Sherlock Fanfic Deceptions Chapter One

********SPOILER ALERT!!!! DO NOT READ ON IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE END OF "SHERLOCK" SERIES 2.

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Deceptions

Chapter 1

"How was he?"

Sherlock stood tensely in front of the quietly crackling fireplace. Though he had his back turned to his brother, his eyes quickly sought him out through the pristine glass of the gold framed mirror mere inches from his face. His hands were the only betrayer of his self-possessed front, pressed painfully into the mantlepiece as if it were his only means of support

"What do you think?"

Dressed in an immaculate black mourning suit, Mycroft hooked his umbrella onto a stand beside the door and made for one of the plushly upholstered chairs that flanked Sherlock like a couple of bodyguards. He sighed as he sank down into the rich scarlet material, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Quite a loyal turn out despite the stories continuing to circulate the tabloids. Molly put on a good show, I must say. One would never guess the part she really played." Mycroft raised an eyebrow, suddenly looking thoughtful. "Then again, perhaps the tears were real."

"She's an emotional girl."

"But strong where it counts. By faking your death she saved your life."

"Yes. Yes, she did."

And Sherlock would never forget it. He owed more than his life to Molly Hooper.

There was a long drawn out silence, only punctuated by the heavy ticking of the elegant Victorian grandfather clock that dominated the room.

"So," Mycroft started, staring up at Sherlock's lean frame in frustration. "What now?"

"I don't know."

Mycroft blinked in surprise. "That's a first for you, brother dear. No more tricks up your sleeve? I'm all astonishment."

Sherlock turned at last, his sharply angled face set tight as his eyes flared with restrained anger. "I need time. Time to think." His gaze absently flicked across to the grandfather clock. His mind was such a chaotic maelstrom of activity that he found the slow rhythmic ticking unexpectedly reassuring. It served to remind him that life ticked on. That he wasn't dead. That he had beaten Moriarty at his sick twisted game.

"Well, you've certainly got plenty of that on your hands. No more cases for you. Lestrade will have to use his own brainpower for once."

"Lestrade is the least of my worries."

"Ah. Which brings us back to the crux of the matter."

Sherlock took a deep breath and walked over to the second armchair. He faltered a moment, conscious of Mycroft's stare boring into him, before sitting down, his hands desperately grasping the chair sides much like they had the mantle-piece.

"Do not fret. He will cope. John is a survivor. One of her majesty's finest."

Sherlock rolled his eyes with disdain. "Queen and country," he mumbled beneath his breath. "All you've ever cared about."

Mycroft frowned but refused to take the bait. "Unless you intend to retreat to the other side of the world and live out the rest of your days as a Mongolian goat farmer, you won't be able to fool the world forever, you know. You are taking a risk even being here." He shot Sherlock a puzzled look. "Where have you been this past week anyway?"

Sherlock fleetingly averted his gaze, appearing mildly uncomfortable. "Molly's flat."

Mycroft smirked.

"There wasn't the time to plan an alternative domicile," Sherlock threw back defensively. "And it seemed the least likely place anyone would suspect."

"Why should anyone suspect? Your battered and bloodied corpse has been front page news all over the world." Mycroft smiled smugly. "Thanks to the same cyclist who stalled John long enough for you to orchestrate your elaborate deception." He leaned forward slightly, his face darkening. "The Queen and Country you seem to abhor so much."

Sherlock met his brother's eyes. Both sets narrowed stubbornly before finally relaxing in defeat. In truth, neither possessed the energy for a pointless skirmish.

"The photo was a good move," Sherlock said at length. He managed a twitch of an appreciative smile. "Thanks."

His brother feigned amusement. "Now that wasn't so hard, was it."

Sherlock dragged his fingers through his hair and wearily dropped his head back against the chair. He stared vacantly up at the gilded ceiling, as opulent and ostentatious as the rest of Mycroft's grand house. "I'm sorry, John," he whispered beneath his breath, his chest tightening in response. He knew that this was all for the greater good, that he had saved John's life by faking his death, but he couldn't shake off the guilt, the belief that he was somehow letting him down with this cruel deception.

If Mycroft heard his words he didn't let on. "How did you get from Molly's to here without being recognised?"

"Disguise."

"A good one, I hope."

Sherlock continued to stare at the ceiling. "I don't do anything by halves."

"No, you don't," Mycroft conceded.

When Mycroft's mobile suddenly rang, Sherlock was grateful for the interruption. He may have offered a white flag but he wasn't in the mood for his brother's lecturing.

Mycroft swiftly retrieved the phone from his suit pocket and answered it. "Yes?"

Sherlock watched him with half an interest, still thinking about John. Even Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were in his thoughts. He rubbed edgily at his temple, unaccustomed to dealing with these sorts of emotions. As a rule he preferred to give emotions a wide birth. John joked that he was like a Vulcan, but it made life a lot easier and a hell of a lot more productive. He hadn't lied when he had said that he was married to his work. There was no room for anything else.

At least...there hadn't been.

But now?

His career was finished and wretched emotions were running rampant through his usually restrained and rational chain of thought like a virus, corrupting the flawless hard-drive he had spent decades refining.

"And you are quite serious about this?"

Sherlock noticed that his brother had gone a little pale all of a sudden. He found himself tensing again as his brother ended the call and returned his mobile to his pocket.

"What is it? Not John?"

Mycroft slowly shook his head. "No, not John."

Relief flooded through Sherlock, though he still waited anxiously for his brother to continue. He could tell by the man's demeanour that something had happened, something bad.

"Moriarty," Mycroft whispered sinisterly.

Sherlock felt a shiver run the length of his spine. The blood coursing through his veins seemed to have turned to ice. The rooftop confrontation ricocheted through his mind. Moriarty's crazed eyes as he had rammed his gun half way down his throat and pulled the trigger. "What about him?"

"His body."

Sherlock could see his nemesis lying there, framed by a widening pool of deep red blood, that despicable face supercilious even in death.

"What about his body?" Sherlock dared, part of him not wanting to hear the rest.

"It has disappeared. Disappeared from the morgue."