Clever People

The only hint Mycroft ever gave to John of his REAL passion was what he said about Moriarty: "People like him, we... know about them. We watch them." And that, appropriately enough, could mean anything. Criminals, geniuses, homosexuals, white dark-haired males… It COULD mean anything, and that was all the more useful because the one thing it DID mean was too unbelievable for a simple man like John Watson to accept.

People like Moriarty. Like Adler. Like Sherlock. Like him.

It was a secret pride of Mycroft's that the Americans, for all their vaunted intelligence network, had yet to catch onto the fact that the world was no longer standing still, and that the gap between the ordinary and the extra-ordinary was growing larger by the day. Moriarty was "more than a man," as the nameless cabby had told Sherlock, probably unaware of the truth of his words. Equally unaware, hopefully, that the 'man' he'd told was more than that himself.

That was why Mycroft'd always disapproved of his brother's antics. Sherlock was too flashy, in his own way. Too determined to demonstrate how superior he was. He made, no, he NEEDED to make people aware that they were ordinary and he was not. Mycroft wondered if his brother ever realized how dangerous he made things for the few hundred people trying to hide their special talents from the mob. Just as the mob had found Sherlock in the end, poor fellow. People didn't like to realize that there were stronger, better, smarter people out there, and Mycroft had to strain every inch of the British intelligence network to find them before the mob.

There were many ways to find them, of course. The English omnipresent survellience system helped, of course, but Anthea was worth far more. She was much smarter-and older-than she looked, and could practically calculate where these new stars would appear. And, of course, Mycroft had his own "talents." One by one, he had built up a careful catalog of various "extraordinary" people in England, and bit by bit, had pulled them into his fold. "M-men" was the name it had amongst those in the know (An official title had not yet been chosen). Mycroft's men. The elder Holmes could think of a more fitting meaning to those initials, but he kept quiet.

Still, Mycroft was uneasy. That cabby… he'd slipped past their watch. And they'd underestimated Moriarty. Was there a "Moriarty's Men?" Mycroft dearly hoped not. But a mutant like Moriarty could hardly have helped discovering people like himself. What would he have done? He'd killed Carl Powers, a mutant just beginning to discover his abilities. He'd 'killed' Sherlock. Had Moriarty just seen other mutants as competition, as rivals for the "fittest" who was destined to survive?

In a bizarre, twisted way, Mycroft hoped so. Because as his brother's fate had shown, people desperately wanted to believe ill of the extraordinary. Businessmen, politicians, churchmen, mutants… it made no difference. The mob would turn on the elite at the slightest excuse, and the last thing Mycroft needed was a cadre of the elite who would give them that excuse.

In a way, Sherlock had been rather relieved at the opportunity Moriarty had offered him. A chance to die. To disappear. To remove himself from the spotlight he'd focused on himself. To escape his brother's shadow and thousands of watching eyes. To relocate himself to America, where no one watched the telly or read blogs.

Well… at least not the English ones. Possibly a handful of web addicts knew about him, but by-and-large, Americans were far too absorbed in their own affairs to pay attention to the career and death of a London consulting detective, however remarkable.

How remarkable, of course, the world would never know.

Sherlock did not cheat. He'd been honest with those that asked, at the very least. His work was pure observation. Pure deduction. He saw more than other people, but the signs were there for anyone to see.

But at the same time, Sherlock knew perfectly well that there were always at least two explanations to any sign. A hair on a trouser leg might be from a dog at the house, but it might be from a random dog on the street. That furrowed brow might be from a bad breakup, or from some financial difficulties. Not everything was deducible.

But somehow, he immediately knew. KNEW, just from looking at the smooth knees of those trousers, whether the man was repeatedly on all fours or if he was just a cobbler of some kind. Even if there was no physical difference between the hands of an analytical chemist and a computer programmer, Sherlock's mind never wondered which it was. If it could tune out the deafening stupidity shouting at him from other minds, his brain could sort out the relevant details, providing the subconscious nudge that told him what to look for and what it meant.

Mycroft felt it too, he knew. Mycroft probably heard VOICES, the snippity bastard, which was the ONLY reason why he was always correcting Sherlock's guesses. Of course, Mycroft was growing bald faster, so there was that.

But Sherlock could do everything his brother did, and more. And that was why he'd died, to disappear and come among the stupid Americans, who never noticed anything. They paid no attention to the reclusive beekeeper with the English accent who'd settled in the neighborhood, or his wife, or even the enormous house that he somehow managed to acquire on a beekeeper's salary.

The house was totally superfluous, of course. Neither he nor Molly needed that sort of space, even their son Charles barely needed the whole house to run through. No, the house was large, because it would need to be, for all the people that would come to live there. One by one, Sherlock would find the mutants in America, as his brother had found them in England, and form a haven for them here. They'd hid as nannies, butlers… it was astonishing the amount of people a rich person needed to keep around him.

Of course the money was Mycroft's. Goodness knew the arrogant prick had it coming out of his ears. He'd reluctantly approved of Sherlock's plan—partly, Sherlock felt, simply to get him out of his hair. When Sherlock fell off the building, Mycroft's men were waiting, forewarned by the message Molly had delivered. They'd falsified the accident records, substituted the body, provided new papers… done everything, in fact, to make sure Sherlock Holmes was really dead.

"The only question is, of course," Mycroft had said, perched in front of his eternal computer, eyebrows arched in that annoying way, "…what new name you're going to use. God knows you've besmirched the Holmes' name long enough."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. But to his mind there came a name—an extraordinary man, who'd left civilization to come and form a haven among a dark and ignorant people. Dangerous, perhaps, choosing an alias based on sentiment, but even Moriarty had included a joke in his name.

"Xavier." He answered. "Francis Xavier."

A/N: Yes, I know the timelines are all screwy. C'mon, this is X-MEN. Their own continuity is a hopeless jumble. If I was going to try and mesh this with First Class, that would be clearly impossible. But who knows when the events of the first X-Men movie take place? Charles Xavier could be born in like 2012, and Magneto build his big machine thing in like 2050.

Oh wait, he's in Wolverine Origins at the Three Mile Island thing. Crap. Also his partner Magneto was involved in WWII. So I guess there's no way this works. Maybe if I went off the original Sherlock Holmes from the 1800's and not the much more popular modern-day series...

Eh, I'll submit it anyway. Sherlock, both the show and the person, are very elitist. Sherlock is often portrayed not just as a remarkable person, but part of a group of "remarkable" people. And there's a definite feeling (to me, at least), that this is an emerging group, misunderstood by the "common" wealth. I do feel like my explanation rather cheapens his detective skills, but at the same time I like it.

Anyway. Feel free to critique it, there's so much messed around with this premise, you can see the holes just by looking at it. But I don't care.