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When Mycroft met John, it was obvious his brother had been right.
While they were growing up, Mycroft had tried to protect Sherlock, especially from himself. Mycroft could look back and see that the perhaps his efforts had alienated him from his brother. He would never stop trying to protect him, though. Sherlock never told Mycroft much anymore; mostly, he lied through his teeth. Mycroft always had to find things out on his own and that was what Sherlock had always hated. So, when Sherlock actually started talking? Well, Mycroft was concerned, but not overly. A perfect mystery? Calls from the future? Absurd. No matter how deep he dug, however, he could dig up no evidence otherwise.
The only evidence that something real was going on was the change in Sherlock. The edge of joy in his speech when he talked of this “John”—who he did several background checks and investigations on, and “John” was no one extraordinary. He also seemed completely oblivious of Sherlock.
When he listened to the recording left in his care—and yes, of course he listened to it—all his past offenses were laid before him and Mycroft wondered if things would have been different had he kept all those secrets.
Then Mycroft remembered the last, worst secret he had revealed, and to the worst possible person.
Moriarty.
If he had never told him Sherlock’s mystery caller, maybe he would never have been in danger. If Mycroft had not shown his hand, maybe Sherlock would still be alive.
Then, he met John and saw the calls were still going on. Sherlock was still alive in the past.
That is what convinced him to track the elusive recording number one. Mycroft could still change his fate. He could still save Sherlock, but he needed information.
He knew where the other recordings had ended up—safe in the care of Sherlock’s known acquaintances. Somehow, not even Anderson would relinquish his charge. Why? The man must have had his reasons but all he did was glare.
The only attainable one was in the post.
The post of all things? How easily it could be and was intercepted.
In the security of his office he opened the small package. Inside was a cassette and Mycroft put it in his old stereo system.
“Recording one of eight… I—“
For a moment nothing else came from the speakers. Had something happened to it? Had someone not properly stored it and resulted in heat damage or—?
“I love you.”
The recording kept going in silence and Mycroft was stunned. The Great Sherlock Holmes had fallen in love.
Odder still, the Great Sherlock Holmes was lost for words.
A few seconds later Sherlock said he concluded recording one and shortly afterward it came to the end. Mycroft rubbed his forehead. What had he done?