Disclaimer – I'm still not Conan Doyle (although I may be the tooth fairy… or perhaps not…)

I own Sweetie though…

Notes – again, not slash, cos that's just not right for these two… mostly Holmes' POV… and Mycroft is slightly evil in this one!... oh, just read it!

Upon reflection – Holmes is probably OC here, just to warn people who get annoyed by that sort of thing… I'm not sure I've got him right.

MAJOR WARNING HERE – I DISCUSS A SERIAL KILLER AND HIS VICTIMS LATER ON IN THE STORY AND EVEN FOR ME ITS KIND OF DISTURBING SO IF YOU'RE THE QUEASY TYPE SKIP THE CHAPTER HEADED 'THE CORPSE' - - - DO NOT READ THAT CHAPTER AND THEN WHINE TO ME THAT I DIDN'T WARN YOU

Timeline – immediately prior to and post 'The Empty House' – and I guess this counts as an AU

Observations of a Boswell

Prior to the Reunion – Mycroft

I have to admit that the death of my brother brought out the worst in me. Watson's telegram was a considerable shock – the thought that the puffed up mathematician Moriarty could actually do Sherlock some harm had never been seriously considered by myself for all of my brother's dramatics. That the dolt Watson had abandoned my brother at his hour of need for a stranger, and a fictitious one at that, leant a particularly sharp edge to my tongue when the doctor paid me a visit in our mutual mourning.

Two days later I received a telegram from Sherlock himself, using a code that we had contrived in a distant and rare moment of accord in our childhood. No one else would have known of the codes existence, in fact I was hard pressed to recall it myself in the first instance, and that alone was sufficient to prove to me that the sender was truly my brother.

As per usual, the niceties had completely eluded him, and he had sent a short list of instructions for me to follow. It seemed that Moriarty had been more heavily involved overseas than we had first thought; therefore Sherlock was intending to smash the remnants of the Professors network prior to returning to London. He needed funds, which I supplied in return for him running a few minor errands for England; in addition to this he had instructed me to preserve his rooms at Baker Street and to inform the doltish doctor of his survival.

That last instruction was something I found very easy to ignore. A dead man had no enemies, thus he could not be distracted by petty and commonplace things. Watson's ignorance played well into my plans, so I maintained the silence between us. Let the man think that I continued to blame him for Sherlock's demise. Perhaps the histrionics that would accompany my brothers' eventual return would drive a much needed wedge between them. I disliked seeing my brother beholden to someone so far below his natural level. Watson was something of a millstone about Sherlock's neck: I could only hope that after several years of freedom from such an unnecessary weight, my brother would avoid becoming entangled once more upon his return.

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