towards the wardrobe, opening it and removing almost all of Mycroft's suit. John blinked as he saw five, ten to fifteen of the same three piece suit there and shook his head as he walked behind his friend who was now trying to knock at the back of the cabinet.

"Why a portrait?"

"Mycroft's ingenious mind—hard to explain, you just got to trust me on this." He put his ear on the cabinet wall while the doctor lingered and hesitated a little with his eyes travelling in Mycroft's room.

"So uh—this—this portrait—what does it look like?" he began walking around while Sherlock busily unload the contents of his brother's drawers. "Didn't you find any chest box with gold? House like this—I would think chest box was kept for the treasure and gold—and you like being a pirate."

"It's not my house, John—now concentrate on the portrait— a simple picture of a man—a soldier wearing the Nazi uniform—colour in trademark blur—not particularly striking except the man is smiling amid the war so there you go—not that difficult is it now?"

"You mean this?" John piped up coolly—making Sherlock glance in his direction sharply to find the doctor standing by the room's doorway—actually pointing behind the door. Sherlock watched as his friend pushed the door close, revealing that hanging portrait of a man in a Nazi uniform smiling at them from its blurry features.

Sherlock walked beside his friend with eyes taking in the portrait.

"I remembered your brother never overlooked that coffin's door on Sherrinford..." John shrugged.

"Uncle Rudi."

It was a small, 34-by-20-inch portrait of a German officer in his uniform, wearing his officer's cap and a deadpan smile with the painting almost as if made from pencil or a photo of a kind.

"This is your Uncle?" John asked sceptically as he saw the expression his friend was making.

"No..." Sherlock answered as he slowly reached for the portrait. "This is The Uncle Rudi, by Gerhard Richter in 1965, invasion of the Nazis, Holocaust—the World War II. This is arguably the single greatest anti-portrait in 20th-century art. It has made the history John, it has questioned a lot of belief... my brother holding something none-striking yet meaningful art... he does love his arts. And their deep end meaning."

John blinked as then Sherlock began unhinging the portrait.

"So this Uncle Rudi your brother's been talking a lot about... is from a portrait then?"

"Yes—and no." Sherlock successfully managed to put it down with John's eyes still on the portrait, "Just that my brother decided to call him such a well-meant nickname only he would know why."

"Stop gloating," the doctor whispered as he touched the portrait, "You know the reason behind."

"Reasons can come later," Sherlock replied as he gazed his eyes up, and John following where he was looking found the detective was looking at the back of the door, to that lined square with a lock that needed a key. "First we finish the priority."

The man took on his picking lock skills while John looked down at the portrait again.

What exactly was this portrait for?

A loud clicking sound came next, and then there was Sherlock opening the thin wood from the door, revealing a small layer of the door with documents in it. John watched in awe as the detective took all the papers and read it carefully with looking by his shoulder.

"What's that?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, before breathing hard and nodding his head.

"It's not what... it's where."

"It was you." Mycroft breathed once he opened his eyes at the sound of the door opening and closing.

The light was turned on and unlike his previous cell for incarceration; Mycroft was inside a proper clinical room with its white walls and a singular white table in the middle. There was neither bed nor window which Mycroft found reproachful having just experienced a wave of dizziness after the last drug he took. Unlike his previous jail, however, he was no longer wearing the plain white uniform but was given a decent suit atop his dark top. He found the clothes when he woke up fifteen minutes ago—with him on the cold floor.

So much excitement for a day. He had so many things to say to the responsible person behind the capture—indeed it was something even he wouldn't let by. But then his uncle had always shown eccentricities no normal human would understand. And so far he has humoured him... but to a limit.

This here, him being abducted was the farthest push this relative of his can push.

Mycroft's patience was growing thin. So many things to say and so many points to give... in the silence he waited...till finally the doctor came.

"Me?" said Dr. Norton as he stood by the door with both hands inside his coat pocket. "It was me when?"

Mycroft's eyes were daggers again despite the giddiness that was still the side effect of the drug god knows called what.

And the British Government Head spoke— "You... made Eurus set our ancestral home on fire for your own gain."

"Oh." Came the dry reply as he walked forward till he was sitting in front of his prisoner. "Still allegedly?"

"Too much of a coincidence when you were the one insisting for her to be taken." Mycroft's lips curved that made Dr. Norton smirk.

"Why are you only bringing it up now?"

"I always bring it up... you just tear it apart."

"But you've already had your revenge when you took me out of the position from spearheading Sherrinford now, didn't you?" when his nephew didn't look any please, he went on, "Come on, Mycroft, what do we say about coincidence and the past? Universe is rarely so lazy and we don't talk about in past tense. Did the drug knock your precious head off or something?"

Mycroft blinked at the sudden blurring of his eyesight and said, "May I just remind you that when I'm done here... I'll make sure to end everything we started once and for all... if it's the last thing I do."

"Oh it is," nodded the doctor, as he brought for the objects deep inside his pockets. "If you survived this."

And there on the table he placed two tiny bottles in corks. Not just any bottle but with content. Mycroft blinked hard as he saw it with his vision too unclear and had to take in deep breathes just to make everything clear.

And he saw its contents. Two pills, one for each bottle with its colouring Mycroft had already seen—it was one of those drugs used that became too distinct even to his memory—for one thing, his brother was exposed to it.

The pill made of transparent capsule and in it were black and white mixture of medicine.

The famous pills that even made it to John Watson's first blog of his younger brother in what they both dramatically called—The Study in Pink.

Mycroft stared at the medicine and then up to his doctor who was smiling at him.

"Naturally, you know who produced these drugs?"

Mycroft didn't say a word as a chapter inside his head opened and the face of Jim Moriarty mocking him with his red and white blinking lights and tiktoktiktok—

Dr. Norton placed both hands together.

"Would you play this game, Mike?" he said it with such emphasis that the older Holmes cringed again and gulped. "Would you be again, graced and show me that clever boy I met at the back of the ancestral home? Come on, choose. We never believed in luck. It's always been the battle with the mind and yours... we both know—you have minds of carat. So humour me again, and show me what you can do... and choose."

-To be Continued-

A/N:It will be ending... Another chapter or two^^

Please bear with me, the Holmes brothers are always a delight to write!

But I do prefer them being together a lot than not XD

Well- last two chapters will cover that!

Thanks for Reading!

Chapter Text

*Minds of Carat*

~WhiteGloves~

When you cleave a diamond...

Into Mycroft's past, as we deem it to be!

*Warning for the truth behind the Doctor*

-Enjoy Reading!-

Confidential Material

Name: Alexander Mycroft Chad Holmes

Chronological Age: 12 years and 3 months

Sex: Male

Guardian: George Edward Rutherford, PhD

Grade: completed 10th Grade

Dates of Assessment: 6/17; 6/27/

1.1 Identifying data and reason for referral:

Mycroft is a 12 years 3 months old Caucasian adolescent, who was referred for a psychological evaluation to determine his current cognitive and emotional status. Mycroft has a long history of excellent school performance due to numerous even to point of 'remarkable'. Despite excellence in performance he has failed to show enthusiasm in his achievements in general and lacks empathy to peers. The contributing factors include poor school attendance, possible attending and peer problems, and complex family dynamics.

1.2 Sources of information:

Background information was obtained from his guardian and psychiatrist and numerous psychological, educational and medical reports. This was obtained from interview, developmental history and rating scales as well as medical records. This information appears to be from reliable sources and valid. Current status of his learning and behaviour was obtained from observation during testing and from standardized psychological, neuropsychological and achievement tests. The validity of his performance on most tests was deemed to be accurate due to his cooperation to perform the tests.

8: Cleaving

It was a hot day, it was summer. A sound of a crying infant could be heard somewhere in the house. Rooms were all empty, the dining hall was unused. Even the television was left untouched the entire season for no one in the vicinity liked it very much.

The sink was dry and the flower beds outside were unruffled.

And a boy of eight sat at the foot of the stairs with his too clean rubber shoes which he was busily tying the lace. It took him mere seconds to perfect his knots and then remained immobile on the spot. The sun outside was at its peak, too way above with clouds casting shadows on the ground. The boy waited quietly on the spot and then slowly looked over his right shoulder towards the top of the stairs where he could hear the baby's cry getting weaker till it was silent.

Looking down on his shoelaces again, the boy hastily bent down to undo the knots, only to do it again.

This he repeated for the next four times until he found himself slightly satisfied and standing by the door and looking outside where he could see people outside moving about. His mummy had told him against going out without permission which he didn't intend to break. It so happened that he heard a loud tap on the window and guessed a stone was thrown to get attention. He curiously got up to look outside so he went and opened the door.

That was where he found his three young neighbours biking in front of their gate and the moment they saw him did one of them cry out—

"Oi! That freak's goin' out, yeah?"

The boy did not as much as blink but close the door behind him.

Mycroft took a deep breath and sighed inwardly.

External peace was finally achieved after having been left alone to himself in his room. It was an exhausting day and after few more encounters and idle chats he found himself ultimately able to breathe as he took in the isolation he had craved more than ever in his current state of being trapped. Well, trapped were an understatement and only a perception because in his mind he was very much somewhere else.

On his brother's shoulder and watching his every move.

Why—Mycroft prides himself with his accurate ability of telling things and events that could possibly happen in a time span. Sherlock had once described his brain as 'pigeon-holed'—one that can instantly give out necessary details and facts complete with the next step to take up to the last instruction. It was the exact truth for Mycroft can truly and precisely tell what would have and could have been happening even out of his sight by merely glancing at facts and his mental pocket watch. It was his gift—a mind palace technique.

Of course, it also required a fair amount of faith to which he had no problem assuring himself that by this time his younger brother and his band of merry mischief friends had already succeeded in the entrapment plan of capturing Milverton Smith. Smith had always been able to elude him because of his strong connections and capable spies in the government. Mycroft would admit that no amount of his power could do anything about rats' faithful in serving their master. Smith who as he already suspected was one of Moriarty's contacts who escaped detection because of the lack of evidence. Now ironically, thanks to the late Culverton Smith, he was able to gather enough evidence to indict him with the Prime Minister's permission.

Mycroft nodded his head. By now Sherlock must've worked out how to end Milverton's threat without alarming the whole country. By now all those unimaginable deadly weapons must've been confiscated by the government and under the MI6 custody with all the amount of black market drugs he also suspected to be hidden—and he never guessed—he knew to be there. By now the country lay asleep and protected once again from a threat they didn't even know existed. Thanks to Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.

By now also his confidential court case with the Cabinet office must've been lifted and he was once again a freeman.

But things as it turned out and as expected—got complicated so here he was with who-from-the-top knows where. Mycroft doubted anyone ever knew what was happening to him and frankly who would care? He was not one to be missed by many—he was sure of that. Sherlock would come looking that was definite, but how in the world would his brother try to locate him when he does not know a thing about the enemy who just turned out to be none other than their estranged relative? Sherlock could even barely recognize him; and speaking from the point of view of the man who has memorized and half created the archives of MI6 even Sherlock wouldn't find anything useful there. Because Mycroft didn't mean for him to know.

So without his brother as the last resort for escape... what was to come next?

The answer came easily before him as Mycroft opened his eyes to find himself still inside his mind palace. Unlike the previous scene of scattered papers flying about—there was nothing around him this time. He was just there amidst the darkness and a table where two tiny vials sat side by side.

Ah, yes. Creative.

He looked at the objects with his expression unchanging. He looked at the vials with indifference. And he saw no threat there whatsoever having been exposed to his sister's intense experiment not so long ago, and not to mention the constant concern over the case he left for his brother to solve. Time was his only enemy then for no walls and bars could stop his plan in action with his brother on the move. It was all truly calculated the moment he knew of his impending arrest.

But right now he tells himself it was all over. Right now all that ever was in his mind, even his already cold heart, was weariness. He was just so tired. There was nothing left to be concerned of... what was the point of this exactly?

The point of caring?

A glimpse of a pointed knife taken by small hands from the drawer... the sliding blood on her arms...

A sharp crack deep inside his mind made such a ringing noise that made Mycroft look around. He was still in his mind palace— darker and much grimmer than it had ever been where the white wall has been changed to black, the bright light has been changed to a dim spotlight and there on his table were not just the two vials but a person. A man was sitting in front of him- another person in perfect suit of Westwood and a snarky, perfect villainy smile. Jim Moriarty.

How Mycroft was loathed to see him of all visitor.

"I don't remember giving you a special place in my mind." He began quietly to the deranged criminal mastermind whose marble like eyes glinted dark it nearly distracted the older Holmes.

"Must've been the crack." Shrugged the man with his lips quivering in excitement Mycroft had seen before, "Once something so strong now getting cracks as we speak. Something bad must've happened, my dear ice man. Really bad for you to be melting. Anyway, face it I belong here too. In this darkness you have. Admit it I fit perfectly well here or you wouldn't be having me as company. We did share history together that Christmas, remember? It was the best gift." He looked down the vials with elation and smirked even more. "Of course, you know how relative I am to these babies too."

Mycroft glanced once at the vials then up on the man's eyes again. It was too easy to get rid of him really. Mycroft was never prone to psychosis no—he knows reality unlike his siblings. Then again, just because it was what it was doesn't mean he never indulge himself. So he sighed and lingered on those dead, dark eyes full of menacing intent.

"I want to say 'I don't know what you mean'..."

"But you won't because you can." His melodious voice was ever distracting.

"Your eyes. It's the same as hers." Mycroft hated himself as he sighed in resentment but it was the truth. Their wild eyes with no shred of empathy for the living. Not even for themselves. Sadly, Moriarty and his sister did make such a team.

It made Jim Moriarty smile.

"Oh come now don't be too modest. We're all the same you, me and your sister." Jim suddenly said with relish, "We're all alike. All the same deranged genius."

"I'm not."

"Come now... Don't deny that monster inside you... stop pretending you didn't know how colossal you would be if you only let yourself. We're all monsters here."

Mycroft gave the man a hard look and shook his head once more. "No."

Silence filled the air as Moriarty's eyes danced merrily, even making Mycroft look away and close his eyes for awhile. Then came the man's whispers it felt cold in his ears and when the older Holmes looked up—Moriarty was there no longer but his voice remained—

"You know we're all the same... WE EVEN SMELL THE SAME... the three of us... you, Eurus and me. Monsters."

Mycroft shifted his eyes to take a break at the thought—to breathe but the next thing—found himself seated in front of the man with those shark eyes—Magnussen.

The man was looking at him with such reverie behind his spectacles; his dead stare too transfixed and unyielding. But Mycroft never feared him and even managed another haughty look. Clearly something was wrong with the way of his mentality to be having guests he never invited—this concerned him a little as Mycroft contorted his eyebrows but didn't say anything. Magnussen was nothing to him so what was this? He opened his mouth to provoke his own thoughts when something happened that got Mycroft's eyes to widen—

A bullet hole in the middle of Magnussen's head had appeared, open, fresh and bleeding.

Mycroft sucked in some air and he clenched his fists— enough games of his brain!

He snapped his eyes shut and when he opened them this time, he was looking at the late governor of Sherrinford Island who blew his own brains in front of him— Mycroft gaped, his lips trembled as he remembered the fresh wound that was never recognised by himself because of the sudden turn of events in the government.

Now that all his troubles with the Cabinet were fixed, the memory of Sherrinford was flooding him and it was overwhelming.

Blinking at the sudden feeling of his hands into first, the older Holmes looked down on his wrists—to find them all cut open.

Mycroft snapped and gave out a small whimper then—

"What are you doing?"

He looked up sharply at owner of the familiar voice to find young Eurus sitting in front of him this time. Mycroft was lost for words as he looked back at her black, curious, eyes as she repeated—

"What are you doing?"

Mycroft looked down on his wrists again to find them clean and unharmed. He breathed out and looked up to assure her things were fine—only to realise that he was back in his old white walled cell, and that he was alone again with the two vials of pills across him. He closed his lips and let a silent whisper escape his lips before opening them again with his face cold and sweaty.

He checked his wrists again and then there, gulped once and reached for one of the vial.

Dr. Norton watched his subject through the fake glass with one hand on the wall and the other on his pocket. He watched Mycroft inside the other room hastily pick up the vial on the left when he had been immobile not seconds ago and proceeded on opening it and letting the capsule drop on his palm. Norton stood straight while making mental notes as how his nephew seemed to hesitate awhile.

That was when the door behind him opened and personnel from his medical team wearing a white labcoat and whitegloves stained with blood enter with a clipboard on his arm.

"The batches of nootropics are prepared, doctor."

"Just send them out, I have no time. Give them to the ministry of medicine."

"We extracted the acetylcholine too; we're supposed to make the whole compound by now. Is he going to be the subject?"

"Yes." The doctor sighed as he walked near the glass mirror with his fist pressing on the smooth surface. "But he won't be any use to me if he does not get through this episode. He has to pull through."

"What does that mean?"

"Idiot boy still has to be looked after, and I told him many times to take care of the golden brain or it won't get displayed."

"What is he doing?" the personnel had come closer and were watching the subject from the doctor's shoulder.

Dr. Norton clicked his tongue impatiently and then paused a while before sharply turning to the man behind him—

"Why are you asking so many questions—?" he turned around, waiting to see what kind of imbecile was sent on his way again—only to find himself facing the end point of a gun— and Sherlock Holmes—who had removed the white labcoat from his dark suit, pointing it on his face; the detective's face was full of revolt and his eyes sharp as daggers. There was no forgiveness in those glinting dark eyes of his as he steadied the gun on his hand.

"Hey, uncle." Sherlock whispered in a dry tone. "I hope you have some very good excuse for this. Or hopefully not."

The next thing he knew, Dr. Norton found himself thrown down the chair as he and the detective both stayed in the same room. Sherlock Holmes was speaking on a hidden intercom with the gun on the doctor who was watching him curiously. When it appeared that he's got Sherlock's attention, did Dr. Norton speak—

"You finally realised who I am?"

"I don't care." Was the callous answer as Sherlock agitatedly pointed the gun. "I have this place surrounded, there's nowhere for you to go or to hide."

"How did you find this place?"

"You just kidnapped the most powerful man in the country; you're bound to be found." Was the cold reply.

"That's not what I was asking—no one knows—"

"Oh believe me, my brother didn't make it any easier." Sherlock's eyes travelled towards the glass mirror and frowned before turning to the man in front of him. "Get my brother out, now!"

Dr. Norton looked towards the glass mirror too and sighed. "Are you sure? I suppose you didn't come here barging in without knowing the truth? You are the esteemed Sherlock Holmes, after all?"

Sherlock shifted his eyes and squared his jaw. Norton's expression was pure severity he hadn't seen before when he thought the doctor incapable of being serious. And then the doctor said what most doctors are accustomed to say—

"I'm here to help him."

"It doesn't look like it when he's holding those poisons on his hands and detained." The detective gritted his teeth.

"Well, now... this is your brother we are talking about. I know what I'm doing having been the person who raised him."

And somehow, Sherlock couldn't disagree on that as Norton went on—

"Use your brain if you know your brother as much as I do— do you really think he'd accept my help in any way that is conventional? Your brother lives in a world he controls—you have to have the same intensity of power and threat before you can have him succumbing to the idea that he needs help. To some point, Sherlock, I don't think you'd be able to make him agree for any help at all."

Sherlock just stared at him as a mental image of the detective inspector flashed in his mind.

It was obvious Mycroft would never accept his help...

"I never intend to hurt him—bless you child if that is still an acceptable term. I am doing my sole duty as his guardian and if you do not believe me then you really are stupid. But you won't be able to help your brother the way he is right now...not after Sherrinford."

Sherlock's mind jumped from one thought to another but in the end only one thing registered on his brain— "You're a madman."

"Well, now—a madman—" he chuckled derisively. "Aren't we all? And aren't we—in this family—had been using our madness for the sake of humanity, Sherlock?"

"You say for their sake but we both know you're working on your own gain. Your track record my brother's been keeping isn't just black and white at all." His eyes glinted, "All those test subjects, all those deaths..."

"Clinical deaths, boy. Well, I admit I have been more on the fringes of the science of my field—I have plenty on my plate to go on with the complexity of the brain—but that's just the tip of the iceberg. Then again, aren't we all an expert of our own cause? Even your brother couldn't deny that of me—and I do work with all of the government's approval, if that's what you're looking for."

Sherlock gave a pause, then, "Why did you fake your death?"

Norton returned the favour— "Why did you?" Sherlock gritted his teeth as his relative smiled. "We all have reasons why we are still allowed to be around. Even your big brother believes in that greater purpose. You look at me so repulsively like I'm the worst evil you've encountered but think— if you can do that, boy—that the world cannot simply exist with all the good. There is a necessity for evil for we are the bold ones who dare go beyond what you goody-two-shoes wouldn't even dare of doing because of your... morals."

Sherlock blinked as he slightly lowered the gun.

"Necessary evil." He whispered.

To which Dr. Norton chuckled again. "Your brother got that from me, of course. He has acknowledge that geniuses will always be bent on discovery and so non-conformist that they often crossed the line of ethics in pursuit of truth."

Sherlock hesitated and looked over his brother again. Mycroft was still engrossed on the bottle he was holding with no expression on his face but the detective did not like what he was seeing there. Like a shadow had been casted on his face that was not him. Like a part of him had changed.

"Fascinating, your brother." Came the doctor's voice all of a sudden as he stood up again and walked towards the glass wall, "He had taken seven pills in the span of three days... and every time he chooses the same one like he knows it—"

Sherlock shot the man a look. "What do you mean? I thought you said it wasn't dangerous—"

"Of course," the man pushed his glasses at the bridge of his nose again, "but this is your brother—he always knows the difference. This is merely a mental exercise. I believed you've been given the same choice before, I read your blog you know? Correct me but you had a hard time deciding which pill is which but your brother oh— he can tell the moment he sees it and chooses aptly for seven times... and seven times he chooses the one with the slight deadly dosage that when in time, if taken consecutively—could be deadly–"

The twisting of arms came quickly next as Sherlock tackled the doctor without warning and threw his uncle—or whoever the hell he was on the wall and pinned him there with eyes blazing with intense anger—

"You sound terribly amused, you're poisoning him."

"If you think your brother will play a game without risks—ugh... let me tell you boy that I've done that. Came out unproductive."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Let him out."

"You sure? If we let him out there who knows what'll happen? I and your brother had parted ways long ago... why do you think I came back now? What do you think happened that I deem it necessary—arghh—to come back just to spoil him?"

Sherlock gripped his arm for another second—and then freed his uncle while breathing hard, his eyes still with blades as they stared at each other. Doctor Norton didn't look pleased now as he massaged his bony arms.

"Why did you return now of all times? There will never be such thing as coincidence..."

"And here I thought you did your homework."

"Tell me." Sherlock's eyes locked with his uncle. "What you know about him... about my brother's case... you were there, you were with him when he was just a child..."

"As ever I am." Norton glanced towards Sherlock's direction with sudden twinkle on his eyes. It was obvious the detective was at lost for things he didn't quite understand. Things that had been hidden in the past because he was too young to even remember. Funny, the last time he made an evaluation of Sherlock Holmes, Norton knew he was already far too damaged to be saved with his memory impairment. The boy rewrote his memory! He was already a lost cause.

"You wrote something..." Sherlock sounded uncertain. "Tell me."

"Oh... so you've read my report after all...?"

Sherlock pressed his lips closed and gritted his teeth as he found the doctor smiling in his direction. "Yes."

"Well, now... that makes my explanation shorter by a decade. How did you know it was me?"

"It was your report, you were our evaluator."

"Then you know what ailed him as a child?" Sherlock's eyes hardened whilst Norton's eyes remained dead. "You should know by now that with intelligence comes what I muse to call the Sad Socrates Effect... you and your sister are already perfect examples... you don't think you're brother came out unscathed do you? But well, because of me he was able to come through. And that's what I'm doing now."

Sherlock's face paled as he compressed his lips and threw a sharp look towards his brother's cage.

"You said this was an experiment. Those pills."

"Yes. It shows his kind of mentality at the moment."

"You said he kept choosing the one with the deadly dose..."

"That says everything about my report. Did you understand every word I wrote down?"

And Sherlock stood straight and in his mind's eye he could still remember the last line of the summarize detailed report he had taken from the back of the door, behind that Uncle Rudi portrait that continued on—

1.3 Current concert:

Mycroft has long struggled with himself and social behaviour since the age of eight. His relationship with both his parents is complex as well as that of people surrounding him. His ability to maintain motivation in his school work and interests in other things is of concern and recommendations will be made with these factors in mind.

The most pressing concern at this time is his severe case of existential depression resulting in attempted suicide.

Sherlock glanced towards his big brother again and gave an inward sigh, and then slowly he lowered the gun and turned to his uncle.

"Tell me everything."

The bleeding drops of red...

On the arm with the cut inside that dark room with the short knife left on the table as he watched it flow down his arms. He was mere 12. The sun was down and mummy and daddy had taken Sherlock to the dentist and there was nothing infinite that could lift his spirits after the long day except to see his life fade away.

"What are you doing?"

Young Mycroft turned around to find his young sister standing by the door way, ogling at him with her dark orbs for eyes, her expression straight and innocent. Mycroft didn't have to hide it for she had already seen—

"You shouldn't be here. Go back to your room." His tone was already dead.

She remained quiet on the spot with her eyes averting towards the knife on the table. Then things became blurry as a man suddenly came in the room, the man Mycroft knew so well who hurriedly went pass his sister, on to him with angry words, his curly dark hair looking stiff and unwashed—the next thing he was being carried out of the room, leaving his younger sister to her thoughts.

A pool of blood was already by the floor.

"It must've come to your notice that your brother was never a fan of living?" Norton started as he found the right place to stay back while Sherlock stood by the mirror wall with eyes on his brother who sat there, inert and seemingly deep within his mind palace. Sherlock could only wonder what his brother was processing then with his hands on the pill.

"He was never fan of anything, not even himself." The detective whispered. "I always regard him as an isolated entity... who had no wish nor will to live except for one purpose—to annoy me."

"Well, he did find that as a good motivation. He wasn't as determined when he was a child. You know your brother—upon growing up—had been an excellent living subject to observe."

"He's not a labrat." Sherlock turned his dark eyes to his uncle who shrugged.

"Bear with the term of a scientist— being one yourself."

Sherlock turned his sharp gaze to Mycroft again. "He's always been like that. He's the smart one."

"And his reputation is irrefutable, believe me. The number of times he fascinated me with his ingenious mind—and I am talking of a child. Though your sister was another subject to reckon—but Mycroft was the perfect one among you three brilliant children. You were too emotional as a child and that damaged your abilities, always playing about and admittedly, you were no near your brother's brilliance. Your sister on the other hand... well, destructive would be a relative term. Psychosis. Brain already damaged from the beginning. And it didn't help that she was around your brother when he was already suffering from depression."

Sherlock blinked once but didn't say anything, making his uncle smile.

"You know how much intelligence is always linked to major psychiatric melancholies. Torments of the genius. You three never escaped that, not your sister, really. Mycroft didn't either who had always preferred isolation. Unlike your sister though who tried many times to cut herself out of curiosity, your brother was prone to cuttings because of one basic idea: life which is meaningless. That the inevitable always happen—death is an occurrence. That freedom is a mere existential sense with absence of external structure. That humans do not enter a world which is inherently structured—we create it ourselves. He described isolation as one where no matter how close we become to another person, a gap always remains and we are nonetheless alone so why try? Thus he has structured his own belief at the age of twelve that if life is such—what meaning does life have?"

Sherlock was silent. He could just imagine his brother then. Weaving his life in the many intricacy of living being and in the end forming the general idea that everybody was like goldfishes swimming their life meaninglessly about. That everyone dies in the end— that it was the one thing humans are relied upon to do.

It nearly made Sherlock smile because it was so like Mycroft to be so. But he never would have thought that the cuttings would be part of it. Not that he didn't think it impossible. Frankly he had always had this mental image of his brother hanging himself... but it was all the playful trick of his mind all there because his brain knew how much he hated his brother then.

Turned out it was an intuition suggested by the mere glance on his brother he refuses to address. That Mycroft from the beginning had little interest and little regard for his life or of others, granted he doesn't harm them himself. That deep inside him Sherlock didn't want to accept the fact that his brother was almost the same as his sister. He only came to recognize that after Sherrinford. After he saw Mycroft coil in a corner and offer his life to save John. It showed how little regard he has for his life...

"You came back after Sherrinford." Sherlock then concluded without looking at his uncle. "You knew about Mycroft's encounter with Eurus... you knew he would fall under one of his feats..."

"That is the ultimate conclusion when your brother feels responsible."

"You're the one who had her taken to Sherrinford without our parent's consent! You made him lie!"

Doctor Norton watched him with his round eyes and inclined his head on one side.

"I wasn't referring to that. And your brother assumed the post himself being the man that he is. No, I was referring to the idea that your brother felt responsible in the first place, for your sister, for trying to commit suicide in her presence."

Sherlock gaped as the doctor nodded.

"Not everything is simple, Sherlock. Your sister wasn't born trying to cleave herself to make a point. Did you not read the report I made about her? Mycroft tried to commit suicide in front of her. He would be long dead if I hadn't come by. Your sister, she... that pool of blood must've triggered her response. Mycroft never did forgive himself when he realised what he has done... naturally he was just a boy and coming to his senses he tried to make amends with you and your sister... unfortunately it was too late for us to realise what she was becoming. Mycroft fell in one of his depressive state right after Victor was gone and I had to do something about it."

The detective caught the meaning on that and he turned towards the man once more, his whole body turning this time.

"What did you do?"

Norton pressed a smile. "You know what happened, I'm sure Mycroft told you. I cannot let your brother fall the same way she did after taking that little boy's life. Your brother was losing it, you lost it. Your parents were only concerned for your sister they failed to see what your brother was becoming too. I was the only one who truly saw the damage your family's history was making of your brother. It was not a delight to see that once brilliant child get destroyed by his own family—so I had to take measures and bring your sister out or all of you will fall under the same chasm she had made for herself."

Sherlock fell silent again as it was all a lot to process—and this was him already thinking with his speed of light brain. He had imagined it from the moment Mycroft confessed about their sister how it was all about her changed nature. How she was unique and indeed destructive. But he seemed to have failed to mention his role in the play, to which Sherlock never blamed him. Mycroft was, as he knew his older brother, one with one too many secrets. So that was the reason why he felt wrong that night when he successfully managed to get his sister to surrender—that night he took out John from the well—that somehow there was something wrong happening to his brother.

That there was a reason he was so inclined to tell Detective Inspector Lestrade to 'have him looked after'.

Because deep inside him his intuition was already sending signals. That Mycroft was not fine. That somehow, if it was a premonition—something bad was to happen. Depression of all state, he would have laughed at Mycroft's face—but if it was something this doctor before him had been too keen to avoid—someone who had isolated himself from the family only to reappear now just for his brother, then Sherlock knew things were as dire as they appear to be.

Why wasn't he aware of all of this?

You were, a voice deep inside him argued. You already saw it coming. You just didn't care enough.

"I took advantage of his own mistake, getting imprisoned I mean." Doctor Norton had stood up with hands on his pockets. "Milverton Smith was a sly man, we all were. I had been working on different underground laboratories myself and when I realised your brother has broken his own wall, I had to resurface, don't I? I had to keep him in a strict secured place where I can keep an eye on him. All the drugs he's been taking were all made to help him; the works of his brain is complex, it takes many of our new drugs to adapt to his brain. TD12 was supposed to make him forget Sherrinford or whatever horrors he found himself in but his brain is too intact. I tried hypnotizing him, of course and there I found he was on his way to his own destruction if not for Milverton Smith that got me thinking—his concern over the country and your well being has far surpassed his initial idea of any self harm. But after it what? I tried fixing him for the last couple of weeks, seeing if we could change the depression that has began under my watch... and here we are with this mental game. He knew you had succeeded. This game—it is to keep him busy."

"But poison..."

"Cure poison with poison, haven't you heard of that? Do not worry it won't affect him. But clever as he is, he always knew if the substance inside were harmless or not. I had to play your devil's advocate just to convince him he is fighting for his life, if you know what I mean? This kind of environment is where he is accustomed... so I let him."

Sherlock sighed as everything was put in their rightful places. His brother's background didn't seem new to him—he had always wondered what made his brother this way. Still, for Mycroft not to say anything, he will be giving a lot of explanations then. But it shouldn't be this way, Sherlock thought as he graced his uncle another long look.

And all along this man here who had disguised himself as the enemy was in fact... still the enemy.

"You made your point." The detective breathed then as he felt the doctor stood beside him on the glass window. "Now I'm taking my brother."

They exchange looks testily and Norton's eye brows rose up.

"What?"

"I'm taking my brother. Your concern has been very effective but only to a point— this is not what my brother needs."

"You don't understand—the depth of your brother is something not even you can access to—"

But Sherlock wasn't listening. "Get him out."

"I'm the only one who can fix him. You know he's got a chance here—"

Sherlock shook his head. It was enough. Far enough. It was enough with his sister locked up in the cell where he could barely reach her. It should not happen again—why do they love locking people up just because they are unique? It was obvious where Mycroft got that wave of thinking that when you are concerned—all you have to do is put them in maximum security vaults or maximum security alerts.

Mycroft should find another role model to look up to.

"I'm taking him." Without another word, Sherlock strode towards the door of the room. His hand had already reached the handle when he felt his uncle's heavy hand on his. The detective had to look him in the eye darkly.

"Your brother needs help. He cannot be kept anywhere else without me to help him."

There was pressure on his hand this time and Sherlock had to apply the same weight as he took his uncle's hand and tossed it back on his side with his eyes glinting darkly.

"Obviously he needs help, but not from you. Not anymore."

"Your brother won't be the same—only I can fix him to be the man that he always is!"

But Sherlock has had enough as he leaned towards the doctor, the psychopath that he is appearing on his every feature as he whispered—

"Hands off."

Doctor Norton gritted his teeth as Sherlock turned and opened the door.

"I wouldn't come there if I were you... you'll get sucked in his darkness."

Sherlock gave the doctor a side glance before closing the door behind him with a snap.

-To be Continued-

A/N:Last Chapter ahead! :D

Thank you for the support and the nonstop cheers!

Sorry, it must've been a bit of a headache by how long all the chapters went^^

But really thank you~ this is just one way to end Season 4~ I really do think this is the way it went their pastwise xD

But well, only season 5 could tell ;p and Mofftiss!

I don't think I'll ever stop writing about the Holmes brothers though O.o

Even if it takes months :D Glad to share this around!

Thanks for Reading!

Till the last chapter! Mycroft is in deep trouble there! ;D

Sherlock's ballistic on the last^^ thank you~

Chapter Text

*Minds of Carat*

~WhiteGloves~

THE END HAS ARRIVED :D CHEERS!

But I do not kid you when I tell you its a pretty long chapter :o

To make up for the past week, apologies! I got so sick I didn't think it possible to survive! (drama xD)

So much with that- into the arms of Morpheus let's go!

*Warning for Brotherly angst and more*

-Enjoy Reading!-

Sparks (Part I)

Sherlock hated Mycroft.

And it was not petty. Even he knows the boundary of the term and how such emotion can clog the reasoning of the mind but the display of power abuse of his brother, his constant lies that were always apparent behind his fake smiles; his undeterred will to continue in mystery added with a spice of his intelligence were things he was no longer willing to put up with especially when used with sarcasm. There was only so much even he could endure after the many years together.

In conclusion, he hated Mycroft.

Seven years ago...

Sherlock Holmes was glaring all the way to his brother's secret office. It was one thing for Mycroft to have him under surveillance for almost a year, and it was another to have him taken when he didn't want to, especially by other people. But the fact that he was fetched from his recent hideout only suggested his older brother was out looking for trouble.

And trouble he would bring him, Sherlock swore.

The dark hallway that couldn't be distinguished from a prison corridor with its cold cemented wall, dimly lit lights coming from square shaped holes above and with its atmosphere of mystery and apprehension was a typical surrounding he knew only his big brother would enjoy. Even from an outsider's opinion it would seem a path of no return.

Sherlock gave it to Mycroft to make such an impression but he won't tell him that; Mycroft's ego was certainly enough to fill a bucket with his luxurious sedan, thousand pound suits, and armies of secret service, secretaries, jet planes and hidden offices so he wouldn't give it another tip. Not to his brother who was already playing with his power's might.

So much affronted that this display of this power was on the work against him however, Sherlock glared again at the two secret agents walking side by side with him. He had no problem identifying them as both professional errand runners with no visible sign of being armed though he could see that both men had been trained for self defence. Clearly his brother does not wish to send him actual guards— this was him not being forceful. Still, the man had been itching to throw a punch or two after being snatched from one of his boltholes again but after seeing that they were quite defenceless he thought better. That was another thing about his brother who couldn't even lift a finger against him—because obviously he was too refined to have violence under his command.

That was always Mycroft. Always brain and never brawn.

The guards stopped just outside the metal doors which Sherlock didn't bother knocking on as he strode inside all in glory and haughtiness to find Mycroft seated on his chair in his placatory headquarters wearing his usual dull three piece suit.

"Only rats find comfort in hiding in tunnels." Sherlock started seething in annoyance as he threw his brother a look.

"That's why I dug you out, brought you here." Mycroft replied coolly without looking up from the black folder on his hands. "The brutality in the tone of your voice is becoming you, brothermine, continue it and you'll be a having mummy to give you another lesson or two about manners if I don't suffice."

"Stop mothering me for godsake." Sherlock muttered as he slumped down the opposite chair Mycroft had indicated with his free hand and began fumbling on his thick scarf and removing it aggressively. "What am I doing here?"

Mycroft shut the black folder close with an eyebrow rising up.

"What do you think?"

"To annoy me?"

"Better than that." He pressed a smile—

"To bully me?"

"Oh, jesus—you haven't been on your flat for a week, you've stayed in Hampstead Cemetery for 36 hours and thirty five minutes which is not common for a person even mourning the dead—not even you—and you went off radar for the next 8 hours and I find you in one of your dens—isn't that enough reason for you to be here?"

"I'm on a case." Sherlock glared at Mycroft who rolled his eyes—

"Your red circle case does not involve that cemetery— or any cemetery for that matter—"

"So you know—" the consulting detective gritted his teeth— the red circle case was about a group of international Mafia that had found their way into the city hunting down a member that had gotten on their way and betrayed them. Sherlock found the case after seeing the red symbols on the streets and thought better than to think of it as a teenage vandalism. He knew it was a sign to intimidate someone. Following it up, he met the member who was being hunted down by the said Mafia and who happened to request his assistance as a client. The case was more than interesting—it was to die for. The thrill of being on the trail of such a group was fulfilling and truly satisfying.

He'd lay them all to waste.

Sherlock had thought it unthinkable for the metro police—or anyone for that matter— to even notice such a case was already happening in London but then of course—here was his older brother. London too was his territory.

"I always know." Mycroft raised another eyebrow. "And I know enough to even tell you the extremist group your hunting for has long been out of the country with the red member already dead—he was three hours ago— so your errand on that drug den was all an excuse—"

"Tell me, when you told me you'd always be around to watch out for me as my big brother— does that really translate to spying on my every move and getting taken by your men?! I wonder—would you also be kidnapping people around me just to make a point?" there was indignation in Sherlock's tone mixed with consternation at the idea that his case had already popped under his nose. He could feel his ears getting hotter as he looked at his brother who seemed determined to point out his flaw on the game—it made the younger Holmes grit his teeth.

In response, he saw Mycroft held back speaking for a moment as if knowing exactly what was on his brother's mind, then caught himself sighing before throwing the folder down his table.

"I'm concerned—" it was a recited answer.

"I don't need your concern. Keep your nose out of my business—I stay clean off yours!"

"That wasn't a compromise— you know the consequences if you stray to my path."

"Then stay off mine!"

"You know that's impossible."

"What's impossible is you keeping tabs on me like I'm sort of criminal—"

"Sherlock—for godsake!"

"Just leave me alone, Mycroft! I don't care." Sherlock said coldly and had already begun scrambling to his feet—there was no way he was going to endure his brother's concern. The last time Mycroft said this, the two of them ended up arguing just like now with his brother winning every side of the point.

"I wasn't arguing—I was explaining, Sherlock. You're arguing."

To make it fair—Mycroft was always on the side of being correct. Sherlock had decided he would no longer sit around long enough to be lectured when his big brother's deep voice stopped him.

"Why were you in the graveyard, Sherlock?"

Sherlock halted his steps and looked back to find his brother watching him with a quite determined look on his dismal face. There was something in his voice the younger Holmes didn't quite recognized and this above everything made him stay. There were rare times that even Mycroft would lose that revelling look he would always carry around when they speak and it would always amuse him to detect such insecurity on his big brother's tone. What could probably make Mycroft sound so fearful?

"What do you care?"

"The graveyard, brother—"

"Probably preparing for my poor dead client—" he began sarcastically but Mycroft only stared at him quietly.

"Why were you there?" he repeated with an amount of intensity the younger Holmes found suddenly intriguing.

Sherlock stood tall. "It's just a graveyard." He said equally.

"Mmm." Mycroft pressed a fake smile that turned upside down by the second, "Your fascination with graveyards is not something new... perhaps there's something more you wish to discuss with me?"

Sherlock genuinely frowned. "What are you on about?"

There was a slight pause from his brother and as the younger Holmes watched, saw a slight change of expression there—was it Grief? Relief? He couldn't tell it disappeared on the same blink of the eye.

"Mycroft—?"

"I suppose... I am misreading." The older Holmes sighed.

"Unlikely." Sherlock was not fooled as he inclined his head on his left. "You're not telling me something."

A familiar hint of his older brother's eyebrows levelling told Sherlock he was never going to find out the stream of his brother's thoughts. It made him seethe in annoyance even more. The next thing he found Mycroft smiling mysteriously as only he ever could.

"As you said—it's just a graveyard, brothermine. Nothing better inspires a forlorn soul than the company of those who have come and passed before him... and who he will soon become. Just part of the soil."

"Why are you making a big deal of my visit to the graveyard?"

"And you are making a big deal of me asking."

"Every little thing counts as big deal when it comes to you!"

Mycroft pressed his lips, "I am merely curious of your activity to the graveyard. Is that too much to ask?"

Sherlock stopped and glared at his brother again. He hated Mycroft for always concealing things even with his simple inquiries so why would he give him an exact answer? But the point with Mycroft was, sometimes he already knows the answer but still bothers asking.

"There's nothing to tell." The younger Holmes replied drily.

"Perhaps you've been meeting an old friend?" he raised his eyebrow which reflected Sherlock's own.

"Speak for yourself— between the two of us you'd have more business with Death than I."

"Ah—truly." Mycroft's expression couldn't be read as he looked down and touched the edge of his table with his delicate finger. "Nothing like greeting an old friend if you ask me."

"You don't have friends." Sherlock pointed out sarcastically as they exchange looks. "Which makes a point of befriending death—tell me is he your only friend?"

Mycroft smirked. "You make it sound so dreadful."

"Which one?"

"Everything. Nobody's that afraid of death, Sherlock."

"Not us exactly." The younger Holmes sat down knowing it would take another minute before his brother would allow him the exit he was craving for and leaned forward with narrowed eyes as he surveyed his brother. "Why do I have a feeling even though I'm the one always at the edge that you'd still be dying before me? Is it your weight?"

Mycroft glowered. "That is the least of your concern, isn't it?"

"I just want to make sure when to prepare the flowers—"

"No flowers. But if you're really that curious why don't we place a bet on it? Nothing costly—just if you're curious who'd win?"

Mycroft was grinning and Sherlock just knew he was getting played around. Typical of his brother to be so unconcerned even when life was at stake. But then again—to what lost? Sherlock just knew his brother would—

"Win. You'll win. Even when you have to choke on it."

"Oh, come now, there are far more creative ways of dying."

"Death by clown?"

Sherlock saw his brother cringe and give him an appalling look of dismay.

"When I said creative—"

"You're going die anyway what difference does it make?"

Mycroft looked affronted as he blinked several times and spoke again, "It does to me. Dying by clown is too dull—if you meant it by getting chased around of a powdered face man with red nose—"

"Really?" Sherlock snorted that rendered his brother silent, "You're more concerned of how you're killed than you getting killed?"

"Lest I allow it, I'm not stupid." Mycroft's face hardened. "I never said anything about allowing it. What I'm telling you is every one dies in the end. It's just a matter of timing, how it's done and who would do it. I'd certainly not let anyone get the best of me in that regard."

"Dull." Sherlock clicked his tongue and shoot straight up from his chair. "In that case you'll be killing yourself, I bet?" he turned around not waiting for his brother to respond. "We're done talking."

"Says who?"

"Didn't you notice brother dear?" Sherlock called as he grabbed his scarf that had fallen on the floor and started for the doorway without looking back at his older brother, "I just won the bet."

He shut the door close with a snap.

He shut the door close with a snap. And stepped into the small room he found himself with his older brother in. The room was white and well lit, he could see Mycroft's features from where he was standing and everything was giving him the signal that he has to take his brother out without delay. He looked much better with the suit he was wearing but all the same, Mycroft's face was pale with too dark linings under his eyes—a clear sign of a person subjected to strong medicine. Another factor to notice too was how the room seemed awfully familiar—and then Sherlock realised it felt more than looked like the vault inside his own mind palace where he was keeping Jim Moriarty in.

It gave him the chills.

"Mycroft." He called stalwartly with every bit of his sense aware of his brother's response. And just a little bit afraid that maybe he was too late.

Mycroft did look up at him in wonder.

"Let's get out of here." Sherlock said in relief as he stepped into the light while removing the intercom hanging by his ear. "You know staying indoors wouldn't do you much good, even when you are misanthropic by nature brother."

Mycroft's curt eyebrows showed his sharp eyes that easily recognized his brother who has eyes only on him. He gave him a narrowed look and Sherlock just knew his brother was itching to respond with the same spirit of sarcasm and he wasn't wrong.

"It wouldn't hurt to be one, don't make it sound so awful. And truthfully I much enjoyed the stay."

"No you didn't." Sherlock smiled and took steps towards his brother's table. "Though, you do seem cosy. Is it your thing to be recluse? Staying in places like this dulls the mind."

Mycroft blinked once and looked around as if he had been hit by cold water on the face.

"On the contrary, I've never felt wiser. And you... seemed busy enough..." he whispered and with one blink again, he caught his younger brother's eyes. "I hope you didn't take anyone's eyes out with that blood on your fist and the gun on your pocket?"

"Necessary evil." Sherlock smiled a little and walked till he was in front of his brother. "You um... occupied?" he looked down the pill on his brother's hand and in turn, Mycroft kept his fist closed in attempt to hide one that only made the detective frown. Finally, Sherlock was able to sit down. Mycroft's expression changed a little as he stared at the detective—

"You found it, didn't you?"

"Of course I found it—it was there to be found."

"And I kept it so secret I was hoping nobody would see it. I don't want to see it."

"Well, it was behind your door, a portrait like that tend to attract attention if they know their history."

"I wasn't talking about any portrait." Mycroft's cold eyes suddenly flickered on him and Sherlock was surprised at the gravity his eyes held. "I was talking about the clown."

Sherlock was lost for a moment and then nodded.

"Clown... I didn't see any clown, Mycroft..."

"Of course. It was hidden well, I told my keeper to hide it. I couldn't burn it—global warming if you're ever keen."

Mycroft smiled up at him and then looked down at his hands. Sherlock on the other hand was confused for a little while and tried again as he bent over his older brother.

"Mycroft... we're getting out of here."

"Uncle Rudi is here, Sherlock."

"I know." Sherlock glared pointedly at the two-way mirror where he knew their relative was still watching. And he was angry, very angry because just now he knew—something was off.

"It was me." Mycroft suddenly whispered huskily that made Sherlock shot him a look. "I was the reason our uncle was so inclined to be rid of her... and I just let him."

"It's not your fault." Sherlock hardly blinked and his tone was ever severe. "Don't put this on you now, there are already many things on your plate, don't take other's responsibility just because you know it, brother."

Mycroft raised his eyes again and Sherlock was determined not to look away. It was just too easy to drag Mycroft out of the room— physical force was never his brother's strong point so when it comes to physical intimidation Sherlock knew he'd always win with flying colours. Except that this was more than just taking his brother out. This was more than just delivering him to the safety of his home. Because this was Mycroft Holmes and everything about him was his great intellect and reason and these were the things Sherlock was not willing to lose.

To keep his brother intact and whole that was his purpose after everything his mind must've gone through!

"Let's go, brother."

Mycroft was staring transfixed on the table then—

"Do you know that your hands also have gun powder? I hope you didn't kill anyone, little brother."

Sherlock squared his jaw, surprised that Mycroft had noticed despite everything.

"I—"

"The people here were merely under orders... it would have been good if it was like with John—you remember the night you nearly got killed by the cabman? And that there was an unidentified man who saved you by shooting him in the head? Of course it was John—the description of the cabman's death all told me. And the gunpowder on his hands, I saw it the first glance. But he did save you so I commend him silently. So I hope it was worth it for you."

"Enough." Sherlock closed his hands, afraid that Mycroft, who was never one to talk much, was now frantically telling him things of the past. "It's all in the past now and weren't you the man who always hated the past?"

Mycroft smiled. "I so hate it."

"Then why try and remember? Look—" Sherlock leaned forward and out of impulse, touched his brother's right hand and gripped it tight, "Everything is alright now, you don't have to worry about the past or Eurus, or me or that people behind this... I'll take care of them. Now all you have to do is stand up and come with me."

Sherlock pressed his lips closed and waited for his brother and when Mycroft did, he sighed in relief.

"Let's get out of here."

Sherlock had seen it coming and regretted it when it did: he saw his brother's eyebrows raise up, saw his eyes fall down on his hands to the object he was holding, saw his forehead wrinkle next and the detective just knew whatever was ailing his brother has taken hold, and it would take real force if he really wanted to drag the man out. He wouldn't hesitate at all. He won't let Mycroft fall under the pit like his sister, he decided.

And so he sat down across his brother and tried taking his attention again.

"Why won't you say anything?"

Mycroft eyed him.

"Because you won't like what I have to say next."

Sherlock pressed a small smile with eyes unmistakably full of concern. "I never liked what you have to say whatever the occasion. So tell me..."

"I won't go... I'm sorry. I can't betray him."

Sparks (Part II)

( take a break- it's gonna be a looonggg one ahead xD)

Mycroft frowned at the pill he was holding.

Uninterested as he was with his recent activities, having been constantly staying at the depths of his mind with nothing save his own thoughts—not to mention the unimaginable feeling of emptiness that felt horribly familiar– unconsciously, somehow, even with his brain occupied by what he considers sinkholes he still knows that this pill was lethal. Seven dosages were enough with the little amount he could predict that taking this one would trigger its effectiveness.

Yet, still little enough...

One thing Mycroft was amused to find about his uncle was that the man was incapable of killing him. He couldn't. No matter how mad, how unhinge the scientist he was Mycroft knew the man would never do anything so permanent. It was not familial love that was keeping him alive—it was always something to do with science. No blood relation, no fondness to kin or special relation would stop Uncle Rudi from using him.

And so this was just another of his experiments. Like a guinea pig put into the maze, the only difference was this creature was above average. Mycroft was never fooled.

The poisonous pills were not meant to harm, it was meant to prove. Probability of seven states that his uncle was trying to prove whether or not he was capable of reasoning at such a delicate situation—him yielding to the idea of falling under the debris of his own wreckage— which here means his depressive disorder.

Depression, really.

Of course he understands it better now. It was no use not acknowledging it for always the first step to recovery was to admit the weakness. Which left the question he had been struggling to answer for three days—to take the pill with the right amount of dose against the one with no harm at all— which was it? But then for three days he had taken the one with the poison. Mycroft needed not detail the answer as he let the pill roll on his palm. It was uncommon for him to be so adamant on choosing the wrong one. The wrong choice. But that's what this was all about, wasn't it? To see if something in him was indeed wrong.

The quick answer was yes, obviously.

The second step was of course, to make an effort to be better. Sadly, Mycroft knew he was making no effort to prove his uncle wrong. He was done with reason, a part of him was saying. The other part was still knocking some sense into him to which he was glad. Or he would have fallen into the pit where even Jim Moriarty seemed to be welcome with his bleeding head. And then there was that other pit where no one—not even him—had gone and if forcibly open would be detrimental for his consciousness.

And they—his doctors with his uncle during their evaluations— thought he could exercise the maximum capacity of his hard drive. Eurus certainly could. If he went on falling deeper like she did, who knows what kind of special facility he would find himself in? Not that he wasn't inside one already.

Mycroft closed his eyes. Of course he knew he was being rehabilitated. It took one transfer to this place for him to realise that his uncle was already keeping watch on him. He hadn't expected the involvement of the man and frankly he was still surprised, but then if Uncle Rudi was making movements it wasn't because he had listened to some head of ministry to act—no one controls his manic uncle, no— it was because he was concerned.

This was them showing concern.

The pill awaited his next move and Mycroft sighed again. He was sure if he took this last one his uncle would come in and speak with him about the result. Then things will spiral from there and negotiations will happen. His uncle's offer of a deal without question will be raised again. It seemed like promising him his brain was not a good idea entirely, now the vulture would most likely want more. Scientists and their science with instincts to move forward. Advance quickly. To push the envelope no ethics could halt. The very idea made Mycroft smile just a little.

Which goes back to the ultimatum—would he take this pill as a sign of resignation? This would prove he needed help.

Mycroft raised the pill. Definitely this would make things stop for awhile, and then his dear doctor could make do with what to happen next. He doesn't care. The point of proving him ill was to prove that he could no longer work on his own which could give his uncle a leeway to manage everything. Even as far as controlling him from dying—which was the one thing that his uncle was preventing: Mycroft taking his own life? Such a stupid thought.

If Mycroft had wanted to kill himself because he was depressed over his sister, he would have done it long ago.

So what was the point of all of this? Even Mycroft couldn't be sure.

So he took the pill to his lips—but then Sherlock appeared. Mycroft stared. The door opened with a snap and just like a whirl of the wind his brother was there—standing there with a dark look on his face and amount of desperation he only saw back when they were in Sherrinford. And everything Mycroft had decided to do from the start since allowing his uncle to get the best of him all got blown away because of this unexpected turn of events.

East wind... Such a curious thing...

Mycroft closed his fist on the pill. Sherlock wasn't meant to see him and now that he did, all Mycroft could do was to think of the very reason he allowed himself to be taken in the first place—that one reason that was holding him back— the answer came to his lips when his younger brother was asking him to go.

Oh but then again, it was all happening in his head.

Only in his head... what was it?

And in his mind palace, rooms, vaults and ceilings have already begun to collapse.

Sherlock blinked at his brother with a start.

"What do you mean 'can't betray him'?" but Sherlock already knew what his brother meant and whom he meant and his expression change into dawning comprehension as by 'him' there could only be one person in the world that Mycroft would feel the need to be loyal to. And that person was now behind him clapping quietly.

The younger Holmes gritted his teeth as he slowly stood up and turned around to see the doctor standing there by the door with a triumphant grin on his vulture like face. Sherlock's own expression was full of comprehension as he understood this person's hold.

"You did this to him." Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I did." Dr. Norton answered as he walked towards them with both hands slipping inside his coat pockets. "But no drug, no chemistry could make people make choices for them. What we are witnessing now is simply one of the fascinating works of the brain... you do believe affection is also triggered by certain stimulus? The brain is ever accountable for responsiveness on levels of emotion and empathy; I can actually point to you which particular part. Heart is just an organ, boy. The ability of humans to be sentimental—to be loyal, to be kind, to love— are merely the result of accumulated experiences that the brain processes to be the truth. That reason is still behind every person's character. Your brother and I in fact are closer than you can ever imagine so yes, I do in fact know what I was doing. There was never any grudge between us just—paternal relationship."

"Don't come any closer." Sherlock stood his ground and followed the man with his eyes, all the while standing between the doctor and his brother. "I won't let your influence go any further."

"I'm afraid it's a bit too late for that." Dr. Norton sighed with eyes falling on Mycroft for a second before averting to the detective again. "I won't call it unconditional love though... it's more of an unconditional dedication. I was your brother's only companion even before you came into the picture. You really think you can go beyond that?"

And Sherlock understood in that brief moment— of Mycroft's childhood even before his siblings came—how he must've known how different he was from everyone else, how he realised that the world was not as simple as it promised to be at an early age—that even before anyone understood him he had understood them from a glance— and when he did understand it won't change anything or anyone. That everything was a never ending observation of human imperfections that eventually leads to one truth—everyone dies.

That he was alone without feeling lonely.

And then there came someone who had cared no matter how little and why—that this man was there in times when he needed somebody without realising it. And Sherlock never blamed him for that as he remembered John.

That Mycroft only have Uncle Rudi.

Sherlock turned sharply to his brother and saw Mycroft looking directly at the doctor.

Why else would Mycroft allow this man to put Eurus in a secured place even when he already has the power to free her?

It went beyond just reason. It goes back to one word: influence.

Sherlock stood immobile on the spot for awhile without any idea what to say next or what would happen to his brother—all he had in mind was he was never going to leave Mycroft here whether his brother wanted it or not. Mycroft never abandoned him no matter how dire things were from his constant hobby of alerting the country's safety to the last straw of his addiction—Mycroft was always there.

And Sherlock never intended to do the opposite as he walked towards his brother and stopped in front of the table where he placed both his hands on its edge.

"You've got to come with me, okay?" he whispered gently, "You've got to trust me on this one, brother."

"The newspapers." Mycroft suddenly brought up, wide eyed and full of alarm. "I forgot to fold the newspapers in the Diogenes. And it was about Thatcher too. The queen never liked her for some reason, but she's fine really." He looked sombre for awhile and then back to calm. After that he began talking fast about security cameras, his wine cellar, about one time he lost his umbrella in a crowd that's why he hated crowded places, and then about pirates—

And Sherlock was already watching him with a hollowed expression as he looked deep in Mycroft's eyes and saw no spark of recognition but a stranger looking back up at him. His sharp, overconfident and intelligent beyond measure older brother was gone. The brother he looked up to as a child...

"Mycroft..." he whispered.

"Even if you manage to take him, you can't help him." Dr. Norton's voice said behind him. "To distract his mind from any self harm that was my initial idea, but then as we progressed there were some observable changes in his 'reasoning' but still he's always able to respond well to tests despite the side effects. You should not worry yourself; your brother is perfectly fine under my care—"

But however he planned to finish his speech, nobody would ever guess because right then Sherlock had rushed towards him, clutched his collar with both hands and pinned him up the wall with all his power—

"You messed him up!" the younger Holmes roared in undeniable anger, "He's all messed up! Can't you see what's happening!?"

The doctor choked a little and groaned, "It's... process, idiot boy!"

"How do you intend to fix him? You made him into a madman!"

But to Sherlock's chagrin, Uncle Rudi merely chuckled in between his gasps and when he loosened his grip just a little, he heard the man say in such a fascinated tone—

"But we're all mad here; it's one way or another. If not—then too bad."

"You said you wanted to help him!"

"I won't be any help at all if there wasn't a damaged already! The biggest of diamonds need to be shattered first in order to be more useful—!"

Sherlock lost it as he knocked the man gruffly on the wall, raising him up with his teeth gritted, his sharp eyes glinting menacingly and his fingers feeling nothing but the ache to reach on the doctor's throat and break him—

Like he did his brother—

"What's the supposed to mean!" he hollered and before he knew it, his right hand had slipped inside his coat and was now pointing the gun on the man's throat. "What do you want to do with my brother?"

With a gun on his chin, Doctor Norton managed a smile.

"I care for him. That's all you needed to know. Now you can't kill me—your brother needs me—"

The back hammer of the gun was pulled—and Sherlock aimed.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that."

Dr. Norton froze with eyes straight on the metal and just then Sherlock was so sure the doctor knew he would always be coming for his older brother and here— right here in front of him was his brother who needed help the most. That Mycroft without further ado will have to be sent to another asylum where this doctor needed to be the man in charge or his brother would never recover. That he alone knows how to fix him. And that entails leaving guardianship on his hands officially with no interference from immediate family once and for all.

And after that nobody would be able to stop him for whatever reason that it has to be Mycroft Holmes—his own nephew!

"What godly science are you working on, uncle... No man with love to his kin would do this—twice!"

The doctor sighed grimly. "Something for the future with your brother's legacy in it. You wouldn't understand."

And Sherlock's eyes dilated and sparked as his lips thinned. "Then explain that to whatever god you meet on the afterlife."

Sherlock's finger was on the trigger and he was so angry, so full of rage he was ready to do it.

He was after all, according to his dear older brother— a dragon slayer. The trigger—

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked back sharply behind him to find his older brother standing on his feet with a very confused expression on his face—a mixture of bafflement, disappointment and shock— and finally falling down to outrage as he went on after seeing his younger brother in one of those dangerous toys again when the last time he remembered was Sherlock pointing the deadly material straight on his head—

"Whatever in the blazes are you doing with that gun?" he asked as he breathed hard and Sherlock dropped the doctor who slid down the floor in apparent surprise. The brothers' exchange glances and just then Sherlock realised how he recognised the spark in his brother's eyes. A warm relief spread out from his shoulders down to the pit of his stomach that he almost dropped the gun. But he didn't and instead, his feet began moving on his own and before he realised it he was upon his brother and had him in a one-arm embrace.

If Mycroft was puzzled at the beginning it was nothing to what he must be feeling now but Sherlock could care less.

Mycroft was back and that's all that matters.

At least, for a very brief moment.

Sometime later, the force Sherlock brought with him during the infiltration came immediately in the room and took the doctor and assembled the team of the neuroscientists, pharmaceutical scientists and psychiatrists and all other scientists involved in the hidden medical facility to be under a court trial and answer to the investigation of British Law.

Doctor Norton was held on a trial unknown to the public lead none other than Lady Smallwood and he was exiled from the country with his records plainly going with him to major archives of the CIA and other bureaus of investigation. He was also being monitored as his track record sets a threat to mankind after the MI6 found data of his recent endeavours. Sherlock got a copy from the Lady who also had extended her concern over Mycroft's absence from the Cabinet office and visited the brothers in their home.

Because Mycroft was incapable of leading such a team at the moment.

Because Mycroft was lost.

Sherlock refused, under any circumstances to have his brother be sent to Sherrinford too as what Lord Edwin deemed to see fit during an interview where the detective was held accountable for Mycroft's removal from the medical ward to which he was sent after they were recovered from the medical facility.

"You can't keep your brother away from psychiatric wards." Sir Edwin said vigorously in a secret meeting in the Cabinet office, "We all want his fast recovery and this office wants it to be immediate! We can't wait for too long just because you've decided to play 'brother', Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and knew somehow that the joke was still on the man after their last encounter.

"Sir Edwin." Lady Smallwood had turned a sharp look towards the man, "The Holmes is still at liberty with decisions regarding a family member."

"Yes, well, this is Mycroft Holmes we speak of. It would have been all right if he was of regular class but he is one of our own. He knows too many to be left alone without any safeguard out there. What if he's taken by enemy who got wind of him? We three know how each and one of us has a spy or two behind our backs every minute of every day!"

Sherlock stared at the man and knew that this was true. Just that Mycroft does not speak of it but his brother's door alarms and locks of his house were enough to tell him his brother was defending himself from people who were more than just burglars and petty thieves—even more than his brother Sherlock Holmes.

But then it so happens also that some time when Sherlock was feeling unoccupied, or with no case at hand or John was away and he was feeling bored—that he would stalk his brother without detection. Without detection couldn't be confirmed though as it would always take a Mycroft to fool Sherlock and vice versa.

"You don't need to worry about his security, he is heavily guarded." Sherlock smiled to himself as he remembered his mother. Mycroft was safe alright. He remembered her fussing over the brothers the first time he brought Mycroft back in their house—as any proper brother would do. He hadn't seen his mother cry in ages, but she did especially after observing the sudden change to her eldest. And she so detest Uncle Rudi that she demanded to see him one last time with Sherlock's father. Only Sherlock could know what happened in fifteen minutes that they were alone with him. But his parents came out more determined than ever.

Sherlock sighed inwardly and found the Cabinet members looking at him.

"I can take care of him." He insisted with a heavy frown and then with eyes focusing on Lady Smallwood he said with such emphasis— "This is my family. I understand I'm not the only one concerned but Mycroft doesn't need more people in white coats surrounding him. And not those cold walls you insist on keeping my sister. Mycroft will get better."

And with a nod of approval, and a condition that secret service will still be surrounding the area and trusted psychiatrist will visit, Lady Smallwood dismissed the meeting and even went as far as promising a visit as well.

Sherlock smiled slightly to see the day Mycroft would invite the Lady by himself on a Christmas dinner next time, but then again his brother was as bad as him when it came to hints of the opposite gender so he shrugged the thought in amusement.

Back in Baker Street, Doctor Norton's endeavour was unveiled.

"This is absurd!" John Watson cried as he slammed the case report down the table as he sat at the couch with his brows contorted and his expression a mixture of awe and disbelief. "Your uncle's been working on reanimation of brain? Is that even possible?!" he turned to his best friend incredulously.

"It's on the paper, it ought to be true." Sherlock replied as he sat fast on his chair with his violin at hand and eyes looking thoughtful, "Regeneration of the brain, setting up its wires, altering them to perfect map so it would be used to its maximum potential. It's an idea of infinite possibilities. The memory lies on the signals of the brain's wiring but not all human is gifted of such perfect map. My brother and I have such well developed brains, it actually breeds jealousy." He shot John a look who was watching him with his jaw dropped.

"Yeah, I know that for a fact, you and your siblings—even your parents, actually. I also know and understand what he wants to accomplish with this project 'Minds of Carat'—" John tapped on the folder with the title and went on, "I understand the part where he was doing it on people who have died on their sleep—or those we call 'brain dead' cases or even comma, as long as the brain is uninjured— I get it. This uncle of yours believe that brain dead is a potentially curable condition and by just giving right combination of stem cells, or drugs, even electrical currents, and magnetic fields or other stimuli no scientist have thought of yet, the mind may yet have the power to reawaken. But that's just it—it's just too—"

"Radical." Sherlock eyed John again before bowing down to his violin. "My uncle is not a simple neuroscientist, John. He's one of those willing to go beyond the limits. Even waking the dead."

"Yeah, but what's that got to do with your brother? I mean—he isn't exactly dead. And if what you're telling me that Mycroft has this depression where he could have killed himself off then isn't that more favourable for your uncle?"

Sherlock pressed his lips tight as he let go of the violin and glanced at the doctor with sharp eyes.

"He doesn't want my brother dead—he wants his brain—full and functioning. Mycroft generously offered his brain to the Royal Society because reason—he's our uncle and my brother somehow has 'attachments' that needed to be severed. That Minds of Carat project began with studying and experimenting with the brains of the dead—then it went up and studied the brain of the almost dead—so how do you think it will end?"

He raised both eyebrows at John who was staring at him again in awe.

"This is ridiculous." The doctor threw the envelope on the table. "Absolutely ridiculous."

"It's science." Sherlock aptly answered.

John paused for awhile, before bringing the subject on the table.

"How's Mycroft?"

To which Sherlock only answered with a pointed silence because deep inside him, the hollowed feeling he felt when he saw a stranger looking back at him in Mycroft's eyes remained.

And as he went back to his parents' house, he bore in mind as he silently took the step towards his brother's old room, how delicate the brain was. He was once a victim of his own brain with his repressed memory; his younger sister was a victim since birth that got influenced by its external people; and then there was Mycroft who was perfect but was not safe for external forces would always find a way in. And Mycroft's defeat?

Uncle Rudi.

How very ironic. For someone like his brother who was as sturdy as the mountain when it comes to governing a whole country—his final defeat was still family. And Sherlock always thought he was the one who would ultimately bring his brother down. With no bad intention except for a game, of course.

Sherlock stopped outside Mycroft's room and stayed there for awhile.

In the silence of the house, he was aware of his brother's balanced breathing that was enough for him to assure himself that there would be no feats this time—because yes, there were feats. The first night Mycroft stayed with them his brother had become so restless that sleep was impossible for the entire family. And then his mutterings. Sherlock and his parents were baffled by everything he said from the top secrets of the government to his mulling inside his private house to the affairs of his younger brother's adventures—with which Sherlock had to bear with his parents' reprimanding looks and later his mother asking him to explain.

But the part that made all the comical episode turned upside was the fact that this was not like Mycroft. Sherlock did recognize his brother's concern because during those times, Mycroft could give him a complete detail of his, Sherlock's, daily activity. From his routines alone, till meeting John. From the Study in Pink case where the older Holmes confessed having a unit strictly follow the cabman and his brother and how John had come in for the rescue—to the pool side with Moriarty (because apparently his older brother didn't receive any memory stick) where John was taken he already had people following them—then of course Sherlock came to the doctor's rescue unknowingly. Why his brother didn't reveal himself to be there, Sherlock couldn't be sure because Mycroft had abruptly change the topic but from everything he was saying it was obvious—Mycroft never missed a thing; Mycroft was always looking after him.

And even when he was already in battle with his sanity inside that small room back in the medical facility, Mycroft came through when he saw his younger brother with a gun. Because apparently again his primal instinct was to look after his younger brother.

The older brother who was now lost and in the arms of Morpheus.

The constant whispering to himself, the sudden voicing of thoughts, the silence when in the middle of conversation and abrupt change of topic; the real Mycroft never resurfaced anymore something which still undeterred the detective in finding his brother. The psychiatrist visiting them together with a group of experts on drugs had traced everything on drug overdosed. There was an advice to have Mycroft be looked into

And the family remained intact as they wait for the day that they recover him.

Sherlock the most.

So here he was, waiting outside his brother's room and wondering when this brother of his will awaken. Because Sherlock has lost a lot in a matter of months... Mary, the biggest lost of all.

He won't go through that lost again.

Then again—wasn't he going now at the moment?

And Sherlock returned to his room in silent defeat, his shadow cast down on the corridor with his head bow and spirits low.

-The End-

A/N: Thank you for everything from beginning to end, dear readers!

We all gather because of our undeniable hunger for brotherly stories of these two!

I mean, two smart brothers who always and will be behind each other despite what their actions do!

It's really something to look up to~ I love how they did it in the show!

I love Mycroft and Sherlock of this BBC~

To all the fans of it-

Thanks for Reading!

If you've been reading fics of mine for some time then you know that this was bound to happen ;)

Onto our epilogue!

Once again thank you for always commending the plots and storylines ;)

Greatly appreciated and noted and of course- learned! Thanks guys!

Epilogue

Mycroft couldn't remember a thing since he woke up, all he knew was that he found himself perfectly situated in a very comfortable and familiar bed room with appealing wall colours and ceiling. Rising up with a little headache, he then recognised it to be his room—oh but the room back in his parents' house?

The very idea made the older Holmes blink to himself and frown.

What in the blazes was he doing there?

The sudden opening of the door alerted him and he looked up to find his mother carrying a tray enter his bedroom with his father who had opened it for her.

"Mykie, time for breakfast." She said in a genial tone. When she looked up, she found a very disturbed Mycroft staring back at her in horror and surprise as he opened his mouth and said—

"It's Mycroft, mother—please do listen to corrections you are the one who named me after all. And pardon me but—what am I doing here?"

It was followed by a sudden tackle Mycroft did not see coming as his mother handed the tray to his father and embraced him so tight he found his chin on her shoulder. Even more perplexing was his father's expression as if he was about to cry.

What reality did he just found himself in?

It didn't take long before Mycroft heard the story and for more than thirty minutes his parents explained to him what had transpired in exactly two months—and Mycroft actually believed them because he found the gruff surface of his cheeks unshaven—

"It was too dangerous to have sharp things around you even with supervision. Your brother offered but we didn't see any point for his amusement." His father explained.

Then slowly, like shards of glasses getting pieced together—certain memories came—of medicines, and white coats, and surgical gloves and the white lights... Mycroft blinked once.

Uncle Rudi.

"It must be too much to take, you don't have to remember any of it..." his mother sat beside him with a reassuring hand on his shoulder that somehow had its effects. It has been a long times since Mycroft felt that... affection.

He dismissed the thought after one long look at his mother's concerned face and knew it was time to show them how in control he was this time. He just hoped he didn't tell them anything that might compromise the meaning of confidentiality. So he began with that one thing that had been prying at the back of his mind:

"Where's Sherlock?" it terrified him to realise that for those two months, Sherlock had no supervision whatsoever except for John—but then let's face it—the two of them together was not at all that assuring. As he had said plainly before—John could be the making of his brother—or make him worse than ever— "Is he in London? Did he cause any trouble I have to sort out for him—and his friends—?"

"Oh, Sherlock's outside, dear. He's never left home except on special occasions. He's been here like you in the family house for two months. He's been looking after you."

Mycroft was about to ask why when it hit him hard in the face.

Oh.

He went down the stairs after a minute or two and insisted on walking on his own—it was his brain that got damaged and not his feet. He surveyed the family home and remembered every part of it except for the messy papers on the table that must be courtesy of Sherlock, the boot tracks by the ground—again by Sherlock—and the usage of the harpoons and shovel that must be both by his father and his younger brother.

It was not new to him too to see a photo of Eurus hanging by the wall. She had a nice hair cut too.

Following the door outside, Mycroft had to take in a deep sigh as a wave of memory came surging in that made him hold on the threshold as he opened the door. The sun was young up in the sky and the cloudy morning greeted him.

And then there was his brother's agitated voice. Looking around, the older Holmes found his younger brother by the gate, oscillating and on his mobile phone with a loud voice.

"Hang on a sec—make the descriptions clear, Lestrade!" he was saying with an aggressive tone of the voice, "What do you mean the mud on her palm 'looked like 10E'—be certain or her life's on your hands! Yes, I know it's a mud by I very much doubt you can identify which specific mud of all places—now it's an ink? Oh for godsake an unknown woman in a travelling suit finds herself lost in London with nothing and no memory whatsoever and you're worrying about the mud on her hand—you better start figuring out first the meaning of 10E then! Yes. Well then send me a photo and I'll tell you—I won't go down there—you have to take photos of her and send them to me. We'll see what we can do about her."

"For one thing— why don't you try 301, it could be a luggage number that rubbed off on her palm." Mycroft offered quietly as he stood by the door. He watched his brother turned to him with startled eyes and knowing what he had been through; Mycroft pressed a smile and shrugged. "That's very unlike you, brothermine—to not see just because you're not there. The power of mind can do so much better."

Sherlock hung up and this surprised Mycroft to some degree for nothing was always more important to his younger brother much more than his cases. This display was perhaps something he was not expecting added with the fact that Sherlock was staring at him with a blank face but his eyes were speaking volume.

It made Mycroft smile genuinely.

"Oh, Sherlock."

-The End- :)