After the Storm

This story directly follows on from Lighting Fires, so it would definitely help to read that first. It's from Sherlock's point of view and will explore his struggles to resume his old life after Reichenbach, as he reflects on his side of the story during Lighting Fires.

I'm slightly unsure how this will develop, so feedback on what you think would be great!

The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle; their modern incarnation to Steven Moffatt/Mark Gatiss. I make no money from this.

The Night

The first thing he'd ever noticed about London was that the city never slept.

He'd been seven years old and his mother had brought him up with her from Sussex for the first time. Ostensibly it was for some high society event – an elaborate tenth birthday party for the daughter of a duke – and she must have wanted a handy child to justify her presence at it. It must have been during term time, as Mycroft would have been away at his boarding school. He couldn't quite recall the circumstances, but, looking back, it was obvious that she wouldn't have been desperate enough to bring him if the older, better behaved child had been available.

The party was a disaster, of course.

Or perhaps it was just a cover – to hide the real purpose of the trip. Perhaps the main point was the man in the expensive suit with his falsely cheerful smile and the hard eyes behind the glasses that he clearly didn't need but wore to make himself look older. The man who asked him inane questions and made him look at some pictures of ink blots and tell him what he saw – as if he were supposed to see something other than the obvious. It seemed a little odd that this strange individual should make him look at so many pages when they were all essentially the same thing (albeit with different shapes) and he could see no useful pattern. Perhaps the man did not realise? He told him so, adding details of the type of ink and the process used to achieve such an effect. The man wrote this down, very carefully.

His mother did not seem particularly pleased with him when they left, but then he was used to a faint air of disapproval by that stage. When he'd been younger, he vaguely remembered a softer, more affectionate woman who might even embrace him from time to time if she was not too busy entertaining guests or engaged in some other activity. He must have done something to change her feelings towards him since those far-off days – he wasn't exactly sure what, but then he didn't much care.

He preferred his father's company – well, not company as such, but his father would lock himself away in his office and essentially ignore his younger son – which was just how he liked it. No disapproval or disappointment, just indifference. He was left to pursue his own interests from dawn to dusk, except for the nervous tutor who appeared from time to time to stutter unnecessary suggestions of topics that he could study - always suggested, never enforced. It was an idyllic childhood. In the back of his mind, he had a vague awareness that this would all end and that he would shortly be following his brother to boarding school. For now, though, it was perfect.

HeeH sat rapt in the taxi next to his silent mother, taking in his first sights of London. If Mycroft were present, he would probably talk to him, pointing out features and buildings, relating the history of the city – and he could absorb these useful facts, decide what he needed to remember and discard the rest. But his older brother was not here, and when they returned to their town apartment, he was delivered into the waiting hands of his current nanny, who chivvied him up into the nursery for tea, followed by a bath and then bed.

But he couldn't sleep. At home in Sussex, he'd be able to hear the rustle of the wind through the tree outside his bedroom window, neatly harmonised by the distant trickling of the stream over the rocks. This music was occasionally punctured by the hoot of an owl or the guard dogs barking at a fox or the sound of a door closing somewhere in the house, but when all other noises ceased, the rhythm would still be there. Those sounds soothed him; they were familiar companions during the long dark hours when the household slept and he lay awake. Sleep had always eluded him for as long as he could remember, but if he focused very carefully, the calm rhythm of wind and water could lull him into a reasonable slumber for a few precious hours.

But here, the sounds were different – unfamiliar and unpredictable and strangely exhilarating. No rhythm. Constant traffic from outside his window – their three-floor apartment was located on a busy main road opposite a large square park – but there was no pattern in it. It ebbed and flowed with the changing of the traffic lights; he closed his eyes and began to make estimations about the number of seconds between each change. Occasionally, he'd hear an angry shout from an aggrieved driver. In between traffic light changes, he could hear the tap tap tap of pedestrian heels on the pavement down below. There was no discernable pattern in that, either. Hours later, the footsteps became more numerous, and he could hear loud talking and laughter and the occasional gruff comment from the night doorman standing in the entrance to their building.

In Sussex, there would usually be silence at some point of the night, punctured only by that familiar rhythm of wind/water. Even the hunting owl would fall silent. But here, the hours ticked by and the cars carried on driving back and forth and the footsteps carried on tap-tapping and there were sirens and the occasional shout in the distance. And then, at some indiscernible point, late night gave way to early morning, and there was the rumble of lorries and vans delivering milk and newspapers and the high-pitched whine of the street cleaners brushing along the kerb.

And he loved it.

The overload of data made his head swim as he sat in the nursery that morning, toying with his breakfast cereal and hot milk. So much to process; so much new information to analyse. He sifted it all into one section of his mind, to revisit at his leisure when he was back in Sussex. By the time Mycroft came home for the next holidays, he had isolated the important facts and had a new set of questions for his brother to answer.

He missed his brother when he was away. Mycroft wasn't like the others. He didn't talk to him as if he were a baby, like the various nannies would (before handing in their notice), or pull a face as his mother did, or look bored, like his father. The older boy would sit patiently, outlining the facts in his quiet voice. They would go into the library and pore over the volumes of the encyclopaedia, Mycroft tapping his podgy finger at the salient fact or image to illustrate his point.

No one knew as much as Mycroft. He was prepared to give each and every question serious consideration and he always had an answer. How old was London? How big was it? How many people lived there? Why did London have so many parks and why were they square? Why wasn't the timing on the traffic lights altered so that the traffic didn't build up so much on the south side of the park? Why did the girl at the party cry when he spoke to her? Why did the man show him all those ink blots? Admittedly, his brother did falter a little at the last question, his usually impassive face twitching slightly, but then he commented that the man must not have realised that all the pages contained ink blots. So that was all right.

At first, Sussex remained the only place where he could be soothed to sleep, thanks to that wind/water rhythm. Sleep was hard to come by at the dreaded boarding school, in a dormitory of snoring, snuffling boys; and then later, in his halls at Cambridge, where partying students staggered in late. Later on still, in a series of flats in all-night London, sleep would only come as a welcome friend whenever he collapsed from sheer exhaustion or from the aftermath of indulging in alcohol or illicit drugs.

However, as time went on, and he grew intimately familiar with its night sounds and learned to read the rhythms, London eventually spoilt him for sleep in any other location – and no more so than after the Fall. He lay awake and unrested in a series of comfortable beds - in an old Maharajah's palace in rural Rajasthan, in his brother's unlisted apartment in Manhattan, on a canal boat in Amsterdam, on a remote ranch in Patagonia - and yet he slept like a baby while wrapped up in newspaper in a Soho doorway on a cold November night.

Now he lay awake on the sofa. He could have slept, but he resisted. There was a pattern to be observed.

He was currently listening out for the lorry that rumbled up Baker Street every morning to deliver supplies to the Tesco Metro next to the tube station. The lorry would pass 221B between 6.04 and 6.13. And then John's alarm clock would sound at 6.15, followed by a thud as his flat mate's clumsy hand knocked it to the ground while trying to turn it off. There would be a prolonged creak from the ancient bed in the upstairs bedroom – a bed that quite possibly pre-dated Mrs Hudson and was now so saggy that John frequently woke up with low back pain and didn't appear to know why, which was odd for a doctor. Before the Fall, Sherlock had kept meaning to point it out, but had been distracted by something else before he had a chance.

Then he would hear the sound of heavy footsteps across the bedroom floor, as John attempted to get his brain together enough to put on his dressing gown. There would be quiet footfalls down the staircase – John, having woken up properly, would be attempting not to wake his flatmate up on his way to the bathroom, something which used to amuse Sherlock before the Fall. He wondered vaguely whether John would return automatically to his old habit or whether he had never actually lost it. And also why he had never moved into the more convenient and comfortable downstairs bedroom. Sentiment, presumably.

John was usually an early riser and set his alarm for the same time each morning whether he was working or not. Sherlock supposed it was military training. His flatmate needed a full night's sleep, though, which was disappointingly banal. If he didn't get his full seven hours, he was likely to drop off again after turning off his alarm. On those mornings, he'd hurry down the stairs, late for work and cursing under his breath.

It was still too early for the lorry. Sherlock closed his eyes and cast his mind back…

…To another night, this one in the Sinai Desert. A year ago.

He sat in a crevice in the rocks, pulling his knees up to his chin to keep out the night-time desert cold. He cupped his hands over his mouth, lighting up the stub of a roll-up and sucking the burning smoke into his lungs gratefully.

He peered through his binoculars at the camp of domed luxury tents in the valley far below – lit up like a Christmas tree in this uninhabited and largely unlit landscape. It looked (but only looked) deserted; he knew that there were plenty of guards lurking in the dark outside the camp. Far enough away not to disturb the guests' false impression of solitude in the desert but close enough to attack any intruder.

The night here was strangely quiet. No bird song, no sound of small animals scurrying in the dust. Just the occasional thrum of aircraft passing overhead on their way to the Red Sea resorts and the powerhouses of the Middle East.

He took a last drag of his cigarette, careful to hide the glow, and then stamped it out under his heel. He leaned forward slightly, peering at the rocks below. He knew that there were eighteen men out there in the dark and was certain of the location of sixteen. That left two.

Two years ago, he would have taken the risk. He would have left his hiding place, uncaring of the danger, and inched his way down towards his prize in the camp below. The luxury Bedouin camp that wasn't really a luxury camp; the rich Qatari tourists that weren't really tourists. The harmless-looking middle-aged banker who wasn't really a banker.

But then, two years ago, he hadn't yet been hit by the bullet that chipped his left humerus and left him feverish and in danger until he'd been able to seek proper medical attention. Two years ago, he had thought himself invulnerable. He had survived a fall; he couldn't possibly be hurt. He had been wrong.

No. He would wait until he was certain where the two unaccounted-for guards were, so he was able to make a safe judgement call. He huddled into his niche, pushing his hands into his armpits to warm them up. In any case, there was time. All the time in the world.

So, he sat on in the silent, dark night and waited, biding his time…

… Sherlock jumped slightly, shaken out of his reverie by the rumble of the early morning Tesco lorry. He opened his eyes and stretched his head back on the sofa to see the last glowing embers of the fire. His neck creaked painfully – he must have dropped off for at least an hour in a cramped position.

He took more notice of the room. The armchairs were still drawn up close to the fireplace, where John had arranged them last night, along with the coffee table - on which sat the empty boxes, dirty plates and general detritus from last night's Chinese takeaway. Sherlock could smell assorted aromas of spice, grease and the sickly sweet-sour smell of the empty wine bottle from here.

"Still up,then?"

Sherlock jumped again, genuinely caught out this time. There stood John, alert and fully dressed.

He saw Sherlock's confused expression and smiled. "Early clinic at the homeless shelter before work."

Of course. He had failed to take account of the fact that John had changed his working patterns while he'd been away.

Unsure how to respond, Sherlock lay back on his cushions and rubbed his face, as his flatmate walked into the kitchen, dim in the pre-dawn. "Coffee? Anything to eat?" Without waiting for a reply, he pulled two cups from a cupboard and switched the kettle on.

Sherlock closed his eyes again and listened to the tinkle of the teaspoon in the cups and the splash of hot water and then milk. Then quiet footsteps across the worn carpet and the clink of a cup being set down on the coffee table. A sigh at the mess and then steps again towards the kitchen – John fetching a bin bag and returning to collect the remains of Kung Pao chicken and special fried rice. Plates and cutlery were stacked in the sink, and then John returned to the lounge to drag the coffee table nearer to Sherlock. His nostrils flared at the acrid smell of hot coffee…

… And he was back at that sleepy harbour in the early hours of a warm August night, the moonlight shining on the calm waters of the Mediterranean. He was sitting at a table outside a scruffy all-night cafe, with a pot of Turkish coffee served by a sleepy-eyed waiter. Not the kind of place that a tourist would normally visit.

On the far side of the circular harbour, there was the sound of muffled laughter under the glittering lights of a bar; this side, all was quiet apart from the gentle tinkling of masts.

He bent over his island tourist map, pretending to study it carefully by the faint glow of a dockside light, as a dark figure moved around on the deck of the yacht docked fifty feet away. The bitter aroma curled like smoke from the silver coffee pot and assailed his nostrils…

"Do you have any plans today?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered open. John had abandoned his cleaning to lean against the wall by the window, his mug of coffee in his hand. He was watching Sherlock intently, and the detective had to force himself to meet that sharp gaze.

"Well, I… No, not really." His voice sounded rusty, like an underused tool. And yet, only a few hours ago, he had been giving evidence to an internal committee with his usual confidence and machine-gun clatter of verbal delivery. What had changed?

"Only -," John's head dipped to one side a little, a sign of discomfort. "Only, if you had nothing else to do, you might contact Greg. Or… perhaps pop down to see him."

Sherlock frowned. It was on the tip of his tongue to reply But why would I want to…? when John distracted him by moving suddenly, turning towards the window and looking out at the still-dark sky.

"He missed you," he announced to the waking world at large. "He nearly died for you."

For you too, Sherlock thought, but did not say.

His eyes wandered over his friend, taking in the dark work trousers and equally dark sweater covering John's shirt and tie. He'd had little chance up to now to fully absorb the physical changes that had taken place in over three years. He'd seen a battered John very briefly in Sebastian Moran's hiding place and on a rooftop in the dark; after that, John had welcomed him back to 221B last night and then had plied him with food and wine and almost desperately cheerful talk until Sherlock had felt disoriented and unable to make his usual deductions. Either he wasn't trying hard enough or John was trying too hard – he wasn't sure which was the case. Probably a bit of both.

Now he took in the leaner, harder lines, the practical almost military-style clothing and the glint of silver within the dark blond hair at the back of his head. These were new – this new John was battle-ready and older than his years. As his friend sighed and turned away from the window, gulping down the last of his coffee, Sherlock saw and catalogued the severely combed back hair and the extra lines around the mouth and under the eyes…

Surveillance pictures never picked up the full story. Too grainy and too distant, even with the best equipment. And night-time images were even worse.

Sherlock sorted through the images and hissed his displeasure at the quality.

He couldn't see John – not properly. The pictures didn't show more than the faintest impression of bruising around the neck, of a fast-forming black eye, of a swollen jaw. It was not enough information. And the video surveillance was just as bad. The jumpy motion served to disguise the limp – he could see there was a limp there, but couldn't make out enough to diagnose the injury or its cause.

"Doctor Watson is fine."

Sherlock glared at his brother. "Surveillance, you said -."

"John is a free agent. He does not welcome my interference." Mycroft shifted his capacious backside against his desk and folded his arms. "If he chooses to follow strangers in the dark, there is little I can do -."

"Try harder," Sherlock spat, pushing the photographs aside…

John glanced at his watch suddenly, the movement jerking Sherlock out of his reverie. He walked back into the kitchen, briefly leaving Sherlock's line of sight, and the detective had to resist a strong urge to sit up and lean forward to regain his view of him. John dumped his mug and picked up his jacket, which was lying over a dining room chair.

"Think about it, anyway," he suggested, as he buttoned up the jacket and picked up his briefcase. "Contacting Greg, I mean. If you haven't got anything more important to do, of course."

Sherlock noted the emphasis on 'important'. It gave a bitter edge to John's friendly tone.

He lifted his head, straining the muscles in his neck to watch his flatmate walking slowly towards the door. As he expected, the doctor hesitated before opening the door.

"I -," he stopped and cleared his throat nervously – a characteristic that was almost painfully redolent of the John that Sherlock remembered. But then he turned around to eye Sherlock in a world-weary manner that was decidedly not John. "I'm glad you're back and I - I hope that you… will feel able to tell me what happened to you. Some time or other. It doesn't matter. I'm here – if you ever want to talk."

And, with that, he turned back to the door with military efficiency and left the flat, closing the door firmly behind him.

Gratefully, Sherlock let his heavy head sink back on the cushions, as he flew away once more on the wings of memory.