Chapter 1: Night call

I've been dragging around from the end of your coat for two weeks

Everywhere you go is swirling, everything you say has water under it

You're the tall kingdom I surround, think I better follow you around

You might need me more than you think you will

- The National: Brainy

"I do recognize a certain risk in assuming you would not fail to see the comedic side of the situation."

John glared at Sherlock as he stepped out of the taxi in his friend's wake. "The comedic side of you being a royal arse, making be believe we were about to get blown to high heaven along with half of Westminster? Don't stretch your luck, mate."

Sherlock opened the front door of 221b Baker Street, John trailing behind. He paused by the stairs, looking over his shoulder. "I did apologize."

John cleared his throat. "You said 'sorry', then told me I'd looked a right fool and then you laughed your ass off. Some apology. I take what I get, though." It was such a strange feeling, watching Sherlock, supposedly dead, bounce up the stairs at though nothing – none of it, not Moriarty, not the rooftop – had happened, as if no time at all had passed. It did not feel like a grand reunion, more of a quiet return to form. Save the city, have a cuppa. The only thing reminding John of the pain he still very much carried was the ring box, weighing heavily in his coat pocket. Somehow Mary had seemed to understand, seemed to somehow get it, and not be mad for either John or his strange friend for ruining every girl's dream moment. What John felt was mostly relief and admiration for the woman. Maddening rage towards Sherlock had not yet disappeared altogether, but he'd much rather have Sherlock back and feel all this than try to continue filling the void he'd left behind when he disappeared. He was so glad Mary had now met Sherlock as well – John had always felt no told tales could do the man justice. Sherlock just had to be experienced first-hand to be believed.

An hour later, both men had changed into clean clothes and were nursing a steaming beaker by the fireplace. John finally decided to ask the question that had been burning in his mind. "Where were you?"

Sherlock carefully placed his still half-full mug onto the coffee table, stretched his legs and stood up. "That's a question for another night, John." Without a further explanation, he briskly walked to his bedroom and banged the door closed, leaving a slightly bewildered John sipping his now lukewarm tea. Had he said something wrong? Not that he could think of. On the other hand, a strangely acting Sherlock was a healthy Sherlock. Although he did look a bit… Pasty? Paler than usual? Did not seem as borderline-manically giddy as he usually did after a successful case? John waited, listening for noises from the bedroom, half expecting Sherlock to burst out at any minute.

Nothing. Not a peep could be heared from behind the closed door. Something about it was causing John to worry. Taking a deep breath, realizing the breach of privacy he was committing but deciding the strange night would not turn much stranger with such an act, he peered through the keyhole.

The room was dark, merely a sliver of moonlight coming through the open curtains. Sherlock lay on the bed, still in his day clothes, asleep, motionless like the dead. The only thing that made John certain he wasn't unconscious in a more pathological manner was the steadily rising chest.

John smiled. Awol for two years, triumphant return, terrorist plot single-handedly foiled – anyone would be exhausted. Maybe it wasn't such a strange thing then, the usually chronically and severely insomniac Sherlock just stumbling into his room and literally collapsing into a comatose heap.

John found it rather difficult to accomplish falling asleep that evening. His thoughts kept returning to the restaurant, to Mary, to the abandoned underground car, to the graveyard – to the whole strange mess that somehow seemed to be diminishing in severity every minute he spent with the resurrected Sherlock. How long would the bliss last until the next danger, the next tragedy? He did accept that there was a price to pay for being Sherlock Holmes' best friend. The man was practically a walking, talking reckless death wish. Axe murderer on the loose? Pursue! Bomb in a box car – let's go! Using hapless bystanders for hellhound bait – excellent idea! Still, now John had had a taste of what if would actually be like to lose him, to lose the tornado that had shook his miserable existence into whole new swirly patterns.

John also wondered, like he often had, what it was really like inside that tornado. Did things ever shake its foundations like they did John's and everyone elses?

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a text message. His initial guess would have been Mary, although it was quite late for that. Well past midnight.

DOWNSTAIRS. DO BRING AN UMBRELLA. MH

John was not surprised. Mycroft was undoubtedly pleased for Sherlock's return for many reasons. One of them would be that now he had a legitimate reason for continuing his hobby of spying on both his brother and John Watson. John decided he was in a good enough mood to bear the man's antics. He pulled on his coat, decided sternly not to pick up said umbrella, and headed downstairs.

He was already there, lingering in front of Speedy's dark windows, smoking.

"Those things'll kill you, you know," John quipped.

Mycroft feigned shock. "Why thank you for the advice, Dr Holmes. With so many lethal things in my possession, I had no idea my cornershop purchase would provide the most hazard."

"Sherlock thinks sarcasm is the lowest form of wit." John leaned onto the Speedy's doorway. It was, indeed, raining.

"A banal proverb my dear brother hardly came up with himself."

"You know what I'm going to ask so spare me and spill, Mycroft. Not a formal visit, I presume."

Mycroft stumped his cigarette. "Afraid not. For those I usually require the presence of Sherlock. I came to see you. With a friendly piece of advice and a warning."

John did not reply. Mycroft meddling into their affairs? Must be Tuesday.

Mycroft glanced up to the dark, damp skies. "What it must feel like to breathe this polluted air again, enjoy the lovely weather. My brother loves London, you know. He thinks it's some sort of a twisted organic thing that gives birth to all sorts of dragons and ghouls."

"Stalling, Mycroft. I'm getting cold, and it's bloody late and tomorrow I have to make up to Mary for the lousy date we recently had."

"I'll wager Mary may have been a bit excited to witness your assertive side, John. I hope you did not break Sherlock's nose. It would not please him to be forced to see the help of a plastic surgeon." Mycroft shook water droplets off his umbrella, looking thoughtful. "How is my brother, in your opinion?"

"For a dead man he looks fine to me. Sleeping rather well, which is rare but I'm not complaining. Better this than Paganini and book-case reorganizing at four a.m. Does look thinner, though."

"Emaciated." Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock has not shared tales of his absence with you, am I correct?"

John shrugged. "It's early days yet. I'm sure he will, whenever he finds a quiet enough moment."

"Those memories are not pleasant. I wasn't privy to all of it – my network has its limitations – but what I did see and assist him in getting out of was not good. I am certain sharing those memories will not come easy." Mycroft flashed John a rather regretful smile. "You see, in order to function in society, my brother needs a mirror of normalcy, someone who can shake him off it when his cogs start turning too frantically. Greg Lestrade was that at some point, university pals at another, you more lately. For the past two years, he's had none of that. To make matters rose, he may even have dabbled with some controlled substances to continue functioning in environments without normal sustenance."

John frowned. "He's had a relapse?"

"Not quite. Hasn't used anything for months as far as I can tell. Luckily the whole thing seemed pragmatic rather than recreational." John was surprised to find Mycroft looking a bit apologetic, of all things. "What I'm saying is that even cold, calculating Sherlock can be affected by the harsh realities of his existence. He was always the sensitive one."

John stifled a laugh. That adjective could hardly be used of the Sherlock he knew.

Mycroft seemed slightly indignant, as though John was not taking him seriously enough. "I am telling you, there might be… Residual effects, of what has gone on with my brother. Residual effects that might manifest themselves in surprising ways. Ways an untrained eye would not realize."

"You consider me an untrained eye, then?"

Mycroft smiled that slightly crooked, distant smile of his. "Quite the contrary. You might be the only one who knows the adult version of him well enough to notice. Look closely at the small potatoes, John. You might not like what you find."