I really wasn’t planning to write this today. I have no idea where it came from. You can’t exactly call it post-Reichenbach Fall (although I did tag it as such). But it’s definitely Reichenfeels.
I think it was the gray stratus clouds moving in today that got to me. And I’m really sorry I looked up information on the Krispy Kreme site (like Mycroft, I’m on a diet and even when I’m not, Krispy Kremes are deadly for me). Fortunately, the nearest Krispy Kreme is 80 miles away!
Anyway, if you enjoy, please feel free to comment or tweet, or something. Thanks!
It Was You
By J.H. Watson
~ 800 Words
Mycroft Holmes sat quietly in a chair designed and built for comfort in a room designed for long periods of comfortable, quiet sitting in the contemplative sanctuary afforded by the Diogenes Club. The club’s entire raison d’être, as the better educated diplomatic members would put it, or its purpose, as the rest of us would say, was to buffer its members from the hurly-burly, hustle and bustle of London’s ordinary residents. Mycroft Holmes knew he was decidedly not an ordinary resident, even for the Diogenes Club.
He glanced once around the room and made a mental note to have someone on his staff send flowers to Sir Smythe-Higgsbosun’s widow. Of course, she wouldn’t be a widow until the end of next week, but it was always better not to leave this things until the last moment. He also made a note to ensure that he had no investments in his portfolio connected with the any of the corporations controlled by the Right Honourable Charles Cœur-Défaillant who was planning to disappear with his latest mistress within the fortnight despite buying tickets to the National Theatre.
Mycroft felt a gentle flutter over his heart. It was a silent signal from his mobile politely requesting his attention. He discreetly removed the dignified and tasteful phone from the pocket of his equally dignified suit jacket. Everything, and everyone, in the Diogenes Club appeared tasteful and dignified at all times. Mycroft peered at the screen.
The text read: u o me
Mycroft stared at it a moment as if expecting something more. He read the message again. Unnecessarily, but it gave him another moment to rapidly consider the mind of his brother, Sherlock, before taking any action.
Obviously, Sherlock had found Moriarty and read Ms. Kitty Riley’s soon-to-be released exposé denouncing Sherlock as a fraud and a criminal. He would, at this moment, feel like a wild animal caught in a rapidly closing trap, lashing out at anyone foolish enough to approach, desperately, fruitlessly seeking an escape. There was only one thing he could do, only one way to go, and no matter how much he resisted, he would recognize that he was being driven towards the only remaining exit.
There were things that his brother would need, arrangements, people, resources, funds. Mycroft had known this for some time. His brother would figure it out shortly. And then be unreasonably irritated that Mycroft had already made the necessary arrangements. Perhaps it might be best not to tell Sherlock and pretend that things were being ordered at Sherlock’s demand.
Fleetingly, Mycroft wondered how long before Sherlock’s colleague and friend, John Watson, would figure out the part Mycroft had played in Moriarty’s trap. He decided to bet himself a pastry on the time. It had been weeks since he allowed himself the indulgence. Then he briefly wondered where that thought came from.
Watson was his brother’s indulgence, his weakness, his Achille’s Heel, even more dangerous than boredom. He had warned his brother about caring. It gave an advantage to your enemies and Sherlock had many enemies. Moriarty was just an especially cunning, ruthless one. Mycroft took a moment to contemplate the possibility of Sherlock killing Moriarty to protect John Watson. He would if Moriarty were stupid enough to harm John in any way. But Moriarty wasn’t stupid. Dangerously smart and now dangerously crazy, but not stupid.
Mycroft became aware of a restlessness in himself, an agitation. He felt an emptiness that made him crave something with lots of fats and carbohydrates. There was a disturbance in his mind as if someone were knocking at a door, had been knocking for some time, and now was loudly demanding recognition. Guilt? Guilt!
Mycroft became aware that the middle-aged gentleman sitting across from him was staring at the phone Mycroft still held. Mycroft flicked the phone back into his pocket and stood. He had to go, to get away from the other dignified men sitting quietly, pointedly it seemed, in their chairs. They’d become unusually annoying. He had get away from the oppressive silence that threatened to open the door of his mind to the thoughts insistently knocking.
From long practice, Mycroft locked and bolted his guilt away as he stood. It had been necessary to break Moriarty. Sherlock would see that in the long run. Later. He might even understand.
But John Watson never would.
There was always the chance that John wouldn’t figure it out. He wasn’t a stupid man, but he was easily distracted. Perhaps Mycroft should have one of his bevy of beautiful assistants in a car pick up John before the police caught him.
Before Mycroft could order it so, his phone vibrated again. It was not his brother. It was someone who took precedence. Mycroft sighed.
The emptiness remained in him. There was a little bakery on the way that made the most amazing chocolate croissants. It was owned by a former KGB agent who’d been stationed in Paris when the Iron Curtain was cut down. Mycroft had arranged his immigration visa to Britain. He owed Mycroft.
### End ###