Sanctuary
Disclamer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes. He was created by Arthur Conan Doyle. I also do not own the BBC series Sherlock. I do not make any money by writing this story. Please do not sue me.
Genre: Friendship, General
Dedication: For Milwaukee Meg
They ran through the streets of London, as they had done so many times before, drunk on adrenaline and the gloriously uncomplicated joy of the chase. Doctor Watson flashed his friend a fascinated smile. The sheer rightness of the situation echoed in John´s bones, this was what he was meant to do. And for the briefest of moments, there was the sound of hansom cabs on cobbles, the soft glow of gas light and the lingering scent of tea. Then there was only the velvety silence of the night.
John Watson sat down in his favorite armchair in the living room of the Baker street flat, still slightly flushed from the chase, but there was a happy, fluttery feeling in his heart that refused to go away. A far as memories went, this one would become dog-eared and still vibrant despite the passage of time. Straightening the various research papers and listening to the faint sounds of Mrs. Hudson pottering around in her flat as he picked up his notebook, which contained various notes about the cases. Some were important to the solving of the mystery and there were also descriptions of landscapes and people. The dull ache in his shoulder intensified as he wrapped himself in a thick blanket to try to make himself warm.
Earlier that day, Sarah had told him that she had been going through his blog posts and informed him that this life he lead now would not last. His body would not be able to endure endless chases, and he would inevitably become tired of solving crimes. Perhaps this was nice now, but such periods in life as this were to be short and looked at with fondness later in life. They should not last a lifetime. John had stared back unflinchingly in silence, not trusting himself to say anything.
The peaceful sounds of the rain and the howling wind outside were interrupted by the faint whoosh of the bathroom door opening and the echoes of footsteps on the parquet. John´s mind very quickly shifted gears from assuming that Sherlock had come home before he did to the potential danger of Moriarty. Every muscle in his body was tensed and all signs of fatigue were gone from his face.
Mycroft Holmes stared back at the doctor with a carefully blank expression, two bottles of shampoo in his right hand and a stack of books underneath his arm. In the soft, amber light of the lamps, the government man looked almost friendly.
John was going to say something, preferably smart but the older Holmes brother just nodded in a respectful manner to him and walked over to the sofa. Of course, Mycroft Holmes was the sort of person that could go wherever he pleased due to the fact that he radiated confidence and subtle authority like a supernova. The expensive suits and the umbrella helped, but people rarely took much notice of his appearance, for they would look into his eyes and see the power and fierce intellect that resided there. This sometimes irked John, who was often regarded as a harmless, unimportant and sweet natured. It probably had something to do with his knitted sweaters.
The books were placed on a small table beside the sofa and Mycroft halted for a moment, a sad, almost nostalgic expression crossed his face and his shoulders dropped ever so slightly. Then he looked at John, who knew very well that this man was much more dangerous and powerful than Moriarty could ever hope to be. But he also knew that in the end, Mycroft was the safety net, he was the one who you hoped would show up, noiselessly, when all hope was lost and make everything okay again. Perhaps the books were some kind of a peace offering, a hopeful message of a rekindling of a friendship with his little brother.
John, ever the doctor, watched the older Holmes brother stumble slightly, most likely due to exhaustion or hunger and then head for the door. There were no sarcastic remarks or his usual statements with so many layers of meaning that you did not fully understand him until he had been out of your sight for at least ten minutes. He simply bid the doctor good night and closed the door softly behind him by using the umbrella instead of his hand.
Before he fully realized what was happening, the shorter man had grabbed the door handle and forced the door open. Mycroft turned around, leaning heavily on his umbrella in the darkness of the hallway. His eyes were locked on John´s face, most likely seeing things about John that he was only vaguely aware of himself. John needed reassurance, proper reassurance in this mad, amazing life he had stumbled upon.
"Mycroft-" the doctor said hurriedly. But Mycroft just waved him off and stared silently at him for a few seconds. Then he smirked and turned his back on John.
The door slammed shut and John headed back into the flat, feeling a bit bewildered and tried to shake it off. There was barely time to separate the small note from the top book and the bottom of the smaller shampoo bottle until the door was pushed open by Sherlock Holmes. The great detective strode inside; pulling off his rain soaked scarf, shrugging of the heavy coat and hanging it on the clothing and hat stand. Doctor Watson did not understand why they needed a hat stand, neither of them wore hats, but there was still some part of him that insisted that, yes, they did, all sorts of hats, preferably top hats and deerstalkers. This part of him also informed him that he should wear tweed suits and that for some reason, which he could not explain; that Sherlock should never ever to Switzerland.
The doctor felt Sherlock´s eyes on him as he scraped the partly dried shampoo of the note that had been on top of the pile of books so it could be read. John looked back, almost waiting for Sherlock to say something about the case, or the strange ways of humanity. But there was strange fragility in Sherlock´s expression as he breathed in the fading scent of honey cupcakes that Mrs. Hudson had made for them and the lingering smell of tea. Then he picked up the shampoo coated note and leafed through one of the books his brother had left behind with a slight smile. John grabbed his shampoo bottle before Sherlock would start experimenting with its contents again and then sat down on the sofa.
He knew now, deep in his bones, that it did not matter what the future would swing at him, a part of him would always be here in Baker Street with Sherlock Holmes.
One by one, the lights in the flat were turned off and the faint, almost fragile sounds of someone playing the violin reached the ears of a dark figure, which disappeared into the night.
Author´s note: Please remember to review, it makes me happy.