JimLock:The Consulting Detective and the Consulting Criminal

Prologue

       Sherlock gaped at the screen. Mycroft had brought him to a large room with white walls and black marble floors. A large screen was mounted on the wall, and there were a few others in the room- obviously worried. The room was full of comfortable looking couches. No one was sitting. One woman (two small dogs, hates her job, cheating on her husband, alcoholic, smoker) was wringing her hands and nervously pacing. Her footsteps echoed off the walls. Not easily worried, Sherlock thought to himself.
     "Well, brother dear?" Mycroft's voice ripped through his thoughts.
     "I thought you were the smart one, Mycroft," Sherlock retorted. Mycroft had constantly teased Sherlock about such things as a child.
       "It is always good to have a second opinion, is it not?" He was clearly baffled.
     "Yes, I suppose, but why mine? Obviously I'm qualified, but you've never seemed to think so."
         "I have business to attend to," Mycroft lied. "Which is why I called you back."
      Sherlock looked back towards the screen. The image still haunted him. He had to look away.  He knew he couldn't get away from it, though. It was broadcasting to every screen in England, two words playing on repeat drilling terror into those who knew and fear into those who didn't.
      But that's impossible. I was there, I watched him pull the trigger- for heaven's sakes I saw a piece of the man's brain come out! How on Earth did he do it? But then again, Sherlock had faked his death just moments later. How did he do it- well, let's just say it took much planning, but him- how on Earth did he do it? Sherlock thought hard, revisited all of the information he had about him- perhaps he had used the other man. But he isn't even real! Sherlock thought. What if that was a lie as well? What if everything concerning him was a lie? It seemed like the type of thing-
          "Are you going to help us or not?"
          "What are my options?"
          "You can either find him," Mycroft replied.
          "Or?"
          "Or you can return to your exile."
    Sherlock laughed, long and low. "Is there really a choice?"
       Mycroft nodded. "Good, so we're settled." He turned to walk off, but Sherlock called him back. "Mycroft."
    Mycroft stopped, and without turning around, he said, "Yes, you may go back to 221 B."
      Mycroft walked towards a man in a black suit. He whispered something to the man, who glanced at Sherlock and nodded. "Right this way, Mr. Holmes."
       Sherlock followed the man, leaving the room, but he could never leave the face of the dead man- James Moriarty- behind. And the two words that would haunt his dreams.

          "Miss me?"