A/n: I highly advise listening to Skylar Grey's "Back from the Dead." I do love this chapter, and if any of you have been paying attention to the chapter titles, the chapter in which Sherlock fell was titled "Memento Vivere" and the one in which he returns was titled "Memento Mori." This plays in later this chapter, and you'll see it was a rather important piece of foreshadowing.
CHAPTER EIGHT: FAMILY IS POWER
Sherrinford's phone was ringing, and he had no intention of picking it up. He let it ring until it had stopped, watching it with an expression of disinterest. Then, just as soon as it had stopped, it started ringing again. As he had done the time before, Sherrinford watched it, adamantly refusing to answer it. After a moment, it stopped ringing. Sherrinford smirked as the screen lit up with a new message.
You aren't amusing, you petulant child. Judas is a go. Do you part or I may have you executed.
– SM
Sherrinford laughed, shoving his phone in his pocket. "Rachel?" he called. "Get the car ready. We have someone to pick up from work."
"What car would you like to take, sir?"
He wandered over to the wardrobe, pulling open the drawer. He ran a hand over the various ties, stopping as his fingers brushed over a crimson coloured tie. He held it to the arm of his black blazer, contemplating how it would appear before knotting it around his neck expertly. "The Jaguar will do quite fine." said Sherrinford, adjusting his cuffs.
"Sir, might I ask what you're doing?"
Sherrinford stopped before the full length mirror. "It's time," he said, admiring his reflection, "for a family reunion."
♠
"Ms Watson?" Monica said, knocking on the glass door—Amelia had replaced it with the last fiasco with the door. She didn't want what had happened the last two times to occur again. It was as though the door was cursed. At least with the glass door, it was easier, and cheaper, to replace than the wooden ones. "There's a...um... Someone's... Someone's here to see you."
Amelia raised an eyebrow. "Did they schedule a meeting?"
"I-I don't think they need to, miss."
"What do you mean?"
"She's means that we're practically family, and you should see me even if I don't have a meeting scheduled." A lanky girl with hair the colour of the darkest coal, and eyes the same cold, calculating blue as Neptune. Her jaw was sharp and thin, and she looked emaciated with her protruding cheekbones, the skin stretched taunt. She wore an ash grey pantsuit, and the stark white shirt she wore below had three buttons undone.
Amelia had never met her before, but she recognised her instantly. "I do, but this isn't her." she quoted from memory. "Now, I understand." She turned to her secretary. "Monica, you may go. In fact, just have the rest of the day off. I imagine this might take a while."
The woman raised a singular eyebrow as Monica rushed out of the room. "I'm afraid I also don't understand."
"No, I didn't expect you to." Amelia said. "It was something Sherlock said to me a very long time ago upon being asked if I was his sister. I'm presuming he was talking about you."
She smiled. "Charlotte Holmes." she stuck a slender hand out. "Call me Charlie."
"Pleasure." Amelia didn't take her hand. "Might I ask what you're doing here?"
"I sent you a note." she said. "A very long time ago. Addressed to my brother. A Parker Duofold—Iridium nib, I believe I was."
Amelia wasn't surprised. "You sent us the pink phone."
"Upon Jim Moriarty's request, yes. I was in possession of it at the time."
"You worked for him?"
"No, no, we had...similar interests. It was small business transaction, that's all."
"And what are you doing here now?"
"You had a dalliance with my brother, yes?"
Amelia arched a brow. "I thought that was obvious." she said, picking up her pen and continuing her paperwork. "Nevertheless, yes, I did. Although I wouldn't call it a dalliance. I'm quite certain an engagement does not count as a brief love affair."
"And how would you define your relationship with my brother?"
Amelia didn't have an answer. She set down her pen. "Ms Holmes, I'm afraid if you do not have a point to make, I have to ask you to leave."
"My brother is a very dangerous man, Ms Watson."
"I know this."
"No, I don't think you do, because I'm not talking about Sherlock, or Mycroft."
She froze, silently prompting her to continue on.
"My family is a lot larger than Sherlock original conveyed. There is of course, Mycroft, Sherlock, and myself, but I don't think Sherlock ever told you that he had twin mere minutes older than him." Charlie took out a file from her purse and slid it across Amelia's desk. "The entirety of my family is in this folder."
Amelia opened it to see several files.
Dr Siger Isaac Obadiah Holmes (born August 9th, 1940 – present)
Spouse: Violet Lenora Rutherford (born June 5th, 1942 – present)
Mycroft Rutherford Clark Holmes (born August 25th, 1966 – present)
Spouse: Margaret Jane Thorley (born February 20th, 1965 – March 10th, 2000)
Amelia looked up at Charlie. "Mycroft was married?" she asked. "He never told."
"He doesn't like talking about her." Charlie replied, looking into the distance. "Peggy was killed on one of Mycroft's mission. He was on the mission with her. He had to choose between saving the President of the US and saving Peggy, but she made him promise on their wedding day that work always had to come first. I don't think he's forgiven himself for losing her." She gestured to the file. "Read on."
Charlotte Sigrina Geneviève Holmes (born April 27th, 1970 – present)
Sherrinford Fetlock Nero Holmes (born January 6th, 1973 – present)
William Sherlock Scott Holmes (born January 6th, 1973 – officially deceased June 15th, 2012)
Charlie put a single manicured finger on Sherrinford's name. "Him." she said. "Sherlock's twin. They had a...uh...falling out whilst they were in Oxford. Sherlock caught Sherrinford cheating on the exam. He reported it to the professor, of course, and Sherrinford was expelled. They haven't spoken since. Sherrinford hates him to this day."
"And why mention this now?" Amelia tore her gaze from the files, despite wanting to see what was past the first page. "Sherrinford and Sherlock had a falling out—so what? Why does this concern me?"
"Because until last week, we thought Sherrinford died two weeks after Sherlock did." Charlie explained. "Doesn't say that in the file, I know, it hasn't been updated in a while."
"And what happened last week?"
"Addiction runs in the family, Ms Watson." Charlie tapped her fingers against the desk. "Sherrinford and Sherlock shared a similar affliction. They were so similar yet they were polar opposites. One has sided with the angels, and the other with the devils. Frightening this is: I don't which one is on either side." She paused, then continued on. "After Sherlock's death, Sherrinford simply...disappeared. We thought he'd suffered a relapse after Sherlock's death, but when he didn't show for months after, we presumed him dead. The last thing Sherrinford said to me before he disappeared was that he was going to make things right—that he was going to fix our family. I didn't know what he meant by that. He always said that Sherlock was the reason our family was dysfunctional, but Sherlock had just died, so I didn't know what he was on about. But, last week, one of the security cameras caught a photo of Sherrinford with a woman. Blonde. Blue eyed. Wearing a gold sequin dress."
"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?"