Chapter Text
Mycroft's plan for turning his brother from criminal to detective was a simple one. He knew Sherlock would see the article about the exhibit in a week's time, and that he would commit the theft roughly a week later. There was one obvious way of ensuring both that Sherlock never stole the item and that he had something interesting to occupy his mind:
Namely, Mycroft would simply steal it himself.
He would let the first article run, of course, in order to catch Sherlock's attention. However, he would then steal the preserved insect the next day, six days before Sherlock was fated to do so. The theft would hit the papers, where Sherlock would read about it and hopefully take some kind of interest in solving the case.
A normal theft might not be enough to catch Sherlock's attention, but Mycroft had no intention of making this an ordinary museum theft. This theft would be strange, inexplicable. This theft would be a puzzle.
The whole thing would involve a great deal of legwork, but hopefully it would pay off.
Mycroft had roughly a week to prepare everything he needed for the theft. Since he already had a thorough knowledge of the main weakness in the museum's security system, he knew it wouldn't be especially difficult. He'd have plenty of time to visit Jim and hopefully persuade the boy not to look for him in the future.
He checked into a hotel, intending to use his first day back to rest up and have his clothes cleaned. He didn't expect anything of importance to happen that day.
He certainly didn't expect to find 11-year-old Jim sitting in his room when he got out of the shower. It made him very glad that he'd left his mobile back at the building, because the boy had almost certainly gone through his things.
“What are you doing here?”
“I found you,” Jim said excitedly, bouncing on the edge of bed. He was dressed in his school uniform despite the fact that it was the middle of summer. “I really found you!”
“How exactly did you find me?” Mycroft asked. He walked over to the clothes he'd laid out on the bed, slipping his trousers on under his dressing gown.
“I've been looking for you,” Jim replied. “Since a week after you disappeared. I was so stupid. I didn't even bother to ask for your name.”
“I wouldn't have given it to you,” Mycroft replied, quickly putting on the rest of his clothing.
“It was still stupid not to ask,” Jim replied. He paused. “The name you checked in under isn't your real name, is it?”
“No,” Mycroft replied. “How did you manage to find me?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“I thought you might come back, so I paid people at a few hotels to keep a look out for you.”
“You don't have a photo of me,” Mycroft replied. He walked to the door, gesturing for Jim to follow.
“I gave them a detailed description of you and asked them to call me if anyone like that came in,” Jim replied, following Mycroft out the door. “Where are we going?”
“It's time for dinner,” Mycroft replied, leading him to the elevator. “You must have had quite a number of false positives, giving them only a description to go by.”
Jim shrugged. “It worked eventually, didn't it?”
When they got to the restaurant, Mycroft asked for a table for two. The hostess recognized Jim immediately. She smiled at both of them, asking: “Is this your mystery man?”
Jim gave her a winning smile. “It's him. Thank you, you were all so helpful.”
“Oh, anything for you, dear,” the woman said. She gave them a nice, quiet table next to a window.
“You said you paid these people,” Mycroft commented after they'd ordered. “Where did you get the money?”
“Detective work,” Jim said proudly. “You wouldn't believe the stupid problems the boys at my school have. Or how much money they're willing to pay me to solve them.”
“Oh, I would certainly believe it,” Mycroft replied.
“Is that what you did when you were in school?” Jim asked eagerly.
“On occasion,” Mycroft answered. “It wasn't really my area.”
“What was your area?” Jim asked, voice brimming over with frustration and excitement. “Where did you grow up? What did you do? Where have you been for the last two years? What's your real name? Who are you?” The questions popped out Jim's mouth in a frantic, continuous stream, not giving Mycroft time to answer even if he'd wanted to. He struggled to catch his breath when he was finished.
“Who I am is unimportant,” Mycroft replied mildly.
“It is not,” Jim replied, nearly sulking now. He paused, tapping his fork against the table in almost a stabbing motion. “Did you come back to see me, or...?” He trailed off, sounding anxious.
“It's one of the reasons I came back,” Mycroft answered. “I have another matter to attend to, but I would like to hear more about how you've been getting on. Do you like your new school?”
Jim's face lit up. “It's great. Much better than my old school. I did what you said and everyone likes me.” He giggled. “They think I'm decent.”
“That's a good position to be in,” Mycroft replied.
Dinner arrived. Jim chattered on about his life at school, telling Mycroft all about his classes (“too easy”), his teachers (“clueless”), the boys in his year (“stupid, but useful”), the boys in the years above him (“stupid, but they have more money”), the facilities (“a real chemistry lab!”), and finally, a bit more about his detective work (“fun, even when it's kind of easy”).
Mycroft knew some of the bare facts from Jim's file in the future, but the personal commentary was new. At one point, Mycroft accidentally let slip that he knew what Jim's marks were before Jim had actually told him, but the boy only took it as proof that Mycroft really had been paying attention during the two years he'd been gone.
“Are you a spy?” Jim whispered.
“Sorry?”
“You know – a spy, for some top secret government agency,” Jim replied. “It's the only thing that fits. You won't tell me anything about yourself, but you have all kinds of information from your secret spy network.”
Mycroft couldn't hold back a smile. The theory was strangely accurate, in a way, despite being completely off the mark on so many levels. And Mycroft knew an opportunity when he saw one. “If I were a spy, I could hardly go around announcing it to the world, now could I?”
“I knew it! You are a spy!” Jim exclaimed.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
Jim hurriedly covered his mouth, glancing all around them. “Sorry,” he said.
“I don't think anyone heard you,” Mycroft replied, dabbing his napkin against his mouth. “But on a related note, I would prefer it if you didn't attempt to investigate me after I leave. It might cause me some... unpleasantness.”
Jim opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it again, frowning. “Okay, I won't try to investigate you after you leave,” he said, sounding unhappy. “How long are you staying?” he asked, hands bunching up in the tablecloth.
Mycroft smoothed his hands out, then gave each of them a gentle pat. “A couple of weeks, though I'm afraid I won't be here the whole time.”
“Will you say goodbye before you go?” Jim asked.
“Yes,” Mycroft replied. It wasn't as though he lacked the time. “Now, it's time we got you home.”
“Can't I stay here with you?”
“That wouldn't be appropriate.”
Jim scoffed. “Who cares what's appropriate?”
“The police, for one,” Mycroft replied. With another child, he would likely have added 'your family', but he had no reason to believe it to be true in this case.
After considerable argument, Mycroft herded Jim into a cab and took him home. He then returned to the hotel and had his first sleep in over 24 hours.
Jim was there when he awoke, sitting in the chair near the bed. “Good morning,” the boy said cheerfully.
“I took you home,” Mycroft said.
“I came back,” Jim replied. “Don't worry, I spent the night at home. It was all very appropriate.”
Mycroft took his clothes to the bathroom, emerging fully dressed.
Jim hadn't moved at all in that time.
Mycroft was strangely reminded of his brother at a young age, when Sherlock had simply refused to leave his side for more than a few minutes at a time. Mycroft took Jim down to breakfast with him, hoping Jim wouldn't be quite so difficult to get away from when the time came.
“I have a few matters to attend to today,” Mycroft told him. “I won't be able to spend much time with you.”
“That's okay,” Jim replied easily. A little too easily, in fact.
Sure enough, when the time came for Mycroft to go purchase the equipment he needed, he immediately noticed he was being tailed. Jim was better at it than most 11-year-olds would be – or even most adults, for that matter – but he wasn't completely unnoticeable.
Mycroft ducked into a large shop, making it look like it had been his intended destination the entire time. He walked right through to the other exit, then quickly turned a corner and hailed a cab. He didn't see Jim anywhere – the boy was likely still watching the door he'd entered through, as Mycroft had intended.
Mycroft was able to get all of the tools he would need in fairly short order. By the end of the day, he was equipped with a sturdy pair of gloves, a mess of ropes and pulleys, some handheld power tools, a pair of wire cutters, several cans of spray paint, and a number of other miscellaneous items. The sleeping pills had been the most taxing item, requiring him to fake a prescription to obtain them.
It was annoying, having to carry around so much stuff, especially when all he strictly needed to pull off the theft were the pills, the gloves, and the wire cutters. A theft like that wouldn't be very attention grabbing, however.
He brought the items back to the building he owned, knowing Jim would only start rifling through them and making deductions if he brought them back to the hotel. It wouldn't do for Jim to find out what he was up to.
He then returned to the hotel, completely unsurprised to find Jim waiting in his room for him.
“You knew I was following you, didn't you?” Jim asked. He sounded impressed, if slightly frustrated.
“I thought we agreed you wouldn't investigate me,” Mycroft commented.
“I agreed not to investigate you after you leave,” Jim replied.
“Of course.” Mycroft realized he really should have known better – Sherlock would never have allowed him to get away with that sort of careless phrasing either.
Having already acquired everything he needed to pull off his plan, Mycroft spent the next few days doing inconsequential things with Jim. The boy took him to his favorite places, showed him where he'd solved a few of his cases, and generally enjoyed being the complete center of his attention.
Jim wasn't happy when Mycroft said he'd be away for the next two days, especially since he wouldn't say where he was going. It would have been easier to simply go without telling Jim anything, but the boy already seemed paranoid about him possibly leaving without saying goodbye, so Mycroft decided against it.
It had taken some time, but eventually, he'd been able to convince Jim that he really would be back in two days time, and Jim had finally agreed not to follow him from the hotel when he left. He took Jim home for the evening, then prepared his things to leave the following morning.
He was relieved not to see Jim in his room when he awoke. The boy wasn't waiting for him in the lobby, either, and Mycroft didn't see him at any point on the way to the train station.
Mycroft bought a newspaper to read on the train. He was pleased to see the article about the exhibit in the paper; Sherlock had probably already read it.
When he reached London, Mycroft immediately checked in to a hotel. He needed somewhere to leave his equipment until the break-in, and he would also need somewhere to return to afterward.
Once he had that settled, Mycroft took a trip to the museum. Most of what he needed to do would be done that night, but there was one small thing he needed to do during the day to ensure his plan would work.
The museum security room had two doors. One door connected to the interior of the museum, the other led directly out into the courtyard. Mycroft carefully instigated a fight between two teenage boys in one of the exhibits, then made his way to the security office to report it. He quietly caught the door just before it closed, waiting for the guard to turn the corner before actually entering the office. Once he was inside, it was easy enough to tamper with the lock on the door to the courtyard, ensuring that it wouldn't lock properly, even if it appeared to be locked from the inside.
He left through that door, doing a quick test to make sure he'd rigged the lock correctly. Satisfied with his work, he returned to the hotel to wait for nightfall.
The 'theft' went off smoothly. Knowing the night guard's schedule, Mycroft waited until he was out of the security room on rounds, then slipped inside and spiked his coffee with sleeping pills. He slipped out again, waited half an hour, then walked right back inside. He turned off the security cameras and wiped the tapes.
After that, he went to the maintenance room and cut the power to the building, eliminating every single obstacle between him and the insect. If the security guard had been awake, he would have noticed immediately, but he wasn't.
Security systems often had the most ridiculous design flaws.
Mycroft supposed he should be grateful. His task wouldn't have been nearly as easy even ten years later.
Mycroft took the insect from its display case. He could have simply pocketed the thing and been done with it, but he knew that wouldn't be enough to catch Sherlock's interest. So, instead, he cut a panel off of the base of the display case, set the insect inside, then resealed it, taking care to ensure it looked exactly as it had before he'd cut it open.
Afterwards, he got to work on the most important part of the plan: confusing the scene of the crime. Mycroft set up a series of pulleys running all across the room, reaching several windows, a balcony, and the sky light at various points. He cut holes in random areas of the room, including two holes in the glass portion of the display case. He spray-painted the cameras. He made bizarre adjustments to the wiring of the security system. He switched the position of several other exhibits. He 'left behind' several mysterious electronic contraptions that might have plausibly been used to disable the new security measures.
Then he wrote several coded messages on the floor using the spray paint. Most of them were gibberish; a couple amounted to 'you are all too stupid to solve this'; the final one announced the exact location of the insect, in the base of the display case. He paid careful attention to the position of that particular message.
Finally, Mycroft returned to the maintenance room and reactivated the electricity. The security system rebooted as normal – barring the modifications he'd made. He walked back to the security room, where the guard was still passed out in his chair. He undid his earlier tampering with the lock, then walked right out the door...
...and right into Jim.
Mycroft was too shocked to do more than stare for the first several seconds. Jim stared right back at him, wide-eyed.
Mycroft came to his senses first, grabbing Jim by the arm and dragging him away from the museum. When they were a safe distance from the scene of the crime, he stopped, looking Jim right in the eye. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I wanted to see what you were doing,” Jim said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. He grinned at Mycroft. “You were stealing something, weren't you?”
“I wasn't stealing anything,” Mycroft replied. “You promised not to follow me.”
“I promised not to follow you from the hotel when you left,” Jim corrected. “And I didn't. I was already in London when you arrived. I followed you from the train station.”
“You took the train here yesterday evening, after I dropped you off at home,” Mycroft deduced. He realized that he really should have known something was up when Jim hadn't been anywhere to be found that morning. He would need to be more careful with the boy in the future.
“Yup,” Jim replied. He eyed Mycroft's bag curiously. “What did you take?”
“I didn't take anything,” Mycroft repeated. It was technically true. “It's time we were getting back to the hotel.”
“I can stay with you?” Jim asked excitedly.
“For tonight,” Mycroft replied. “I can't very well leave you to wander London on your own all night.”
They returned to the hotel in short order. Jim insisted on searching Mycroft's bag and his clothes for possible stolen items before finally obeying the repeated order to go to bed. He found nothing, naturally, but it still didn't convince him that Mycroft hadn't taken anything. He tried to pester Mycroft with more questions, but Mycroft brushed them off with a firm 'I won't tell you anything until morning.'
He tucked Jim into bed, then retreated to the sofa.
The break-in was the main story in the newspaper the following morning. Mycroft was pleased to see that the most important of the coded messages – the location of the insect – had made it into the enormous picture dominating the front page. There was no way that Sherlock would miss it; there was also no way he would he miss the insulting message near the bottom of the photo, either.
Mycroft smiled, feeling confident that Sherlock would never be able to resist the puzzle that had been laid out for him.
Jim read the article eagerly over breakfast, seemed positively excited to be sitting next to the man who'd pulled off such a high-profile theft. “You said you didn't steal anything,” he accused when he was finished.
“I didn't steal anything,” Mycroft repeated, calmly sipping his tea.
“But the insect...”
“Look at the photo a little more closely,” Mycroft replied. “You're a detective, are you not?”
Jim frowned, squinting down at the picture. “...do you have a pen?”
Mycroft handed him the small pencil he kept in his pocket.
Jim scribbled a few notes on the edge of the newspaper. He solved the lower message first, then laughed. “'You are all complete idiots'?”
Mycroft shrugged.
Jim was still snickering as he solved the second one. “Oh, so the insect is still there?” he asked. “Then why did you even--”
“It was a message for someone,” Mycroft replied.
“Who?”
“That's not important.”
Jim scowled. “If it weren't important, it wouldn't matter if you told me.”
After convincing Jim not to say anything to anyone about what he knew – not a particularly difficult feat – Mycroft brought him back home. His mother didn't seem to have any idea that her son had been gone for the past two days. Mycroft didn't bother to enlighten her.
Mycroft spent the next couple of days with Jim, waiting for any indication that Sherlock had taken the bait. He got it on the third day, when the newspapers reported that a 'teen genius' had cracked the coded message and revealed that the insect had been in the museum the whole time.
Sherlock had also seen fit to tell the police that every idea they'd come up with for how the thief had broken into the museum in the first place was completely wrong. However, they weren't buying his explanation that the thief had simply walked in and turned off the alarm, no matter how true it was.
Mycroft informed Jim that he was leaving that evening. The boy didn't take it well.
“Why can't I come with you?”
“That would be kidnapping.”
“It's not kidnapping if I come willingly,” Jim protested. His eyes shimmered slightly.
“It is, I'm afraid.” Mycroft rubbed his shoulder, then smiled at him. “Enjoy your life. You're doing well.”
Jim sniffed, then blinked his eyes several times. He tried to say something, but only a pained sound came out of his mouth. He put a hand to his chest, then abruptly turned and ran away.
Mycroft considered going after the boy, but then thought the better of it. He checked out of the hotel, then returned to the building he owned.
Mycroft stood in the middle of the large, open room and set the device to 2012. The world blurred around him. He expected the trip to be another dull one, 20 years of watching a totally unchanging empty room.
He was not expecting a pile of gold, jewelry, and other precious items to suddenly appear in the corner, then expand rapidly outward. By 1993, there were enough items to cover the entire floor of the room, with a particularly large pile in the corner. By 2000, there were several piles, all waist-high. By 2008, the walls were barely visible and some of the piles were above Mycroft's head. In 2009, they vanished entirely. Mycroft arrived in 2012 in a totally empty room.
While the unexpected change was concerning, Mycroft had other priorities. He immediately took out his mobile and did a search on his brother.
The results weren't any better than they had been last time; his brother had survived 2009, but he still hadn't made it beyond 2011.
'Genius Detective Brutally Murdered in Museum.'
Apparently, Sherlock had been shot, then dismembered, his body stuffed into one of the display cases. A coded message of some kind had been written across the floor in his blood, though the article didn't give any indication of what it was.
According to the article, the police currently had no suspects. It didn't matter; Mycroft knew exactly who had done it, if not the precise reason why.
It only took Mycroft a moment to notice the quiet hissing sound coming from behind him, but that moment was just a bit too long. The air around him filled with fog.
Mycroft fell to his knees, barely able to breathe. He passed out within seconds.