MARIA - A Sherlock Fanfic

A Visit to Mycroft

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, entering the room.
“Sherlock, what a surprise,” Mycroft replied sarcastically. “Having fun with Maria?”
“Why is one of your agents in the morgue?”
Mycroft blinked. “What?”
“Anna.”
“How do you know about her?”
Sherlock frowned at him. “Why?”
“Well, I was just keeping an eye on my dear brother- and the case, of course.”
Sherlock scoffed. “Your confidence in me is always inspiring.”
Mycroft sighed. “Was there something you wanted?”
Sherlock handed him both of Maria’s notes. Mycroft looked over them with a frown, then looked back at Sherlock, frowning to himself.
“Well?” Sherlock asked.
“Well what?” Mycroft replied, irritated.
“What do you think?”
“I really couldn’t say,” Mycroft said, but Sherlock wasn’t fooled. He had seen that look of recognition in his eyes, and it wasn’t from Anna’s letter, it was from the one he had received.
“What do you know that you’re not telling me?”
They gazed at each other, until finally Mycroft sighed and pulled out a whole stack of notes. Sherlock looked them over and was instantly reminded of Irene Adler’s irrelevant texts. ‘Let’s have dinner,’ she had constantly pestered him.
Maria, on the other hand, had used the old fashion method of writing, once again in lipstick.
‘Your brother is fun,’ the top one read. ‘Isn’t this fun?’
Mycroft sighed. “Somehow she keeps sneaking them here, on my desk.”
“A mole?” Sherlock asked.
“Doubtful.” He shrugged. “Maybe. As I said before. We have nothing on her. She could be right under my nose, and I’d never realise it.”
Sherlock paused. He had never heard Mycroft admit anything like that. Never in his life had Mycroft admitted to having flaws. Maria truly was amazing, to bring even Mycroft doubt. Sherlock looked through the other one. They contained about the same. Taunts and vague references.
Sherlock frowned. “These are old.”
Mycroft looked at him. “I’ve been receiving these messages for over eight months.”
Sherlock tilted his head. “Yet you only deemed now fit to tell me.”
“It’s none of your business,” Mycroft replied curtly.
Sherlock glared back. “The moment you brought me in on this case it became my ‘business’.”
John shifted nervously. “Listen. Who cares about whose right and whose wrong, can we please get back to the whole ‘trying to catch a murderer’ bit? Please?”
They looked at him and paused.
“Yes. You’re right,” Mycroft said reluctantly, sitting back on his seat. “I have nothing else for you, brother. I assume you can see yourself out.”
Sherlock nodded and turned, then, on an impulse, turned back and scooped up the pile of letters.
“Good day,” he said, and strode out.
John shrugged in a half apology, and once again followed him out of the room.