John leaned against the railing and inhaled the salt air deeply, feeling the cool spray mist across his hot face and the warming caresses of the sun wipe it away.
He opened his eyes and continued watching the horizon swaying rhythmically to the rocking of the boat.
"It's much easier to stand the waves on deck." John thought. "I don't know why I spent so much damn time in my cabin."
John knew why though: He had been trying to deny he was taking this trip, and the only way he could was to escape into sleep.
He'd slept most of the boat ride, treating this trip as a miniature vacation, but finally he couldn't stand dozing anymore and he needed the sun on his face; he needed to escape from the small hot cramped dark swaying room that served as both his sanctuary and his jail.
He'd been surprised when he stepped out on deck. For one thing there were many more passengers than he would have though, dozens of them chatting happily and examining small things and comparing technologies.
Also, he stepped out of the darkness into a beautiful world. The sea was a crisp, clear blue that looked as pristine as glass and the sky was a pale, speckled reflection of it. The white clouds that skimmed the surface of the water, almost brushing against the horizon, looked like popcorn and did nothing to impede the dazzling heat of the sun pounding on the back of John's neck. But far from being uncomfortable, the heat was nice when coupled with the refreshing gust of wind from the ocean.
Now John didn't want to go back to his room, he'd spent hours on deck strolling up and down the boat looking out into the endless blue, straining against the glare of the sun against the sparkling waters searching for the island they were going to eventually be disembarking upon.
The island of Uffa, located somewhere in the sea God-knows-where. Apparently very far away from Jolly old England, if Mycroft was anything to go by. Still they spoke English, and that was good enough for John, apparently.
John's expression soured and he spat over the railing into the ocean. Mycroft was still a poisonous person to him, even now, after…
John stood erect and shook his head purposefully. His therapist had warned him about not letting go, about clinging onto pain, but he just couldn't help counting the months that passed. It had been almost exactly a year and a half. Eighteen months soon.
Mycroft's betrayal never did sit right with him, and it probably never would. He knew what his dear old mom (god bless her) would have said about forgiveness, especially right towards the end when she was extolling Christian virtues that she was hesitant to apply, but he couldn't forgive him.
He just couldn't.
It was easy to say that the whole thing was Mycroft's fault and try and place the hate squarely on him, but that wasn't entirely true. Moriarty had planned it, and everyone helped execute it. Even John.
John blinked back tears. An automatic response that he'd learned to stop fighting after a few months. He would have hoped that after a few sessions with a therapist he could have gotten over the urge to cry but apparently it was more deeply rooted in him that she had expected, or just chatting couldn't solve anything alone or whatever she had said to wash her hands of his failure to cope.
John watched as a comically large cloud billowed up over the horizon. It was unusually tinted purple and John watched it closely, suspicious that it might be Uffa drawing steadily closer. A tentative tear brimmed over his lid and slid down his face while John emotionlessly decided that the cloud was just a cloud. He caught the tear with his thumb and rubbed it away.
He gazed over the other passengers silently. They were all biologists, that much was obvious. As though the matching khaki shorts, save the planet tee-shirts and vest pockets filled with test tubes weren't obvious enough, John caught snips of conversation about rare birds and other the wildlife on Uffa.
He laughed to himself silently, wondering "How many biologists are here for the same reason as me? I'll bet half are actually interested in wildlife and half just want to catch The Giant Rat of Sumatra."
John smiled. "The Giant Rat of Sumatra. Oh God…"
He was having one of those rare moments of reflection where he asked himself "What am I doing here?" and honestly considered the answer.
It wasn't the first time Mycroft had abducted him, actually it was closer to the fifth or sixth time; but it was the first time John didn't want to go.
He'd had some trouble with the chip and pin machine at the store again and he was just finishing slamming his fist into its side when the screen lit up with a simple, yet sinister demand.
"Get into the car John."
John turned and looked out of the store and saw a black car with tinted windows pull up outside. He stared at it for a moment, letting turbulent emotions such as rage, doubt and worry run over him briefly like a hand that passes over dust, and then was wiped clean. He didn't care for Mycroft anymore. There was nothing the older Holmes brother could do or say that would make him want to see him. He escaped out the back door of the store and walked home, knowing full well that the CCTV cameras were following him with their electronic eyes.
The next day he stopped at an ATM which lit up immediately as he approached it.
"Please get into the car John."
A black car pulled up right behind him and a man in a tall black suit with shades that covered half of his grim face stepped out, opening the door and motioning John to get inside.
John felt a thrill of fear, but it was swallowed by an even more powerful emotion. Defiance.
He jabbed his cane at the man pointedly and said with determination "No." and limped down the street until he found another ATM.
The day after John was walking to his job and he came across a street sign that blinked catatonically with orange lights "Construction Road Closed."
As he came closer to it, the sign suddenly flickered "Last time I ask nicely. Please get into the car John."
A black car speed up and screeched to a halt against the curb. John started walking in the opposite direction as quickly as his psychosomatic limp would allow. His limp had returned with a vengeance only a few months after Sherlock had… gone. The first four months were definitely the hardest and when his limp returned he was crushed, but as time went on he had learned to deal with it.
"Time does not heal all wounds, but in time you can bear all pain." That was John's new motto.
The car had raced forward and cut off John's attempt to cross the street. Two men had jumped out of the back and had grabbed him, tossing him into the car where Anthea waited, texting as usual.
"I'm serious! I don't want to see him." John cried as the driver floored the gas and sped away.
"Well he -really- wants to see you." Anthea said looking up slightly from her keypad.
"Tsk. Why doesn't he just phone me for a change?"
"He says you've blocked his number."
In fact, he had.
He didn't want to see, hear or have anything to do with the oldest Holmes brother. He was mad at him, disgusted with him, but more than anything else Mycroft reminded him of Sherlock. He was having enough trouble coping on his own, he didn't need another painful reminder of his friend. He had plenty of those lying around his flat.
"Have a seat, John."
John looked up startled. He had been lost in thought so deeply that he had been in a daze while Anthea led him to a building and into a room where Mycroft would be waiting. He hadn't even noticed him walk in.
God, he was beginning to sound like Sherlock.
John smiled sardonically "That's okay; I don't plan on staying that long."
Mycroft faltered slightly. "Oh." He said, letting the brief unsettling silence drift between them.
John waited for Mycroft to break the silence, but just being in the room with him angered him beyond the point of simple frustration. He felt like a kettle, steaming mad and preparing to scream. Sherlock flashed in and out of his mind, quipping about this or that, scathingly describing his brother. He had once described him as the most dangerous man in all of London, his arch-nemesis. As it turned out all of his predictions came true.
"Can we hurry this along? I'm late for work." John growled through gritted teeth, still fighting to smile.
"Don't worry about your job, I—"
"Pulled some strings. Yeah. Great. Fine. What do you want?"
The older Holmes brother stared at him, as if uncertain whether to accept John's anger or to fight back. In the end he resigned himself to calmly, and impartially talking in a business-like manner.
"What do you know of the Giant Rat of Sumatra?" he asked.
"Nothing." John snapped.
"Good." Mycroft nodded. "There is a job I would-"
"Wait." John interrupted him. "If you're calling in a favor, forget it. I don't want to do anything for you, or relating to you. I don't even want to see you. I'm still mad at you. Get your own men to do it, I'm out of here."
John turned to leave and Mycroft couldn't stand the curt tone in his voice any longer.
"Sit –down- John." He barked.
John halted, but he still refused to take the lone empty chair in the room. He wasn't in any mood to put up with mysteries.
"I'm not calling in a favor. You should know me better than that by now. I'm hiring you for a job."
John snorted. "Seriously?" Mycroft glared at him, clearly displeased. John didn't care.
He continued: "You are the only man I can place on this. I wouldn't look to you if I had –any- other choice. I'm well aware of your… reservations."
John rolled his eyes. He felt like a child being rude to his least favorite teacher, but Mycroft had it coming. Reservations? John despised Mycroft. He didn't know how the man slept at night.
"But my own men can't handle it. I cannot trust them in this particular nature."
"And you can trust me?" John asked, feeling a vein of acid creep up in his voice.
Mycroft folded his hands in his lap, the conversation was finally going the way he'd planned it and from this point on he held all of the cards.
"Lives are at stake. I trust you to make a good decision when placed in a serious situation."
"Ha-ha." John faked a laugh "Right, I see how it is. Good-bye."
He turned to leave again, determined not to get pulled into whatever Mycroft was hinting at.
"Mycroft thinks he can play me and get me back on his side, but there is one thing he doesn't expect, one thing he cannot plan for no matter how smart he thinks he is: I just don't give a damn." John thought swaying precariously and leaning heavily on his cane.
"If you leave this room, you might as well leave London." Mycroft said calmly.
John stopped, hating himself so much for doing so. The door was so close, he could just reach out and not have to worry about Mycroft ever again, but he hesitantly turned around.
"I'm sorry, what?"
Mycroft picked up two manila folders from off the table. One of these he tucked securely under his arm, and the other one he opened and pulled out some papers, glancing over these with a cursory remark.
"I've been through your finances once or twice. You should know by now the situation you have found yourself in."
John flinched at the harsh reality. He knew it, he'd been avoiding it, and the last person who he needed to remind him of it was Mycroft Holmes.
Therapy was expensive and his job wasn't the best. He'd had to cut back on his hours after Sherlock had…gone and his rent was slowly eating away at his meager savings. He'd spent several sleepless nights juggling his options, contemplating leaving London, asking Harry for help or even getting another flat share but night after night he'd come to a mental standstill without a decision.
He couldn't ask Harry. She was having enough problems on her own and he didn't want to have any part of that. Whenever he thought of possibly having another flat mate he ached inside and realized that no one would or ever could take Sherlock's place. No one would want to share a flat with him. As for leaving…
"Ah London… You can't afford to stay, can't bear to live anywhere else?" Mycroft said, allowing a slight smile to cross his face in the shadow of a moment. In a flash it was gone and the semblance of friendliness was also dissipated.
John opened and closed his mouth, struggling to find the words to explain his reluctance, yet not willing to share these, his deepest feelings, with Mycroft. London was –his- town. The town that he knew like the back of his hand, that he helped and that he (antipathy aside) loved. John couldn't think of London without thinking of Sherlock. They were forever entwined in his mind; Sherlock was still there somewhere, racing the streets and avenues, lost in the labyrinth of brick and concrete.
John thought of leaving. Oh how he thought, long and hard, about leaving. Here he was, trying to release all of the pain and sorrow, yet wrapped up in Sherlock's memories, in Sherlock's city. If he left London he could leave Sherlock. Of that he was certain.
But did he want to leave? No, not really. He didn't want to leave London or Sherlock. He thought that maybe he could just grow accustomed to the pain and memories. That he could just deal with it and maybe someday he could cope. His pain defined him, and he wasn't thrilled at the threat of letting it go.
"So what?" He asked, though he had a pretty good feeling where Mycroft was going.
Mycroft had only handed him the folder beneath his arm. Something in his manner told John that it would explain everything.
Since then he'd been getting texts from Mycroft (whose number he'd reluctantly un-blocked) and everything had been arranged for his trip to Uffa to investigate a series of curious murders that the natives claimed were committed by a giant rat.
A giant rat that apparently came from Sumatra, though John was assured that Uffa was far, far away from Sumatra.
Far,far away from anywhere as a matter of fact.
John's phone chimed and he realized that for some reason he had reception in the middle of the ocean. After he had left England his phone had been useless.
A short text from Mycroft and John was already fighting the urge to pitch his phone into the open waters.
"Work is the best antidote for sorrow John. -MH"
"Screw yourself." John muttered darkly.