A/N:

Part of the plot parallels some events in The Reichenbach Fall. Please note the date of publication on this story. I came up with the idea independently of Steve Thompson.

Also, many of the places I reference in here are real, some are made up. Some are made up but may coincide with the names of real places - if so, that is unintentional. I'm not making any money from using the names of the real places and I don't want to step on anyone's toes, but it would make a pretty crappy story not to use actual places in Edinburgh.

I do not own, nor do I profit from. Enjoy!

John awoke to find Mycroft and Sherlock sitting opposite each other in the living room, neither of them speaking but not in the way that indicated they'd had a row.

Yet.

Mycroft was sipping tea and Sherlock was fiddling with his violin, cleaning it and tuning it, clearly waiting for John to be up so he could play, since as soon as he emerged from the bedroom, Sherlock set the bow to the strings and started playing. If it could be called that. He had a tendency to deliberately bend the notes into something resembling a screeching cat for his brother's benefit.

When John glared at him, Sherlock stopped, even though the detective had his eyes closed and hadn't seen it. The sound changed to become an actual melody, for which John was grateful. It was enough to deal with Mycroft being there first thing in the morning.

Although, knowing the Holmes brothers, Mycroft had probably been awake for hours. Sherlock certainly had – John had felt him get out of bed in the early hours of the morning and had forced himself to sleep through a string of curses following what sounded like a minor explosion.

There were days – many days – when John considered that his tour in Afghanistan had been solely in preparation for life with Sherlock. If he could sleep through warfare, he could sleep through anything, even Sherlock. He'd even managed to shake the detective off following the minor crisis when Sherlock had crawled back into bed and begun nibbling on his ear and neck. Normally John didn't protest this, but in a sleepy way, he'd decided he was not going to be the distraction for some experiment gone wrong that probably needed cleaning up.

Judging by the mess in the kitchen, it still did.

John raked a hand through his hair and nodded at Mycroft, who returned the greeting.

"'Morning, Mycroft," he said, swallowing on a yawn.

"Good morning, John. There's more tea in the kitchen."

Mycroft had made himself at home, as always. He had to, since Sherlock was not particularly inclined to play the gracious host with him or with anyone, really. John wandered into the kitchen, glancing at the mess on the table that was still fizzing gently, and fixed himself a cup. He heard the violin music stop in the living room and Sherlock came in, standing behind him, and ran his fingers through John's hair over and over.

"What are you doing?" John sighed.

"Fixing your hair."

"No, you're making it worse."

"I like it like this," Sherlock said, then kissed John's neck quickly so the doctor couldn't shrug him off.

"Will you clean up your mess?" John sighed.

"Not right now."

"Before we leave? It can't stay like this all weekend."

"If I let it I could document the results."

"Until it starts eating away at the table then the floor and the flat collapses on Mrs. Hudson's? I know you wouldn't want that."

"That's hardly going to happen, John," Sherlock snorted.

"You don't know that."

Sherlock just grinned against his neck, then nipped his ear.

"And stop it, we have company."

"It's only Mycroft."

"Um, yeah, that makes it worse, actually."

Sherlock laughed and pulled away, heading back into the living room, John following him. The detective flopped back into his chair, sprawling his long limbs everywhere, and John sat down more decorously, gazing at his brother-in-law.

"What is it, Mycroft?" he asked. He found it better to just get the information straight out, since Sherlock would dance around it for ages if given the choice, and they did have a plane to catch that afternoon, not to mention packing, not to mention John was not showered or dressed and had not eaten.

Mycroft reached into his suit jacket smoothly and pulled out a regular postal envelope and extended it to Sherlock, who grimaced but sat forward to take it. The detective flicked it open with a long, dexterous finger and pulled out the contents. John could see it had already been opened, probably by a letter opener, which meant Mycroft had done so.

Well, that made sense. It was addressed to him, after all.

Sherlock tossed the envelope aside casually and unfolded the single sheet of paper, glancing at it.

"Oh. Another one."

John frowned over his tea mug, giving Sherlock a questioning glance that was completely ignored.

"That's three in two years," Mycroft said.

"Yes, well, not unexpected, really," Sherlock replied, passing the sheet of paper off to John, who leaned forward and took it, frowning at it.

"What do you want me to do about it, Mycroft?"

"Look into it."

"No. I've done so. There's no information."

John ignored the conversation in favour of the letter – if it could be called a letter. There was nothing on the paper except a very brief message that looked like it had been written in coloured pencil.

It was a sketch of two human eyes, the symbol for one half, and the word "it".

"What is this?" he asked, looking up again, transferring his gaze between Sherlock and Mycroft.

"A clue," Sherlock said with disdain. "Or it would be, if Mycroft hadn't been getting the same message in the post on a routine basis for the last what... nine years, Mycroft?"

"Nine years," Mycroft agreed.

"What?" John asked. "Why nine years? What does it mean?"

Sherlock looked at him with grey-eyed incredulity.

"Obvious, isn't it?" he asked in the way that John knew indicated he was pleased John hadn't puzzled it out because it meant he got to do the explaining.

John wasn't about to give him the immediate satisfaction, however. He sipped his tea, considering the bizarre message, and at least tried to work it out himself. He knew he was at a disadvantage because not only was he up against Sherlock, he had just woken up and hadn't even had a full cup of tea yet.

Nonetheless, he gave it his best.

"Two eyes," he mused, not looking at Sherlock for any hints, still sipping his tea, "the half symbol, it. Well, two eyes could be two I's, right? Two people? We? I think it would have to be 'we' instead of the plural 'you' or else it wouldn't be an eye, it would just be the letter 'u'. So… we one half? Or maybe to halve? We halve it? That doesn't make much sense, does it? But if you halve something, you're dividing it, right? So, we divide it?"

He risked a glance up and Sherlock was grinning at him, grey eyes bright and dancing, and Mycroft was giving him an appraising look.

"Very good, John!" Sherlock exulted and John felt a stab of pride – he was getting better at this, wasn't he? And without a full morning tea, even.

"But completely wrong," Sherlock continued and John felt himself deflate, giving his grinning spouse a scowl. "Excellent analysis, though, and on barely any caffeine whatsoever. Not an interpretation I had thought of, I must admit."

"Well, then, how do you know I'm wrong and you're right?" John demanded.

"Timing," Sherlock replied.

"Timing?"

"Yes, timing. Your habit of having me repeat myself is endearing but always baffling. I know you can hear me. I'm sitting not two metres from you."

John sighed, waving the paper gently.

"Right, then what does it mean? And what do you mean about timing?"

Sherlock sat up properly and reached a hand out, wiggling his long fingers until John returned the paper to him and then flopping back against his chair's cushions.

"Two eyes, yes, you're right about that, obviously," Sherlock commented. "But you're thinking about this too much. Or not enough. They are two eyes, but it's slightly simpler than your analysis."

John stared at him, trying hard to think, and Sherlock gave a slightly huffy sigh.

"Just 'eyes', John. And we can assign the definite article 'the' as the indefinite articles 'an' and 'a' do not fit grammatically and there is no indication of a possessive, such as 'your' or 'my'. This is under the assumption that our correspondent has a basic grasp of the English language, of course. A risky assumption given the level of education of the general public but with limited information, we must start somewhere."

"The eyes divide it?" John asked. "What does that mean?"

"As far as I know, nothing," Sherlock sniffed and John rolled his eyes. "It's not halve, John, it's half."

"Wouldn't half of two eyes be one eye?"

"Yes, except it isn't actually denoting something being one half. If you account for pronunciation differences, or accents, or perhaps just sloppy use of the English language, it's not 'half', it's 'have'."

"The eyes have it?"

"Almost," Sherlock said. "The ayes have it."

John blinked, staring at him.

"As in, an affirmative vote."

"Affirmative vote– oh, the ayes have it? Wait, what? Mycroft, why would someone send you that phrase in code written in coloured pencil?"

"As I said, timing. He only gets these when there's a contentious vote in Parliament, generally in the British Parliament, but at the beginning, the Scottish Parliament."

"Still that sometimes," Mycroft said and Sherlock nodded, still watching John.

"Okay, but why?"

"Well, we know the why," Sherlock said dismissively. "Murder, most probably."

"Oh, yes, murder," John said. "What murder?"

Sherlock waved the paper again.

"Before I knew you," he said, and John blinked, because sometimes the time before they'd known each other was forgotten, and Sherlock was not one to revisit old cases when fresh new cases with new puzzles were so much more enticing. "Nine years ago, like I said."

John sighed and looked at Mycroft for an explanation. The older Holmes twitched his eyebrows up in an expression that spoke to John of long suffering patience.

"Nine years ago, the ten-year-old daughter of a Member of Scottish Parliament was kidnapped and presumably murdered shortly before a rather contentious vote. The girl, Kelsi Murray, was the daughter of the sole sitting Independent MSP, James Murray, and we have always believed that the murder was entirely politically motivated in an attempt to force Murray to either abstain for voting or change his vote altogether. He did neither."

John tried to recall the case, but he'd been in Afghanistan at the time, and British politics, especially Scottish politics, had seemed a long way from where he was.

"What's it got to do with you?" John asked Mycroft.

"Mycroft investigated it," Sherlock replied, not bothering to clarify why – if this was a politically motivated murder, John had a pretty good idea that Mycroft would be interested in it. "But it never came to anything, nor did the police investigation."

"Did they ever find her?" John asked.

"No trace," Mycroft sighed. "Nothing. Only these, every time there's a controversial vote. James Murray now sits in the House of Commons here in London. Despite it all, he's maintained a solid political career. Whoever wanted to get to him failed."

"What a waste," John muttered.

"Yes," Mycroft agreed. "It certainly is. And all we have are these letters."

"This is nothing," Sherlock scoffed. "Never posted from the same place in the UK twice, no return address that isn't faked or a post office box, no hint of the girl's body, no fingerprints on the envelopes, no DNA. The only link is the timing, which we already know is related to the initial murder itself. There isn't anything here, Mycroft. You've looked into it, I've looked into it. This isn't someone who wants to be found or acknowledged. This is simply someone who wants to taunt you because you can't solve it. I know you've checked with the detective who was assigned this case in Edinburgh when it first happened, and I know she still gets these as well, at the same time as you, because I have also checked. I also know that hers are not sent from the same post offices as yours. So. What do you want me to do? For all that John seems to think I'm a mind reader, I am not, and I cannot simply guess at who it is. Someone took the girl and most likely killed her and disposed of her and wants you to know he's bested you. That's all. He doesn't care that you don't know who he is."

The matter-of-fact tone of Sherlock's voice made John frown although it didn't really surprise him.

"It shouldn't be allowed to go unpunished," Mycroft said severely.

"No, it should not be allowed to," Sherlock agreed. "But it is. And, as such, is boring. I cannot catch a killer who refuses to be caught, who has taken every precaution against being identified."

"Well, that should tell you he's a professional," John said.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said. "Again, not much to go on. What should I do, put out an advert for all professional killers who have not been caught to please come to this address so we can turn them over to the police? I'm sure you can imagine how successful that would be."

John rolled his eyes and Sherlock thrust the paper back at Mycroft.

"I'm on my way to Edinburgh today, Mycroft, and don't think it escaped my notice that you presented me with this now. I'm not interested. I am, in fact, very clearly saying no. I've done what I could, I've looked into it, there's nothing left to find except the girl's body, which has probably been dissolved in lye anyway."

John winced at Sherlock's tone – sometimes he just didn't care. Even after all this time, it was hard to be reminded of that.

"I have a wedding to attend. I am in a wedding. I don't have time for this. I'm not chasing down shadowy killers who leave no clues, not least because I have no means to start locating them, and I also refuse to do so in what is quite a spiffy tux. I paid a hefty sum for that and I intend that my money should not go to waste."

At this, John tried to swallow on a snort of laughter and the quick glance Sherlock cast at him told him he hadn't entirely succeeded.

Mycroft sighed.

"Surely there's something," he insisted.

Sherlock paused, then shook his head.

"Do you still have the others?" he asked, glancing at his brother.

"Yes, of course."

"Well then, I will send you round to see someone. She can have a look at the sketches themselves and the colours and perhaps tell you something about the 'artist' or the type of pencil used, but even that's unlikely to be particularly helpful. Her name is Holly Adams and she's an expert."

"Another one of your motley assortment?"

Sherlock flashed a genuinely offended look at Mycroft.

"Motley assortment? Is that any way to refer to John? Have some respect."

John rolled his eyes and privately agreed with his brother-in-law – when he got right down to it, they were an odd bunch. A consulting detective who happened to be a social awkward genius, a former army surgeon, make that two former army surgeons, an Interpol agent who had legally been dead for awhile, a three year old girl who had Sherlock entirely wrapped around her little finger, their sixty-something year old landlady, a nurse on the short-term card ward at St. Mary's and a forensic artist who had made her start by unwittingly drawing a serial killer giving a solo cello performance.

And that wasn't counting Sherlock's homeless network or the myriad other "experts" he consulted on a semi-regular basis.

And somehow, this had all become normal to John.

"She's a forensic artist and works for the police in an official capacity."

"And for you in an unofficial one," Mycroft said, and Sherlock just shrugged. He texted Mycroft her address.

"I'll let her know you're coming round later today. Don't send Anthea, she's rather impersonal. If you want this done, go yourself."

"All right," Mycroft agreed with a put upon look.

"And now, if you please, John and I still have to pack. Plane to catch and all."

"I could have flown you up on the jet," Mycroft pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged again and Mycroft sighed, got up, retrieved his umbrella, and put the envelope back in his coat pocket.

"Text me when Holly doesn't find anything," Sherlock said.

Mycroft gave another sigh, shaking his head.

"Have a good time in Edinburgh."

"I intend to."

"Good-bye, John."

"'Bye, Mycroft. Take care."

The elder Holmes brother nodded and left and Sherlock followed him down the stairs, locking the door behind, then clattering back upstairs as John tossed a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. He should at least get some breakfast, since Sherlock seemed to be shirking his breakfast-making duties that day.

Sherlock slipped into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around John's waist, nuzzling his neck. John sighed pointedly as Sherlock feathered kisses up his jaw line and along the edge of his ear.

"Like you said, we still have to pack."

"Non," Sherlock said, the word sending a shudder through John which made Sherlock grin. "Tu n'as pas besion."

John thought he understood this as "you don't have to" and tried to hold his own against the French, which Sherlock knew always undid him.

"Yes, I do," he countered.

"Je l'ai fait pour toi."

"What?"

"I did it for you, John," Sherlock replied, nibbling at his ear. John reached for the toast that had just finished in the toaster, trying to ignore what was going on behind him.

"When did you do that?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual, but Sherlock's hands snaking around the waist of his sweatpants and undoing the drawstring were making it difficult.

"While you were sleeping and ignoring me," Sherlock purred in his ear. "Had to do something."

"What about your mess?"

"It will still be a mess later. It's in no rush."

"I need to eat," John said.

"You'll have time. Later. Viens avec moi."

John gave in, because he knew he'd lost. He almost always lost. It wasn't such a terrible defeat, though. There were far worse fates.

"Do I trust you to have packed properly for me?" he asked, turning in Sherlock's arms, gaining only a little space to do so.

"You tell me," Sherlock said, arching an eyebrow at him.

John sighed but smiled and Sherlock grinned, pulling him into a triumphant kiss.