Chapter 1
Setting the Stage
London
18 months prior
John
After Sherlock had jumped to his death, John had been shattered. He was lost. After Sherlock's funeral, Mycroft had offered assistance. John had been surprised at first; after all, Mycroft had been hostile at their first meeting and obviously didn't approve of Sherlock's friendship with him. John had debated long and hard about whether to take the elder Holmes brother up on his offer. John had been ready to go. After the funeral, he had been planning to turn his gun on himself and follow Sherlock to the grave. It had taken seeing his best friend falling to his death from the rooftop of St. Bart's for John to finally admit to himself that his feelings for Sherlock ran much deeper than mere friendship. He winced as he recalled how many times he had spouted the phrase "not gay." Technically, it was true. John was attracted to women, but he was also attracted to Sherlock. He had buried those feelings deep, writing them off as some kind of Freudian defense mechanism. Looking back, it had been a defense mechanism, just not the one that John had originally thought. Repression, the more he repressed the stronger the sublimated feelings grew until John couldn't ignore them anymore. The fall had been the breaking point. It had opened the floodgates and with it came a mixture of feelings ranging from love and longing, to anger, regret and guilt.
After so much denial and wasted time, it was now too late. The pain of seeing Sherlock dead had been worse than being shot. He could never make it right. He would never have the chance to tell Sherlock the truth. The pain had been crippling and John had decided almost immediately that he was ready to join his friend in eternal slumber. Ironically, it had been Mycroft in the end that had saved him. John wondered what Sherlock would have thought of that if he were still alive.
John remembered the funeral service vaguely. It had been a dreary day, overcast and damp, almost appropriately somber. John had stayed after all of the mourners had left and though he couldn't recall every word that he had spoken at Sherlock's grave, he did remember asking him for one more miracle. "Please, don't be dead." He had begged. Someone had then cleared their throat loudly and John had stiffened as he realized that he must have been overheard. He had turned to find Mycroft Holmes standing behind him, looking cool and collected, perfectly put together as always. John felt his anger build. He knew that Sherlock and Mycroft had a difficult relationship, though he didn't know their back-story and now likely never would, but they were still brothers, nonetheless. His brother was dead and there was no trace of emotion in the man. No pain, no regret, not even anger, nothing. Cold as ice. Irene Adeler's voice echoed in his memory. Iceman. The description fit him like a glove.
"You could at least have the decency to look as if you're grieving. Regardless of you're issues, he was your brother, Mycroft." John spat angrily. Mycroft met his eyes evenly giving away nothing and twisted the handle of his umbrella before answering in a perfectly controlled voice.
"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, John." His voice held no inflection and that in itself raised questions in John's mind. No one, not even Mycroft, was that controlled.
John's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Mycroft was up to something. John was sure that he was hiding something, but had no idea what that might be. He was always bollocks at deduction at everything besides medical diagnosis and military strategy, which were both skills that he had honed through years of training and clinical experience. John debated whether to call Mycroft on his bullshit and decided to let it go. If there was one thing that John had learn from living with Sherlock, it was that Mycroft Holmes never gave up information without getting something in return and John had nothing to barter with. So he got to the point, hoping to cut the conversation short and go back to Baker's Street where he still had his gun safely hidden.
"What do you want?" He asked bluntly looking down at Sherlock's grave and felt his throat tighten at the sight. He would never see his friend again. He was too late. There would be no second chances.
"I wish to offer you assistance." Mycroft admitted softly with a glance at the grave. "It's what he would have wanted. I spoke that same warning to Sherlock and he did not heed my words. He cared for you, John. Never doubt that fact."
Rather than soothe him, as he was sure Mycroft had intended to do, the words only served to increase his guilt. Too late; he should have said something sooner. Sherlock cared about him, but John would never have a chance to find out just how deeply Sherlock's feelings for him went. "I…you can't give me what I want…no one can…It's too late…He's gone. " He choked up and felt the tears that had been threatening to appear slide down his cheeks. He wiped them away quickly. He didn't want Mycroft to see him like this. John wanted nothing more than to go back to Baker's Street and end it all. No more pain, sorrow, regret or guilt. "I have to go." He said as he moved past Mycroft slowly. His leg has been giving him trouble since Sherlock's death and he has been forced to use his cane again.
"John, wait." Mycroft said as he grabbed his arm effectively halting his escape. John turned and met his eyes furiously. He didn't want to wait. He only wanted to end it and as he looked into Mycroft's eyes he realized that the man could likely sense his intentions. "I may not be able to bring Sherlock back, but I can do something else for you." He rushed to explain before John could tell him to fuck off. "I told you at our first meeting that you were not haunted by the war, but that you missed it. What if I could give that back to you?"
John frowned. "What do you mean?" He asked before thinking better of it.
"Alter you're service and medical records in order to allow you to reenlist." Mycroft explained.
"That's impossible." John said looking at Mycroft incredulously wondering if he's serious.
"Not for me." Mycroft admitted looking smug.
"That's illegal." John hedged still wondering if Mycroft was bluffing.
"One does what one must. Certain exceptions can be made. Some laws can be overlooked." Mycroft replied completely serious.
"I…" John trailed off as he began to consider the option. He had to admit that it was tempting. He thrived on danger, always had. He already had a death wish, if he were to be killed in action, then at least he would be serving crown and country and his death could mean something. Perhaps he could save a few lives along the way. If he didn't enjoy or if didn't work out, well there was always suicide, which he had already been planning on. "All right, Mycroft. I think I'd like to give it a shot. I'll take you up on your offer." John admitted with a ghost of a smile as the irony of his words hit him.
A small smile flickered across Mycroft's face, but it was gone as quickly as it had come as he replied "My pleasure, Captain." John paused a moment at being called by his rank as the full scope of his decision hit him. It would be an interesting ride that much was for sure. John could only hope that he wouldn't regret it.
