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Chapter Text

 

 

L'esprit de l'escalier (or l'esprit d'escalier), usually translated as "staircase wit", is the act of thinking of a response, argument or clever comeback when it is too late to deliver it. The phrase can be used to describe a riposte to an insult or any witty remark that comes to mind too late to be useful, after one has left the scene of the encounter. The phenomenon is usually accompanied by a feeling of regret at not having thought of the retort when it was most needed or suitable.

 

Three years.

 

Three years would give anyone plenty of time to think about things they should have said, to think of smart retorts, witty replies and a correct, believable way to phrase the truth.

 

But for Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, that amount of time to think of things he should have said at certain moments felt like a lifetime.

 

Luckily for him, he had the ability to push mundane things like that to the back of his mind as it wasn't important to a case or relevant to aiding a deduction.

But the problem with this was, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective; the only one in the world, hadn't been able to take cases first hand for a little over three years because as far as the world knew, Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Although, certainly not buried.

 

The only cases he handled where the ones sent via email by his brother Mycroft, all of which occurred in England, meaning that Sherlock could never see the information first hand; which made the cases a lot more difficult as Mycroft was too lazy to collect the vital information that could be the determining factor of the case and Scotland Yard had the annoying tendency to completely overlook any of the important information. Although, there had been a few French cases he had taken, but never enough to keep him away from the inevitable boredom.

 

Eventually, Sherlock ended up devoting a lot of his time to research and published quite a few successful articles under the pseudo name of Eliot Smith, even winning awards in the process.

The research kept Sherlock occupied-something for which his brother, Mycroft, was thankful of. But the boredom and dark moods still cropped up and Sherlock's distractions were often never enough to match the various cravings, much to Mycroft's dismay whenever he, himself was aware of this, which truthfully wasn't very often.

Even with the copious amounts of research and the ever threatening boredom, Sherlock still found unwelcome thoughts creeping into mind.

At times like this, he would search for a distraction.

His most recent one was bee-keeping.

 

Three years ago, when Sherlock had confirmed Mycroft's suspicions of a presence that was cunning and even more dangerous than previously expected, in the shape of a perfectly innocent looking man named Jim Moriarty, Jim from IT, Mycroft had kept as close to the situation a his brother would allow him, which admittedly wasn't close at all, but close enough to keep watch on Sherlock's blog and manage to send his own snipers to the pool before someone was killed, the first time.

 

~

 

When Sherlock had woken up in a bright, private hospital room, he had given a nod of acknowledgement to Mycroft, although that was after he had searched out a sleeping John Watson, who had firm hold of Sherlock's right hand as he slept with his head against Sherlock's mattress.

Mycroft half expected his brother to lean over and kiss the smaller man from the look of pure relief on his face, even in front of Lestrade and himself who were waiting side by side for Sherlock to awaken from his drug induced stupor.

 

Of course Mycroft never expected to be thanked; that was never going to be in Sherlock's nature, although a week after Sherlock was discharged from the hospital and returned to Baker Street with John, Mycroft received an expensive looking box of chocolates from John Watson who said he was forever thankful.

Perhaps John Watson was going to be a good influence on his brother after all.

 

If anything, Mycroft expected Sherlock to heavily criticise him over the fact Moriarty had escaped from his snipers with only a stray bullet to the arm, something one of his own men could have treated for him, providing they had medical training. Therefore no one was tracked back to any A & E departments with a bullet wound to the left arm that night.

To Mycroft's surprise, that argument never occurred and Mycroft thought that perhaps that may have been because Sherlock may have blamed himself for the events that unfolded that night.

 

After that night, Mycroft half expected to receive some action in one of his many surveillance reports that would eventually portray even just a small hint of a relationship between the two (even to his eyes) but nothing seemed to be happening, much to his confusion.

Although Moriarty was soon back in action.

Mycroft noticed, however, that Sherlock was careful to never let John out of his sight without some precaution being taken beforehand.

 

~

 

So you can probably quite clearly imagine the state of surprise in which Mycroft was left when Sherlock was ushered into his large drawing room by his elderly housekeeper late one night.

Sherlock's curled hair clung to his skull and looked jet black from rainwater, his skin was paler than usual and Mycroft could have sworn Sherlock had lost quite a bit of weight since he last saw him in person a few weeks ago. He was more skeletal now and he seemed to be slightly out of breath as if he had been in a rush to see Mycroft (Incredibly unlikely and rather unusual).

He handed his soaked coat to Edith and he watched her closely until she left the room and closed the door behind her.

Sherlock glanced at the great fireplace that sat opposite two plush armchairs, one of which Mycroft was sitting in as it gave off comforting heat on that winter's night.

“Do you mind?” Sherlock asked, breaking his silence, his voice was deep and Mycroft thought he could hear a hint of a cold that was either beginning or ending, but after casting a sweeping glance at Sherlock once again, he saw that he had been sick lately, which could have led to the weight loss and the more pronounced lack of colour in his brother's features, apart from the dark circles under his eyes, which were rather bloodshot.

Other than looking ill, Sherlock was well dressed as usual, apart from the fact that he was currently dripping rainwater.

Mycroft shook his head and Sherlock strode over to the fire and stood before it, turning his back to the flames and standing with both hands clasped behind his back.

Mycroft pursed his lips at the sight of the rainwater dripping onto an antique rug which he was particularly proud of, but Sherlock yawning unexpectedly tore him from his thoughts on the rug and he pursed his lips as he glanced at Sherlock's tired face.

“When did you last sleep?” He asked.

“What does that matter?”

Mycroft cast a worried glance up at his brother, “You're not immortal, Sherlock. Do try and remember that.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he pointedly glanced at the coffee table before Mycroft which was ladened with open files and various papers.

“Nor are you.” He replied simply.

Mycroft smiled slightly, “Touché.” he mumbled, looking up at Sherlock, “What brings you here? I highly doubt this is purely a social call.”

Sherlock shifted and stood up straighter, then cleared his throat and Mycroft never expected what was to come next.

“I need you to promise me that you'll look after John when I'm gone.”

 

Chapter Text

 The room remained silent for roughly three minutes, but for both men it felt a lot longer.

Mycroft surveyed Sherlock, trying to understand what his brother, the self proclaimed sociopath, the one who never made friends, who refused to care for people, had just asked of him.

“Where are you going?” Mycroft asked curiously, breaking the silence which was lessened by the firewood that was still crackling gently behind them.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitched, threatening a smile.

“Oh Mycroft.” Sherlock said, amusement clear in his voice, “I trust that you of all people know where this has all been heading.”

Mycroft stayed silent, watching Sherlock, waiting for some further explanation that he needed to fit all the pieces together to confirm what he had been curious about.

 

“We're running. As you already knew from your...'methods',which could also be classed as stalking.” He paused for a moment, “I also trust that you have the fake Ids ready and waiting for this moment. John and I leave tomorrow, so I would like to collect those now, if you wouldn't mind.” Sherlock added in an offhand way. “and I'm trusting you to make make sure John gets home safely. He won't want to remain in Baker Street, apparently, according to some research I've done it would be too hard; memories and what not. So I would ask you to make sure he finds somewhere comfortable to live. For me, please arrange with Mrs. Hudson to keep the Baker Street rooms as they are, under no circumstances are they to be disturbed. But do promise to look after John-and Mycroft? Not through a video camera, if you please.” Sherlock fell silent and Mycroft was left looking pensive after his brother's fast narrative, dictating his wishes, which led again to the question;

“Where are you going?” Mycroft asked again.

At this Sherlock smiled wryly, “To finally rid the world of Moriarty.”

“And John?” Mycroft questioned.

Sherlock's expression didn't change, “I know that at the time, a distraction will be there for John and he'll be safe and safer still with you.”

A crease appeared just above Mycroft's brow, “But what is actually going to happen to you?”

Sherlock walked away from the fireplace and sat down in the old armchair across from Mycroft. “I'm not sure yet. I do know, however, that two fakes Ids are not going to throw off one of the greatest criminal minds in history. If it leads to my death, so be it. I'll die in the knowledge that it was the price I had to pay while ridding the world of one of the most dangerous criminals.”

Mycroft seemed stunned silent for a few moments. “You can't die. I won't allow it to come to that, you just need to led me in more than you did during the swimming pool incident.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Please.”
“You're my brother, Sherlock.”

“I was aware.”

Mycroft sighed heavily, choosing to forget what had just unsuccessfully passed between them both. “Why John?”

Sherlock seemed to have been taken off guard by the question, and his brows furrowed together as though he was searching for an answer to that question and after a short silence, his brows smoothed out and he smile ever so slightly, “John is...John. He's my...friend.” While Sherlock looked sure of what he was saying, he hesitated over the words, not quite sure if what he was saying was entirely the truth, after all, Sherlock had never acquired a friend before. Not for this long.

But that's what John was, wasn't it? If you're going by social conventions, which Sherlock had some knowledge of, he thought John could possibly be seen as a friend.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, he had realized how foreign the concept and the very word 'friend' was to Sherlock, and he couldn't help smiling just a little at the fact he had finally found someone who was able to keep up with him, and reign him in when needed.

He admired John.

“Just friends?” Mycroft asked, he couldn't particularly resist, he thought that if this was the night Sherlock was going to talk about John, he might as well ask.

Sherlock frowned at Mycroft and shook his head, “No. Why would you even think that? You should know of all people that he is with Sarah and you currently sound like a teenage girl.”

Mycroft shrugged, keeping his expression neutral, ignoring the frankly amusing insult. “Maybe things weren't what they seemed.”

“To you?” Sherlock asked, “Having doubts?”

“I'm perfectly content with my abilities, Sherlock. I was merely curious.”

“Why?”

Mycroft tilted his head, “Well you seem to become somewhat illuminated when you mention him. You've been happier since you and he started living together, you care about him enough to ask me to look after him. You've never been like that with anyone before. I just thought-”

“Mycroft, please. Lets not talk about my feelings for John, I'm only here to ask you to look after him.” Sherlock interrupted. “Will you promise to carry through?”

Mycroft was silent for a moment, he then stood up and walked over to an antique looking set of drawers with faded brass handles, which he unlocked with an elegant key, before drawing out a large brown sealed envelope and handing it to Sherlock as he sat down again.

“What you'll need is in there.” Mycroft said quietly, watching Sherlock's grip tighten on the package.

“Thank you. And John?”

Mycroft nodded curtly once, “I promise.”

 

 

 

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

“Bern.” John mumbled, bleary eyed as he clambered into the black Mercedes with tinted windows that was waiting for them on the tarmac as soon as they touched down in Bern-Belp airport, central Switzerland.

“Mhhm.” Sherlock hummed, tapping away at his blackberry, reassuring Mycroft they had touched down, and even thanking him for what he had done in such short notice.

“I've never been on a private jet before.” John said, trying desperately to strike up a conversation, anything to have Sherlock reassure him that he had chosen the right thing by sticking with him. 
He hadn't slept in nearly twenty four hours and he could feel the energy drain from his muscles, his eyelids were heavy and they ached as he tried to keep them open.

He wondered how Sherlock managed it. Now and on cases. He sometimes wondered whether Sherlock's blood was just composed of caffeine, but he knew Sherlock would laugh at him if he asked, and at times like this he was so tempted to ask just to hear Sherlock laugh.

He would do anything to extract a reassuring reaction from Sherlock right now. One of those reassuring things would be to hear him say 'John. You're an idiot, I thought you were a doctor.'

He needed it, he didn't care if that sounded selfish, but this should have been where any normal person would comfort the other and tell them everything would be okay, it's such a simple lie.

That was the first time in over a month that he had genuinely missed Sarah.

Sarah, like him was a doctor and so cleverly skilled with the 'Everything's going to be fine.' lie, that it sounded so true. She even dropped it in on conversations she and John would have.

Was it wrong that the lies were the only things he missed about her? About his girlfriend?

He didn't want to answer that. Right now was not a time to lie to himself, even though he wanted to be lied to.

Shortly after Sherlock had phoned Mycroft, at eleven their time, they were told to pack and await further instructions.

At around five past midnight, John was slipping into a light sleep in the hard backed chair he was seated in across from where Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the floor, with both hands drawn together under his chin. He was still staring into space when his phone started to buzz along the floor beside his feet and as John opened his eyes, after not really sleeping at all, he realized Sherlock hadn't moved in the last hour.

He was still selfishly awaiting the 'Everything's going to be fine.' 
He would be waiting a long time.

But maybe not as long as he would have hoped, he realized looking back on it.

After Sherlock had ended the newest call, he stood up quickly, there was an absent look in the back of his eyes and it worried John a little, he remembered that look too well from fellow soldiers in Afghanistan. He couldn't resist reacting to the shiver that trailed down his spine at the thought of it, but fortunately Sherlock didn't even notice-Sherlock wasn't Sherlock right now.

Maybe Sherlock was the one who needed to be lied to right now, but that thought never crossed John's mind.

Selfishly, he realized later.

“We're leaving. There's a car waiting for us. Shade our faces with hats and we'll wear those sunglasses we bought that day we went on the hike. We have to move fast. Come on John.” Sherlock said quickly, as he moved around the room, throwing a sun cap and a pair sunglasses at John, who managed to catch them, while Sherlock put on his and grabbed his suitcase and headed towards the door where he stopped and waited for John, his foot tapping on the carpet impatiently.

John quickly followed and they got into the black BMW that was waiting by the foot of the hotel steps. They were driven to Grenoble airport in silence, and Sherlock was staring blankly out his window.

They were ushered trough security quickly as they were listed as VIP passengers and when the driver that had picked them up brought them through a closed gate and outside to where the cool air greeted them , he spoke for the first time, telling them to climb the steps into the waiting private jet and that there would be a car awaiting them when they arrived in Switzerland. He bid them good luck and disappeared back into the airport.

The plane ride was silent and it seemed like forever to John who still hadn't slept. 
Sherlock still hadn't spoken properly.

Now they were at least forty-five minutes into what the driver had said would be an hour long drive when John asked.

They were driving from the airport to some hotel in Grimselstrasse, John thought he had caught the name 'Hotel Tourist' but he wasn't sure.

Sherlock was staring out his window again, silent and unmoving except for when his phone buzzed in his lap and he would reply to whatever was being said.

It was after four in the morning by the time they arrived at the hotel and checked in with a sleepy-eyed receptionist. They were guided to their room and then swiftly left alone again. John and Sherlock walked in, they were taken slightly off-guard by how small the room was compared to what they had both been in the last month. The main feature in the room was the double bed, which had a simple quilt on it and only two pillows. There was a bookshelf above the bed and two night-stands on either side of the bed. Then there was a desk and chair, which had a kettle an coffee sachets with two mugs on a tray in the centre of it. John and Sherlock deposited their luggage in a corner and John disappeared to the tiny en suite bathroom first to get changed, when he came back out Sherlock was already in his pyjamas and waiting for the use of the bathroom with a toothbrush and toothpaste in his hands, his expression was still impenetrable. He passed by John silently and when he returned, John was sitting up in the bed, his back against the wall as there was no headboard on the bed.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked.

“There's only two pillows.” John stated bluntly.

“And?” Sherlock questioned as he placed his toothbrush and toothpaste back into his backpack.

“There's nothing to divide us, and this bed seems smaller than the others too.” John said quietly.

Sherlock looked confused, “And?”

“Remember our arrangement?” John asked staring at Sherlock intently as he got into bed beside John. 
Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. “Your arrangement and we're both fully clothed.” He said simply.

Thinking back on it, John realized that Sherlock sounded so uncharacteristically exhausted.

“But I tend to hold people in my sleep.”

“And we're meant to be acting like we're married.” Sherlock snapped. “The possibility of waking up in your arms doesn't bother me in the slightest, John.”

John's doe-eyed expression and the fierce blush that was filling his cheeks went completely unnoticed to Sherlock, who still had his eyes closed. “I-it doesn't?” He stuttered. He was confused, Sherlock had been impossible to read since the indirect call from Moriarty and John had known Sherlock for just under a year and he never thought of Sherlock as someone who enjoyed or would partake in any form of physical contact.

“No. You have a girlfriend, I have my work. There are more important things to worry about than your sexuality right now, John. Goodnight.” His voice was cold, but composed as he turned around onto his side-away from John.

Now would have been a perfect time to say, 'Everything's going to be fine.' but he never said that and John regretted it.

He turned off the light on his bedside table and lay awake on his back, Sherlock lay unmoving with his back facing John and he was completely silent. His shoulders were rising and falling slowly, but no slower than usual and after over a month of this, John wondered did Sherlock actually sleep or was he just lying awake thinking of cases and Moriarty and risks, John wondered did the man ever just stop thinking.

But now seemed to be his night for thought, he was tired and his eyes were heavy, his brain foggy. He was reluctant to fall asleep, because he knew he would end up holding the detective closely at some point during the night and he had only held him once before, a memory that remained vivid in his mind, although he was convinced that Sherlock had probably deleted it, or the drugs could have washed it away during the following hospital stay.

It happened six months ago, they were at the pool, Sherlock was aiming the gun at the explosives before Moriarty, his hands steady and John knew he would do it, he never doubted him for a second. 
Sherlock Holmes would do anything to rid London (and the world, for that matter) of Jim Moriarty.

Moriarty tilted his head to the side, curious, his eyes were dark and free of fear. “You stand fast?” He chirped in his musical Irish accent.

Sherlock glanced at John, again, as he kept doing ever since John had walked out in his parka.

John thought that look of pure betrayal on Sherlock's face when he first saw him would haunt him forever.

Sherlock Holmes, the fantastic, wonderful, genius Consulting Detective who had saved John completely so many times since they first met just a month before this incident, just stared at John as though he had been punched in the stomach and when he managed the word 'John...' he sounded like he was having trouble understanding. 
John realized then that this brilliant man actually thought that he, John, was Moriarty.

Until John showed him the explosives that were strapped to him, then he realized that the man actually cared? Was that the right word for someone like Sherlock? Or was he just afraid of losing another round? Like the old woman; but this time with John? 
But then Moriarty arrived and mentioned hearts, and that's where John became uncomfortable.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed on Moriarty's reptilian face, “Absolutely.” His finger was on the trigger, and just as the muscles in his arms tensed, there were two loud gunshots that echoed around the pool.

The gun dropped from Sherlock's hand and clattered onto the tiles and Sherlock followed, his head hitting the tiles with a loud thud that seemed to echo through John's ears.

Moriarty's face stretched with his wide smile, his white teeth almost shone as his shoulders shook with slow motion silent laughter. Well maybe the laughter wasn't silent, and Moriarty most probably was not moving in slow motion, but John's world was as he watched Sherlock lying on the cold tiles a few feet away from him, blood slowly tinting the white tiles a dull red.

John's heart felt as though it was in his mouth, all he could hear was a loud thumping in his ears while Moriarty watched him crawl over to where Sherlock lay.

“Well my dears, this has been so exciting!” Moriarty's voice seemed so distant to John right now, he didn't even want to look at him again, he was too busy trying to shake Sherlock awake so he could ask where the blood was coming from, to tell him everything would be alright.

“But I've got other things to do, other people to please, but I'll see you both again soon. Very soon. Bye!” And then Moriarty was gone and John's eyes were stinging with tears.

“Sherlock, don't sleep, don't sleep, tell me where it hurts, please Sherlock.” He whispered, placing a hand under Sherlock head and moving him carefully, feeling for any lumps from the tiles, then he checked Sherlock's neck for his pulse, it was beating strong and fast. “Sherlock...” John whispered, his voice chock full of emotion.

Jim had taken John's phone, so the next thing he did was grab Sherlock's phone out of his shirt pocket and dial an ambulance, they said someone would be there as soon as possible.

But that could be ages! John thought to himself as he stroked Sherlock's face.

“John...” Sherlock's voice was gruff, “My arm, my shoulder.” He whispered.

John carefully sat Sherlock up against him, slipping off his suit jacket slowly and carefully, his right shirt sleeve was damp with blood and John kissed Sherlock's hair, “It's going to be alright, just...just stay awake.” He said softly as he unbuttoned the shirt and slid it off his right arm, there were two wounds, John noted, one which appeared to be situated in the Deltoid muscle, and one just above Sherlock's pronounced collar bone in the trapezius muscle.

He wished more than anything that he had painkillers or medical instruments to try and extract the shrapnel.

He held Sherlock up gently, but moved so that he was facing the man, his grey eyes were watching John as he pulled Sherlock into his arms, just holding him there carefully, but somewhat tightly. John was surprised at how thin Sherlock really was, and he kept checking Sherlock's eyes to make sure his pupils weren't dilated because his head had hit the tiles hard and John was worried about concussion.

“John...I...”

“Shhh, Sherlock, It's going to be fine. It's all going to be fine.” He said as he gently rubbed small calming circles into Sherlock's back, Sherlock had closed his eyes as if shutting them would shut the pain out and John was only too glad when he heard the distant sirens of an ambulance.

They put Sherlock to sleep, gave him high doses of morphine and operated on him, extracting the two bullets and scraps of shrapnel. This all happened very fast, Sherlock was taken to a private hospital and was given better care than John knew existed in the healthcare system, of course this was all down to Mycroft; who turned up the next day when Sherlock was still sleeping.

Mycroft asked John questions about Moriarty, and he repeated the answers he had given to Lestrade, who was still standing by Mycroft's side. Part of him was glad that Mycroft didn't reference the fact that John was holding Sherlock's hand because he knew Mycroft would have noticed that. Mycroft left shortly after, wishing John well, Lestrade following him from the room, casting a gentle glance back at John.

John hadn't been in contact with Sarah yet; phones were strictly forbidden here and part of him felt guilty because he didn't want to be with her right now, he wanted to stay here holding Sherlock's hand and not having to care about Sherlock insulting him for being 'so typically human.' but Sherlock was so pale and he lay there so still that part of John just never wanted to leave in case he stopped breathing, the only thing comforting him about how dead Sherlock looked was the fact that his chest was moving, slowly, but it was moving and the heart monitor beeped slowly, and that comforted John because it meant that Sherlock was alive. 
Sherlock was alive and John didn't have to go back to a 'normal' civilian life, not yet.

Sherlock woke about forty-five minutes after Mycroft had left. He opened his eyes slowly and carefully, John hadn't noticed yet, he was staring at Sherlock's hand in his.

Typical. Sherlock thought, when he realized what the pressure on his hand was. John would have to go and hold his hand now, wouldn't he?

“John...” Sherlock's voice was hoarse.

John's head snapped up, his face lit up brightly, “Sherlock! You're awake! How are you feeling? Are you in any pain? Are you alright?” He was speaking quickly and his eyes seemed to become brighter as he was talking, relief clear on his face.

“I'm fine. I'm fine.” Sherlock mumbled.

“We almost died.” John whispered.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth lifted into a slight smile, “What's new?”

John smiled at him, shaking his head and still gripping Sherlock's hand, as though he was trying to make sure Sherlock was actually there. He was real, he could touch him.

“John...I...-”

“-I'm so glad you're alive, Sherlock.” John cut across Sherlock, his eyes almost intense now, he was telling the truth.

Sherlock regretted thinking that John was Moriarty, this man beside him would never hurt him. Sherlock wondered how long it would be until he managed to hurt John.

Six months. That was his answer.

John's eyes had closed now, but he was still awake, replaying that memory, seeing Sherlock fall to the ground. He never wanted to witness that again, maybe that's why he decided to stay.

He was convinced that Sherlock had forgotten John holding him at the pool because he had never mentioned it, where he had made one or two passing comments about the hand-holding, but that was after he was discharged from the hospital; when John had to stop.

The truth was that Sherlock remembered it, it was blurred around the edges and a bit foggy in places but he knew John had been crying, had kissed his hair, had held him so close that he could feel John's rapid heartbeat. It was an imperfect memory, blurry, insufficient, completely blank at parts, but he archived it anyway. He would never delete it.

Sherlock woke up with a small start as he felt arms wrap around his torso and someone's face furrow into the gap between his shoulder and his neck, their hot breath on his neck, sending an initial shiver down his spine. Then he realized it was just John.

John?

This wasn't a dream.

So John really hadn't been exaggerating when he told Sherlock about the holding. They were practically spooning right now and Sherlock understood why John had been more than a little embarrassed about it.

He lay awake for a while, afraid to move in case he woke John up. But out of the corner of his eye he saw his blackberry light up on his night-stand. He had put it on silent as he had been tired himself, but as he slowly reached out for it, he caught a glimpse of the time on his watch. It was six A.M. And this was the phone that Mycroft had given him as a means of only contacting him, no one else had the number. Sherlock's other phone was switched off in the bottom of his suitcase, he had no use for it here and the number would have been easy for Moriarty to contact; it was on his website after all.

Still, if it was six am here, it would have meant it would be five back in England and even for Mycroft that was an unusual time to contact his brother.

Sherlock stiffened when the screen read 'Unknown number' Mycroft had told him it was untraceable? Mycroft was the only person who actually had the number, John didn't even have the number.

He clicked 'open' and read the message.

Soon, my dear.-Mxox

Sherlock placed the phone back on the night-stand, trying not to wake John, he carefully placed one of his hands over John's cautiously and without waking John.

That's what normal people do when they need someone? Hug them? Hold them? He wasn't sure, he didn't really care, he just needed to refrain from replying.

He stayed there for the next four hours until John awoke, John holding him and he holding John-in an odd sort of way. He didn't fall back asleep, he just lay there thinking; thinking of John, of Mycroft, Moriarty but mainly John and what was going to happen next.
He knew what was going to happen next.

Moriarty would meet Sherlock, but on no account would he ever burn his heart out.

Chapter Text

John was still half asleep in that place where he knew he was in bed but also in some faraway land. He was warm and comfortable. He was lying against someone thin and lean and he buried his head deeper in their neck, half noticing the fact that the person had stiffened at this, but still not yet awake enough to comprehend. There was a warm hand over his, and he intertwined his fingers with it.

There was some part of him that told him those hands were too large and strong for a woman's and coupled with that, John could catch a scent of strawberry shampoo from the person, and as he buried his face deeper in the other's neck, he caught the faint scent of an expensive cologne that he instantly recognized as Sherlock's.

Sherlock.

John opened his eyes slowly, he was spooning Sherlock.

Of all people. John slowly disentangled their hands and moved away from Sherlock, his face burning scarlet. “I'm so sorry.” He mumbled. “Uh-I can't believe that happened...”

Sherlock rolled onto his back and turned his head towards John. “You're awake. Finally.” Was all he said, although he looked as though he was trying not to laugh at John's scarlet face and air of complete embarrassment.

John looked at Sherlock carefully, he was pale; paler than usual and the dark circles under his eyes

seemed to be more pronounced. “Wait-Sherlock, how long have you been awake?”

“For the last four hours.”

John raised an eyebrow, “And you didn't wake me because...?”

“You were tired.”

“Did something happen?”

Sherlock sighed, “I just woke up when you put your arms around me. I'm a light sleeper...I'm not used to that.” John noted that he sounded incredibly uncomfortable, but his gut told him there was something more.

“Sorry again.” John mumbled, blood warming his cheeks again. “Anything else you'd like to tell me?”

“Hm?” Sherlock hummed as he sat up and checked his phone with a cautious expression and seemed to relax when there was nothing there, all of this didn't go unnoticed to John; he was learning after all.

“Mycroft worrying?” John prodded.

Sherlock snorted, which momentarily confused John. “Mycroft worry?” Sherlock asked with an amused expression. “I'm his brother, John. Not our mother.” He paused for a second, “He wouldn't be so...emotional.” The last word danced on his tongue, burning perhaps? He had said it vehemently, was he angry?

He could never tell with Sherlock, did Sherlock really hate emotions that strongly? He didn't fail to notice the mention of his mother, that was only the second time he had ever heard her mentioned. The first being on that memorable night where Sherlock had introduced him to Mycroft after the memorable events of what became known as his blog, 'A Study in Pink'.

Should he ask? Some other time perhaps.

“Uh...there's a dining room downstairs, I saw the sign last night. If we get dressed we can have breakfast and then maybe go for a walk?”

Sherlock didn't even glance at John, John was wondering had Sherlock even heard him and was about to ask again on his way towards the bathroom, when Sherlock grunted something that sounded like 'No.'

John turned around, clutching clean clothes and a towel, “What?”

“No time for eating. Need to finish gathering Moriarty's henchmen for Mycroft. No time for anything other than work.” He was still staring intently at the badly papered wall.

“You need to eat, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed heavily, his shoulders rising and falling dramatically, causing John to roll his eyes from behind Sherlock. “I have been eating. A few days won't kill me John. I've gone a week before, just with coffee and water.”

“Sherlock, you are going to eat. I'm going to have a shower, then I'm going to go downstairs, fetch food for both of us, then bring it up here so you don't even have to move. I'll hand you over your laptop and that file now” He said as Sherlock moved only to place them in front of him and open them both. “But you are going to eat. Also, when you want to tell me what's bothering you, go ahead. I'm not an idiot, Sherlock. No matter how dense you really take me for.”

“I don't think you're an idiot.” Sherlock mumbled under his breath as John locked the bathroom door behind him, knowing he was out of earshot completely as he waited for his laptop to load. You're not like everyone else.

When John returned to the room, he had to grab Sherlock's shoulder and shook him lightly to distract him long enough to win over his attention.

“What?” Sherlock snapped.

John knew it was one of the world's most deadliest sins to interrupt Sherlock when he's so deeply involved with a case, but the file was getting bigger daily and John was paranoid that if he didn't make sure Sherlock ate, this case would go on forever; the file continuously growing, eating away at Sherlock, who would gladly starve (by pure accident, of course) before he got to the end of it because he was so distracted from his own bodily needs.

He'd once seen Sherlock crash when his body just couldn't take it any more and John swore to himself that he'd never let it get that far ever again, because it had completely terrified him.

“Eat.”

Sherlock grudgingly obliged, pushing his laptop and the file down to the end of the bed. He sat cross-legged, back against the wall beside John, who's legs were crossed at the ankles. He handed Sherlock his plate and then leant against the wall, their shoulders touching.

“Only you would somehow manage to acquire a full English breakfast while in Switzerland.” Sherlock mumbled, staring at his plate warily.

John grinned, “I am charming, after all.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “Of course.”

“So how are you getting on?” John asked in between mouthfuls of food.

“I've got them all-”

“That's-”

Sherlock shook his head, “-Except for two. Moriarty himself, and it seems he has a well protected 'chief of staff' or so he has been called and his name is Sebastian Moran. There doesn't appear to be any records of him anywhere, they've all been either wiped or corrupted.” Sherlock continued.

“Sebastian Moran?” John asked, his eyes had a glassy look to them as though he was trying to recall something, or someone.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

John glanced at Sherlock, “The name sounds familiar.”

Sherlock leaned in closer to John, who moved back slightly; he didn't want a repeat of the face grabbing that he had left out of his write-up for the case he named 'The Blind Banker'. “Think, John.”

John's forehead creased, “Um...” He was trying to ignore Sherlock's eager expression and the fact he was being intently watched. “Oh!” He exclaimed after a few minutes.

“What? Where did you hear it? Tell me, John.”

“I would if you would ever shut up.” John muttered, “In the army. About a year before I was deployed to Afghanistan, he had been a colonel. He rose through the ranks-he was apparently an excellent shot. From what I was told, he was something of a legend; a one shot wonder, he killed a lot of men. He was rapidly discharged though, apparently.” John noticed Sherlock tilt his head

“He was awarded a lot of medals.”

“But discharged?” Sherlock prodded.

“Yeah.” John said quietly, “Some sort of scandal, none of us knew what; it was hushed up, top secret stuff. Must have been bad-you don't end up being rapidly discharged, especially not if you're such a wonder as he was. Could have had something to do with his temper; apparently he had an incredibly short fuse and was incredibly violent.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Moriarty is wondrous with computers.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“He's managed to wipe any trace of existence of himself and Moran from the internet, and Mycroft gave me access codes where needed, and there's nothing. His other henchmen weren't this heavily protected. Obviously Moran is important to Moriarty.”

“Right hand? Sniper?” John quizzed.

“Most likely, if not more.”

“More?”

Sherlock gave John a pointed look. “It's Moriarty.” he replied, as though that was meant to answer the question.

“But he wants you.” John said quietly, making his biggest effort to sound as though he was merely stating a fact and that it had no emotional hold on him.

Sherlock's composed expression was somewhat of an indicator that John had failed. “People are disposable, John.” He said simply.

John was staring at his now empty plate as he placed his knife and fork together, silently.

Sherlock was watching him carefully, a somewhat pained expression on his face. He knew what was coming. “To Moriarty...people are just pawns in his game of chess. He'll take them away from their families and the people they...love.” He hesitated, “He feels absolutely no remorse for them and he certainly doesn't care. You've seen it happen, hell you've been one of those people.”

“Disposable.” John said bluntly, cutting across Sherlock before he could say anything else.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, John was still staring at his plate, “Not to me, John.”

John glanced up at Sherlock, his eyes narrow and gaze searching. Sherlock managed a weak smile and John shook his head slowly. “How did it come to this?” He whispered.

Sherlock sighed heavily, suddenly looking older and too exhausted. “I don't know.” He sounded defeated and John heard it so clearly in his voice that he couldn't help it, he broke past his own heavily practised self-control and took hold of Sherlock's hand, intertwining their fingers together.

Could do much worse. A voice whispered in the back of his head, it was all so tempting, but he knew where to draw the line.

John noticed Sherlock's eyes widening and how he slowly squeezed his hand back. He wasn't letting go, but he wasn't going any further either.

Barriers. All these things we aren't saying. Barriers. We both have them.

They both knew that they had to let go of each others hand eventually.

“You should get dressed and we should go for a walk.” John said lightly, clearing away the trays. “You're not going to get any further with Moran and Moriarty, let Mycroft know. I saw a leaflet about Reichenbach Falls, we could go there? I was asking and they said it'll take an hour to walk there? How about it? I think we both need air.”

Sherlock nodded, “Will do.”

Fifteen minutes later, while John was bringing the trays back to the dining room, Sherlock was called over to to the reception desk. 
“Mr Holmes?” She enquired, her eyebrows raised in a mixture of confusion and curiosity.

Sherlock started. “I'm sorry, what did you just call me?”

“Mr Holmes.” She said steadily. “We were given a description and it matched yours, Mr. 'Goldwin'. Do we need to alert the police?”

Sherlock's heart felt as though it was thumping against his ribcage, “ No. It's a work name, top secret.” He sounded surprisingly calm, “What happened to the people that gave you my description?”

“They came in twice and left these two envelopes for you. This came in an hour ago, and this only minutes before you came down.” She said as she handed over two cream envelopes.

They were heavy and clearly high quality, Sherlock's name was scrawled across the front of both in identical, elegant handwriting. The ink from the fountain pen was a deep blue and slightly smudged on the newest one as though someone's finger had accidentally brushed over the elegant lettering too soon after writing it.

He opened the older one first, the writing paper was thick and clearly expensive, it had an 'M' watermarked on the very top and Sherlock's suddenly felt incredibly ill.

So dear,

I was thinking about you and your...'husband' and what you may do here.

Then it came to me.

Meet you at Reichenbach Falls today. 
Don't worry, I'll know when to be there.

Looking forward to our date.

M xoxo

Sherlock could almost feel the blood drain from his face, and noticed the receptionist watch him carefully out of his peripheral vision. He tore open the second envelope, the paper was identical as was the handwriting.

Hm, you're taking longer than expected.

Don't be silly now, Sherlock darling.

We both know what this was eventually going to come to.

Bring Johnny Boy if you wish to see him hurt too.

Soon now.

M xoxo

He folded the pages up carefully and placed them in his pocket, he glanced behind him and saw John having a lengthy conversation with the chef.

“Could you do me a favour, Annette?” Sherlock asked the receptionist after taking a quick glance at the silver name-tag that was pinned to her blue striped shirt.

She nodded slowly, “Are you alright? You look ill.”

“Fine. I'm fine.” He said, waving his hand in the air, “Can I have a pen, a sheet of paper and an envelope?”

She handed them to him over the desk and he started scribbling down, his writing no longer his own, but spidery and messy. It would never be passed as his own, which was the all-important aim.

He scrawled John's pseudo name on the envelope and slid it back over the desk to Annette.

“Your husband?” She asked, confusion set across her face.

He leaned in, “We're leaving for Reichenbach Falls. I need you to find someone who will follow us and before we get to the Falls, maybe fifteen minutes beforehand I want to to shout for him, he's a Doctor, you see.” He stopped for a second to make sure that she was following what he was saying, she nodded and he continued. “Make it convincing that another English guest needs aid of a doctor and she'd prefer an English one as she's not confident with the languages here, even though this is an English based establishment you do not have a doctor, therefore he is her only chance. Could you do that for me?”

She nodded.

“That's good. Now I just have to make a call, if he asks where I am, just tell him I'll be right back.”

She smiled slightly, “I'll call my brother in.”

Sherlock nodded and then went back to their room.

He hesitated for a few seconds then hit Mycroft's number.

“Hello Sherlock. What's wrong? I thought you preferred text. Hotel not up to your standards?” Mycroft asked drily, picking up after three rings.

“Today. Reichenbach Falls. Moriarty. Come through on your promise, Mycroft. He'll need it.”

“Sherlock, what's happening?”

“Moriarty knows where I am. I've set up a detour for John. It'll take him an hour to get back to the hotel, possibly, then he'll figure out it was a trick and probably run back to the falls. I'm not sure, he's rather unpredictable. But be there for him, Mycroft.”

There was a long silence at the other end of the phone, he heard keys being pressed rapidly, Mycroft was organised and always prepared, he probably even had a private plane on standby waiting for this moment. Anything was possible with Mycroft.

“Wait until I can get my own men there. Then we'll finally have him.” Mycroft says after the typing sounds had faded away and the noise of heels clacking against a marble floor had died down.

“No time! I'll finally have him.” Sherlock did his best to make himself sound enthusiastic, but his voice was slightly higher than normal; nervous, scared even. Sherlock paid no attention to whatever it was he was feeling, but didn't miss Mycroft's disapproving noise at the other end of the line. He could hear doors open and close, “Sherlock, it wouldn't kill you, despite what you think.” His voice echoed, he was moving through a rather large room then. Sherlock heard the clacking heels that probably belonged to 'Anthea' appear again.

“You promised, Mycroft.” Sherlock said harshly, “I'll talk to you later.” He said, disconnecting the line as he heard a car door slam on Mycroft's side and before Mycroft could reply.

John was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs and cast a worried glance at Sherlock as he joined John's side. “Are you alright? You look ill? We don't have to go to the Falls today if you're not up to it.” John's hand was there on Sherlock's arm, keeping him there frozen on the spot until Sherlock gave him answer.

It was so tempting.

“I'm fine, John.” Sherlock said as John's grip fell away from Sherlock's elbow. “Just a bit tired.”
John's eyes searched Sherlock's face intently, Sherlock would never and had never admitted to being tired. He could go up to a week just running on coffee, until he would crash; but he'd never once admitted to being tired.

John was becoming better at reading people too. Practice. “You're lying.” He stated, it wasn't a question.

Sherlock Holmes was lying to him, he fidgeted nervously, which was also incredibly uncharacteristic for Sherlock. John hadn't realised it at first, but gradually as he had gotten to know Sherlock more he could recognise these things.

His stomach did a nervous flip against John's better wishes as he waited for Sherlock to prove him wrong, but the truth was that Sherlock was lying to him and when Sherlock lied to John it usually meant something very, very bad was about to happen and he failed to hold back a shudder as he remembered coming around with a headache, and finding himself covered in Semtex with a red laser dot above his heart and manic laughter being fed into his ear.

No matter how hard he tried, John couldn't brush away the foreboding feeling.

Something bad was coming, he just wished he knew what.

Chapter Text

John noticed Sherlock nod once at the receptionist and cast him a confused glance.
“Tell me what's happening, Sherlock.”

As they walked down the gravel path, Sherlock's phone bleeped and Sherlock's face paled again as he read it.

 

About time. -M xox.

 

“Mycroft?” John quizzed.

Sherlock slid his phone back into his suit jacket. “Mhmm.”

They were silent as they walked.

“You do know you can tell me, don't you? I don't really like the idea of being killed because you decided to hold back on something. Two or three times is enough for that, don't you think?” John realised that it may have sounded harsher than he had intended and going by the faraway look on Sherlock's face, he was obviously taken back to the pool, that was the one time that stood out for both of them when they thought of near-death experiences (and they'd had their fair share) because that night they had both nearly lost each other, numerous times.

Sherlock was silent for another minute as they walked alongside each other, then Sherlock stopped and grabbed John's shoulders. “John, don't believe everything everyone tells you. People lie.” His voice was low, deep baritone and his face was only a few centimetres from John's and he felt as though Sherlock's intense gaze was burning through him.

“Sherlock.” John breathed, “Why are you lying to me?”

Sherlock released his grip on John's shoulders just as quickly as he had taken hold of them and they continued walking, John was watching Sherlock intently from the corner of his vision to check for any facial expressions. It was a long-shot, Sherlock was incredibly practised in this area, John had even asked Sherlock had he ever considered becoming an actor at some point. He's almost sure that Sherlock would have had a few Oscars or BAFTAs under his belt by now.

“It's not that I'm lying as such. I just don't want any harm to come to you.” Sherlock said, his voice still quiet and John wasn't sure if he was hearing a hint of sadness in it or whether he was merely hearing what his mind wanted him to.

“Then there's a chance you're going to regret what you didn't say afterwards.” John stated matter-of-factly.

“Doesn't everyone?” Sherlock sounded bored for the first time in weeks, thinking of himself acting like everyone else seemed dull to him on many levels; but he also knew he already regretted what he wasn't saying, so feigning boredom would be sure to placate John.

“I suppose.” John was unknowingly following Sherlock's exact thoughts.

They walked along in silence for another few minutes, until they had to move closer to one another to let a couple pass them on the footpath.

Sherlock's hand brushed up against John's and they didn't separate again after the couple passed.

“Just don't get hurt, alright?”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment then forced a smile at John. “I'll try.”

John sighed and wrapped his hand around Sherlock's as they brushed together again. Sherlock's hand jerked at the unexpected contact, but he didn't let go, he just gave John a questioning look.

Sarah?

John could feel the tops of his ears reddening. “Probably should act married, right?”

Sherlock laughed quietly, “John, they thought we were back in London too.” He was smiling now, warmly at John.

John couldn't help but smile back, “So you want me to let go?” His voice was teasing.

“I couldn't go as far as saying that.”

 

Their comfortable silence was interrupted by a man waving an envelope over his head and running up to meet them.

“Doctor Goldwin?” He shouted.

John glanced at Sherlock who was staring straight ahead, jaw clenched. John let go of his hand muttering 'Sorry' under his breath.

“What's wrong?” John asked, his forehead creased with worry.

The man was out of breath by the time he was standing in front of John and he took a few seconds to compose himself. “For you. It's important.”

John took the envelope and tore it open, reading it quickly. “How bad?”

The man cast a glance at Sherlock, who tilted his head in a small nod before answering John. “Very.”

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should go.” He said, glancing up at Sherlock who nodded once. “Are you going to keep going?”

“I may as well. We came this far...” He said nonchalantly.

John nodded, “Well...I'll see you afterwards? Maybe we can find a nice restaurant for dinner?”

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded, “Sure.”

John stood there awkwardly for a second, he raised his arms and lowered them again as though he was going to hug Sherlock, but thought twice about it. “See you soon.”

“Goodbye John.”

John turned around and started to walk down the hill with Annette's brother.

As Sherlock continued walking uphill, his phone chimed in his jacket.

 

Ah. Interesting.

So this is how it goes?

You've surprised me, Sherlock.

-M xox

 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he cast a searching glance around him, he could see no one.

 

Soon enough, he reached a sign that pointed towards the falls, he walked across an old rickety bridge and followed a well worn trail down a small hill, he reached a corner and suddenly the sound of rushing water filled his ears. He closed his eyes tightly for a second, then took a deep breath, stood straighter and walked around the corner.

Moriarty was leaning casually against a large rock, as he caught first sight of Sherlock he stood up and spread out his arms, “Welcome home, dear.” He shouted, dropping his arms to his sides he gave Sherlock a sadistic smile that made him shiver from where he stood, merely three meters away from Moriarty.

“Not very homely, is it?” Sherlock asked, catching his first real look at the waterfall that cascaded right by the edge of the path that Moriarty was standing on.

The edge of the path was muddy from the droplets of water that escaped from the main flow and completely smooth.

No one walks to the edge of a slippery ledge. Of course.

Moriarty's eyes were shining, “Today we don't have tourists disturbing us.” He smiled again, this time he seemed more amused, as though he had some inside joke that he was thinking of.

“How romantic of you.” Sherlock said sarcastically, he was using his peripheral vision to check for any other movements of possible snipers. It was Moriarty after all, but he couldn't see anyone.

“Oh don't worry, darling. We're alone.” Moriarty chimed in, seeing what Sherlock was doing.

Sherlock cast a glare at him, he looked incredibly smug and one of the voices in the back of his mind informed him it was a lie.

“My, my. We do have a lot to discuss.” Moriarty said lightly, shoving his hands into his suit trouser pockets and stepping closer to Sherlock, who stayed where he was. “Married?” amusement was clear in his voice. “I was so disappointed that I didn't get to you first, really Sherlock. Then again, it was never actually 'legal' per se for you and John.” He grinned, “I mean, did you actually think those identities would throw me off? I've been watching you from the start, Sherlock.” He laughed quietly at the look on Sherlock's face and shook his head slowly. “Oh, I've been watching very closely. I've learned quite a few things too. You both love each other. That's plain to see, but you're both so stupid. Your brother gave you both a chance and you both blew it.” He looked incredibly proud. “Oh well, you at least got to hold hands. How was that, Sherlock? But then I guess you wouldn't know, married to your work and all.” He sneered. “But I suppose it's for the best that you both said nothing, even though that's what I was waiting for really. But it was taking so long and I was getting oh so bored, you know what that feels like, don't you? Business was going swellingly though, which kept me partly occupied. So I called up to freak you out, I had your 'special, top secret number' all along anyway. I just couldn't wait any longer. Probably a good thing for your John though, if anything had have happened my jealousy would have became a green-eyed monster. I would have killed him and made you watch.” There was that smile again, “But here we are. Alone.”

“So it appears.” Sherlock muttered.

“Any last words?” Moriarty asked, looking up at Sherlock.

“Oh many.” Sherlock said airily.

 

By the time John had finally reached their hotel an hour had passed. His walk with Isak had been mostly silent, apart from the exchanging of names.

He walked into the lobby and over to where Annette sat, “Where's the English patient?”

“Oh there is no such thing.” She said, smiling politely at him.

John was silent for a second, “Excuse me?”

“Your husband wrote it for you.” She said as though that explained everything.

John felt his heart drop, he took out the page and took another look at the writing. “But it's not his writing.”

“He wrote it in front of me.” She said shrugging.

“What prompted it?” He asked, his voice was higher than usual.

“He received two letters.”

“Oh my god.” John breathed as the pieces clicked in his head, I'm going to murder him. He turned around and ran out of the lobby and in the direction of the Falls.

He felt sick and he was slowly running out of breath, he wasn't as fit as he used to be and they hadn't been doing much running lately seeing as they spent most of their time in hotels and not chasing down criminals.

He was silently cursing himself for not stealing Sherlock's newest phone number, Sherlock's excuse was that they'd always be together anyway so what was the point and John like a fool had agreed with him.

He received weird looks from people he was running past and he felt as though his legs weren't carrying him quick enough.

He was not letting Sherlock get away now, they were going to have dinner, and they were going to talk and laugh and tease each other, they might hold each others hands again and one of them might finally muster up an ounce of courage and voice how they feel.

He was not going home without Sherlock, he was not going back to an uneventful, dull existence, he was not going to be grieving, he would not end up back where he started when he first arrived back in London after being shot.

 

 

Sherlock finished scribbling his last letter to John and placed the pages on top of his coat, covering them with his scarf to prevent them from blowing away, he then stood up, straightened out his jacket and turned towards where Moriarty was standing waiting for him, hands in pockets and his shoulder's slumped, he had horrible posture, Sherlock observed.

“It doesn't have to come to this, you know.” Moriarty almost sang, “We could be so brilliant together, both our minds! Could you imagine what we could achieve, Sherlock? We could rule the world. We really could.”

“And what sort of world would that be?” Sherlock asked.

“Wonderful. Everyone will finally understand everything that goes on in our heads, every non-sequiter thought, useless observations, everything that causes headaches. Exactly like the world in our heads, because you're like me, Sherlock. We're both brilliant enough.”

Sherlock shook his head, “I wouldn't want to be a part of that sort of world.”

“The world inside our heads?” Moriarty questioned, his hazel eyes bright, “But we're magnificent, Sherlock.”

“We're really not.” Sherlock's voice has started to shake, and Moriarty latches onto that, by god he loves it.

“Oh! What's this, Sherlock? I thought you adored flattery, people telling you how much of a genius you are. How fantastic, how brilliant, how amazing you are.”
The words sounded wrong to Sherlock, they weren't spoken in John's soft, familiar, soothing voice. No, these were spoken with pure malice in a chirpy Irish accent.

“Ah.” Moriarty tilted his head to the side, searching Sherlock's face intently. “I'm not John Watson and what he doesn't know won't make him run away screaming from you, so he builds you up; not that your ego needed it, mind you.”
Sherlock was still glaring at him.

“Anything, oh anything to try and make you forget about the world inside your head, all those thoughts. Our heads, they're brilliant. But you've never fully accepted it.”
“Shut up.” Sherlock growls.

Moriarty looks triumphant, “Oh, touchy subject. Your mind. Your brilliant mind and all those not so good things that go on there. Oh no, no one knows about that except me, Sherlock. I understand you. You didn't even need to tell me about it, I just knew. Oh no, you never mentioned that to all those psychiatrists your mummy forced you to-”
“-Mother.” Sherlock corrected.

Moriarty's eyes were wide, hungry, “Your mummy, Mycroft never knew, he suspected but he never found out. Oh and the drugs, how did they help Sherlock? I'm sure they were wonderful, it's not like they made everything sharper. ” He was bitingly sarcastic, “And John, oh poor wonderful, stupid, lovely John. The only one you somehow allowed in. He never would have guessed. He would run, Sherlock. Far away. You could kill him, I suppose. It wouldn't be the first time you've thought about it. Why don't you just join me and let it all out, what's the point in holding it all in?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh no, darling, I'm just getting started.” There was that sadistic smile again, this time Moriarty caught Sherlock shiver and laughed. “Join me, Sherlock. We could be so evil together. Imagine all those people you always wanted to kill because they were so so stupid that it dragged you down, you could do that with me. We could hurt so many people, you can do what you want and you won't have your moral compass; your heart with you. You can kill him too. It'll be so much fun! You can finally live in that world, you can be free!”

“I'm so much better than you, James.” Sherlock's voice was harsh, jaw clenched and teeth grinding against each other, he wished he had a gun with him; although that was rather contradictory.

Moriarty seemed momentarily startled by the use of his name, but recovered quickly, his face was like stone and his eyes were burning now, just as they had done in the pool as he proclaimed that everyone dies. “Is that your opinion or what everybody else tries to feed you? Because you don't sound like you believe it.” The anger was still in his eyes, but the smile he gave Sherlock now was taunting.

Sherlock wasn't aware that he had punched Moriarty until he felt the hard crack of his fist connecting with bone.

Moriarty stumbled back, tripping over his feet he fell into the mud, nearer to the edge of the ledge that jutted out, his hands came up to cradle his face and he looked shocked by the blood that was freely flowing from his nose, but then he looked up at Sherlock and started laughing. His eyes wide and shining from the pain, his hands cupped beneath his chin, catching the blood, but his mouth open wide and his white teeth stained with scarlet. “You're definitely not the better man.” He said in between laughs as he tried to catch his breath, trying to breathe through his mouth.

Sherlock stayed where he was, watching Moriarty take a handkerchief out of his jacket, covering his nose and getting soaked through after a few seconds. Definitely broken. He soon gave up on trying to stop the blood flowing, dropping the square of material from his hands.

“But if that's how you want to play it...” He said running at Sherlock, who dodged him neatly, but now had his back to the falls and Moriarty's bloody face had lit up as he ran at Sherlock again, this time he managed to grab his arm and they were both veering on the very edge, as Sherlock held onto Moriarty just as tightly, “If I go, you certainly do too.” He said seriously, his eyes dark.

Moriarty tried to push him, but that's where Sherlock kicked him hard and Moriarty let go and all of a sudden one leg was gone, slipped away and Sherlock watched him fall in slow motion, trying unsuccessfully to cling onto any surface he passed, then after what seemed like an age, Moriarty's shouts and screams were swallowed by the pool of water all the way down at the bottom.

Sherlock felt triumphant, he could go back to John and they would both be safe, well as safe as they could get and-

suddenly his thoughts were cut off. Sherlock quickly swerved to dodge the bullet that only narrowly missed his head.

And that was when Sherlock Holmes lost his footing and slipped.

 

 

John was out of breath and he had to stop near the top of the hill, before an old bridge to try and rid himself of the stitch in his side, he was cursing himself under his breath and as soon as he could, he started running again, the bridge felt slightly unsteady under his feet but soon enough he was off it and running down a small hill, he came to an abrupt stop when he came around a corner and saw Sherlock's coat and scarf laying on the largest rock, but there was no one there, then he walked slowly towards a blood red square and when he got there he realised it was a handkerchief stained with actual blood and it still looked damp, his heart was most definitely in his mouth now.

Then the mud caught his attention, two sets of footprints both heading to the edge of the cliff, sometimes overlapping and at the very edge; a large disturbance where they had obviously fought and dug their feet into the mud for grip, then his heart faltered.

There were no footprints heading back.

He felt like the blood was draining from his body, he looked out over the edge but couldn't see anything in the chaos of the bottom of the waterfall, it didn't stop him screaming for Sherlock though, he shouted until his throat felt raw and grainy, his voice would echo for a minute but then get drowned by the sound of the cascading water.

It took him a lot of willpower to turn his back to the water and he slowly walked back to where Sherlock's things lay.

He picked up Sherlock's scarf with shaking hands, but that was when the pages caught his eye, he grabbed them before they could be taken away by the wind and his stomach twisted when he saw his name.

The tops of both pages were torn, they were good quality and he could almost guess that they were the remainder of those letters that had brought Sherlock here alone, but he forced himself to read Sherlock's neat, elegant hand, it was slightly shaky but in no way resembled the letter calling for a doctor.

 

My dear John,

I write these last words to you through the courtesy of the awaiting Moriarty before a discussion on which we will answer each other's questions and he will explain to me how he has evaded the police and myself and how he knew where we were all along.

I am hopeful that I will be able to free the world from further effects of his presence, though I fear that it is at a cost that will inflict pain on you, John.

I have already explained, however, that a lot of the crimes we were involved with were the work of Moriarty and that if I were to return, there is great chance that my career would be in a state of crisis.

I didn't want any harm to come to you, so I arranged for that letter, knowing it was a false summons, and I apologise profusely because I know you will probably want to kill me yourself.

Give Mycroft the files that I've been working on, I forgot to mention their location to him.

I had my will drawn up for a long while and most of my property goes to Mycroft, while Lestrade is lucky enough to get an old keepsake, but you can take anything you want. Mycroft would be more than welcoming.

Pray, give my greeting to Mrs. Hudson, and believe me to be, my dear fellow

Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes.

 

John was clutching the pages tightly, the now freely falling tears were marring his vision. He tried to wipe them away but they didn't appear to want to stop.

He felt strangely empty, like there was something missing and his eyes burned from the tears.

He stood there clutching the torn pages for another few minutes, then he picked up Sherlock’s scarf and held it to his wet face, it still smelt clearly of the detective, that comforting smell of the cologne that he associated only with Sherlock. As unique as he was.

He wasn't aware of anyone else inhabiting the the same world he was right now, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a large hand gently touch his shoulder, he whirled around, tear-streaked face and scarf still in hand, hoping by some miracle that it would be Sherlock.

His heart sank when he realised he was face to face with a somewhat distraught looking Mycroft Holmes.

 

Chapter Text

Mycroft's hand fell back to his side, and John noticed that he appeared to be leaning slightly to the right, his umbrella playing a principle part in holding him up.

His eyes were wide and tired and he was paler than John remembered. He also appeared to have lost a lot of weight. Maybe he was on a diet.

Mycroft's expression caused John more pain as he tried his hardest to hold back his tears in front of him. John was used to seeing Mycroft expressionless, or seeing boredom or condescension so clearly expressed that it was clear that he was most definitely a brother of Sherlock's and if Sherlock had come from another planet, Mycroft had come along with him.

John had only seen Mycroft three times before today and each time he had looked pleasantly detached from various goings on around him and John had associated that projected unemotionality with Mycroft more so than Sherlock. Although he knew Sherlock was a brilliant actor and could easily fake emotions that he wasn't actually experiencing. Maybe that's why Mycroft's current expression had taken John so off guard that he had briefly contemplated giving the man a hug.

Mycroft's eyebrows were drawn together, creasing his forehead slightly, his lips were pressed tightly together, so much so that they were beginning to turn white. His blue eyes looked deeply sad, there were no tears, nor tear streaks on his pale face, but John was suddenly hit by the depth of emotion that could be seen in Mycroft's eyes.

“Sherl...” John tried to say, but his voice died on the name and he felt another bout of pain come over him and this time he couldn't hold the tears back from Mycroft, his grip tightened on the scarf in his hands and Mycroft's swift look of appraisal told John that Mycroft had noticed this.

Of course he noticed. A voice reminded him in the back of his head, Sherl-he told you Mycroft had stronger powers of observation but was just too lazy to actually go out and use them, remember?

There was an awkward silence for a few minutes, while John made an effort to compose himself and Mycroft was glancing around trying to see what could have happened, leading up to the obvious. He walked around carefully, casting a searching gaze over the ground and the rocks for any signs of disturbance bar the large one on the precipice.

Just as he was turning around to walk back to John the bronze of a bullet cartridge caught his eye. It was sitting under a small tuft of grass at the base of a small rock, he bent down and picked it up, examining it in the light.

There was no trace of blood on it, so clearly it had missed, he searched the ground again but found nothing.

So either it was the first shot fired and Sherlock had somehow managed to dodge it, and survived. Or the first shot had missed Sherlock, but the others didn't.

Mycroft had already sent out some of his people to search for bodies in the river below.

When Mycroft drifted back towards John, he noted that John had pulled himself together quite quickly, except for the puffy eyes and looking as though he had just witnessed half of his heart being pulled out and destroyed in front of him-although he probably wasn't aware he looked like that.

“We should leave.” Mycroft's voice was soft, there was no hint of underlying insinuations, condescension, amusement and not even boredom.

For some reason, it made John more unsettled than he had already been, but he followed the man anyway. There was nothing to keep him here. Not any more.

He was led to a familiar black car; after a while they all seemed familiar.

'Anthea' was standing by the open back door, smiling automatically up at both of them. A vacant look in her eyes as she held her blackberry in her hands.

Bit not good. John thought.

“Anything?” Mycroft enquired, his voice low.

“No, sir.”

Mycroft nodded slowly and waved his arm, indicating to John to step into the car.

Just as Mycroft was half way in the door, his phone started to ring and he picked it out of his jacket pocket at an unexpected speed to John.

He watched as Mycroft checked the caller id and visibly paled. “One second.” He said weakly, stepping out of the car, as he walked away from the car, he put the phone to his ear and the only words John could catch were “I swear, if this is some sick joke, I will...” He briefly caught a glance of Anthea looking much more aware then she had ever looked, while she was still holding her phone, she had dropped it to her side where it resided safely in her firm grip, her face was stone-like and her eyes sharp as she watched every step that her boss was talking, she had tilted her head to the side as though she was trying to hear more and by the way her jaw was clenched, she looked as though she understood more about what exactly was happening than even Mycroft did.

She closed the door on John, blocking out all sound and walked slowly towards where Mycroft appeared to be having a very heated conversation on his phone, occasionally rubbing the bridge of his nose as though he was concentrating to an incredible level, but yet trying to remain interested. (Sher-he did that too. Quite often.)

Around a half an hour had passed by the time Mycroft returned to the car.

He had finished talking on the phone at least ten minutes ago and seemed to be having a very important looking conversation with Anthea, who had climbed into the front of the car, fingers flying across her blackberry and a look of complete focus written across her face.

Whilst Mycroft was putting on his seat belt, the car left the falls and headed back in the direction of the hotel John had been staying in.

“Government things?” John asked, trying to make conversation. The silence ironically felt incredibly loud between them, now that there was no longer the echo of water filling their ears.

Mycroft glanced over at John as though he had forgotten he was beside him. “Something of the sort.”

John noticed that Mycroft face had regained its colour and he was no longer deathly pale. His eyes were different too; if you looked carefully, you could no longer see the deep sadness within them, they were now just as they were the first time John had seen Mycroft.

Impenetrable.

Mycroft followed him into his hotel room and when John opened the door, he could see that his things had already 'mysteriously' disappeared, so he went straight to packing anything belonging to himself that he could see as quickly as he could, so he could just get out of here and shut the door on the memories behind him.

“Perhaps it would be advisable to stay with me for the immediate future.” Mycroft said quietly, it wasn't a question, but it was almost an order and John thought that maybe he did have a point.

He didn't want to have to face Sarah just yet and he knew he wouldn't be able to walk into 221B and tell Mrs. Hudson the news in the very near future, he didn't want to do that to her just yet.

He didn't ever want to have to do that to her.

Truthfully, he had always thought that if the news of the world's only consulting detective's death had to be broken, the name John Watson would always be alongside it.

The plane ride was silent, Mycroft was already back to work, typing away rapidly on his laptop and Anthea, as always was glued to her Blackberry.

John stared blankly out of the window, the numbness and a creeping sense of de ja vu was slowing making his blood cool and he couldn't help but think that the last time he returned from war, it was after having taken a bullet in the shoulder. This time it was the mental pain of having lost someone who he still had so many things he wanted to say to.

He curled his left hand into a fist to try stop the tremor that was passing through his arm.

Chapter Text

“Come in?” Mycroft called out shortly after he heard three short raps on the door of his study.

John walked in slowly, limping ever so slightly.

Mycroft turned to face John, but remained seated at his large antique desk. “Is everything alright?”

John nodded slowly, “I was just wondering if you could lend me some pyjamas, I left mine in the wash basket this morning.”

John had been living with Mycroft for just over two weeks and Mycroft never really saw him outside of his room apart from meal times, where he was mostly silent.

“Of course.” Mycroft said, smiling slightly. “I could always also arrange to have some of your clothes collected from Baker Street?”

“That's really very kind, but I think I might drop by tomorrow to break the news to Mrs. Hudson...have they found any bodies yet?”

Mycroft had completely forgotten about the kind landlady, she had looked after Sherlock and John very well. He really didn't know how she would take the news.

“Oh yes, concerning the bodies...they found Moriarty yesterday and notified me of the DNA results. But nothing more.” Mycroft hated the look of defeat that John had just cast at the floor.

“I'm working with my best people on the files that Sherlock compiled.” Mycroft also noticed John flinch ever so gently at the mention of Sherlock's name.

“And?”

“We're working our way through them swiftly, you'll be pleased to know.”
John nodded once, then yawned.

“Pyjamas, sorry.” Mycroft mumbled, standing up.

“These aren't my own, but they'll be closer to your size, therefore much more comfortable.”

John thanked him, but also cast him a quizzical glance.

“They belong to a busy...friend.”

“Oh, you have a room like mine set out for him here too? He comes here when he's not busy?”

“Something of the sort.” Mycroft said, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.

John glanced down at Mycroft's hands, as he took the pyjamas from him. “I never did meet your wife?”

Mycroft, for the first time in John's memory looked completely bewildered and just a little bit alarmed. What lies had Sherlock been feeding the man?

“Your, uh, ring.” John mumbled.

“Oh!” Mycroft laughed quietly, “It's my late mother's. Sentimental value.”

“Sorry, I didn't know that your mother had died.”
“Both of my parents. Don't worry, I wouldn't have expected that you would have received the family history lesson.”

John smiled wryly, “No. Never. Well, thank you for the pyjamas, good night.”

“Sleep well. Oh, and John?”

John turned around to look back at Mycroft.

“I won't be home for the next three days, I have to fly over to France to sort out some business.”

John nodded, “Okay, well good luck.” and with that he walked slowly back to his room dragging his feet along the old rug that lay in the centre of the hallway, contrasting against the worn, cared for wood flooring.

He found that when he walked slowly, his quickly returning limp was less obvious.

It would have been to anyone else, but this was Mycroft.

~oOo~

Mycroft climbed slowly up the steps towards the porch, the wood paint chipped and weathered, but it gave the old house character, along with the sweeping vines that where crawling up the whitewashed brickwork.

The surrounding forest cast shadows on the old house, shutters shut against the little sunlight.

The birdsong could be heard from miles around, and if you listened really carefully, you could just about hear the sea that spread out behind the forest.

Mycroft loved it here. But he never had much time to spare, though these three days would have to do.

He glanced at the swinging porch chair as it rocked to and fro of its own accord while its hinges begged for an oiling.

Memories of hours of his childhood reading came flooding back to him, while memories of Sherlock carrying out experiments and observing the bee colony at the edge of the forest with an expression of pure awe also hit him.

He placed his hand on the old doorknob and twisted it, the door creaked open for him and he stepped into the old house, inhaled the scent of old wood, cinnamon and of childhood, then smiled.

He left his suitcase by the door, along with his umbrella and he stood, taking in the open plan sitting room and kitchen, old antique furniture scattered comfortably around with different shades of sea blue cushions, blankets and throws where resting on various sofas and chairs. The kitchen was as he had always remembered, an old stove, jars of spices lined up on the sideboard with his mother's favourite vases and silverware.

Oddly enough, she kept her absolute favourites here, behind the thin, dusty glass. They were safe here, she would say. She hated entertaining, but it was a necessity. Her sideboard in what is now Mycroft's home-and always was in a way- was organized with silverware and crystal vases that she didn't much care for, nor responded to when questioned by the unwelcome guests that were her obligation to make feel welcome.

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft jumped from where he was now by the sideboard, inspecting the silverware, he hadn't heard any footsteps cross the faded white floorboards. He turned around swiftly, needing to get a glance of the man behind him, to reaffirm everything that had happened and to receive a proper account of what occurred.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft said steadily, keeping an even gaze with the tall man who was standing by the foot of the stairs in an old t-shirt and jeans with messy hair.

He looked horribly tired and even thinner than before, clearly he hadn't been eating again. He'd probably deemed it dull and forgotten about it, it had happened when he was fourteen and he had to be taken to the hospital from this very house after he had fainted while walking down those very stairs.

Mycroft remembered that his parents couldn't speak a word of French, but when Sherlock came around, he filled the doctors in fluently, much to Mycroft's and everyone else's surprise.

Mycroft hadn't the heart to tell his younger brother that he had already given the doctor an account of how Sherlock had sat observing bees and dissecting animals, with bouts where he would stay in his room for hours on end with university level chemistry books, completely forgetting about the necessity of food in his own perfect French before Sherlock had come around.

Sherlock cast a sweeping glance at Mycroft, his arms crossed over his chest. “You're...worried?” Sherlock asked as he narrowed his gaze to Mycroft's face, still across the room. It was at that point that Mycroft remembered he hadn't been absently keeping his face set in a vacant, mildly interested mask.

“You're alive.” Was all Mycroft replied with.

“Clearly.” Sherlock said shortly. “How is John?”

Mycroft hesitantly sat down on one of the rickety kitchen stools, in front of some experiment that he was convinced he would sleep a lot better in not knowing what it was. He glanced back over at Sherlock who had moved closer and was now seated on the arm of the closet armchair that was facing the kitchen, his eyes staring intently at Mycroft, awaiting an answer.

“John is...” Mycroft hesitated, deciding to just give Sherlock the truth. “Devastated and quite dejected. He is still with me. His limp is quickly returning, although he is trying to hide it but there is the probability that when I return, he will be using his crutch once again. The intermittent tremor in his left hand sometimes shows its head during meal times. He seldom leaves his room. He's been hit hard by this, Sherlock. You clearly meant a lot to him.”

Sherlock's eyes were trained on a crack in the floorboards, his lips tightly pursed. It took him a few minutes to raise his head, where he met Mycroft's eyes. “I have to go home.”

Mycroft smiled sadly at Sherlock as he shook his head. “Sebastian Moran is still on the loose, he is proving to be incredibly skilled concerning how to elude the best.” He saw Sherlock's eyes narrow, and before he had the chance to interrupt with a snide remark about how Mycroft or his agents were clearly not the best as they had not yet caught Moran. He continued speaking. “I assume you have read John's latest blog post entitled 'The Final Problem'?”

Sherlock nodded once.

“That shows any remaining agents of Moriarty that he is convinced you have died, it may also be because he doesn't want to tell his girlfriend about it either, he hadn't talked to her yet and he said he would be visiting Mrs. Hudson today-anyhow, this gives the impression that he is grieving you, which he is. The pure amount of emotion in that post...that was unforeseen for such a public forum, which has such a vast readership. Not entirely surprising, but slightly out of the blue. This places John in an incredibly safe position, he no longer is associated with you in the eyes of Moran. Therefore, you cannot return yet.”

Sherlock sighed, “But he wanted danger.” He whispered.

“Would you be able to live with yourself if John accidentally mentioned in passing that you were still alive and was murdered as a result?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, “This way he stays alive?”

“I promise you.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, “Just...find Moran quickly.”

“I'm doing my utmost best.”

~oOo~

Sherlock and Mycroft were sitting comfortably on the two sofas that faced each other, simply making conversation. This was something they hadn't done in a long time.

Sherlock's phone lit up and commenced omitting a piercing ringing noise. He glanced at Mycroft, confusion in his eyes. “But you...?”

Mycroft's brows were furrowed as he watched Sherlock pick the phone he had given Sherlock just for him to contact up off the table, and he watched Sherlock's expression cloud. “It's John's number. I recognise it.” His voice was quiet, and a little on edge and Mycroft could see Sherlock's index finger dance hesitantly over the receive button.

“Don't. Let it ring through to voice-mail.”

“How did he get the number, not even he had it. Granted, Moriarty got his hands on it, I'm sure John could manage, although why?”

“I'm not sure, but he must have taken it from my phone.”
At this Sherlock grinned, “Ah, wonderful John. I've taught him the art of pickpocketing well.”

Mycroft did a quick double take, “...He pick-pocketed me of my phone, then replaced it and I didn't notice?”

“I'm a brilliant teacher Mycroft.” Sherlock said, still smiling, trying hard to ignore the screen of his mobile, “I'm rather proud of him actually.”

Mycroft shook his head, “You two were so well suited.”

Sherlock tilted his head thoughtfully, “L'esprit de l'escalier.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “Never?” He couldn't mask the surprise in his voice.

Sherlock shook his head, “It's only now that I'm no longer there that I've realised all the things I should have said at times, it's only been two weeks and all this time for thinking is slowly starting to drive me insane.”

“I thought...”
“Everyone did.” Sherlock said, a sad smile gracing the corners of his mouth.

They were interrupted again by the message tone, signalling that a new voice-mail had been received.

“I think I'll go out to the porch and listen to this.” Sherlock said standing up stiffly, “And don't worry, I won't call him back, before you tell me that. I just want privacy.” He clarified, walking swiftly out the front door and closing it behind him.

Sherlock sat down on the swing and slowly brought the phone to his ear. He heard his voice saying “Sherlock Holmes, I'm not available right now, providing it's not dull, call me back later.” and then a beep, there was a pause and a breath and then he heard John's voice and he had forgotten how much he really missed John. His memory of his voice seemed to be in no way accurate to the real voice of John Watson and Sherlock was in no way prepared for what he would hear next.

“Same old Sherlock, eh? They haven't found your body and I'm scared they never will.” There was a short chuckle, “This whole...whatever it is I'm doing right now, you'd probably have said it was dull and deleted it.” Another chuckle, this time slightly strangled sounding, “The past tense. I never thought I'd be referring to you in the past tense, Sherlock. If it were ever to be the past tense, I always thought it would be someone else talking about us.” There was another pause and a shaky breath, “Your phone wasn't in your coat, I'm surprised this line is still working really; I did well on the pickpocketing front, didn't I?” Pause, “I guess I really just wanted to hear your voice, and hearing your phone ring out, was I really getting my hopes up in thinking you'd answer?” Short laugh, “You were brilliant, Sherlock, and all those times, I'll never forget them. You were...I think I...I don't know- I'm talking to an answering machine for crying out loud, it's not like you'd be able to hear me. I just never thought it would happen this way, there were things that I was going to tell you at dinner on that night but then you had to go and arrange your death and save my life...” Deep breath, his voice was shaky now. “...I miss you Sherlock. Things were better with you. Just...I miss you.”

The dial tone rang through Sherlock's skull, and he wasn't aware that there were tears in his eyes until he realised they were stinging him, he quickly brushed away a stray tear that was caressing his cheek before sighing and glancing down at the phone in his hands and sighing.

“Oneiric specimen.” He whispered.

Oh John.

Chapter Text

“Truthfully, I'm surprised that John hasn't ran away from me yet with the fairy stories you've probably told him concerning myself.” Mycroft said lightly as his made both Sherlock and himself tea. Sherlock had regained some colour over Mycroft's three day stay, the dark circles beneath his eyes had faded a little and Mycroft had been cooking for him, something which he was quite proud of. He had been taking lessons.

Sherlock sat at the counter in another old t-shirt and jeans and laughed darkly at Mycroft's comment as he waited for his tea. “Fairy stories, Mycroft? Really?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Fine.” He muttered as he placed Sherlock's tea in front of him and sat down beside him. “Stories of me sneaking my way into maiden's bedrooms to suck their blood?”

Sherlock looked confused for a few seconds, then a look of comprehension crossed his face and he snorted into his tea. “Vampires? Damn. That's actually quite good. I'd deleted those stories...”

Mycroft smiled gently at his younger brother, Sherlock was too busy moving his food around his plate before taking small bites in between sips of tea, if he had have been watching Mycroft, maybe he would have seen a look of sympathy cross his face for a brief second. He'd never deleted things to the extent Sherlock had, all Sherlock allowed into his mind was chemistry, crimes, information valuable to crimes, and John. But Mycroft, Mycroft lived. He learned languages, he read fiction and classics and he listened to music and lately he had been becoming acquainted with fondness of a person. It was more than wonderful joined with his work that took him all around the world, where he could learn more about different cultures continuously.

And now sat with Sherlock, he realised Sherlock no longer had the crimes and no longer had John.

He had made everything else so unimportant, now it was as though Sherlock had nothing and he needed to fix it as soon as possible, but until then he'd try and distract Sherlock to the best of his abilities.

“So do I just fly into different countries on my broomstick and drop houses on leaders and governments I dislike?” Mycroft asked teasingly, all sympathy absent from his features.

“Yes. Instead of stealing their ruby slippers, you steal their umbrellas.”

Mycroft smiled approvingly, “I'm surprised you understood that reference.”

Sherlock shrugged, “Wait, but if you stole their umbrellas, you'd most likely turn into that singing, magical nanny and just fly into other countries, fix their problems and leave again.”

Mycroft regarded Sherlock with a partially confused and slightly concerned expression. “Mary Poppins and The Wizard of Oz? Sherlock, are you sure it's really you?”

“Yes, Mycroft.” Sherlock snapped, “I've been bored. Shamefully bored.”

“Well at least it's only musicals you've been resorting to.” Mycroft said quietly, casting Sherlock a knowing glance.

Sherlock ignored the pointed glance directed at him by Mycroft and snorted amusedly, “Actually, Mycroft Poppins suits you. You should keep it.”

~oOo~

John hesitated as he stood before the achingly familiar door of 221 B Baker Street before taking a deep breath and turning his key in the lock, it swung open easily and the familiar smell of what had been quickly becoming home hit him like a tidal wave.

The sound of familiar classical music greeted John, as it floated through the air from behind Mrs. Hudson's door, which was his first port of call.

He took another deep breath and walked slowly but determinedly towards her door which he knocked three times.

He had done this before.

He had seen soldier's families' break down, but this was much more personal.

Often he never knew the deceased soldiers very well; he may have talked to them once or twice, but they wouldn't have called each other friends.

Mrs. Hudson's door flew open and her face lit up as she saw John before her.

“John!” She squealed as she pulled him close to her into a tight hug, “It's wonderful to finally see you again, dear. I thought you both had eloped and were never coming back to visit.” She laughed musically as she slowly let go of him and stood to the side so she could let John past her, into her flat.

“Where's that rascal, Sherlock? Gone upstairs without even saying hello after all these months?” She tutted to herself as she switched on the kettle with a flick, “Probably just waiting for you or me to make him a cuppa. Not his housekeeper, dear. You should tell him that sometime too...” She looked up at John, a warm smile upon her face, until she saw John's pale, distraught expression as he sat very still at her kitchen table. “John, dear...what's happened?” Her voice was quiet now, softer. She placed a steaming mug of tea in front of him and sat down opposite him expecting the worst. It was Sherlock after all. “Have you two fallen out?”

John slowly reached out to take both of Mrs. Hudson's hands in his. His left hand was trembling ever so slightly, but not as much as it had been lately.

Mrs. Hudson didn’t notice.

This wasn't necessarily a dangerous situation, but it was a horrible one to be in none the less.

John decided to just come straight out with it, beating around the bush was not going to help either of them in the long-run.

“In Switzerland...Moriarty; who we had been running from had known where we were all along. And he...he went off to meet him and both of them ended up falling off the edge of a waterfall, we think from the footprints and the note and they-they never found his body. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Hudson.” John's voice was shaking and he found it was harder to breathe normally as he watched Mrs. Hudson’s face fall and tears glide down her face, he didn't realize that he had started crying along with Mrs. Hudson until he felt a warm tear slide down his cheeks and fall from his chin onto the kitchen table.

~

John was now seated on Mrs. Hudson's sofa, a small holdall packed with some of his clothes were situated by her door.

~

Going into 221B had been difficult, everything was exactly as they had left it and there was even a light layer of dust over everything, nothing had changed there.

It was like a time capsule, but there were a lot more memories here.

It wasn't things that you wanted to bury under the ground for twenty years, these were normal everyday things that were slowly being suffocated by dust, but the memories were still very much alive and painful.

The night Sherlock had finally given in and watched Doctor Who with John, as he sat beside him silently on the sofa, not asking a million questions or pointing out plot holes and wrong doings for once. Later on that night, as John was watching the news, Sherlock fell asleep on his shoulder. At one point he even muttered something about a Dalek. John had been so happy.

Memories such as that and the closeness and how they seemed to be waiting for some continuity, as though John was meant to re-open the book and allow it to play on, which was no longer possible made everything so much worse.

~

“I'm certain he would have said sorry.” Mrs. Hudson said softly, as she patted his arm, “He never would have wanted to leave you like this.”

“We are thinking of the same person, aren't we? I've been kidnapped numerous times for my association with him...”

“But he always saved you, John. Always.”

~oOo~

Mycroft and Sherlock were sitting on one of the sofas, the TV humming lowly in the background, really just to fill the silences between them. Mycroft's bags were still by the door, he would be leaving within the next hour.

Sherlock didn't particularly want him to go. He hadn't realised how used to John's company he had been until he had found himself completely alone, now he even found Mycroft bearable and they could talk, providing they leave a wide berth to topics concerning family.

“John still can't bring himself to say your name, you know.”

Sherlock was silent for a minute, “I need to go back.”

Mycroft shook his head sadly, “When it's safe.”

“It was never safe before, I don't see what's stopping you. It never bothered you before, Mycroft.”

“It certainly did. But those people weren't out to deliberately assassinate you, Sherlock. You were solving crimes, but Moran is incredibly dangerous and I can't let you go back while he is still at large.”

Sherlock sighed deeply, “Well please hurry it along.”

“I'm working as swiftly as possible, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, “Have you ever thought that one or two of your men may not be as loyal to you as you think?”

Mycroft regarded him with a quizzical expression. If you looked closely; as Sherlock did, you could even see a hint of alarm in his eyes.

This idea had surprisingly never crossed Mycroft's mind.

It had been playing around in the recesses of Sherlock's mind for months now. It seemed obvious.

How else would Moriarty have gotten away so easily with just a shot in the arm, with Mycroft's snipers there?

Why else was Sherlock shot if Mycroft's snipers were at the pool?

How else was every piece of information they needed so conveniently obscure?

Sherlock was honestly baffled as to how this had never crossed Mycroft's mind before.

Queen and country, Mycroft had an unfortunate habit of trusting people a little too easily if their preliminary security check came back clean.

“I should leave.” Mycroft muttered, almost to himself as he brushed out the wrinkles in his suit and headed towards the door where his

“Backgrounds that need to be checked and such?” Sherlock mocked.

Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock, his face carefully clear of emotion.

“Oh and I meant to ask, how's Gregory?”

Mycroft stared dumbfoundly at Sherlock for a moment,a certain measure of panic in his eyes and before he could get his vocal chords around the word 'how?', he was interrupted.

Sherlock shrugged, “I'm Sherlock and I've been indecently bored as of late.” He stared pointedly at Mycroft, “And it's nothing you've never done to me before.”

“But it's-” Mycroft began before being interrupted again.

“'My life?', 'Private'?, 'None of your business'? That's only what I've been trying to convey to you since I was five!” Sherlock snapped. “How does it feel to have your small amount of privacy invaded, Mycroft?” He questioned. “Oh and next thing that'll happen is that I'll be telling you how to live your life, because I was too incompetent to realise that some of my own men are actually loyal to Moriarty, or now, I guess it would be Moran.” He paused for a moment, “Well done, pat yourself on the back and give yourself another title for show and try to control yet another government, but for crying out loud Mycroft, allow me home as soon as possible or I will go back myself. I have nothing now, there is no work, this house is slowly suffocating me and I've damaged the only person who has ever cared humanly for me, my privacy and my emotions; even if I may not have realised that I possessed such feelings, I've damaged him beyond forgiveness.” He continued, his voice raising slightly, sharper now than it was before. “But all you can say when I say something that crossed your mind is 'I'm returning home', where I can't go and then you act all flabbergasted when I find out something about your life, which you never intended for me to know; which is precisely what how you've acted since we were children.”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably where he stood beside the front door, his hand itching to pick up his suitcase and leave. “I ought to be leaving, I cannot afford to be late for my flight.” Mycroft picked up his suitcase in one sure movement, his face a composed, bored looking mask once again.

Sherlock merely nodded and walked away from Mycroft, in the direction of the kitchen.

Mycroft turned and walked out the front door, shutting it quietly behind him and he was met by his driver, who took his suitcase from him and didn't bat an eyelid when Mycroft started mumbling numbers under his breath as he typed them into his phone.

There was one moment of the car journey that Mycroft could have sworn that he caught the driver cast him a startled expression in the rear-view mirror after he had quietly uttered the words “Well you are one of the only people that I trust to such extent, and I can be almost certain that you are not a spy set against me.” He noted that and would check numerous names within the next 48 hours.

He would also find out that Sherlock was indeed correct.

~oOo~

John stood outside Sarah's apartment, hesitantly shifting his weight off his left leg as he rang the bell. His heart was racing and he felt incredibly uncomfortable at this moment, but he was here for a reason. He would carry through, it was selfish to put both of them through this any longer.

“Hello?” Sarah's familiar voice floated through the intercom, breeding familiarity into the cold air. John took a quick breath and pressed the reply button. “It's John, can I come up?”

There was a short pause and then a buzz, he entered the familiar building and found his way to Sarah's apartment. Her door was still closed, so he knocked it lightly three times.

Sarah came to the door, she looked more confused than anything as she let him in. “You're back? I haven't heard from you in over a month, John.” His name came out as a hard and bitter sound.

“For the last few weeks, I think. I've lost track of time completely.” His voice was flat and honest.

Sarah's eyes narrowed for a second, as though she was trying to see inside his head. She knew what was coming, she was even about to just end it herself. But he was here now, so she would listen.

“You look ill, John.” She said this quietly, just as an observation. Not necessarily a friendly remark, but more of a Doctor's intuition. He did look ill. He had lost a lot of weight, his clothes now hung limply from the bones that would have been protruding through his skin. His eyes were dull and dead, they no longer had the friendly, good light that she had grown to know, the one that shone more so when he was around Sherlock than with her. It was something she had learned to deal with. His eyes were bloodshot and tired, his face was worryingly pale and the dark circles beneath his eyes were a heavy contrast to his ghostly colouring. He looked utterly drained and he was not John.

He shrugged off her comment, “I can't put either us us through this any more.” He said in the same scarily emotionless tone of voice.

She was expecting it, she knew it was coming. He and Sherlock were so set on each other she was genuinely confused as to how they weren't married yet, as to how neither of them (rather intelligent men) had never realised.

She was expecting it, so it didn't hurt.

The only thing that effected her was that John looked utterly empty. Surely had he and Sherlock ended up together he would be full of life? She watched him walk-no limp over to her sofa.

This wasn't right. She would have Sherlock for this if he had hurt John, after all, John and her may never have been heading towards something 'permanent', but he was still her friend and colleague.

“So did you and Sherlock finally realise that you were both so set on each other?” She asked gently, walking towards him and sitting beside him.

She saw him flinch at the name and her brows knitted together, this surely wasn't normal?

John nodded slowly, “And that very day he went and got himself thrown off a cliff.”

Sarah's eyes widened in shock, Sherlock was dead? She had to hold back a laugh, it seemed like some ill-timed joke. Sherlock was Sherlock. Sherlock was too...sure of himself? To die.

Hell, at one point she was convinced that he had to be immortal.

But now she understood.

John wasn't John because Sherlock was no longer Sherlock and if she understood one thing when she had her first encounter with Sherlock and John in Sherlock's presence on their first date, she finally understood that Sherlock had made John whole again after returning from the war; they would regularly fight their own wars right in the centre of London.

From the moment she realised this, she had somewhat subconsciously been awaiting the break-up.

But she had always imagined that Sherlock would still be breathing, and most likely at John's side.

She would have been happy for them.

But this was all wrong, John shouldn't be crying, he shouldn't look so unlike John, she shouldn't have to be comforting the one that has just ended a relationship with her because the one he actually loved was dead.

None of it was meant to be like this.

Initially there had been hope that John would be 'the one', they were going to be brilliant. Then she met Sherlock, that completely dashed any hopes she never realised she had until the moment she saw John look at Sherlock. But now, she was actually angry, she wasn't hurt, no. But as she held the weeping brittle form of the man who could have been it, she hatedSherlock, not John.

She hated Sherlock for two reasons; if he and John hadn't have been living together and she had still been led to John, they could have worked.

The other was that now that he was gone, John was completely broken. Nobody should be left in that way.

John was strong, he was a soldier.

He would be okay.

Eventually.

Chapter Text

As John returned later that evening, he noticed two cars in front of the house, one he knew as Mycroft's and another vaguely familiar one. The curtains were drawn in the bay window of the dining room, but the light was on. Mycroft must be entertaining, John thought.

He flinched when he imaged Sherlock saying, “I never found him so.” in his mind, he shook it off and took out his key and stepped into the warmth and smell of Chinese takeaway.

He could hear the low murmur of voices and once he had hung up his coat on the antique coat stand, he limped gingerly towards the semi-open dining room door, the lamp by the window was on, but the rest of the room was relatively dim and John could see the shadows change and dance around each other upon the wall, which could have been attributed to candlelight. Mycroft was mumbling quieter than he usually would, it just sounded like a low hum and before John lifted his heavy hands to knock on the dark wood, he heard Mycroft mumble, “He wants to come back, he's determined. I can't...” Mycroft trailed off suddenly, then there was a whisper of “Let go.”

John had his hand a few centimetres from the door, but was interrupted by Mycroft's calm voice, “Ah, John! You've returned from your travels, as have I. Come in!”

John marvelled briefly at how Mycroft had suddenly gone from someone who sounded as though he had let all his walls down to whoever was in the room with him, sounding tired and down, to calm, composed and perfectly civil. As John shuffled into the room, he caught Mycroft's face switch from exhausted to his trademark casually bored expression.

Mycroft had not failed in noticing John's limp was worse than it had been four days ago, but there was a little hope in the fact he had gone outside the house today, he remained silent, his eyes burnt out in the light of the candle that was sitting between the two men.

John couldn't hold in his surprise upon seeing none other than Gregory Lestrade sitting next to Mycroft.

“Greg!”

Gregory smiled up at John, “I haven't seen you in ages, nice to finally set eyes on the illusive John Watson again, eh?”

John grinned at him, then turned to Mycroft, who looked like he wanted to say something, but didn't want to interrupt them.

“Would you care to join us, John?” Mycroft asked, “There's plenty more food and you don't appear to have eaten a proper meal yet today.”

John cast a quick glance between the two, “You wouldn't mind?” He asked.

They both shook their heads 'No'.

“All right then, I'll go and change into something more comfortable.”

 

 

“I wouldn't have thought you would be eating Chinese takeaway, what with the diet and such.” John mumbled, “Although I'm not complaining.”

“Well Sherlock certainly rubbed off on you.” Mycroft said quietly, and regretted it immediately as John's face fell and Gregory passed him a confused glance, with some warning in his eyes. “I would have cooked, but I'm exhausted after my trip. Apologies.”

John nodded, still staring blankly at the plate before him, “What did you get up to?”

Gregory cast a sidelong glance at Mycroft, who didn't pause for a second. “French government.” He said lightly, “That Sarkozy.” He said rolling his eyes.

“What's he gotten up to now?” John asked, visibly cheering up.

Mycroft sighed dramatically, “He only wants to converge European countries into one called Europa with the German's. All this Euro business.”

“That's crazy!” Greg and John said at the same time.

“These are the times we live in.”

“So what did you do when you weren't saving the world economic crisis?” John questioned.

“An old acquaintance called Benedict made contact and we visited des endroits insolites in Paris.”

John's blank stare made Mycroft chuckle, “Some strange places.” He clarified. “It was rather interesting. Wonderful sights.”

“Oh, like where?”

“There was this one wonderful gift shop that specialised in photographs, and the owner and his ancestors had taken these photographs themselves and you could see how much Paris has changed and it was truly magical. We received full stories of any of the pictures we were interested in and we were shown the journals of each photographer, where the day of each photo was recorded and their reason and inspiration of the photograph was written in elegant script. It was absolutely perfect.” Mycroft said smiling, Greg was staring at Mycroft with an amazed expression and John looked as though he was about to bolt out of the room, book a flight and head to Paris.

“That is fascinating.”

“Quite so.” Mycroft said lightly, “So, John, tell us both what you got up to today.” While he didn't actually say it, John could almost hear Mycroft say 'It's the first time you've gone outside in months.'

“I visited Mrs. Hudson and broke the news...then I went to see Sarah.” John said lowly.

Greg and Mycroft exchanged a private glance, “And will we see her around here any time soon?” Greg asked before Mycroft could manage it.

John didn't notice the use of 'we', nor the look that they had exchanged. “No, probably not. I broke up with her. About time really, we were just hurting ourselves in the long-run.”

“Oh my god, really?” Greg asked, without thinking.

“Yes. But we'll remain friends. Probably.” John shrugged, then yawned. “It's been a long day, I should probably go to bed. Thank you both for the food, goodnight.” He said, raising from his chair, he cast them both a smile and walked out of the room, nodding to their respective wishes of a good night and peaceful dreams, both of which he knew would be unlikely.

“At least it's a start.” Mycroft mumbled.

Greg nodded in agreement, “Are you going to mention that to Sherlock?” He said under his breath.

Mycroft nodded, and then yawned. “Tomorrow.”

Greg intertwined their fingers on the table, “Where did you learn to lie like that? If I hadn't have known where you actually were, I would have believed that.”

“I learned from the very best.” Mycroft mumbled, his mask of composure now gone, he now looked tired and sad.

“Sherlock?”

“No. Our mother. He learned from her too.” Mycroft said quietly, a hint of sadness had entered his voice and Greg squeezed his hand tighter. “It was essential from the time we could talk.”

Greg's thumb started to make soothing circles on Mycroft's palm. “You look like you've risen from the dead.”

“Sherlock tends to have that effect on people.” Mycroft replied.

Greg smiled softly, “Don't I know it? Why don't you go on upstairs and I'll finish cleaning up here.”

“I would be a fool to argue with that offer, I'll see you in a few minutes?” Mycroft asked, standing up slowly.

“Definitely. You've been away for four days and I've been travelling up and down the country for the last few weeks, I've scarcely seen you.”

“It's wonderful to have you back here again.”

“Not as wonderful as it is to be here again.” Greg said lightly, standing up to give Mycroft a peck on the cheek, “Now lets not argue over who finds the other more wonderful. Go and get into bed before you fall asleep on your feet.” He kissed Mycroft again, this time a soft peck on the lips. “Now go.”

 

Just after Witching hour, John started awake. The room was dark, only shadows were outlined. He rolled to his side, and flicked on the bedside lamp, the room soon came to life once again. He was breathing heavily, but the room was comfortably warm, shielding him against the staccato pelts of rain against the Victorian windows. He could hear vicious howling windows outside too, but Mycroft's house is well insulated and a worthy protection from the English elements, unlike one of his childhood houses, where, when he once woke up from a nightmare he could clearly see his breath ghosting through the dim, moonlit air.

Other than the sound of his now calming breathing, the house was silent, apart from the threatening wind and the hammering rain outside.

John slipped put of his heavy bed covers and decided to make himself a cup of tea to calm his nerves. That seemed to have become his habit as of late. He absently wondered had Mycroft noticed. Probably.

He opened his bedroom door quietly and crept out onto the richly carpeted upper hallway. To make his way to the landing and then down the stairs, he would have to walk down the dark corridor, past other rooms that he had never been inside, then Mycroft's, which he had seen the man retreat to at various hours.

 

When he was at least half way down the corridor, he heard a doorknob twisting quietly just before him and he paused mid-step, almost losing balance in the process. Mycroft's bedroom door opened and out crept a shirtless, pyjama bottom clad Lestrade.

Lestrade could have literally jumped out of his skin, had he jumped back from John any faster.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to...”

Lestrade put his index finger across his lips to signal 'shut up', then he mouthed, 'Follow me.'

John followed him down the winding staircase and onto the pleasantly warm tiles. Their bare feet pattered across the tiles and into the kitchen, where John had to allow his eyes to readjust to the light that Greg switched on as he padded over to turn on the kettle and retrieve the tea-bags out of the cupboard.

“At least you won't catch cold.” John said almost teasingly as an attempt to break the awkward silence.

Greg had his back turned to John as he started making tea, but he shook his head. “Certainly not. One of the things I adore about Mycroft is that he always has the house comfortably warm.”

“I'd noticed. It's wonderful.”

After a short pause, the kettle had finished boiling.

“Guessing that you were coming down for tea? I've heard you before.” Greg said quietly, almost to himself as John sat one one of the breakfast table stools, watching Greg move around as though the house was his own.

“Before?” John questioned.

Greg nodded, “Often.”

John tilted his head to the side, confusion crossed his worn features, “Why were you in Mycroft's room? Are you two working on a case?”

By this point, Greg was padding across the tiles with two steaming mugs of tea, and sat across from John. It was now his turn to regard John curiously.

“Why was I in Mycroft's room?” He asked, a hint of amusement spilled into his words.

John nodded, “That's what I asked.”

Greg was still staring at John as if he had missed some vital, obvious piece of information. “I sleep there...”

“Why? There's so many...” John's sudden expression of understanding was almost comical to Greg.” Oh...oh...you, you and...oh.”

Greg tried holding back a laugh, “I have an overwhelming urge to clap for you, but Mycroft's a light sleeper and hasn't been sleeping properly lately, so I don't want to wake him.”

“But you're never here!”

Greg raised an eyebrow, “I'm always here, especially since I finally sold on my flat. Unless I'm at work, of course.”

“But I never see you.” John said quietly.

Greg took a sip from his tea, “John, you never come out of your room. Today has been the first time you've went outside since Sherlock-” He ignored John's flinching at the sound of the name, “-died. We know it's been hard. He had us all convinced that he was immortal. He'd just keep coming back. But John, maybe, I don't know...you thought if he went, you'd be with him, if the pool was anything to go by.” He sighed, “I know that if Mycroft ever was in danger...I'd do everything I could. But you weren't there, and a body was never found, so it's bound to be hard. But stop punishing yourself, John, it wasn't your fault, he choose to do this.” He stretched out his arm, to pat John's arm, which made him look up at Greg again.

“I...think I...he was perfect.” John said on the brink of tears.

“We know.” Greg said soothingly.

“I never told him.” John whispered.

Greg took a deep breath, this seemed to have been some sort of a shock to him. “I didn't know...I thought-”
“Everyone did.” John interrupted him.

 

“Maybe...if you went to a therapist?” Greg suggested, “You're not living, John. I know Mycroft has the name of one for you, whenever you were ready, but don't you think it's time you were able to say Sherlock's name once again? Go back to work? Live?”

“I was thinking about it, I might ask him tomorrow.” John mumbled, “You two talk about me?”

Greg rolled his eyes, “Of course.” He took another sip out of his tea, “Sometimes it feels like we're your over-concerned parents, and the weird thing is tonight is the first night that I've seen you in months, but yet I've been helping Mycroft with you all along.”

“Really?” John seemed kind of surprised. Mycroft had been good to him, but he had always considered him the more human Holmes brother, or just a really good actor. He had never considered that someone, that Lestrade had been behind most of it.

“How long?” John asked.

Greg gave him a questioning glance, “How long what?”

“You and Mycroft? If you don't mind me asking, of course.”

A smile smile crossed Greg's lips, “Just a little over a year.”

John looked visibly shocked, “That was secretive! While I'm at it, you two aren't married or anything?” He glanced at Lestrade's ring finger and saw a silver ring, similar to Mycroft's gold one.

How had he been so unobservant? You see, but you do not observe, echoed through his mind.

Greg smiled lightly, “More engaged than married. We'll get around to it.”

John cast him a confused look.

Greg shrugged, “Busy schedules.” He said simply, “Anyhow, we practically act like we're already married anyway.” As he said this, a smile crept across his lips.

“Mycroft said his ring was his mother's?” John was curious.

Greg nodded, “It was. Before we were together, I knew Mycroft in passing, he had always worn the ring on a different finger.”

John nodded, interested now, almost urging Greg to continue although he didn't want to interrupt him out loud.

Greg's face was flooded with nostalgia, and while his eyes were alert, it was clear to see he was inhabiting another time. “The night that Mycroft told me...how he felt, oh, it must have been three? Months after we got 'together', if it could have been called that.” Greg continued, answering John's newest question in the process, “It was never a conventional relationship, it still isn't. We had known each other for quite a while, and when it happened, I was running on caffeine and Mycroft was suffering from insomnia, which returns in bouts. Suddenly, it was as though we had just fallen into one another. It continued from there, metaphors and poetry and songs could not describe it. So, when that night came, it was wonderful, in a Holmesian way. He took the ring off his finger and placed it on his ring finger, spilling wonders that I never thought possible from his lips. He gave me this too.” He showed John his 'wedding' ring, it was silver, and snug on his finger. “He told me that he understood were I not to wear it right there, but whenever the time came he would be overjoyed.”

“And?”

Greg laughed at this, “I asked him there and then to place it on my ring finger. He called me a lazy bugger, but it was plain to see he was ecstatic.”

“It sounds like some sort of fairy story.” John mumbled. They could be romantic when they wanted. But he knew this. He still had dreams-now nightmares about the hand-holding on Sherlock's last day.

Greg snorted, “Better.” He mumbled, then a large yawn overtook his features and he sighed, “I should be getting back to bed. This was nice, John. I hope I'll see you tomorrow?”

“Maybe, yes.”

Greg cast a grin at John and patted him on the shoulder as he left the kitchen, “Night, mate.”

 

~oOo~

 

“Come in?” Mycroft called, following the knock on his study door. John walked in, and hesitated at the door when he saw Greg sitting on Mycroft's desk, flicking through files that appeared to be halved between he and Mycroft.

“I'm not interrupting?” John asked awkwardly.

Mycroft laughed and a smile crept onto Greg's face, which was then replaced with an expression of concentration again. “Of course not, do sit down. Gregory was telling me about your conversation last night.” Amusement shone on Mycroft's face, although his eyes, John noted, were troubled and dark, Sherlock and Mycroft shared that feature. Greg was completely silent as he flicked through the files, they seemed to have profiles and photos inside them, some sort of employee database, possibly, John thought. This conclusion didn't make much more sense to John, but had Sherlock been there he would have been rubbing in the 'I told you so' broken record, and Mycroft knew this.

“I can see that you're both busy, so I'll just get to the point before I chicken out. Greg said that you had the name of a therapist that may be helpful?”

Mycroft nodded, “That I do. Before you ask me about what was wrong with your other one, lets just say that this one can tell the difference between PTSD and a psycho-somatic limp.” He pulled a piece of paper out of a drawer and handed it to John.

John read the elegant writing, “Is he good?”

Mycroft nodded, “The best.”

“Reports?” John questioned, “Or a high-class friend?”

He didn't catch the warning glance that Greg had momentarily cast him, had he, he probably would have apologised.

“No.” Mycroft said simply, “I have attended him.” and that was all, the subject was closed.

All that was needed now was an appointment, which was fitted into the following week.

 

Sherlock had been dosing in and out of an uncomfortable sleep, the rain pelting against the windows and the howling wind screaming through the house, almost company for Sherlock. It was then his phone had started to vibrate on the wooden bedside table. He debated on whether to answer it, he knew it would be Mycroft. The only reason why he pulled himself up to answer it was because; one) He may be able to say 'I told you so.' and two) it could be about John.

“Yes?” Sherlock answered.

“Lovely to hear from you too.” Mycroft's voice was low, and tired, he could hear a fire crackling in the background, and a light snore coming from Mycroft's right. “You were correct.”

“Nothing new there.” Sherlock said bitingly.

“No, you can't come back yet, before you ask.” He then heard Mycroft sigh, “John has finally begun to leave his room. He will also begin attending a therapist next week, just an update. Goodnight dear brother.” and with that, the line went dead.

This left Sherlock confused, and trying to process the unexpected information.

Other than that, he was cold and only had the howling wind to keep his thoughts company.

About an hour later, at five in the morning, Sherlock Holmes fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

Chapter Text

 

John walked into the unexpectedly warm waiting room. The walls were a light yellow, not a clinical white and the chairs that were spread around the room were incredibly comfortable looking. Then there was a smiling receptionist behind a desk, who greeted him warmly as he walked into the waiting room, which housed only one other person, who's head was buried in a magazine.

He walked towards the reception desk and before he could open his mouth, the smiling receptionist said “John Watson for Doctor Mc Avoy?”

John nodded.

“Brilliant, he should be seeing you in a few minutes, please take a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

John thanked her and walked over to one of the empty chairs on the opposite side of the room to the other man there.

He glanced around, there were two doors, both had a silver name plaque on them. One for Mc Avoy and the other door led the way to Dr. Mosse.

The man across from John was dressed in dark clothing and turned a page of the magazine without raising his head. John thought better of making conversation.

The receptionist, picked up the phone on her desk on the first ring, the painted smile still upon her face. She nodded as though the person on the other end could see her, then said “I'll send him in now.” before placing the phone back down silently.

She turned towards the other man, “S. Moran, Dr. Mosse will see you now.”

John's head snapped up rather inconspicuously, he glanced over at the man who had gotten up, but now had his back to him, head still dropped as he picked up his coat. “It's Mohan.” was all he said before retreating in through Dr. Mosse's door, not showing his face to John.

“Oh? Odd.” The receptionist mumbled under her breath, “He definitely put down 'S. Moran' on the form.” She shook her head whilst still smiling.

A few seconds later her phone rang once again and in the same way she had addressed the other man, she told John that Dr. Mc Avoy was awaiting him.

 

Sebastian was sitting outside a coffee shop with an impatient air surrounding him as he watched the front door of the clinic for the re-appearance of John Watson.

Clive Mosse was one of the more secretive members of Moriarty's web and had notified Sebastian

once he had overseen some papers naming John Watson as a new patient. Unfortunately Mc Avoy was not of the same nature and had treated the Holmes brother some years ago, his files unobtainable.

Or long since destroyed.

It was with some effort that he managed to find out John's appointment time, scheduling one for an 'S. Moran' at that precise time with himself to check whether it was the actual Watson.

However the first thing that Sebastian had done once entering the office was threaten Mosse that if he ever happened to make such a stupid mistake as using most of his actual name again, he wouldn't live to see the sun rise.

For the remainder of time, they had devised a plan, he would await Mosse later that evening, who would be staying 'late' at the office and would let Sebastian back in. Together they would search through John's notes, which would only be in the rough stages.

It would be then that he would know was John in the light about Sherlock's real location and where exactly that was.

Blogs could be written so easily these days, after all.

It was pointed out to him that John would hardly have opted into therapy had he known Sherlock was actually alive. But Sebastian knew Mycroft, he knew that it could all be an act.

He also desperately wanted to avenge Moriarty's murder and to do that, he needed Sherlock's location. This was proving incredibly hard as Mycroft had recently had a purge of employees and any of Moran's associates had been swiftly fired or jailed.

Throngs of people, tourists and locals passed by, causing obstructions to Sebastian's view.

After what had felt like hours, he saw a frail looking John Watson and the man who he knew as Dr. Mc Avoy walk down the steps from the clinic together, deep in conversation. It was then his phone bleeped.

Corridors dark, all gone. Come quickly.

Sebastian waited until the two were out of eye shot. He then crossed the road, avoiding the cars who cursed him and sounded their horns at him, only to be met by a gesture that involved his middle finger.

He walked through the dark corridors until he found his way into the waiting room, he then walked towards the light coming from Mc Avoy's room.

“Seemingly lower security than the Holmes one.” Mosse mumbled as he read through the barely comprehensible shorthand notes.

“What does it say? It looks like pigeon scratch.” Sebastian mumbled.

Mosse was silent for a minute, “Clearly depressed, grief.” He murmured.

“No. I don't care about that bull.” Sebastian growled, “Does it mention anyone called Sherlock?”

“Hmm.” He flicked the sheet over, “Ah yes. He died. Apparently a lot went unsaid between them, John lo-”

“I don't care. Where does Sherlock live now?”

Mosse gave him a calculating glance, “At the bottom of a waterfall in Switzerland according to this.”

“Fuck it.” Sebastian grumbled, turning and walking from the room.

 

 

~3 months later~

 

Sherlock was laying on the sofa, Bach playing lowly in the background as he read an old leather-bound bound book which he had found in the attic.

A bleep from his phone as it vibrated across the wooden table caused him to sigh. It could only mean one thing, Mycroft.

He hadn't heard from Mycroft in at least a week, which was quite a record.

From what Sherlock had heard was that John had begun attending a therapist and was now making regular appearances at dinner and had once or twice met up with Sarah. Apparently he would soon be returning part-time to the surgery, if he had not already.

There was still no chance of Sherlock being allowed home as Sebastian Moran continued to elude police.

He picked up his blackberry, it signified an e-mail with a large attachment file, the sender, Mycroft.

Sherlock traipsed over to the kitchen counter where his laptop sat quietly, hitting the on switch, he waited for it to load. He flicked the switch on the kettle to pass the time.

Upon opening the file, he saw it was a case. One of Scotland Yard's.

 

Around ten minutes after Sherlock had sent a thorough reply e-mail, his phone began to ring.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock greeted.

There was a short pause on the other end of the line, “Ah yes, I shall see you at dinner?” There was another pause and then Mycroft sounded as though he was nearer to the receiver. “Hello to you too.” This was becoming Mycroft's regular greeting.

“I don't believe that I will be able to join you at dinner, how unfortunate. I seem to be delayed in a different country.” Sherlock said sarcasm dripping from his words.

“Definitely unfortunate.”said Mycroft, sounding unperturbed.

“Hmph.”

“Anyhow, I wanted to congratulate you on solving the case. Five minutes, that's surely a record.”

Sherlock snorted, “Mycroft, if Anderson had have been put on the case, he could have solved it in at least an hour.”

“Anderson was on the case.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Well someone with half a brain. Anyone could have solved it, especially with all the potential information overlooked by whoever wrote the damn report.”

“Gregory wrote the report, Sherlock.”
“And? He did leave out basic information. It's not my fault he's terrible at his job.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft chided.

“What? I'm only telling the truth. If I were only a mere police officer at least my reports would be better than what I received.”

He heard Mycroft sigh at the other end of the phone, “We were only trying to help you, Sherlock. The report had deliberate mistakes in it to get you involved. Don't worry, it will not happen again. I've got a meeting to attend right now, goodbye dear brother.” and with that the line went dead.

Sherlock suddenly felt very alone.

 

~6 Months later~

 

Sebastian was waiting, he felt stupid dressed up in a Royal Mail uniform, but he needed to catch John.

He was hiding in one of the bushes facing Mycroft's gates, silently thanking whatever higher power there may be that it wasn't raining.

He had been following John for months now, and there was nothing. He thought Sherlock was dead.

Then there was Mycroft, he knew the truth, but remained completely unreadable.

 

John would be returning from work in roughly five minutes, he had been for the last five days anyhow. Sebastian had noticed that John worked in patterns now, he rarely strayed from his living patterns.

 

Roughly seven minutes later, he saw John coming around the corner. As casually as he could, he walked across the road, pretending to be searching through his letter bag, which was empty, as he did so.

“John Watson?” He called, his face was expertly shaded by his cap.

John came to a halt, he hadn't been using his crutch lately, but he still walked with a slight limp. “Bit late, isn't it?” John asked, after glancing at him.

Shit.

“Crash.” Sebastian shrugged as he handed over the envelope, “This was lost apparently.”

John stared at the white envelope in his hands, an expression of confusion and maybe even hope crossing his worn features. “Oh.” He mumbled, “You could have waited to deliver this in the morning, but thank you.”

“Any time.” Sebastian said quietly, as he walked off around the corner, changing hats and then returning to his hiding place behind the bushes.

From there, he watched John.

 

John glanced around, seeing no one. He turned the envelope over in his hands, his name was handwritten. His brows furrowed upon seeing no address or stamp.

Another mistake.

He ran around the corner, but found no trace of the shaded postman.

He walked back towards the gates slowly.

One final time, he turned it around and pulled it open.

Inside was a folded A4 sheet, John unfolded it. Sebastian could see the colour drain from his face.

 

HE is AlivE

They Are lyIng.

 

The page was clear of any visible marking, just one neat horizontal fold through the centre. The excerpts of newspaper articles though, John would never have expected.

Sending anonymous mail was so much easier nowadays, with computers no one need know what you handwriting looks like.

But no, this was obviously done with care and quite a lot of time to spare. John glanced around him again, seeing no one, then back at the paper.

He could feel his heart rate speeding up as he tore it up into tiny indecipherable pieces. He stuffed the scraps of paper into his pocket and punched the access code to Mycroft's into the keypad and without a look back, he disappeared through the high gates.

All the while, he could hear Sherlock's voice in his head on that last day.

 “John, don't believe everything everyone tells you. People lie.”

This could be from Sherlock, could it?

No.

It was just some sick twisted joke from someone who had read his blog, that was it.

Sherlock was dead.

John would know that he was alive, wouldn't he?

Sometimes he felt like he knew Sherlock was still alive, but he had been talking to the therapist about that. Apparently it was normal, denial.

But then again, the texts always sent.

 

Sebastian stood up and sighed, that had not been the reaction he had bargained for.

What was it?

Anger? Disbelief?

He turned and began walking away.

It seemed that he would have to continue with the therapy notes for a while to come.

Sometimes he would ask himself, usually late at night, or waking up from a drunken stupor beside some unidentifiable man or woman, why he did it.
But then Jim Moriarty's face would come to mind, the haunting smirk embedded in his memory.

That was why, and following that, he would either take a sleeping pill, or leave the house or flat that he had brought himself to this time.

 

John unlocked the front door, and noticed that the car Mycroft usually travelled in was parked, while Lestrade's was parked behind it.

John dropped his keys on the elegant hallway table, and upon hearing Mycroft laugh-a rare sound, but one that if it were possible to bottle; it could probably cure illnesses. He followed the sound into the sitting room.

He was instantly sorry he did, he appeared to have interrupted some sort of movie-watching marathon between the two.

They were both lying on the sofa, Greg's arms around Mycroft's torso as they laughed at the movie that was on the top of the DVD pile, from the screen,it looked as though it could have been Hot Fuzz.

 

“John!” Mycroft called out, a large smile on his face. It was slightly jolting for John to witness Mycroft in such a good mood, especially lately, as he had been busier and quieter.

Lestrade had also been away on cases a lot lately, so Mycroft had mostly been left to his own thoughts.

Lestrade paused the movie, and smiled up at John. They both looked tired, but comfortable.

“Sorry to, uh, disturb.” John said awkwardly.

They both were so in sync with each other, that they unknowingly rolled their eyes at the same time, however as Lestrade was halfway through explaining how John was not disturbing anything except the flow of a movie. Mycroft interrupted him. “Are you alright?”

He had been studying John's face carefully since he had came in, his hands remained at his sides, often he would have had his hands in his pockets. This time, however, his hands were well clear of his pockets and his eyebrows were drawn together in a way that could indicate annoyance or deep thought; possibly both.

“Fine. Fine. I'm just going to...go.”

As soon as John had left, Mycroft and Greg exchanged a confused glance, “There's something.”

“Definitely.” Greg mumbled, “He's found out something anyway, I've seen him like that before. Namely when he learned about Sherlock's colourful past with drugs.” Lestrade said quietly.

Mycroft was silent for a minute, “You don't think...?” He whispered.

“How would he? It's impossible.”

“Fair point.” Mycroft muttered, still deep in thought, “Perhaps Sarah's pregnant or getting married or something?” He suggested.

Greg failed to maintain a straight face and let out a giggle, “Incredibly unlikely, not that he would care in the slightest.”

“Mhhm.” Mycroft mumbled. “We've been careful, haven't we?”

“Incredibly.”

“And no one else could know, right?” Mycroft still looked deep in thought.

“No...”

“Ah.” Mycroft muttered somewhat bitterly.

“What?” Greg questioned.

“Moran.”

 

~1 year later~

 

“My brother hired you, didn't he?” Sherlock asked, breaking the harsh wall of silence down after almost two months of voluntarily ignoring the new housekeeper, who was apparently called Marianne.

She barely glanced up from the book she was reading at the kitchen counter as she waited for their dinner to cook. “Don't know.” She said quietly, her eyes still moving through the page.

“Well.” Sherlock started, “Not many of the locals are aware of this house and those who are tend to avoid it, due to my parents in the past. So therefore, if you were just looking for a job as a housekeeper, you would have applied in one of the more populated districts.”

She merely shrugged, not really paying any attention to him.

“Then there's the fact I don't pay you, so the only other person would be Mycroft, yes?”

“I think I preferred it when you chose to ignore me.”

“So that's a yes?”

She rolled her eyes, “No, the skeleton in your closet hired me. What was his name, John?” Her voice was like ice and Sherlock looked as though he had just been slapped across the face.

When she glanced up at Sherlock, she saw that his was glaring off into the distance.

“Why would you care who hired me anyhow? It's not like you care. From what I've read, Sherlock Holmes doesn't have emotions.”

Sherlock continued to glare at her, “and you continue to steal anything I bring in.”

“Nope.” She said airily, turning around as the timer on the oven pinged, “It's all part of the contract.”

“So Mycroft made you my minder?”

“Yes. Clearly you need one. What are you, twelve?”

“Your name's not really Marianne.”

“Of course it's not.”

Sherlock glanced up at her, “Your brother was an addict, you spent at least three years in England, you're trained in karate and somehow you came into contact with Mycroft. You're really a writer, but one needs money in this world.”
She shrugged, “Not a patch on your brother.”

“What are you, his wife? I had thought that he was somewhat pre-occupied.” Sherlock sneered.

She snorted, “Please.” She turned around to flick the switch on the kettle, “Surely you're not going to tell me that you missed my wedding ring? The tattoo on my wrist of a date? My engagement ring around my neck? My oh my, Sherlock Holmes has gotten slow. Also, I'm definitely not married to your brother.” She smiled as though she had told a joke, but no one but her knew the punchline.

“But why did he hire you?” Sherlock asked, disregarding her insult.

She rolled her eyes again, she seemed to constantly do that. “Have you heard from him within the last two months?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly, as though he was trying to figure out why that would be particularly significant.

“That's why.” Marianne replied, as it that was a sufficient answer.

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together, “I don't understand.”

She sighed heavily, as though the weight of the world had just been placed upon her shoulders. It reminded him of Lestrade, he'd had a habit of sighing on cases. “Maybe he cares? It's hard for him to keep a proper eye on you from England, he can't fly over each weekend. Frankly too, I think he ceased contact with you because you acted abominably.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the right, “Mycroft doesn't care. He's under the impression that caring is a disadvantage.”

“You were a detective, you know that people lie. You've been living a lie for the past year.”

“I still am a detective.”

“No.”

He sent a icy stare her way.

“I've been here for two months. You have ignored me for those two months. Probably because you couldn't feed your addictions. But you're not a detective right now. Do you know what you act like though?” She asked, but before he could answer, she continued. “You act like a twelve year old who has just come to the realisation that their favourite celebrity will not walk past them on a street someday and propose to them. They won't marry the celebrity at all, and what a shame, no beautiful babies by the dozen. That's what you act like.”

“That's why -”

“That's exactly why Mycroft stopped calling you every night, you never appreciated the sheer effort that he went though to do that. It's Mycroft for crying out loud.”

“Who are you?” He asked.

“How does it feel like to loose everyone?” She countered.

 

~2 Years later~

 

“John, Mycroft's been cooking.” Greg said, his eyes alight with laughter as he bit his lip. His shoulders were shaking as the smell of tomatoes wafted into the dining room.

John's forehead creased as he walked into the room. “Mycroft always cooks?”

“I know. I got lucky.” Greg let out a laugh. “But I gave him an old family recipe and have you ever heard Mycroft curse?”

John shook his head slowly, confused.

“I have.” Greg said grinning, “It's the most comedic thing you will ever hear. He's been cursing for the last hour. Listen carefully.”

John glanced over at Greg again, the top two buttons of his shirt were undone and he was sitting in his usual place with a half empty bottle of wine. His legs were resting on Mycroft's chair, where there was another empty glass on the table.

“Have you just been sitting here...”

“Drinking wine and listening to Mycroft Holmes swear in his wonderful way for the last hour? Yes.” Greg grinned again. “He's been in too, cursing and drinking with me. It's incredibly fun, I must remember that again in the future. Just you wait until he starts again.”

John sat down across from Greg and agreed to a glass of red wine.

After a few minutes, there was a loud bang from the kitchen as something clattered to the ground.

“Oh fudge! Arsebadgers! Cod's supper, arse over tit, bollocks...” Mycroft's voice trailed off as a door slammed shut.

John and Greg both started laughing, after a few minutes once John had gained his composure again, he glanced at Greg, who was still grinning from ear to ear.

“Where did he go?”

Greg shrugged, “When he gets stressed or annoyed, he smokes.”

“That time where he agreed to meet me at Speedy's?”

Greg nodded, “He wasn't particularly pleased with that.”

“Gregory?” Mycroft's voice called from the next room, the kitchen.

Greg grinned, “Just two ticks.” He said as he left the dining room.

 

When he returned, his hair seemed as though it was in more of a disarray than before, but he carried three plates and cutlery, which he then began to set the table with. He was still grinning at John, as though he was trying to make up his own impossible recipes just to annoy Mycroft.

Mycroft followed closely behind him, with a tray filled with bowls and plates containing what would be their food. His face was a scarlet red, as though he had fallen asleep in some tropical country, rather than being embarrassed. His usually neat hair was messed as though he had been repeatedly running his hands through it due to frustration. He was still in a black suit trousers, but his white shirt was untucked from his trousers and spattered with what looked like tomato. His shirt was open at the neck and he wasn't wearing a tie. A few of the buttons were even closed in the wrong order.

John had never seen Mycroft this disorganised looking, and he had seen him in pyjamas. Usually Mycroft cooked in his full suit, he couldn't help but drop his head to try to stop himself from laughing, Greg caught this and winked at John, which had John coughing to cover up his laughter.

“Oh hush up you two.” Mycroft grumbled.

 

As they started on their deep dish tomato cobbler, Greg's recipe, Mycroft seemed to have relaxed to his normal state. Except for the clothes and hair.

“So, Sarah's pregnant.” Mycroft said by means of a conversation starter.

Greg looked slightly shocked, but was too busy eating to care to have an input into the conversation.

“She is, yeah.” John nodded.

“How do you feel about it?”

“Good. Happy for her.”

“And you?”

John shrugged, “She always wanted children. I had been waiting for it really, I guess. She's over the moon though. So am I, for her.”

“That's good, isn't it?”

John shrugged, “I guess.”

“And the wedding?” He asked.

Greg tilted his head in confusion.

“Apparently it's not changing anything. It's still next month.”

Mycroft nodded, as though he already knew this. “And she said that your suit was okay?”

“Fine.” John nodded between mouthfuls of food.

“Well that neatly brings me onto my next subject.”

Greg rolled his eyes, they should have known as much. Mycroft didn't just begin gossiping.

Well sometimes.

“How would you like your own private practice?”

John's fork stopped in mid air. “My what?”

“Your own professional practice.” Mycroft repeated. “It also has a flat above it. It has an established steady clientèle, good income. It's near Harley Street.”

John stared at Mycroft in disbelief. “How...?”

“I know the doctor that owns it. He's moving away.” Mycroft smiled slightly, “There are two other doctors who also work there, but you would be in charge.”

“And the flat?” John asked quietly.

“All yours.”

“But I work-”
“No. Sarah, her future husband is a doctor, correct?”

John nodded slowly, “And?”
“He'll be replacing you. She hasn't told you yet, but she will be.”

Greg glanced at Mycroft, and by Mycroft's face it was obvious Greg had just kicked him under the table.

“Apologies.” Mycroft grumbled, “So what do you say?”

“It sounds wonderful.”
“Brilliant, all you have to do is sign the contract.” Mycroft said, getting up and pulling an envelope and pen out of the desk across from the dining table.

“You knew I would say yes?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “Of course.”

 

~30 Months later~

 

 

“Sherlock?” Marianne shouted as she walked in through the already open door.

There was no answer.

She glanced around, all the windows were open on the ground floor, but as there was no breeze, the house was still stuffy.

“Sherlock?” She called out once again, receiving no answer.

This had happened before, it probably meant that he'd gone for a walk through the forest to sit on the beach. She'd followed him there before, he probably knew that she had followed him, but he took no notice of her. This was during the initial two months where he completely ignored her. At times like this, he would just sit on the beach, legs drawn up to his chest, staring out at the waves as they crashed up against the stones and sand.

She took her coat off and threw it over the back of a chair. It was too warm. There was a storm coming, she could feel the static in the air. The sky was darkening, and she imagined that she could hear the crashes of thunder in the distance, waiting in the wings to attack.

Sherlock would be back soon. She'd give him five minutes.

 

 

She had just flicked the switch on the kettle, when she heard Sherlock's phone beep. She turned around, spotting it on the table.

Mycroft would have mentioned it to her in their daily reports if he was going to contact Sherlock. She walked slowly over to the table. John. Mycroft had mentioned John calling Sherlock's phone once.

But that was nearly three years ago.
Surely he have moved on a bit?

She picked up Sherlock's phone, what harm could it do?

She unlocked it and went into the messages.

Scrolling through the folder, they were mostly from John, few from Mycroft. They spanned back the last two and a half years. On the ones from John, the date stamps used to be once every few days, then it was slowly weeks, then months. She reached the top again, he hadn't texted Sherlock for the last four months if her maths was correct.

“John?” Sherlock's voice came from behind her, he was just staring at her with a bored expression, he looked tired, he didn't laugh when he saw her jump and in the process almost drop her phone.

“You just scared the living daylights out of me!”

Sherlock shrugged, “I wouldn't have had you not been doing something you weren't meant to.”

She held out her hand, offering him his phone.

Sherlock shook his head as he shut the front door properly, following that by shutting the windows. “Storms coming.” He said almost to himself. “Changes.” He muttered, then he turned to stare at her. “Seeing as you seem to be so curious, why don't you read them out to me? What has dear old John done this time?” He stared straight at her. “I've always loved the word curious. Don't you? It implies eager to learn, or inquisitive. So much better than nosy parker, isn't it?”

“Here.” She said handing him the phone.

He walked away, “Go ahead.”

Marianne bit her lip, but opened John's newest message. “Here goes, 'Guess what, Sherlock? I have my own practice now, and I've moved out from Mycroft's. It's been a busy four months, I'm sorry I haven't text, but it's not as though that really matters. Does time count for the dead? As always, the 'message sent' pop up provides more comfort than you'd know. Sentiment. I told my therapist about the texting, he says I should stop. I don't know if I'm ready to let you go, even now. I'm getting better, but you're always going to be there.' that's it.”

Sherlock had his back towards her, but she noticed him drop his head, both his hands were holding him up by the kitchen counter.

Marianne placed Sherlock's phone down on the table, “I'm sorry.”

“Don't.” Sherlock mumbled.

She sighed, “You never text him back.”

Sherlock shook his head, “Oh because that would solve a lot of problems. 'Hi John, I'm actually not dead. But hey, once Mycroft finds out that I sent this I will be LOL.' I can really see that working.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Sherlock.”

He turned around, glaring at her. “No, I think reading through other people's texts is the lowest form of wit.”

“I didn't-”
“Oh shut up.” Sherlock groaned. “I don't care. I really, really just don't care about your excuses. We all have them and they all do nothing for us. If I ever get back to John, he'll hate me.”

Sherlock walked out of the kitchen and disappeared up the stairs.

Marianne was left standing in the sitting room, not knowing what to do for the first time in a long time. She took out her phone, and wrote Possible danger night. And sent it to Mycroft Holmes.

As the message sent, the first howl of thunder shook the house as the rain began to pour down.

 

The next morning, Sherlock came downstairs to see Marianne covered in a blanket on the couch.

She was still asleep, her phone lightly clasped in her hand. Her black hair fell across her face in a messy disarray, the clothes that she had been wearing were draped over the back of the sofa.

Sherlock glanced around, trying to figure out why she was still here.

She usually arrived around twelve and had left by six.

Sherlock walked over to the fridge and took out an apple and the orange juice.

She obviously was a light sleeper, because as soon as Sherlock closed the fridge, she sat upright on the sofa. “Where..oh Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Are you okay?”

Sherlock cast her a confused glance, “Why?”

“Because I overstepped decency last night and I apologise.”

“So you slept here?” Sherlock cast another glance at her, “You keep pyjamas here?”

She nodded, “In case of danger nights.”

Sherlock sighed. “I hope Mycroft's paying you good money, that couch isn't comfortable.”

She laughed, “Here, make me breakfast. You can make up for it.”

 

“You should invest in hobbies.” Marianne suggested after a bout of silence.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “A hobby?”
“Yeah.” She nodded, “What are you interested in that isn't chemistry or crime?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “Bees.”

“Bees? The buzzy things?” She seemed taken off-guard.

Sherlock cast her a questioning glance, “Yes...what did you think I meant?”

She shook her head, “I just wouldn't have guessed.” She glanced around, “Well, we should go and source bee-keeping equipment. Up you get!”

“Are you serious?” Sherlock questioned.

She nodded, “As serious as an annoyed bee.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but did as she said anyway.

 

~34 Months later~

 

John was sitting in his flat, the rain was pattering against the windows. He really liked it here, it was warm and it was homely. It was just the right size.

Sometimes he could go days without thinking about how it would be so much less lonely if Sherlock was there.

But on the days it hit him, it really hit him. But the best part about living over the practice was that there was always work to be done, paperwork, taxes, reports. It was almost as if Mycroft had arranged it that way.

The clinic was never empty and John found it easy to pay the rend and wages of the two other doctors and the nurse that worked there. On certain weekends they'd even arrange to go out.

He had friends now, but he also still had Mycroft and Greg.

They visited each weekend and they always kept in contact, more so with Greg and they'd often meet up for a pint midweek.

Sometimes he'd go back to Mycroft's house and stay for a few nights, once you got used to Mycroft's cooking it was often hard to leave it be. He also found the sheer domesticity between Mycroft and Greg almost calming and comforting. Almost as if they had in some way become his care takers, like parents, but better.

The door bell rang and John walked (his limp was slowly healing) over to the buzzer and picked up the phone, “Hello?”

“John.” Mycroft's familiar voice came through the line.

John pressed the button allowing them both up, although he knew that they would be perfectly dry due to Mycroft's constant umbrella carrying antics.

 

“Hey mate.” Greg said as he walked in, Mycroft following behind him, a small smile upon his face. “Sometimes I wonder if you never stop working.” Mycroft commented upon seeing the files and paperwork on John's table.

John shrugged, “It's a distraction, isn't it?”

Greg walked out of the kitchen at that moment with three glasses of wine, “Sometimes you need to relax, even the British Government does.” Greg said, grinning at Mycroft.

Mycroft rolled his eyes theatrically at John, “Greg does have a point, John.”
“What he means is, we're worried about you.” Greg said, taking a sip of wine.

 

~

 

When Greg came of the en suite later that night, he joined Mycroft in bed, who was typing away on his phone. “I don't think John's okay. No matter what he says.”

Mycroft looked up at Greg from his phone. “I fear Sherlock is not faring all too well either.”

Greg moved closer to Mycroft, “Why?”

“He appears to have taken to bee-keeping like a psychopath to water.” Mycroft mumbled, sending off a text.

“Duck.” Greg mumbled.

Mycroft's hands stopped gliding across his phone, “Pardon?”

“Duck. The saying is 'Like a duck to water.'” The amusement was clear in Greg's voice.

Mycroft tilted his head to the side, examining Greg's face as though he was trying to figure out whether it was a lie or not. “Really?”

“Yes.” Greg said slowly.

“I never knew that.” Mycroft mumbled, placing his phone on the night stand.

Greg laughed, “You learn something new everyday. Idiot.” He leaned up to kiss Mycroft, laughter still dancing in his eyes.

 

~36 Months later~

 

Sherlock walked into the house, the windows were open and the smell of spaghetti bolognese greeted him.

“Where were you?” Marianne asked, glancing up from her laptop, which she had been typing away on.

“I had to go into town.” Sherlock replied, sitting down on the stool across from her.

“Bees?”

Sherlock nodded.

“I'm really sorry, but I won't be here tomorrow, I have to go to an appointment. You won't do anything stupid?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Anything stupid?”

She narrowed her eyes, “Like tend to the bees in your normal clothes, I won't be there to clean the stings. That would be a start, and you know what else I'm talking about.”

“Of course not.”

She nodded slowly, “I will hurt you if you do.” She stood up, picking up her coat, “See you in two days.”

Sherlock nodded, as she slipped her laptop into her bag and left.

 

This is what he had been waiting for, a whole day, free.

He fingered the new needle with the seven percent solution contained within his pocket.

Freedom. 

Chapter Text

No.

No. It was not supposed to unfold like this.

 

Sherlock had spent the day tending to his bees. The low and continuous hum of the hives was almost comforting.

Almost.

 

He had decided not to wear his bee-keeping gear as Marianne had ordered, but she wasn't here and what she didn't know couldn't possibly hurt her.

 

Sherlock trusted his bees anyway. Bees were fascinating. They only have one life and that life ends as soon as they sting you. They are not easy to provoke, but if they feel under threat, they will die to protect the others.

 

Sherlock sometimes thought of himself as a bee.

Apart from the fact that he was only pretending to be dead, it was to a point accurate.

He had 'died' in order to protect John.

 

Perhaps, later that evening as darkness enclosed the old house, while gently rubbing anti-septic cream into the newest bee stings on his wrist and forearm (only seven altogether. That was a new record. They were beginning to trust him.), that he paid closer attention to his arms. Among the fading bee-stings and the newest raw ones, there were more sinister scars.

Small, messy indents that had felt so euphoric at the time, the pores that the waves belonging to the crashes of euphoria flooded him afterwards.

The familiar longing enclosed him once again, he remembered the new syringe and the cocaine in his jacket pocket.

It had been so long.

Mycroft and John had devised a 'danger night' system, John had made him pay off any outstanding debts and then suddenly, there was nothing.

But there had been John.

 

However, over the last three years, Mycroft, or a stupid puzzle, and for the last what seemed like an age, Marianne would turn up when he was about to indulge in his long missed and longed for habit.

But here he was; alone.

The anticipation burned through his veins.

He unpacked the syringe from its packaging, the needle so sharp and sleek.

In fact, it probably wouldn't even leave much of a scar. That was a positive. He had remembered the way that John had stared at his arm the first time he had seen it uncovered – with disgust...? No, pity, perhaps.

 

Being so wrapped up in his thoughts, the time seemed to have passed and it was now ten o' clock at night. He felt as though he should have a cup of tea, it would be relaxed, not undignified as in the past.

Later, he sat at the edge of his bed holding a full syringe of that long longed for substance.

He took the sharp point and thrust it home.

 

This wasn't how he remembered it. Admittedly, he didn't remember much about those times.

He could feel the cocaine burning through his veins, rushing directly into his bloodstream.

There was a dastardly ringing, where was it? The last drop entered his bloodstream. It was in his ears. The ringing. Tinnitus. His heart lurched and jumped from his chest. John was there. He was standing in the doorway, smile upon his face, laughter cascading from his lips. No. No. No. This was wrong. The laughter was wrong, it was mixing with the ringing. John had a gun. He was gripping it by his side. The laughter and the ringing continued to mine through his aural receptors. There was a soft bang as the syringe fell to the ground from Sherlock's relaxed hands.

John was still there, still laughing. The ringing was too, it was louder. It was trying to drown out John. He had tears coming down his face. Sherlock was happy too, so happy. He was floating. John was here, John was laughing, but he was crying. He was happy too, wasn't he? He would be happy with Sherlock? But why the gun? Sherlock wanted to ask. Why the tears? He was alive. He was happy. John, be happy too, I'm here, why do your eyes look dead? He couldn't move. Sherlock couldn't move. He couldn't open his mouth to verbalise what he wanted to say to John. John's laughter sounded strangled, the ringing was beginning to subside, but it was still there. Present. Mocking. The tears. Sherlock tried to get to him. John. John shook his head. His eyes black, where was the colour? What? Where was the white, the iris, the pupil? It was dark, dark, dark. The gun. He was raising it. No John! Not at me, not at you. No! John's laughter had ceased with t he ringing. The tears were falling off his cheeks, hitting the material of his shirt. He brought the gun up with a steady hand and placed it in his mouth. His black eyes stared at Sherlock as they wept. Accusations, hatred, blame. No! No! No! Sherlock was screaming within his head. He was so happy! But John couldn't, John wouldn't. They could both be this happy here forever. He wouldn't shoot. Sherlock tried to move, he moved forward and fell from the bed and hit the floor with a loud thud. Lying on his back, he was staring up at John, who was staring at the far wall. The muscles in his hands tensed as they tightened around the trigger. The shot echoed through Sherlock's head louder than any ringing. It was dark here. No light.

 

 

John awoke with a start, sweat was gleaming on his forehead and he had to struggle to catch his breath. The room was dark and warm. He glanced at the digital clock by his bedside. It was two in the morning.

He got up to make a cup of tea, the flat was silent except for the sound of his breathing.

It had been months, months since he had last had a nightmare. This had been particularly bad. Or maybe it was just because he had forgotten how bad they could get.

 

Sherlock had been standing on top of a building. The sky grey and the clouds ready to burst.

John was watching, how, how could he just stand there? Sherlock Holmes was about to jump. They both knew it. John's phone was ringing, Sherlock's hand was up at his ear. John answered.

“Sherlock don't.” John breathed.

“I have to John.” His voice broke. Sherlock...was crying?

John found that his eyes were beginning to water too. Why was there no one else around?

You and me at the end of the world as we know it.

“You've got me, Sherlock. You don't have to.”

“I do. John, I do. I envy you, you don't understand.”

John felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. “I've stuck with you this long, Sherlock. I think I'd understand were you to tell me. Sherlock, I'd understand. You have me.”

“I don't John, I never will.” Sherlock said quietly, his voice uneven and breaking. “You don't even know how many steps there are up to Baker Street. I see everything, you seem to be able to turn off whenever you want. My brain John, it never ceases. It never ever stops thinking and thinking and seeing everything and everyone. This person is having an affair, that child's been split between two parents and they'll never be the same. That person is going to kill themselves. I can't handle it any more, John. Even you. I see what you don't even know about yourself.”

“I probably do.” John whispered. “I don't vocalise everything.”

Sherlock began laughing and shivers ran down John's spine. “You knew?” John whispered.

“From the start.” Sherlock said between laughs. “You didn't. It took you about a week.”

“Then get down here now, Sherlock.” John shouted.

John could see Sherlock shake his head from where he stood, the sky was slowly growing darker. His coat was swaying in the wind, “I can't John, I have to do this.”

“No.” John's voice broke, “Please.”

“Goodbye John.” with those last words, he raised his arms and he began to fall. He fell so quickly.

John screamed Sherlock's name until his voice cut out. Then there was the crash. The unbearable crack as Sherlock's broken body connected with the concrete.

 

That's when John had woken up screaming.

 

John sat at his kitchen table, staring off into the darkness as he sipped the scalding tea.

It had been months. He remembered Sherlock clearly everyday. It had been months since he had had a nightmare about him. They had begun to dissipate, along with the feeling of emptiness.

He had thought himself healed.

He briefly contemplated calling either Mycroft or Greg, it would be the same thing, both would be there unless one was away on a case or business.

If he still hadn't recovered in an hour he would call.

 

Mycroft lay awake. This wasn't anything new for him, he often missed nights of sleep or slept unusual hours. He was reading an old book that Marianne had sent him from what he would probably call the house of his childhood. The room seemed colder tonight, Gregory was on call and wouldn't be back until tomorrow evening.

He didn't jump when his mobile began to ring, nor was he surprised when he saw John's name as the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Mycroft?”

“Yes, what's wrong?

“It's happening again.” John's voice was quiet and there was a sense of defeat to it.

Mycroft immediately knew what had happened, he had told John that he could call them at any point. When John had lived with them, they would hear him either screaming himself awake or on his way downstairs to get tea. “How bad?”

“Sherlock killed himself.” John whispered.

Mycroft was silent, he was at a loss. It had never been this bad, and whenever he didn't know what to say, Gregory would jump in.

“It's been months, Mycroft.”

Mycroft bit his lip and closed his eyes, “I don't...it will be okay in time.”

John's sudden unexpected laughter took him completely off-guard. “Greg's not there, is he?”

“No.” Mycroft mumbled.

“I gathered.” John sounded lighter now. “Thank you, Mycroft.”
“I didn't do anything?”

John laughed again, and Mycroft felt as though he had never understand humans less in his life. “You didn't have to, sometimes you just need to be there.”

This came as a shock to Mycroft in a way. “That's all? You really feel better?”

“Yes. By far. I should let you sleep then. Goodnight Mycroft.”

“See you soon, John.”

 

Mycroft debated over the phone in his hand.

Could just being there make people feel better?

He dialled Sherlock's number for the first time in months. It rang out. He tried again. It rang through again.

Mycroft rang Marianne. She answered on the second ring. “Mycroft?” Her voice wasn't tired for what would be five in the morning in France.

“I'm sorry for calling so-”
“It's hardly early for you. What is it, four in England?”

“Yes.”
“I've had my coffee already. I'm alive. What's wrong?” She questioned.

“How did your appointment go?”

She was silent for a second, “Yesterday? Oh the usual. No results for at least a week.”
“Good luck.” Mycroft mumbled.

“Yes. I'll need it. Now tell me dear, what is it that's on your mind?”

“Sherlock isn't answering his phone.”

“You rang him? Does this mean I only have to watch from the sidelines like before again?”

“No, his phone rang through.”

“Well it is five in the morning dearest.”

“Would you hate me if I asked you to go check up on him earlier than your usual?” Mycroft asked.

Marianne chuckled, “But Mycroft dearest! I was just looking for an excuse to get there as soon as possible, my heart aches at the thought that I haven't seen Sherlock for over twenty four hours.”

her voice was teasing, “But really, I don't think it would be that much of a problem. Could I knock off early though? I do have children that would like to see their mum at some point.”

“Yes, yes. Just could you check that he hasn't done something irritatingly Sherlock-esque? Then you can leave.”

“Knock off that early? Brilliant. Thanks dear. I'll ring you with an update in about a half hour.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft said sincerely.

“Pas de problème, mon chéri.”

 

Marianne arrived at Sherlock's around twenty minutes later, the best thing about it being so early in the morning was that there was no traffic in her way. She made her way up the few steps up onto the patio and she unlocked the door with her key.

The house was silent.

That didn't surprise her much. It was just after half five in the morning. Even Sherlock slept now.

“Sherlock?” Marianne called. Usually he was a light sleeper and he would hear her.

She glanced around again, there was a half empty mug of tea sitting on the counter. She felt uneasy.

She began to walk up the stairs. She had heard Sherlock snore before, not always only sometimes.

But now it was completely silent.

“Sherlock?”

She reached the top of the stairs and saw that Sherlock's bedroom door was open. That too was unusual, he usually slept with his door shut. “Sherlock?” Her voice was quieter now, on edge.

She approached the door, her heart lurched when she caught sight of a an open outstretched hand.

“Sherlock? Sherlock? This isn't funny.” She ran into the room, Sherlock was lying on the floor, his eyes closed and his chest barely moving. “Sherlock?!” She knelt down beside him to take his pulse, it was too slow. She cast a searching glance around the room and she spotted the empty syringe and the empty bottle. He had injected that much in one night? “You idiot, you stupid, stupid idiot.” She growled as she fumbled in her pocket for her phone to call the emergency services.

 

Mycroft was sitting in his sitting room in front of the fire, Marianne still hadn't called and it had been an hour. He was still reading to pass the time, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Almost as though she had been reading his mind, Marianne rang at that second.
“Hello?”

“Mycroft.” Marianne's voice sounded off, “You'll need to sit down.”
“I am. What's wrong?”

“It's Sherlock. He's been taken to hospital. He's in a coma from drug overdose.”

Mycroft was silent.

“You'll be getting a call from the hospital soon seeing as you're his next of kin, but they said he needs to pull through it. It's extra-cranial, so he should. He has pinpoint pupils which means it's definitely drugs.”
“Is he...”

“He's alive. He's being given an antidote at the moment. They're hopeful. It is Sherlock after all.”

“I'm coming over as soon as I can.” Mycroft said quietly.

“I'm sorry.” She whispered.

Mycroft shook his head, “It's not your fault.”
“I'll keep you updated.”

“Thank you.”

Once the line went dead, Mycroft dialled Gregory's number.

“Mycroft? It's not even seven?” He sounded tired.

“When will you be home?” Mycroft asked.

Greg chuckled at the other end of the phone, “Someone's eager?”

“No, when will you be home Gregory?” Mycroft repeated.

Greg seemed to catch something different in Mycroft's voice, “Is everything okay?”
“When will you be back?”

“In five hours at the least.” Greg said quietly, “I'm just caught up in this paperwork. What's happened?”

“It's...Sherlock.”

“What has he done now?”

“I need to go to France as soon as possible, will you be able to join me?”

He could hear Greg tapping away at keys and the rustling of paper. “It could be. Um, I haven't taken any other days, I'm sure I could arrange it. Emergency?”

“Yes.”

“He's in hospital isn't he?” Greg asked, getting up from his desk and making his way to his supervisor's office.

“Yes.” Mycroft whispered.

“I'll be there in half an hour, tops. I love you. He'll be okay, he's Sherlock. A bloody stupid bastard, but he's Sherlock.”

“People keep telling me that.” Mycroft mumbled.

Greg laughed quietly, “That's because it's true.”

 

“Mycroft?” Greg called out once he entered their house.

“In here.” Mycroft's reply came from the sitting room.

Greg walked into the sitting room to see Mycroft sitting in one of the chairs by the fire, staring at the amber flames. He was holding onto his mobile like it was some for of life support. Greg knelt down in front of him and took his hands, stilling them. “I'm here now.” He said, stroking Mycroft's hands, “What's happened and when are we leaving?”

Mycroft sighed as though having to discuss this out loud when he didn't even want to think about it would be too hard. “Sherlock overdosed on cocaine last night and he's in a temporary coma.” He paused for a minute, still staring into the fire. “There are no flights to Bordeaux today, so we're taking the jet. We leave in two hours.”

Greg inhaled audibly, Sherlock had been in hospital before, yes, that's why he carried out the drugs busts. But a coma? That sounded like death. He glanced up at Mycroft and then grabbed his hands, pulling him out of his chair, “Look at me, Mycroft.” He said quietly, once Mycroft was standing facing him, he trailed his hand across his cheek. “It will be okay. Like I said before, it's Sherlock.” He kissed him softly, “We're going over there and we'll wait by his bedside until he wakes up, and he will, Mycroft. He will.”

Mycroft's eyes searched Greg's face for the lie. He saw only the truth. But he wasn't as sure that Sherlock would just be fine after this. “If he does-” Greg cut him off by placing his index finger on Mycroft's lips, “You mean 'when he does wake up', now continue.”

“We'll bring him home.” Mycroft whispered. “We haven't found Moran in the last three years, Gregory. Maybe bringing Sherlock home would bring him out and Sherlock would probably be one step ahead of him.”

“But what about John?” Greg asked.

Mycroft paused. “I don't know.”

Greg frowned. “It'll break him, you know. He's gotten better over the last few years, he trusts us, what would he say when he finds out that we've been lying all along?”

“He had a dream that Sherlock committed suicide last night.”

“Fuck.” Greg murmured. “That's why you called Marianne?”

Mycroft nodded.

Greg shook his head in disbelief. “He owes his life to John and he basically tore the meaning of life from under John's feet.”

“I know.” Mycroft whispered. “But he might not even make it through.”

“Don't believe that.” Greg whispered, pulling Mycroft into a hug. “He's a Holmes.”

 

~oOo~

 

“Mycroft!” Marianne's voice seemed too loud for such a quiet room, as soon as she saw Mycroft and Greg enter she jumped out of her chair by Sherlock's bedside and ran over to Mycroft.

She embraced him, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him on both cheeks. “I'm so sorry.”

He kissed her forehead lightly, “It's not your fault, Maisy.” He said gently, as she drew her arms around him tighter, “Please don't take the blame upon yourself.”

“Nor should you.” She whispered. She drew away from him slowly.

“You can probably clock off now, I'll send you any news.” Mycroft said quietly, as she squeezed both of his hands.

“I shall see you soon.” She said, kissing one of Mycroft's hands. As she made her way to the door, she smiled warmly at Greg. “Ah! Gregory Lestrade, I've heard a lot about you. I just wish we had have first met under brighter circumstances.” She shook hands with him, then patted his shoulder before leaving the room and shutting the door silently behind her.

“Well you were right, she's certainly a ball of enthusiasm.” Greg mumbled.

Mycroft shook his head, “That was nothing. That was off. She's upset.”

“I would be too had I found someone who had overdosed.” Greg muttered, “Actually, I have. Sherlock was one of them. Doesn't really do much to boost morale, I'll give you that.”

Mycroft frowned as he sat down at Sherlock's beside, Greg pulled a chair over beside him and took Mycroft's hand. “I know you won't say it out loud, but it's not your fault.” He whispered.

Mycroft's only acknowledgement to Greg that he had even heard him was the small squeeze of his hand.

Mycroft was busy examining Sherlock. He looked dead. That's all Mycroft could think. He didn't look as though he was sleeping, he barely looked like he was breathing. He was deathly pale, almost ivory. The only indication that Mycroft wasn't actually sitting in a morgue, or at a wake was the steady beeping coming from the machines by Sherlock's bedside and the regular drops coming from the IV.

“He looks so breakable.” Greg mumbled.

Mycroft was silent for a minute, “The doctors said that he should be dead. They didn't understand it. But they think he'll come out of it. Sooner too, rather than later.”

“Told you so.” Greg said lightly.

 

~2 days later~

 

Greg was snoring quietly, head heavily resting on Mycroft's shoulder. One of Greg's hands was resting on Mycroft's thigh. Mycroft was reading le journal quotidienne which Marianne had brought him, before quickly disappearing again, she still wasn't talking as much as she had used to and she seemed to ignore Mycroft whenever he told her to stop blaming herself. He sighed heavily, he had a headache, but he hadn't slept in days. It wasn't bothersome, he'd went longer without sleep. He feared that his blood was slowly turning to caffeine though. This would also be nothing new. He'd had to cancel their weekly visit to John by sending a quick text entailing that there had been a democratic emergency in France. (He could hardly talk in here.) John seemed fine with this, wishing him luck.

 

Greg subconsciously burrowed deeper into Mycroft's shoulder, the material to his suit was soft and his familiar smell was comforting within the smell of disinfectant and illness.

Mycroft smiled slightly to himself when Greg sighed in his sleep, how did he do it? Just sleep so easily? He'd never get tired of witnessing it.

His eyes scanned the headlines on the page half heartedly, he was more preoccupied with Greg.

“Mycroft...Holmes...in love...who would have...thought?” came a painfully dry voice that sounded so brittle and weak, as though there was even trouble breathing.

Mycroft lost his grip on the paper as he jumped, waking Greg up in the process. Mycroft's mouth was open but no words were coming and Greg looked confused. Sherlock's bright gaze surveyed them both. Greg hadn't noticed Sherlock's gaze, but was staring at Mycroft with an expression of confusion and part amusement. “Fall asleep too?” He asked, covering his mouth as he yawned.

Mycroft was staring at Sherlock, who smiled up at him, giddiness dancing across his pale features.

Greg's brows furrowed at Mycroft's shocked expression, then followed his eye line to where Sherlock was staring at him. “Jesus fuck, Sherlock!”

Sherlock smiled and raised his arm to wave weakly at Greg. “Drink?” He rasped.

Greg got up and poured Sherlock a glass of water and sat at the edge of his bed and helped him drink it. “I'll go get a doctor.” He said, grinning as Sherlock finished.

“You bastard.” Mycroft said in a way that told Sherlock he was trying his hardest to keep his voice at a civilised level as soon as Greg had walked out the door. “You complete and utter selfish bastard.”

“Wonderful, am I not?” Sherlock grinned.

Mycroft had just opened his mouth to reply when Greg and a doctor came in.

“Ah! Monsieur Holmes!”

As the doctor entered, Mycroft stood up, smiled politely at him and walked out.

Greg glanced at Sherlock, who shrugged “Temperamental. Hah, he has both a temper and has to be mental.”

Greg glanced at the doctor who started explaining something that he didn't understand because of the language barrier, so he nodded slowly and walked out in an effort to find Mycroft.

 

Eventually, he found Mycroft outside of the hospital, cigarette in hand as he stared off into the distance.

“You okay?” He asked, placing his hand softly on Mycroft's arm.

Mycroft didn't flinch, he had known Greg would eventually find him. He turned his head to meet Greg's eyes, his casually bored expression that everyone except Greg received had vanished. His eyes were deep and dark, he was frowning and there was no colour in his cheeks. “Gregory, I'm so tired.” He whispered.

Greg was at a loss, he took the cigarette from Mycroft's hand, threw it into the nearest bin and then took both of Mycroft's hands in his own, lifting them so that he could kiss both of them. “I can't always sleep for the both of us.” He said teasingly, when that failed to make Mycroft smile, he pulled him into a tight hug. “I know this is hard on you, harder than you'll ever admit. I understand that, you've never been spectacular with emotions. Especially when it's not me. I get the better deal. But when we talk to the doctors, we're going back to the house and you are going to sleep. I'll cook for a month if you've slept in the last three...no wait there was the night before I left on the case, four days. So I'm taking you home, and you're going to sleep if I have to force-feed you sleeping pills. You can tell me anything too, you know that. I'll listen.” He smiled into Mycroft's shoulder, “Now I know you can't really deal with this right now and I feel horrible for saying this, but we need to go back and talk to the doctors because I don't understand a word they are saying, but you do. Then we'll leave. Okay?” He pulled back, still holding onto Mycroft's arms as he searched his face for an answer.

Mycroft nodded slowly, “I love you.” He whispered, “I don't understand it. But I'm glad that you grace me with your presence everyday.” He sighed, and kissed Greg softly. When he pulled away he had somehow, to Greg's utter amazement managed to adopt the casually bored expression once again. “Shall we?”

 

~The following evening~

 

 

Sherlock was sitting up against the plush pillows behind him. He was reading through the doctors notes, casually amazed at how he was still alive. Apparently he had only been out-in a drug induced coma too-that was a first, for two days.

Some of the student doctors regarded him as though he were some sort of myth or legend.

After Mycroft had left yesterday, he had seen him talking to the doctors outside his room, he hadn't returned to say farewell to Sherlock, he had left with Greg in tow and hadn't returned yet.

Anyhow, Sherlock didn't particularly care. He was hyper on the cocktail of various medication that he was currently on. He hadn't seen Marianne either. Apparently she had been the one who had found him. He didn't know how he felt over that, or the fact he had nearly died.

In fact, he felt pleasantly numb. He couldn't remember a thing, except there was a spine-chilling laugh that played through his mind at various points.

 

Two hours later, Sherlock glanced up from a paper the matron had given him in an attempt to shut him up, to see Mycroft and Greg walk in the door to his room.

“Evening.” Greg said pleasantly, he took the seat nearest Sherlock and Mycroft sat silently by his side.

He had slept, Sherlock noted.

“Wonderful one.” Sherlock chimed, the drugs handed him an optimistic answer to any question.

Greg nodded somewhat hesitantly.

“Listen, we need to talk.”

“Ooooh, talking.” Sherlock hummed, “Okay! I'll start. Why aren't you two actually married yet?”

Greg stared at Sherlock blankly, Mycroft still hadn't moved nor was he looking at him.

“I mean, you two wouldn't have met had it not been for me.” Sherlock smiled hopefully. “Like just think, had it not been for the great overdose of 2006, you two would never have met. Say 'Thank you Sherlock.'”

“I'm sure we would have crossed paths eventually.” Mycroft said coldly, still not look at Sherlock.

“But you would never have had the reason to talk.” Sherlock continued, “I mean, I'm sure that you would never have had the opportunity to have coffee had you two just crossed paths unbeknownst to each other.”

“Point.” Greg mumbled, deflecting the glare that Mycroft had thrown him with a smile to which Mycroft had no choice but return.

“Yes, but Sherlock the ideal answer to 'How did you two meet?' would not be: Well my brother, whilst working on one of Gregory's cases overdosed. Then I happened to have met Gregory face-to-face in the hospital as I had been called as the next of kin. I bought him new shoes as my brother had vomited on the ones he had been wearing then we went and had a horrid hospital coffee whilst my brother got his stomach pumped. Delightful.” Mycroft replied.

Greg smiled to himself, “They were comfortable shoes though. In fact, I'm wearing them at the moment.”

Mycroft finally cracked a smile, which allowed Sherlock to continue. “So you two wouldn't have had the chance to actually talk had it not been for me.”

“He does have a point.” Greg mumbled. “Even if we didn't actually get together for a few years.”

Sherlock smiled up hopefully at Mycroft, who was glaring at him.

One of Sherlock's doctors popped his head around the door, “Mycroft Holmes?” When he saw Mycroft glance up at him, he signalled for him to follow as he left the room.

 

Sherlock waited for Mycroft to close the door behind them and then he looked over at Greg, “That was actually a serious question though. Why aren't you two married yet? From what John texted you've been engaged for three years. I know you won't take me seriously because I'm hyper on medication and it's brilliant, but he loves you, you love him, why not?”

Greg chuckled, “Well he does practically run a country and I'm busy too.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Come on, you can manage to come over here for a few days, you can manage to get married.”

Greg bit his lip, “He would never admit it to you, but he wants you present at the wedding.”

Sherlock was silent for a minute, “He what?”

“You heard me.”

“So you two have been...waiting...for me?”

Greg shrugged, “Kind of, we've been busy. We already act like we're married.”

Mycroft returned at that moment, he cast a curious gaze between the both of them. “They're discharging you tomorrow. You're coming off the painkillers and such tonight, and you're going to be coming back with us tomorrow evening. Try get some sleep tonight.” Mycroft said as he picked up his coat from the chair, “We'll be back in the morning.”

Greg got up and walked over to the door, waiting for Mycroft, “See you.”

“Wait.” Sherlock said quickly, “I'm coming home? Did you find Moran?”

“You are. And no, we haven't found Moran.”

“Then why the sudden change?” Sherlock asked, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. It had been three years.

“Because he might shoot you, it'd save a lot of paperwork for me.” Mycroft smiled falsely and walked out of the door.

Greg was left standing there awkwardly. “Um...I'm sure he didn't mean that. Erm, we'll see you tomorrow.”

 

 

 

Mycroft's house was comfortably warm, the heat was welcoming as after the silence of the plane and the cold English air, they were all exhausted.

 

Marianne had been at the house to say goodbye, she had already packed Sherlock's belongings for him, although it was clear to see she felt uncomfortable around him.

She had hugged and kissed Mycroft farewell and embraced Greg.

She merely handed Sherlock his suitcase.

 

Later that evening, after dinner Greg, Sherlock and Mycroft were sitting in the living room and Sherlock was detailing his plan on how to catch Moran. He had a mannequin in 221B, that he would settle by the window, Moran would see Sherlock walk in early in the day, but he would not see him leaving from the back. From there he was going to go and visit John.

“You do know that this will destroy him, don't you?” Greg inquired.

Sherlock cast him an expression of confusion, “Why? It will mean I'm alive.”

Greg shook his head, “It's not that simple Sherlock. He's spent three years grieving you and rebuilding his life, then you turn up and the last three years were a lie? He'll despise us too.”

Now it was Mycroft's turn to look confused, “Why would he hate us?”

Greg sighed, they were so alike. “Because we've been lying for the past three years.”

“Oh.” Sherlock and Mycroft chorused at t he same time, then glared at each other.

After a few minutes of silence, “If it goes okay, I've given you the plans of the opposite building, it's going to be raining heavily so there'll be low visibility. Mrs. Hudson, after throwing water over me and hitting me has agreed to help with moving the mannequin. Then we find him and Lestrade, you get to take him away.”

“Well it's a plan.” Greg mumbled. “Whether it will work or not...”
“It will.” Sherlock said confidently.

 

 

“You do know you could get shot?” Mycroft asked, watching Sherlock as he buttoned up his coat.

“Yes. But I just have to walk in and back out again.”
“You also know that John doesn't finish work until half five?”

“I'll make tea.” Sherlock said, sarcasm edging its way into his voice.

Lestrade patted Sherlock on the shoulder, sensing that an argument could break out at any point. “Well good luck mate. Our team will be on standby after seven, you just text when you're ready to start.”

Sherlock nodded. “If Anderson weaves his way onto the team, just place him in the firing line and that will solve many of the world's problems.”
Greg laughed quietly, “Good luck.”
“Goodbye.” Sherlock said as he walked out the door.

Mycroft sighed, “I can just about hear Pachelbel's Canon in D Major played by angels as they lay eyes on one another for the first time in three years.” Sarcasm was oozing from his voice.

“You know what? I think it'll be more like a kiss with a fist.” Greg said quietly.

Mycroft laughed and kissed Greg softly, “This is why I love you.” He whispered.

 

Sherlock had a particular talent of having the ability to blend in wherever he wanted, when he wanted. So the trek from Baker Street to John's new address didn't cause an eyelid to flutter. He stood across the road from the practice and gauged how to gain an entrance to the flat above it. He knew he couldn't go into the clinic, there would be no doors there to get up to the flat. The front door was guarded by an intercom and buzzer system, that wouldn't work either. He sighed.

Climb up the back of the building and in through a back window it was then.

 

John was sitting on the sofa with a fresh cup tea as he flicked through the paper. He had told the others to clock off early as they hadn't been busy at all today and he had just locked up the practice half an hour ago. He was waiting for the timer on the cooker to remind him that his pasta that was boiling on the stove would be done soon. But right now he was enjoying the silence.

Of course, once the thought floated through his head he heard something that sounded like the bins in his back yard fall over. He just shrugged it off, it was windy, it had happened before.

The timer on the cooker started bleeping and he prepared his dinner with the sauce and meat that were leftovers from yesterdays dinner. Once he was happy, he returned back to the sitting room and placed the plate down on the table, at the same time he could have sworn he had heard something fall over in his room. He shook it off and remembered that he wanted a glass of wine with his dinner, he turned around to head back towards the fridge when he definitely heard his bedroom door creak.

Fuck, my gun is in the night-stand.

He quickly glanced around him, he could just punch them, then he remembered the kitchen knives.

He slowly and silently threaded across the floor and took the handle of one out of the holder and held it out in front of him.

“Who's there? I know someone's there! I'm armed!” John shouted, his hand hadn't been stiller for three years.

There were audible footsteps now, and an achingly familiar baritone voice that caused waves of nostalgia to wash over John, he dropped the knife unknowingly. His hand was still held out before him.
“I am so sorry, and I owe you my deepest, most sincere apologies, I never knew you would be so effected.”

Holy fuck. It's Sherlock, no, no, it can't be, Sherlock's dead. Shit I've gone barmy.

“John?”

Suddenly everything went black for John.

 

Sherlock had heard the knife fall to the ground, but he hadn't banked on John's expression being one of pure terror. Then he had to go and faint and now Sherlock had very little idea of what to do.

“John? John? Are you okay?” He asked quietly, as he knelt down beside him. He unbuttoned the top buttons of John's shirt, and stood up to find where he kept the glasses. He found them in one of the cupboards and filled one with water, he knelt down beside John again. “John?”

“Hmmm” John groaned, his eyes opened slowly, and he continued to blink as though at any time now Sherlock would just disappear. “I've gone crazy. Fuck it took long enough.”

“You're not crazy, here sit up and drink some water. You just fainted.”
“I've never fainted before in my life.”, John said bitterly as he pulled himself up into a sitting position and rested his back against the kitchen cabinet. “And of course I'm crazy, you're here Sherlock. Did I die or something? Gas leak? Fire? Is this heaven?”

“I'm alive, John.”

John put out his hand to touch Sherlock's face, which was at his eye level, his fingers trailed over the pallid skin and cheekbones. “You died. Three years ago.” John breathed.

“No. I've been living in France the last three years. Sorry. I received all your texts, they kept me informed. I'm sorry I had to put you through that.”

While Sherlock had been talking, John had gotten to his feet, Sherlock followed him.

“Moriarty died. But Moran was alive and he would have come after you had you known I had survived too.”

John's jaw hardened, “So Moran has been found?”

“No, that's where I need you to help me tonight.”

“Three.years.Sherlock.” John growled, coming to his senses.

“I know, apologies.”

“That's it?! Three years?! I grieved for you, Sherlock! And you come back here through my back window and all you have to say is 'Apologies'?! That's it?” John shouted.

Sherlock tried to put his hands on John's shoulders but they were swiftly batted away, “What else do I have to say?”

John looked as though he was fit to explode.

That's when Sherlock was taken completely off-guard by one of the most painful punches he'd ever received. He even thought he'd heard his jaw crack before falling into the darkness for a minute.

When he came around, John was pacing around the kitchen. Even from the way he was breathing Sherlock could tell that he was furious. He opened and closed his mouth, his jaw wasn't dislocated, but god it hurt. “I probably deserved that.” He mumbled.

“Probably?! Probably?! There's no probably about it, you don't currently have enough faces that I would like to punch right now Sherlock.”

“I'm-”
“Just shut up, Sherlock.” John spat, “I need to think. Because apparently, the last three years of my life have been an utter lie! You can not begin to fathom how much I hate you at this moment, Sherlock. So shut up, or I'll do something really stupid, like shoot you. Oh! Or maybe jump off a cliff and lead you to believe I'm dead and turn up in three years time.”

Sherlock stood up and checked his face for blood, there was none. He stood leaning against the kitchen counter top and watched as John paced back and forth, muttering under his breath. He didn't dare to speak again.

 

This may take a while, Sherlock thought. He checked his watch, they had four hours until they had to be in place to catch Moran, because if that failed, he knew deep down that Moran would turn up here. 

Chapter Text

Sebastian caught his phone and answered it just before it could vibrate off of his bedside table to buzz across the floor like a harmed insect.

“What now?” He growled, his voice hoarse from shouting at a sniper who had left traces of himself for the idiots at the yard. The hangover didn't make it better either.

“Sherlock Holmes is home.” Came the hesitant reply.

Sebastian sat up straighter in his bed, “Say that again.” He murmured.

There was a short pause at the other end of the line, “Sherlock Holmes, the guy you want dead walked into 221B Baker Street today and hasn't left since.”

A sly smile crossed Sebastian's face, he could finally get the revenge he so badly wanted. “You're certain?”

“Uhm...well yeah, I guess. I mean, uh, the light just went on in the flat and there are shadows uh, walking around and...yeah.”

“Is there something wrong with you?”

“Please don't shoot me.” Came the instant and somewhat shaky reply.

Sebastian couldn't help but laugh, here on the phone was a sniper who was petrified of him. It seemed comical. “Did I say I was going to shoot you?” Sebastian asked mockingly, but there was a hint of seriousness in his voice. Sometimes he did things like that and didn't remember a thing the next morning, and instead found the vast remainder of Moriarty's henchmen terrified of him. Which he also found hilarious.

“Um, no. Moriarty did though, before he uh, died...he said he'd get you to shoot me, and um...that he wanted a new pair of shoes, but I think I misheard that.”

“No, no. You didn't mishear him. Although, if you do let him get away, I will take the greatest pleasure in shooting you after torturing you in the most painful of ways.”
“Uhm...”

“Is the flat across from Baker Street that was hit with the explosion a couple of years ago still unoccupied?” Sebastian asked.

“Yes...well there's a 'To Rent' sign on it?”

“Brilliant. I'll be there in a few hours. I'll wait until darkness falls first, it's meant to be foggy too. Don't let him leave, but don't shoot him, that's my job.” And with that, he hung up on the painfully awkward sniper.

He needed to prepare his best gun, complete with silencer if he was going to do this properly.

 

~oOo~

 

Sherlock had decided to look through John's bookcase as John was still pacing around, muttering under his breath. Sherlock paused as he came across a small stack of newspaper articles that seemed instantly familiar, “You kept the Sigerson articles on bee keeping?” Sherlock asked, astounded. He hadn't spoken since John had told him to shut up over an hour ago and his voice seemed to cause John to pause mid-step and turn his head to stare at Sherlock blankly. “What?”

Sherlock held up the small collection of articles, “These? You kept them?”

John's brows creased, “Uh, Mycroft gave them to me every now and again. I tried telling him that I wasn't interested in bee-keeping but he continued giving them to me, I mean bee-keep...oh.”

Sherlock remained silent as he watched various emotions akin to anger, sadness and understanding flit across John's face from across the room.

“You?” John whispered with some difficulty.

Sherlock nodded slowly, half afraid that another punch was on its way.

“Mycroft has been giving me updates on you for the last year?”

“It seems so. I wasn't aware.”

John sat down heavily on the couch, “They've been lying to me for the past three years too.” He sounded as though he was utterly in despair. “I thought that they were the good ones.”

Sherlock placed the articles back on the bookshelf and cautiously approached the sofa, and sat down beside John. “They were, and still are. They protected you, which is more than I could have done.”

John inhaled a deep breath, “Then why are you suddenly back and why do you want me to help you catch the person that caused you to go into hiding for three whole years, Sherlock? Explain that one to me, because right now it's not really making much sense at all.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “Mycroft had many of Moriarty's workers in his grasp, therefore he thought that he could catch Moran. My passport was invalid and he wouldn't allow me home. Then I ended up in a coma and he had a change of heart and here I am, and there will be half of Scotland yard in the shadows too. We aren't in any real danger if we time it well and we need to leave now.”

“You were in a coma?” John asked, slightly taken aback, then his face hardened once again. “Was it a real one, or one that you'd wake up from in three years time?”

Sherlock ignored the comment, “I was, but I am not now. We should leave, we can talk about this later. You can either come with me or not, I just...I just wanted to see you before this.”

John was silent for a minute, “What do I need to bring?”

Sherlock smiled genuinely for what felt like the first time in three years, “Your gun, if you would please.”

John nodded and got up, leaving Sherlock in the silence as he disappeared into his bedroom.

When he returned, Sherlock was waiting for him by the door. It was still jarring, John was still partially convinced he had completely gone mad, or that any minute now he would wake up in an empty flat.

“Where are we going?”

Sherlock opened the door for him, “Well, around the back of the flat that was hit by the explosion. The front of 221 B is being watched, and Moran will probably decide to do what we're doing and shoot from an open window, so we need to get there before him. Then we wait in the darkness, we'll see him, you'll hold the gun to his head and Greg and Mycroft's army will descend and it'll be over.”

London was darkening around them.

“And then?” John whispered, his breath visible in the air and the approaching fog.

Sherlock was silent as he walked close beside John, who was following him. “I was hoping that maybe you could take a week or two of a holiday and come to France with me and we can sort whatever this-” He motioned around him at nothing in particular, “-is.”

John was completely silent as they took a turn that lead them down a deserted back alleyway.

“I meant, if you wanted to.” Sherlock said quietly. “I don't blame you if you never want to see me again after this. I think I would eventually come to understand that and-”
He was taken completely off guard as John pushed him up against a damp wall and covered his mouth with his index finger. “Stop talking.” John whispered, his face inches from Sherlock's and his warm breath ghosted across Sherlock's cold skin, causing him to shiver.

Sherlock's eyes were wide, but John didn't notice, he was tense and alert.

Footsteps echoed from the other end of the alleyway which was shrouded in darkness, followed by a gruff voice, “And the gun, it's loaded?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.”

Sherlock was now completely unprepared for what John did next, he buried his face in Sherlock's neck, pushing away the dark blue material of the scarf and bit him, hard.

Sherlock's groan caused the two approaching bulky shadows to pause and straighten up, they soon came out of the shadows and upon seeing Sherlock's head directed towards the ground, and another man that appeared to be biting his neck, they felt themselves blush, “Jesus, lets get out of here.”

“I'm with you.”

As their paces quickened and their footsteps eventually died away, John stood up straighter and brushed off his jacket as though nothing had just happened and continued walking.

Sherlock gazed after him open mouthed, then touched his neck. John had drew blood. He thought of the vampires that Mycroft had mentioned when he had come to visit him once and then shook his head as if to rearrange his thoughts. He stood up and tightened his scarf around his neck and ran to catch up with John, “You bit me!”

“Brilliant deduction.” John mumbled.

“With your teeth!”
“I would hope so.” John replied.

“Why?!” Sherlock growled, they re-emerged in a small London street that was almost devoid of people or life.

“Well I was hardly going to kiss you.” John said lightly, “Since you left people can kill you in back alleyways and no one would give a shit. You heard them, they had a gun.”

“So do you!”

John let out a small laugh, “So I do. Well now I've punched you, bit you, all I need to do now is kick you, maybe shoot you, push you off a cliff, gosh, I don't know. Anyway, it shut you up for a minute.”

Sherlock decided that it was best not to say anything else and led them into another alleyway, here there were gates and he knew the one which he was aiming for.

He stopped outside the rear of the flats that he needed to gain entry into.

“I hate you.” John muttered, reading Sherlock's thoughts.

Sherlock smiled, “I'll help you up, don't worry.”
“You ass.” John grumbled.

 

“Where are you?” Sebastian called out, he had his phone to his ear as a prop, in case he ran into anyone who wasn't the sniper that was probably cowering in a corner somewhere in waiting. The fog was slowly getting denser as the sky became as dark as marble. No stars, not in central London.

“Beside you.” Came a quiet voice.

Sebastian turned around, “What are you, sixteen?”

“And a half.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes, “Now I see why Jim wanted you dead, you must have been thirteen then. Where are you're parents and why didn't he tell me to kill you?”

“And a half. Dead. Oh I killed who he wanted and then he liked me, for a while.”

Sebastian shrugged, “Yeah.” He said sadly, “He was like that.”

His companion shifted awkwardly from one foot to another, not really knowing what to say.

“No movement?”

His companion shook his head and pointed into a window of Baker Street, one he knew of as the sitting room. The blinds were down, but there was a shadow sitting by the window, one with curled hair and good posture. Sherlock Holmes. As he watched the window, the shadow moved and looked as though it was nodding at someone sitting in front of him. This would be it. Finally.

 

“I can't see anything.” John whispered.
“Be careful of the creaking step.”

“Sherlock. I can see fuck all, never mind which step is next.”

He heard a deep sigh and then felt a warm hand around his wrist, “Come on then.” He led John up the stairs, “Okay.” came his voice, “We're at the top of the stairs, in here.” His hand was still around John's wrist even though John knew that there was no need for it now. The flat would be empty, it wasn't as though he was going to trip over a table. Perhaps Sherlock thought he was incapable of walking without tripping over his two feet.

In fact, Sherlock just liked having contact with John. He would have grabbed his hand, but he didn't want to be kicked right now, there were more important things on the agenda.

He lead John over to one of the two windows, and pointed across to their old flat.

John's mouth dropped open, “But you're...”
“Here yes.”
“It moved!”
“Mrs. Hudson.”

“How?!”
“I got it made in France.”

Before John could reply they heard the downstairs lock crack open, and they both stood still. Sherlock's hand tightened around John's wrist and led him to the darkest corner by the door. “Get your gun ready.” He whispered into John's ear as he let him go.

There was only one set of footsteps, just as expected.

Sebastian walked into the empty room and walked straight over to the window, not looking back. He knelt down and started searching through his shoulder bag, taking out a stand and assembling that first. Sherlock sent a text to Lestrade in his pocket and then he gestured at John to wait a second.

Sebastian opened the window and made sure that the stand was steady, he then assembled the gun and attached it to the stand.

Just as he was readying himself to shoot, Sherlock nodded at John. They both silently crept up behind him. Sebastian's finger was tightening around the trigger when he felt cold metal press into that spot on the back of his neck.

“It's about time we met each other face-to-face, isn't it?” Sherlock's voice broke the stunned silence. Sebastian's head dropped in defeat. “I have a sniper out there.”
“I have half of Scotland Yard out there, he's duly cared for.”

“If I shot you...”
John pressed the gun harder against Sebastian's neck. “Don't even try it.”
They could hear the rapidly approaching footfalls of what sounded like a hoard of buffaloes, but was clearly just Lestrade's division.

Lestrade burst in through the door, followed by five or six other officers. “Sebastian Moran, you are under arrest.” He said with pure authority that took both Sherlock and John off guard. He closed the handcuffs and stood Sebastian up, who looked utterly defeated. He nodded at both Sherlock and John before leaving with two officers, while the remaining ones began to dismantle the gun and place it in evidence bags.

“Shall we go visit Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asked.

John smiled and nodded, “I think that would be a good idea.”

 

 

 

“Oh you silly boys.” Mrs. Hudson cried as she wrapped one arm around each of them. “I've missed you both together.”

Sherlock smiled down at her, while John was smiling at Sherlock.
“But we have to thank you.” Sherlock said when her grip on them had loosened a little.

She glanced up at him, “Oh moving that doll there.” She said nodding in the direction of the manikin, “That was the easiest evening I've had in a long while.”

Sherlock chuckled and kissed her on the forehead. “Thank you.”
“It was nothing.” She said, batting the thanks off. “Tea?”

“Yes please.” John said immediately.

“Just this once, not your housekeeper.” She said as she walked towards the door, where she paused, “You two will move back in, won't you?” The hope in her voice was enough to make angels crumble and give her their halos, which admittedly would explain a lot.

“I shall be certainly, however I can't answer for John...” Sherlock said, glancing at John who had been staring at him.

Looking away from Sherlock with a blush entering his cheeks, he glanced at Mrs. Hudson and nodded, “I'm sure I could sort out something.”

She clasped her hands to her chest and gave them a smile which would probably have the power to reverse global warming. “Brilliant! This calls for a celebration!” She said happily as she disappeared down the stairs.

“Does that mean she's going to put herbal soothers in our tea?” Sherlock asked innocently.

John whacked him on the arm, “Sherlock!”

“What?” Sherlock inquired in a butter wouldn't melt fashion.

 

“We thought we would come and join in on the celebrations.” Greg said as Mrs. Hudson had ushered in both he and Mycroft and placed champagne flutes in both their hands.

“Don't listen to him, he just wanted free drink.” Mycroft said teasingly.

Greg wrapped his arm around Mycroft's waist. “Well he bought good champagne for the occasion, how was I to resist?”

“You never resist anything, so I don't think you know how.” Mycroft countered.

“Okay!” John interrupted.

Sherlock chuckled from where he was sitting beside Mrs. Hudson, who was observing both Mycroft and Greg as though she was eagerly watching a tennis match.

“Young love.” She said between laughs.

“Young? Mycroft? He's as old as a fossil, don't you see him flaking away before us?” Greg questioned, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Mycroft, who had been taking a drink of champagne began choking, and spluttering.

“He found his first grey hair this morning, oh the tears.” Greg continued, mock sadness in his voice.

Mycroft, who had just managed to catch his breath, was bright red. “You can talk. In case you had forgotten, you silver fox, we're the same age. In fact, you're a month older.”

“Then the wrinkle cream, oh dear.” Greg continued. “He's just is so-” Mycroft cut him off by placing a hard kiss on his lips.

John leaned across Mrs. Hudson, so that Sherlock would hear him too, “I would tell them to go get a room, but the only rooms here are ours.”

Mrs. Hudson patted him on the knee, “Don't be jealous.”

John couldn't think of what to say to that and both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson burst into laughter staring at his expression.

 

“Thank you for cooking the dinner, I wouldn't have expected that.” Mrs. Hudson said to Mycroft as she sat at the head of the table in 221B around a table full of food and merriment.

“It was nothing.” Mycroft said smiling up at her.

“He's brilliant, isn't he?” Greg questioned.

The others laughed politely, so that they wouldn't comment which would probably lead to an 'I love you more' argument, if what had happened before continued.

“Anyway, another reason why we're here.” Greg said around helping himself to extras.

“Yes.” Mycroft nodded as though Greg had just reminded him of something incredibly important. “We have tickets for you and John to go to Bordeaux for a few weeks to sort out any confusion. It'll be a nice getaway, John, and part of an apology from the both of us.”
“But the clinic, I can hardly say to them that I'm going off to France for a few weeks with the friend I've been mourning for the last three years, who isn't actually dead but I've just found that out? They'd hardly think I was Wonko the Sane.”
“I'm sure they would gladly cover for you, you do nothing but work.” Mycroft said lightly. “In fact, it is arranged. You both leave tomorrow morning...well in a few hours really, I had forgotten it was already nine-ish when we arrived.”

They all glanced at the dinner in the middle of the table and laughed at the bizarreness of eating a full dinner at three in the morning.

“A car will arrive at five and take you to the airport, and John we've packed you a suitcase with some clothes, I hope it will be enough.”

John stared across the table at them both, a little bleary eyed, “You were going to ship me off whether I wanted to go or not, weren't you?”

Mycroft and Greg both nodded in sync with one another. “Nailed it.” Greg said grinning across at him.

“I think it's a wonderful gesture.” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling with something akin to divine peacefulness to her expression.

“You get to meet the bees!” Greg hiccuped, and looked as though he was going to fall asleep.

John and Sherlock both cast a hesitant glance at one another.

 

 

They had both slept on the plane on the way over, but now emerging into arrivals, they both knew they probably looked as though they had been dragged through a field backwards for the last twenty four hours. Sherlock was taken aback to see Marianne leaning against a bench waiting. He steered the zombie-like John towards her.

“Marianne?”

“Yes, well done.” Her voice was still sharper than he had come to get used to in the last year, and she still wouldn't look him in the eye.

John glanced sleepily between them.

“I have the wonderful job of being your chauffeur.”

John stared at her with confusion.

“John, wonderful to meet you, I do hope you'll forgive my bad mood with Sherlock, I'll get over it eventually. How are you? I'm Marianne, you'll be seeing a lot more of me in the next few weeks, c'est la vie, eh?”

“John, but you knew that. Tired. Really tired. Oh okay, that's uh...good, yes?”

“Well it depends, as long as you don't leave your underwear or socks lying around then yes.”

John gave her a slightly alarmed look in return, but she merely laughed. “Lets go.”

John prodded Sherlock's arm for an answer, but Sherlock just shrugged non-committally.

 

“I'll see you both at some point. Go to bed.” Marianne called as she drove off, back down the lane that lead to the old family house.

John stared at it in the morning light, his mouth slightly ajar. The ivy, the cracking paint, the porch and the swaying porch swing seemed like some sort of scene from a film. “Wow.”

Sherlock carried John's suitcase up the steps and turned around to see John still staring up at the house. “You look like you're going to fall asleep on your feet.”

“But it's not a castle, but it's beautiful.”

“Why would it be a castle?” Sherlock asked in pure confusion.

“Well you saw Mycroft's house...”

“Yes, and no one ever got to us here. Come on, I'll show you your room.”
John followed him into the sunlit sitting room and up the stairs, “Bathroom, Mycroft and I guess Greg's room now; it's always locked when he's not here, spare room; full of books, then there's this.” He opened the door and was relieved to see fresh bed covers on the bed. “I'll sleep on the sofa, enjoy.” He said turning around.

“Wait!” John said, sounding more awake than he had since he'd punched Sherlock the previous day.

Sherlock turned around, “What's wrong?”

“Sleep with me, please.”
Sherlock stared at John blankly, “Uh...”
“God no! Not like that. I mean like in Switzerland.”

“With the cushions?” Sherlock still looked confused.

John shook his head, “Not this time.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, hoping that John would get the multiple questions he was implying.

John leant against the door frame, “Because I'm not convinced you're alive, Sherlock. That's why. I still feel like I'm going to wake up and I'll be in my own bed, I just need this now, okay?”

Sherlock nodded silently.

“Come on then.” John mumbled, yawning.

They each freshened up in the bathroom, and climbed into the double bed.

Sherlock turned on his side to face the now closed door, he jumped a little when he felt John's arms curl around his torso and pull him closer.

“It's just me, Sherlock.” John whispered.

Sherlock didn't say another word, he tried to sleep with John's slow breaths ghosting against his neck and found it increasingly hard. Eventually though, he slowly became used to the feeling and fell into a deep sleep.

 

When they walked downstairs, after getting changed that evening, there was a note on the counter from Marianne, telling them that they were complete dotes and dinner was in the oven.

“Who is she?”

“Truthfully, I don't really know. She's really close to Mycroft.”

“Oh.”
“She's been watching me for the last few years.”
“Right.”
“Dinner?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded, sitting at the kitchen counter on a stool, “Starving.”

 

 

The next morning, when their sleeping patterns had realigned themselves, Sherlock was already up and cooking pancakes for breakfast when John came down the stairs quicker than he had the morning before, he seemed to visibly relax when he saw Sherlock there.

Sherlock seemed to have caught onto this. “I'm not dead, John.”

“I know...”
“Seriously.” Sherlock said, placing a plate in front of John, “Here, have breakfast.”

 

They seemed to be able to avoid the subject of Sherlock's prior disappearance for the first few days, apart from nights when John would hold Sherlock tightly as though he was a child terrified of losing his most treasured teddy bear. Then there were mornings, where Sherlock would rise before John and wouldn't be there when John awoke to an empty and strange room, to which he'd quickly get dressed and run down the stairs, where Sherlock would always be. Always greeting him with the phrase 'I'm not dead, John.' This continued for two weeks, until one day it all came to a head. It had to at some point. A punch and no actual explanations in any clear tangible way was never going to last. Especially with their last day together in Switzerland going through their minds.

 

“Three years! Three!” John shouted, Sherlock was now backing against the wall, wondering what he had done to provoke this now, they had been doing so well. Except John had come in from talking to Harry over the phone on the swing and he had been tenser than usual, Sherlock had been sorting the honey from his bees into different jars and labelling them carefully.

“I cried and I mourned for you, Sherlock. I thought you were dead and this is meant to make everything better? I thought...I don't know, don't you remember Switzerland?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, “Of course I remember-”
“Then why, why haven't we mentioned it?!” John shouted. “Anything between us, is it gone? I mean I thought we were going to get somewhere that night. Then you died. But now you're here and we haven't said anything. I hold you every night going to sleep because I'm scared that you'll be gone when I wake up. I'm terrified of this, whatever this is that we're not talking about, we both know it was there, is it still? I want to know, Sherlock. Because I want to know if I should be terrified in a way that I'll miss it when it's gone, like the war, or in a way that I'll be glad that it's no longer a burden in my life when it's gone. Just tell me.”

“We were going to have dinner that night.” Sherlock said quietly, his back hitting the wall now, “I think it's still there?” Sherlock sounded uncertain.

“You think?” John asked, deflated.

“I've never...”
“I hate you, Sherlock.” John muttered, “I hate you.” His eyes were welling with tears, “I hate you for what you've done to me.” He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and pressed his lips against Sherlock's. Sherlock stiffened against the wall, at a complete loss as to what was happening. John misconstrued the message and stopped, he looked at the ground, “I'm going for some air.” He said quietly and walked out.

Sherlock stared after him.

 

Marianne walked in around fifteen minutes later, “Sherlock? What's wrong? Where's John?”

Sherlock glanced up from the cup of black coffee he had just made himself, “What does it mean when someone says that they hate you, but then they kiss you? Because I am at a loss. It makes no logical sense. John went out to get some air.”

Marianne paused and glanced at Sherlock again, “You guys kissed?”

“I think.”
Marianne let out a laugh, “Oh Sherlock.”

“It makes no logical sense, Marianne.”

She shook her head, “It makes a lot of sense when you think about it, Sherlock.”

“I have done nothing but.”

“Give me some context.” She said, sitting down across from him.

“He was annoyed and he wanted to know was what we thought we had still there.”

“And you said?”
“I think.”
She put her face into her hands, “Sherlock.” She whined.

“Then he said that he hated me and he hated me for what I had done to him, then he kissed me and I froze because I don't know! I've never been kissed before and I don't know, Marianne, what does it mean?”

“Usually it means the opposite, Sherlock.” Marianne whispered, “But did you seriously say 'I think'?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, “I was taken off guard.”
“You have been moping and pining for that man for the last three freaking years Sherlock, and you said 'I think'? You also gave him a really bad message when you froze.” She sighed, “You two need to talk when he comes back, and I mean really talk. About feelings. Now I'm going to go and leave you to think on that. Goodbye.”

“It means the opposite?” Sherlock echoed as she walked out the door.

“Think about it!” Came the reply and then she was gone.

 

Sherlock thought about it.

Then he realised what she meant.

Then he understood why John had been so upset.

Then he called himself stupid.

Then he sat on the porch steps and waited for John to come back.

 

“Sherlock?” John asked as he approached the house two hours later.

“John!” Sherlock ran over to him, “It's there, it's there. It is.”

John couldn't help but laugh, “Okay, calm down, how many coffees have you had? Lets go inside and talk about this like adults.”

Sherlock followed John into the sitting room and sat on the sofa beside him.

“I'm sorry about before, I was confused. Uh, I'd never been kissed before...” Sherlock said awkwardly.

“Never?” John asked, although part of him didn't really seem surprised. It was just another complete opposite from Mycroft.

Sherlock shook his head.

“Well okay, that explains that then.” John mumbled.

“But what we were going to talk about that night.” Sherlock said quietly, “I...I've never...never before. It's all new to me. Uhm. I've missed you every day that I was gone and I never thought I would have a connection like that with anyone, you were the one who treated me like a human being when all the others called me a freak and uhm, thank you.”

John watched Sherlock, he didn't know if Sherlock was done yet so he just nodded once.

“You make me feel...light? I don't know how to explain it because it's unfamiliar. It's almost like happy? Kind of the way that Mycroft looks at Lestrade. Bubbly. Like that, I think. I want to create a mind palace especially for you, I want to see what you look like every morning until we're dust, you're my heart. I want to know every one of your likes, your dislikes, your peeves, your movements. I want to know everything about you, I want to know the way your muscles move and if you get goosebumps when you're cold and I want to be that terrifying thing that you'll miss like the war if I leave.” Sherlock took a breath, “That's how I feel about you, John.”

John bit his lip, there were tears in his eyes. “I love you, you idiot.” and with that he grabbed Sherlock by the shirt collars so that he could get closer to him and he kissed him, this time slowly and softly, guiding Sherlock with him. John pushed Sherlock up against the cushions and leaned in further, opening his mouth and allowing Sherlock's tongue in.

Sherlock fumbled with his hands awkwardly for a moment, until he settled on one hand on the back of John's neck, pulling him closer still and the other midway down his back.

When John pulled away slowly, he placed a light kiss on Sherlock's nose, “You're meant to breathe.” He whispered laughing, before going in for another kiss. This time, he moved so that he was straddling Sherlock, and pushed their chests together. He could feel Sherlock's heart racing beneath his shirt when he pushed his jacket away. When his hands danced over Sherlock's shirt buttons, Sherlock paused and John pulled away.

Seeming to read John's thoughts Sherlock shook his head, “I don't know how...”
John smiled serenely at him, “I'll show you. Trust me?”

“I trust you.” Sherlock mumbled, “But I don't know...”
“I didn't once either. Just trust me, it'll be fine. If you're not ready, that's fine too.”

Sherlock shook his head, “No I want to.”

John kissed him again, then trailed kisses from his cheek and down his neck. “Lets go upstairs.” He whispered in between the kisses.

He disentangled himself from Sherlock and helped him up, Sherlock continued to hold his hand as they walked upstairs and into the bedroom.

“Trust me?” John asked.

“Completely.”

 

                                                                                                                              

The sun spread across their bodies, tangled together in the white sheets. Sherlock's head was resting on John's bare chest and John's right hand was still entwined with Sherlock's.

His left hand was gently running through the dark head of curls. John's lids were heavy, but he was no longer tired. Sherlock was still breathing deeply and evenly and John revelled in the silence, half questioning himself where they really in bed naked together after telling each other that they loved the other?

A smile spread across John's face.

Everything he thought he had lost had come back to him, with more.

There had been mentions of love, trust, always and forever all through the night and John was still terrified, in a way that he would be were this a war.

 

There were now two wars in his life, Sherlock and Sherlock's London and he didn't know which would bring him more joy or terror, but something told him that it would certainly be Sherlock.

By god, he thought, I hope it'll be forever.

“It will be. I'm not leaving.” Sherlock mumbled, sleep clear in his voice, seeming to read John's thoughts.

 

If this was going to be the greeting he received each morning in place of the deafening silence and the 'I'm not dead', he would take it with everything he had.

 

 

Fin.