(ONE MONTH LATER, Third-Person POV: )

John was at a NatWest cashpoint machine on some street. Alice had ordered him to go get milk cos she ‘needed to delete trees.’ Apparently each tree had a ‘tap’ of information. John still didn’t understand.

He inserted his card. Typing in his PIN, he then selected a transaction. After a few seconds he was greeted with the onscreen message.

“There is a problem with…

your card…

Please wait…”

John grimaced and a second later a new message appeared:

“Thank you for…

your patience.” A moment later the message added:

“John.” John frowned, and behind him a black car pulled up to the curb and stopped. John turned and looked at it, then turned back to the ATM, sighing in exasperation. However, he still hadn’t learned his lesson about getting into strange cars and apparently meekly got in and allowed himself to be driven to an elegant white painted building. It had a brass plaque outside, declaring the venue to be ‘THE DIOGENES CLUB’.

He went inside and entered a large room, which – back when the building used to be a house – was probably a drawing room. A large marble fireplace surrounded an unlit fire and the walls had heavy wooden panelling and ornate white plaster coving. The room contained five small round tables, each with a single armchair beside it, and four of them were currently occupied by smartly dressed middle aged or elderly gentlemen reading newspapers and taking no notice of each other or of the new arrival.

John looked around and then walked over to one of the older men sitting at the far end of the room.

“Er, excuse me. Um, I’m looking for Mycroft Holmes.” He began awkwardly. The old man’s face became appalled but he didn’t look up. “Would you happen to know if he’s around at all?” John continued. Some of the other inhabitants of the room behind John looked round at him but didn’t speak. “Can you not hear me?” John asked sceptically. The old man looked up at him, huffing indignantly. John held out a placatory hand to him. “Yes, all right.” He said, turning around to the others in the room. “Anyone?” John sighed. The others turned their faces away from him. “Anyone at all know where Mycroft Holmes is? I’ve been asked to meet him here.” John continued, getting tired of the act. The old man lifted his walking stick and pushed the end of it repeatedly onto a button on the nearby wall. A distant bell rang. John looked around in confusion as the gentlemen either ignored him or looked at him in annoyance. “No takers? Right.” He was annoyed. He raised his voice. “Am I invisible? Can you actually see me?” He demanded. Just then two men wearing dress coats walked into the room. John turned to them. “Ah, thanks, gents.” He thanked, sound relieved. Behind him, the elderly gentleman flapped his hand frantically at the new arrivals as if to say, ‘Get him out of here!’ The dress coated men, wearing white gloves and soft white overshoes to muffle their footsteps, walked briskly over to John. “I’ve been asked to meet Mycroft Holm...” John began, but he broke off as the men walked to either side of him and seized his arms firmly. “What the...? Hey!” He cried. As they almost lifted him off his feet, one of them put his other hand over John’s mouth to silence him. His muffled protests continued as they rapidly bundled him out of the room.

Shortly afterwards John had been taken to a smaller room and the door had been closed firmly behind him. Mycroft was in the room with him and poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter.

“Tradition, John. Our traditions define us.” Mycroft began.

“So total silence is traditional, is it? You can’t even say, ‘Pass the sugar.’” John scoffed.

“Three-quarters of the diplomatic service and half the government front bench all sharing one tea trolley. It’s for the best, believe me.” Mycroft said, amused. He smiled round at John but then his face became more grim as he walked towards a pair of armchairs in the middle of the room. “They don’t want a repeat of nineteen seventy-two. But we can talk in here.” He added. John walked to a small table and picked up a copy of The Sun, which was lying on it. He brandished it at Mycroft.

“You read this stuff?” The doctor asked.

“Caught my eye.” Mycroft shrugged.

“Mmm-hmm.” John hummed, sitting in the chair across from the Holmes.

“Saturday: they’re doing a big exposé.” Mycroft told him, raising his eyebrows. John read the announcement at the top of the front page. The headline read: ‘SHERLOCK: THE SHOCKING TRUTH’ with the strapline, ‘Close Friend Richard Brook Tells All’. The article revealed that it was an Exclusive from Kitty Riley and the text read: ‘Super-sleuth Sherlock Holmes has today been exposed as a fraud in a revelation that will shock his new found base of adoring fans. // Out-of-work actor Richard Brook revealed exclusively to THE SUN that he was hired by Holmes in an elaborate deception to fool the British public into believing Holmes had above-average ‘detective skills’. // Brook, who has known Holmes for decades and until recently considered him to be a close friend, said he was at first desperate for the money, but later found he had no-” John stopped reading there.

“I’d love to know where she got her information.” John drawled, thinking back to the Old Bailey.

“Someone called Brook. Recognise the name?” Mycroft asked. John lowered the paper and shook his head.

“School friend, maybe?” John offered. Mycroft laughed in a snide way that made John want to slap him.

“Of Sherlock’s?” He chuckled again. “But that’s not why I asked you here.” He walked to a side table and picked up several folders. Returning to John he gave him one of them. John opened the file and looked at the photograph on the top page.

“Who’s that?” John asked.

“Don’t know him?” Mycroft replied.

“No.” John answered.

“Never seen his face before?” the ginger one asked.

“Umm...” John looked at the photo again.

“He’s taken a flat in Baker Street, two doors down from you.” Mycroft raised his chin a little.

“Hmm! I was thinking of doing a drinks thing for the neighbours. Alice liked the idea.” John mumbled. He smiled sarcastically up at Mycroft who looked back at him straight-faced.

“Not sure you’ll want to.” He nodded towards the folder. “Sulejmani. Albanian hit squad. Expertly-trained killer living less than twenty feet from your front door.” Mycroft explained.

“It’s a great location. Jubilee line’s handy.” John joked.

“John...” Mycroft gently scolded.

“What’s it got to do with me?” John asked.

“Dyachenko, Ludmila.” Mycroft said, handing him another folder. He sat down opposite John, who let out a long tired groan as he opened the file and looked at the photograph inside before frowning a little.

“Um, actually, I think I have seen her. Alice was talking with her.” He said, remembering the females.

“Russian killer. She’s taken the flat opposite.” Mycroft said grimly.

“Okay... I’m sensing a pattern here.” John said, beginning to sound nervous.

“In fact, four top international assassins relocate to within spitting distance of two hundred and twenty-one B. Anything you care to share with me?” Mycroft continued, handing him the rest of the files. Looking at the photographs of the other assassins, John chuckled, and then looked up at Mycroft.

“I’m moving?!” He teased. Mycroft looked back at him, unamused, and then narrowed his eyes.

“It’s not hard to guess the common denominator, is it?” He asked, still serious.

“You think this is Moriarty?” John replied.

“He promised Sherlock he’d come back.” Mycroft reasoned.

“If this was Moriarty, we’d be dead already.” John countered.

“If not Moriarty, then who?” Mycroft asked ominously.

“Why don’t you talk to Sherlock if you’re so concerned about him?” John asked sarcastically. Mycroft looked away and toyed with the glass on the table beside him. John rolled his eyes.

“Oh g*d, don’t tell me.” He sighed.

“Too much history between us, John. Old scores; resentments.” Mycroft explained.

“Nicked all his Smurfs? Broke his Action Man?” John teased, obviously in a good mood. Mycroft glowered at him. John couldn’t help but laugh, then pulled himself together and put the files onto the table beside him. “Finished.” He said in whisper. He stood up and turned to leave the room.

“We both know what’s coming, John.” Mycroft warned. John stopped and turned back, clearly now struggling to control his anger.

“Moriarty is obsessed. He’s sworn to destroy his only rival.” The Holmes insisted.

“So you want me to watch out for your brother because he won’t accept your help.” John stated tightly.

“If it’s not too much trouble. I know you already watch over Alice.” He directed a smile at John but it quickly faded and his expression became more threatening. John held his gaze, then looked away, nodded in a resigned way and turned to go to the door again. Opening it, he looked back at Mycroft once more, who still had the same look on his face, then left the room.

221B

A taxi dropped John off opposite the flat. As he crossed the road, he couldn’t help but be aware of people passing by in the street, wondering if any of them were the assassins keeping an eye on the flat. As John reached the front door – which was standing wide open – he saw that a brown envelope had been left on the doorstep. There was nothing written on the front but the back had a large old fashioned wax seal on it. He peeled open one corner of the envelope and put his finger in to slide it along the edge and slice the rest of the envelope open. Immediately a lot of brown dust, with some larger chunks of brown something, fall out. As he caught some of the debris and looked at it, a man’s Cockney voice spoke behind him.  

“’Scuse, mate.” The man asked politely.

“Oh.” John mumbled, stepping aside. As he did so, a heavily tattooed bald-headed man wearing jeans and a black vest carried a stepladder into the hallway. John followed him in, putting the envelope into his pocket as he went. He trotted upstairs and went into the living room.

“Sherlock, something weird...” John began. He stopped as he saw that Lestrade and Donovan were in the room with Sherlock and Alice. “What’s going on?” He asked.

“Kidnapping.” Sherlock and Alice said, Alice sounding much more solemn than Sherlock.  Sherlock went over to the table and sat down, beginning to type on the laptop.

“Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the U.S.” Alice said, explaining a little bit more and glaring pointedly at Sherlock.

“He’s in Washington, isn’t he?” John asked, a little confused at the sudden news.

“Not him – his children, Max and Claudette, age seven and nine.” Lestrade corrected. Sally showed John photographs of the two children. “They’re at St. Aldate’s.” The DI continued.

“Posh boarding place down in Surrey.” Donovan added.

“The school broke up; all the other boarders went home – just a few kids remained, including those two.” Lestrade said to Sherlock, who was still typing.

“The kids have vanished.” Donovan said expectantly as Alice got up and slid her coat on. John watched, still a bit confused.

“The ambassador’s asked for you personally.” Sherlock was now on his feet and heading out of the door with his coat over his arm, following Alice.

“The Reichenbach Hero.” Donovan said sarcastically as Sherlock kept going. After a moment Greg followed him out.

“Isn’t it great to be working with a celebrity!” Lestrade announced in the same tone. As John gestured for Sally to precede him out of the room, their actions were being watched by a camera high up on the living room wall near the left-hand front window.

Okay, I am sooooooooooo sooooo super sorry I haven't updated in forever! I had it written and everything, but I have been babysitting 8 hours a day and getting like 5 hours of sleep so I take naps when I get home then I forget about updating till I'm on my way and I'm sorry! Thank you for being patient with me. I'm back to 2-hour babysitting next week. Thanks. Enjoy, vote and comment fun patient peoples! =)