Chapter Text
There is a knock on the door. Martin jumps up from his place in front of his computer and quickly opens the door. It's Melody, agricultural student, third semester and sort-of-house mate considering that all the other housemates are students as well and yes, Martin should really look for other places.
"Morning, Martin. This was left here for you."
Her head inclines towards a small parcel in her hands.
"The guy who gave it to me told me to make sure you get it right away. He was... weird. Are you in trouble or something?"
Martin laughs a hollow laugh. "Not that I know of, but that usually doesn't mean anything..."
She gives him a sympathetic smile and hands him the parcel. She seems relieved to have it out of her hands. "Good luck!", she says before she descends the steps from the attic room.
Martin gulps and closes the door. He turns the parcel in his hands for a few moments. His full name is written on the front, in clear, almost calligraphic writing. Apart from that, it's a simple brown paper parcel, held together with tape.
He takes a deep breath and opens it. Within there's a box of a popular phone brand and when he opens it, there is a phone nestled in the casing, apparently brand new and probably very very expensive. He stares at it for a moment, brow furrowed and almost hauls it across the room when it rings in a chipper bell chime tone.
The name on the display causes a frown to appear on Martin's face and with a sigh, he accepts the call and lifts the phone to his ear.
"Mycroft!"
"A princess, brother dear? I wouldn't have guessed."
"What the hell, Mycroft."
There is a tut on the other line. "Language, Sherrinford, you know what Mummy would say!"
"Mummy thinks I'm dead, you know that."
"I think she might have caught on since Sherlock pulled the same trick."
Martin rolls his eyes.
He remembers Sherlock's "suicide" very well. He has read it in all papers, but only after Mycroft had him abducted in the middle of the night close to Fitton airfield to explain the situation to him. Martin/Sherrinford had scoffed and turned to his middle brother who was in the middle of remodelling his hair and face.
"Faking your death, Sherlock? Really? I'd never think you'd steal a trick from me."
It had earned him one of Mycroft's rare chuckles and one of Sherlock's not-so-rare glares.
"Does that mean you will be expecting me for Christmas?"
"Well-"
"Kidding, Mycroft, I was kidding. Why are you calling?"
"Can't a brother want to be in touch with his youngest sibling just because he wants to?"
"Well, a brother certainly but probably not a Holmes."
"True. I thought a direct line between us would spare us the car rides."
"The abductions you mean."
"Call it what you wish. I am calling about your ... girlfriend."
Martin glares in front of him as if he could pierce Mycroft by sheer willpower.
"Keep your nose out of my private life."
"Brother dear, when you date a royal, lots of people will continue to stick their noses into your private life. I just thought with your incognito identity and everything, you would pick a more... mundane spouse."
"My love-life is none of your business, Mycroft. And for the record, she picked me, not the other way around."
Barely anyone ever picks me anyway, he thought. But he didn't say it. Mycroft could probably deduce it anyway.
There was an exasperated sigh on the other end.
"Why are you really calling, Mycroft? I doubt you are even a bit interested in my girlfriend. If she was the Queen of England maybe, but the Princess of Liechtenstein? I doubt it."
"Sherrinfor-"
"Martin."
"Fine." Another sound of exasperation. "Martin. If you are so fond of that name."
"I am, actually."
"Good grief."
"Calling. Why. I'm going to hang up."
"Your phone can't ignore my calls."
"Figured."
"Have you been watching TV?"
Martin is caught off guard and he hates it. Mycroft tends to have that effect on him.
"I don't have a TV, Mycroft", he says carefully.
"Ah." A disappointed tone. "Right, I forgot about your... living conditions."
"All part of the plan. It's fine."
"Of course it is. But well, then you don't know the news yet."
"What news?"
There is a notification sound coming from his phone and he holds it away from his face to look at it. A video message has been received.
"Go on. Watch." Mycroft's voice wavers out of the phone and Martin feels the hairs on his neck stand up. It can't possibly be anything good.
He fiddles with the phone for a moment before he finds out how to open the message.
A picture of a man's face appears on the screen, his jaw moving comically, as if cut out and wiggled around. The words "Miss Me?" appear next to his face and a distorted voice fills the small attic room.
Martin takes a few steps back and sits down heavily on his bed.
The image changes and flashes, the background all that stays back until the same man, now clearly the person himself and not just a cut out picture steps into the frame and looks him straight into the eye.
"Miss me...?"
A cold, bored, Irish drawl and Martin almost drops the phone.
He had never been involved in Sherlock's ... "game" with Jim Moriarty, but he has heard, seen and read what this man could do and had done.
"That's impossible", he finally says. Proud, that his voice does not crack.
"Exactly", Mycroft answers and Martin holds the phone to his ear again.
"But somehow, he is back."
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"My dear brother, I think it is time to... re-activate you."
Martin drops back on his back, stares at the ceiling and tries to calm his spinning head.
"What do you need?"