AN – it's the inevitable remake of the ACD classic – the reunion between detective and blogger.
The Empty House
John gave him one week. One week to not be dead – to answer the impossible plea made at the graveside of his best and dearest friend. Not even the fact that Sherlock was dead could strip him of that title.
Of course, he also gave Sherlock a lot of encouragement over the course of that week. Or perhaps incentive was a better word for it, really. Sherlock was the one who did the grammar and word choice of the two of them – John could speak perfectly well, but he wasn't posh.
Incentive came in the form of John cleaning the kitchen out completely, followed by the other cupboards and storage area's that Sherlock liked to keep his experiments. He packed up the science equipment and stored it in the box room next to his own room and when that didn't bring Sherlock back he went into the consulting detectives bedroom and put away all the knick knacks and objects there before stripping the bed and covering everything with dust sheets.
When that brought no response, he went through the living room, putting away the files and books that Sherlock typically scattered around the room when working. A patient of his ran a well-known music store – a proper one with classical and modern instruments, one that not only sold but also repaired and serviced said instruments too – and she was happy to come along and see to the proper long term storage of Sherlock's violin. John put the case in Sherlock's bedroom, on the middle of the bed, covered with its very own dust sheet. Sherlock's computer went next to it, packed away in a carry case.
He packed his own things too. His books and everything went into boxes, his clothes were divvied up – some for charity, some for storage – and his gear was made ready for storage. Mrs Hudson had already told him that Mycroft had paid for her to store Sherlock's things at Baker Street and confirmed that she wouldn't mind storing John's as well, though she was not happy that he was leaving.
At the end of the week the flat was prepared for a long absence and John stomped off to the Diogenes Club, where he informed the doorman that if Mycroft didn't agree to come see him immediately then John would start singing at the top of his lungs. He proposed to start with a medley of Queen and then possibly segue into something a bit louder, possibly from Metallica.
He was shown directly into a small room and Mycroft appeared only seconds later, a faintly alarmed look on his face.
"My dear John, I assure you that threats were unnecessary," he began in that tone that had always made Sherlock impossible to deal with for hours afterwards.
"Yeah, but it worked," John smiled in reply. It was not a nice smile. The men and women of the Northumberland Fusiliers would have recognised that smile instantly and every last one of them would have ducked for cover. Mycroft seemed to recognise this and fell quiet, which was for the best, really.
"I've come as a courtesy Mycroft," John informed the remaining Holmes' brother, "God knows if your penchant for controlling me extends beyond the death of Sherlock, but I thought I'd give you a sporting chance. You can either arrange for the army to take me back on as a surgeon, or I will march myself off to the nearest Medecins Sans Frontieres office and sign up to work in the most troubled spot I can find."
"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft raised an astonished eyebrow, which was as close to an honest reaction as John had ever seen in the man. John folded his arms and tapped his foot. When no further reaction was forthcoming he gave a short nod and headed for the door.
"A moment, please, Dr Watson," Mycroft called and John stopped, turning to look at his best friend's annoying elder brother. Mycroft gestured to a chair, which John ignored, raising his eyebrows in silent challenge.
"I understood that the discharge from the army was permanent," Mycroft said carefully and John shook his head.
"Only until I retrained or the nerve damage that caused the tremor was resolved. I haven't had a tremor in months and when Sherlock was overseas for three weeks working for you back in January I got my licence to practice surgery reinstated. He didn't know about it and I wasn't going to mention it unless things went pear shaped," John replied. Mycroft looked like he was mentally signing some poor surveillance drones death warrant.
"Very well," Mycroft replied at length, "I will see to it that your commission is reactivated. It will take me several weeks…"
"One," John interrupted, "Or I go work for Doctors Without Borders."
"My dear John, these things do take a little time, even for someone with my contacts…" Mycroft began, condescension dripping everywhere, but John wasn't having that.
"Bollocks," he interrupted again, "One week or off I go, Mycroft. I don't know why you want to continue to control me, but if you want to know where I am and what I'm doing you'll have me back in green at the end of next week."
"Very well," Mycroft looked deeply unhappy, something which would have made Sherlock beam at John with pride and John let himself out quietly.
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