Michael Holmes: Secret Son of Sherlock Holmes

The Story of Anabelle Powell 3

Flashback:

Sherlock blinked his eyes open again. A strong light blinded his eyes as he struggled to move. He looked at his surrounding to find himself attached to some tubes and machines. "What in the world...?" He questioned. He's definitely not in heaven, obviously. So hell, then? He pondered the question before the girl who introduced herself as 'Anabelle' came into view.

"Oh my god you're okay" She said holding Sherlock's arm tightly. "The police already caught the murderer. He's in jail now." Sherlock sighed as he turned his head to find a comfortable position beneath all the tubes. Ugh. I know how to solve mathematical problems and cases that even Scotland Yard would never be able to crack in minutes, but I don't even know how to kill myself? Sherlock sighed once more.

"So spit it." Unbelievable words came out of Anabelle's mouth. Not that it was offensive or whatsoever, but usually what Sherlock would label as 'boring humans' try to comfort him by saying all those cringy and cheesy things that would make him want to crawl into a hole and die. Sherlock was relieved that he wouldn't go through that torture again, but his head was definitely full of questions.

"What?" Sherlock muttered.

"I'm not dumb, Mr Holmes. You asked the murderer to kill you by the gun wound on your chest. It's too steady and precise. Either the guy is a professional which he clearly is not, or you knew you were going to get shot. In fact, you willingly wanted to get shot." Anabelle crossed her arms.

"Ah. I get it now" Sherlock said. "You're the police, aren't you? Aren't you dull polices taught to interview the victim after they recover or at least in a better condition? Surely Lestrade taught you better than that."

"I'm not with the police, what I want to know is why."

"Hm, quite odd for a police question. I guess my all-too-boring-life led to my suicide attempt. Anything else?" He rolled his eyes with an annoyed huff.

"Yes." Anabelle replied. "You're a freaking idiot."

"What?" Sherlock asked. Yep. Second time the all-too-brilliant Sherlock Holmes was actually confused and used the word 'what?' in less than a day. Wonders never cease to amaze. Truly a miracle.

"In that massive brain of yours you do realise there's a slim chance that one shot to the chest won't end your life, right? You know that Mark over here is an amateur at shooting and since he shot you at a open alleyway someone would probably find you before you bleed to death. But asking a murderer to shoot you? Clever, actually. Covered up the fact you just tried to commit suicide good enough for the police not to find out." Anabelle said. "Unless you already knew all of that, don't you, Mr Holmes?"

"You're quite good." Sherlock smirked.

"You're not so bad yourself." She smiled.

Just then, a man wearing a formal suit came into the room. He was holding a  blue umbrella in his arms that matches the colour of his suit, paired with a serious face expression on his face. He was typing on his mobile phone as Anabelle glanced at the man awkwardly. Finally he looked up from his phone. "Mycroft, what  are you doing here?"

"Precisely my question, brother-mine. What on Earth are you doing here?" Mycroft dusted himself as he approached the patient bed. Anabelle looked at the two. "Miss Powell, I suppose? I heard you found my brother." The man turned to her.

"How did you know?" She frowned.

"You look quite fragile for someone who works against the government. Really impressive work though." Sherlock looked surprised at the statement. And then a flood of realisation rushed through him. Of course she works against the government in the secret organisation, how did he not realise earlier?

"Getting slow, brother dearest?" Mycroft smirked when he saw Sherlock's face.

"...Not slow. Just the drugs." Sherlock said, eyes half-opened.

"Okay, I'll give you two a moment." Anabelle said as she walked out of the room. She went and turned the knob.

"No need, I was just on my way out." Mycroft said as he went out the door with her. He paused for a while, and looks back into the room for a while before leaving. "Would I expect an invitation by the end of the week, brother?" 'The Iceman' smirked.

"It's not funny when you have said it for my entire life now, Mycroft. It takes the humor away."

"I suppose you're right." He said as he picked up his umbrella, smiling once more at his little brother.

"Are you starting to show signs of brotherly affection now, Mycroft? Ooh. Who's the slow one now?" Sherlock teased, smirking.

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." He said before the door clicked shut.