I don't own Sherlock (BBC or the original) or any characters in that series. I have wrote this text myself. Warnings are now about violence and cursing. I'm not sure yet if this will be a Johnlock (but I'm afraid that it will be. Tell me do you want that or not). If the rating goes up when this makes progress I will chance the rating.

I love my wonderful friend Khalko and her skillful friend (Sorry she doesn't have internet nick-name...yet). They have been both great beta-readers.

The greatest mystery was the one he really didn't want to solve. It wasn't boring for once; it was actually really interesting, even thrilling. Even so, he didn't want to solve it. Sherlock sat down on his chair and lit a cigarette. One thing was really clear to him when he watched the lifeless and bloody body lying on the chair in front of him. This time John wasn't going to nag him about smoking.

Baker Street 221b was maybe one of the safest places in the world. Mycroft made sure of that, even though it usually drove Sherlock out of his mind. All the hidden cameras and listening devices—usually Sherlock ripped them out and broke them. Still, he always left a few of his own—not Mycroft's, for God's sake—because he didn't want to be in situations like this. He wanted to know what happened. Yesterday there had been a few cameras, but now there were none.

John didn't die in this apartment; it was obvious, almost boringly obvious. He had been dead for more than twelve hours.Even an idiot could see that because of the rigor mortis. Sherlock had been here, in their apartment,twelve hours ago, and the body had not been in that chair then. And there had been no cameras or tapes to record when or how somebody brought the body to John's chair. Where had Sherlock been then? How did the killer know that he wasn't home when he brought the body to Baker Street?

One of the most interesting things was that John hadn't actually been missing. Sherlock had been texting with him only a few hours ago. The answers had been exactly like John's, and it was anything but easy to make Sherlock believe lies. Also, Mycroft always knew where John was even though Sherlock didn't. There was always at least one camera pointing at John. It was their silent deal with his brother. If something happened to John, the Holmes brothers would be the first ones to know. Or that was how things should have been.

Sherlock did something he really didn't want to do. But he did it for John.
"What a delightful surprise, my dear brother. It's not often that you call me." He really hated Mycroft's voice. But he had to call him. This was a situation where he needed the best help possible. Unfortunately, that was his brother.
"John is dead." It was a hard thing to say. A sentence that Sherlock had never wanted to say.
"No, he isn't. I can see him clearly, Sherlock." Mycroft always trusted his cameras and connections. What an idiot. Sherlock always trusted only himself and his deductions. This was an easy deduction.
"So can I, and yes, he is, Mycroft." Sherlock hung up the phone. One cigarette was too little. He lit another and looked at his only friend's destroyed face. This time John wasn't going to nag him about smoking.

There were policemen in their apartment. Sherlock hated it. Why should some idiots come into their apartment when the crime scene was Sherlock bloody Holme's home? What did they think they would see that he couldn't? Also, this was the body of John Watson. Sherlock's John Watson. This was personal now. John would be annoyed if some random policemen were to solve his case. He always wanted to see Sherlock being amazing. This was his last chance to show John that he was worthy of the man's admiration. Actually, that was maybe the wrong thing to say when John was dead. He wasn't worthy of it.

The face was full of cuts. So full that he almost couldn't make sure that it was John. That wouldn't be a problem. The man still had his fingerprints, hair and teeth. It would be easy to identify him. Also, Sherlock had his eyes and deductions. This body... he could see a scar on John's left arm; John had gotten that three weeks ago when he had broken a cup. He saw... it really hurt to look. There were tiny marks all over his body and clothes that screamed about his life. Coffee stain and cookie crumbs on his jumper; before his death John had had lazy morning. John didn't have a clue...
"Sherlock." Lestrade's voice was full of worry. That wasn't a miracle. Sherlock was a mess, more than usual. But this wasn't a time for that.
"Not now, Lestrade. We have work to do." Actually, work started only after John's body was out of this apartment. He had a pretty good clue as to who had done this. His last doubt disappeared when they opened John's shirt. There was a burnt hole in the middle of John's chest. I will burn the heart out of you.

"I never thought that he would take this so literally. Dramatic, even melodramatic, that is really his style. But this..." Then Sherlock closed his mouth. There were no buts. Actually, this was exactly Moriarty's style. It wasn't his heart, but John was his, so technically... Everything just screamed Moriarty. He just had to go out for a bit. He needed a place without John's body. He needed to think about his strategy. The war had just been declared.

When Sherlock was stepping down the stairs, his second-most-hated person was climbing up. One good thing about Moriarty was that he had brought the Holmes brothers closer to each other. That would actually maybe make that stubborn bastard happy. He clearly enjoyed being first on any of Sherlock's lists.
"Sherlock, I'm..." He didn't want to hear anything that idiot had to say.
"Shut up, Mycroft. Just shut up." Mycroft closed his mouth and watched his brother. He didn't look good. Even Sherlock himself knew that.
"You can't start using drugs again." Ah, of course, he smelled like cigarette smoke. It was only an innocent thing. Mycroft didn't care about that like John did. But first it was smoking, and after that, drugs. The last time it had gone like that, and Mycroft hadn't been happy.
"I have something else to do." No, drugs weren't even an option. He should find Moriarty and finish off that man. Also, Moriarty wasn't an idiot, so that was a much harder mission than it sounded.
"And after everything, you are bored, Sherlock. What would you do then?" Mycroft's logic was always practical and true. He didn't have John anymore to keep the boredom away.
"I will keep going." That wasn't true. Mycroft wouldn't notice the lie. Everybody expected him to be a heartless bastard, and now he tried to be one. The true answer would have been: I really don't know.

Mycroft looked at the apartment. He had gotten used to seeing it as his brother's and John's home. The police were now leaving, the body was in the body bag and some people had started to carry it outside. It looked like everything they had to do in the apartment was now done. And still the game had only begun.

It would be interesting to see his brother work alone again. And now he had so much motivation. Alone, those two were a danger to themselves; together, they were a danger to themselves and all those around them. And still John and Sherlock were healthier and happier together than alone. Mycroft had always thought that if his brother were to ever find a partner, he or she would be a genius like Sherlock. Maybe even a madman. There had been options, like Irene Adler or Moriarty. How had his brother chosen a man like John? Or was it John who had chosen his brother? What a great mystery that they were together.

Walking into the apartment and thinking to himself wasn't the cleverest thing to do. He had work to do before Sherlock would notice him. He went to John's bedroom and had to stop thinking for a minute again. Where would a normal person put it? It should be someone who knew and even liked his brother. It should also be someone who killed a man after one day of knowing Sherlock. So, it wasn't a normal person. What a shame; it would have been easy to hide in the desk drawer. He saw a bookcase and an idea came to him. It was an idea which John would have appreciated , like a last mark of respect towards Sherlock's smartness. That book was almost in every home, but still, there were secrets only inside that one book. A-Z London Street Atlas... there it was. Mycroft calmly searched the letter W and slipped the paper from inside the book. Then he closed it and put it back like he hadn't done anything, and left the apartment.

W, like the Will of John Watson.

A/N: I really hope that you liked this (and all the mistakes that I didn't noticed didn't matter so much). If there are people who would want that I continue this it would be really great to hear. :)