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Mycroft sat still letting the news wash over him. Information was coming in from around the country, it had been for some months, but it was only now that anyone was putting it together. The only reason it was figured out were the letters, and all anyone else knew was that his name had been spelled out, one letter at a time, in Greek letters across corpses. The killings were identical to another series of unsolvable murders, but Mycroft knew exactly who was behind it. Now he just needed to figure out why. Sherlock was live, of that he was certain. He was systematically killing low-level criminals around Great Britain and making sure his brother knew about it. Now it was just an issue of letting him know the message was received.
The next day an ad ran in the Sun and the Telegraph for information about the Greek man at the Sherring Ford Cemetery. Mycroft knew that Sherlock would recognize the name of their eldest brother who had died in infancy. There were several useless calls from around London, but by early afternoon he had Sherlock on the phone. Neither of them used names, but Mycroft was certain it was his brother. “You’ve been busy,” he said by way of greeting.
“You’ve not been idle yourself, I’m sure,” Sherlock replied.
“I’ve not been buried and mourned. Then again, it doesn’t surprise me at all that you’d be able to fool the system.” Mycroft already figured that Sherlock’s coroner friend had helped him. “I take it there was a good reason for the deception?”
“Several counts of life and death, as a matter of fact.” Sherlock’s tone seemed disinterested, but he knew Mycroft would realize how important it was that he had mentioned it at all. “Not the least of all my own. Though I take comfort in the fact that my funeral was well attended. It was somewhat unsettling, though, hearing my eulogies.”
Mycroft sighed. Of course he had gone to his own funeral. “Is there a reason you’ve been in contact with me, short of your innate desire to show off?”
“Meet me tonight. We need to speak in person. At the bedtime you used to argue for on holidays, where you gave me a low tar cigarette for Christmas. And do try to be inconspicuous. I know it’s hard for you.” He hung up.
Mycroft snorted in amusement. Sherlock had always been the one with the dramatic flair. 11:00 at St. Bart’s morgue, though. In nine hours he would see his baby brother again.
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He showed up promptly at 11:00 after making sure nobody had been following him. He stood under one of the sputtering lights knowing full well that Sherlock was likely skulking about in the shadows. He waited patiently, knowing Sherlock would make himself known whenever he was ready.
“You look well,” came a voice from behind Mycroft. He turned to see a gaunt pale figure emerge from the shadows. Sherlock was wearing his standard wool coat and scarf but instead of making him look imposing, they seemed to dwarf him.
“I wish I could say the same for you,” Mycroft replied. “Though quite a fitting place to meet, the junction between the living and the dead.” He gestured around the hallway then looked Sherlock directly in the eye. Though he knew his face would never betray it, he was relieved to see his brother alive. He was feeling too generous to make him beg. “What do you need?”
Sherlock let out a breath. He had hoped that Mycroft would recognize that this was a call for help. He had a list memorized of everything he needed, and he knew that if he told Mycroft even once, it would all be taken care of. “At the time of my death there was a mole inside of Scotland Yard, close to Lestrade. He was working for Moriarty. Deal with him. John and Mrs. Hudson need protection, but it must be without them knowing. Absolutely silent. I need several identities and impugnity within Europe, no, all of the world. Money and documents for travel and clothing. Untraceable ways to contact you.” Moriarty’s organization was much larger than he had anticipated and the small amount of money Molly had given him had run out. “Oh, and don’t as questions. They’re bothersome.”
“I’ve learned that this is the best policy whenever you go out of your way to be secretive. Unfortunately for you, however, I will need details on any identities you require and I will begin to ask questions if you abuse the freedom that I’m giving you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large wad of bills. “750 pounds. Get a prepaid phone and call me. I’ll have something to start you off within two days.” As Sherlock reached out to take the cash, Mycroft grabbed his hand. “One last thing, Sherlock. Be careful.” There was no hint of condescension in his voice, just the concern of an older sibling.
Sherlock nodded before turning back into the shadows. Mycroft waited around for another ten minutes before heading back out to his car. Details would be forthcoming on exactly what kind of identities Sherlock would need, but for now the security detail was the most important. If anything happened to his friends, Sherlock would never forgive Mycroft and he couldn’t stand to lose his brother through his own mistakes again.