It would be Mycroft. Besides the fact that it only made sense for it to be Mycroft, it would still be Mycroft. John had been headed home from the clinic, that ordinary, drizzly Thursday, when that godawful (beautiful) car had pulled up next to him. As he slowed to double-check despite himself—no, there was no way he was getting in if it really was that car—the same woman swung the door open. She looked older, now, with a newer phone and a different shade of lipstick. How could he notice the lipstick? It's not as though he'd ever noticed noticing it before.
Before. Before hell on earth had come and the dead walked his dreams each night. Before Sherlock fucking Holmes had jumped off a sodding building.
It was while he was still racking his brain for curses (if he owed Afghanistan anything, it was his swear arsenal) that he found himself bending through the open door of the limo. He looked at the woman with questions practically foaming at his mouth, but her carefully blank countenance brought him up short. He sighed, and dropped into the seat with as much anger as he could muster. Shit.
There was nothing good that could come of this. He desperately crushed the even more desperate hope that stabbed through his lungs, as he tried to reason out what was happening. He had seen Sherlock's grave. He'd seen it so many times it made him sick to think of it, of all those hours and all that empty waiting. Sherlock Holmes was dead; and with him had gone the best part of John Watson.
The car wound its way through the city as John looked out the window, trying to align the passing streets to his growing mental map of the city. He didn't know it like Sherlock had; London was nobody's if not his; but perhaps, if he could know a little of it, then there would still be a little of the genius in the world.
It had killed John. Obviously, as Sherlock would sneer. He closed his eyes, allowed himself to hear the baritone echo through his head. It was fading, of course. There were only certain words he could hear in Sherlock's voice, now, and he suspected that these would soon be gone as well. Two years was a long time and the erosion of a busy world was swift; already the country had forgotten everything, all but including that final fall. And that was fitting, he reminded himself yet again, because Sherlock Holmes was dead.
He opened his eyes and tried to fit his brain to the city before him, but he couldn't help himself. Not with the panic growing in his stomach for the first time in a long time. John had been a good griever. A soldier. He had carried the pain like a new scar, compartmentalized it and held it and suffered without complaint. Even as he had gone back to London from the war, he cleared out of 221B (even though he knew Mrs. Hudsen had yet to work up the nerve to rent it) and returned to the world of the mundane. The unspeakably, insanely mundane: for it was in the past few months he'd begun finally to understand Sherlock's boredom. He had been unable to bear going back to Scotland Yard and, if he was honest with himself, he wouldn't have been much use. But if those around him thought that he had moved on, if they thought for a single second that this lump had ceased hurting, they were wrong.
He shook his head and rubbed his nose to brush away his mental ramblings. Fear touched him as he recognized the industrial zone near the Thames. For what could Mycroft possibly want him? Had…had something happened to him, as well? Much as he sometimes loathed the man, the thought of losing that final link to the dead was horrifying, in a way that caught him off guard. Sherlock had killed Moriarty, but what of his empire? Surely within that web there must be those who wanted Mycroft dead?
Don't be ridiculous, he chided himself. If Mycroft was dead or seriously injured, he couldn't have summoned John as he did. Besides, what were the odds? Still, John couldn't shake the certainty that something was wrong. Why else had he been swept up off the street? But then again, what else was there to go wrong?
Mercifully, the car stopped and interrupted his circular musings. The woman, who had yet to look up, flipped the door open and gestured vaguely at the second floor of the warehouse there. John knew this place; it was the same place he had met with Irene all those seemingly decades ago. Damn you, woman, he thought, flushing slightly at the recollection. You were supposed to fuck with Sherlock's head, not mine. If you hadn't come butting in, everything would have stayed the same...
Cautiously he pulled himself out of the vehicle and started toward the building. There were no other cars in sight and he could see no one, yet he knew he was being watched. It wasn't until he neared the top of the steps that he saw Mycroft. John walked up almost to him before the elder Holmes deigned to look up.
"Please," he said, gesturing to the chair he'd almost missed. John sat and waited for several moments as Mycroft finished the text he was sending. Finally, he looked up to regard John expectantly, waiting for the usual outpouring of questions. John would give him no such satisfaction, and merely watched him in stony silence. After a brief battle of wills, Mycroft sighed and looked back to his phone. "You would like to know why you're here today." John said nothing, but watched Mycroft in growing alarm as he realized the Holmes brother was genuinely uncomfortable.
"What's wrong?" John leaned forward, despite himself. "What's happened?" Mycroft reluctantly looked back up, and seemed on the verge of speech when he was cut off by the impossible.
Sherlock Holmes had been gone from London for a long time, if two years could be termed as such on a planet that had billions already. He arrived in town around 11:00, or with plenty of time before John would be off of work. For once, he would let the doctor finish his shift—this was not, he suspected, to be a quick affair.
Sentiment, he snorted to himself, ignoring the fear that hollowed his chest. Holmes walked the streets for a while, almost aimlessly, acquainting himself with subtle differences in smell and sounds. Almost unconsciously, his feet led him back to Baker Street; almost automatically, he found himself at Mrs. Hudson's door. As he hesitated—he had, after all, deigned to notice the scare his presence might give her—she opened the door, and may or may not have hit him with an umbrella that he was too shocked to block. And afterwards, he most definitely did not hold her while she cried, and there was no tea whatsoever imbibed.
Even after leaving Mrs. Hudson with a renewed lease and several scones he had been unable to deflect, there was time left. He briefly considered going to Scotland Yard, but he decided he at least owed John that much. His partner would be the first (well, second, now) to see the newly returned Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock paused in front of a display window to inspect himself critically for the first time in months. His clothes were much the same as always, although cut, naturally, to this year's style; the hair the same, and the basic facial features. There were differences, however—the circles under the eyes and the faint powder burn on his left temple were new. Under his suit there were other scars and marks; two from his journeys and the rest from the infamous fall. Yet it would have to do.
Out already of viable alternatives, the detective reluctantly headed toward Mycroft. He needed his microscopes back and, more importantly perhaps, arrangements must be made for John.
And so it came that he was standing behind a doorway in a warehouse, waiting for John Watson. Mycroft seemed to believe that the best way to break the news would be gently; and by gently, he meant going through all of these ridiculous charades to preserve John's poor little head.
Sherlock stood quietly and watched as John got out of the car and walked toward the building, limping just noticeably, looking up with rigid hands and a wary expression. Sherlock could hear his breathing (only a shade faster than normal, but forced; he was obviously manually controlling respiration to maintain command. Of fear?) as he walked into the room and was rebounded to the only other chair. The conversation was just audible beyond the wall, but it was evident when John spoke again that he was terrified. In a John sort of way, of course, barely letting it show—but if Sherlock knew anything it was John Watson. He had genuinely meant to stay until summoned, but this was, frankly, absurd.
"That's enough," said Sherlock as he walked into the room. As Sherlock Holmes walked into the fucking room. John jumped up and tripped over the chair as he backpedaled.
"No," he asserted, regaining his balance but continuing backwards, "No, that's not possible. You're dead."
"Did you want me to be?" Sherlock gave him the barest hint of a smile.
"No," said John, "But that's beside the point. What the fuck, what the fuck you are DEAD."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Evidently not, John."
John stopped walking; the words, the expressions were too real for this to be some sort of sick joke. Sherlock Holmes was in the room with him, standing not twenty feet away.
"You were dead," he repeated. "No, you were dead. I was there, Sherlock. I was there and I saw you dead. I felt your pulse and it wasn't there!"
Sherlock sighed. "John."
"NO!" shouted John. "No. Stop right there," he said when the genius took a step forward. Sherlock gave Mycroft a helpless look, but the elder Holmes simply scowled at him.
"I am sorry, John," Sherlock began but the doctor interrupted him.
"Sorry? Sorry? You were dead for two years and now you think you can just-"
"It was necessary," roared Sherlock. John looked at him, stunned and angry as he continued. "I apologise for the pain, Doctor Watson, but I cannot and will not apologise for the deed. It was disappear or watch you die."
John stared blankly for a minute, but anger won out. "And by what brilliant deduction did you think," he hissed in a crude mockery of Sherlock's own voice, "that I wanted to live?"
There was a pause. "You're here now," said Sherlock quietly.
"Because unlike you, I think about the consequences of my actions. I think about other people, and I care, Sherlock, incomprehensible as that may seem to you."
They stood there staring at each other, John in cooling anger and Sherlock obviously struggling to hide his hurt.
John turned and took a few steps, rubbing his face with his hands. There was pressure building, all around him, within his ears. He brushed at his jumper, wanting to pass out and vomit and punch the shit out of Sherlock, and utterly unable to move. He just…after several seconds he took a step forward, and then went out the door.
Sherlock continued to stare after John, trying to control the rare emotional storm that was wracking him. He hadn't…the stupid, bloody, irrational…he looked over at Mycroft. "Give them to me. Now."
Mycroft scowled at him. "I would say I told you so…" Sherlock just stood there, waiting. Mycroft sighed and pulled out the pack of cigarettes. "On," he said, pulling the pack back as Sherlock reached for it, "one condition." Ignoring Sherlock's glare-of-death he continued: "You are going to walk out there. You are going to apologise. You will let him hit you, you will allow him to say things which defy all laws of reason and physics." He allowed his younger brother to snatch the cigarettes. "Fix it."
"Bugger off," spat Sherlock, his ferocity somewhat undermined by his fumbling fingers. Turning his back; "This is none of your business."
"Isn't it always?" Mycroft allowed himself a wan smile. "Call it what you will; helping, meddling—I, for one, have to live with you. God knows I at least know what will happen if he leaves."
Sherlock, who had finally managed to light the damn cigarette, blew smoke in his face. Mycroft gave him a pitying look and stood up. "Your maturity continues to astound, Sherlock." He checked the time on his phone, and straightened his suit. "However, I'm afraid the rest of this lies in your hands; the Iranian situation has reached a point of some urgency. Don't," he warned, cutting his brother off, "fuck this up." Mycroft was gone out a back door before Sherlock could compose a suitable rebuttal.
After puffing angrily for a minute, he walked to the window (well, where there had once been a window) to observe John. The ex-soldier was sitting hands-around-knees on the entryway step, rigidity etched into every line of his body. What was he thinking? Obviously nothing sensible, if his earlier words could be taken as any indication. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and leaned out the window, wrapping his hand around the frame. The past two years had not been kind to John, either.
On a sudden inspiration, he pulled back and walked to the stairs. Conscious that John could hear him, he walked deliberately down, stopping seven or eight steps above his partner. A pause, and then:
"Increased greying of the hair, especially around the nape of the neck. Two new frown lines, one on the forehead and the other on the right side of the mandible, near the lips."
John remained silent, and the baritone continued after a barely perceptible pause.
"Slight hunch in the shoulders—could be straightened by a chiropractor, though no man wearing those socks would ever pay for one. You have not spoken to Harry in the last six months at least, most likely because she's relapsed. White visible around the base of the nails; you've been wearing latex gloves consistently enough that you've given up trying to remove all the powder. You've not had a haircut in approximately three months, so no current love interest." More softly: "And, of course, despite your stubborn refusal to carry a cane, a psychomatic limp in the left leg."
John heard him—felt him, really—God, how did he always manage to fill up a room like that?—but made no response. What was he playing at, the prick? Did he need to lord over John all his human weaknesses? If this was supposed to be an apology, it needed some work.
Behind him, he heard a very un-Sherlock-like sigh, as though he had read his mind. Wouldn't put it past him, the wanker. When Sherlock spoke again, however, his mind went as still as his body.
"Various scars from the staged jump, most notably one running from the left hipbone to the 5th vertebre. An index finger, which, following a fracture was not reset properly and will remain crooked. Minor hearing loss due to prolonged gunfire in confined spaces. A powder burn on the left temple. Two grey hairs."
And just like that, John forgave him. He put his head down on his knees, for all the world appearing to ignore the man behind him. He didn't actually want to forgive the sociopath—wanted to hate him, wanted to never see him again—but, then again, when had he ever had a choice? The thought of going back…it was impossible. He'd done it twice already; at his age, a third time might kill him.
God, what had happened to him?
He chuckled internally. As if he didn't know. He sat there for a spanless time further, in that ridiculous position that pricked numbness through his limbs, content to know Sherlock—sitting also, now—was there. Eventually, however, he realized he still didn't know what to do; and if he still gambled he would bet everything on Sherlock's ineptitude. He rose unsteadily and stamped the pins and needles from his legs, before finally turning to face an impassive Sherlock.
Unsure but needing to be gone, he nodded. It was a natural gesture, not-quite-military, and he left entirely unaware that Sherlock had seen a very different nod two years prior.
Sherlock watched him get into the waiting car, made a precursory attempt to sort through his emotions, and gave it up as rubbish. John was still John, and nothing else really mattered. Sherlock jumped up and strode around the building in the direction of Baker Street, already planning the text he would send. It was only a matter of time.