Mists of London Chapter Five

[nevermoreraven]

Apparently, the thing to do in these situations is complain.  The basic details were hashed out between me and my muses last night.  Though I do have to say, I think I made them mad.  They refused to let me sleep until they'd gotten everything figured out, which meant it was a bit of a late bedtime.  Oh, well.  No sleep for a writer, huh?
(On a somewhat random note...why does it automatically space after putting a comma in the tags?  Not that it's really bad, but I just realized that's why it randomly becomes double spaced on me when I'm not even doing anything.  I'm just a bit puzzled.)

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: Teen
Trigger Warning: Mycroft referring to Chapter Two.
DISCLAIMER: If I owned any of these ideas, I wouldn't be a relatively poor college student.
Summary: "What are you suggesting?"  "My dear Doctor Watson, I wish I knew."

John knew that walking around London in the hopes of randomly meeting Sherlock was idiotic, since the man was dead, but he kept doing it anyway.  He was, however, annoyed when he noticed the black expensive car trailing him.  If Mycroft knew what was good for him, he would stay away.  It would give John a lot of satisfaction to punch the smug bastard in the face.

So when the car pulled up beside him and the door opened, he kept walking.  "Leave me alone, Mycroft.  Sherlock was right about you.  You do love to interfere."

"Get inside, John."  Odd.  The elder Holmes brother was annoyed, yes, but there was a new tension in his tone that hadn't been there the last five visits.

"There is no way that you are getting me to..." he began, only to be cut off.

"It's about Sherlock."  Anger, frustration, something else.  John could do little more than hesitate for a moment, for show.  He couldn't resist, not when it was about Sherlock.

"What do you have to say that you haven't said every time you see me now?" he asked, bitterly, after climbing into the back with Mycroft.  The driver started off.

Without a word, the elder Holmes handed over a tablet.  With a picture of...

John gasped, feeling his hand trembling worse than ever.  This...this looked like Sherlock.  Aside from the dress and the long hair.  Worse for the wear, feminine, but still...

What was Mycroft up to this time?  "What are you showing me a picture of your sister for?" he snarled, turning to the elder Holmes with anger.

With aristocratic sorrow, Mycroft answered, "We didn't have a sister.  Interesting, isn't it?"

There were a thousand better descriptive words John could come up with than that.  Mycroft wasn’t trying at all.

"She's currently at the Yard.  Sexual assault, I think they said."  John noted that although Mycroft's voice sounded calm at that, his hands trembled.  "She broke the man's nose and kneecap, and proceeded to insult the police officers who arrived.  Sounds like my brother's operating procedure, as I'm sure you'll agree.  No memory, they said.  On my instructions, they'll probably do a doctor's examination, just to make sure that she really is a she and there's no surprises we'll need to be aware of.  She also seems to have Sherlock's talent for observation and deduction."

"What are you suggesting?" John asked, feeling all of the anger flood out of him in a second, leaving curious emptiness.  Only what he'd been living with for the last five months.

Mycroft turned to him with eyes of infinite sadness.  "My dear Doctor Watson, I wish I knew."