For John Watson

[howdull]

[Sherlock is still finding pieces of the melted laptop in the carpet.

It had actually been quite an ingenious booby trap to be devised by a fourteen year old boy with only household chemicals to work with but, as Sherlock surmised, rather overkill to keep his mother from finding his extensive porn collection. Not one of their more illustrious cases, but it had been quite entertaining to watch both the boy and mother's faces as he revealed that he did know the how and why. He lost interest after the mother started shouting and John started shouting and the whole thing turned tedious.

He rather thinks John won't actually be doing a full write-up of this one on his blog.

It's been two days since their last case and he's beginning to get more than a little antsy. Lestrade has sent him nothing, just a boring hit and run that he refused to even leave the flat for, and nobody interesting has appeared through the blog. Said blog he is currently scrolling through on John's laptop, having borrowed it again.

He did ask, it's not his fault John hadn't been in the room at the time.]

Bored, John.

[He doesn't even know if his flatmate is even in, but that's hardly a necessity for him to actually speak to John. Frustrated, he throws the laptop across the room to hit the wall, where it summarily breaks. Which is where he can be found whenever John appears, sulking amidst pieces of laptop, both from the melted one of their last case and John's poor broken one.]

Comments

[brotheryours]

Oh, Sherlock. You really always were so very slow. [Mycroft sighs despairingly. He could attribute some of it to the poison, but really.] Why would she not latch onto the surgeon at the hospital where she saw her husband? His psychiatrists? Anyone that she had actually met. It would have taken effort to latch onto Dr. Watson. People rarely go to that effort when they're grieving. They would typically pick the easy target.

But we have this woman that Dr. Watson has never met, but just so happens to be closely connected to you, brother dear. Your flatmate. Your blogger. And such a loyal man. I wonder what you might do if he never comes back from that funeral.

[Mycroft raises his brow before settling with the board game between them. He flicks it on and Sherlock will have the chance to go first. Look how obliging his older brother is being!]

[howdull]

[Mycroft is right. He hates when Mycroft is right, which is a shame because it happens so frequently. But it is unusual that she would latch onto John, and there must be a deeper reason here.]

I have already been effectively at her mercy, if I were the target then her manner of dealing with me is most inefficient.

[He picks up the tweezers and goes for the funny bone, only just managing to keep his hand steady enough to get it out.]

Is your driver downstairs?

[brotheryours]

Of course.

[Mycroft takes the tweezers and considers his options before going for the Adam's apple. It's one of the easier pieces.]

I have little doubt Mrs. Matthews believes Dr. Watson to be her true target, but that does not preclude the motives of her partner. Perhaps something you've been nosing around the edges of.

[howdull]

Good.

[He pushes himself up and pulls off the oxygen mask, doing his best to ignore the wave of dizziness that accompanies that.]

Bring the game, we can finish it in the car.

[And he's up, pulling out the IV and stumbling for his coat. Mycroft is right, damn him, John might be in danger at the funeral.]

[brotheryours]

[Mycroft's expression turns incredulous.]

Sherlock, don't be absurd. Lie down. The only place I will be taking you if we leave is hospital. What precisely do you imagine you might do apart from vomit copiously and wheeze in Dr. Watson's general direction?

[howdull]

I'm not going to hospital, Mycroft, I'd rather die in the car.

[His petulant tone suggests that he might just do that out of spite if Mycroft tries to have the driver go to a hospital.

He doesn't bother to answer the second query, just shrugging his coat on and heading for the stairs.]

Well, are you coming? You can wait here, if you'd rather, I know field work really isn't your forte.

[brotheryours]

[Mycroft's cool demeanor begins to fracture. His little brother is about to kill himself for some wretched doctor.]

My men are tailing them. If you find that insufficient, I will have them inspect the church and surrounding grounds. Now get back in bed.

[howdull]

[Of course he is. Sherlock hasn't had a friend since Victor Redbeard, and he's not about to lose another one too soon.]

Your men are hardly the height of intelligence, even if they claim that as a title for their agency. I'm not getting back into bed; last chance, are you coming?

[brotheryours]

[Mycroft knows better than to try to wrestle with his little brother, even in this state.]

If we are to go to the church, you will be going to hospital directly after. You will not go for more than an hour without oxygen and IV fluids.

[He sends off a quick text to his driver and to Anthea, and then begins packing up the game as he says this. Really, he knows he indulges Sherlock's madness far too much. But there are some things that it's simply better not to fight him on. The ambulance waiting at the church in forty-five minutes' time should also fix the problems this is causing.]

[howdull]

[His lips turn distinctly downwards. He hates hospitals, he hates being confined, and he's already arguing as he starts taking the steps two at a time. At least the adrenaline of potentially rushing to save John is keeping him on his feet for now.]

We can just return here, the equipment will not vanish as we leave, and it's a well documented medical fact that patients heal more quickly when surrounded by their own belongings.

[brotheryours]

It's a well-documented medical fact that patients heal more quickly when they are not gallivanting off on misguided trips away from their medicine fueled by sentiment.

[The car is already running when they step out onto the pavement, and the doors are unlocked. As soon as Sherlock slides in, Mycroft will follow him, and the driver is off. He sets his briefcase between himself and Sherlock, but doesn't open it. Instead, Mycroft gives his little brother a hard look.]

Your assistant is becoming my problem, Sherlock. Do bear that in mind as you continue your game.

[howdull]

[Sherlock just stares right back. He knows Mycroft is dangerous, one of the most dangerous men alive, but he's not about to let himself be bullied by his big brother.]

Sorry, was that supposed to be intimidating? Don't try threats again, Mycroft, you can't pull them off and it just embarrasses us both.

[He reaches for the briefcase himself, but his fingers slide off the locks in an irritating way, too shaky to manipulate them properly.]

You and I both know that you won't touch John.

[brotheryours]

[Mycroft undoes the locks and pulls out Operation again to set on top of the briefcase. It's Sherlock's turn.]

I won't touch him while you're alive and fully intact, brother mine.

[But he lets the threats end there, satisfied that the point is made.]

Let us review the evidence to date. Who do you know of with some interest in you who is both technologically skilled and a master manipulator?

[howdull]

I suppose you are looking for something beyond the obvious answer of you, correct?

[Even if Mycroft isn't particularly technologically skilled himself, he has a veritable army of people to do these things for him. A master manipulator, though, why does that tug in the back of his head? His hand hovers over the board, tweezers in shaking fingers, as he thinks.

Moriarty. The name that cabbie gave him under duress, but he doesn't know what it means. He knows that this Moriarty is a skilled manipulator to help out with the games of suicide, but beyond that? It seems a tenuous link for a name he's heard once.]

[brotheryours]

[Mycroft just gives him a Look for a moment.]

I have someone in mind. Several someones, in fact. I'm narrowing the list as we speak.

[He runs the British government. Leverage is a powerful thing and those who have done any sort of research know that Mycroft Holmes has precisely one pressure point. He just needs to have his people track down where those he has in mind actually are.]

[howdull]

No, you don't. If you had any names, we wouldn't already be in this position.

[As ineffectual as Mycroft's goons sometimes are, he sincerely doubts his brother would have allowed him to become poisoned if he knew who was to blame. Or perhaps he would, Mycroft is odd sometimes.

He finally decides on one of the leg bones and goes in for the removal, setting off the buzzer immediately.]

Shit.

[brotheryours]

Contrary to what you may believe, little brother, I cannot simply snatch people off the streets to interrogate them.

[Not if his other schemes are to maintain. There's only so much Mycroft can get away with in terms of using State Resources for pet projects, including Sherlock. But he doesn't like admitting he isn't quite as all-powerful as Sherlock imagines. Mycroft's aware that he should be. It would make his life easier, if he were.

There's a ping on his phone, and he checks it briefly to see Anthea is at the church with the Ambulance waiting. Mycroft returns to the game to go for the knee. The car jostles slightly and the buzzer goes off, making Mycroft huff.]

A car is a terrible place to play this game, you are aware?

[howdull]

[He raises an eyebrow, easily deducing what the text has been about given their recent conversations.]

I hope she hasn't brought the ambulance too close to the funeral, we don't want to alarm anyone.

[Also, he's so not getting into it.]

I suspect, though cliche, that the most logical place for any kind of explosive would be in the coffin itself. John is sure to be in the front row, as her remaining family, and thus in perfect position for it.

[brotheryours]

[Mycroft doesn't reply to that first part. His assistant is, of course, far more equipped for her job than the good doctor is for his as the man at Sherlock's side. He just passes the extraction tool back to Sherlock, watching his brother's shaking hands and mentally gauging how much longer his labored breathing can go on before he keels over.]

And you intend to burst into the church in dramatic fashion and rip the lid of the coffin off?

[Honestly, Sherlock.]

[howdull]

[That... might be his plan. But he's not going to admit it to Mycroft after that sneering assessment. Keen observation would say Sherlock probably has half an hour of consciousness at best, and significantly less than that of coherence.]

Surely we should be nearby now.

[Not that he's impatient or anything.

...MEANWHILE...

Lestrade gets John bundled into the police car and sets the sirens going to drive at full speed through London, weaving in and out of traffic in order to try and get to the church on time.]

Don't worry, mate, plenty of time. Donovan is going to meet us there with a suit, you'll be fine.

[jumpthegun]

[John shakes his head.]

Clara's had to handle this all on her own. Bloody hell.

[He's, quite possibly, the worst brother in existence, even for ex-sisters-in-law. And he'd actively liked Clara most of the time. He still likes her. John doesn't expect she's going to like him terribly much when he turns up with nothing but a suit.]

What d'you... have you ever had to say anything for a funeral?

[John had read some sort of Bible verse for his parents at their funeral. He'd put some thought into it, but in the end, he'd simply taken someone else's words and acted as The Good Son should. Harry had bawled through most of the ceremony.]

[howdull]

[He's not the best at dealing with emotional situations like this, though he is used to grieving families because of his line of work, just not as far along and as personal as this is.]

No, can't say that I have. When my mum died, it was my dad that did the reading, and every other bugger's funeral hasn't been someone I've been close enough to.

[That's probably not helpful.]

You're meant to be saying something, then? Bloody hell. Well, just talk about memories and stuff? Good ones.

[jumpthegun]

I dunno. I should. She's my sister.

[And he's the only living relative apart from Clara in the area. John isn't even sure the rest of the extended family would come to Harry's funerals. Probably, they'd send flowers. He hasn't exactly been on top of informing anyone.]

Good memories. Right.

[So everything is going to be at least twenty years old.

No. That's not fair to Harry. It's really not.

After a moment, he adds:]

Thank you for this... I'm sorry. You're going to all this trouble, and I've been nothing but a headache for you. You get enough of it from Sherlock. I know I shouldn't.

[howdull]

Forget it.

[Lestrade looks more than a bit awkward, though it is nice to be thanked instead of berated for his idiocy for once.]

You've got nothing on him, so don't even worry about it. What are mates for?

[At least, they've done a couple of big cases and some little ones, he would think they're semi mates.]

You want me to come in? I'm not really dressed for it, but if you want...?

[He doesn't know how well attended the funeral will be, and if John might need someone there. Besides, he wants to keep an eye out and make sure this maniac gunning for him doesn't show up.]

[jumpthegun]

[As with Molly and her kindness, John can't help a momentary rush of emotion that threatens tears. It would be incredibly ridiculous to cry in front of Lestrade, though, so the doctor just swallows down that emotion and blinks a few times.]

I'd appreciate it if you came in, yeah. If you're not needed elsewhere. You don't have to stay for the whole thing. Just... y'know? [Until he says something? Having someone friendly to stare at who isn't Clara should help to steady him.]

How... how are you doing in all of this? It's stressful.