PARDON ME

Chapter 1.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft, his voice tinged with threat.

"Mycroft," responded Sherlock, without the slightest hint of concern.

Sherlock was reclining in his armchair before a crackling fire, violin laying across his lap. The very picture of insouciance, a sign reading 'bugger off' couldn't have signaled his disregard for Mycroft's presence any more clearly. Across the room in the doorway, Mycroft appeared to be similarly unaffected by the disagreement with his younger brother. Only a slight whitening of his knuckles on the carved handle of the umbrella resting at his side hinted at his annoyance.

"May I remind you, Sherlock, that it was you who suggested that I…what was your phrase?...oh, yes, 'be a good big brother' by getting you a pardon?" Mycroft grimaced. "Now that I have done so, I strongly suggest that you cooperate in the process lest you find yourself facing the charges that I have so diligently sought to dispose of on your behalf."

"I'm perfectly willing to cooperate with a pardon, Mycroft. It's the rest of it I have no intention of engaging in." Sherlock said.

"The 'rest of it', as you so blithely put it, is not optional. If you want to spend the rest of your life outside of a prison cell, you'll stop this nonsense now. Plans must be made, people must be notified. And you need to behave yourself."

Sherlock simply shrugged and closed his eyes, fingers steepling underneath his chin. Mycroft huffed and crossed the room to drop into the opposite armchair. He smiled slightly at the scowl creasing Sherlock's face. The armchair was the previous domain of his former flatmate, John Watson. To Sherlock's mind, the chair would always belong to John, only being occupied in his absence by the most worthy of other people. So far, just Mrs. Hudson had qualified for that honor. Mycroft certainly did not.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"I am not going to be trotted out like some prize show dog for your cronies just so you can score points, Mycroft. Pomp, circumstance and I don't mix." Sherlock snatched up the paper on his lap. "I will sign this, and I will even hand it over in person if necessary, but I will not play dress up with the aristocracy. That is not going to happen, so you better find another way to make this pardon work, or Mummy will be very angry."

"She will be far angrier if she has to visit you behind bars, Sherlock. Have you forgotten that you murdered a man in cold blood and before witnesses? You are in no position to negotiate."

"That won't stop him from trying," chimed in John, who'd just arrived at the door. Sherlock smiled. "What's that?" John asked.

"Mycroft's inadequate attempt to rescue me from incarceration or exile," Sherlock responded, holding out the paper to John.

"APPLICATION FOR ROYAL PREROGATIVE OF MERCY" was typed in bold lettering across the top. "Sherlock Holmes" was typed in small letters below the heading. John scanned the sheet, his eyebrows rising as he read.

"It says here that you're receiving a pardon, but only on entry of a conviction for crimes against the Commonwealth," John said. Sherlock and Mycroft nodded.

"Yes," Mycroft said. "One of the very few requisites for a pardon from the monarchy is that it is reserved for convictions. But unlike judicial pardons, no trial or other public affair is necessary to the process. Indeed, it is not even mandatory that the crime pardoned be identified."

"That's particularly handy when the Commonwealth itself has covered up the crime," Sherlock added.

Mycroft sighed. "Yes, that is a problem. We can hardly make it known that Sherlock murdered Charles Augustus Magnussen when the public has been given to believe that he expired of a heart attack," he agreed.

"He didn't have a heart," said John darkly.

While he had been shocked to his core when Sherlock shot Magnussen through the head on Christmas Day, he didn't regret the man's loss. Magnussen had been a cold, vicious predator who didn't hesitate to use information gathered through his position as a newspaper editor to destroy lives. When he had turned his focus to John and Mary to leverage their relationship with Sherlock to get to Mycroft, he'd crossed a line that John wasn't willing to ignore. Still, it was Sherlock, not John, who had stepped up to that line to put an end to Magnussen's intelligence vault, his own brain. And in so doing, put his own life at risk. That, John did regret.

He returned his attention to the paper. "It's also effective on signature by…wait, is this right?" John sputtered.

"Yes, it seems that my dear brother is leaving no stone unturned in his effort to keep me available to do his legwork for him."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Merely a favor from an old friend," he said.

"The Queen?" John yelped.

Sherlock snorted. "Don't let him fool you. Mycroft doesn't have any friends, so he has to make the most of the one relationship he can exploit."

"Nonsense," snapped Mycroft. "There have been quite a few calls for greater transparency in granting of Royal Prerogatives of late. They are almost always signed by the Lord Chancellor. But since they are also rare, it's a perfect opportunity for him to make a show of ceding to pressure. Hence, his willingness to make records supporting their grant public. We can't have that."

"No, we can't have that," said Sherlock mockingly. Mycroft ignored him.

"No one, however, would have the gall to question Her Majesty's decision to pardon anyone. Hence, the necessity of her involvement in this matter."

John gaped for a moment, then a grin crept across his face. He looked at Sherlock. "You said you'd turn this over in person," he said, waving the application paper. "That means…".

"Just so," said Mycroft sourly. "My little brother will have to meet the Queen. And that, I'm afraid, necessitates some degree of ceremony, which he's being very unreasonable about."

"Oh, my God," John gasped, laughing. "Please, please tell me I can come watch. Hell, I'll buy a ticket if necessary."

Mycroft frowned, clearly not sharing in John's glee. Sherlock laughed.

"No need, John. There won't be a meeting. I refuse to be the star of Mycroft's little dog and pony show."

"But if an in-person meeting is required…" John began.

"It is," affirmed Mycroft.

"Then you have to go," John finished.

"No," said Sherlock flatly.

Just as Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, John stepped forward, dropping the application for prerogative onto Sherlock's lap.

"Yes," he said. "That is your ticket to freedom, Sherlock. And I don't care if you have to dress up in a clown suit and dance with the devil to get it, you will do it." Sherlock made to argue, but John cut him off. "I won't have my daughter growing up without her godfather. That's not up for discussion."

Sherlock closed his mouth and goggled at John. Mycroft chuckled.

"He has you there, brother mine." Mycroft stood and gathered up his things. "So, I will call you with the date and time. And, Sherlock, get a morning suit together for the meeting. The one you wore to John's wedding could do nicely."

Sherlock just blinked at John. "You want me to be the godfather?" he said incredulously.

"Yes, we've been through this before, Sherlock. When I asked you to be my best man. You, me, best friends, remember? Of course we want you to be her godfather." John smiled.

"Well, I'm so glad that that's decided," said Mycroft snidely. "I'll be off now."

Sherlock shook his head slightly to clear it then glared at Mycroft. "Are you still here?" he demanded. Sighing, Mycroft left the flat. John took his place in the armchair opposite Sherlock.

"Seriously, Sherlock, you really do have to go through with it. Whatever Mycroft says to do, do it." Sherlock began to scowl. "No, really. It's this or the Eastern European mission, yeah?" John asked. Sherlock nodded.

"Right then. I'll see if I can rustle up the wedding finery again. Because I am coming with you so we both better look sharp." John smirked.

Sherlock snorted, then sank down in his chair and pouted.

Deep in the bowels of a hospital, a man wearing the uniform of a commercial cleaning service emptied several small bags marked "Waste" into a larger black rubbish bag mounted on a cart. He tied the larger bag closed and moved the cart toward a nearby elevator.

The elevator dinged as it arrived at the garage level of the building. As the man stepped through the elevator doors with his cart, a van pulled up and two men hopped out. After scanning the area for bystanders, they pulled the bag from the cart and loaded it into the van. One of the men nodded toward a security camera, which was focused on the adjacent aisle. He drew out a gun and shot the camera expertly, blowing out its lens. The he turned and shot the uniformed man in the head.

The van drove away as the cart rolled across the garage, coming to rest against a parked Mercedes, whose motion alarm began to wail.