Another translation of my story. Wasn't beta-readed, co might have some mistakes. Sorry, I hope there aren't too many.
Enjoy :)
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters and I don't have any profits from my writing.
Who fights with the words...
John Watson didn't like the press. The tabloids were merciless to him an Sherlock, there was no end of speculations about their relationship. And finally… Finally the press killed him. One article and Moriarty's plan worked, because the lie had been hidden between the truth. Everything was true except the fact that Sherlock was a fraud and a liar. Consulting criminal, a diplomat working for secret service and an aspiring journalist – only three people, but they were enough to destroy his friend. John had every right to hate journalists.
And yet he willingly went to the cab and came to an editorial office. No, not a tabloid's like 'The Sun', but straight to 'The Times'. When he went earlier to the newsstand in the evening and saw his friend's photograph at every front page, when he saw all these words 'fraud', 'liar', 'fake genius' shouting to him, he just couldn't resist.
John hesitated only for a moment. He usually didn't like all the spy-playing Sherlock's older brother was always so fond of, but this one time John had used his methods. The previous night he had gone to meet Mycroft Holmes armed with a small recorder hidden in his jacket. The record was a bit crackling, but the whole conversation was understandable. That was enough. John knew of course that he was going to ruin the elder Holmes' career, but if he had to choose between Sherlock and Mycroft, there wasn't really a choice at all. His friend was dead and all John could do for him was to clear his name.
He was recognized in the editorial office once he introduced himself; he didn't even have to mention Sherlock. John felt all these half compassionate, half pitying glances of the people around him and he barely prevented himself from shouting the truth out loud. No, he told himself. He was a soldier after all and he had a task to do, so he just suppressed emotions and asked for a talk with a journalist. He was dismissed at first, until he said he wanted to talk about Sherlock Holmes. He could still feel the atmosphere of fake compassion and he knew what they were all thinking. A disappointed friend, or maybe more than just a friend, a desperate trying to defend the dead man against all the evidence.
Finally, a young woman stood up from behind her desk and asked him to a small cabinet. John took a deep breath and recited everything he had planned in the cab. When he was talking, the journalist opened her eyes wider, as she began to realize what she was given. She even asked him a few questions, but John dismissed her; he didn't have enough energy to answer. After he gave her a pendrive with the recording and left, he thought grimly that yet another young woman had just gotten a chance for an article of her life due to his friend.
XXX
Looking over the press was part of his daily ritual and Mycroft Homes rarely derogated from that rule. When he didn't have time to read the news during his breakfast, he tried at least to glance at them in the car on his way to his office. When he really couldn't, he took the press to read it in the Club in the afternoon. Anthea always brought him the main British newspapers and she also placed some tabloids on the bottom. Mycroft browsed them when he wanted to be up to date with all he scandals.
The fact that he had to identified his brother in the morgue the previous day didn't ruin Mycroft's daily routine. The only difference was that he sat to his breakfast after a sleepless night. He didn't enjoy, if 'enjoy' as a good word, his morning tea long. Anthea's expression, when she came with the press told him at once that whatever had happened, he wouldn't be pleased. Mycroft took the newspapers and glanced at the front page of the first of them. He read the heading, the subheading and then he just sighed with resignation and rested his chin on his hands. He hadn't thought about that.
XXX
In the London slums a young man in the clothes too new for his surroundings took the newspaper from a dirty boy and paid him. No one paid attention to anything on these narrow streets, so he could stop and read the paper. He glanced at the article on the main page and cursed, but then smiled with satisfaction. Good, loyal friend John. He had done exactly opposite to what Sherlock had asked him, but Mycroft deserved it. And right now he had to prove that he was worth such trust.
The end