AN: I never wanted anything to do with the Long Hiatus, or trying to second guess how the Fall resolves itself. Yet here I am writing about that period of time between the Fall itself and Sherlock's reunion with John. Careful not to speculate if Mycroft even knows that Sherlock is alive, this is just exploring his desire to help John through a difficult time as best as he can. After all, the friendship John shared with Sherlock was something Mycroft could appreciate even if he couldn't participate directly. I only wish I could claim some ownership of these amazing characters!
*** Chapter 1 ***
Mycroft didn't show his heart to many people. His mother held a special place of honor there, of course, and though most people never realized it, his brother did as well. Like many brothers, they argued and fought and were often (usually) quite disagreeable with one another. But under all that, the love Mycroft felt for Sherlock was deep and genuine. And the only person who ever seemed to fully understand that was John, until his brother jumped off the St. Bart's Hospital roof.
John was so furious with Mycroft in those first few days afterward, he was not sure the anger would ever cool. But John had an amazingly calm disposition that was uncommon in a soldier who thrived on adrenaline the way he did. A grudge had no place in that heart, and eventually John stopped berating Mycroft. He stopped even acknowledging Mycroft's existence. It was hard to tell if forgiveness would ever seep into the void left in John's heart, but Mycroft respected the truce that grew in its place. Mycroft had a high degree of respect, admiration, even affection for his brother's best friend. Not only had John provided companionship to a man otherwise socially inept, but he had also saved Sherlock's life on more than one occasion. Mycroft owed the doctor more than he could ever repay, even if there was nothing either of them could have done to alter the outcome of Sherlock's decision on that roof.
Mycroft knew John Watson was in pain, physical and emotional. Losing Sherlock had taken its toll on him, and there was little Mycroft could do even with all the nearly limitless resources at his disposal. He'd watched the CCTV footage of the stalwart man limping around London, trying to soldier on despite what he now knew was psychosomatic pain. The cane had made its reappearance in contempt of John's attempts to avoid acknowledging the weakness.
Mycroft gently rested his elegant fingers against his lips for a moment as he considered his options. He had respected John's private grief, but now he was becoming worried. Weight was dropping off John at an alarming rate. The soft, bulky jumpers he favored so now hung in shared misery on his broad shoulders. Visits with family and friends, even that useless therapist, had done little to ameliorate the clear signs of suffering.
Mycroft strained to think of a solution to help his brother's best friend recover at least some of his former strength and purpose. He found his thoughts turned back to a time when he had been so damaged himself that he wasn't sure he could survive, either. An idea began to form in his mind, though even as it blossomed, Mycroft harbored doubts it would work. Not to mention the sensitive nature of his "solution" was ... delicate, and quite personal. Sharing personal data from his own past was not generally Mycroft's modus operandi. He considered the situation for quite some time before finally deciding exactly how he would proceed.
John eyed the black limo with a mixture of distaste and resignation. There really didn't seem any point in attempting to ignore Mycroft's summons. The lovely girl typing endlessly on her Blackberry stepped out of the car to usher him in before sitting next to him, still distracted the entire time by her device as usual. By now John didn't even try to talk to her, but rode in stoic silence until they arrived at the tasteful Diogenes club where Mycroft seemed most often in residence.
His cane seemed loud even against the plush carpet as he made his way to Mycroft's "office." He simply sat in the extra chair, awaiting whatever it was Mycroft wanted to say this time. John couldn't think of a single thing Mycroft could say that would make any difference to him whatsoever.
"You have not written in your blog for quite a while, Dr. Watson," Mycroft began.
"No." John dismissed the idea before it had been fully presented. His therapist had tried that tack, too, but there just didn't seem any point now. He wondered briefly at Mycroft's formality of address, but as with most things these days, the mystery didn't hold his interest.
Mycroft opened a drawer and pulled out an old notebook of the sort children used in school. He opened it and flipped through its pages until he found what he was looking for.
"Sometimes writing is the best way to clarify one's thinking," Mycroft said as he held the notebook out to John, who took it tentatively. "Sometimes it is the only way to truly understand our own hearts." Mycroft poured tea while John took the notebook into his lap and began to read the careful handwriting.
Journal, Mycroft Holmes, age 11
I am told Sherlock is too young to remember the events of last summer since he was only 4, but I'm not sure that's true. People often underestimate both of us. Even so, I'm hoping that the advice I've been given about writing this journal is true, that it will stop or at least decrease the frequency of my own night terrors.
