Death of a Consulting Detective

Why so Silent, Brother Dear?

November 21, 2013

"John."

"What?"

"You heard me Mycroft. John, where is he?"

It's been a year since I faked my suicide. A whole year, maybe more. I can't remember how long it has been exactly, it's rather hard to keep track when you're working undercover. The time of my absence is not of importance though. What is important is that my blogger hasn't changed. I've nearly forgotten what he looks like because it's been so long. I hope he looks exactly like he did the day I left him. Surely he figured out I faked my death after a few days and he's been waiting for me to come home ever since. That or Mycroft told him - blubbering idiot.

We were in a dull, grey room. I stood looking into a mirror, Mycroft sat at a desk positioned at the opposite end of the room. After a shower and a shave I looked like I had never gone undercover at all. There are of course plenty of scars scattered about my chest from a few fights between me and some of Moriarty's network, but that doesn't matter either. John will never see them.

I was looking at Mycroft's reflection in the mirror. Judging by the bags under his eyes, the larger clothes, and the lack of standing I deduct he's quit exercising. If he hopped on the treadmill every now and then I bet he wouldn't feel so tired all the time. After my mention of John, he looked down at the mahogany desk contemplating what to say. Probably hasn't been watching my blogger like I asked him to.

"Never mind then Mycroft. I'll surprise him. How's the diet?"

"Terrible, brother dear. I've had no time for such silly nonsense because I've been looking out for you 24 hours a day, seven days a week."

He returned his gaze to me. He must be glad I waved away his mistake. I'm not quite sure why he couldn't do such a simple task when he's got millions of security cameras at his disposal, but perhaps he blames it on caring for me too. It could also be the result of my brother's tendency to sit on his arse all day filling out important documents for the British government.

I finished buttoning my white dress shirt and I was in the process of putting on my black jacket. Mycroft forgot to give me my overcoat and scarf when we arrived at this building. That annoyed me just as much as Anderson talking while I'm trying to think - which I hated very much. That reminds me:

"Has Anderson fallen off a cliff yet Mycroft?"

He rolled his eyes and started playing with an expensive pen mother had given him for Christmas one year. It was one of those fancy refillable pens people with government positions have sitting in their chest pocket on their expensive shirts. Mycroft might be the only official who writes with the bloody thing rather than use up all the cheap disposable ones. His pale blue eyes were trained on the shiny casing of the pen now as it turned between his skinny fingers. For a moment he held the pen in his palm. The caution he used when placing the object on top of a few papers was really quite impressive.

I feel as if he is keeping something from me; protecting me from a harmful secret or event. He struggles with maintaining any type of eye contact whenever I look over at him (which is why I've taken to looking at the mirror) and he avoids any questions about my old friends and foes like the plague.

"Have you suddenly gone mute brother? You never pass up the chance to insult me for having a personal life." I said, turning to face the desk. "Has something happened?"

Mycroft hit a button on the wooden surface to call for an assistant to enter the room. He was uncomfortable and I didn't trust his silence.

"Did someone get hurt?"

"No."

So he speaks.

"Died?" I asked.

He went pale. His face was as white as a ghost and his hands had a slight tremor to them. He's definitely been keeping something from me. Someone had passed away while I was gone. Someone important to me. If the person was merely an acquaintance Mycroft would've told me without any hesitation evident in his actions.

"Who? I must have been pretty close with them because the great Mycroft Holmes is at a loss for words. Did Ms. Hudson find some old experiment of mine and fall dead on the floor from a heart attack?"

My brother opened his mouth to answer, but no words escaped. A small woman entered the room with my missing articles of clothing I mentioned before. She prevented any of Mycroft's thoughts from evolving into spoken words. I quickly wrapped the dark blue scarf around my thin, boney neck. The scarf was followed by my long grey overcoat. Oh how I have missed my casual attire after a year of wearing foreign clothes which mostly consisted of the dirty rags worn by poor citizens.
I turned up my coat collar and the woman led me to the door (how polite). Mycroft placed a warm hand on my shoulder, turning me around. He was still pale and he looked genuinely worried about another human being.

"Sherlock you must know that things have...changed while you were away. If I had the courage to tell you about them I would -..."

"It can't be that bad brother dear. I can manage."

I shut the large metal door on my brother and the nameless woman. They were boring me. Mycroft's peculiar change in emotion wasn't very interesting and the woman looked of unimportance to me.

Anyway it's time for me to go visit some friends. Won't they be surprised to see me.