Poor Jessica is dead, she's lookin' oh so purty and so nice she looks like she's asleep

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Mycroft, though he often seems lazy, does work every day of the year.  The last time he took a day off work was December 12th, 2000, which turned out to be a very bad day to be at home with the flu.  It is the lowest moment of Mycroft's career, in his opinion.

Still, his assistants have far more leeway than he gives himself and Jessica, his first admin assistant (as opposed to his first assistant, the ever reliable and indispensable Miss Morstan -- and her BlackBerry) had asked for two weeks off during the holiday season due to the birth of a twin niece and nephew.  Mycroft not only signed off on it, but sent her along with two silver spoons engraved with the newborns' names.  Because Jessica is a clever girl, she knew better than to ask how he found out the names despite not being told.

Thus, her last duty was to wrap the presents for John, Mummy, and Sherlock, before clocking out for a holiday to Carlisle. 

Mycroft arrives at his office early on a Sunday morning to two frantic texts messages and a very distressing sight.

Jessica, the ever dutiful, Jessica, is at her desk, her skin mottled, and the one of her high heels is sitting on the desk.  Mycroft, without even having to look (though he does) knows her feet are now an odd shade of blue.

This time, there is a note with the body:

I hate the decor.

Comments

Mycroft, you ruined America. XD

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Sherlock gets the call an hour after it's made. He's been busy in the bathroom. His routine is precise and can not be deviated from, not even if John insists that he can't hold it. Mrs. Hudson has an extra bathroom downstairs, after all.

Not that John's in the flat at the moment. He goes to Sarah's to pout now. It's not as if Sarah's let him into her bed yet.

Sherlock really has no opinion on that fact, one way or the other.

After checking his email and writing very nasty replies about how his time is being utterly wasted by the sheer idiocies of those requesting his attention, his eyes settle on his mobile. Mycroft.

You didn't leave a message. Are you planning on berating me further over my row with John?

Re: Mycroft, you ruined America. XD

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Instead of a text response, there are two picture messages.

The first is of a blue foot -- the toenails painted red.

The second is of the waiting room outside Mycroft's office.

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Sherlock arrives in that very same waiting room less than half an hour later. How he's managed to push a taxi to go that fast through the morning rush is just sort of a miracle.

"Mycroft--" He's not worried. Or concerned. He's just curious.

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"In my office," there is inflection, genuine inflection in his voice, which would indicate how unnerved he is by this. Granted, it doesn't help that one of the interns, a young man named James, is wailing in the corner.

"Somehow, your fan managed to not only kill Jessica, but also deposit her back at work, undetected."

As Mycroft speaks, there is a flurry of activity trying to determine how exactly this is possible.

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Hands behind his back, Sherlock did as he was told for the first time in well over a decade. He doesn't really feel the need to be sequestered in Mycroft's office. In fact, he really wants to go over there and look at Jessica.

She's a lot less annoying sitting there, dead.

"You didn't call the police?" Of course Mycroft didn't. He was Mycroft. And Sherlock hasn't called John either.

The reason for that is complication.

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"No, I did not, and half of the people out there are my security team," do not ask which branch of the government is responsible for that.

"And they are confounded."

No one is supposed to be confounded. The phone in his office rings. He ignores it as the Prime Minister can wait.

"When I open this door, you will have 10 minutes to examine Jessica, before all evidence of this will disappear, permanently." This is not the type of case that would ever make it to the papers.

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And here he was without his John. Yes, his. Perhaps part of why Sherlock was so very bad at connecting with others had more to do with his attempt to own them rather than be part of them.

My mother, my book, my experiment, my brother, my John.

My John.

"I'll need the room cleared. No distractions. But first... How exactly did someone get in here?" Sherlock knew it was impossible. Nearly impossible.

He'd tried before.

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Mycroft presses a few buttons on his phone, and through the speaker comes a voice, "are you sure --"

"Yes," Mycroft says, slightly louder than usual. It's only slight, but it would be noticeable.

"There are exactly 2 minutes and 10 seconds of looped security feed on the cameras. Whoever it was hacked the security feed."

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"Hacked the feed..."

Oh yes, oh yes, Sherlock is loving every last brilliant moment of this. Moriarty had nearly killed John and himself not all that long ago, but he hasn't phoned, he hasn't contacted them since. Sherlock had almost gotten pouty over it.

This was close. Closer than close. Sherlock can almost reach out and touch him.

Sherlock pauses and turn towards his brother. "Using you to get to me. Brilliant."

In which Mycroft contemplates spheres of influence.

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"Because of this, we have found a loophole in our system -- 2:30 for someone to alter the cameras. The killer used only 2:10." Mycroft isn't even going to entertain the idea of whoever brought in the body wasn't the killer. That was obvious.

He makes no comment, that others might make about how Sherlock's supposed lack of care would mean this fan of his has made a tactical error in bringing the violence to Mycroft's sphere of influence. In an odd way, his brother is very absolute in his relationships. Mummy was the control. Mycroft was the one who provided opportunities. It was a terrible responsibility but Mycroft had always respected it. Then, when Sherlock no longer revolved around Mycroft, and was untethered, there was that disastrous time -- where even the existence of that time nearly scared off John. Now John was, in Sherlock's mind, his greatest ally, the role previously occupied by Mycroft.

As Mycroft was no longer cast in the role of greatest ally, Sherlock cast him in the only other absolute role open to him -- the arch-enemy. It was still the same importance, just a reversal of positions.

Now that whoever Sherlock's fan is seems determined upon that role, Mycroft wondered where he would be cast next in the drama that is Sherlock's life or if he would be cast out altogether.

There is a beep on Mycroft's phone.

"The room would be clear now."

Mycroft, don't worry so much. You're irreplaceable.

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"Inside work, perhaps?" Sherlock doesn't bother to contemplate it further. Could Jim have his fingers in even these lofty walls? The thought is enough to send chills down Sherlock's spine.

He hops around like an excited puppy, waiting to be let out of the room, waiting for Mycroft like he had inches from the threshold of the door to the Cambridge Library. He's almost beside himself.

"No, better than that. He never gets his hands dirty. Was there a calling card? Was there a message for me?" Sherlock's on the edge. He's so close now he might just go over.

Trufax: If Mycroft didn't have his brother, he probably would've taken over the planet by now.

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Mycroft's seen this obsession, addiction before, but it's healthier than other addictions Sherlock has had. As it is, it makes sense to involve Sherlock now, as Mycroft, though he easily could, would waste precious time coming up to speed on the case. His brother already had all of the facts on the other deaths, as well as having invested far more time in the thought process, and thus ahead of the game.

Mycroft is certain Sherlock does see this as a game, which is another reason he would never protest clearing the room, to avoid upsetting those coworkers close to Jessica any further.

So, Mycroft opens the door, and releases the hyperactive bloodhound. He says nothing other and only slightly gestures with his hand.

That's pretty adorable. Sherlock would be quite proud that he caused Mycroft to become who he is!

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Under the desk, Sherlock does surely indecent things to Jessica's feet, taking scrapings, picking at the skin under her big toe nails. Tattoo ink. That takes time. She wasn't killed her.

Her clothes are dry, all of them, but the blood vessels in her eyes had burst as if she had been strangled. Or suffocated. Sherlock knew it was the latter, drowning in smoke that burned up her lungs. What a way to go.

There's water on the ground and pooled onto the desk. He dabs at it with his handkerchief and brings it to his nose to smell it.

Salt water.

Sherlock scrawled the cipher on a piece of paper with Mycroft's letterhead on it and came up with a T.

"One more. Y. Oh...brilliant."

Well, Sherlock-wrangling takes up so much of his time, and there's only so much planet to rule.

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Mycroft lets his brother work. This is when Sherlock is at his happiest, with a puzzle to solve, so Mycroft does not add in extraneous details like how two twins in Carlisle will never know their aunt.

Still, there is one important, and completely unemotional aspect of that to bring up. "She was going on holiday to visit her family, yet was never reported missing by them. They are not the type of family who would not kick up a fuss." Somehow, the killer had managed to get around the family and the security of Mycroft's office.

Mycroft knows Jessica's family would be a formidable thing to get around. More than once she had to be cautioned for taking calls for crises apparently only Jessica could solve amongst them.

There is one last thing, but Mycroft will let his brother finish with the body first.

That ought to be a sport, Sherlock-wrangling. Damn my perverted brain.

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"On holiday. Just returning, just leaving, or in the middle?" The answer was probably not that important, but quizzing his brother on facts is something he hasn't indulged in since he was a child.

There's that curious little boy again, messy curls suiting him well as he sifts through the desk now.

He's looking for something. A note. He wants a note.

Necessary for said sport: one giant hedge-maze

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"She left Christmas Eve and was scheduled to return today. Somehow, her murderer knew this. There are only three people who are aware when one of my assistants goes on holiday, but they may be irrelevant due to the electronic aspects of the crime, though the names will be provided to you" Mycroft provides. He's easily slipped back into the old routine. Sherlock asks questions and Mycroft answers. One would think little has changed from when they were 10 and 17.

He also has one more piece of the puzzle to provide. While everything else, from Jessica, to her desk, will soon be incinerated out of existence, one thing will not.

Out of his pocket, nicely sealed in a baggie -- one of his assistants brings them in to make sure food does not go to waste in the communal fridge, though Mycroft never actually uses said fridge -- is the note.

"Are you looking for this?"

I want to play this so badly now!

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Sherlock's pale blue eyes light up like fireworks. He doesn't snatch the bag away, he simply gazes at it reverently before pushing it to his chest for a moment.

One would say he's almost moved by it.

"I agree with him you know," Sherlock teases, in much too good of a mood to mean that any other way. "It shouldn't be too difficult to put together where and when the last attack will occur. There will be several missing variables, but it shouldn't be a problem. I'll find him, Mycroft."

Sherlock wrangling: we need an app for that.

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"I should so. I will be fielding phone calls all day about this, and my security will require a complete overhaul." As will just about everyone else's in the country of note.

"Your ten minutes are almost up, Sherlock."

o.o Oh, only one problem, Sherlock would find a way to exploit it.

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Sherlock will never ask Mycroft what will happen to his crime scene. He knows better than to even attempt to take pictures on the sly either. What he sees here, what he's gathered, will be it.

The clues aren't here on the body. The body just signals a failure for Sherlock to have stopped the murder and save a bit of face.

He is already texting someone. Not Lestrade. Not even John. He's trying to get an astrological date pinned down and that is neither of their fortays.

"Will you be all right?" He's distracted. One can forgive him for that display of concern.

Yes, but it would be *fun*

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Every once in a while, and it is rare enough that Mycroft can immediately list every incident, and it would be a good test for any doctor, should they need to test him for a head injury, when Sherlock genuinely surprises him.

The expression of concern is now added to the list.

"I will be fine." He does not add how he will personally call Jessica's family to offer condolences, once it is determined how the official story of Jessica's death will be told.

Oh, idiot me. I never hit reply! How does that happen?!

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Sherlock only nods, collecting the rest of the things he wants to bring with him. "Of course you will be."

The blame of the previous nicety is almost strictly on the shoulders of Mycroft's Christmas present. Sherlock does not harbour sentimental feelings towards it as normal people might, but he does have a sense of accomplishment on seeing it.

Yes, the school stole his anchor, his guide, and the only other living soul that could stand his company for extended periods of time, but it also started Sherlock's career and gave him meaning in life.

The same can be said about Mycroft, but Sherlock never will.

"I thought he'd forgotten me," Sherlock murmurs to himself. His fixation is on Moriarty now that John's presence isn't much felt these days any more.

Yes. Sherlock clings. Even to bad attention.

I did that yesterday.

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"I doubt that." Mycroft, knowing of the incident at the pool knows that someone like that, someone with the obsession level rivaled only by his brother, will not forget anything.

It was, as few things are in Mycroft's life, genuinely worrying, as is the desire for the other man's attention.

"Will you be seeking John's help on the case? He appeared to be interested at Christmas." As always, Mycroft is willing to divert that attention seeking to someone a bit healthier. Perhaps not healthier for John, but definitely for his brother.

Mycroft will have to buy the good doctor and Sarah another pair of tickets. He has the budget for it.

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John.

It's as if Sherlock's just realized that there is a John, funny as that might be. Out of sight, out of mind? No, more like out of mind, out of possessiveness.

Sarah's continued presence and her ability to steal John for longer periods of time is not something that Sherlock's forgotten. Mycroft's mention of it several months before broke the barrier.

It was not a pleasant moment and being reminded of it is also rather unpleasant.

Of course, John will come when called. "It would be wise. I need my blogger."

I am not sorry for repeating this pun.

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"Tell him to come up with a better title than The Case of the Blue Cubicle." Besides the obvious -- Jessica did not work in a cubicle but in what should be one of the most secure offices in all of the United Kingdom, the title was rather, silly.

It is at this moment Sherlock's time runs out. The cleaners, a different team from the one Mycroft sent that day at Sarah's flat, have arrived.

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"I'm not your messenger," Sherlock points out just as two burly men give him looks. You need to leave now looks. Sherlock frowns lightly before he turns on his heels. "I'll have John ring you when I've cracked it."

Oh, but that's not what Sherlock wants to do, not really. He wants to use whichever poor soul is 'Y' to get another chance at Moriarty. Maybe sit down to tea.

That thought it more humorous to the usually stoic Sherlock than it ought to be.

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"I am sure he will update his blog when you do." Mycroft sniffs.

With the cleaners now starting their work -- Mycroft is well aware what the industrial plastic wrap is for, he would like to head back into his office.

"I take it you will be on your way?"

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"Why else would I stay?"

Sherlock smirks a little as he heads towards the lift. He has work to do. Or rather, he has a fan to go and meet. Would Moriarty make a personal appearance? God -- not that he actually believed in a God -- he hoped so.

"You've security to oversee."

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"I do, goodbye, Sherlock." It's not a social nicety. It's not a show for the cleaners. No, Mycroft acknowledges his brother's exit for the same reason he's done so many other things in his life.

It's Mycroft's way of saying, that Sherlock still has his attention, he still notices.