Chapter 1 - Mycroft Calls

A tall, pale curly-haired man twitched back the netting and peered thoughtfully through his window overlooking Baker Street and the surrounding gloomy London landscape. The air outside was thick with dark clouds, fog and the noise of the tiring traffic that emitted from the city. He watched people go bustling down the street under umbrellas and wrapped in raincoats as they charge to their destinations in the light drizzle. He frowned at the on-moving crowd. "I wonder what it's like in their heads?" thought Mr Holmes, "It must be extremely dull, with their minds filled with complete and utter rubbish." He looked around his flat, 221b, and then decided to compare his home to what he thought was the average household- 3 bed detached suburban home filled with worthless junk, gadgets and souvenirs. He glanced at the yellow graffiti smiley face filled with bullet holes on the brown, textured wall and then at two mismatched armchairs next to the fireplace. He then did, without delay, observe the open plan living and kitchen area more closely. The yellowing skull and the knife stuck above the fire on the mantelpiece; the never-used walking stick in the corner of the room; the messy, chaotic desks covered in scrap paper, photographs, clues and electrical devices; the loaded handgun on top of small table next to the large, leather couch; the door leading to his tidy, well-kept bedroom and finally to the chemistry equipment scattered across the kitchen table with the occasional plate, saucer or tea cup amongst the test tubes. He concluded that he wouldn't like to live a dismal, ordinary life and so went back to the window and continued to gaze out of it.

He gave a small acknowledgement of awareness a few minutes later, as he saw the friendly, easily recognisable face he was waiting for, for the past hour. This short, blond haired man Sherlock had spotted got out of a black city cab holding three full carrier bags of food and carried his shopping towards the tall man's abode. Holmes picked up his most cherished item that leaned against the desk chair and started playing a slow, gentle tune on the violin, just as he heard a click in the keyhole of the door.

Sherlock was still in his t-shirt and his Pyjamas trousers that were clearly well slept in for more than a few days. Because no cases cropped up across Sherlock's path for the past couple of weeks, he was starting to get restless and irritable for what seemed to him, like a never-ending nightmare of boredom. When he heard a cheery whistle from his only companion as the blond man started his ascent of the stairs to the flat, Sherlock's music started to show his intolerable exasperation towards the sound, with the notes being played more vigorously at every step. What annoyed Sherlock was the fact that John was calm and peaceful about their present situation. John didn't seemed to get frustrated like Sherlock did whenever there was a long, menial break between cases, and instead chose to do ordinary things like the shopping and cleaning or spend his evenings dating numerous amount of women instead of prowling the streets with him, looking for evidence and suspects. This wound up Sherlock constantly, causing him to in return annoy John by having a tantrum, throwing stuff around the room, or shooting the wall at three o'clock in the morning. Once John stumbled through the front door to the flat laden with bags, Sherlock reached the climatic end to his fierce performance and turned around to face him. He scanned over John, who was clearly exhausted from his long trip, then frowned.

"What took you so long?" asked Sherlock, his baritone voice slightly angered from his impatient wait. John ignored his question and the tone of his voice as he sorted the bags.

"Still no cases then?" he responded as he caught the sight of the night clothes Sherlock was still in.

"I would have text you if anything came up. Stop ignoring my question!" John slightly shook his head and sighed.

"The traffic was murder. Nearly blocked up all over the city. That's why I was ages."

"It's like that everyday. There's something else. Your face is giving it away," retorted Sherlock as he put down his violin and bow and paced over, inspecting John's body language. John hid his eyes from Sherlock and tried to block his best friend's glare that seemed to burn against his forehead for a few silent moments before he gave in.

"Fine. I was late because of your brother. Happy now?" replied John, reluctantly as he walked over to the kitchen.

Sherlock pulled a face of disgust. Mycroft was what he thought was his only arch enemy before Moriarty arrived on the scene last year. He stomped over towards his chair, as his long, silk dressing gown swished behind him and then sulkily slumped into the armchair's cushions.

"What does that pompous idiot want now?" John sieved through the bags and put food into the cupboards while he talked.

"Nothing much. He wondered if you were alright-"

"He's in the government. There's no need to ask."

"Asked if you were home-"

"Stop lying."

"He also asked if you were busy. He sounded concerned."

"Why would he care?"

"Because I need to talk to you, dear brother." Mycroft stood in the open doorway, wearing a deep frown on his face, whilst he tightly clutched his damp umbrella in his right hand. It was obvious he had been stood there for some time. Sherlock abruptedly turned to face him and wore a blank expression on his face, however in his mind; he was shocked that his brother managed to sneak up the stairs without alerting his senses. John stopped sorting the shopping and looked up, relieved that he didn't have to explain, and walked over to the living area. Sherlock sat up in his chair.

"What do you want?" he spat across the room as if there was something foul in his mouth.

"Sherlock," expressed Mycroft with a sigh as he stepped forward into the room, "I wouldn't be here unless it something that had to do with you or someone you clearly respect-"

"I haven't done anything wrong," interrupted Sherlock angrily as he stood up, "So you can quit the lecture and get out." Mycroft examined his shoes for second then stared at his brother with apprehension.

"I know you haven't. Well, nothing that is illegal." Sherlock scowled at Mycroft's last remark, while Mycroft walked of his brother's view. When Sherlock could think of nothing to say, he spun around to face his brother yet again and remarked with a smirk, "How's the diet?"

"However," answered Mycroft gravely, ignoring Sherlock's latest insult, "I need you to solve a matter of the utmost importance."

The elder Mr Holmes sat into the opposite armchair and propped his moist umbrella next to the fire, whilst John awkwardly filled the kettle to boil. Sherlock continued to glower at his brother with sincere repulsion. In his mind, he was trying to think how anyone he knew was in any trouble. When he came to no assumption, Sherlock settled back into his seat and murmured, "Who's involved?"

"An agent went missing in Washington DC-"

"No. I am not trekking across the world to look for a lost pet that holds vital credentials to our government again."

"Sherlock," groaned John as he handed Sherlock and Mycroft tea, "You might want to listen to this."

"Why should I listen to him explain a petty excuse of a mission he wants me complete because he's too lazy and incompetent to do it himself?" spluttered Sherlock, which created an unbearable tension in the room. John sipped his tea quietly, as he hid his gun from Sherlock and Mycroft's sight then lent against the mantelpiece. Mycroft covered his face with his hand, as he established a way to explain Sherlock some rather, unexplainable news.

"Before we lost contact with this particular agent, he went undercover to investigate a British terrorist that had recently cropped up in the Washington area in America."

"Moriarty?" Sherlock's expression was blank as though he did not care for that evil consultant criminal. Although both John and Mycroft saw the panic and fear in his bright, blue eyes. John shook his head.

"No," resolved Mycroft, as Sherlock felt relieved and felt the fear drifted out of his system. "It was an old foe. He hasn't done anything for the past decade, though he always seems to get out of our grasp. However, he's not my concern at this precise moment.

The agent, whilst undercover, had to break into a hotel room to find evidence to convict him. However, before he could even open the door, he messaged a photo from his phone of what he saw coming out of the corresponding room down the corridor." John shifted sheepishly next to the fireplace as he sipped his tea. Sherlock glanced at John's reaction, figuring out who or what was missing from the conversation.

"After he sent the image," Mycroft continued before Sherlock could again interrupt, "he went after the people that consisted in the photograph. In spite of careful planning and cooperation, we lost both our communication with the MI6 agent and the suspects half an hour later." John coughed slightly before he went to the kitchen to refill his cup with steaming tea. Once he came back, silence filled the room, as the cogs in Sherlock's brain were revolving at a quick pace.

"Well," said Sherlock, as he spoke his thoughts aloud, his eyes closed with concentration, "It's obviously someone important and outlawed, someone that I know who escapes the government easily without a trace and with a large amount of experience. Possibly someone who-"

He paused in his tracks as he stopped recalling images of people he came to know over his short life. He could now see the full picture without any mist or grime blocking his sight through the window. He opened his eyes while a glimmer of realisation dawned on his face. "Both Mycroft and John have found out the truth," he thought as he saw his deduction in his mind's eye. Sherlock quickly made his face appear vacant again before his brother and friend understood his judgement then turned to Mycroft innocently and asked, "May I see the photo?"

Mycroft warily put his right hand in his damp coat pocket and pulled out his phone. After he unlocked the contraption and pressed a few buttons, he handed over the device to Sherlock's long, out-stretched fingers. Sherlock tilted the screen to his eye view and read the image, which confirmed his suspicions. The photograph was of a tall, dark, man with a military stance, his uniform consistent of a US Marine, who was holding hands with a sensual but professionally dressed female. Even though her pale face was partially hidden from view, it was still effortlessly recognisable to Sherlock, making his heart and stomach lurch with unstoppable adrenaline. The dark, wavy, brunette hair, her clear complexion, her rouge lips which had brushed lightly against Sherlock's cheek sometime ago and the twinkling spark in her eyes that he had stared into deeply on more than one occasion.

"She was thought to have died a couple of months ago," explained John, uncomfortable with the look on Sherlock's face and the overall situation. Mycroft gazed from the phone to his younger brother when he said carefully, "But you possibly knew otherwise."

Sherlock looked up from the phone to John. "I knew you lied about the protection cover," he said intently. John nodded his head then looked away, like the floor was more interesting to watch. Sherlock then peered earnestly at his brother as he asked the one question he needed to be answered.

"Irene Adler is in trouble, isn't she?"