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The rain fell in a silver mist over the estate gardens, softening marble statues and turning the clipped hedges a richer green. Mycroft Holmes and his fellow university classmate Langdale Pike strolled at an unhurried pace along the gravel path, a single black umbrella sheltering them both while cigarette smoke curled lazily into the damp air.
Ahead, beyond the ivy-clad colonnade, stood Gregory, the estate's gamekeeper. His broad shoulders were rigid, hands clasped behind his back as he leaned against a column by the boathouse pier, his gaze looked over the rain-speckled lake.
Pike followed Holmes's gaze and chuckled.
"Good Lord, Holmes. Doesn't the fellow look as though the world has ended?"
Mycroft's eyes lingered a heartbeat too long upon the dark curls dampened by the mist, upon Gregoryâs solid frame that seemed somehow diminished by sorrow.
"He does look broken," he admitted lightly. "Is it true... that your charming sister has truly done the foul deed and refused him?"
"It would hardly surprise me, if so." Langdale scarcely spared Gregory a glance. "These working people never seem to learn." His lip curled, not even trying to temper his voice. "Perfectly suitable for sweating in fields and inspiring passing fancies, perhaps. But imagining themselves worthy of genuine affection from families like ours?" He gave a dismissive laugh. "Utter absurdity."
Mycroft's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the umbrella handle.
Yes, Violet Pike, Langdale's eldest sister, was friendly enough with Gregory, as she was with all the estateâs help, but had never shown the young man the slightest romantic attention. Her opinion of the lower classes, though kinder than her brotherâs, still fell along a similar path.
The rumor existed because society found it easier to imagine a laborer pining after a lady than... anything else.
His chest burned with words he dared not utter.
-Gregory deserves better than your contempt.-
Instead, years of careful habit won. "Hm."
It was neither agreement nor contradiction.
Langdale seemed satisfied, and the two men continued down the path, leaving the silent gamekeeper behind.
As much as he wanted to, longed to have one more glance at that strapping form, wondering what Gregoryâs touch would feel like under cool bed linens; Mycroft dared not look back.
He knew that if he did, he might not manage to look away from the man he secretly is in love with.
Gregory had heard every word.
He gave no sign.
His gaze remained fixed upon the grey water until the gentlemen's wet footsteps had somewhat faded.
Only then did he slowly turn to look.
Mycroft Holmes walked beneath it with effortless grace, shoulders straight despite the drizzle. The Pike house was more affluent than Holmes, but it was Pike who leaned into Holmes, not the other way around.
-Somehow that seems right-
Gregory watched until Holmesâs umbrella had nearly vanished behind the yew hedges and there was nothing left to see.
A bitter smile touched his lips.
-So, Mr. Holmes has noticed my misery. He always seems to noticeâŚme.-
There had been moments when he would catch Mr. Holmes looking at him before quickly pretending to look elsewhere.
The unexpected warmth in his smooth voice during conversations when they âhappenedâ alone upon woodland paths.
Paths that Mr. Holmes was always seeming to know when no one else would be nearby.
Yet the moment another person appeared, especially another gentleman, Holmes became distant. Formal. Cold enough to freeze the lake over on a sweltering midsummer day.
Gregory had told himself there must be a reason.
Perhaps he had mistaken stolen glances for idle curiosity. Perhaps kindness offered in private was merely pity.
Gregory laughed under his breath, though no humor found its way into the sound.
He heard Pike's cruel words again.
Never worthy.
The shelter of the colonnade suddenly felt unbearable.
And Mr. Holmes...? Only that quiet, noncommittal murmur.
No protest. No denial.
He stepped beyond its stone arches into the open rain.
-Perhaps silence was agreement after all.-
Gregory did not know how long he stood there as the tears came.
The drizzle became a steady rain that soaked through his dark curls and dampened his coat, but he scarcely noticed.
At least, beneath the rain, no one would ever know where one ended, and the other began.
"If itâs true. If he⌠If he believes Iâm unworthyâŚWhat a fool I've been!"
A shadow passed over; the rain stopped.
But not quite.
âItâs not true. I never thought that of you, Gregory. And the only fools are the ones who believe such rubbish.â
An umbrella covered him.
He spun to find himself staring into Mycroftâs eyes. Â
âMister⌠Mr.  Holmes!â
Gregory looked behind Mycroft; no one was around.
âI know you know my name, Gregory; use it. Pike withdrew to the main house when the rain grew heavier. I said I was going home.â
âWhat are you doing here, Mycroft?â
-Oh God, it feels illicit to say!-
âIf Iâm correct, and I almost always am, pinning for the forbiddenâŚlike you.â Mycroft held out his unoccupied hand to him. ââŚI said I was going home â I did not say mine.â
He knew Mycroft was aware he stayed in a private room at the boathouse in the summer months because it was cooler. It was his home.
âBut we canât do this!â He panicked at the ramifications of getting everything he wanted.
âAnd yet we shallâŚâ Mycroft raised his hand a little higher in request.
The excitement and the fear felt were both elating and terrifying.
Gregory had no idea what they would do when the rain was over.
That was a tomorrow problem.
They were going to weather tonight together.
Gregory gently placed his hand in Mycroftâs and led him to his room.
âAnd yet we shallâŚâ
========================================
Yes, this is written in the time of "Maurice"; Muse saw that photo of Rupert as Alec Scudder and threw me in front of the keyboard.
Character A gets a haircut and Character B notices.
The game is to write a flash fic this weekend and post it here (or with a link to the fic on AO3) on Monday with the hashtag Mystrade Monday.
Flash fiction is a complete story that is less than 1,000 words. 360mg is complete fic of 360 words with the last two beginning with âMâ and âGâ in any order. Please spread the word.
Hot tip: if you tag @mystradepromptsandscenarios , weâll reblog it.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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We have two different ways that are available for you to participate with prompts! Whump prompts, and Regular prompts!
Whump prompts are four prompts that are for that week!
Regular Prompts are prompts that are for that specific day of the month!
Alt Prompts are prompts that you can use in place of any prompt you may not like or get inspired by!
Unfortunately, I am no good at creating art or images with the prompts listed out at this point in time. That means that everything is listed out below the cut!
Whump Prompts
Week One
Burns
Neglected Connection
Week Two
Tied to the Dead
Dying of Heartbreak
Week Three
Forced to Watch
Feeling the Other's Pain
Week Four
Platonic vs Romatnic Soulmate (Mismatched Bonds)
Unrequited Bond
Alt Prompts
Severed Connection, Getting Sick After Each Other, Paired with an Abuser, Unrequited, Chronic Illness
Regular Prompts
Day 1) âItâs you?â âAlways has beenâ
Day 2) Platonic Soulmate
Day 3) Overprotectiveness
Day 4) Gossip
Day 5) Chosen Soulmate
Day 6) "I knew I'd find you here."
Day 7) Highschool AU
Day 8) meet-ugly
Day 9) Vampire AU
Day 10) âWait⌠YOU!?â âWhy did it have to be you?â
Day 11) Reuniting / Reconnection
Day 12) Fantasy AU
Day 13) Multiple Soulmates / Polyamorus
Day 14) "Should have known it was you.'
Day 15) (Running a) Diner
Day 16) Ordering for the Other
Day 17) Mecha AU
Day 18) âTook you long enoughâ
Day 19) Glowing Connection
Day 20) Shared Pain
Day 21) Words On Skin
Day 22) "Every mile you've walked, I've been with you."
Day 23) "Ohâ âOhâ
Day 24) Best friends to Soulmates
Day 25) Shared Memories
Day 26) Cuddling
Day 27) Sleepy Mornings
Day 28) Making Breakfast
Day 29) FIRST DATE
Day 30) First Kiss
Alt Prompts
Giving flowers
Sleepovers
Breakfast for Dinner
Romantic Evening in
Being With Someone Who Isn't Your Soulmate
Grayscale World Until You Meet Your Soulmate
Falling in Love With Someone Who Isn't Your Soulmate
Connected Weapons / Battle Couple
Oh, this was for yesterday. Although in some places it's still Saturday, right? And Sunday also has an S, like Sheriarty and Sad. Only I would think of playing a war game when I'm a pacifist, don't like attacking, and am underleveled. I got distracted playing...
By the way, my perspective, like my patience, went to hell.
The context of the drawing is: I previously made two drawings of this universe where Jim, upon committing suicide, is transformed into a shinigami (reaper).So I thought that when Sherlock was sent away for killing Magnussen, he took enough drugs to kill himself, which would be considered suicide, right?Then Jim went to cut his "cinematic record" (life) All this after having a brief conversation, but before John, Mary, and Mycroft enter, oh now you understand why it's so sad?
But it's not so sad because now that they're both dead they can be together UwU yay
I wanted to write the story but I only have 52 words so far đĽš
Rain drizzled on the pavement. Blue lights painted wet brick in restless flashes. Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard for twenty-three years, held on with the practiced certainty of someone who had spent decades talking people back from impossible edges.
"Glad you stayed," Greg said quietly.
"I... I almost didn't."
"But you did."
âI needed a reason.â
"Now, you have one."
The young man broke.
The sobs came all at once, violent and exhausted. Greg simply stood there, letting him cry until the worst of it passed.
As Greg gently pulled away, there wasâŚ
--Silence--
No, not ordinary silence.
Complete. Absolute. Stillness.
The flashing police lights froze mid-pulse. The young man's expression remained fixed.
Even the raindrops hung motionless in the air.
Only one thing moved.
Before Greg floated countless grains of luminous sand, suspended in the air. They swirled together in impossible currents, every grain changing colors âsilver into violets, emeralds into crimsons, sapphires into golds. A kaleidoscope of colors bold and dim, of days and nights and lives and deaths, all forming a living rainbow.
And somehow Gareth knew it was looking at him, through him, scanning him.
Greg tilted his head.
"Why do you look like you belong in an hourglass?"
The sands rippled as if amused.
Curiosity overrode caution; Greg extended one finger.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Until it brushed the swirling cloud.
And the world shattered and folded around him.
Buildings stretched and rewove themselves.
People blurred into streaks.
Then the stillness returned.
Greg staggered.
"What..."
He stood on a familiar street.
Only... different.
Across the road stood the young man.
But somehow older; by four or five years.
A little laugh escaped the young man as a small child, who looked like him, clung happily to his shoulders.
Alive. Happy.
"Holy shit!"
The realization hit Greg like a train.
He jerked his finger back and instantly, the vision collapsed.
The father. The child.
Gone.
Then rainbow sands waited patiently.
Heart pounding, Greg looked around.
A teenage girl nearly walked through him before freezing with the rest of the world.
Mocha complexion, dark braid. Freckles. School blazer.
Recognition struck instantly. He knew that face from photographs she'd had reluctantly shown the squad after losing a bet.
âSallyâŚâ
His partner, or rather, his future partner.
"I'm in the past?!"
Gregâs breath caught as the implications flooded in.
Past. Future. Anywhen.
Then another thought appeared. One he had buried for years.
Mycroft.
The man Greg loved with every stubborn piece of his heart. The brilliant man who had accepted an appointment to some strange Office no one could ever explain, smiled sadly one evening, kissed Greg goodbye...
...and vanished.
No body found, no answers given; eventually declared dead.
If this truly crossed time, he could see Mycroft again.
Just once. Just hear his voice.
His hands trembled as Greg's chest tightened in ardent want.
"Greg, no!"
The self-reprimand came out harsher than intended.
"I don't get to undo grief because I miss someone."
He shut his eyes. The temptation hurt more than any wound he'd ever carried.
"But changing the past..."
He shook his head bitterly.
"...that's how detectives become evidence."
Slowly... Deliberately...
He touched the sands once more.
Push just a little forward.
Stop. Forward. Pause.
Tiny adjustments. Feeling the flow rather than seeing, untilâŚ
Rain resumed. Sirens wailed.
The young man finished wiping his eyes and stilled again.
Everything was exactly as it had been.
The swirling sands alone remained.
"I don't know what you are... But you're far too dangerous to just be willy-nilly letting people control you like this."
He studied them.
The colors gently pulsed as if waitingâŚ.
"Who takes care of you?"
Instead of answering, it flowed around him, through him.
Warm. Cold. Young. Ancient. Endless.
Speaking not in words, but Memory.
He felt civilizations rise and disappear between heartbeats.
Rivers of history branching into futures beyond counting.
He understood the being before him was simply Time.
Asking him to serve - a duty, a stewardship.
An Office.
It was searching for one capable of restraint before power.
Someone who would choose not to change history even when given every reason.
Its current guardian no longer wished to serve.
Because eternity had become enough.
So, Time sought another.
Should Greg accept, he would walk every century, guard every timeline.
Protect Time itself.
For as long as he wished.
âAnd if one day I too, chose to lay the burden down?â
He would be returned here. To this exact heartbeat.
With no memory.
Because that Time would belong to another Greg. Not this one.
Greg looked around.
Everyone and thing remained frozen in Time.
The young man waited unknowingly for a better tomorrow Greg had already glimpsed.
He imagined the chaos of such power falling into the wrong handsâŚ
A tyrant. A person grieving unwilling to let loss remain loss.
At history rewritten endlessly by someone's preferred draft.
âŚand shuddered mentally and physically at the thought
The sands answered with a feeling - a different Memory.
Something terrible that had nearly happened but for those in Office stopping it.
And alongside the dark memory, amusement. As though knowing such a person attempting to master Time itself usually ended spectacularly badly.
Greg didn't quite understand it, but he believed it.
The man he'd loved was gone. His career had reached its quiet twilight.
No one depended on him for anything.
Yet untold numbers depended on history to remain exactly what it needed to be. Past. Present. Future.
"I spent decades serving as a custodian of the people... Now I'm being offered to serve as the Custodian of Time.â
Iâm not ready for this. But is anyone?
He looked once more toward the young man.
"Live well."
Greg then extended his hand.
"I accept."
The rainbow sands rushed joyfully around him.
London disappeared.
Robes draped his body, and an hourglass floated to his hand.
And somewhere, beyond every yesterday and tomorrowâŚ
It takes all I have not to grin as I watch Mycroft approach our booth. I was in the States at an NSY conference. Just before my return, Mycroft had to fly out to handle something far above my pay grade to know about. Thus, itâs been nearly three weeks since weâve seen each other; the longest weâve been apart since we became a couple. Â
I see him narrowly missing being plowed into by someoneâs wayward child. Despite his well-cultivated image of coldness, he is surprisingly good with children, at least once they can talk and be somewhat reasoned with. I am not surprised to see him crouch before the tyke. I am surprised he detains her with the classic coins-from-behind-the-ear magic trick. I was not aware he knew how to do that, as he kept the child entranced long enough for the exasperated mother to catch up and thank him for the assist.
But that is not what has me smiling.
He has clearly gone home and changed, because Mycroft is wearing one of his best bespoke suits.
One of the ones that he knows I love him in and, more importantly, love to get him out of.Â
Mycroft generally gives little heed to his looks. Though I know he personally does not see it, he has been on this earth too long not to know people do find him physically attractive; that itâs not just his poshness and the mantle of power he wields effortlessly that make him so. Thus, he is not so humble as not to use it to his advantage when he wants to, like tonight. I was at work when he called to say he landed, and we agreed to meet for dinner once he was done reporting in. While I still wear my everyday suits for work (because heaven forbid the things I come across on crime scenes touch any of my bespoke!), I have learned to keep a good suit at work for a quick change, and the designer prĂŞt-Ă -porter suit I wear now will stand up to his.
Because tonight, Mycroft Holmes is out to make an impression.
And if the motherâs less-than-subtle rapid blink when he stands to his full long-legged height, as well as the heads, male and female, that check him out, then quickly look away, when he catches them as he passes, he has succeeded.
Still, I know he wears this suit for one reason: the only person he wants to impress -namely me.
And I will not lie to myself about how much it thrills me that someone like him thinks Iâm worthy of impressing for no other reason than he loves me.
He loves me, and I him.
I marvel yet again how far he and I have come from those early acrimonious days when we wanted nothing more than to depart each otherâs company as soon as possible. With our forced continued association, due to Sherlock, animosities slowly gave way to a grudging respect that grew into a friendship that frankly shocked both of us. Becoming a friend to Mycroft Holmes had been such an unexpected shot in the dark; when I realized my feelings for him had changed, I was terrified to hope for more.
And after pining for him in secret, I was beyond filled with joy when I learned the feeling was reciprocated. That he had been just as terrified of and in love with me. Even now, two years into our full romance, it is a heady thing to know how deeply we crave each other.
Had we gone home first, neither would have been upset, but meeting up this way?
Feasting eyes on each other at our fine clothing after being separated? Was it better?
Oh yes!
When he sees me and breaks into a smile of his own, it is one filled with happiness and tender pleasure that warms my bones. I cannot help but return the smile.
Normally, I would stay seated, but tonight I cannot. I am out of my seat, needing to touch him.
âDonât worry, I did not forget to take a taxi in today.â I tease. âBut you know that, donât you?â
âOf course,â he admits.
I know that means Anthea has already arranged for someone to drive my car home from NSY, because I will ride home in the sedan with Mycroft. Another aspect of being with Mycroft I still marvel over.
We give each other quick continental kisses â we are in public after all.
He takes my hand in his, our familiar push-pull of greeting when his eyes sharpen on me. Â
Shite. I almost forgot who I was dealing with.
Almost.
Still, I feel myself flush and give him a small, helpless shrug when I see his glance at the pocket where the outline of a not exactly full cigarette pack can be seen. I know he does not smell it and thinks itâs because I changed clothes, but having the pack on me was damning. Though heâs still working on it, Iâve been smoke-free for years now. Thus, he knows whatever would cause a relapse must be heady, and I will tell him when Iâm ready, so he says nothing as we sit.
Dinner is its usual fare; its deliciousness is somehow made even better by Mycâs company. We chat about the things we can about our respective jobs, and of course, his brotherâs latest nonsense. Being with John has made him easier to deal with, but Sherlock is still Sherlock.
âAlas, John was able to wrangle him away so we could leave at last.â I give an exaggerated sigh of exasperation as I finish my tale of Sherlockâs shenanigans.
âI called Sherlock after I spoke with you. He knew we had dinner tonight.â Mycroft shakes his head in amusement. âBut enough about Sherlock.â
I do not miss that his eyes occasionally flick to the jacket pocket even though we are seated and he cannot possibly see it. Just as he knows I do not miss that he again lets me carefully circumvent his subtle attempts to ask, his curiosity mounting.
I signal for the check.
âSo, are you ready to tell me what happened?â He blatantly asks.
âIn the sedan on the way home,â I respond.
âSo, what happened?â Mycroft asks carefully once weâre in the sedan.
Closing the privacy divider, I pull him into the deep kiss weâve both been longing for all night, but not dare do in public. Â Â
It takes EVERYTHING I have to keep a serious expression as I watch Mycroft mentally shift gears when I Â push him away, then pull out the pack of cigarettes.
I slide it across the seat to him without taking one myself.
He picks it up, and I know he can tell itâs nearly empty of its expected contents.
âI needed a reason.â I say, âSomething to camouflage⌠because you would have certainly noticed a jewelerâs box.â
And then he blinks, dumbfounded, at the content it does containâŚ
His face goes through a lot of complicated changes as his voice drops to a whisper.
âGregoryâŚâ
âI went shopping with my brother to allegedly help him pick out a ring for his gal,â I answer the unasked question on his face, taking the pack back. âAnd he held it for me until todayâŚâ
âOh, GregoryâŚâ
I patiently wait as he momentarily blanks and returns, as I knew he would.
âYears ago⌠During one of the worst times in my life, we were sat in that restaurant -same booth as tonightâŚâ I slowly open the cigarette pack, âAnd the smartest man I know told me that I was a man who can be loved. Who deserves to be lovedâŚâ
Mycroft blinks, and I know he is remembering the dinner when he learned I had filed for divorce from my philandering wife at last. The broken-hearted man I was had asked why I was hard to love and be faithful to, unaware at the time that the person who had secretly been both for me was sitting directly in front of me then.
But itâs no longer a secret now, and I continueâŚ
ââŚthat oh so smart man also promised me that someday, we would be at dinner, and we would look back on that day and laugh.â
âWell, if you want a bit of added humor, I thought your anxiousness tonight was because you wanted to avoid talking about why you relapsed⌠â Mycroft sheepishly confesses.
I tip the pack and reveal the ring. âIs this reason to have a pack on me better?â
âMuch better...â
âThe only thing better than learning of your love for me in secret was proving to you that YOU are equally worthy and deserving of being loved out in the open.â
I was so happy the day I proved that, but not as happy as I am now as I hold the ring aloft. âWill you marry me, Mycroft?â
Now, far removed from the sad sack of a man I was that evening, I mentally laugh at the promise kept as Mycroft all but dives on me, his answering kiss hot, heavy, and hungry.
âYes!â
============================================
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@lavenderandvanilla Apparently, I needed a reason to write another fic for the prompt.
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Nothing unusual in and of itself; after all, that was his job â in the loosest sense of the word - as an analyst to notice the things no one else does. It wasnât anything wrong per se â at least not yet. Whatever it was, it was subtle; just that little sensation in the back of his brilliant mind that a little something was not quite what it should be.
It was a little something that became a pattern. Â
And he was beginning to see that pattern emerging elsewhere, in places like the US, the Eastern Bloc, Asia and South America.
Whether that was a good thing or bad remained to be seen.
His colleagues, lacking his intelligence and keen instincts, told him he was imagining things, but Mycroft trusted his instincts and started putting out feelers. Â Â Â
It had taken him months of diligence. Months of having his minions covertly follow the tiny filaments of instinct that had become threads he could pull to test his theory.
He knew that he finally pulled the right ones when he received an invitation to a private meeting.
A meeting at a location he'd used before for clandestine interests. It was a tad interesting that this person knew this location.
Whether that was a good thing or bad remained to be seen.
But the knowing of it alone for this particular use made it impossible to ignore, so he agreed.
Checks were made, and naturally, Mycroft brought Anthea, his aide-de-camp and personal bodyguard, to accompany him. The former agent successfully played the part of being somewhat vapid but was very intelligent in her own right.
And also very deadly.
Mycroft arrived at the meeting place a few minutes early only to discover the other person was already seated and waiting, the steam from a fresh cup of tea curling in front of him.
Standing just behind him and off to the side was a tall, baby-blue-eyed man with an old but noticeable scar on the side of his otherwise handsome face. Clearly, he was the seated man's bodyguard.
Though most people would not, Mycroft could not help but notice that beneath the guardâs beautifully cut, bespoke suit, he was armed. Â Those blue eyes passed over him and Anthea once, then seemingly dismissed them. Mycroft knew better. Just as he knew that Anthea, standing off to the side and behind him, was alert to everything, so was the guard. Mycroft ignored him, leaving him to Anthea's concern, and focused on the seated man.
âHello, Michael,â An Irish lilt purred. âWell, arenât you a delightfully tall cool drink of water.â
Mycroft ignored the obvious attempt at flirting to throw him off. Both knew it was a fruitless endeavor.
So, this is him... The spider at the center of a very dangerous web...
He was exactly what Mycroft expected him to look likeâŚ
The man sat calmly yet gave off a sense of menace like a coiled snake waiting to strike.
And yet not at allâŚ
Average in stature, he wore an expensive dove-grey bespoke suit that complemented his fair complexion and, like his bodyguardâs suit, did an excellent job hiding the gun holster at his hip. Mycroft mentally smirked at the silver fox tiepin.
More like a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Mycroft took in the dark, slicked-back hair and dark eyes that he instinctively knew missed nothing in the room. He had never seen eyes so dark, so dead, so impenetrable, and so completely devoid of emotion.
"You always have your minions scout the place an hour before you show up, and you always show up precisely between seventeen and fourteen minutes early, Henry." The man then spoke with a broad Dubliner lilt, using another of the aliases Mycroft employed out of the office. It did not bode well that both were different aliases from the one used on the invite that brought him there.
He wants me to know he knows some, if not all, of my common aliases. He expected that to rattle me? Heâll have to do better than that.
The lilt then turned cold and menacing and was unmistakably elite private-school English. "Or do you prefer Mycroft? You donât mind if I call you Mycroft, do you, Mr. Holmes?" The voice switched to an American southern drawl as a dark brow flicked. "Oh wait, I don't care. Tea?â he gestured to a tea service off to the side. âI mean this wonât take long, but that doesnât mean we canât be civilized about it.â
"No, thank you." Mycroft sat as if already bored. "And you, who do not care...are? Because I do not believe it is the name on the invite."
"No, no, no, no, noâŚâ The man shook his head, as if amused by the antics of a child. âDon't play coy, Mycroft. You don't really know how to fake that.â
âI was not trying to.â Mycroft huffed.
âYes, you were!â He singsonged in high pitch.
âYou've been pulling enough strings that I've taken notice."
And whether that was a good thing or bad remained to be seen.
âAs have you.â The man gave something approximating a smile, revealing sharp teeth as the Scouse accent easily slid back into American English. "Iâve given you a glimpse, Mycroft, just a teensy glimpse of what Iâve got going on out there in the big bad world. You know exactly who I am."
The crisp London English was back as he leaned forward. "I know you know what it is, Mycroft Holmes. Say my name."
Even the old ventilation system seemed to hesitate for a moment. Mycroft held the manâs dark gaze without blinking as he rolled off a few names. He took pleasure in the faintest flicker of surprise at one of the aliases he had learned. Â
And then Mycroft paused. He brought his cool, storm-gray eyes to meet the dark eyes sat across from him as the room had gone unnaturally still. Â
Not silent. Â
Still.
Then Mycroft spoke the final name.
"...James Moriarty."
For the first time since Mycroft entered, the man across the table looked genuinely pleased.
Not because his name had been spoken.
Because Mycroft had arrived at the correct one.
For the first time, Mycroft began to truly realize he might be dealing with someone besides his brother who came anywhere near matching him in cunning and intelligence. He internally sighed; this wasn't going to be as easy as he initially thought, and he couldn't decide if that was a good or bad thing...
A slow smile spread across Moriarty's face, not broad or theatrical. Merely the expression of a mathematician watching someone else finally solve an equation that had taken months to construct.
âGood! Good!â The accent was Irish again. Warm. Almost friendly. Mycroft knew he was anything but⌠"I've waited a long time for this. I was beginning to think I'd overestimated you." Â
"You didn't."
"No," Moriarty admitted. "I didn't."
Behind him, his bodyguard shifted perhaps half an inch, and Moriarty did not like that the near-imperceptible movement was noticed by Mycroft and also by Anthea.
Mycroft flicked a glance at the bodyguard, taking him inâŚ
Italian suit. German pistol. Japanese blades. Leather bracelet that can be turned into restraintsâSwiss watch, worn face inward. Casual parade rest, but ready to move at a momentâs notice. Â Former military. SIS - Black Ops, meaning at some point in the past he worked for me or someone in Ultra.
In other words: Professional. Dangerous.
He knew Anthea would have noticed the same things, and a dossier would be on his desk by the time they were back at the office without him asking.
James folded his hands. "You've been looking for me.â
"I've been looking for a pattern."
"The distinction matters to you?"
"I needed a reason. It usually does."
Moriarty chuckled; the effortless vocal migration returned to clipped Oxford English. "You were never looking for a pattern, Mycroft. You were looking for intelligence." He leaned forward slightly. "But now intelligence is looking back."
Mycroft knew they both felt something that each disliked. Â
Not fear.
Recognition. Â
Months of inquiries, dead drops. Observing criminal organizations, changing behaviors, seemingly overnight.
Middle Eastern syndicates abandoning profitable routes. South American cartels in cahoots with Eastern Bloc traffickers despite decades of bloodshed. Yakuza investments appearing in the Netherlands. Networks in Africa laundering through perfectly legitimate American defense contractors.
None of it made sense. Until nowâŚ
Not an organization. A coordinating intelligence.Â
A counterpart. An opposite. A person.
Moriarty.
"You centralized them."Â It was less a question, more a statement of fact from Mycroft.
"No." Moriarty gave a smile, fleeting, but real. "IâŚÂ persuaded them."
Mycroft huffed. "Impossible." Â
"It should be. AlasâŚ" Moriarty gave a slight shrug.
There it was againâthat tiny sensation at the base of Mycroft's neck.
Not because James Moriarty was lying. Â
But because he wasn't.
No empire, no syndicate in history had voluntarily unified so much of organized crime. Yet he had. The mathematics alone made it absurd. The psychology made it impossible.
Yet every line of evidence Mycroft had assembled pointed here.
Once you have eliminated the impossible, whateverâs left, regardless of improbability, must be the truth.
Like it or not, --and I absolutely do not--, before him sat the impossible truth.
"As I said..." Moriarty spread his hands nonchalantly, âI gave you a glimpse. And what was your last countâŚ? Twenty-eight countries?"
"A glimpse does not explain twenty-eight countries." Mycroft's eyes narrowed.
"AwwwâŚâ the teasing lilt was back, ââŚis that loathing or a salute?"Â
âWhat was -your- last countâŚ?â Implying my numbers are incorrect â yes, he has his fingers in more, but only I know this.
Twenty-eight. Mycroft had never told anyone that number. Â Â
Not MI6. Not Whitehall. Not the other high-ranking members of his unit he had covertly tasked with portions of the investigation. Â Not even Anthea. Â
âAhâŚ! There it is⌠â Moriarty smirked, ââŚThe. Moment."
"And what moment would that be?" Â
"The moment you realize your office has been compromised."
Mycroft's heartbeat remained perfectly level, his face impassive as always.
Years of discipline prevented any outward reaction.
But insideâŚ? Every assumption he'd made over the past few months that he'd tested and pulled at the strings of rearranged itself. Â
Who had known? Not many.
Mycroft had made sure of that.
Compartmentalization had been obsessive. Entire departments had seen only fragments.
Only two people had ever possessed the complete picture.
Mycroft. Anthea.
He noted that Moriarty watched him think, and that he enjoyed it.
Sadistically and academically.
Moriartyâs knowing smile answered the thought before it fully formed in Mycroftâs mind.
"No. Not her." The smile disappeared. "I don't have someone in your direct office."
"Really?" Mycroft rolled his eyes, not hiding the sarcastic tone.
Moriarty tilted his head, not believing him. "You really hadn't figured that out?"
Even his bodyguard seemed mildly surprised. And oddly amused.
Mycroft remained silent. Â
"Donât bore me; I expect more from you." Moriarty looked disappointed as he sighed. "You keep imagining someone is feeding me information. Theyâre not. Like you, Mycroft, I watch. I observe. And act in my own interests.â
âInterests that are against the United Kingdom.â
âSame thing.â There was that vicious little fleeting smile again.
"You cannot watch everything."
"True." Moriarty nodded, "But I watch enough."
"You redirected customs inspections in Liverpool."
"You increased financial surveillance in Frankfurt."
"You quietly encouraged DEA cooperation with British customs."
"You moved satellites."
"You requested cargo manifests from Santos."
Every sentence was another thread pulled free as Moriartyâs words landed with surgical precision.
Not because Moriarty knew Mycroft had done all those things.
Because every one of those actions had seemed unrelated on the surface.
Harmless. Invisible.
But put together by the right intelligent mind? Spelled out the investigation.
"I don't need your files.â Moriarty smiled faintly. âI don't need your communications."Â Â
Mycroft said nothing. James continued.
"I need your decisions."
Mycroft felt something cold settle in his stomach.
"Patterns, Mycroft. You taught me yours."
"So...? Why am I alive?" Mycroft asked sardonically.
âGood question. Why am I?â Moriarty idly played with the spoon on the saucer in front of him for a moment, before dark eyes fixed on him. "Besides⌠I don't kill useful people."
"You assume I'll be useful to you.â
"Perhaps youâve already been.â
âImpossible." Mycroft scoffed.
âBut we both know that's not quite true." His cold smile returned as he looked directly into Mycroft's storm-grey eyes while he adjusted the silver fox tie pin.
"Yet the fox survives." Mycroft pointed out.
âTrue.â Moriartyâs voice lost every trace of warmth. "But I'm now what the fox checks under the bed for."
Mycroft gave him a small smile that all but said:Â Youâre sure thatâs not the other way round?
Moriartyâs eyes narrowed slightly as if having read that thought.
âWell, Iâd better be off.â He rose smoothly from his chair. âSo nice to have had a proper chat.â
âOh!â Those impossibly dark eyes now raked over Anthea as if just noticing her existence before smirking at his bodyguard. âI bet sheâs a wildcat in bed, Sebastian. You should find out.â
Please! No one in this room is falling for that, and you know it.
Moriarty turned toward the exit, and the blond bodyguard, -Sebastian-, moved as one, falling into position with effortless precision.
As they passed, Sebastian's blue eyes met Antheaâs as he gave her a curt nod, which was returned.
No threats. No posturing. Just professional acknowledgment.Â
One predator recognizing another.
At the doorway, Moriarty paused without looking back.
"You've been trying to stop what's coming, Mycroft." A beat passed. "Don't."
"Why shouldnât I?" Mycroft also stood.
"Because..." Moriarty finally glanced over his shoulder.
His expression held no triumph.
Only certainty.
"...it's already happened. Ciao, Mycroft Holmes."
âI'd say it's been a pleasure, butâŚâ Mycroftâs expression held equal certainty. ââŚWe both know Iâd be lying.â
Moriarty and his bodyguard were gone.
Mycroft remained seated.
He stared at the empty chair opposite him.
Finally, Anthea spoke.
"He's lying."
"No, heâs not," Mycroft answered immediately. "And that's the problem."
He looked at the untouched teacup Moriarty left behind.
Still warm.
As though he'd known exactly how long the meeting would last before he'd ever walked into the room.
Mycroft reached into his inside pocket and withdrew the information he had spent months gathering and marking by hand.
He looked at it, then crossed out every conclusion he had reached.
Not because they were wrong.
Because they were out of date.
Helmuth von Moltke was right.
There was a new player on the board, a formidable one.
He had met his intellectual match.
Should I warn my brother? No, heâd surely seek Moriarty out, just as I know Moriarty will seek him out eventually. Cross that bridge when we get to it.
âThereâs only one thatâs sure, AntheaâŚâ
âWhatâs that, sir?â
Mycroft smiled to himself in anticipation.
âThe game, my dear, is on.â
 Whether that was a good thing or bad remained to be seen.
Notes:
Mycroft Holmes had noticed something.
Nothing unusual in and of itself; after all, that was his job â in the loosest sense of the word - as an analyst to notice the things no one else does. It wasnât anything wrong per se â at least not yet. Whatever it was, it was subtle; just that little sensation in the back of his brilliant mind that a little something was not quite what it should be.
It was a little something that became a pattern. Â
And he was beginning to see that pattern emerging elsewhere, in places like the US, the Eastern Bloc, Asia and South America.
Whether that was a good thing or bad remained to be seen.
His colleagues, lacking his intelligence and keen instincts, told him he was imagining things, but Mycroft trusted his instincts and started putting out feelers. Â Â Â
It had taken him months of diligence. Months of having his minions covertly follow the tiny filaments of instinct that had become threads he could pull to test his theory.
He knew that he finally pulled the right ones when he received an invitation to a private meeting.
A meeting at a location he'd used before for clandestine interests. It was a tad interesting that this person knew this location.
Whether that was a good thing or bad remained to be seen.
But the knowing of it alone for this particular use made it impossible to ignore, so he agreed.
Checks were made, and naturally, Mycroft brought Anthea, his aide-de-camp and personal bodyguard, to accompany him. The former agent successfully played the part of being somewhat vapid but was very intelligent in her own right.
And also very deadly.
Mycroft arrived at the meeting place a few minutes early only to discover the other person was already seated and waiting, the steam from a fresh cup of tea curling in front of him.
Standing just behind him and off to the side was a tall, baby-blue-eyed man with an old but noticeable scar on the side of his otherwise handsome face. Clearly, he was the seated man's bodyguard.
Though most people would not, Mycroft could not help but notice that beneath the guardâs beautifully cut, bespoke suit, he was armed. Â Those blue eyes passed over him and Anthea once, then seemingly dismissed them. Mycroft knew better. Just as he knew that Anthea, standing off to the side and behind him, was alert to everything, so was the guard. Mycroft ignored him, leaving him to Anthea's concern, and focused on the seated man.
âHello, Michael,â An Irish lilt purred. âWell, arenât you a delightfully tall cool drink of water.â
Mycroft ignored the obvious attempt at flirting to throw him off. Both knew it was a fruitless endeavor.
So, this is him... The spider at the center of a very dangerous web...
He was exactly what Mycroft expected him to look likeâŚ
The man sat calmly yet gave off a sense of menace like a coiled snake waiting to strike.
And yet not at allâŚ
Average in stature, he wore an expensive dove-grey bespoke suit that complemented his fair complexion and, like his bodyguardâs suit, did an excellent job hiding the gun holster at his hip. Mycroft mentally smirked at the silver fox tiepin.
More like a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Mycroft took in the dark, slicked-back hair and dark eyes that he instinctively knew missed nothing in the room. He had never seen eyes so dark, so dead, so impenetrable, and so completely devoid of emotion.
"You always have your minions scout the place an hour before you show up, and you always show up precisely between seventeen and fourteen minutes early, Henry." The man then spoke with a broad Dubliner lilt, using another of the aliases Mycroft employed out of the office. It did not bode well that both were different aliases from the one used on the invite that brought him there.
He wants me to know he knows some, if not all, of my common aliases. He expected that to rattle me? Heâll have to do better than that.
The lilt then turned cold and menacing and was unmistakably elite private-school English. "Or do you prefer Mycroft? You donât mind if I call you Mycroft, do you, Mr. Holmes?" The voice switched to an American southern drawl as a dark brow flicked. "Oh wait, I don't care. Tea?â he gestured to a tea service off to the side. âI mean this wonât take long, but that doesnât mean we canât be civilized about it.â
"No, thank you." Mycroft sat as if already bored. "And you, who do not care...are? Because I do not believe it is the name on the invite."
"No, no, no, no, noâŚâ The man shook his head, as if amused by the antics of a child. âDon't play coy, Mycroft. You don't really know how to fake that.â
âI was not trying to.â Mycroft huffed.
âYes, you were!â He singsonged in high pitch.
âYou've been pulling enough strings that I've taken notice."
And whether that was a good thing or bad remained to be seen.
âAs have you.â The man gave something approximating a smile, revealing sharp teeth as the Scouse accent easily slid back into American English. "Iâve given you a glimpse, Mycroft, just a teensy glimpse of what Iâve got going on out there in the big bad world. You know exactly who I am."
The crisp London English was back as he leaned forward. "I know you know what it is, Mycroft Holmes. Say my name."
Even the old ventilation system seemed to hesitate for a moment. Mycroft held the manâs dark gaze without blinking as he rolled off a few names. He took pleasure in the faintest flicker of surprise at one of the aliases he had learned. Â
And then Mycroft paused. He brought his cool, storm-gray eyes to meet the dark eyes sat across from him as the room had gone unnaturally still. Â
Not silent. Â
Still.
Then Mycroft spoke the final name.
"...James Moriarty."
For the first time since Mycroft entered, the man across the table looked genuinely pleased.
Not because his name had been spoken.
Because Mycroft had arrived at the correct one.
For the first time, Mycroft began to truly realize he might be dealing with someone besides his brother who came anywhere near matching him in cunning and intelligence. He internally sighed; this wasn't going to be as easy as he initially thought, and he couldn't decide if that was a good or bad thing...
A slow smile spread across Moriarty's face, not broad or theatrical. Merely the expression of a mathematician watching someone else finally solve an equation that had taken months to construct.
âGood! Good!â The accent was Irish again. Warm. Almost friendly. Mycroft knew he was anything but⌠"I've waited a long time for this. I was beginning to think I'd overestimated you." Â
"You didn't."
"No," Moriarty admitted. "I didn't."
Behind him, his bodyguard shifted perhaps half an inch, and Moriarty did not like that the near-imperceptible movement was noticed by Mycroft and also by Anthea.
Mycroft flicked a glance at the bodyguard, taking him inâŚ
Italian suit. German pistol. Japanese blades. Leather bracelet that can be turned into restraintsâSwiss watch, worn face inward. Casual parade rest, but ready to move at a momentâs notice. Â Former military. SIS - Black Ops, meaning at some point in the past he worked for me or someone in Ultra.
In other words: Professional. Dangerous.
He knew Anthea would have noticed the same things, and a dossier would be on his desk by the time they were back at the office without him asking.
James folded his hands. "You've been looking for me.â
"I've been looking for a pattern."
"The distinction matters to you?"
"I needed a reason. It usually does."
Moriarty chuckled; the effortless vocal migration returned to clipped Oxford English. "You were never looking for a pattern, Mycroft. You were looking for intelligence." He leaned forward slightly. "But now intelligence is looking back."
Mycroft knew they both felt something that each disliked. Â
Not fear.
Recognition. Â
Months of inquiries, dead drops. Observing criminal organizations, changing behaviors, seemingly overnight.
Middle Eastern syndicates abandoning profitable routes. South American cartels in cahoots with Eastern Bloc traffickers despite decades of bloodshed. Yakuza investments appearing in the Netherlands. Networks in Africa laundering through perfectly legitimate American defense contractors.
None of it made sense. Until nowâŚ
Not an organization. A coordinating intelligence.Â
A counterpart. An opposite. A person.
Moriarty.
"You centralized them."Â It was less a question, more a statement of fact from Mycroft.
"No." Moriarty gave a smile, fleeting, but real. "IâŚÂ persuaded them."
Mycroft huffed. "Impossible." Â
"It should be. AlasâŚ" Moriarty gave a slight shrug.
There it was againâthat tiny sensation at the base of Mycroft's neck.
Not because James Moriarty was lying. Â
But because he wasn't.
No empire, no syndicate in history had voluntarily unified so much of organized crime. Yet he had. The mathematics alone made it absurd. The psychology made it impossible.
Yet every line of evidence Mycroft had assembled pointed here.
Once you have eliminated the impossible, whateverâs left, regardless of improbability, must be the truth.
Like it or not, --and I absolutely do not--, before him sat the impossible truth.
"As I said..." Moriarty spread his hands nonchalantly, âI gave you a glimpse. And what was your last countâŚ? Twenty-eight countries?"
"A glimpse does not explain twenty-eight countries." Mycroft's eyes narrowed.
"AwwwâŚâ the teasing lilt was back, ââŚis that loathing or a salute?"Â
âWhat was -your- last countâŚ?â Implying my numbers are incorrect â yes, he has his fingers in more, but only I know this.
Twenty-eight. Mycroft had never told anyone that number. Â Â
Not MI6. Not Whitehall. Not the other high-ranking members of his unit he had covertly tasked with portions of the investigation. Â Not even Anthea. Â
âAhâŚ! There it is⌠â Moriarty smirked, ââŚThe. Moment."
"And what moment would that be?" Â
"The moment you realize your office has been compromised."
Mycroft's heartbeat remained perfectly level, his face impassive as always.
Years of discipline prevented any outward reaction.
But insideâŚ? Every assumption he'd made over the past few months that he'd tested and pulled at the strings of rearranged itself. Â
Who had known? Not many.
Mycroft had made sure of that.
Compartmentalization had been obsessive. Entire departments had seen only fragments.
Only two people had ever possessed the complete picture.
Mycroft. Anthea.
He noted that Moriarty watched him think, and that he enjoyed it.
Sadistically and academically.
Moriartyâs knowing smile answered the thought before it fully formed in Mycroftâs mind.
"No. Not her." The smile disappeared. "I don't have someone in your direct office."
"Really?" Mycroft rolled his eyes, not hiding the sarcastic tone.
Moriarty tilted his head, not believing him. "You really hadn't figured that out?"
Even his bodyguard seemed mildly surprised. And oddly amused.
Mycroft remained silent. Â
"Donât bore me; I expect more from you." Moriarty looked disappointed as he sighed. "You keep imagining someone is feeding me information. Theyâre not. Like you, Mycroft, I watch. I observe. And act in my own interests.â
âInterests that are against the United Kingdom.â
âSame thing.â There was that vicious little fleeting smile again.
"You cannot watch everything."
"True." Moriarty nodded, "But I watch enough."
"You redirected customs inspections in Liverpool."
"You increased financial surveillance in Frankfurt."
"You quietly encouraged DEA cooperation with British customs."
"You moved satellites."
"You requested cargo manifests from Santos."
Every sentence was another thread pulled free as Moriartyâs words landed with surgical precision.
Not because Moriarty knew Mycroft had done all those things.
Because every one of those actions had seemed unrelated on the surface.
Harmless. Invisible.
But put together by the right intelligent mind? Spelled out the investigation.
"I don't need your files.â Moriarty smiled faintly. âI don't need your communications."Â Â
Mycroft said nothing. James continued.
"I need your decisions."
Mycroft felt something cold settle in his stomach.
"Patterns, Mycroft. You taught me yours."
"So...? Why am I alive?" Mycroft asked sardonically.
âGood question. Why am I?â Moriarty idly played with the spoon on the saucer in front of him for a moment, before dark eyes fixed on him. "Besides⌠I don't kill useful people."
"You assume I'll be useful to you.â
"Perhaps youâve already been.â
âImpossible." Mycroft scoffed.
âBut we both know that's not quite true." His cold smile returned as he looked directly into Mycroft's storm-grey eyes while he adjusted the silver fox tie pin.
"Yet the fox survives." Mycroft pointed out.
âTrue.â Moriartyâs voice lost every trace of warmth. "But I'm now what the fox checks under the bed for."
Mycroft gave him a small smile that all but said:Â Youâre sure thatâs not the other way round?
Moriartyâs eyes narrowed slightly as if having read that thought.
âWell, Iâd better be off.â He rose smoothly from his chair. âSo nice to have had a proper chat.â
âOh!â Those impossibly dark eyes now raked over Anthea as if just noticing her existence before smirking at his bodyguard. âI bet sheâs a wildcat in bed, Sebastian. You should find out.â
Please! No one in this room is falling for that, and you know it.
Moriarty turned toward the exit, and the blond bodyguard, -Sebastian-, moved as one, falling into position with effortless precision.
As they passed, Sebastian's blue eyes met Antheaâs as he gave her a curt nod, which was returned.
No threats. No posturing. Just professional acknowledgment.Â
One predator recognizing another.
At the doorway, Moriarty paused without looking back.
"You've been trying to stop what's coming, Mycroft." A beat passed. "Don't."
"Why shouldnât I?" Mycroft also stood.
"Because..." Moriarty finally glanced over his shoulder.
His expression held no triumph.
Only certainty.
"...it's already happened. Ciao, Mycroft Holmes."
âI'd say it's been a pleasure, butâŚâ Mycroftâs expression held equal certainty. ââŚWe both know Iâd be lying.â
Moriarty and his bodyguard were gone.
Mycroft remained seated.
He stared at the empty chair opposite him.
Finally, Anthea spoke.
"He's lying."
"No, heâs not," Mycroft answered immediately. "And that's the problem."
He looked at the untouched teacup Moriarty left behind.
Still warm.
As though he'd known exactly how long the meeting would last before he'd ever walked into the room.
Mycroft reached into his inside pocket and withdrew the information he had spent months gathering and marking by hand.
He looked at it, then crossed out every conclusion he had reached.
Not because they were wrong.
Because they were out of date.
Helmuth von Moltke was right.
There was a new player on the board, a formidable one.
He had met his intellectual match.
Should I warn my brother? No, heâd surely seek Moriarty out, just as I know Moriarty will seek him out eventually. Cross that bridge when we get to it.
âThereâs only one thatâs sure, AntheaâŚâ
âWhatâs that, sir?â
Mycroft smiled to himself in anticipation.
âThe game, my dear, is on.â
 Whether that was a good thing or bad remained to be seen.
Life advice for the ages. Those doing wrong want you tired and hopeless. But stay angry. And when a chance is in front of you: bite back.
Digital plans for a real linocut. I'm anxiously awaiting a press to make this stuff possible with my RSI in my hands.
Sebastian: You cannot eat that whole thing in one sitting!
Jim: Can't I?
Sebastian [sighs while texting the office: Warning, batten down the hatches - one sugar hyped insane criminal megalomaniac incoming.]: I'll have the Pepto-Bismol ready.
I absolutely adore how I saw this out of context and my fanfic heart immediately thought 'ooh look Sherlock/John' first, then my brain thought 'oh, well I guess it could be man/woman too, but nah'. Fandom heart for the win! đ¤Š
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Which now meant another promise of sorts had to be kept, and someone was about to learn that.
He walked into the dark room and sat.
âI needed a reason.â Greg sighed, âAnd now youâve given me one.â
He looked into familiar seafoam eyes; the dark hair, too long to curl, fell in waves across the cheekbones.
Only these eyes held a madness, not held in the other gaze he knew well.
âYou would not dare!â
âWouldnât I?â Greg just looked at her. âWhen I last saw you, I said all you had to do was be a good girl and shut the fuck up, but no. You had to be a Scorpion, break out, cause all manner of trouble, and escape England. Itâs been, what, nine days? There are at least thirty deaths -that we know of- as you threatened whatâs mine and picked the wrong person to manipulate, namely meâŚâ he casually spread his hands, indicating their surroundings, â⌠so here we areâŚâ
âYouâd have my blood on your hands. And what about themâ˝â
Again, she tried to use her voice, but whatever gift from the Universe that made Greg immune to the Icemanâs glare also works against her.
Greg smiled at his wedding band and shrugged.
âWhat about them? You left me no choice.â Greg gave a dark smile, âAnd I told you: they'll understand. Christmas dinner will be somewhat uncomfortable â especially for you, but they will understand.â
âMy brother will hate you for the rest of your life! Do you want that?â
Greg could not help the little snigger that escaped as he reached out behind him and a tablet was handed to him by a seemingly disembodied hand. A tablet that had been livestreaming the entire time.
Greg turned it to face her as he spoke. âWill you, my love?â
âNo, little sister, I will not. And neither will Sherlock.â Mycroftâs voice and face appeared on the screen. âYou, on the other hand, we will abhor you and what you tried to do to us again, for the remainder of yours.â
âOh, and do say hello to James Moriarty when you meet him in Hell, if it exists.â Sherlock, standing beside his brother, added. âAnd give him our thanks.â
Eurus Holmesâ brow rose at the sight of her brothersâ faces.
âJames Moriarty? Your thanks for what?â The first hint of worry flared in her luminous eyes.
âFor me, of course.â A tall, striking silver-haired man in an elegant waistcoat suit, sans the jacket, stepped from the shadows. âI admit I was surprised to get the call from Greg. I never thought it would happen, but I would never reject such a gift, even with the caveat.â
âOn the day of your Christmas present, little sister, I was informed that James made a comment on those who appreciate a certain culinary indulgence.â Mycroft explained, âGranted, I also was quite surprised Greg personally knew such a person; then again, we all have strange bedfellows in our lives, no? But you wonât have to worry about that⌠for long.â
Understanding the reference, Eurusâ usually stoic face finally went momentarily expressive with disbelief that morphed into worry.
Greg looked at his watch, then stood, turning the tablet towards himself. âIâm leaving now. I should be at the airport in an hour.â
âUnderstood.â Mycroft nodded and signed out. Â
Greg took a deep breath and faced the other man in the room.
âIâll ask again, Greg. Are you sure about this?â The man asked. âItâs hardly merciful. Thereâs no coming back from it.â
âI understand.â Greg shrugged. âOne part at a time⌠She brought it on herself.â
âIâll let you know when...what remains...returns to London and can be picked up.â The man clasped Greg on the shoulder. âDo remind me not to ever get on your bad side.â
âThat would be appreciated, both meanings, thank you.â
Greg looked over his shoulder at Eurus one last time. âI understand; you donât know which one is pain, but you do understand death.â
Her screams followed them as they left until she realized that they wouldnât work.
Greg knew he should feel, wellâŚÂ something about being here.
Don't ask me such things, seriously. I have created a whole dossier on Greg Lestrade that would rival something Anthea would give to Mycroft at this point. đđ
In my headcanon: When I give him daughters, one is named Genevieve, and the younger one is named Grace. Any first son is named Armand after his paternal Grandfather's middle name. A second son is named Michael (Greg's middle name).
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