A/N: Hi! Just establishing the timeline; this is after the Blind Banker but before the Great Game. Hope you enjoy! Or cry... whichever. Also, bit of a disclaimer: I'm American, so sorry about my potentially awful English terminology and definite lack of "u"s. Do me a favor and ignore them?
"Mycroft?"
Sherlock stood to his full height, hearing the name having pulled his attention completely away from the crime scene in front of him. Lestrade was the one to have said it.
"What are you doing here?" The DI asked.
"I need to speak to my brother, urgently and privately if you would." Mycroft's voice was just as firm as it always was.
Sherlock and John traded looks, satisfied to see the other just as confused about the entire situation. Lestrade caught their eye and motioned for them to join him. Better meet with Mycroft away from the crime scene.
"Brother mine," Mycroft greeted. "I need to speak with you. It's about the May affair."
Sherlock froze abruptly. He hadn't been moving around before, but now there was a stiff stillness as if he'd suddenly become one of the many corpses he observed to solve cases. "Where?"
"My car?" Mycroft offered.
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. That was enough to unnerve John. "No."
Mycroft looked around. "There?" He pointed to the hotel they stood in front of.
"Sure." Sherlock agreed, beginning to walk that way.
Mycroft lowered his head so as to be heard when he also lowered his voice. "I may not be able to confirm his return tonight, Detective Inspector," he told Lestrade, before looking to John. "You may want to follow us in, but... don't be in the same room."
John, for his part, had never seen Mycroft so grim and sad at once. He hadn't seen a lot of Mycroft Holmes, but whatever he was telling Sherlock obviously wasn't good.
Both John and Lestrade watched Mycroft follow Sherlock into the hotel foyer through a large set of glass doors.
John hesitated, giving Greg a concerned glance, before tailing them.
Upon entering the building, John saw a door close that was probably to some sort of parlor. He moved to stand beside it, waiting so he was near if needed but remembering Mycroft's request not to follow them to the same room. John was listening more out of concern than legitimate respect for the government official. He was still salty about the whole kidnapping thing that had happened when he first met Sherlock a few months prior. And why had Mycroft suggested his presence and not Lestrade's? What did the elder Holmes think would happen?
It was only a few seconds later that there was a deafening crash.
John's heart could have torn through his skin as he threw open the door. There was broken glass scattered across the polished wood of the floor, something dripping from the bar. Mycroft was holding Sherlock up by his arms, helping him sit on one of the stools.
"What happened?" John asked, rushing forward and ignoring the cacophony of his heart and the crunching glass.
"Help," was all Mycroft could say, grunting slightly under the effort of holding his brother upright.
John got behind the Consulting Detective and supported his back, reaching a hand for a pulse. It was racing. "What happened?" He repeated, more insistent.
"I had to deliver bad news. He was pacing, I was talking, he stumbled into the counter and knocked a tall bottle off of the bar." Mycroft fired at a rapid pace. "I don't believe he's going into shock but he did rather quickly retreat into his mind palace."
John saw that Mycroft still seemed strained in worry, but all John could do was monitor his friend – breathing was accelerated but not dangerous, heart rate the same as that.
After a moment, Sherlock released a heavy sob, sagging in his seat. John stumbled slightly as the detective's weight was completely removed from him.
Mycroft had pulled his younger brother forward into an intense and strong embrace. The curly head of dark hair tucked into his shoulder and Sherlock's arms simply sagged down toward the floor. Mycroft clung tightly to him, his hands pressed solidly against Sherlock's back.
And Sherlock cried.
John stood there, in a complete lack of understanding, feeling distressed for his friend and concern for his wellbeing, while also noting in horror that this was the most John had ever seen Mycroft touch Sherlock. John hadn't even seen them shake hands let alone embrace. This was out of character for both of them.
But it was so obvious at that moment that they were brothers, and that Mycroft cared about his younger sibling just as much as Sherlock trusted him.
Sherlock's hands slowly lifted to hook around the back of Mycroft's shoulders. His knuckles turned white from the grip they had there.
Mycroft's face was stone, not a single emotion breaking through the cracks. And that was how it was until Sherlock began to calm and finally spoke.
"I need to go."
Mycroft's mask immediately shattered, and John saw a moment of vulnerability in the older Holmes he hoped to never see again. "I know. I've arranged it."
"When?" Sherlock asked into his shoulder.
"Three hours."
Nothing in response. Then a deep breath, the inhale shakier than the exhale.
Sherlock slowly pulled away from his brother, straightening his shoulders. John took a step backward, the glass crunching underneath his feet.
The Consulting Detective's head was lowered. "Can you explain it to him?"
Mycroft looked heartbroken at the exhaustion in his brother's voice, but he glanced to John. The doctor was nearing panic, and the older Holmes didn't hold it against him, given the unexplained circumstances in which he'd found himself. "I don't think I can, brother mine."
Sherlock didn't respond at first, but then he laughed. It was a hollow, broken sound. "Oh." He lifted his chin and turned in the stool to face John.
His friend was looking on in tar-thick concern, sympathy already present before Sherlock had even uttered a word. "My… someone died. There was an incident, earlier today." He sniffed. "I need to go to America to…" Sherlock's throat closed, stinging painfully as he tried to swallow. He rubbed angrily at his red eyes that were once again brimming with tears.
John grabbed the detective's wrists gently, concerned his friend was hurting himself. "Hey, it's all right – it's fine."
"No, it isn't." Sherlock corrected immediately, allowing John to hold his hand still. "It isn't and I need to… I need to go to America to attend a funeral."
John seemed floored by something. "Whose funeral, Sherlock?"
The man took a halting breath. "Samantha May Holmes." He gave John a shaky smile. "My adopted daughter."
John felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. "Your… your what?"
Sherlock removed his hand from John's grasp. "My daughter. Adopted."
John looked around, not seeing anything as his brain tried to comprehend the information he'd just been given. "Oh. And she… she died." John felt his heartbreak all over again. "Oh, Sherlock."
The detective waved a hand in the air dismissively. "None of your concern. You didn't know she existed until just now."
"But Sherlock…" John couldn't comprehend the pain of the man in front of him. It must have been immense. "Your daughter."
Sherlock's face contorted into something akin to agony before he buried it in his hands again. Mycroft's hand lifted as if to be placed on Sherlock's shoulder, but a moment before, Mycroft hesitated and decided against it.
"Do you remember anything she wanted?" Mycroft asked softly.
It was a long moment before Sherlock answered. "Cremation. And to not be buried where…" Sherlock swallowed thickly, obviously trying to reign in his emotions. He swore softly. "I'm a mess."
And John felt he had every right to be.
"Anything else?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock shook his head. "That's all."
"I'll get it arranged." Mycroft hesitated. "Did she want her ashes spread or buried?"
Sherlock seemed to think about it. "She never said."
"What do you think she would have wanted?"
The detective looked ancient as he looked at the floor. "Not buried. Claustrophobic."
John felt like he was intruding on something incredibly private. Something nearing intimate. Yes, he considered himself and Sherlock friends, as they'd been through quite a few life-threatening situations even though they'd only known each other for a few months. But this was something beyond what they'd already faced. This was... darker. Vulnerable. Painful. All at once.
And it was not something he ever expected Sherlock to willingly allow him into.
Only a few minutes later, John and Mycroft were at either of Sherlock's arms, not touching him but almost protecting. Guarding him as they exited the parlor and then the building. They were quiet and most of the scene had already been cleared up. One of the few officers remaining that cared enough to spare them more than a look was Detective Inspector Lestrade.
The DI made eye contact with John, who tried to smile reassuringly but it seemed to only put Greg on edge. John would phone him later. He had more important things to worry about now.
They did get into Mycroft's car, without a single objection from Sherlock. He merely slid into a seat and stared at where his hands rested in his lap. John watched worriedly, trading a look of question with Mycroft who had no obvious comforts to give.
The drive to 221B was made without a single word spoken. When they got out of the vehicle, Sherlock stumbled up to the door without even looking at his brother.
John, however, did look back to Mycroft, who was still in the vehicle. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me, Dr. Watson," Mycroft told him plainly. And he left the statement there, with no explanation, driving off.
John heard a rattle and a muttered swear before facing the door again.
Sherlock had dropped his keys.
Surprised by that fact alone, John watched mutely as the Consulting Detective lifted the set from the step and tried once more to insert the correct key into the lock. There were no issues that time and the door slid open.
They both made their way upstairs, still not speaking a word. John decided he wouldn't pressure the detective into saying anything, instead leaving him to grieve in whatever length of silence he liked.
But then, softly, without turning around, Sherlock called for him. "John?"
"Yes?" The doctor responded immediately, trying not to ask every question pressing into the back of his teeth.
A pause. "Will you go with me?"
That hadn't been what John expected. "To America?"
"Yes."
"Of course."
Sherlock turned half-way, looking at John more over his shoulder than directly. "We leave for the airport in forty minutes. Pack what you need."
A/N: Thanks for reading :) Feedback is nice, but I understand if you don't feel like leaving a review. I'll be back with the next chapter as soon as it's cooked up.
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