Three years.
Three years of hiding; running; fighting.
It was exhausting; debilitating, but it was a means to an end. The elimination of danger. Danger to his friends. Danger to Mrs Hudson; to Lestrade; to John. The elimination of danger to John; his John. The one "end goal" that kept Sherlock going; kept him motivated; kept him alive.
Every day was a day closer to going home. Back to Baker Street; back to his friends; back to John. He knew John was no longer living at 221b but he couldn't help wondering; hoping that John wouldn't hesitate to return there when Sherlock... no, he couldn't think it. Not yet. He still had one thing left to do; one loose end to tie up. He needed to get this over with and then he could return; to London; to Baker Street; to John.
Mycroft had been sparing with his details about John's well-being, but Sherlock had been able to deduce much more than had been shared.
"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock", Mycroft reminded him. Often. Too often.
Sherlock wondered at the futility of that statement. What was he doing all this for - chasing, hunting, fixing; killing - if not because he cared? Maybe it was Mycroft's way of showing he disapproved, but Sherlock had been grateful for the support his brother had given him since his 'death'. It hadn't escaped Sherlock's attention, however, how anxious Mycroft sounded - oh, he tried to hide it, of course, but, when it came to one another, the Holmes brothers were really too good at reading between the lines - each time he enquired after John, and it was this disquiet that led to Sherlock's sense of urgency.
Four days later and Mycroft receives a text.
Three words.
"It is over."
He makes calls; arrangements; pulls strings, and, within 48 hours, Sherlock is standing in his brother's office; impatient; fidgety; anxious to get home. To get back to 'normality'; to whatever it was he and John had - or have left.
Mycroft looks up, grimly, from his laptop. Clearing his throat, he engages his battle-weary brother, eye to eye, in a way that makes Sherlock feel more than a little uncomfortable.
"Sherlock..." he begins, hesitating; as if unsure how to continue, "Sherlock, there are... 'concerns'... about John."
Sherlock leans across the desk, reaching far into Mycroft's personal space with ease; face to face; almost nose to nose. "Mycroft, where is he?" he demands. "NOW!"
Mycroft nods. "There is a car waiting", he imparts, wearily, as Sherlock turns and sweeps out of the office, without so much as a backwards glance.
Mycroft turns his eyes back to the screen; the discreetly hidden camera; the grainy but distinct outline of Doctor John Watson in his flat, and he winces at what he sees there. He sees sadness; desperation. He sees something else too. Decision; determination; resolve.
At that moment, Mycroft sees the future.
As he watches the doctor straighten up and stand, he only hopes that Sherlock can get there in time to change it.