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Murder at the Diogenes Club

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It wasn't clean by any means. Bloody and completely unexpected; Lestrade grimaced.

A few hours earlier

Walking down the halls of the silent Diogenes Club, Mycroft held back a sigh of exasperation behind his mask of cold indifference. The Minister of Foriegn Affairs had screwed up royally with the negotiations regards the Swedish Royal family's upcoming visit to England. He already had to contend with the Americans failure in their latest espionage operation regarding their ongoing mission in information gathering on Iran's weapons development. On a more positive note he was due to have tea with the Queen at three thirty tomorrow afternoon and Elizabeth was always such wonderful company. A few moments ago he had received an email regarding a package that had been left in one of the rooms on the upper floors in the far left wing of the club. The reason it wasn't delivered to him personally is complicated and I will not go into all the minor details of why it was there and what it was about.

When he finally reached the dark oak door sudden feeling of unease echoed through him. It is impossible to explain all the thousands of scenarios and reasons for this sudden feeling of warning that passed through his mind in those few short seconds but let it be known that the elder Holmes' movement to open that door was a calculated and certain decision.

The scene that greeted him caused him to spring immediately into action. His usual face as a comfortable desk worker vanishing as a man from his past took over. He dodged the incoming blade that was thrown towards him, swiftly disarming the first man. It only took a swift hit to the Vagus Nerve situated between the neck and shoulder to send the attacker into an ungraceful heap on the ground behind him. Before the body had even hit the ground Mycroft was moving. Using his umbrella as a weapon, he hooked the handle around the wrist of the next man, flicking it upward in a quick twisting movement, effectively knocking the serrated blade out of his hand. His eyes tracked the movement of four guns being drawn out of the holsters of the remaining men. Opening his umbrella the bullets hit the waterproof material and were reflected by an experimental diamond fibre reinforcement. Moving forward he spun around the next man, closing the umbrella to deliver three fast hits, shattering the man's elbow and dislocating the right shoulder with a sickening crunch; only milliseconds later the umbrella was open again and three bodies lay behind him.

It happened so quickly. In a single movement, a single slip up and Mycroft found himself with a bullet in his right shoulder. The pain hit him so suddenly and he faltered back a step. Cursing his choice to let his skills go rusty, Mycroft grit his teeth and let anger course through him. Clicking the handle of his umbrella, the front half fell away revealing a long silver rapier. Cutting down two of the three remaining men, indifferent to the death of the people he had originally resolved to keep alive. Blood sprayed across his formally pristine suit, the lower half of his face and the white of his shirt stained with red. The last remaining man stood there in shock, swearing he lifted his gun to shoot the politician.

He didn't hesitate. Clicking the handle one last time, the blade fell away revealing a pistol. Eyes burning in cold anger Mycroft pulled the trigger, perfect aim hitting the attacker in the centre forehead.

Mycroft stood there for a full minute, long after the last body had hit the ground. Post battle adrenaline wearing off, the pain from the bullet wound came back full force.

"Fuck," Pulling off his blazer, he placed pressure on the wound, creating a makeshift bandage with the dark fabric.

It was in that moment that a number of his agents rushed in, guns raised and far too late. Anthea stormed in after the all clear was given. Calling an ambulance, the police having already been notified, she sent a half furious, half worried look towards her boss.

"Mr. Holmes." She grit out.

"Anthea." He nodded.

"Get them out. I want to who the fuck let them in." She growled at the incompetent guards.

"Simon Rushwell," Mycroft gestured to the dead man slumped in the corner of the room. He made a quite gruesome sight. "Figure out why he was a target."

"Understood."


Lestrade stood over the body of Simon Rushwell. His right hand had been cut clean off, shot four times in the chest with multiple broken bones, not to mention gagged as well. In a club a silent as the Diogenes Club, the only reason this man's torture wasn't heard was because the entire left wing was void of people.

Simple and straightforward. The only reason Sherlock hadn't been called was because of the 'politician' sitting three metres away having his shoulder bandaged. By the time he had arrived, Mycroft was having a bullet dug out of his shoulder, barely flinching with his shirt and lower jaw splattered with blood. A woman stood behind him typing furiously on her phone.

Walking over to the older Holmes, Greg introduced himself.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he held out his hand.

"Mycroft Holmes," He returned, shaking Lestrade's hand but making no move to stand up.

"What happened?" Greg asked, getting straight to the point. Wiping the blood off the side of his face with a cloth, Mycroft responded.

"I entered the room and found myself confronted with six armed men and the dead body of Simon Rushwell. I removed the threat and got shot for my troubles. The guards have removed the assailants from the premises, I can assure you that they are on their way to a secure government facility."

Lestrade's eyes widened in surprise.

"I am a former field agent Inspector. I'm afraid the only reason I got shot was due to years out of active duty."

After that conversation, the police went through standard procedure.


Mycroft wasn't sure what possessed him take on a six armed men with nothing more than his, admittedly quite cool, umbrella. Sure he had sent an alert to Anthea before entering and yes he was one of the best field agents England has ever had but he had been retired for over seven years and while he still kept in shape, he hasn't been in a situation like this in quite a while. He knew he was 'rusty' as some would put it, this was one of the reasons Sherlock called him fat. It wasn't that he was unfit in any way but more so that fact that he was happily in a desk job running the country and had a fondness for sweet foods.

His mind strayed to slightly darker thoughts. He remembered a time when he would recklessly throw himself into missions, before Sherlock turned to drugs and Mycroft got sick of all the direct blood on his hands. He wondered if anyone would miss him if he died. Yes Anthea would be upset for a while. Being around someone constantly for over five years tends to start the makings of sentiment but he was certain that she would get past her grief and serve whoever his successor might be quite well. Mummy would certainly grieve if she were still alive but alas she died long before he had graduated university. The government might have a bit of difficulty during the transition of power but nothing too noticeable should happen.

And then there's Sherlock.

His relationship with Sherlock has always been odd, twisted and strange. Their obligation towards one another as family must not be mistaken for familial love in any way and his constant meddling in Sherlock's life has caused a rift to grow between them. Holmes' have never been good at conveying emotion for one another as his Mother would say.

Would Sherlock miss him if he died? The little brother he swore to protect when he first held him in his arms as a child.

It was these thoughts which cause his heart to darken with depressing thoughts. It was quite depressing to think about no one mourning you after death. He blamed the shock of the situation for his slip in control.


Anthea watched as Mycroft sat silently on a chair in the corner of the room. If she had known him for any less time, she wouldn't have noticed the growing sadness and whirlwind of both destructive and negative emotions running through her boss. But she did. Understanding exactly what was plaguing his mind, she turned to the Detective.


"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" He turned to see the assistant, Anthea his mind supplied.

"Yes?"

"I'd like you to call Sherlock Holmes to the scene."

"Sherlock?"

"I understand that his expertise isn't needed but I need him to come over and he won't read my texts if I send them."

"Why?" He questioned, still confused as to why Anthea would have his number in the first place. 

"Please. I promise it is important."

Seeing no harm in following her request, Lestrade picked up his phone texted Sherlock.


"Bored!" Sherlock yelled at the empty air. John, used to his best friend's antics, ignored him and continued reading his newspaper.

The phone buzzed signifying an incoming text and Sherlock leaped up from where he lay on the sofa and eagerly snatched up the device.

"Lestrade?" John asked from his seat in the living room.

"Yes-" Sherlock's comment suddenly cut off.

Murder. Diogenes Club.

His phone rang and Sherlock immediately picked up.

"Lestrade." He rushed out.

"Sherlock, there's been a murder. Man in a suit dead. Politician by the looks of him-"

"Ma'am you can't enter, this is a crime scene." An officer's voice rings out.

"I am his assistant!" A woman's voice calls out in the background. Sherlock would recognise Mycroft's nameless assistant anywhere.

"-His right hand's been cut clean off. Shot four times in the chest. Multiple broken bones. You coming?"

His blood freezes and his heart constricts in an extremely painful way that could only translate to shock, concern and most frightening of all, sentiment. In a flurry of movement Sherlock has left 221B Baker Street and has flagged a cab.

"Sherlock? What did Lestrade say?"

"Murder. Politician. Diogenes Club." And that's all he says. A cold feeling settles in John's stomach.


Mycroft picked up his umbrella, it had been reassembled long before the police arrived. The whole thing is bloodied and even though the fabric is bulletproof, it's still received damaged.

It seems as though Sally Donovan has just walked in and had stopped Anthea from re-entering the room, having not noticed her beforehand.

"Ma'am you can't enter, this is a crime scene."

"I am his assistant!" Anthea yells frustrated. She's been in a terrible mood due to a combination of things and she will not have some woman stop her from doing her job.

Lestrade calls out to the Sergeant, having finished his call, "Let her through Sally!"

Mycroft handed his umbrella to Anthea.

"Get it cleaned and repaired."

"Yes Sir." She hesitated after taking it.

"I am fine Chloe." He says quietly, speaking her true name. Nodding she turns and presumably hands the umbrella to someone outside.

Minutes slip by before a sudden cry distress is heard from outside.

"What are you doing with that?!" It's Sherlock's voice, anyone who's worked with him before would recognise that. It takes a moment for Mycroft to comprehend why his brother sounds so fearful, upset, concerned even. He looks over to Anthea and suddenly everything clicks. Surprisingly it caused a warm feeling to spread throughout his chest. The darkness in his mind lifting a little.

She told the Inspector to call Sherlock and it seems as though his little brother wasn't notified that he was still alive. Sherlock would've probably only been told of a murder at the Diogenes Club. Holmes wasn't a common surname but it wasn't rare either and with his reddish brown hair and Sherlock's dark curly locks, they wouldn't have made the familial connection and given him Mycroft's name. He must've arrived just as one of his men were taking his bloodied umbrella way.

While his mind seemed to be processing the fact that his brother actually cared about him, a flurry of footsteps had alerted all present to Sherlock and John's arrival to the third floor.

"Hey Fre-" Sally started but Sherlock didn't care, pushing past the Sergeant, Anderson stopped him.

"Don't mess up the crim-" Uncaring of the comment the duo continued through hurriedly.

Lestrade was shocked to see Sherlock. Eyes wide and breath uneven, his entire frame radiating distress. The younger Holmes' eyes darted around the room until the landed on the witness who was sitting in the far corner. His breath caught and he froze, staring at the man as if he would disappear at any moment. Oddly enough, the Politician looked back calmly and held Sherlock's attention without flinching. John seemed to sag with relief, letting at a heavy breath before placing a comforting hand on his best friend's shoulder. Sherlock seemed to calm at that and his breath became more even, frantic and terrified look disappearing as if it were never there.

Anthea smiled.

"No need to be alarmed. Six assailants, Simon Rushwell was their target. I dealt with the situation."

"I'm not alarmed." Sherlock bit back but comment lacked its usual force and his eyes kept darting between Mycroft's bandaged shoulder and his face.

"Bullet wound, not deep, it'll be healed suitably within three weeks."

"I'm surprised a fat, lazy prat like you could throw a punch." Sherlock commented but it was more relieved than anything. Sally however didn't see that.

"Hey Freak! You can't insult a witness like that-"

"As you know very well, I was a capable field agent before I took my current position." Lestrade, although previously confused with all that had happened finally made the connection between the two men.

"Really? I thought you hated field work Mycroft." John commented surprised.

"Of course he hates it John," Sherlock said before continuing slightly quieter, "That doesn't mean he is incompetent."

That comment caused all those in the room to raise lookup in surprise and Mycroft couldn't help the small smile which appeared on his face. Sherlock made to step towards him, hand half reaching towards him before dropping back down. The look he wore before coming back but less urgent and more uncertain. Suddenly seeming to have come to a conclusion, Sherlock shocked Mycroft by laying his emotions bare for everyone to see. Everyone apart from Mycroft and John could swear that they've never seen him look so vulnerable before.

"Can I-I.. uh…" Sherlock looked as though he wanted to screw his eyes shut but couldn't bare to look away from his brother. Mycroft understanding exactly what he was trying to say did not hesitate to stand up. In three quick strides he did the unexpected.

Mycroft wrapped his good arm tightly around Sherlock, pulling him in closely to his chest. The younger man froze, eyes wide with shock before his composure seemed to shatter. Burying his face into Mycroft's good shoulder, a small tremor ran through his body. Arms wrapped around his older brother, hands clenched onto the fabric as if it were about to slip through his hands. A shaky half sob left Sherlock's lips.

The whole room stood frozen in shock. Even Anderson and Sally could say nothing at the sight of the Freak breaking down in front of them.

Mycroft's eyes softened. Uncaring that his ice man facade had fallen. Happiness radiating through him at the knowledge the yes, if he were to die he would be missed. That Sherlock would miss him.

"Hush little brother. I'm not going anywhere. It's okay." This only caused Sherlock to cry harder.

"I-I thought you w-were dead Myc. I th-though I'd lost you."

"But you didn't brother dear. I'm right here. I'm right here." His voice cracked slightly towards the end.

The two of them stayed like this until Sherlock had calmed down. Eyes slight red, they pulled away from each other.

"Greg if that's all we'll be leaving now okay?"

"Yeah, sure, fine." Lestrade muttered still in shock at seeing Sherlock so distressed alongside finding out that he had a brother.

Anthea, John and the Holmes' made to go.

"Sherlock! He called out before they left, "I'm sorry for not telling you who had died."

"It's not your fault Lestrade, I've always been indifferent to the names of the victims. There was no way of you knowing this would be different."

John and Anthea smiled as the drove back to 221B. The younger Holmes taking care to make sure his brother was comfortable when they arrived.

And if Sherlock didn't leave Mycroft's side until the next day then who was there to tell?

~fin~