CHAPTER TWO
The trembling starts the moment he sits. His breathing is fast, too fast, hyperventilation is a definite possibility. Control. Focus. Just-
Stop.
So much for this caring lark.
He pulls a shuddering, deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes as his head sags against the soft leather of the seat-back. He is wrecked, barely holding on. He's been struggling to keep control since...since 'the fall', to be honest. Pressure, too much pressure. Forcing calm, he knows he well looks the part of a dying man he is soon to become as he notices the near silent approach of the flight attendant.
Worried? Yes. Wouldn't do to have their only passenger come unglued before even taxiing out.
Sherlock lifts his hand, still focused on breathing, as he shakes his head in near desperation, and the attendant takes the gesture for what it means and stays away.
Worried. Yes. But well versed in knowing when to leave a passenger be. A private jet must have its perks after all.
It isn't until he feels the plane begin to move that he eases the death-grip he had placed on the armrests. His eyes burn, the pressure behind them nearly unbearable from the tears that threaten to drown him. Giving into the grief is not something he will allow right now. Too many eyes (on Mycroft's payroll- Damn them. Damn him.) Mycroft's nose is buried far too deep into his business at it is. Sherlock will not give him the satisfaction of a report full of his brother's pitiful sentiment.
There will be plenty of long, lonely hours; cold, claustrophobic moments in the middle of the night that will allow Sherlock the privacy of his grief.
At least there is something to look forward to, Sherlock.
He blinks quickly, relieving some of the tension of unspent tears and looks out the window as the plane glides gently through the air. He only sees the bit of countryside that is visible beyond the security fence that surrounds the airfield. He had chosen to sit on this side of the window knowingly. He could not face the possibility of looking out and seeing John even once more.
Sherlock is proud in the fact he had left with his pride intact. Close call as it had been.
Stupid. Stupid fool. What had he been thinking? Nearly revealing all to John.
John...
But, no. He can't think about him now. There will be time...later.
He continues to concentrate on his breathing, centers and focuses his mind, thwarts the pain that threatens to engulf him.
Finally, he finds some semblance of control, he turns from the window when the flight attendant approaches, a phone in his hand. "Sir, it's your brother."
More than a bit surprised to hear from him so soon, and knowing, under the circumstances, it can't be good news, Sherlock braces himself, his voice calm and smooth, "Mycroft?"
"Hello, little brother, how's the exile going?" Smug bastard. He would be a smartarse at the moment.
"I've only been gone four minutes." Sherlock sneers.
"Well, I certainly hope you have learned your lesson. As it turns out, you're needed."
"Oh, for God's sake make up your mind," Sherlock bites off through clenched teeth. Looking out the window again, he's certain to keep his 'untouchable facade' thoroughly in place. "Who needs me this time?"
"England." Mycroft issues resignedly.
Sherlock hides his surprise as he exits the plane. John and Mary stand with Mycroft, and it takes him only a second to read their faces. He feels his brow crease in consternation as he takes in the three very distinctly different visages:
John: excitement, battle-ready, relief?
Mary: confusion, mistrust, fear?
Mycroft: resolve, anxiety, determination?
Well, then. Whatever situation has offered Sherlock a stay of execution and allows him to be called back from exile is not a trifling matter.
"Well, what is it then?" Sherlock mocks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his Belstaf, his arrogant stride making short work of the distance from plane to car where the three stood waiting for him. "All of MI6 at your disposal, and you can't manage on your own for five minutes?"
"Sherlock," John warns, a smile ghosting his face at the throwback.
How long has it been since he has had to rein Sherlock in? Too long.
Sherlock only offers a sideways glance in response, steps up to meet Mycroft, head on.
"Perhaps you should have a look, brother mine." Mycroft sweeps his hand to suggest Sherlock take a seat in the car.
Rolling his eyes, he folds himself into the leather of the rear seat of Mycroft's sedan and freezes.
"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?" The tinny voice and repeating static image mock.
Sherlock hurls himself from the car, cold fingers of fear and dread run down his back in icy waves. He closes his eyes, the back of his hand to his mouth. He can't breathe. He can't.
"Goodbye, John."
No. No.
Not there. He will not go there again, looking down over the ledge.
"Off you pop."
"Sherlock!"
A breath is finally sucked in, he's back from the nightmare, John's pulling on his sleeve. He's not revisiting that past. Never.
"Sherlock, are you all right?"
True concern fills John's voice, deepens every line on his face as he looks at Sherlock and sees all that Sherlock desperately wants to hide.
Sherlock stutters, pulls in another quick breath, blinking rapidly to clear the remnants of choking fear. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine...Fine. Just, um...just surprised." He swallows thickly, turning from John. He can't look at him right now.
He can't know.
"Yes," Mycroft volunteers. "Every broadcast, every screen in the country. We're looking into how it could possibly have been done..."
"But, it can't be him. I mean, he's dead, right?" John offers, his hope evident.
Sherlock frowns, that cold fear racing across his skin, keeping him silent.
Mycroft lifts a brow, reading Sherlock's every tell. He clears his throat. "True, but..."
"But, once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." Sherlock quietly retorts under his breath.
He can feel everyone's eyes on him, but he doesn't care. He's locked down, shutting himself off, giving in to the cold hard reason that will have to sustain him.
"Yes, well, be that as it may," Mycroft counters, "Lady Smallwood and the Prime Minister are waiting for us, Sherlock." He turns and takes his seat in the car, the command that Sherlock follows, unspoken and completely taken for granted.
John steps forward as Sherlock moves toward the car. "Do you...I can help." He clears his throat, "I want to help."
Sherlock's heart clenches, to hear John so hopeful. The wish for things to be as they used to be evident in the tight line of his body.
A small smile forms at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, and John mirrors in kind. The tension is wound too tight between them, Sherlock can't imagine looking at Mary in this moment.
"Yes, John. Of course." Sherlock looks to the car, can see Mycroft eying him as he speaks on the phone. "I'll text you when the powers that be have released me."
John laughs lightly. "Just so."
Sherlock nods, and makes to get in the car, when John's arm on his sleeve again, stops him.
"Welcome back."
