Written for my friend because I impugned on her hospitality when she wasn't quite expecting it. :D The fate of all mooches. This is an angsty continuation of the series, albeit with the theory that John was Moriarty thrown on. So, SPOILERS FOR THE GREAT GAME.

Disclaimer: Sadly, Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me in any capacity.

Phantom Limb

Mycroft clucked his tongue at Sherlock's completely still silhouette hunched over his violin, which lay utterly flat on his lap.

"Why can't you accept your current disinterest in anything for what it is?" he said after a moment. Sherlock made a sound, not quite human, or even Sherlockian enough for Mycroft's taste. "I suppose it is worse than I had thought. But I come with news. About John."

"... Japan or Panama?" Sherlock mumbled. His voice was cracked, as though he hadn't spoken for weeks. How very predictable.

"Neither, Sherlock. I have reason to believe he is in the United Emirates of Arabia. You're losing your touch."

"Yes, and I suppose you think it very funny," Sherlock snapped, and looked up. Mycroft half expected a layer of dust to dislodge from his hair. "You knew from the very beginning, didn't you?"

"Not immediately," Mycroft conceded carefully. "He was very good. Very good indeed. But it is more difficult than anyone really anticipates to keep things covert in a city crawling with closed circuit televisions, Sherlock. Of course I knew."

"Why didn't you... Why didn't you tell me?" the detective muttered, and long pale fingers plucked absently at the highest string of the violin. "Lives could have been saved."

"I was worried about you. I thought a little companionship would be of benefit to you."

"You talk about John Watson like he's a dog who bit me in the hand then ran off," Sherlock said testily. "I trust I don't need to remind you that John Watson is a criminal mastermind who made me trust him, and then killed and defrauded others so he could collapse a swimming pool on me."

He carefully put the violin down on the table beside him, right by the prosthetic arm he had momentarily removed.

"Have you taken your prescription yet?" Mycroft said stiffly. "You look to be in some pain."

Sherlock sat back and mumbled something about drugs and Lestrade.

"I'm sure the dear Detective Inspector has few qualms with a couple of painkillers, particularly given the circumstances," Mycroft murmured. "Do you need me to get them for you?"

"Don't you dare condescend towards me," Sherlock hissed, and lifted himself out of his seat. Mycroft watched him walk rather unsteadily to the kitchen cupboard before choosing to speak again.

"I saw from your credit card records that you're planning on moving."

"What did Mummy tell you about infringing on my civil liberties?" was the deadpan response. Mycroft's lips thinned just slightly, and his younger brother dared to confirm his statement. "I daresay I found a nice little cottage in Sussex where I can smoke all I like and keep bees."

"You shouldn't leave London."

"No I shouldn't. But I want to. So not even you can stop me," Sherlock smiled colourlessly and downed a couple of painkillers. "It's not happening for a few months. I want to... Well, I have a few things to sort out."

Mycroft knew from the obtuseness of this answer that he wasn't likely to going to be enlightened further and wisely cut his visit short, but not before ordering another level of security and supervision for the resident of 221b Baker Street.

Sherlock waited until he could see Mycroft walking away on the street outside before he started to cry.

The last few weeks were a Technicolor montage of barely repressed pain and paranoia. Yes, given the nature of Sherlock's occupation he already suffered from undue suspicion even in the most innocent situations. The revelation that John Watson was the criminal mastermind known as Moriarty was enough to make Sherlock keep a gun on his person at all times, to make arrangements to move out, to sleep in the basement rooms of 221 Baker Street in case people came in the night. Poor Mrs Hudson had nearly been dispatched five times simply by bringing him tea [I'm your landlady, dear, not your target-practice, she had said, all no-nonsense and always so very reliable]. What little peace of mind Sherlock had had before was now completely eradicated.

And the pain. Nearly unbearable with the painkillers, and nigh impossible without them. But as Sherlock had stopped trusting everyone in the medical profession now, the bottles which held pills of various shapes and colours lay mostly untouched at the back of his kitchen cupboard, alongside a longstanding fungus experiment. He only took the medication when he was prompted to.

And it was nearly October, too.

September 27, 2011

Let's give this journal thing a whirl. Because I'm not an exhibitionist like my brother apparently is, I've made this blog private. Then again, maybe my brother's not an exhibitionist; I doubt he knew that you can even lock blogs.

All right...

Woke up and realized I haven't heard from John for exactly seven months, since the mess that was Afghanistan and the other thing. Wish he'd at least call.

A lot of things have happened since then; while he's run about risking his neck and solving mysteries with a bloody upperclass genius, I've finally found work at a clinic in the south of London, as a physiotherapist treating new amputees and the like.

To say I'm not fond of the work is a bloody fucking understatement. I swear to God that if I wake up one more time with tears in my eyes still seeing the seven year old girl or the football player without their arms or their feet, I will go to the Fox and drink myself to death, like I wanted to when Clara

Got a phone call from someone named Mycroft Holmes. Almost certainly related to the freak John roomed with, judging by the name and the ability he had of knowing how long I was up last night drinking based on how hoarse my voice was over the phone.

He has a patient he'd like me to see, preferably tomorrow. Said I didn't work on commission, and since when do doctors make housecalls anymore?

I think I'm still going anyway. Because 'Harry Watson' is synonymous with 'Welcome Mat', apparently.