Chapter Text
He was not in the mood for surprises, but he could tell his dear older brother had one.
Wonderful.
They had made it to a safe house in Hungary, driving nearly all night to get to Mongolia from Lake Baikal and then flying nearly immediately upon their arrival to Budapest, and all he wanted to do was sleep. Mycroft had stayed nearly silent the entire trip, and he had tried to sleep, but he knew his brother was simply waiting and that had made him wary of succumbing to his exhaustion. Mycroft was probably quite miffed about the fact he had to leave the comfort of his home in London to come rescue him. Not that he’d had to, to be quite honest; he’d had it all handled quite well.
So maybe Mycroft hadn’t come to rescue him. Perhaps he had another motive. And if it was something he hadn’t bothered to mention during their five thousand kilometer trip it was probably something he wanted to drop on him like a bombshell, just for the sheer pleasure of watching whatever emotions crossed his face at the news.
Well, he wasn’t going to give his brother the satisfaction.
Someone had prepared food for them, he realized as they stepped inside. He could smell goulash, for a start. Potato and egg casserole as well. Perhaps stuffed cabbage rolls? And fresh bread as well. He felt his stomach grumble at the assault of delicious smells. It had been a long time since he had eaten well; having been running around the wastelands of Serbia having to scrounge for what he could to supplement what few supplies he’d managed to bring with him when he’d left Khazakhstan at that time of year had meant lean meals. He would have to try very hard not to stuff his face.
He saw Mycroft’s PA standing near the stove, checking a pot. “Just in time,” she said. “The goulash is ready, and the rest can come out of the oven shortly. But I think a bowl each should be a good starter.”
“Thank you,” Mycroft said with a nod. He had rid himself of the garish hat long before they left Serbia but kept the coat. With as much as it cost he had expected nothing less. At least he had gotten him out of the rags he had been in. Not in clothing remotely close to the quality he had been used to but it was a step up from what he had been wearing. She gestured to the table near the stove and the two of them sat down, and after a moment she brought them each a bowl of the stew and a spoon. Sherlock gripped the spoon tightly and then slowly spooned himself a spoonful of the goulash before taking a bite. It was quite excellent.
“Do you want bread?” Anthea asked him. He nodded, and she went to the counter and used a knife to cut him a thick slice, then another. She took the bread and put the slices on a plate, then took that and a small plate of butter with a knife on it to the table and set it in front of Sherlock. He picked up the knife and put some butter on the bread before dipping it into the goulash and taking a bite.
Mycroft waited until he was about to swallow before he spoke to him. “Your ex-wife is in London.”
Sherlock nearly choked on his food. Of all the things he had expected his brother to say, that had certainly not been among them. He had tried to find her for years, but she had hidden herself well. It was as though she was more ghost than person, to be quite honest. And just like a ghost she haunted his mind, usually never being far from his thoughts. To the world at large he had no prior relationships to speak of, and certainly no ex-wife. When asked about why he wore a wedding band, he said it was his grandfather’s, a lie that slipped out easily. Only one man, only John, knew the truth. But Elizabeth Christine Fisher had been…enthralling, for lack of a better term. She had been everything he ever could have wanted, everything he ever could have needed.
And he had let her slip away.
No.
He had let the man sitting in front of him rip her away from him. He needed to remember that.
He did his best to recover and keep a neutural expression. “The CIA let her off their tight leash?” he asked, tearing off more bread to dip into his goulash.
“Quite a few years ago, apparently,” he said.
“Did you know?” Sherlock asked quietly.
“No, I did not,” he said. “She’s been back on British soil since roughly 2009, when a certain consulting criminal put word out that he needed the best of the best for a project.” He had another bite of his goulash. “She was more than willing to throw her lot with him until a certain night at a certain pool, when she stared down the sight of a gun and who did she see but her ex-husband? That was when she realized that James Moriarty had plans to go after you and she wanted nothing to do with them, and so she began to play her own game.”
Sherlock scoffed silently. “And just what was that?”
“She kept her ears open and fed information to the right people when she could to keep you safe,” he said quietly. “Passed it on to my handlers anonymously. After your apparent death, she began to speak to me directly. She’s been quite…useful.”
Sherlock looked down at his bowl and said nothing. He didn’t believe that Elizabeth cared. Not after the way things ended. Not after what he had done when she had been driven off. Not after what she had done. She had to hate him, hate the very sight of him. “And I suppose you’re telling me she played personal bodyguard to the people I left behind in London?” he asked.
“She goes by Mary Morstan now, she works at John’s surgery as a nurse, and she’s insinuated herself in his life and the lives of the others in your circle of…goldfish,” he said.
Sherlock scowled slightly at Mycroft’s term for his friends. “Don’t tell me she’s made a pass at John. Or that he’s made a pass at her.”
“I’ve informed her it’s quite unnecessary,” he said. “She has, however, been the sole reason he’s chosen to stay at Baker Street. She convinced him to with her as his flat mate. He does not know the truth yet, but I imagine he will shortly after your return. I doubt this is a secret you can, or should, keep for long.”
“No, I don’t imagine we should,” he murmured. He waited for his brother to say more, but Mycroft began to concentrate on his food and he bit back a sigh. He knew he would get no more from his brother on any topic relating to why he was pulled out of his mission or what Elizabeth was up to until he was ready. But either way, he was now looking at his return to London with a slight sense of dread. He had the sinking suspicion that the reunions he was going to have with friends and his former wife were not going to go well at all.
If he was lucky, maybe he’d get through them without getting hit.