Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Sherlock Holmes was back from the dead, and John Watson was not altogether pleased about it.
Finding out after two years that your late best friend was not, in fact, as deceased as you’d been led to believe was generally considered to be a happy occasion. John supposed that eventually he might get around to the whole “happy” bit of it. Right now he was just plain brassed off.
It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t understand Sherlock’s rationale for the entire charade; John appreciated, very much, his own current state of not-being-dead. No, what John couldn’t understand was why the charade had needed to continue for so bloody long without his being apprised of the real state of affairs. After all, hadn’t Sherlock said that he didn’t have any friends but John?
Yes, John was quite cross at having been deceived, so effectively and for so long; but that didn’t change the fact that the papers and news blogs had no right to write the things they had been about his formerly-late best friend.
“FRAUDULENT AMATEUR DETECTIVE HOLMES “BACK” AMONG THE LIVING” splashed across the screen of John’s laptop, along with a photo of said detective looking like he was moments away from lambasting the face off the shot’s photographer. Of course, that was probably nothing to the excoriation that the article’s author had undoubtedly received, given the tone of the piece and the questions that the journalist had apparently asked.
A large number of the pieces that John had seen were calling for Sherlock to be locked away in a mental institution. In their opinion, he was “dangerously unbalanced” and “a threat to society at large.”
“Nevermind that it’s him that tracked down that mad bleeding cabbie, not to mention any other number of actual threats to society at large,” muttered John in disgust, as he closed both the browser window and his laptop. He scowled ferociously at the empty tea cup he carried into the kitchen, as if it were the author of such ludicrous suggestions, and at the clock on the wall as though it were the tea cup’s fiendish accomplice. “I hope he’s made at least one journalist cry by now. Nosy gits deserve what they get,” he informed his jacket as he yanked it on and stomped through the door on his way to work.
He got about as far as double-checking that the front doorknob was locked before the first flashbulb went off. Suddenly a microphone was in his face, and he was being asked whether he had known that his erstwhile partner had survived his fall from the roof of St. Bart’s.
“Not that I see how it’s any business of yours, but no,” snapped John. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, some people have more important things to do today than stand about and gossip.”
His attempts to push through the small knot of reporters went over rather poorly. He had just about resolved to start stamping on feet and elbowing faces when two tallish, official-looking fellows in suits reached through the crowd and extricated him. The journalists, foiled for the moment, started calling after him about his “bodyguards” as the men led him to the back door of a dark-windowed car waiting at the curb. John was just as happy to ignore them and slam the door in their inquisitive faces. “I take it I’ll be late for work, then, yeah?” he asked Anthea, who smirked at him before turning her attention back to her mobile.
“Right,” John sighed. What a lovely morning this was shaping up to be.
*******************
Mycroft stood waiting in the middle of the warehouse, like a mirror reflecting back to John’s first encounter with him. “I trust my wayward brother has informed you of his oh-so-miraculous return from the dead?”
“Yes, he did at least have the courtesy to do that much before the reporters started turning up on my doorstep.”
“Ah, yes, the press. They’ve made quite a nuisance of themselves, wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Watson?” asked Mycroft. John got the distinct impression that this was supposed to be leading somewhere that he was rather sure he wouldn’t like.
“I’d call that a bit of an understatement, yeah,” John responded guardedly. “Making things a bit hard to get to work this morning. Where I’m supposed to be now, in fact...” He glanced pointedly at his watch.
“We’ll have you there soon enough, Dr. Watson. We first need to discuss the rather... difficult situation that my brother has created for himself. You see, once the media discovered that his supposed suicide was, in actuality, a fake, they came to the conclusion that, clearly, he was perilously unbalanced-”
“Can’t argue with that one,” John interrupted crossly.
“-and as such, needs to be contained. Both for his own good and for that of the general populace,” Mycroft finished, glaring purposefully at the good doctor.
“Hang on - you’re not saying that you actually agree with them, are you?” John demanded. If Mycroft was trying to imply that John, being a doctor, should assist with the attempt to get his friend committed to a mental institution, well, he was terribly mistaken. John couldn’t even imagine how very much, or for how very long, Sherlock would hate him for being party to such a thing.
“No, nothing of the sort. I’m pleased to see that you don’t either,” Mycroft assured him, looking almost imperceptibly relieved.
“Then... if you’re not asking for my help to lock him up - what am I doing here?” John wondered. “I’m not a psychologist, if that’s what you’re asking. Not my field. I can’t prove he’s well enough to run about in public, not and have it stick. Besides, I’m known to be his partner. Your brute squad can tell you all about the horde of reporters that was waiting on my doorstep this morning.”
“I’m not asking you to do that, either. No, actually there’s quite a renowned psychologist with a practice near Bath I’d like him to go see.” Mycroft paused, as if thinking how best to phrase his next thought. Ah, thought John, here we come to the bit he knows I won’t be pleased with. “I’d like you to take him out there for a few weeks, make certain he sees the doctor when he’s supposed to. It should be far enough from London to dodge most of the press, hopefully, until this mess has died down a bit.”
“And how did this become my responsibility? I’m sure that you, being his big brother, would be better suited to babysit his appallingly uncommunicative highness.” John crossed his arms and scowled.
“I have pressing business to attend to-”
“Don’t you always.”
“How many other friends, precisely, do you think he has?” Mycroft asked.
“I’m not even sure he still has this one,” John replied, knowing he didn’t really mean it, and also knowing that he wasn’t going to let on to Mycroft. “Not after the stunt he just pulled. I thought he was DEAD, for chrissakes. For TWO. BLEEDING. YEARS.”
A thought occurred to him. “How long have you known he was alive?” John accused. It would be just like the secretive prat to have known all along, thanks to his spies, that Sherlock wasn’t really dead. Just like him not to tell John and let him suffer.
“Only slightly longer than you have, I assure you,” Mycroft replied. John eyed him suspiciously and doubted the truth of the response. “Now, can I count on you to keep an eye on Sherlock? All of the expenses will be taken care of, of course.”
John considered protesting a bit more, but realized that it was a losing battle. The longer he held out, the later he would be to work, was all. “Fine. You know what? Fine. But you get to convince Sherlock.”
*******************
“He won’t listen to me, John. Terribly busy, John,” the doctor in question mimicked in a high voice that clearly wasn’t Mycroft’s. The speaking to himself was earning him some strange looks from passersby as he walked along the street, but John couldn’t be bothered to care. “What a load of rubbish.”
He strode under the awning of Speedy’s to the once-familiar door of 221B Baker Street. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to do more than hire a moving service, after Sherlock had “died.” He regretted not having been able to be more help to poor Mrs. Hudson, then, but at the time... he simply couldn’t, that was all. A wave of nostalgia rolled over him as he lifted and released the knocker. He then stood for a good three minutes waiting for the door to be opened. When, at last, the door handle turned, John found himself face to face with his former landlady.
“Oh, hello, John! I should have figured that I’d be seeing you pop ‘round soon, now Sherlock’s taken up residence again. Come in, come in!” Mrs. Hudson greeted him. She stood aside and ushered him in and up the stairs. “Haven’t had anybody to rent the flat, since you lot left... bullet holes in the walls, that gas explosion, and so on, you understand... though a good few photographers have taken to lingering down in the street, since he came back, you know.”
John glanced back at the door as it swung closed and thought he saw the flash of a camera. Although maybe that was just paranoia, or the power of suggestion, or some such.
“Yes, they have come out in full force, haven’t they? Had a few nearly barricade me in my flat the other morning,” John responded, raising his voice a bit in the hopes that it would carry up the remaining stairs and induce some semblance of guilty feeling in his former flatmate. Not that that would work, but it couldn’t hurt his case, now could it?
“My, how dreadful, dear,” Mrs. Hudson sympathized. “It’s not gotten quite so bad around here, but that’s mostly since Sherlock never leaves the flat, lately. You know how he gets, of course.”
John rolled his eyes and nodded in agreement. The two of them shared a knowing smile. “I’ll leave you two be, then,” she said as they reached the landing, patting John’s arm. “Good to see you again, dear.”
“Pleasure to see you, too, Mrs. H.” He took a deep breath, let it out, and rounded the corner into his old flat.
The place looked a bit more bare than it had when he had first arrived some four-odd years ago. John supposed that that was what came of having a considerable portion of one’s possessions sold off or donated to charities following one’s untimely demise. The harpoon still rested against a wall in the corner, though, and a violin and music stand were propped up near a chair in the other corner.
The man himself, clad in a bathrobe, stood peering through a slight gap in the window dressings at the street below. “They’re quite easy to elude if you come and go a bit less predictably. That’s your problem,” Sherlock opined. “Then they don’t know when to show up in force.”
“Yes, well. That’s a bit harder to manage when you have to work for a living, isn’t it?” John retorted sourly.
Sherlock released the window shade and turned to face his former flatmate. His eyes narrowed in that calculating way of his. “You don’t want to be here; you’re still angry with me, but here you are anyway. What has my brother convinced you to try and get me to do?”
John noticed the stubborn set of Sherlock’s face when he mentioned his brother and braced himself for battle. Some things never changed. “You mean to say you haven’t worked that out yet, too? Seems being dead has dulled your wits.” It was the wrong thing to say, and John knew it, but he was angry. He needed Sherlock to understand exactly how angry he actually was.
And it looked like that had done it. Rage sparked to life in Sherlock’s eyes. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with any of my mental faculties, and never has been, as you well know. If you, of all people, intend to imply that I am incapable of functioning without constant observation, then you’re welcome to leave this flat immediately. You don’t live here any more, John, and you most certainly are not my keeper,” Sherlock snarled. As he spoke, he closed the distance between them and loomed over the shorter man.
John glared up at him. “You think that now I would give up on you? After I stood by you through everything else?” It was insulting even to think it. “We just need to get you out of here for a while. Before it’s too late and you bite the heads off enough journalists to wind up getting yourself locked away for real. I am TRYING to help you. And, whether you believe it or not, so is Mycroft.”
Sherlock leaned back, the lines of contempt smoothing themselves from his face. “Certainly not. I’ve only just returned. They can hardly bother me in my own flat.”
“Yes, fine, but you can only stay in here for so long. Think how bored you’ll get,” John reminded him. He knew that, if there was one thing his friend couldn’t abide, it was boredom. Sherlock scowled as if displeased that the doctor knew him so well.
“Where, exactly, are you proposing to take me, and why should I care?”
“Because you can’t solve crime in a straightjacket, Sherlock!” The taller man opened his mouth, probably to point out the fallacies in that statement--not least of which being that Sherlock probably could solve crime in a straightjacket--but John cut him off before he could begin. “No, stop, I don’t want to hear it. Half of Britain is out to see you put away, and it’s only going to get worse. Have you seen some of the anonymous statements they’ve dug up about how unhinged you are?”
“Yes, Anderson’s in particular have been spectacularly uncreative. Clearly he still thinks that pigheadedness is an appropriate substitute for intelligence.” As Sherlock paused, John reflected that he wouldn’t be even remotely surprised if the detective had deduced the authors of every uncredited comment about him. “Very well, obviously you and Mycroft have come up with the perfect solution to my little dilemma. Let’s have it, then.”
“Well...” John hesitated. Here came the tough sell. “The best way to convince them that your mental health is not an issue would be to have proof to support the claim. Soooo,” he cleared his throat, and continued in a rush, “we were thinking that it might be best for you to be examined and given a clean bill of health by a well-known psychologist. Away from London. For a while.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock pulled away from their little face-off to start pacing the flat in agitation. “Do you really suppose I’m going to sit down in a quaint little lodge in the country with a popularized quack and talk about my feelings? Me, John? I know you were forced to keep company with lower minds in my absence, but do at least make an effort not to be asinine.”
Upon hearing it out loud, John was forced to recognize how ludicrous the idea was. Not that he was about to admit it aloud, of course. “Funny thing, it’s not exactly how I planned on spending the next month either, and yet here I am.”
Sherlock froze, back to John. “Of course. Mycroft doesn’t trust me to go along with it on my own, so he sends you with to make sure I do as I’m told.”
“Not that I particularly think you’ll listen to me, but your brother’s convinced, and what are the opinions of us mere mortals next to the great Holmes brothers?”
“What indeed?” the taller man agreed absently.
John clenched his jaw. There had been a time when thoughtless comments like that had elicited an eyeroll at most. That time had been over for just about two years now. “So help me Sherlock, if I have to hogtie you to get you on that train, Mycroft will make sure no one lifts a finger to stop it.”
“There’s no need to resort to barbarism,” Sherlock pronounced, turning an appalled face to John. “No bags with you and no taxi waiting out front, so the plan wasn’t to leave today, but you still felt anxious to convince me this afternoon. I’ll see you in the morning, shall I?”