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Sherlock entered the Diogenese Club and was met at once by one of the tail-coated functionaries who littered the place. It was all so very nineteenth century.
“Mr. Holmes,” he whispered. “Please come with me.”
Why hadn’t Mycroft just asked him to come by his office?
He trailed the man down two corridors, through a discreet paneled door at the end of the second one, then down two sets of stairs. He hadn’t realized that the Club had an underbelly.
His escort pointed to yet another door. “Through that door, sir, and down the stairs. Door at the bottom of the stairs.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but just said, “Thank you.” Mycroft loved to play spy, but this was a bit much. He did as he was told.
On opening the final door, he saw Mycroft sitting at a steel and glass desk-like object, which supported three....no, four different monitors. The walls around him were lined with shelves holding an array of esoteric-looking equipment, much of which Sherlock didn’t quite recognize. How very twenty-first century of Mycroft.
His brother looked up as he entered. “I noticed that you renounced Satan, et cetera, and so forth. Very wise. I suppose I should not have been surprised. You’d do anything for John Watson.”
“Mycroft, please try not to be more irritating than usual. I assume you summoned me here for some reason other than to rehash the christening? Which, by the way, I appreciated your attending. That was kind of you. Mary and John were touched. ”
“Hmm. Sit down, sit down,” Mycroft gestured to the steel and leather chairs that brooded in a Scandinavian way in front of the desk. "Drink?"
Sherlock nodded. Mycroft swiveled his chair to another steel and glass table behind his desk, unstoppered a severe glass decanter and poured a half inch of copper liquid into whiskey glasses. He turned and slid one of them toward his brother.
Sherlock picked it up and sniffed. “Glenmorangie? No, wait… wait. Lagavulin.”
“Quite right. The twelve year.”
Sherlock sipped. Mycroft had many faults. Many. But his taste in spirits wasn’t one of them. He decided to play Mycroft’s game for the moment.
“Speaking of the christening, that was quite a generous gift.” Sherlock had been surprised to learn from an equally-surprised John that Mycroft had set up a scholarship fund for the baby with an initial deposit of five thousand pounds.
Mycroft shrugged. “My pleasure. I thought Ludgrove for prep, then we’ll see. Quite an attractive infant, Master Michael.” Mycroft took a meditative sip of his whiskey. Mycroft couldn’t be hurried if he didn’t wish to be.
“Looks like John, I think,” said Sherlock.
“Yes. Golden hair. Well, that might be either of them. But that pugnacious little face is John,” he paused and took another sip. He kept his eyes lowered on his glass. “Getting in a bit deeper, aren’t you, Sherlock? Isn’t a godfather responsible in some sense for the child? If you remember the last time I warned you about getting involved, you assured me that you weren’t. We see where that led.”
Sherlock put his glass down on the glass surface in front of him. Not gently. Mycroft winced at the sharp sound. Those glasses were hand blown by an artist in Sønderborg and cost more than the suit Sherlock was wearing. Sherlock’s suits were quite expensive.
“Fine. Yes, Mycroft. I’ll admit it if you wish. I lied. I am involved. You may want to live a life detached from everyone and every emotion except mild surprise at the idiocy of the people around you. I have decided that I don’t.”
“I just meant….” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I know you can’t go back. But I worry about you.”
“I know you do. Don’t you understand that I worry about you, too, for different reasons? I understand the risks, and I’m willing to take them. I love John. And now Michael. It may astonish you, brother mine, to know that I have similar feelings for you in spite of the fact that you are a superior, over-protective, interfering busy-body. ”
“If I am…,” Mycroft cleared his throat. “If I am it is because I… care about you, too. I always have.”
“I know,” said Sherlock. “Doesn’t make you one whit less irritating.”
Mycroft smiled slightly, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. “Speaking of over-protectiveness, that’s why I asked you here. This is my home-away-from-home, so to speak. More secure than the office. Away from the prying eyes of my fellow…. bureaucrats.”
Mycroft pushed a file over the smooth glass surface. Sherlock opened it. Moriarty’s face stared back at him.
“He’s dead,” said Sherlock.
“Of course he’s dead. We were careful. There was a team on that roof within minutes. He blew his brains out. He was quite, quite dead. And it was definitely Moriarty.” Slight hesitation. “At least, the DNA and fingerprints matched those of the man that we interrogated for all those weeks. The man who called himself James Moriarty.”
The slight hesitation in Mycoft’s voice frightened him. He picked up his drink and took another swallow. He turned the glass around and around in his hand. “I’m waiting, Mycroft.”
“Yes, well, it seemed obvious that someone was using his image that day. To taunt us, to prove the power of his reach. Luckily for you, simply the threat of it put the wind up the powers-that-be to the extent that your little trip to Albania was over before it began.”
“Yes,” said Sherlock, holding his brother’s gaze, “I thought that is was quite fortunate at the time.”
“Don’t look at me,” said Mycroft. “I had nothing to do with that particular deus ex machina. My reach only extends so far, and it didn’t, to my regret, extend to keeping you out of prison or worse. The Services haven’t been able to find out who did the stunt that day or why. However, the reason I asked you here is to warn you. Some of Moriarty’s network in this country has... re-animated. I know you thought you had dismantled it, but the computer and phone traffic seem to indicate that strands of the web are reconnecting. We don’t know why or for what purpose.”
“Who is heading it?” Sherlock flipped through the file, trying to keep his hands from shaking.
“We haven’t been able to determine that. So far, they seem to be dealing in drugs, prostitution, and murder-for-hire. Fairly low-level. But I thought I should warn you. And I have another concern. That stunt of taking over the communications networks that day was not… low-level. The more I look at it, the more it has a worrying feel of MI6 about it. Thus this room. I don’t know whether that’s connected to the stirrings of Moriarity’s old network or not. Either way, it seems prudent to consider the possibility that things will escalate.”
Ever since that day on the tarmac, he had known this was a possibility. Seeing Moriarty’s face again. But nothing had seemed to come of it. He had known that Mycroft and the intelligence services were trying to get to the bottom of it. He had relaxed. He had let himself relax.
Two years of his life. Two years trying to protect… Then he went cold.
“Oh, god, Mycroft. John… Mrs. Hudson. The baby. Mycroft, you’ve….”
“Yes. Yes, of course. We’ve already upped security and surveillance. But we need to come up with a plan. Where do we go from here?"