I don't own Sherlock, the BBC knowns Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's detective. I had this idea whilst I was lying in bed, and it sort of clicked into place.

Like a jigsaw.

Proven Innocent.

The First Pieces.

4 months. It was hard to believe it had been less than 4 months. For Mycroft Holmes, it felt like a lifetime since his brother's death. He was sitting in a comfortable, expensive, armchair, in front of a burning fire, and drinking from a glass of brandy. In another time and place, Mycroft would find the soundings of his home to be comforting, the smell of the burning wood making him feel that even in the world he lived in, the world people believed was simple, you could still enjoy the small comforts. But Mycroft wasn't comfortable, hadn't been since his brother had died. Since then only two thoughts dominated Mycroft's being; redeem himself for giving Moriarty the ammunition, as Dr. John Watson had correctly referred to it, the master criminal had needed to destroy his brother, the world's first consulting detective, even if Mycroft had thought the idea was a mistake, seeing as the police hadn't wanted Sherlock anywhere near their crime scenes, let alone wanted the help of a man who seemed to thrive on seeing the dead. Mycroft was aware that many in the force, oh how low they'd gone this time, had resented his dear brother.

The second was simply to get back at the people who'd forced his brother into jumping off that roof, and Mycroft Holmes wasn't going to back down from using his authority to make the lives of the people he believed responsible for Sherlocks death from paying the price. Acting on his own authority was something Mycroft was used to doing, in fact he did it regularly. But he'd never done it for personal reasoning.

Mycroft took a sip of brandy, barely tasting it, and swilled it around his mouth. It tasted bitter.

The next morning, Mycroft strode through the Ministry building he worked in, his body language screaming don't interfere with me, I'm not leaving until I get what I want, as he walked through the halls and corridors, but then again seeing as how he used this portrayal of her personality no one was really bothered. Entering an office, and dropping his coat and suitcase on a chair, but pausing to remove a file from the case, Mycroft walked on until he met a colleague. Mycroft didn't stop to chat like he normally would, he was a man determined to get what he wanted, and he was far from afraid to do it. He wasn't going to let a conversation stop or cheat him.

" Mr Holmes, they're inside," She reported, trying to match Mycrofts long strides.

" Good," Was all Mycroft said, his eyes forward as he marched on towards his destination.

The young woman took in a deep breath, " Sir, are you sure this is a wise..." She didn't say what she intended to say, and Mycroft knew it. Mycroft stopped walking, realising that moving and talking would mean convincing this woman that he was working on a personal vendetta. That was the last thing the elder Holmes wanted. He'd worked hard to convince the Bruhl family, and his own superiors to allow him to get to the bottom of what his brother had supposedly done. Mycroft knew his brother well, and regardless of what people in the police liked to believe, he knew Sherlock would never kidnap a child, let alone two children of the American Ambassador. Mycroft had jumped in, making sure to keep his identity a secret from the Bruhls, and letting other government people convince them that they simply wanted to know the truth. When Mycroft had stepped in, and revealed his identity, the Bruhls had been furious, this was the brother of the man who'd kidnapped their children. But Mycroft had used the dirtiest trick available to him; he took the ambassador aside, and whispered a few choice words into his ear. The ambassador, pompous to Mycroft's standards, had gone grey in terror at what Mycroft had promised to be revealed, and after a shouting match with his wife, which Mycroft hadn't watched since it didn't interest him much as long as he got what he wanted, the Bruhls had agreed.

Mycroft did feel a tinge of guilt about doing that to the family after the nightmare Moriarty had put their children through, but since he himself had a third of responsibility for what had happened to Sherlock, that guilt was pushed aside.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft explained himself, " Miss Tranter, " He said, recalling her name from a distant memory. If there's one thing he and his lamented brother had in common, it was their memory of faces and images. " I want to get to the truth of the incident in question, and I want to have an airtight case. Do I think this is wise? Yes, I do. I have managed to convince the Bruhl family and my superiors that the truth shall set them free, as it were."

Without saying another word, he walked away. Mycroft, like Sherlock, was an expert in reading body language, and he'd seen from the eyes of the woman Tranter that she believed his brother was guilty. He wasn't surprised. Most of the country did as well, and he would make the media pay for that. Mycroft was looking forward to using his connections to making sure the media fired the ones responsible and the police force from hounding his brother. It was the least he could do to redeem himself, even if he was too late. And that hurt Mycroft Holmes even more.

Claudie Bruhl and her brother, Max, were sitting in the interrogation table, and both looked frightened, and as Mycroft stood outside, watching them through the one way mirror, he wondered what Moriarty could've done to make Claudie sow the first seeds that led the police to arresting Sherlock. A number of possibilities entered his mind, but he wanted conclusive proof. The Bruhl's had done a good job holding the press off from their family, and hadn't exposed the masses of more dirt on Sherlock. What ever happened to respecting the dead?

He turned to a man next to him, " Is it recording?" He asked, knowing the answer. In interrogations of the British government, everything was recorded. The man nodded.

" Good," Mycroft replied, and walked into the room.

Claudie and Max were both frightened, but they'd been told by their parents that someone in the Brit government would speak to them. Neither child liked Britain, especially after their ordeal, but their parents had told them that as the American ambassadorial family, they were powerful people, and that no one in their right mind would kidnap them.

How wrong they'd been.

Mycroft strode in and sat down, arranging the file in front of him for a moment, before he folded his hands and regarded the two children with the patience of a saint. If Mycroft had heard that, he would've laughed. He wasn't a saint, and he certainly didn't feel like one.

The Bruhl children waited for Mycroft to speak, they'd been told that the people in Britain liked to let their...prisoners sweat a little, but they didn't realise that Mycroft was simply looking for the best angle to tackle the problem at hand. Master criminals, issues with the nation, Mycroft could handle them. But children were another matter.

As kindly as he could, Mycroft began, " I'm delighted you're both well. You must be interested to know why you are here." Leaning forward Mycroft carried on, uncaring about the children's thoughts, " I would like to know how you'd come to be kidnapped?" He asked.

Both children exchanged a look of fright, but their fear meant nothing to the determined Holmes, " I have a recording I want you to listen to, and I want to know if you can remember it from your ordeal."

Mycroft took out his mobile and played the recording, watching as both children paled in fear when they heard Moriarty's cold, insane voice, Mycroft couldn't blame them. Both children had been kidnapped, starved, fed chocolate with minute amounts of mercury to poison them, and Mycroft knew from the reports of the hospital that both children had been beaten many times. If that didn't cause trauma then Mycroft didn't know what did.

Mycroft stopped the recording, having had more than enough of hearing the voice of the man who'd pushed his brother over the edge, and regarded the Bruhl children, " Do you remember that voice?" he asked gently; Claudie looked like she was going to either scream or pass out, Mycroft wasn't sure which, and Max. Max had been the primary sufferer in this, he'd been in a nasty state, and now he was being forced to relive the ordeal.

Claudie bravely replied in a soft voice, but Mycroft heard everything, " He...he kidnapped us, dragged us from our room in the school. Max smeared linseed oil on the room, and on his shoes."

The rest of the story was how ' Sherlock' beaten them with his fists and feet, and with a wooden plank. Both children had been fed lots of chocolate, 'which tasted weird,' their words, so they wouldn't starve. Mycroft's eyes went cold when he heard from Claudie's perspective about how Sherlock had walked into the room after they'd been rescued. Here was the man who'd kidnapped them, force fed them chocolate, and beat them almost to death. Would he do it again? So, she'd screamed in terror.

When the story ended, Mycroft showed them a photograph of Moriarty, and Claudie and Max both screamed, or gasped in Max's case, and Mycroft hurriedly put it away to stop the shrill sound from breaking his skull.

" You know him?" Mycroft asked pointlessly; he was pleased, so whatever Moriarty had done to frame Sherlock hadn't stopped him from revealing his face once or twice.

Face grey with insurmountable terror, Claudie babbled, " He was there too! He was there when that - that monster beat Max up!"

Mycroft leaned forward, " He was there with the man?" He pressed, " Were they both there, together, in the same place? Both men?"

Both children nodded. Mycroft took his mobile and adjusted the voice recorder so then another voice sample popped up. " Now, Claudie and Max, I'm going to play another voice for you, and I want to know if you both know it?"

Watching the Bruhl children closely, as the voice was played.

Sherlocks voice, sarcastic, biting, played out, and Mycroft wished he were here right now. Mycroft watched both children, knowing that his questions would exonerate Sherlock, and restore his reputation.

" Do you this voice?" Mycroft asked after he stopped the recording, he'd seen both children's faces, and they were negative.

Both Bruhl children shook their heads, a look of confusion of their faces.

As Mycroft was questioning the Bruhl children, some of his people were raiding Kitty Riley's home. Ever since she'd broken the story claiming Sherlock Holmes as a fraud, she'd risen in prominence, but she hadn't left her flat because Mycroft had used his influence to stop her leaving. It hadn't been too difficult, and Mycroft had a reason. He knew that Moriarty, under the alias Richard Brooke, had stayed there for a time. Mycroft had carefully scheduled the search to coincide with his questioning of the Bruhl children, but so far they had found very little.

The searchers were about to give up when one of them called out to his equally bored supervisor after only 45 minutes of searching through it all.

" Sir, look." The man said, holding out a book and a mask.

The supervisor took the mask into his gloved hand, and looked at it carefully. The mask was quite lumpy but the face was recognisable. The face was that of Sherlock Holmes.