Post-Reichenbach
Mycroft's office is an unusual one. Typical monochrome London offices have brightly colored walls and desks with four legs and swiveling chairs perfectly suited for frivolous employees and other such nonsense.
During routine inspections (well, the ones he attends personally instead of personally attending to his chocolate stash) he passes through such dull offices with disdain. Employees require…color, to liven up their workspace, Mycroft has found. Inefficiency runs rampant in grey areas. Color is required for a sense of individuality, to increase productivity. Mycroft does not quite understand it, of course – color does not define an individual, so why does it matter so? – but the principle works; therefore, he applies it.
Though today, all color is sucked from the Mycroft's office. Yes, his walls have color, thank you – just because he does not understand the principle does not mean he cannot apply it. and replaced with slate gray silence. A cloister of roughly ten employees stand around Mycroft and, more importantly, his computer. The black-suited agents stare at the unmoving screen, shock clearly evident on their faces.
Previously, were they to have made a list of acquaintances expected to die a heroic, sentimental death, Sherlock Holmes would not have graced their top hundred. The detective was simply too esteemed, too above it all, for that – too vain and egotistical and arrogant to have fallen to a noble, humble death.
Despite his stoic façade, which contains a few emotion-seeping cracks he would rather throw out his precious umbrella than admit to, Mycroft reels in his cushy black chair. From the computer console, shining an innocent light across his desk, he witnessed the murder of his brother.
Well. He had witnessed the unfolding of Plan B, anyway. Mycroft reels because Plan A failed. Because he had expected Plan A – his stroke of genius, for whatever record one might be taking – to fall firmly into place. Now, his priority shifts from the nation to the continued existence of his little brother, at most for a week or so. No doubt Sherlock will have to be carted off to the Holmes Mansion. Likely with force.
And, he suspects that Sherlock had doubted his genius plan all along. Damn his little brother for knowing the Spider King better than he.
Mycroft sighs and drops his head limply into his hands – a sign of extreme grief. Despite the evident acting value of the gesture, for the benefit of the scattered employees, Mycroft also feels an odd twinge in his chest.
Peculiar. He will have to examine the sensation later. He hasn't felt such an ache since…well, since Holmes Senior departed the waking world.
Eventually, the various heads of departments trickle out of Mycroft's mahogany office. Each leave a token of their consolations; a cautious, sympathetic pat on the back or a piece of chocolate (Mycroft makes a mental note to raise that employee's salary). Or, his personal favorite, a subtly slipped sheet of ugh, paperwork. No doubt related to Sherlock's flamboyant demise.
His brother always was one for theatrics. Generally, Mycroft is appreciative of a good show, but not if it costs him such a heavy toll. Such paperwork tends to pile up on his desk until he can hardly see the door.
Well. No use procrastinating.
Five days later, a curly, ginger haired man sporting a navy blue cap and matching coat strolls down the cobbled streets of London. He walks easily beneath the looming walls of the city (his city), blending without fault into the bustling crowd. He does not blink a bright green eye as he passes beneath eye-catching yellow graffiti, of the same type and maker as the ones popping up conspicuously around England's capital. The stranger enters the shadow of the rear of St. Bart's hospital, unflinching; he circles to the front of the building and, with no outward reaction, throws the doors open and walks inside.
As he enters the building, his entire demeanor transforms – not that anyone notices. Idiots, the lot of them – to a more confident, cocky stride. He saunters through the bleached-white halls of the hospital, grinning cheekily at passing nurses, male and female alike.
When Molly Hooper walks by, he does not wink or smirk. Instead, he gives her a small, grateful smile that she pretends not to see. But when the two turn down their respective corridors, Molly breaks out into a huge grin and starts bouncing down the hall, her demeanor raising a number of questions from her comrades throughout the rest of the day.
The man's destination is a sterile white door surrounded by a sterile white wall, typical of teeming London hospitals. He finds that the blankness fits his pale hand as he twists the doorknob. A gust of bitter northern air hits him full in the face, tousling his vibrant hair and throwing the cap from his crown. Oh well, he shrugs, he hardly needs it now. The trespasser strides to the edge of the roof (but not approaching the lip – no, never again) and peers down at the camera attached to the roof across the way. Thankfully, no passing pedestrians think to look up to the famed St. Bart's roof as he stands there, dangling precariously on the edge of the world.
But instead of fleeing, as any sane man would do, he instead bellows to the wind, starting with a dramatic, sweeping bow that brings his chin level with the side of the building. "Hello, brother!
"I am certain you intend me to skulk around Holmes Mansion for some undisclosed period of time." Thankfully, none of the London pedestrians have noticed the strange man, silhouetted by the eternally grey London sky, shouting at the air. "However, I assure you, I give no consent to this plan. If you wish to discuss it in person, send a cab; if you wish to skip the tedium that will doubtless follow such an endeavor, send a passport."
Ten minutes later, a black car pulls up in front of the hospital, stopping neatly in front of its intended recipient and conspicuously lacking the yellow-orange of typical London cabs. "The cab, then," Sherlock mutters to himself, as Mycroft's cabs never truly conformed to the norm, even when years past Sherlock had overdosed and was searching for a place to crash. He arches a weary eyebrow and slips, unsteadily, into the car.
No words pass between wrinkled, sharp-eyed driver and passenger. For a brief moment, Sherlock is tempted to nap behind tinted windows, to rest his whirring brain and sand-scraped eyes. But he resists. No need to show weakness so early in this late Act.
Behind solid mansion doors lies an expanse of plush carpet. Somehow, Sherlock isn't at all surprised at Mycroft's change in decoration from Sherlock's term of occupancy. The touch of Mycroft that pervades the room – in the CIA files and FBI dossiers scattered around deep mahogany desks, the soft chairs and sofas distributed purposefully around the room, the numerous coat racks lined perfectly on each side of the entrance hall – serves to stiffen his resolve. He will not stay here at his brother's generosity.
The chauffeur leads the Detective to a comparatively inconspicuous side door. This one is lined with a plain white molding, as opposed to the near-Corinthic patterned material that lines the rest of the doors. Sherlock spares a moment to shake his head disdainfully at his brother's blatant opulence, then pushes coolly through the unimpressive door.
The sight that greets him does not surprise him in the least. Mycroft sits, legs crossed primly, on his most comfortable red velvet chair. He clutches a book in two flabby hands, and a plate of half-consumed chocolate-iced cake sits innocuously at his side. As always, Mycroft pauses a beat before looking up (ha! As if he was not notified the second Sherlock walked through the mansion door). With this, the man slips silently from Sherlock's side, marking his departure with only a slight bow of his grey head.
"Your personal staff has improved, I see," Sherlock says impassively, using his peripheries to watch the door swing shut and click behind them. No doubt the walls are sound-proofed. The driver is no longer a concern.
"Yes, they do seem to improve with your maturity level, brother. I recall the last time he dealt with you, you had fled the mansion with nothing but your stuffed bee for company, and he was appointed to retrieve you from your hiding place in the woods." Mycroft sets aside his newspaper.
There's nothing interesting in the paper, anymore. No crimes for him to solve. Nothing save advertisements professing the Yard's desperate searches for more detectives.
"You seem to forget I was five at the time," Sherlock snaps, trying to restrain the color rising in his cheeks. Truly, it has been a long five days if he has this little control on his temper. "We will make this encounter as brief and painless as possible. I require a passport, three false identifications for Argentina, Greece, and the United States, and nothing more."
Mycroft rises from his chair, a truly laughable attempt to stand at equal height with his brother. The two had never been the same height, just as they had never quite seen eye-to-eye. "You will remain here, Sherlock. I trust there will be no more foolhardy attempts to escape the mansion this time. Accommodations have already been made in the guest bedroom, and my staff awaits your arrival."
It does not slip past Sherlock's attention, even in his current exhausted state – Mycroft's words such as "guest," "will," and "my;" all referring to things that had once been his, but are his no longer. Things he has no wish to reclaim.
"I will not." Besides, he doubts Mycroft has remade his room to his liking in his fifteen-year absence. He could not see the (his) bedroom door from the extravagant foyer, but he is certain it remains untouched. "Do not be stubborn, brother, as difficult a task as that may be." Oh, where has his quicksilver wit gone?
Mycroft sighs, as if disappointed, and for a moment Sherlock remembers a time when all he wanted was to make his brother proud. He shoves it away in a bout of his own pride because that time is not now and never will be again. Mycroft picks up the newspaper for a second time. "I am not so much a fool as to try to stop you, brother. If you truly which to entangle yourself in his Web, well, I cannot halt your eventual suffocation."
Mycroft watches Sherlock whirl out the door with a creased forehead and funereal eyes.
The Consulting Detective eyes the woman on the ground with distaste, mechanically – no, methodically, not mechanically, never again – noting the assassin's injury and the quantity of blood pooling from her head. A gunshot, fatal, the bullet sent hurtling straight through the fragile skull. How ironic that she, the famed Colonel Moran, would go the same way as her mentor. For the first time in months, he lets himself feel emotions in the light of day (well, however much daylight northern Norway ever sees). First, a shaft of disappointment, that it was not his hand that had slayed the spider-child; then, a delayed frisson of excitement that shoots through his skull.
He's going home.
In the back of his mind, a voice lectures him in a voice that sounds remarkably similar to John's, telling him that he owes his brother. Throughout the trip, he'd had to kill surprisingly few people, and he suspects his brother had put his people to that undesirable task. But he quashes it for now. His priority sits, unsuspecting, in 221B Baker Street.
Suddenly exhausted, Sherlock stumbles out of the grimy hiding-hole that had held the Colonel for the past two months. He cannot remember the last time he was this tired. Perhaps when he began this mission, eighteen months ago on a flight to the United States, and found himself looking up a metaphorical snowcapped mountain surrounded by razor tipped clouds and frigid, blood-speckled air. Now, he stands at the summit. He looks down past the whipping snow and razor-sharp ice and for a moment imagines he sees 221B Baker Street. From the heart of the flat shines a dazzling light, a ball of brilliant golds and daring reds, and he wants to be there, with that light, more than anything.
He holds those colors in his mind as he staggers out of the hovel.
The great Detective hardly notices the car that comes to pick him up, or the familiarly lined face of the chauffeur that drags him up from the dirt.
John limps through the Scotland Yard, his cane clattering against the tiled floors. Despite the year and a half of its re-usage, John's still not fully accustomed to carrying it around everywhere. He recalls with some amusement his first months readjusting to the cane. Many a passerby informed him, amusement lighting up their faces on a dreary English day, that he wielded his cane almost like a revolver. And it had hurt, yet another reminder of the void Sherlock left when he died.
He doesn't think about it that much, anymore. The cane is once again an ordinary part of his despicably ordinary life. Somehow, a two years ago, he had grown accustomed to life with Sherlock; to running around rooftops on mad chases, to waking up at 2:00 in the morning to gunshots or wailing violins or explosions, to appendages in the refrigerator, to a patient, motherly landlady and viewing the government as an enemy and applying his battlefield instincts to London and the hundreds of details he still misses. To slowly instilling humanity into the most human human being he'd ever known.
Five years ago, he would have called it impossible. Now he terms it improbable.
The ensuing silence left John bored. Haunted, yes (of course) but completely, overwhelmingly bored. He'd never realized how dull life without Sherlock was until he was gone for good. So he drowned himself in hospital work, because helping is what he does best – even if he still can't help himself. Sarah is concerned, of course, because she's sweet and that's entirely in her nature. But she doesn't quite understand, and he understands why she doesn't. It's hard to. Hardly anyone does. Lestrade does, he found, but he's one of the few; Lestrade knew Sherlock before John had set foot in Afghanistan.
Greg had called him up about an hour ago, told him to come to the Yard if he had time, no rush or anything. John suspects it's another corpse to examine, which means hurry before the evidence decomposes. Greg would never tell him to hurry. Sherlock would have had zero qualms.
"John! Hullo, John," Lestrade calls from behind him, pushing through the crowded New Scotland Yard hall to catch up to the soldier.
"Morning, Greg. What's all this about?" John eyes the people surrounding him. From the looks of it, the majority are detectives-in-training or potential recruits. The Yard never quite made up for Sherlock's absence.
"New case. Got us all baffled – you know how these go. Lady's dead in her house, doors all locked and no signs of tampering. Forensics hasn't got anything, and …. well, neither do the investigators." Greg huffs out the sigh of the long-suffering. John knows how he feels.
For an instant, John spares a despairing thought for the Yard force pre-Sherlock. How on Earth had they survived? The criminal classes must have had so much fun, running rampant around England's beloved capital. He doesn't even know which deity to thank that Moriarty entered the scene at the same time Sherlock did; otherwise, London would have fallen.
For the first time in nineteen months – two weeks three days four hours – Sherlock Holmes strides into the Scotland Yard. A moment passes, and the veteran officers do not react. But only a few seconds, because Sherlock hasn't come out as alive yet. No, he would not choose to tell John of his survival through an impersonal television screen. So, almost as a single unit, the employees all turn a pale, washed-out grey, and one gray-slacked man faints. One newer Forensics scientist shrieks loud enough to raise the dead (heh) and shatters the reverie.
Incompetents, Sherlock muses, running his slate eyes over their shocked faces. If a small detail like a resurrection can stun them all into silence, how would they possibly react to something far more drastic? A friend wrapped in Semtex, for example?
Unable to find anyone marginally more competent than the rest – where are Donovan and Anderson when you need them, he despairs, then addresses the room at large. "Where is Lestrade?" he inquires in a fittingly haughty tone. He wishes to speak with Lestrade before he confronts John, if only for a moral support he'll never admit he needs.
One promising new officer raises a shaking, bright pink fingernail to indicate Lestrade's door. He nods imperious thanks. In the span of two seconds, he notes her previous occupation: not a media specialist, this time, she is in the much more respectable field of scientist, dabbling in forensics; he also notes her insurance company, as well as her newly-opened bakery, the name of which is branded on a pin in her black purse.
As she is a fan of Dr. Watson's blog, she knows of the Detective's need for all pertinent information before solving a case. And the presence of the good Doctor in Lestrade's office is astoundingly pertinent. However, she does not think to say it in time.
Later in the week, she checks her email to find an generous, anonymous donation to her bakery; that day, she bounces home to her flat and nearly knocks over a rather expensive vase, causing her girlfriend to inquire worriedly after her health.
Sherlock does not draw in a deep breath as he approaches the door. The hand he raises to the handle is certainly not shaking, and the light definitely does not reflect a bit too brightly off his forehead. The descendants of Siger Holmes are never nervous.
No, actually, he can feel a curdle of anxiety lodge itself in the base of its stomach – yet another emotion he tucks into a previously dusty, unused corner of his Mind Palace for later contemplation. For now, he stubbornly ignores it. And, out of spite, flings the door open with an overloud bang, and thus begins the final Act of the Game.
Oops. That was probably not the most well thought out of actions. Well, he can do naught now but, as the Americans term it, 'roll with it.'
"Lestrade, I apologize for the del-"
His overlarge brain takes far too long to process the sandy golden head seated comfortably in the chair across from Lestrade, because he did not factor this variable into the equation he has created in his Scotland Yard scenario. John should be home at the flat.
Sherlock does not know whether to be concerned or contented that this is not the case.
Lestrade's face soon matches the color of his hair – is that a bowl cut, Lestrade? – but Sherlock is frozen, staring at the back of his jumper-clad embodiment of loyalty, a figure that slowly turns to face him. He didn't plan for this, did not have time to steel his nonexistent emotions he doesn't know what to say he's going to mess this up and he's not going to get another chance –
John's face drains, becomes the same grey, unhealthy shade as Lestrade's. "I'm hallucinating," he says hoarsely, and Sherlock's heart sinks, though it was no less than he expected.
"John," Sherlock replies, and his voice is oddly gentle. "I…have some explaining to do, and I apologize. I assure you, I did not intend to leave you for nineteen months, circumstances prevented me from-"
"Bloody hell, you great tosser, you're alive? You twat!"
John hasn't moved, which means – Sherlock refocuses on the blurred form of Lestrade in time to receive get a fist to the face. In this close proximity, Sherlock absently notes the purple bruises present beneath John's coffee-colored eyes, even as he flies toward the adjacent door. I really hope I don't land beyond the threshold of the office, he thinks vaguely. I will never hear the end of it.
Then he remembers that no one will really care because he just came back from the dead.
When he resettles himself on two feet, Lestrade is poised beside John, with one fist frozen in the air where Sherlock's cheekbone had been, and John is half-risen from his chair, twisted around to face him. With decidedly more clarity, Sherlock notices the cane present in the room for the first time.
"You're alive?" John chokes, still teetering precariously on one leg, as if he's about to crash onto the floor. There's probably some metaphor Sherlock can poetically craft, comparing John's off-balance stance to the way his resurrection throws John's words into uncertainty – though to be fair, the soldier does adjust and balance exceptionally quickly. But Sherlock is, frankly, too high-strung and jittery with nerves to think of it right now. In fact, all of his previous eloquence seems to have left him.
Oh, why was it easier to spit poetic vitriol at the Spider King than to reassure his Best Friend?
He intends to say something … nice. Something sympathetic, something that a Good Friend would say. Instead, he blurts, "I owe you so-"
"You had no pulse!"
What?
Oh.
Sherlock pauses, maybe readying himself to intervene, but Dr. Watson is far from done. His voice steadily rises in volume and intensity as he steps purposefully toward Sherlock. "You had no bloody pulse, you… you arse! You fell from a four-story building! How the hell did you survive? No. No, don't even! Where the bloody hell have you been for the past nineteen months?!"
"I was… in various places."
"Oh, so you decide to go sightseeing, while your grieving friends stay in London? I hope you enjoyed your window-shopping!" John snarls. "You had better have a damn good explanation for this, or so help me, Holmes, I will punch you myself."
Holmes, Sherlock thinks, distracted. He called me Holmes. That can't be good. He supposes that takes them back to the start.
He doesn't know if he can do this.
No. He can do this. He just has to explain. He has a speech prepared! A long, eloquent explanation in which John and Greg will sit, enraptured, and forgive him instantly.
Yeah, that's not going to happen, he realizes mournfully, and has a sudden craving for a patch. Or four. But he quells it, and opens his mouth to speak.
The first thing out of his mouth is the last thing he expects. "I am so sorry, John. And Greg. I never… I never meant to cause. This." He flaps a hand at the office, shoulders hunching over and coat falling lifeless toward the ground. An ignored part of his brain notes Greg step level with John and place a supportive hand on his shoulder, though the fire in Greg's eyes is far from out.
"Moriarty," he blurts unthinkingly. "He created a vast criminal empire that spanned the globe. He was fascinated with me. I was… his equal, per say." Sherlock feels none of the usual glow of pride that accompanies those words, and his eyes flit toward the ground. "He wanted to destroy me. He set a trap. The thefts, assassins, the IOUs, the fairy tales… they were all his. For most of the Game, I was one step behind him."
"Most?" Lestrade asks, looking angry but curious. Dr. Watson hides his emotions behind a stoic mask that, frankly, scares Sherlock more than the anger did.
"Up until the end game, he was continually one step ahead. I couldn't successfully indict him for his various crimes, he blackmailed the jury, he hired Kitty Riley and ruined my name…" Sherlock takes a deep breath.
"He threatened you three. You, Greg, Mrs. Hudson. If I didn't jump, he would…he was going to shoot you. With. Um. Snipers." Mentally, Sherlock hits his head on his desk – he has literally said nothing from his pre-prepared script since he joined this verbal trainwreck, and has only his stuttering ineloquence to show for it.
"You obviously didn't jump," John says, and he's lost the stoic mask in favor of a mixture of anger, curiosity and a little bit of sympathy.
"Mycroft and I suspected Moriarty would plan something in a similar thread," Sherlock sighs. "We created a Plan A – to drive Moriarty to suicide."
"But he did," Lestrade points out, confused. Then, suddenly, he blinks, jolts upright, and focuses on something over Sherlock's shoulder. "Oi! You lot! Clear out!" he shouts, waving his arms emphatically. Sherlock turns to see a crowd gathered behind his back, gawping openly at his story. Or, more likely, his presence. Some of the faster responders scuttle back to their workstations, looking properly abashed. The woman from earlier, with the pink nails has the presence of mind to shut the door. She raises to the most proficient of the lackeys of the Yard, in Sherlock's scale of estimation.
"He did, yes, but his unanticipated failsafe remained. The snipers were to shoot unless – unless the snipers saw me jump. Which they did."
With nothing more to say (that is, having thrown out his original script), he pauses and awaits judgment. However, the two men standing opposite him don't seem to have much to say, either.
Then John takes a step forward. And another, and another, until he's within fists' reach. That blasted curdle of anxiety hardens, forms into bitter resignation, and he realizes he may not be forgiven.
This is everything he expected and nothing he hoped for.
Then, entirely unpredicted, Sherlock does not receive a blow to the face. Instead, he feels a pair of gentle arms wrap firmly around his midsection, and the other man's head rests securely beneath his chin, the moustache pressed against his collarbone.
This is a hug, yes? And Normal People, they reciprocate. He's seen it on television. So Sherlock, snapping himself out of his stunned stillness, picks up his arms awkwardly and drapes them across John's shoulders, hoping the other man will understand.
John snorts, and to Sherlock's abject horror, it sounds watery and tearful. "You great lump of lard, have you never learned how to hug?" And it doesn't sound like a condemnation. Instead, it sounds like a second chance. So he does the logical thing and holds on for dear life.
Eventually, John begins to pat Sherlock's back, with an intent. A signal to terminate the hug, the Detective guesses, so he reluctantly lets go. John's face comes away blotchy and red, but he hasn't started crying – again, Sherlock has no idea whether or not that's a good or bad thing.
Then Greg steps forward, an amiable smile stretching easily across his face, one that smells of relief and shining joy, and grabs Sherlock in a rough hug. Years of police work have graced him with corded arms and a rough grip. The officer's hug feels more like a command, an order to never leave again. Sherlock finds he's fine with that.
This time, he's marginally more educated in the art of giving hugs, and he knows about when to let go – roughly a minute and a half, right? That's what Normal People do?
When he and Greg pull apart, all three men spend a solid minute shuffling awkwardly around the room, none knowing what to say. Finally, Sherlock clears his throat. "You have a moustache," he observes.
"Of all your observations, I reckon that wasn't the most brilliant," John snarks, but Sherlock's glad to hear John's humour returned to him. "I've had it for…well, I started growing it a year ago, give or take."
"Eleven months," Sherlock corrects, then backpedals furiously, realizing he probably shouldn't have known that. "The internet… Um. The internet kept me quite updated on your status."
"Oh?" John quirks an inquisitive eyebrow, and Greg snickers. "What did the internet say about me?"
"They called it the griefstache."
Greg doubles over (probably a release of stress and, from an entirely objective view, relief) laughing. John looks slightly put out. "Who, exactly, theorized this?"
"Tumblr."
Greg straightens up, still chortling. "You have a Tumblr."
"I do. Despite the occasional – well, frequent – bias, it is a good source of the common peoples' opinion."
John mutters something along the lines of "yeah, like hell," before turning to face Greg. "What now?"
Sherlock replies. "That depends, of course. I have a place to stay, and I would be more than happy to resume work at the Yard, once the inevitable hype created by the masses calms down. I… would not be opposed to staying at Baker Street, but that is only if…" here, his voice grows weaker, uncertain, "if I am accepted back. By. The…current residents."
"Sherlock," Greg sighs despairingly, at the same time John looks askance at him and says, "Sherlock, you idiot," and sighs.
"Sherlock," he intones again, looking strangely forgiving. "You're the one who bought most of the bloody flat in the first place. What kind of right arse would I have to be to kick you back out?"
More damned sentiment wells up, and he blames his ten-hour flight from Norway on the peculiar emotions.
Three weeks later, Mycroft Holmes sits on his favorite chair in the Holmes mansion. This time, there is no cake at his side; there is no newspaper proclaiming the fake suicide of a genius; there is no global-scale criminal syndicate that must be eradicated for the ensured peaceful survival of most of mankind.
The Holmes children did not specialize in emotion. In fact, they shied as far away from the taboo as humanly possible. During their childhood, Mycroft grasped many concepts far before his younger brother. He was – is – a genius in a variety of subjects, from mathematics to astrology to politics, from the miscellaneous to the horribly mundane. All this he learned at an astonishing rate, a shining star in his field, throughout primary school and university. He also learned that emotions caused his classmates to act horribly irrationally, out of feelings called spite or jealousy. So he tucked his genius into his brain, folded it neatly into the crevices of the neural pathways and did not brag, did not show off. Meanwhile everyone else wore their intelligence in a jagged mess, wore it out with overextension and competition and useless drudgery.
His younger brother was a genius, as well. Nearly as bright as his brother, exceptional in every field he tried, he had a natural talent for, as it seemed, everything. Everything except other people. Sherlock Holmes never could quite understand why he should hide his intelligence – it is his, why can't he show it to others so that they might learn?
Instead, he finds, they grow jealous and angry, and in spite they take their revenge. So he closes down, assumes that all he works with are children, ones that will hurt him if he are not careful. His father dies, leaving him with a stone brother and no light of compassion to guide him.
If he could have, the Ice Man would have assisted his brother. But as it remained, he simply did not understand, and therefore could not help.
Sherlock has not visited him. Not that Mycroft expected him to: theirs is a long-fought and dramatic war, one that has encompassed many years. Still, Mycroft thinks he deserves at least some commendation or token for, you know, helping destroy the largest criminal organization the world has ever seen.
But alas, he has yet to behold his sugary reward, and he's starting to doubt it will ever come. Well, from his wayward brother, at least; the kindly Detective Inspector from the Yard, on the other hand, sent him a rather nice cherry-chocolate cake with "compliments of the New Scotland Yard." Mycroft has his suspicions about the involvement of the rest of the Yard, but he says nothing.
His external sensor beeps, and with the sigh of the truly world-weary, Mycroft glances to the monitor displaying his grand foyer. He is unsurprised to see his prime chauffeur briskly stride through the corridor; however, he is shocked to see a greatcoat whirling behind the second man on the video display.
Sherlock decides it's about time he visits his brother. As much as he does not like his brotherdid not? His emotional turmoil from three weeks previous has not yet abated, and he cannot tell), he owes the elder his thanks, at the very least. As much as it pains him to deliver them. He likes to think he has matured over these twenty months. But his reliable compass – John – has not had the opportunity to pass new judgment on character over these three weeks.
The hinges on the nondescript door squeak as the chauffeur pushes it open. Gregson is the man's name, Sherlock recalls through the vague haze of childhood memories. He steps into the room – this time, Mycroft wastes no time looking up from whatever book he was engaged in (Jane Eyre, Mycroft. How scandalous.) – and no matter how hard he tries, Mycroft cannot disguise his curiosity.
"What brings you to the same mansion you so swore to avoid, brother?"
"A delivery, Mycroft. And a message."
Sherlock moves as if unnerved by the shadows cast by the abrupt edges of the desk, or the sharp spires protruding from the top of the manse that spill across the Holmes lawn. His hand moves swiftly and jerkily as it pulls an envelope from his breast pocket. He places it without delay on the desk between them, then withdraws the hand as if the wood has burned him, eyeing the furniture around him with distaste.
"You never did like my personal office, did you, Sherlock?"
"Quite so. In fact, I find I despise all your belongings." Sherlock clears his throat. "The message. I would like to say. Thank you, Mycroft. I suppose I owe you that after a year and a half."
Silence prances around the room. In the whole of Mycroft's formidable memory, Sherlock has thanked him a grand total of two – now three – times. The first, when Sherlock was considerably younger and Mycroft had retrieved his cat, Alfie, from where it had fled up an apple tree, one visible from the window behind Mycroft's chair; the second, at the somber conclusion of their fathers' funeral, when Sherlock's world was painted in greys and blacks and Mycroft his one dash of deep violet color. And now, as Sherlock has climbed up and back down this whole damn mountain, he thanks his brother a third time.
"You're welcome," the other Holmes replies, seemingly as unmoved by the youngers' thanks as he would a thanks from a street vendor. But the perspective of a pedestrian watching a street purchase is likely not a Holmes, and therefore does not hear the sincere nuances in Mycroft's voice or the slight softening of his facial features.
Sherlock dips his head in acknowledgement, then resumes his usual arrogant posture as if nothing had passed between the two. With a click of the door's open and close, he is gone.
Honestly, Mycroft has no idea what is inside the envelope. To his disappointment, there is no way it is food – a cookie would not fit, and besides, there are no chocolate stains on the white material. The paper of the envelope is plain, specifically designed to give nothing away. Which, of course, tells him that his brother handled this envelope himself. The top flap isn't flat and the triangle is misaligned from the middle.
He can deduce nothing more from the envelope, so he opens and upends it. Inside is a white object that clatters loudly onto the table and a small sheet of paper that serenely flutters after its counterpart. Mycroft mentally discards the object for a moment – some sort of cylindrical objects with grooves that he will fully analyze later – and picks up the note, expecting to see lines and lines of his brother's curling text. Instead, there is only one word, the "r" at the end finishing the word with a dramatic flourish and sincerity bleeding through the text.
Brother.
Mycroft arches one impeccable eyebrow. He has not been called by that title with any modicum of sincerity or affection – by anyone – for a number of years. Whisking the thought away, he reaches for the fallen cylinder, training his attention on it only after once again folding the paper neatly along the crease and carefully replacing it in its envelope.
Mycroft only needs spend a millisecond or so identifying the object, now that he focuses all of his considerable brainpower in its direction. It is a chess piece, unmistakably a rook. A significant amount of attention has been lavished on it in its recent past. It fairly sparkles in the admittedly dim lighting of Mycroft's office (he reaches absently toward the lamp and turns up the brightness, making a mental note to keep the brightness there); several of the edges of the rook's crown have been resharpened until he nearly cuts a pudgy finger as he draws the piece closer to his eyes.
Fascinating.
The allegory is quite clear to the elder Holmes's brilliant mind. In their childhood, chess was a favored pastime of the two brothers, and while the two had split black and white evenly between themselves, it is clear that now they are on the same side. Once, Sherlock might have considered himself the black King of the Game. Then Moriarty entered the Game and claimed that title as is own, and forced Sherlock to the position of the white King. Evidently, Sherlock considers him a white Rook, and he finds he does not mind the demotion at all.
Perhaps he appreciates this gift more than the – hem – admittedly handsome Detective Inspector's. Oh, dear, he shall have to reevaluate his priorities. When did sentiment ever become more important to him than glucose and polypeptides?
John stands near the refrigerator of 221B Baker Street, watching with no small amount of amusement as Mrs. Hudson tears Sherlock a new one, utilizing her formidable strength to whack him soundly upside the head with a broom.
"Sherlock!" she near-screeches, and John is convinced in a fit of hilarity that the frequency of her shrieks are audible in the United States. "Where have you been for the past year and a half, child? Everyone's been heartbroken, young man!"
John thinks he's lost hearing in his left ear. Meanwhile, it takes Sherlock five minutes to calm her down enough to make himself heard; and once he accomplishes that, she hugs him and doesn't let go for another two, overjoyed tears staining his purple button-down shirt. Seven minutes pass before he can explain himself, and the trio spend a further ten minutes standing in the kitchen listening before they settle in the living room. Well, Sherlock and John return to their respective chairs (John cannot help but feel a flash of deep, warm satisfaction as he sees Sherlock's chair rightfully filled once more) while Mrs. Hudson flutters and bustles around the room, casting her warm glow from patterned wallpaper to now-crackling fireplace. Then, after ensuring that her precious tenants are secure in their chairs, she exits the room to "make you dears a cuppa."
"Mrs. Hudson has not lost her daunting strength in all these years," Sherlock mutters, faux-disgruntled and rubbing his cranium tenderly.
"What, has that happened before?" John asks incredulously. Sherlock just pouts silently and returns his attention to surveying the room from his chair. The windows are shuttered, leaving the room semi-darkness. Mrs. Hudson has not touched them since he was last here, save to clean them – as well as polish, so it seems, the entire room; Sherlock's old laptop remains open and powered off, no doubt without battery, on the table; and, to his great pleasure, Cromwell, 221 Baker Street's friendly neighborhood cranium, sits untouched on the mantle place. Sherlock rises lithely to inspect his friend closer, plucking the skull from the wood with ease and scrutinizing each crevice. "I see Cromwell has remained in good order, Mrs. Hudson," he says without turning around, and John realizes with a start that Mrs. Hudson has been watching Sherlock flit around the room, affection open in her eyes. She quickly regains her composure.
"Yes, I left him there after you left. Couldn't move him. Though I suppose he would be fairly hard to see, dear, there's no light in this room!" Mrs. Hudson brushes gently by the detective, who sets Cromwell back on the mantelplace just as sunlight floods back in the room. "It's been a good long while since there was decent lighting in this room, dears. I do enjoy seeing it fixed up like this."
"And me as well," John adds.
After throwing the shades open, Mrs. Hudson gently hands two cups of tea to the retired soldier. She remains as perceptive as ever. "I'll leave you two be for a little while. I think it's about time I patched up that third room in 221C, I'd hate to see it go to waste."
With her presence and forgiveness firmly reestablished in 221B Baker Street, she disappears from the room.
A few moments of silence pound like drumbeats through the room, pulling uncomfortable noise from nothing. Neither man knows quite what to say.
Finally, "I hear you've taken up working for Lestrade."
John doesn't need to hear the question to know what Sherlock's asking. He smiles. "A few cases here and there, yeah. Though I must admit, they were a sight better when I was working with you."
The detective's shoulders relax infinitesimally. "I don't suppose he has any interesting cases on file at the moment?"
"None that would challenge you, I'm sure."
"Hmph. I hardly believe anything could be quite as much a challenge as the past twenty months."
"Sherlock…what happened, exactly? While you were…away?"
Sherlock shrugs, as if to dismiss the notion of his trials, and his arrogant façade slips away. "I dismantled a criminal empire," he says matter-of-factly.
"What, on your own?"
"Not quite. I did receive some assistance, however marginal, from our mutual friend in the government."
"I hope you thanked your brother," John ribs good-naturedly, shifting in his armchair so he can rest his arms more comfortably on the armrests.
"I gave credit where it was due," Sherlock sniffs.
John sighs defeatedly. "I hope you at least got him something. A year and a half, Sherlock! That can't have been easy!"
"What else does he have to do with his time, start the third World War?"
John glares. Sherlock holds up both hands in faux-surrender.
A moment's pause. Then, "I never imagined it would be this simple." Sherlock's words are barely more than breaths, lost in the newly warmed atmosphere.
"Sorry?"
John understands instantly that he wasn't meant to hear that, but after some visible steeling, Sherlock plows on anyway. "I didn't expect re-assimilation to be so simple. Easy, I suppose, is a better word. I…" he clears his throat, and his voice switches from soft (vulnerable? John still can't tell) to confident and closed-off. "I did not expect to be so easily reaccepted by the London community."
Which, of course, John knows to mean, I didn't expect you to forgive so easily.
He smiles fondly – Lord, he's been doing quite a bit of that lately, hasn't he? "Oi, Sherlock. I'm not about to hate you forever because you died to save me. Even if the interim was…" he trails off awkwardly, coughs. "Painful."
"I'm sorry."
And John double-takes, because did Sherlock Holmes just apologize to him sincerely? Wow. He should be in the Guinness Book for that, or something.
"I saw you." Turns out Sherlock's not finished, and he's tense as one of those infernal Slinkys in his chair. "After I fell. You were…um. Reaching out." A pause. "I wanted to tell you, but of course," he gestures vaguely upward, "You would have been shot. And. That would have been a Not Good Thing."
Sociopath, my arse.
Oops. Sorry. Make that high-functioning. Better not become Anderson over here.
Yeah, he's rambling now because he really doesn't want to relive that memory. It ranks on the list of his Worst Favorite Memories – yes, he has a List, whoop-dee-doo – and a memory that far up the list that doesn't involve Afghanistan is quite an accomplishment for Captain John Watson. Not that he ever wanted to achieve such a thing.
"I never intended…well. Most of this impromptu venture was not planned, that much I will admit. I had hoped you would not see that, as Ozzie was supposed to prevent you from walking toward me. Unfortunately, my Dr. Watson, you are far too stubborn to stay down," and yes that is certainly affection in his voice.
"Ozzie…was Ozzie the biker?"
"You realized!" Sherlock looks oddly pleased. "Yes, he and several of his friends have assisted me on a number of cases. I cannot solve London on my own, as you have surely realized by now."
"Of course you can't. … So does this make me a god, or something?"
"Preposterous, John."
"No, I mean. You were dead. And then I called you back. Doesn't that make me a god or something? Saving your arse, resurrecting people, the detective business. No, maybe that just makes me a necromancer…"
"John, did you just reference Supernatural?"
John blinks. "You watched Supernatural?"
"It was dull in Europe!"
"Some people would kill for a chance to visit Europe, Sherlock."
"Details," Sherlock responds, waving his hand vaguely and smiling faintly. He sits back in his chair, tension unknotting in his shoulders. His eyes close, the embodiment of serenity. Absurdly, John is reminded of that one Disney song that his recent ladyfriend, Mary, would hum to while child-watching. Hercules, he believes the song is from. I will find my hero's welcome right where I belong, are those the lyrics?
In either case, John thinks, looking at the Detective sitting across from him, they are remarkably apt. Perhaps Sherlock has not yet been hailed as a hero yet, but what with the novel John is planning to write, who knows how he will be perceived by generations in the future?
Two weeks in the future finds Sherlock, John and Lestrade back in Lestrade's office. Accompanying them are Anderson and Donovan; Sherlock spied some marks of grief on both, twelve days ago, when they were reunited after the Fall. Despite the inevitable awkwardness of one party believing they were responsible for the death of the other, all three are now on fairly good terms.
(As in, they're no longer trying to get the others fired.)
(It's promising, okay?)
"All right, gentlemen," Lestrade begins in a brisk tone. "No fighting. No quibbling. This is detective work. If I hear about any misdemeanors, anything I don't like, I will find you. Am I understood?
"Good. Now. We have a new case and, thanks to the astonishingly quick approval we have received from our new Head Inspector, Sherlock is officially an open resource. So be nice, you lot.
"New case, about a poor bloke named Langdale Pike. Quite an odd case – thought you'd like it, Sherlock. Guy got on a train, down by Bristol, late at night. Not many witnesses. Apparently, they went through a tunnel. Train's lights were out, so they couldn't see anything for about two minutes; then, when they came back up, he was dead. Case's funny because of what the guy was wearing – he had on six watches, and nobody can tell us why.
"You up for it?"
Sherlock glances around the room, at the two detectives, one inspector, and one friend.
Thirty-five hours later, the Yard has their criminal, and London has its Detective back where he should be, with his blogger by his side.