A/N: Hello to anyone happening to read this! I don't claim to be a brilliant writer, but I am rather fond of this piece and I hope you like it as well. It's the first fanfiction I've ever written and I also don't have a beta reader, so forgive any minor mistakes. The first chapter could be considered "introductory" but after that it picks up rather quickly. Anyway, I'll let you get on with it then. Enjoy!

1: A Night At The Bar

At the bar, John Watson stared into a shallow glass of scotch. The amber liquid caught the dim light, making it look the same way it felt as John sipped it. Warm, comforting. He downed the last of it with a gulp, relishing the taste. He'd treated himself to the most expensive scotch they offered; it was the night before his wedding after all.

He wasn't at the bar for the sake of getting drunk, more for the sake of passing time. Mary seemed to think that spending the night together before the wedding was bad luck (some sort of family tradition), so their flat was empty. Far too quiet for a man as anxious as John was.

He wasn't nervous about marrying Mary. She was perfect, that was for sure. John had known since the moment he met her that she was the type of woman a man could only hope to find, let alone spend the rest of his life with. He knew that he was beyond lucky to have her, and that tomorrow was likely going to be the beginning of a perfect marriage, but there was a feeling he couldn't seem to shake. He felt hollow. As though a small piece of him was missing, or forgotten. Something in the back of his mind...

But it was normal for a groom to feel this way, was it not? The night before his wedding, no less. Normally this would be the part where the best man would step in with some god forsaken speech about having cold feet, washing his doubts away, but John didn't have one of those. A best man. There was only one person he'd like to fill that position, but since he was... unavailable, he'd rather just leave it vacant. Better than using Mike Stamford, or god forbid Greg Lestrade as a replacement.

No, nobody could replace Sherlock Holmes.

John did his best not to laugh aloud at the thought of Sherlock trying to comfort him, or anyone for that matter. Honestly John would probably be in hysterics by now if that had been the case, and Sherlock would have rolled his eyes so much they'd be in danger of falling out.

Suddenly, John realized the small smile that was spreading across his lips, and caught himself. He wiped it off, taking a long sobering breath and returning to reality. Sherlock had no business invading his thoughts this evening. Just this once, John was going to shut him out. He had to. He just stared back down into the golden liquor in his cup, sloshing it around a bit. Suddenly he was craving something a bit stronger... but he just slid the cup away, staring at his left hand. He clenched and unclenched it, frustrated with the dull pain shooting through his palm. Damn thing, John thought as he placed both hands in his lap, attempting to calm the shaking.

"Another?" The bartender asked, glancing at the rejected cup and yanking John from his thoughts. He sighed and told the bartender that anything stronger will do, and did his best not to grimace at the look that earned him. Pity. God knew he'd experienced enough of that.

John didn't pay much mind to what new drink was placed in front of him. He just took a greedy gulp, and hissed a bit as the alcohol burned his throat on the way down. That's better, he thought as his mind began to buzz. Just a bit of a distraction, nothing more than that. He sipped at it absentmindedly, thoughts returning to wedding bells and churches, and most importantly what tomorrow meant for him. It was a new beginning. A fresh start. Which was exactly what he needed... right?

Of course. He shouldn't even be questioning that.

A few moments later, a small part of John's mind noticed a man take up the seat next to him, but he was too preoccupied to take much notice. He wasn't drunk enough to start having conversations with strangers- at least, not yet. But something about that voice penetrated his thoughts annoyingly, there was something so familiar about that drawling, condescending...

Oh my god.

Mycroft Holmes.

John practically broke his neck as he whipped around to look at the man, who indeed turned out to be Mycroft. He looked calm as ever -god, John had forgotten how annoying that was- his back strait as a board, chin upturned and a facial expression as if he had smelled something awful. Three years ago John might have considered the sight to be downright laughable. He looked incredibly out of place among the common people, especially in a bar as opposed to the usual; buckingham palace, country clubs, or the occasional abandoned warehouse. Well, at least this time Mycroft had the courtesy not to kidnap him off the street.

Although now, the sight of Mycroft just made him uneasy. What the hell was he doing here?

"Hello, John." came that voice again, and this time John made no effort to hide a grimace. "My apologies," The older man continued when he didn't get a response, "I didn't mean to startle you."

John wanted nothing more than to punch the smirk off Mycroft's face, but curiosity got the best of him. Coincidences didn't exist with the Holmes brothers... Brother, John corrected himself, there's only one of them now. But yes, Mycroft was here for a reason- and going by their history it wasn't going to be pleasant one. "What do you want?" he asked in a clipped tone.

"I understand this is an inopportune time, the eve before your wedding." He began, disregarding John's question. Of course he knows about the wedding, John thought in annoyance. Long ago was the time when Mycroft's spying capabilities came as a surprise to John, but it had been nearly three years since the last time they had spoken. Why would he care in the slightest what John did with his life from this point on? The only common link between them had disappeared, and there was no reason for him to be turning up tonight with this godlike demeanor. He had no right.

"Yeah, but when have you ever cared about convenience?" John snapped, motioning to the bartender to refill his cup. God knew he was going to need it.

"Ah, well I will try my best to be brief." He replied with a tight lipped grin.

John said nothing.

"Do you remember the events of three years ago, concerning my brother?"

John tensed as if all his nerve endings had been set on fire. He knew exactly what Mycroft meant by that, and the memories it stirred up sent a shiver down his spine. The glare on his face dissipated for the first time since Mycroft sat down, and John swallowed hard as he tried to get his thoughts back in order, but it felt like his whole world was out of joint. Did he remember? How could he ever forget? John didn't quite know what he'd been expecting Mycroft to say, but he certainly didn't think it had anything to do with that. Anything but that...

John's voice was small, barely above a whisper. "Of course I do."

Mycroft nodded, and looked into his own cup before saying, "Well, then I do believe it's time I share some… information with you."

John began to clench and unclench his left hand again as the throbbing pain grew in intensity. He didn't even care that Mycroft glanced down at it, and he cared even less about the knowing stare he got afterward. By now Mycroft was undoubtedly aware that all of John's most crippling PTSD symptoms had returned after Sherlock's death. There was no way he wouldn't have already spied the cane leaning up against John's stool as well. Jesus, he certainly hadn't missed being under the constant observation of a genius. He couldn't hide anything. Groaning in annoyance, he rubbed a hand over his face knowing all too well he was being read like a book.

"Right, well get on with it then." he sighed, taking another swig of his potent alcoholic beverage.

It wasn't exactly clear what had John's brain in such a fog, the drinks he was guzzling down or the sudden presence of someone who was meant to remain in the past. Mixing the past with the present never seemed to end well and he tried to avoid it at all costs, whenever he could anyway. Unfortunately, the past was sitting next to him in a £700 suit which was not easy to overlook.

"I'm aware that you are under the impression that Sherlock is dead, but-" He paused abruptly, causing John to turn his head in the man's direction, "John, I do apologize for was I'm about to say for I don't know how it may... affect you." They stared at each other for a moment, both trying to read the other's expression. John noticed something flicker in Mycroft's eyes, something so subtle it couldn't have been a trick of the light... but no. This was too deliberate. Far too obvious to be a fluke.

For the first time ever, John saw pure sadness etched into every line on Mycroft Holmes's face.

It was gone as quickly as it had come though, showing Mycroft's spectacular talent for emotional control. John was still so fixated on that moment of vulnerability that he almost missed what Mycroft said next.

Almost, but not quite.

"Sherlock is alive, John."

It almost sounded as if Mycroft was speaking a different language; surely he must be. None of those words belonged in the same sentence. Strung together they just sounded... alien. Rearranged into some sort of incoherent order. John's brow furrowed as he stared at Mycroft, trying to understand what he meant. Sherlock is alive? What?

A humming silence grew between them, as if the world had taken notice and drowned everything else out. John could no longer hear the lounge music floating around the bar, or the clanging of glassware. Not even the scuffling of feet, or the distant hum of traffic. Instead static filled his ears, and it took him several moments to even realize he could hear himself. His own voice, but it wasn't words coming out of his mouth, it was...

Laughter.

He was laughing.

And not just a short sarcastic laugh, not a chuckle- this was uncontrollable and rather inappropriate laughter, given the circumstance. But that's just the thing- he couldn't stop. And through the next several minutes of laughter Mycroft did nothing but look on with indifference. In fact, it almost looked as if he thought this reaction was too mild. As if he had been expecting John to be crying or yelling, or throwing chairs out of windows. He sat there on his stool, watching wave after wave of laughter wash over John and expecting something catastrophic to happen... but it never did.

He knew the alcohol was partially responsible, because damn John hadn't laughed this hard in years, but it was also the sheer absurdity of that statement. Sherlock being alive, well, that was insanity at it's finest. If anyone knew for certain that Sherlock was dead, it was John. He'd seen it happen from start to finish- of course there were some details that were missing, like why he jumped and why exactly moriarty had a put bullet hole through his own skull, but being a soldier John knew he would never get answers to those questions. He knew that whenever someone died, they left behind odds and ends that would never be resolved, and that was just a fact he had to live with.

He had moved on from that. He'd let go a long time ago and finally accepted that he would never be getting any answers... why then, was Mycroft here trying to undo it all?

Again, it grew silent between the two men. John had finally stopped laughing, and he was clenching and unclenching that hand again. Staring at it, wishing it would just stop hurting. Wishing it would just go away, along with the man sitting next to him. Along with the nightmare his night had turned out to be.

"Have you finished?" Mycroft asked matter-of-factly.

John glared in his direction, "Well what did you expect?" He pursed his lips, frustration boiling just beneath the skin, "If this is your idea of a joke-"

"This is not a joke," Mycroft spat, and John saw yet another crack in his usually impenetrable armor, "Dr. Watson." He concluded in an attempt to redeem himself, but for the second time that evening John had seen something he hadn't been meant to. Something was taking it's toll on Mycroft, and knowing what the man had to deal with in his day to day life, if something was weighing on him this heavily... it must be significant, to say the least. It just couldn't have anything to do with Sherlock. Whatever this was, it wasn't that.

It was simply not possible.

John had been there. He had seen the blood, felt for a pulse that wasn't there, heard Sherlock's last words. If he hadn't, well he probably would have never believed it himself.

"You can't honestly expect me to believe you." John looked anywhere but Mycroft, "Sorry... I can't."

"I thought you might say that." He shifted slightly to get something from his jacket pocket, and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. He slid it across the bar until it came to a rest right under John's nose. He didn't touch it though, actually he didn't even want to look at it. No, I am not getting pulled into this little game, John thought to himself. He had half a mind to tear the thing up and and toss out every last bit, but he was too exhausted to even put forth the effort. Also, if he was being honest, he was drunk and he didn't want to think about this anymore. If everyone would just leave him alone, he could go back to preparing for his wedding- which was in less than twelve hours, for god's sake.

"Get out of here Mycroft, please." John said, bringing his eyes up to Mycroft's. He didn't glare, he didn't try to silently plead with him. He didn't have to do anything, Mycroft could easily see weakness there. He could see how little energy the doctor had left, and that this night had turned, slowly but surely, into a disaster...

But he had to try.

"He may need your help." Mycroft said lowly. He looked up at John through his lashes, trying his best to appear honest rather than deceitful. He was, after all, telling the truth.

"He?" John blinked and furrowed his brow, "You mean Sherlock?" He pointed an accusing finger at Mycroft, who then nodded slowly. A white hot rage began to burn from somewhere in John's chest, and he clamped his jaw shut with teeth shattering force. Was he really still going on about this? John had to lean back a bit in his seat, not trusting himself to be within strangling distance of Mycroft.

"I don't care." John said curtly, "And do you want to know why I don't care, Mycroft?" The man offered no response other than a pair of raised eyebrows. "I don't care, because Sherlock is dead."

In this moment John was particularly thankful to be in such a drunken fog, because even in his light headed state he felt those words settle in like daggers. He may not have been thoroughly pissed, but that wasn't a thing John just went around saying. Even now, after three years had passed.

With one last look at the small piece of paper, John decided that he'd had enough. Not waiting for Mycroft to respond to his blunt statement- in fact, not even looking up to see Mycroft's reaction- he raised an unsteady finger and pointed to the door with one hand, propping his suddenly heavy head up with the other. Without even glancing sideways, John noticed the shock radiating off of Mycroft, which was odd coming from someone who was usually so skilled at hiding any emotion whatsoever.

John couldn't allow himself to care about that though. Not if he wanted to get through tonight, and get his happy ending tomorrow. Not if he wanted to repress all of this along with the other memories from his life with Sherlock. This was all bits of his past trying to make a mess of his present, and he wasn't about to let that happen.

Mycroft didn't utter a word until he was halfway out the door. There was a long hesitant moment as he tried to decide what to say, but with a defeated sigh he simply decided upon, "Congratulations to you and your bride, Dr. Watson." and then he was gone.

For at least a half an hour John stayed put on that stool at the bar, staring down the length of his nose at the neatly folded sheet of paper. Three times his hand twitched, almost deciding to open it, but he swiftly changed his mind. He could practically feel the blood pumping furiously in his ears, the adrenaline, the mystery of it all. He ached to know what message he'd been left with, if there was anything at all that could make sense of his confusion. He simply stared at it, mulling over.

"Sod this..." John sighed, admitting defeat as he snatched the thing off the shiny surface. He unfolded it delicately, and read the single line of neat text in the center of the paper.

It was an address.