Valiant {Book Two of the Incandescent Trilogy}

Chapter Eight: Family is Power

"How does this concern me?" asked Amelia.

"Because he wasn't outside for no reason." Charlie threw a photo down on the desk. "He was talking to someone, and because Sherlock's back, I'm worried that Sherrinford is going to do something stupid."

"And?" she prompted. "Who was he talking to?"

Charlie gestured to the photograph. "See for yourself."

♠

"Doctor Watson?"

A sleek black Jaguar pulled up alongside John just as he was about to mount his bike. John cursed under his breath. "What does Mycroft want this time?" he muttered, leaning forward to speak to the person in the driver's seat. "Why can't Sherlock control his brothers?"

The blonde woman driving the car—John couldn't help but think that she looked familiar—shrugged. "I'm not sure, sir." She got out of the car, flat ironed hair swinging from side to side with every step she took. John was almost worried she would fall over in her stilettos, but she picked up his bicycle as though it were nothing, and put it into the back of the car. Then, she held open the back door for him. "After you, sir."

John slid in, not surprised when he came face to face with a man wearing a fine Prada suit paired a garnet tie. "Oh, hello." he said, giving his hand for the man to shake. He too seemed vaguely familiar. "Did Mycroft send you?"

The man shook his hand but gave him no answer.

"Right, then." John nodded, looking out the window. "You know, Mycroft can just send a cab or is he too arrogant to do something 'normal'?"

The man chortled, but still remained silent.

"So..." started John, "where are we meeting Mycroft?"

"You're not." the man said, speaking for the first time.

"Sorry?"

"You're not meeting Mycroft."

"Oh...right, okay." John said, nodding. "It's a bit more dramatic than Amelia typically is, but I suppose I've earned it after what I said to her last time."

The man fought back a smirk. "You're not meeting her either, Dr Watson. The name's Sherrinford. We've met before, and I am quite upset that you don't know who I am. Did Mycroft never talk about me?"

"You were-you were the guy at the restaurant." John said, coming to a realisation. "Why-why would Mycroft talk about you?"

"Oh hell," Sherrinford muttered. "I suppose my family's disowned me. Although, I suppose that does make sense. I was dead for ten months."

John stared at him with wide eyes.

"Do relax, Dr Watson." instructed Sherrinford. "There is no need to be frightened." He paused. "Well..." He shot John a glare as he reached for his pistol in his bag. "I wouldn't. The finest leather, these seats are. I'd hate to have to send your sister the bill to have it cleaned. It would be terribly unprofessional."

"Who are you?" pressed John.

He grinned. "Did Sherlock never tell you he had a twin?"

"A-a what?"

"You're not deaf, I know you heard me the first time. I've seen your medical files."

"How did you—"

"Law breaking is not just a trait Sherlock possessed." Sherrinford examined his immaculately manicured nails. "People say all these things about twins being so similar, yet so different. People say a lot of things, really. A lot of what they say is utter nonsense, but they did get that fact right. Although, my brother has been playing it cautious lately—sticking to the shadows. Making sure no one saw him." He eyed John. "Making sure you didn't see him."

"Sherlock's dead." John insisted, voice hoarse. "He died—"

"A year ago, today." Sherrinford said almost bitterly. "Yes, well, he's alive again. Don't ask me how, I'm not entirely sure myself. Amelia did try to warn you, and, somehow, you managed to continuing living in this little fantasy of yours. I don't know how you do it. My brother is very much alive, Dr Watson, and I need your help making sure he doesn't stay that way."

"I didn't even know he was alive and now you want me to help you kill him?" John said, disbelieved. "You're insane."

"Mm, very much so." Sherrinford hummed.

"He's your brother."

"He is my brother by blood, but not by choice." said Sherrinford.

"And what makes you think that I'd help you?"

"Oh, you really don't have much of a choice, Dr Watson. My brother has always been quite meddlesome, you see. In Latin, there is a phrase. Memento vivere, memento mori. Do you know what that means?"

John shook his head.

"Then let me explain it to you: remember to live, remember to die. That's what they used to say. 'Remember, Man, that you are dust and unto dust you shall return.' 'All go to the same place; all come from dust, and to dust all return.' Humanity is littered with the ever-looming shadow of death. We accept our mortality—our impending doom—yet we do everything we can to avoid the inevitable, but when the time comes, we face Death with a gritted smile. My brother, Dr Watson, seems to think that he is invincible. He enjoys looking Death in face and turning away. He gets a kick out of it. He likes to think that he is untouchable. I need to show him that he isn't. He's escaped death far too many times for any mortal man. The closest I ever got to teaching him to appreciate life was killing his dog.

"You see, my family is rather large. There's Mycroft, you've met him, then there's Charlotte—or Charlie, as she prefers to be called—then there's me, followed by Sherlock. Raising two children is an impressive feat, let alone four, and my parents certainly had their...favourites. Mycroft earned much of my father's attention, being the oldest, and my mother was always fond of Charlie for being female. Sherlock was the youngest, and naturally, he was doted upon by the rest of my family. You're the oldest in your family—you couldn't possibly understand how it felt to be shut out from my family.

"One Christmas, Sherlock and I must have been five, we were opening our gifts. I got a football; I never even really like sports. Sherlock, however, got the finest Irish Setter money could buy. I was, naturally, quite jealous. So I let my brother grow close to him, and I waited. I waited months for the perfect opportunity. Then, while my parents, Sherlock, and Mycroft had gone to town for the weekly groceries, I was left home alone with Charlie. Perhaps it wasn't the most responsible thing for my parents to do, she was only eight after all, but she always was the mature one—even more so than Mycroft as she wasn't as petty.

"I told her I was going to go play with Redbeard—that was what Sherlock had named the dog, terribly childish—and then, I killed him. Shoved him into the road while a car was passing. Charlie took the blame. I'm not sure Sherlock has forgiven her for it. That was when Sherlock first started retreating into himself. I think he finally realised how easy it was to lose someone.

"My parents got him into ballet after that. They wanted to distract him. It was something that took all of his concentration, and the training was intense. He hardly had a moment to mourn the loss of poor Redbeard. Between living off of cigarettes to lose weight, and his training, he didn't have the time. Of course, I couldn't have that. It would ruin all of my hard work. So I put a small amount of oil on Sherlock's pointe shoes. He slipped during a pirouette, and broke his foot. Couldn't dance again. That was his first decline into the drugs, but none of that deterred him. No, no, instead he focused on chemistry." Sherrinford stopped to laugh.

"But, you see, that was my thing, and when I found out that Sherlock planned on attending Oxford with me, I did everything I could to make sure I was better than him. I cheated on the final exam, and Sherlock reported me. I was expelled, naturally. Sherlock always did cause too much trouble. I wouldn't want to do this if I didn't have to, but he can't seem to learn. So, I'm going to teach him a lesson. Memento vivere, memento mori. Sherlock has already remembered to live, but now it's time for him to remember that not even he can evade death."

The car pulled up before the hollow shells of a burnt home. Sherrinford smirked, "Tell me: how much do you know about Mary Morstan?"