It had started raining by the time Mycroft left his brother. It was still too dangerous to move him from the dingy flat, although Mycroft loathed leaving him there. He would send one of his most trusted associates, Anthea maybe, to freshen him up, and make him more presentable. He could not do it himself as he knew there would be people watching him. This visit in itself presented a dangerous situation. He hoped that his men had been able to take care of that today. But another visit would definitely arouse suspicions. There were still dangerous men out there, men who wanted his brother dead, and possibly him too. They had to be careful, especially with Sherlock in this state.
He would need help if he was to get anywhere near helping Sherlock out of this dark depression he had gotten himself into. There it was, out in the open. Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, could not cope on his own. His first thought was John. John completed Sherlock; Sherlock fixed John. Two jagged halves that made a whole. But, when Mycroft thought it through, that would not be a good idea. John's life was already under threat, even if the man himself didn't know it. It was just too risky to reunite the two friends at the moment.
When Moriaty had taken his own life, it had thrown a cog into their plan. The criminal had always been an uncertain variable; his mind so similar to Sherlock's, but with none of the emotions that made Sherlock human, however hard he tried to hide them. There were others who were affected by the death of the consultant criminal - his 'clients' and associates could not just stand by and watch while London was taken by Mycroft. Little did they know that he had not taken London, he had reclaimed it. Moriarty's right-hand man, Colonel Sebastian Moran, had eluded capture, which worried Mycroft. Moran knew nothing of Lazarus, that Sherlock was still alive. Of that, he was certain.
But the military man would still want revenge for the death of his boss. He would go after John - a military man like himself - known 'sidekick' of Sherlock Holmes. So John was out of the picture.
As Mycroft stepped out onto the street, he cursed himself for not taking his ever-present umbrella inside with him. He did not run to his car (he did have a reputation to uphold) so by the time he reached it, he was soaked. At least he didn't have to drive. He seated himself on the plush leather, and plucked his phone from the confines of his jacket with elegant fingers.
"Home, James," he called to the driver. James had been in his service for...well, lets just say for a long time, and he was one of Mycroft's most trusted employees.
Mycroft toyed with the phone, uncertain as to his next move. He had always kept a close eye on his brother, ever since he had moved out of their parents house to go to University. It was for his own good, Mycroft told him, whenever Sherlock accused him of spying on him. This meant he knew most of Sherlock's associates.
Now, who could he rely on?
Who would Moran overlook?
Who had not been brainwashed by Moriaty and still believed in Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective?
The answer came to him in an instant.
Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. Perfect. Mycroft knew Gregory would not have been swayed by the media reports; he had known Sherlock for the best part of five years. He would not give up on him that easily, would he?
As soon as Mycroft reached that conclusion, he tapped on his phone with more deliberation. Just as suddenly, he stopped, staring at the screen in deep thought.
This would not work. His own phone was too traceable. It would put the D.I in danger as well as Mycroft himself. But neither could he be seen at Scotland Yard. He eyed the phone in his hands, wondering, thinking. He was no Sherlock Holmes; he didn't have a mind palace. He was still a Holmes though; Mycroft didn't need a mind palace as such. He used his brain more effectively, more practically, without the flamboyance his brother tended to use.
The answer, he discovered, had been staring him in the face. Or rather bashing against his side in a pocket of his jacket: Sherlock's phone.
Of course! Nobody would be keeping tabs on a 'dead' man's phone. He had almost forgotten that he had taken it from an almost comatose Sherlock earlier.
Before he could decide that this was a bad idea, he had brought the phone out, and had pulled Lestrade's number up. A hesitant finger hovered above the 'call' button, before pressing down decisively.