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"Calling me on a weekday? To what do I owe the pleasure?" Mycroft sounded as he always did. Cocky, narcissistic and drenched in sarcasm.

"I need your help, Mycroft," Sherlock whispered. He hated admitting he needed help, especially when it involved asking Mycroft. It had always been that way.

"Oh, you need my help? What have you done now?" Mycroft mused, "You didn't kill anyone did you?"
Mycroft's attitude never ceased to irritate Sherlock, "shut up and listen to me, Mycroft," he felt a lump rising in his throat. Exhaling, he spoke again, "I need to disappear for a while."

"What happened?" Mycroft's tone had completely changed. Despite being a complete wanker most of the time, he truly knew when his brother needed him. In the end, they were still brothers and whether they admitted it or not, they loved each other.

Sherlock weighed every possible explanation before speaking, "Moriarty," was all he said in the end.

Nothing else needed to be said. Mycroft sighed, knowing full well that this was partially, if not entirely his fault. He told Moriarty everything he needed to know. He sold out his own little brother to get a psychopath to talk, "tell me what you need."

"I need you to get me out of the city without anyone seeing me," Sherlock was starting to feel jittery. He didn't have much time, "tell me you can do this for me, Mycroft?"

"Why can't anyone see you?" Mycroft asked, a hint of confusion in his voice.

"If I don't die, others will. Just tell me you can do this," Sherlock grabbed his rubber ball off the counter and threw it across the room. It bounced off a microscope and rolled under a bench.

"How do you know others will die?"

"You're an idiot," Sherlock closed his eyes, "Moriarty is deranged. He wants to destroy me and he'll do anything he can to succeed. He's going to threaten people I care about, and I'll have no choice but to go along with his plan. Once his henchmen, as well as John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson think I'm dead, everyone will be fine."

"Are you going to be able to pull it off?" Mycroft asked, interested.

Sherlock laughed, "you doubt me, dear brother."

"Always," Mycroft chuckled, "do tell me how you're managing this."

"I'm jumping off of St. Barts, into a lorrie  that'll be waiting," Sherlock said simply, "my people are taking care of the body as well as the death certificate. Now, for the love of God, tell me you'll help me. I don't have time to play games."

"Can you have the driver take you to my safe house just outside the city? I can help you if you can get there. Will that be a problem?" Mycroft spoke softly, as if he was afraid someone might be listening.

"I won't be long," Sherlock stood up, "I'll see you soon."

"Don't do anything stupid."

"I'm not stupid," Sherlock snapped, "don't doubt me. I'm smarter than you."

"Let's not argue yet. Do what you need to do. I'll be at the house," Mycroft hung up.

Sherlock composed himself, putting the phone in his pocket. As he strolled out of the lab and up the stairs to the roof, he went over the plan in his head. It was fool-proof. Only one concern remained: John. He paused in front of the door, hoping that John wouldn't have to see this. It was all part of the plan, whether John showed up or not, "stay away, John. Just stay away," he mumbled to himself as he pushed the door open and walked out into the bright sunlight.

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