"Expert In Lying"

Author: JulieArchery107

Type of story: One-Shot

"Have you brought reinforcements?" Sherlock asks looking back at him with disdain.


He lied.

There was no one but him.

"They will come soon enough."

Normally Sherlock would demand proof, some kind of evidence of such...

But Mycroft is an expert liar.

"Is there a sniper nearby?" Sherlock asks, his back to him.

Mycroft watched the red dot teasingly traveling up his own left leg, just visible enough to let him know it's there.

It stops right between his shoulder blades.

He may not see it, but he knows it's there.

Resting, waiting...

This is a game.

"No. I don't believe there is one."

He lied so much that Sherlock couldn't recognize a lie from a truth.

One would think he'd catch up eventually...

But Mycroft is an expert liar.

"I heard a shot, Mycroft did it hit you?" Sherlock asks, his voice filled with what ordinary people would call 'concern'.

But this is Sherlock. He doesn't feel concern, least of all towards him.

"No." His voice was steady, his breath even, and body relaxed with no signs of pain and strain. Nothing gave away what had been done, even the coat he wore masked the blood well. The shot was redirected on purpose, he knew. The sniper could have easily gone for the heart, yet he didn't. Curious thing, that.

"It missed me by an inch, Sherlock."

Had it been any other person, this is where their resolve and spine of steel would give way to pain and blood loss...

"Move along, brother-dear, least he gets away."

But Mycroft is an expert liar.

Sherlock looks at him, really looks at him, his sharp eyes looking for clues to deduce and analyze.

Usually so keen, so perceptive, so... capable in uncovering the secrets of others.

But Mycroft is an expert liar.

He watches his brother's eyes move over the wound, disregarding it several times.

Because he cannot see what Mycroft refuses to show.

The elder Holmes wonders if Sherlock knew how easy it was.

For him to lie to his face and make him believe those are facts.

He fights the urge to shake his head because of course Sherlock didn't.

He can't.

Because Mycroft never told him.

It's what makes him so much better than him.

So much less human.

"Very well." Sherlock accepts it and Mycroft feels his soul burn a little more, become a little more condemned.

He watches the detective look away and join John at the forefront of the warehouse.

People say he is the better brother, the one that had their collective humanity...

But Mycroft is an expert liar.

"Mycroft you're looking a bit pail."

The red-haired man blisters.


Mycroft forgot about John.

He forgot he doesn't look at the world through the same sharp lenses that he and Sherlock do, that he cannot be fooled by Mycroft's practised tricks against geniuses.

He looks with simple eyes, and sees the simple truth.

Who knew simplicity would be Mycroft's undoing.

"I'm alright, Doctor." He assures, thought he moves as far away from the smaller man as possible. "Just… unused to the field work."

John doesn't believe him, it's written clearly on his frowning features.

But Mycroft is an expert liar.

So he lets it go.

John's onto him now.

Watching him, examining him to the best of his ability as Mycroft keeps his distance, worrying about him…

And the fox-haired man hates himself a little more for each of those.

Because he doesn't deserve it, that concern.

He's a monster, and they all knew it.

And yet-

Fog creeped up on his on the edge of his vision, and he cursed under his breath.

He's slipping.

The wound finally breaking through his defences, making him aware that it's there.

Because even he can't ignore the hole in his body forever, even with his special training and clothes soaking and covering up all the blood.

He'll be staggering soon; the wound crippling and him unable to dull it anymore.

He will succumb eventually, he always did. The thought making his usually limp hand travel to his side...


His hand freezes.

John is near him all of a sudden, close enough to smell the coppery scent of the blood oozing out of him.

"Are you alright?"

Mycroft's hand falls limply to his side.

He counted his heartbeats as he breathed in and out, 1...2...3...4… too fast, he decides. The bleeding will be lethal least he slows it down.

He tries… and fails.

"Just a bit… winded." His voice adapting to his excuse, becoming breathless and quiet. Thank God for small mercies. "Nothing to worry about."

"I don't think I believe y-"

The doctor almost said But-

"John stop fussing over Fatcroft!" Sherlock's voice called from the front. "He's just terribly out of shape! Come over here and help me look!"

Mycroft is an expert liar.

John sputters indignantly but goes to his best friend anyway, all the while pointing an accusing finger at the elder Holmes with a look on his face that says "this isn't over!"

Mycroft is an expert liar.

He just wished he wasn't bleeding so much.

His body gives up on him sooner than he expected, and he has to lean on the nearest wall, hand pressing against the numb wound.


'Cover must have slipped.' He thought with a mirthless chuckle.

Unfortunate yet inevitable.

He's not as strong as he used to be.

"Jesus Christ!" John is already by his side, why didn't he see him move? "You said you were fine!" The poor doctor screamed when he pulled Mycroft's hand back and saw the glove sticky with blood.

The elder Holmes just gave him a bloody smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Lay down you stupid sod!" The blonde was angry, pushing him down. "I need to take a look at your wound!" Mycroft was close to complying but-

The red dot is back.

This time dancing between John's loose fringe, bathing the golden locks in crimson light.

Teasing, almost playful…

Play the game with me, Mycroft.

He freezes, body tense and ready to spring.

Suddenly it was gone, Mycroft lounged at the doctor.

A shot rings in the air, soon accompanied by the sound of clothes tearing and bones cracking and breaking…

The elder Holmes could feel pain, like a hot needle, blossoming from his chest.

His lungs filled with blood at an alarming rate, making him choke as he leaned over the terrified doctor.

John Watson was staring up at him with shock and horror in his blue eyes, lips open in a silent gasp.

Mycroft swallowed the coppery liquid and asked,

"Are you... alright... doctor?" His voice was cracking and hoarse.

It was a wonder he talked at all, considering the hot bullet swimming in his lung and the shattered rib scratching and cutting with every breath he took.


"Sh'lock." He didn't let the good doctor answer. No time, his vision is already going black. He can barely keep his eyes open… "The… sniper. Roof."

But the detective was still, unmoving.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft forced a commanding tone to his voice. "Move!"

'What is with you, brother?'

"You're shot…" the detective whispered, looking at Mycroft as if seeing him for the first time.

"Not now, brother-dear." He wondered how he could talk so clearly, so normally, with all the sloshing and gurgling sounds his lungs were making.

Wondered how he isn't drowning.

Medical knowledge dictates he should be dead two hours ago.

When a bullet sliced its way through his soft liver.

"Get…" He's coughing and, dear God, it's nothing but blood and shattered pieces of his rib. The action paints John's jacket red and white, and he feels absolutely sick. "The… Hunter... Sh'lock."

But the detective wasn't moving, just... staring at him eyes wide.

"H-rry." Voice barely a whisper as he tried to coax Sherlock into some sort of action, eyes squeezed shut and arms shaking.

The bullet hit the right side of his rib cage, in a spot directly parallel to his heart.

Had it been his left side, he would be dead.

He was lucky, unbelievably so.

"Sherlock go!" John said, sounding far away. He must have crawled out from under Mycroft's protective stance. "I'll take care of your fool of a brother. Go get the sniper."

He couldn't tell if the detective went as asked, his ears were ringing with his rapid heartbeats and the gurgle sound of blood in his collapsing lungs, his eyes screwed shut.

'This is it.' Mycroft thought, his arms buckling under his weight and making him drop heavily to the ground, which further agitated his wounds. 'I'm not leaving this place alive.'

He lost the game.

A small red dot appeared in the bloody puddle leaking from the corner of his mouth, shiny and tiny. So much so the elder Holmes thought it was but a hallucination.

It almost looked sad as it bounced back and forth, to his forehead and back to the puddle.

Like a macabre dance performed especially for him.

Fickle indecisive little thing.

"Mycroft!" John suddenly appeared in the puddle, the red dot blinking away upon his arrival. "Mycroft, answer me damn it!"

There will be no mercy for him tonight.

His body was forcefully moved to lay on his back, the doctor's hands pulling at his arms making the red-haired man hiss.

"C'ful." Was all he managed to gasp out between swallows of blood.

"A bit too late for that, don't you think?" John spat out, his voice carrying the sort of bite that was usually reserved for the younger of the brothers. "What were you thinking, getting shot like that and not telling anyone?"

Mycroft didn't respond.

There was nothing to say.

The doctor pushed against his chest wound a little harder than necessary, making the red-haired man choke and hiss.

"Well? What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?" It was clear that John wasn't going to let this remain unexplained, a fact evident by the venom in his voice.

"H'd to." Mycroft grunted out when the pressure increased again. "M'sion."

"Bullshit." The doctor spat, angry and distraught. "For once in your life, tell the bloody truth."


Such a powerful word, that.

It is a considered a Godly virtue, mothers tell their children that they must not stray from it, that it will set you free…

But Mycroft can't be set free.

For far too many lives depend on the lies he weaves. Were he to ever reveal the secrets he's been guarding and the actions he has put in motion for the sake of his country, the world would plummet into chaos.

So he has been running from it like a dog with his tail between his legs.

Tell the truth.

Such a simple statement.

Yet it had the power to bring the most powerful man in England to his knees.

For it was the one thing he could not do.

No matter what.

Tell the truth.


"I'm waiting, Mycroft." John hissed, growing ever impatient.

"S'op it." He managed to growl out before he was overtaken by harsh coughs again.

"It's a simple question, Mycroft." The doctor huffed in annoyance as he tried to take care of both bullet holes at once. "I'm not asking you to reveal our proud nation's classified secrets. I'm asking why you let yourself be shot, twice, and didn't think it would be wise to inform me, a doctor, about it." He sighed. "Why do that? Why let yourself be needlessly hurt?"

"D'snt m'tr." Mycroft coughed.

Mycroft is an expert liar.

"It does." John insisted. "Believe me, it matters a lot. Because, from what you've shown me today, I'm starting to fear for your mental health."

The red haired man swallowed thickly.

"The first shot could have been avoided, couldn't it?" The question came completely out of the blue, making him let out a shocked cough. "I bet you saw the sniper's laser pointer from the moment he pulled it out. You saw it honing in on you, and didn't move."

"..." Mycroft said nothing, too worried about the fact that by God, this shouldn't be happening.

"You knew it was coming and yet... you still let it hit you." The doctor continued somberly. "Why? That I will never know." He admitted, looking at Mycroft sadly. "What I do know is that this… all this," he gestures to the wounds. "is a very bad sign, Mycroft. It tells me that your mind is in a very very dark place right now." He pats him on the shoulder.

Mycroft is an expert liar.

"And that you have no idea how to get out of it."

But John is the one person that he cannot fool.