Mycroft glanced at the screen of his phone, then briefly to the live video footage of his brother up on the ledge. There were eyes on every corner of the roof of St Bartholomew's, but only Sherlock's word would set the wheels in motion; there could be no assumptions.

He turned and gave a firm nod to a waiting Anthea; she would do the necessary. Within seconds, that very same message would be lighting up the screens of the twenty-five disposable phones in the hands of Sherlock's homeless network – and one further phone, somewhere on an upper floor of the hospital, in the lab coat pocket of little brother's only other 'accomplice'.

Ordinarily, this would have been the moment to order the erasure of all plans and records relating to an operation, but this wasn't necessary; every detail, every possible permutation had been mapped out between them verbally and committed to memory. It was like working out every possible play in a chess match before the first piece had even been played; if so much hadn't been at stake, Mycroft reflected, it would actually have been an enjoyable little diversion. As with chess, where, regardless of the route taken, the endgame was checkmate, it didn't matter how events played themselves out on the rooftop so long as they ended with Sherlock Holmes falling to his death.

Of course, they had considered the possibility that Moriarty might seek to take Sherlock over the edge with him, to twine them together in death as they had been in life, but Moriarty's decision to blow his brains out – before he'd even witnessed Sherlock's ignominious end - was admittedly not something that either of them had foreseen. Bit of a nuisance to have another body on their hands, but still, only a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things.

"Sir, the car is standing by," Anthea said, her phone poised by her ear.

Mycroft watched the frenzy of activity on the monitors; the nameless corpse in Sherlock's clothes, the phalanx of 'bystanders' creating diversions while the machinery of the stunt was quickly and efficiently cleared from the scene. There was something immensely pleasing about it, something almost theatrical. He had to concede that his early love of the dramatic arts had never truly deserted him.

Somewhere out of sight, his brother would be stripped of his trademark outer garments, re-dressed in something less conspicuous and held until Mycroft gave the word. With one final glance at the scene of chaos outside the ambulance bay, he nodded again.

"Get him."

Seconds later, on another monitor, he watched Sherlock being ushered from his hiding place and down the side street where the unremarkable vehicle would be waiting with its engine running. Very soon, the scene in the ambulance bay would clear, too; John Watson taken in one direction to deal with his shock, the decoy whisked away in the other direction on a trolley, his final useful act in the world completed. The first act was nearly over.

It seemed a little unfair that he wasn't able to take a moment to fully appreciate the seamless majesty of this achievement. He very rarely could. And now, there were other endeavours requiring his attention – endeavours of the wearisome, domestic variety.

"Anthea?"

"Sir?"

His assistant was typing at rapid speed into her phone; she had the remarkable ability to look bored and indifferent while at the same time being fully engaged and ruthlessly efficient.

"I need you to send another car," he said. "To West Sussex. You – ah - know the address."

He could definitely detect a hint of amusement as Anthea turned away again and began making the call.

"Immediate dispatch for the Owl and the Pussycat," Mycroft heard her saying into her phone. In hindsight, perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea to allow Anthea such free rein with the codenames.

It was unavoidable, really; this was to be a family affair. Nothing like a little staged suicide and a national security crisis to bring them all together again, Mycroft noted wryly – it was more bearable than the forced jollity of Christmas, at least.

He took out his own phone and began to compose a message.

No cause for alarm. Everything that you are about to see and hear is false. Remain where you are and do not speak to anyone under any circumstances – M

He sent it off to the two numbers, waited a moment, then heaved a sigh. Oh, for heaven's sake, what was he thinking? He was sending vital communications via text message to two people whose mobile phones were basically glorified coasters, who only turned them on when they wanted to use them. The devices had probably been lying in a dormant state for days, gathering dust on the kitchen island or getting clogged with fluff in cardigan pockets (reminder: insist that Sherlock shoot you if you ever consider a cardigan an acceptable sartorial choice; offer the same in return).

An eye still on the footage on screen, Mycroft stepped outside the door and into one of the many identical, nondescript corridors in Whitehall. He quickly scrolled the contacts in his phone, and then waited a gratingly long time for a reply at the other end.

"Myc? Oh, thank heavens! What in God's name is going on?"

He managed to fight the instinct to correct his mother's truncation of his name.

"Then you got my message?" he asked instead, cautiously.

"What message? No. One minute we're having a cup of tea and listening to Gardeners' Question Time, and the next Joyce Harrington is banging on the front door and telling us to switch on the television. Now what the hell is going on, Mycroft? Is it real? Please don't tell me Sherlock actually…I couldn't-"

He was torn between the fear and dread in his mother's voice, and the irritation that this all could have been avoided.

"As I said in my aforementioned text message," he said pointedly. "Everything is fine – as far as you need concern yourself."

"What on earth does that mean?" his mother demanded. "And you know we don't keep our phones on all the time – it drains the battery."

Mycroft dug deep into his dwindling reserves of patience.

"Sherlock is fine," he replied, measuredly. "He is alive and well. You've certainly seen him in much worse physical states than he is currently in today. I will explain further in person, but rest assured it is not what it looked like."

"Well, it looked horrific!" she retorted. "Honestly, Mycroft, if this is something that you and Sherlock have been cooking up together, you might have given us some warning. You know very well that your father is taking blood thinners for his heart, and that I've been having those dizzy spells lately."

"I apologise that I did not include you in the communications plan for a highly-classified security operation," Mycroft replied. "But it all came up rather last-minute."

"Sarcasm is not terribly helpful, Myc," came his father's voice.

Oh, marvellous – his father had joined them on the extension.

"This is all that Moriarty chap, isn't it?" his mother said, as though Sherlock was being mildly bullied by a boy in the form above him. "They're saying on the news that he's dead, too. Or is he only as dead as Sherlock is dead?"

This phone call was swiftly evolving into something he had very much been hoping to avoid.

"Is your interfering neighbour still there?" Mycroft sighed.

"Joyce? Yes – she's in the sitting room eating a scone," his mother said.

"I see," Mycroft replied. "An interesting response, considering she's under the impression that your younger son very recently came to a painful and deeply upsetting end. I suggest you get rid of her as soon as possible – a car will be with you in an hour."

"A car? Where are we going?" his mother asked, anxiously. "I want to see Sherlock."

"That will not be possible tonight," Mycroft told her.

"Why not? If he really is fine, as you say he is, then you'll let us see him for ourselves."

For a split second, Mycroft was slightly – peculiarly - stung by the insinuation that he wasn't trustworthy. But then it would be much more than an insinuation if they knew even half of it; if they had any idea about the remote, off-the-map island to which he was a regular caller and visitor.

"I promise you will see him," he said in return. "But for Sherlock's own safety, we can't afford the risk tonight."

There was silence for a few moments before his mother came back on the line again.

"Fine," she said, with a sigh. "As you wish, Mycroft – you always know best after all. At least that's what you tell us. I suppose we'll be needing a few things?"

"Enough for a couple of nights," Mycroft said.

He was aware that Anthea was hovering discreetly by the door, her phone in her hand. He nodded to indicate that he'd seen her and she would have his attention shortly.

"Don't speak to anyone," he continued to his parents. "Don't answer the telephone or the door. The driver will ring you on the landline when he's approaching the house, and he'll call me once you arrive in London."

Again, he heard his mother sigh.

"It's always so lovely when we come up to see you boys," she said. "Always so pleasant and relaxing."

It was beneath him to point out the sarcasm that was now being directed at him – and besides, if they started down that path they'd still be here this time tomorrow. Instead, he assured his parents that he'd see them when they arrived, and brought the call to a close. Mycroft supposed this was one of the drawbacks of his aversion to fieldwork - Sherlock might get the bruises, but he had to deal with the admin. The cross he had to bear.

"Update?" Mycroft asked Anthea, as he restored his phone to his pocket.

"He's been secured," Anthea replied. "New phone, new clothes – although he's complaining about his coat."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

Where Sherlock was going, he was unlikely to need a thousand-pound designer overcoat; it was arguably of greater use to the slightly flattened corpse currently bearing his name on a toe-tag. Still, Mycroft knew his brother was a creature of habit and routine, and if being reunited with his beloved coat helped to keep him calm and focused on the task ahead, then so be it.

"Tell him he'll have it tomorrow," he said. "And to be a little more gracious, considering the lengths to which I have gone today on his behalf."

"He said you'd say that," Anthea replied, the corner of her mouth quirking into a smile.

"And?"

"He sent a photo," she replied, offering the screen of her phone for his perusal.

As he anticipated, Mycroft found himself looking at a close-up of his brother's middle digit. With the photo was a caption: Thanks for the phone – excellent image quality.

"Charming," Mycroft replied with a tight smile. "Heartening to see that this little brush with mortality has done little to dampen his spirit."

"They're circling the area," Anthea said. "Your brother gave the driver an address, but because he didn't recognise it, he wanted to confirm with you first."

Mycroft gave a single slow nod of acknowledgement. This had been a topic of lively debate between them a couple of hours earlier, and Sherlock had fought his corner fiercely. Despite the numerous secure facilities at Mycroft's disposal all over London, Sherlock had been adamant about where he would be spending the night in hiding.

"According to Land Registry records, the property is owned by a Dr Molly Hooper," Anthea continued, her statement adopting the intonation of a question by the time she uttered the unfamiliar name.

"That is correct," Mycroft replied.

One of Anthea's other fine qualities was her complete lack of interest in anything beyond the essentials of the job; she was utterly professional, but it helped that she couldn't care less about any extraneous details that might exist beyond the task at hand. Ordinarily, Mycroft could have told her to deposit Sherlock at the entrance to London Zoo and she wouldn't have raised an impeccably-sculpted eyebrow – however, he suspected that there was something in his own tone and demeanour this time that was giving her pause.

"So…I'll confirm the destination, then?" she said.

He glanced across one final time at the cameras trained on the hospital; the police cordons were now up, reporters and other prurient onlookers were starting to gather – very soon the deception would become gospel truth, and act two would be underway. But if Mycroft had his way, the act one curtain wouldn't be coming down in the East London flat of a thirty-three-year old, cat-owning pathologist with ties to his brother that were ambiguous at best.

But, nevertheless, he had given his word.

"Yes, confirm it," he said, finally. "And put two cars outside the address."

Whatever little brother was playing at, Mycroft was at least going to ensure there were eyes on him while he was doing it.