Once again Andrew Cavenaugh is summoned to her office. Once again the room he enters is pitch dark with the heavy curtains blocking out the sunlight. He wonders why she thinks this is still necessary, the darkness, the desk lamp which only allows him to see a shadow in the dark.

He sits down at his end of the table, waiting to be addressed. The silence grows heavier, darker, suppressing him. He has heard the rumours about the shooting and he is tired of these games. Her plan was successful, so why making a show of it. Finally he has enough of her mind games and he breaks the silence.

"So Mycroft Holmes is dead?"

"I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Cavenaugh, but I consider myself quite alive."

He can't hide his shock, hide his startled reaction, especially when the room is suddenly flooded in light, proving the claim without any doubt. Adrenaline pumps through his veins while he considers his options. The desk lamp is still pointing in his direction, so he is still not able to read the other man's reactions. Not that it would be any use to him, Mycroft Holmes was always hard to read and his voice has given nothing away.

"What about Vivian?" He can't help but ask. Not that he particularly cared about her, but it might give him a hint what will become of him.

"Ms Kelly was unfortunately involved in an accident. I'm afraid she didn't make it."

Again nothing in the voice, just a simple statement. He feels his palms going sweaty, resists the temptation to dry them on his trousers. He tries to stay calm, tries to think, wants to say something, but before he can make an attempt to explain himself, Holmes speaks again.

"However, as I was informed, your particular talent was employed in something that narrower minds might call treason."

"And what would Mycroft Holmes call it?"

The shake in his voice is almost inaudible, but that's probably not good enough in the presence of this man.

"That depends. I prefer to make a decision upon all the facts."

"And which facts do you want?" A stupid question, he is aware. But old habits die slow, and he was taught to only admit what the other already knows.

"You forged my writing on documents related to 'Project Apprentice'. I assume you can tell me more about it?"

"I know nothing about it. Vivian left me the instructions and nothing else."

As soon as the words have left his mouth, he feels the surge of desperation. God, why did he lie, as if it would ever work.

"That's unfortunate."

For a tiny moment he is allowed to hope that his lie has worked, but then he feels the needle in his neck. There is nothing he can do to prevent his head falling on the desk and the last thing he hears before the final click of the door is the smooth voice of Mycroft Holmes.

"Thank you, my dear. Please take care of Mr. Cavenaugh; I shall inform my brother and Dr. Watson."

AN: The original prompt for the story was: Sherlock and John are together, and Sherlock's ranting on about crap telly or something, but he's also occasionally babbling about a case, too, and John's not paying full attention. Accidentally, in this process, Sherlock says a phrase that's a Trigger, switching John over to assassin mode - sort of a jeckyl/hyde/black ops thing - and since the phrase has been spoken by Sherlock, John's focused on Sherlock to be his 'handler' and tell him who/what/where/etc. How does this happen? How does Sherlock figure it out? Did Mycroft know? Does John even know? What happens next?