Originally published on Tumblr on 6/23/2016.
John hesitated, his thumb hovering over the button that would connect the call. There was literally no one on the planet he wanted to speak with less, but also, no one else he could turn to. He had to report the theft, but he couldn't take it to the Met. Even if anyone there would speak with him, he'd end up in jail, and would only make Greg's situation worse as well for having known and said nothing. He pushed the button with a grimace. It was answered before the first ring had ended.
"John. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"It's not here, Mycroft. I've looked everywhere, and it's gone. It's been stolen," John said, pacing the sitting room and scrubbing a hand through his hair.
"What has?"
"My … my gun. My sodding gun. It was here last night, but it's not here now."
"There's no record of you having a permit for a firearm, John."
"Don't give me that bullshit, Mycroft. You know damned well that I kept my service weapon, and that I used it to protect Sher-" he choked on the name. "That I used it to keep him safe. Oh, bloody hell. If it's used in a crime, the ballistics will match the cabbie …"
"Was anything else taken?"
"What? No. Nothing," John replied, pausing his pacing and looking around the flat at the clutter of all of Sherlock's things still sitting out, collecting dust that he wouldn't let Mrs Hudson up to clean away. "Nothing else was touched."
"And that doesn't tell you anything?"
"What? Mycroft, do not play your bloody games with me. The gun was here. Last night. And it's not here now. Someone has stolen it."
"How do you know it was there last night?"
"Because I-" John stopped abruptly.
"Because what, John?" Mycroft asked, his tone patient and without a hint of condescension.
"You saw," John replied, swallowing hard. "You were watching, and you saw."
"I was on the way to your flat when I was notified that you'd put the weapon away. It was retrieved this morning, after you left for work," Mycroft replied evenly.
"I should be furious with the invasion of privacy," John said tightly. "You brother is de- He isn't here, and you've no reason, and no right, to be spying on me. Not that 'rights' ever mattered to you."
"I may not have the 'right', but I have every reason."
"Yeah? What's that, then?"
"Whatever it was that pushed him off that roof, John, Sherlock cared about you. I would be failing his memory to let you take your own life if I could stop it."
"You can't, you know. Stop me. If I want to-"
"But you don't, John. You put the gun away."
"I did, yeah. And you still took it away."
"Accidents happen, John, and far more often when alcohol is involved."
"Fuck you, Mycroft."
"I see you've found your anger."
"Bloody right I have, you meddling twat! Where were you when you could have stopped him?" John demanded. "Keep the bloody gun, and keep the fuck away from me."
John threw the phone across the room and watched it smash into the wall. He knew Mycroft was watching, too, or would be. If he wasn't watching live feeds from whatever eyes he had in the flat, he'd see it later. He'd see everything.
John shook his head. He was already drowning in a sea of grief and anger, of regret and anguish. He simply didn't have the capacity to deal with anything more. With paranoia, or resentment. Or gratitude. With the idea that his distress was, if not public, certainly not private.
He was halfway down the stairs before he consciously realized that he wasn't coming back.
He couldn't stay here.