Sorry to everyone waiting for updates of my multi-chapter stories but friends and relatives have specifically asked me for a Bones and Sherlock crossover and a Doctor Who/Ripper Street one.

This is the Bones/Sherlock one. Once I have finished the Doctor Who/Ripper Street one and my brother stops asking me about its progress I will, hopefully, be able to resume normal service with my other stories. Apologies to everyone who's been waiting for updates on those. If you like my writing rather than the fandom, this might be something to keep you going until then.

Holmes and Bones

Washington, DC

Sir Arthur Greenleigh, Ambassador from the Court of St. James to the United States of America stared out of the window of the Embassy Rolls-Royce as the car purred down Massachusetts Avenue. He sighed, heavily.

Lady Greenleigh turned to look at her husband, then reached over and gently squeezed his hand. Theirs was a relationship of solid mutual affection rather than passion. "Cheer up, darling. Only a few more weeks and you'll be retired and we'll be home for good. No more inane chatter at diplomatic receptions, no more hawking British goods at trade shows. I can tend my rose garden and you will finally have all the time you want to go fishing."

Sir Arthur smiled back as he returned the squeeze. "And we'll be able to see our first grand-daughter in the flesh rather than over Skype." He glanced out of the window again and checked his watch. "Just gone eleven. There's a lot of traffic and people around for this time of night, even for Washington." He observed.

"Yeah, there was a gig following the pro-Second Amendment march and rally earlier today." Cole, their American chauffeur, put in. "Lot of acts turned up to show support. I'm guessing it's just finished. Soon have you folks home though."

Neither Sir Arthur nor his wife commented on the familiarity. They had grown accustomed to it during their years in America and even found it refreshing - in small doses. They grinned at each other as Cole swore under his breath and began to slow down at the intersection with Dupont Circle.

Noting the reason, Lady Greenleigh chuckled. "It's always this traffic light" Do you think someone monitors it and makes it turn red every time we come this way, Arthur?" The car had now come to a stop as Cole impatiently drummed on the steering wheel.

Sir Arthur was about to answer when there was a rumble beneath them. This was followed by a loud blast. They felt the car being lifted off the ground with the force of the explosion. All three were dead by the time the Rolls-Royce crashed back to earth.

London, U.K.

The mobile phone by the bed buzzed insistently. The sleeper was fully awake in an instant. Being, in all ways that actually mattered, the British Government had made him a light sleeper. He reached over and answered, his voice clear and alert.

"Yes?"

He listened, closing his eyes for an instant, at the news he was receiving.

"I see. Raise security on all British Embassy's to Level One - Amber immediately and send round my car. I'll be ready in ten minutes. When I reach the office I want updated intelligence reports on the activities of Al Qaeda and its affiliates, the Real IRA and U.S. domestic terrorist groups available for my review. I will also require drafts of letters of condolence and support from Her Majesty and the P.M. to the President and American people for my consideration."

Mycroft Holmes, glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It showed ten past four. He got out of bed and headed for the bathroom, his actions steady and controlled. As he showered he allowed himself the luxury of a brief moment of mourning for Sir Arthur and Lady Greenleigh before he turned his attention to identifying the short, medium and long-term implications of the news to Britain's relationship with the U.S. and to foreign affairs generally and to the more immediate issue of identifying who had been responsible for a bomb blast in Washington that had killed the British Ambassador, his wife and an unknown, but expected to be in double figures, number of American citizens.

Andrews Air Base, Washington, D.C. Ten days later

F.B.I. Special Agent-in Charge Seeley Booth stood on the tarmac at Andrews Air Base watching as the door of the Learjet opened and the steps unfolded.

He was not a happy man. Twenty-eight people were dead and hundreds injured. Even with Clark Edison volunteering his help and all the interns called in, Bones and her team had been almost overwhelmed by the task of sorting out the body parts and assigning them to individuals, some of whom were still unidentified. Add to that the lack of leads to the perpetrator and he should be in his office or in the field turning rocks over, interviewing survivors, reviewing the CCTV footage yet again. But here he was, ordered to waste time away from the investigation to smooze some limey bureaucrat. The presence of the man at his shoulder added to his irritation. Toddhunter Rochester, Alex Radziwell's boss. He was tempted to deck the guy if he reminded him one more time to "extend every courtesy to our guest". The guy was acting so nervous, you'd think they were meeting the Queen of England, not some minor government official!

Booth's first sight of the man they had come to meet confirmed all his prejudices. He was tall and elegant in a custom-made suit that probably cost more than Booth earned in six months and, jeez, it was eighty degrees in the shade with not a cloud in sight, and the guy was wearing a vest and carrying an umbrella! As expected, their visitor was just some pampered member of the British upper-class's who probably owed his position to Daddy's influence. He watched as the man arrogantly strolled down the steps of the plane and walked towards them. Booth's anger grew as he realised he would not go through customs or immigration like any normal person entering the United States, even citizens, and treated this fact as if it were an entitlement.

"We should go meet him." Rochester said.

Booth noted that the State Department official's agitation had increased and his anger grew. Rochester was a representative of the greatest country on Earth. They were meeting some guy who probably couldn't dress himself without help from his butler, yet he was acting like some scared kid. He followed the other man as he set off across the tarmac. As they got nearer to the Brit. Booth noted that in addition to the vest, he was wearing an old-fashioned watch chain and an expression so carefully schooled to be neutral it could only be a mask. He wondered, in passing, whether the man actually had a pocket watch tucked away at the end of the chain or if it was just an affectation.

He remembered his orders and tried to keep calm.

"Mr Holmes. I'm Toddhunter Rochester, State Department. On behalf of the Federal Government I'd like to welcome you to the United States and extend our sympathy to Her Majesty, the Queen and the British Government at the loss of Sir Arthur and Lady Greenleigh. No-one worked harder to maintain the special relationship between our two nations. They will be greatly missed, Sir."

Booth noted that the man almost stuttered as he got through his prepared speech and felt his irritation increasing again.

"Thank you, Mr Rochester. I take it that my requests have been complied with?" Holmes asked in the sort of cut-glass accent Booth had learned to identify with the British upper classes during his and Bones' visit to England. As Rochester nodded, the Brit went on. "Then please do not let me keep you from your work any longer."

Booth felt Holmes' gaze settle on him. He felt like a sliver of ice had pierced his skin, cutting through him like a scalpel, analysing and cataloguing as it advanced. He was reminded of the way Bones looked at a skeleton.

The man smiled, a stretching of the lips that did not reach eyes that seemed like deep blue ice. "Agent Booth, my car is waiting. As you arrived here in Mr Rochester's vehicle, please allow me to offer you a lift. I will be going direct to the Jeffersonian in order to review the situation as soon as possible." The British man strode across the tarmac towards a black limo that had quietly drawn up as they were talking. He didn't look back. He stopped to exchange a few words with an attractive looking woman. Her eyes glanced up from her cell phone long enough to look in Booth's direction before returning her attention back to the screen.

Booth looked at the State Department official who actually seemed relieved to be so un-ceremoniously dismissed and followed their 'guest'. He was making some adjustments in his thinking about their visitor. He could understand how the guy identified him without an introduction. He would have been fully briefed on the case before coming here, but how, he wondered, did he know that Rochester had driven him here and he had not come in his own car? He was still wondering as he sat back in the luxurious leather seat and was driven away.

Jeffersonian Institution, Washington, D.C.

Dr Temperence Brennan was not a happy woman. It was her job to make the bones of the dead speak to her so she could find justice for them and their loved ones. Her entire team had been working extended shifts since the bombing and were making progress, but, here they were, on orders direct from the White House, standing around waiting for the arrival of some British bureaucrat. Her fingers itched to get back to work, but the White House had been very clear that nothing further was to be done until after this man had inspected the bodies and other evidence. They had also issued specific instructions on how the bodies and other evidence were to be laid out for the inspection.

While she could understand the British Government's interest in the case, in her opinion the best thing they could have done would have been to let her and her team do their jobs without interference or delay. She had, after all, one of the finest intellects in the world, her team comprised of people of superior intelligence who had been trained by her, and Booth, although not in the same intellectual league, was an excellent and experienced investigator. She was confident there was nothing this Mycroft Holmes could add to the investigation. She had never heard of him before and neither had Dr Saroyan or Dr Hodgins, so whoever and whatever he was, he was clearly not a scientist of any note.

Brennan looked over to the corner of the platform and saw that an empty bucket was sitting there. She was relieved. The sight and smell of so many burnt, mangled and torn bodies had caused nausea in a number of previous visitors and some had not been able to make it to the rest rooms in time. The last thing they needed was for this pen pusher to vomit over the remains.

Cam looked at her watch. They should be here shortly." She said. She turned towards Angie. "What have you found out about this guy?" She asked.

The artist frowned. "Not a lot, actually, there's a birth record for a Mycroft Holmes but after that, nothing."

"I'm betting he's some sort of spy guy." Hodgins said.

"Another conspiracy theory, Dr Hodgins?" Cam asked in an amused tone.

"Actually, it's as valid a speculation as any." Sweets replied. "The British might be worried that this was an attack on their guy and the bombing of the pro-gun people was just a cover." As the others looked at him, he shrugged his shoulders. "Hey, even a stopped clock is right twice a day!"

The doors to the laboratory whooshed open and they got their first look at their visitor.

"Wow!" Angie breathed. "All he needs is a Derby and he'd be the perfect Britisher." She paused. "Hot though – in an old fashioned fuddy, duddy kind'a way." She added hurriedly as her husband gave her a look.

Bones glanced towards her partner and frowned. He was looking confused.

Cam stepped forward and made the introductions. "If you would like to come this way, Mr Holmes, we have prepared a presentation on our progress to date." She finished.

The man paused and stretched his lips. "Thank you Dr Saroyan." He said. "I have familiarised myself with the reports. I believe it will be sufficient for you to simply brief me on any developments since your last update."

Cam felt a brief surge of hope. Perhaps the man would be satisfied with the few additional pieces of information they had gleaned and then leave them to get on with their job.

"The bomb was hidden in a Dupreis Premier backpack. It's a common make and model. Available in Department Stores and Hiking shops throughout the U.S. and Canada."

Holmes waited but when it was clear that no more was to be forthcoming he raised his eyebrows. "So, to summarise. The bomb exploded in the ticket hall of the Dupont Circle Metro station. It consisted of 15lbs of industrial strength plastic explosive, the origin of which is still unknown. It was hidden in a rucksack that could have been obtained anywhere in North America and you have no suspects."

Booth had come round to stand with the rest of his team. He nodded, his irritation at the lack of progress showing. "Yeah, no-one's claimed responsibility. That's why we're leaning towards the individual wack-job theory. There's no evidence the Ambassador or his wife were targets. The most likely scenario is that they were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"I have developed a psychological profile of the bomber." Sweets said. "Would you like to hear the highlights?"

Holmes made what sounded like a long suffering sigh. "Thank you, Dr. Sweets but I would prefer evidence." He straightened his already ramrod stiff posture. "I would like to examine the bodies and other material now."

Bones stepped forward. "I will accompany you to explain the evidence. I am the foremost authority on Forensic Anthropology in the country so your expertise, whatever it may be, cannot compare with mine. If you should feel nauseous there is a receptacle available for your use." She indicated the bucket.

Holmes' lips stretched again. "Thank you for your consideration, Dr Brennan. I would, however, prefer to conduct the examination alone and without distractions. I may be some time so I suggest you and your colleagues occupy yourself with other projects until I have finished." He strode towards the platform where the bodies awaited.

Bones and the others stared after him, then at the beautiful young woman who had accompanied him. She looked up from her Blackberry and smiled vaguely at them before ducking her head back to her texting.

Jeffersonian Institution, Washington, D.C. Ninety Minutes Later

Angie hung over the balcony of the mezzanine level and stared down at the scene below. "He's just finished looking at the wreckage of the Rolls and he's heading back towards his P.A. or whatever." She reported.

Having, in truth, no other projects, the team had repaired to the refreshments area where they could both keep an eye on their singular visitor and grouse about him in privacy.

"I have Doctorates in Anthropology, Forensic Anthropology and Kinesiology and an I.Q. that places me in the top 0.1 per cent of the population. While the rest of you cannot match this, with the exception of Angie and Booth, you all have intellects placing you in the top 1 per cent. Why are we allowing this man, who as far as we know, hasn't even been to college, to interfere with our work? He will certainly not discover anything we could not." Bones had been complaining bitterly ever since they had been dismissed.

"Because the White House ordered us to." Cam pointed out, in a long suffering tone. This was not the first time she had pointed this out.

Booth frowned. "I don't know." He said. "He knew that Rochester had driven me to Andrews without either of us mentioning it."

"That could have been a lucky guess." Bones pointed out.

"No, it was more than that." Her partner disagreed. "When I first saw him I wondered if his watch chain was just for show or if he really had a pocket watch. When we were in the car, he took it out and checked the time, then he turned to me and said 'yes, I really do use a pocket watch'. How'd he know what I had been thinking?" Seeing his partner about to start another outburst, he reached out to sooth her. "There, there, Bones. That's not to say he's smarter than you. We all know you're the smartest person in the world." He turned to Sweets. "What does your shrink sense say 'bout this guy?"

The psychologist sucked his lower lip as he considered. "Very buttoned up emotionally, low empathy and strong need for order and control." He shrugged. "These could all simply be cultural indicators. Stiff upper lip and all that!"

"He didn't even break his stride when he saw twenty eight torn and mangled bodies set out in a row." Cam noted. "Doesn't that demonstrate something more than just poor empathy?"

Sweets grinned. "Are you asking me if he's a sociopath?" He shrugged. "I don't know enough about him to even begin a diagnosis but I doubt it. He appears to hold a position of some trust and responsibility in the British Government, which would be unlikely if he were. It's more likely that he's simply become inured to the sight of violent death. That would feed into Hodkins' spy theory."

Hodgins, who had been starring into his coffee, jerked up. "Holmes! But he's dead!" He grabbed Angie's laptop and began typing furiously.

"What are you doing, hon?" His wife asked.

"Ah!" Hodgins sat back with the sort of expression on his face he usually reserved for after an experiment had succeeded. He gestured to the others to crowd round. "There's this blog I used to follow, written by a British guy called John Watson. It hasn't been updated for over a year but he wrote 'bout his flatmate, guy called Sherlock Holmes, who was some kind'a private detective and a self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath."

"It says here he killed himself after being unmasked as a fraud." Booth remarked.

"Read the whole post." Hodgins advised. "Watson says that he was framed by some arch criminal called Moriarty. Anyway, according to Watson, this guy, Holmes, had amazing powers of observation and deduction. He claimed he could tell a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his thumb. I don't know 'bout that, but the things he did deduce are pretty cool!"

"So what are you saying? That this is the same guy and his suicide was staged so he could go work for the British government?" Cam asked.

"Naw. If they'd done that, they'd have changed his last name as well as his first. Anyway look, there's photos of Sherlock and it's obviously not the same guy, even allowing for plastic surgery. Maybe our guy's a brother with the same abilities?"

Angie looked at the photographs, then down at their visitor. "There is a resemblance." She said. "It's more obvious in profile than full face, but it's there."

Bones was scanning through the blog entries. "It is more probable that this Sherlock Holmes was a charlatan, who manufactured the crimes he appeared to solve, just as the papers alleged." She said. "If even half of this were true, he would have an intellect at least equal to mine and that is – unlikely."

Booth's cell bleeped and he read the text. "Holmes has finished whatever it is he was doing and want's us back on the platform."

The Team looked over the balcony and saw Holmes and his assistant both looking up at them.

As they left to troop down the stairs, Booth grabbed his partner. "Bones, when we get down there don't ask him if this Sherlock guy was a fraud."

Bones frowned in confusion. "But surely it is relevant!" She began, then her face cleared as understanding came. "Oh, you are concerned that if they are, in fact, related, he might still be mourning him. I understand!"

Jeffersonian Institution, Washington, D.C.

Mycroft Holmes was not a happy man. There were any number of issues he needed to deal with, the negotiations with Iran, the withdrawal from Afghanistan, the outcome of next month's N.A.T.O. summit and the forthcoming E.U. Heads of Government meeting to name the most pressing. He should be at his desk in London ensuring there was a coherent response that took into account all the factors and implications of each issue's impact upon the others. But here he was, thousands of miles away forced to perform legwork! Even he could not ignore a direct order from both his Sovereign and the Prime Minister. Despite his personal assurances that the people undertaking the investigation were competent they had insisted he give this his personal attention.

Her Majesty's request had been occasioned by her concern for the safety of Sir Arthur's replacement while David had always had a tendency to panic, even at Eton. It was true that U.S. reaction to the bombing had annoyed the British public by apparently ignoring the fact that two high ranking British diplomats had also been victims of the attack. Even so, there was no reason to fear for the future of the Atlantic Alliance. The great British public would forget all about it once the perpetrator or perpetrators had been found.

Thanks to Sherlock's inconvenient 'death' he could offer no alternative to them and, when he had contacted his sibling, through the usual, devious channels, to try to persuade him to intervene incognito, his irritating little brother had not only refused but been indecently amused at the ordeal he was being forced to undergo!

He saw the Jeffersonian group approaching and marshalled his thoughts. As he had expected, the identity of the perpetrator and their motive had not been difficult to discern and would have eventually been discovered by this experienced and talented group of people. As they closed on him he fixed his eyes on Booth.

"Agent Booth, you were correct in your assumption that the bombing was the work of a single individual with no ties to any terrorist group or organisation." He began. "That man's name is Troy Marshall, a resident of Brownsburg, Indiana." He stopped and waited for the inevitable outbursts of disbelief. He was not disappointed.

"How the heck…?"

"What evidence…?"

"It's impossible…"

He waited until the noise had died down and began speaking again. "The lack of intelligence chatter led me to the same hypothesis as Agent Booth. The question then was, what became of this individual after the explosion? As Dr Sweets' profile indicates, it is likely that they were under immense emotional strain. If we accept that they were not thinking rationally there is a strong presumption that they had, either deliberately or accidently, become a victim of their own bomb. If that were the case, the balance of probability was that they were dead and their body was unidentified…"

"Why is that more likely than them just being injured?" Angie asked.

"Because all the survivors and victim's families had been thoroughly interrogated. Anyone under the degree of emotional pressure Dr Sweets believes them to have been would have been unable to hide it and their behaviour or actions would have raised suspicions. Likewise a family member would, most likely, have mentioned that their relation had been behaving strangely." He held up his hand as the objections began again. "As I said, this was the most likely scenario. Had I not found what I was looking for here, I would have arranged to re-interview the survivors and families. If that too had not borne fruit I would have…but I digress." He smiled, "As I said, the bomber's name is Troy Marshall and he is currently designated by you as John Doe Number Three."

"That is a statement unsupported by any evidence." Bones scoffed.

"On the contrary, Dr Brennan. It is the product of observation supported by deductive, abductive and inductive reasoning." Mycroft noted that, while Booth and Ms Montenegro were looking confused, the other members of the Jeffersonian team were beginning to look interested. Just as he had planned, they were responding to a language they, as scientists, both understood and respected. Booth and Ms Montenegro were bright, they would catch on.

"As Ms Montenegro noted, while hanging over the balcony, I spent a great deal of time examining the unidentified bodies. When examining the clothing worn by John Doe Number Three I observed that there were marks and discolouration on what were left of the shoulders of his jacket where the straps of a rucksack would rest. Such marks could only have been made by someone carrying a heavy load, such as, for instance, 15lbs of plastic explosives, for a considerable period of time. This, of course, was not conclusive. The man could have been simply a committed hiker but it did warrant further examination. I, therefore, closely examined his other personal effects and his err…remains. The condition of these showed that he had been very close to the detonation and very little was intact. There was, however, an oily residue on what, I believe, was originally the tip of a trainer. Upon sniffing it, I recognised the characteristic smell of C-4, which is quite familiar to me. It was unlikely that he was a professional demolition worker as they wear protective clothing when working. The most likely conclusion then was that he was the bomber…"

Bones frowned. "I can see your chain of logic." She admitted. "But that does not explain how you know his name. His personal effects were examined for anything to identify him and nothing was found."

Mycroft nodded. "The labels on his jacket and trousers, however, were still readable and they showed the name of a small store located in Brownsburg. The items showed different patterns of wear so they were probably bought at different times. If he had bought two items of clothing at the same shop over an extended time period it was a reasonable assumption that he was resident in the area. I, therefore, asked my P.A. to check missing persons reports for the town and its environs. The only one fitting the criteria you and Dr Saroyan set down in your initial examination of the body, male, white, aged mid-thirties and about 6ft 1inch in height was Mr Marshall. When my P.A. informed me that his daughter had been killed while playing in the park by a man who had run amuck with a legally owned gun and his wife had recently killed herself as a result, also with a gun, this confirmed his identity and also provided a likely motive. His identification as the bomber was further strengthened when my P.A. found several crime reports from the County Sheriff's Department relating to the theft of explosives. When the amounts were added together they totalled approximately 15lbs. As Agent Booth said, Sir Arthur and Lady Greenleigh were collateral damage."

"Impressive." Bones sounded like the word had been forced out of her by torture.

"We would have found all that out, eventually though." Jack Hodgins sounded mutinous. "Angie would have done a reconstruction of the face and run it through the Missing Persons Database and I would have analysed the clothing for particulates and found the trace evidence."

Mycroft nodded again. "Yes, I'm sure you would have. I have never doubted your competence or professionalism. It would have taken you longer to reach the same conclusion, however, since, despite having all the information to hand, you failed to draw inferences useful to the investigation from it."

"Science should progress logically and systematically." Bones protested. "Not get side-tracked chasing down possible dead ends."

"Science is about developing hypotheses and testing them. If there are several hypotheses which could account for the same phenomena why not start with the most likely first? It might save some time." Mycroft shot back.

Bones looked like she was going to argue but she was pre-empted by Mycroft's poised P.A.

"Sir, urgent phone call. It concerns Mr Sigurson."

Mycroft glanced at the woman and Booth saw his lips tighten and frown lines appear. The reaction was minute but he was a seasoned interrogator and could not miss the signs.

The British bureaucrat smiled, it seemed nothing more than an automatic social gesture. "I must take this. It has been a pleasure to meet you." He grabbed the phone and strode out of the laboratory, his P.A. trailing after him.

Sweets was grinning from ear to ear. "See, folks. My psychological profile was the key to cracking this case. You should take them more seriously."

"A key that you ignored as much as the rest of us." Cam pointed out bluntly.

Bones sighed. "A pity. He seemed quite intelligent. I would have liked to continue our debate. Now I'll probably never get another opportunity."

Booth stared at the laboratory doors closing on their guests. "I wanted to ask him how he knew I hadn't driven to Andrews and how he knew I'd wondered 'bout his watch chain. Now I'll never know." He complained.

The End.