Texts From Mycroft, a sherlock fanfic

The texts came regularly for the first few weeks. They were all the same; I know what happened –MH. He also called twice a day for while. Sherlock let it go to voicemail. Mycroft never left any messages. About a month after Moriarty, the texts started changed.

Sherlock, answer your phone, I've been calling.

Did you think you could fool me?

Stop hiding. I know what happened.

Did you think I actually fell for that stunt?

I know you're alive.

Is three seconds to respond to me too much to ask?

Sherlock, I know you're still alive. Don't sulk because I figured it out.

Sherlock

I want an explanation.

I know about how you faked your death. I can help you.

You did fake your death.

You are still alive. Sherlock?

Answer me. I'm your older brother. I'm not going to spill the beans.

I need to know you're all right.

Sherlock call me. Text me. Update the website. Please.

Please tell me that you're still alive.

After he read the last one, Sherlock tossed his phone across the grimy motel room he was staying in. The texts had stopped coming regularly, trickling in every once and a while. For some reason he always opened then. He got texts from John to, several times a day, everyday. He had stopped reading them a month ago. He couldn't bring himself to. It had been four months since his supposed death. Graffiti on the walls had stopped appearing and newspapers had stopped running the story about the famous detective who had committed suicide after revealing he was a fake. It was for the better, the less people cared about him the safer he would be. The safer they would be, and keeping them safe was the reason he had to do all this. Sherlock retrieved this phone from the floor and looked at his message box. A hundred and six unread from John Watson. Sherlock swallowed hard and laid his phone on the night table. Four months, one lead on Moriarty's web, nowhere to go from here. This was going to take longer then he had thought.

Lestrade's back on the force. Turns out they did need him after all.

"Stop it!" Sherlock shouted at the phone. His brother had stopped trying to get a reply out of him directly. Now all he did was send him bits of news from London. Things Sherlock didn't need, or want, to know. Things that distracted him. Things that made him drop what he was doing and stare off into space for periods of time. The less he knew the better off he was.

Your message box is 98% full.

2,752 unread messages from John Watson.

A year ago there had been a day when John didn't send him a text. Since then he had only gotten three. Sherlock still hadn't read any of them.

Saw John's new girlfriend today. Name is Mary.

Lestrade mentioned earlier that he wished he had competent detectives on the force.

He's hinted to you a lot the few times I've seen him.

John is refusing my calls.

Two years, exactly. What have you been doing, brother dear?

John hasn't come out of the flat in a week.

Mary is worried about him.

So are Lestrade and Molly.

Cannot receive new messages. Inbox full.

Sherlock ignored the message and opened the notepad on his phone. Slowly, over the years, a list of names had sprouted. People from the web. People who he needed to find and dispose of. Most of them had gone easily. Some had been more challenging. A few had taken several weeks to find. Only one name remained. Sebastian Moran.

Delete old messages to receive new ones.

75 messages from Mycroft Holmes deleted.

2 new messages from John Watson. 2,754 unread.

Fingers shaking a bit, Sherlock opened the file.

Where are you?

John

Never mind, don't bother. I know you're dead.

John

2,752 messages from John Watson deleted.

0 unread messages.

Sebastian Moran. The others had been easy. Sherlock would take any one of them over this man. A year he had been following him. A whole year, and now he was headed the one place he had dreaded going. London. In face, Sherlock was sure he already was in London, and had been for a while. Several of the trails had been false. Trying to ignore the pain in his right ankle, Sherlock walked to the back of the bus and sat down, pulling his hood over his face. It would be two hours, and then he would be in London for the first time in more then three years.

I'm alive, if you still care.

Three years, four months, a week and three days.

I need your help.

With what?

Felston Café, two hours.

It was sunny but not particularly warm. Mycroft stood against the stonewall of the café. It was on the edge of the city, away from the busy, crowded center where someone was always listening but close enough to be considered "in town". The twelve o'clock bus pulled up to the stop by the corner. Mycroft watched the passengers getting off; a waitress late for her shift at the café, a man meeting another for a business deal, a group of teens skipping school, a mother with a small child who she had probably just picked up from somewhere. No, definitely just picked up, from preschool, as the boy appeared to be clutching his lunch bag. At the last moment, a man stepped off. He flinched as his right foot hit the pavement, and walked to the bench nearby with a limp. He was black jeans and boots, and had the hood of a maroon sweatshirt pulled over his head and most of his face. At first glance anyone else could have mistaken him for a teenager, but at a second look there was something different. He sat on the bench with his back to Mycroft and pushed the hood down, revealing thick black curls that looked like they hadn't been cut or groomed at all in a while. Mycroft left his spot on the wall and went up to the man.

"What happened to you?" he asked. Sherlock turned around. His face looked thinner, his eyes red and tired with bags under them. He was slumped on the bench with his hands in the sweatshirt pocket and his right leg stretched out in front of his left.

"It's complicated," he said.

"What happened to your foot?" Mycroft narrowed the question.

"Sprain," Sherlock shrugged. "About a week ago. I've seen much worse."

"I don't doubt that," said Mycroft. "What do you need?"

"You have a car?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft took out his phone and pressed one of the buttons.

"Momentarily," he said. "What do you need?" Sherlock didn't answer right away. He took one of his hands out of his pocket and rubbed his left temple.

"I need," he said slowly, "To be alive again." Mycroft nodded.

"Far corner. I'm afraid you'll have to walk," he said. Sherlock swallowed and pushed himself off the bench, wincing hard when his right foot pressed onto the ground. Without thinking, Mycroft grabbed his arm and pulled it over his own shoulder. Sherlock didn't protest, but rather leaned on his older brother with almost all his weight. It must really be hurting him. Mycroft thought to himself. He found himself entertaining the possibly that Sherlock didn't know what he had told Moriarty, three and a half years ago. But how could he not? Mycroft dismissed the thought. He would deal with his mistakes later. Now there were more important things.