The Personal Blog of Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft Holmes peers wearily into his morning cup of tea. The Diogenes club is empty, the silence filling every corner of the room. But Mycroft’s head is anything but silent. His skull is buzzing, brain processes overwhelming him, synapses firing one after the other, clouding his vision with the sheer distraction of a mind that is never, ever idle. His ordinarily stiff, imposing form feels slumped and sluggish. Sensations are dull. He is more tired than he can ever remember being.

His fingers, poised above the ‘send’ button of his phone. A button which would direct two black cars to a warehouse on the outskirts of London. One car to pick up Mycroft, the other sending Anthea to pick up one Miss Irene Adler wherever she may be in London.

Irene Adler… The Woman. The One Woman who outsmarted the Brothers Holmes. An event that, to be quite fair, would not have occurred had Sherlock had a bit more sense. But it is far too late now to maintain grudges. Dead men cannot repay debts, and he had done far more wrong to Sherlock in the long run than Sherlock had ever done to him.

Mycroft was now in the unique position of being the only person able— or more importantly, willing— to inform Miss Adler of the true events on the rooftop of Saint Bart’s. John Watson would certainly refuse an audience with the dominatrix who toyed so carelessly with his old flatmate’s more naive sensibilities. Indeed, John Watson was likely not even aware that Miss Adler was alive, or of Sherlock’s part in her salvation. Mycroft, of course, had made quick work of finding out why Miss Adler was once again in London with her head very much intact. 

He didn’t want to be the one to give the explanations. Sentiment is not a Holmesian trait, and such dark news is best left to those who can give comfort in its wake. But he owes this to Sherlock. Sherlock deserved to be recognized for what he really was at the very least by The Woman Who Beat Him, even while the public scorns him as a fraud. And Irene Adler deserves to know what caused the demise of her greatest ‘adversary.’ She is also one of the few who would believe that while Sherlock was a lot of things, he was not a liar. At least, in this sense, he was not a liar.

He drains his tea cup, presses ‘send’ and walks out of the club and into an already waiting car. Across town, CCTV cameras move and search until they locate Miss Adler. Another sleek black vehicle departs, its bearing set for The Woman’s location.

This is going to be quite the engagement.