The Man With The Umbrella

- 35 -

"I met her once." Mycroft spoke after finding himself and Sherlock situated in his underground office. "Thatcher?" Sherlock turned to question whilst pausing his pacing. "Rather arrogant, I thought."

"You thought that?!" Sherlock questioned, baffled. Mycroft simply chuckles. "I know." His smile drops as he holds up his brothers phone. "Why am I looking at this?"

Sherlock pauses his pacing, once again. "That's her. John and Mary's baby. Didn't Amelia show you?"

"Oh, I see..." Mycroft looks to the picture on the phone. "Yes..." He smiles in a very fake way. "Looks very..." He pauses in attempt to find the correct words. "Fully functioning." He remained silent for a couple of more seconds taking in Sherlock's final question in. "Amelia has been keeping herself busy and she did mention the baby, hence why I asked you the why of seeing another photo." He grumbled.

Sherlock frowns. "Is that really the best you can do?"

"Sorry. I've never been good with them." Mycroft retaliated. "Babies?" Sherlock throws as an ideas. "Humans." Mycroft smiles smugly. Sherlock steps forward to retrieve his phone before collectible sitting down in the uncomfortable chairs. "Don't you pursue in goldfish, though?"

"Amelia is not a -" Mycroft began only to be interrupted. "Goldfish. Yes, I know. She's an exception to evolution. Is that why you've asked for mummy's wedding ring?" He deduced rapidly with a undoubted blink to his eyes. Mycroft remained startled for the second being before relinquishing himself. "I still yet to venture to Mister and Misses Watson in Staffordshire, Stoke on Trent, and mummy did promise the ring to either of us who are to consider marriage first."

Mycroft didn't bother boasting in denial, instead, he neatly tucked his chair under the desk and clasped his hands tightly together in front of him. "You're serious?" Sherlock questioned whilst folding one leg over the other. "Regrettably so, brother mine." Mycroft snivelled once, wishing the entirety of the conversation away.

"Moriarty. Did he have any connection with Thatcher? Any interest in her?" Sherlock elaborated, bringing the original intent of his visit to order. "Why on earth would he?"

"I don't know. You tell me." Sherlock replied tetchy. Mycroft sniffs before opening a folder. "The last year of his life, James Moriarty was involved with four political assassinations, over seventy assorted robberies and terrorist attacks, including a chemical weapons factory in North Korea, and had latterly shown some interest in tracking down the Black Pearl of the Borgias, which is still missing, by the way, in case you feel like applying yourself to something practical." He sped through to read.

"It's a pearl. Get another one." Sherlock then turned to look away in a thoughtful manner. "There's something important about this. I'm sure. Maybe it's Moriarty. Maybe it's not. But something's coming."

Mycroft frowns in dismay, his mind oddly looking back and remembering the words Viola spoke to Amelia, days ago. The young Watson spoke about how afraid she was of something big happening. "Are you having a premonition, brother mine?"

"The world is woven from billions of lives, every strand crossing every other. What we call premonition is just movement of the web. If you could attenuate to every strand of quivering data, the future would be entirely calculable, as inevitable as mathematics."

Mycroft smiles briefly at the blandness of Sherlock's comment. "Appointment in Samarra."

"I'm sorry?"

"Merchant who can't outrun Death. You always hated that story as a child. Less keen on predestination back then." Mycroft reminisced. Sherlock narrows his eyes in retaliation. "I'm not sure I like it now." He muttered. "You wrote your own version, as I remember. Appointment in Sumatra. The merchant goes to a different city and is perfectly fine." Mycroft aggravated on.