Self-Portrait

"You knew this all along?"

"Of course."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It wasn't important."

Raindrops on the roof. The scent of recently polished wood. The Study of the Neurologically Challenged. A coaster with a recently made brown ring: coffee at 3:15pm. He must not have much sleep last night.

"You didn't think the small, but vital fact that Jim Moriarty and Professor Moriarty aren't the same person wasn't important?"

I drum my fingers against the smooth leather surface of the armrest. Cool to the touch. No one has sat here in the last 24 hours. Mycroft is really not understanding me. Irritation. Impatience. How do I explain myself more clearly?

"Jim was in the way. He was trying to take over. He needed to be stopped. I stopped him."

"And?"

"Isn't a thank you in order?"

A known felon is dead. I am mostly responsible for this action. What more does he want?

"Oh, my dear brother. No, I am not going to thank you for making me use my power to allow you to flawlessly fake your death, only to find out it was a waste of time!"

He is being especially dense this morning. I push my elbows against his desk. Mahogany. What else.

"Don't you get it? Jim Moriarty was the Professor. He was his face, his eyes, his legs. Anytime the prof wanted to go into public, he had his dear little brother do his work for him."

"So basically Jim is to the prof what you are to me?"

"In the sense that Jim was the younger and smarter brother, yes."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. Oculomotor eyelid and eyeball movement. I wonder where eye rolling came from. Possibly some connection to the upward rolling of eyes seen in frightened animals.

"Professor Moriarty never gets his hands dirty. That's why he is a consulting criminal. That was the missing piece. There's no way he'd ever put himself in danger to talk to me. Jim Moriarty, on the other hand, is a bored psychopath. He loves to show off, flaunt his intellect, and throw himself into danger."

"He's sounding more and more like you."

He is like me. Why else would I know precisely what he was to do. It was a complicated chess game. I won.

"The prof knew his brother's nature. He asked Jim to meet with clients and pretend to be him. Jim is fantastic actor, as we know. He spent a good portion of his life pretending to be someone else."

Mycroft sighs. He drums his pen on his desk. Ballpoint pen from his university: graduation present. I wasn't there.

"You look idiotic."

Of course I do. There's fake blood coating my eyebrows and plastering my hair to my face. What did he expect? I just got back from faking my death.

"Go with Anthea and get cleaned up."

Who's Anthea? Oh, she's probably the girl who just walked in. She was probably standing outside the door, waiting for her name to be mentioned. Mycroft must've texted her. Freshly cut brown hair, black sweater, short black skirt: cares about appearance. Face buried in Blackberry: faked unconcern. Pays more attention to her surroundings than others think. Locket around her neck, faded color: sentiment. Probably a romantic partner or close family member. Rusted edges: hasn't been opened for a while. Something happened between them. She still cares about the person: wears the locket often. Still feels some resentment: doesn't look at the picture.

Rustling behind me, desk area. Mycroft hands a new duffle bag to the girl. She doesn't look up. She slips the straps over her arm and saunters over to the door. She holds it open with her free hand. She stands there, waiting. Presumably for me.

"What's in the bag?"

"You'll see."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gray cardigan, checkered shirt, and skinny jeans. Pale red mop of curls: well made wig. Gray beret: French? College student? American model? No, definitely French. The thick-rimmed glasses and brown contacts are a nice touch. I look younger. Less intelligent. Seriously, this cardigan is terrible. I look like a scrawny boy.

"I hate cardigans!"

"Stop acting like a spoiled little boy, Sherlock."

"I don't wear cardigans."

"That's the point."

I don't look like myself, that's for sure. I guess I can make do with the disguise. A door opens, click of modestly high heels. Anthea. Her reflection in the mirror would've confirmed that for an ordinary person, I suppose. What looks like a caterpillar is in her hands, alongside the glue. No.

"Absolutely not."

"Sherlock–"

"No. I'll wear the cardigan. You are not putting a fake mustache on me!"

I. Hate. Mustaches.

"Alright. But we'll have to get some makeup. You need to be unrecognizable."

Obviously. Mycroft does love to state the obvious. As it is, this disguise is pretty good. Not that I'm admitting that. But would it work for a police officer? Unassuming, yes. Anderson will be intolerable. I suppose I'll have to deal with his condescension. He's such a moron. Maybe I can hate him in my alter ego as well. That won't be too obvious. He has to be used to people hating him.

Anthea is pulling some papers out of her leather messenger bag. My forged documents. I was born in France, moved to Oxford at age 13. That would explain the clothes. I have a graduate degree in criminology. My resume is doable. I'll have to act a lot more ordinary than I would prefer. Anthea's voice broke my thoughts.

"Ok, Sherlock. What name do you want?"

Cheveux. Strong, very French name. My father is French, my mum is English. I guess I should have an English name. William? I could simply go with my given first name. Common enough. "Hamish. John Hamish Watson. Just if you were looking for baby names." John.

"Hamish William Cheveux."

I turn back to the mirror. Mycroft is giving me a weird look. Understanding? Sympathy? He must know John's middle name. He's Mycroft after all.

"Ok, we're sending you to France. Any accent will be explained by the time at Oxford. We have some field work that needs done there and-"

"No. I'm staying here. For now, anyway."

"What are you talking about?"

"There's too many loose ends here. Moriarty's whole criminal network, my innocence, not to mention the Professor."

I can't leave. My work is here. I have so much left to finish. My innocence needs to be restored. Moriarty's ring. I love this city. I have a flat here. And...

"Absolutely not. Too dangerous! You could be recognized."

"Could be dangerous." John. That's something we have in common. An addiction to danger. The thrill of not knowing what will happen next. Flushed faces, pounding steps, minds working overtime. The adrenaline pumping through our veins. Our.

"You need me."

Mycroft stares at me. He is weighing the pros and cons. Does he care enough about his little brother's safety to keep him from ensuring the nation's security?

"Alright, but be careful."

Apparently not.

{ A/N: Please review. I absolutely love constructive criticism! I'd love any tips you have for me to make this better! }