"For my own safety?" John repeated, his furious voice echoing around the room.
"You haven't discussed Sherlock's death with anyone, I thought it wise to keep an eye on you." Mycroft replied, his tone cold and controlled.
"Thought I'd harm myself, did you?" John hissed, "The only one I want to harm is you!"
"John-" Mycroft started, only to suddenly stop as John moved closer to the desk.
"You sit here and just carry on! Like he never existed! Like you never betrayed him!" John shouted, "You sold Sherlock out, told Moriarty all of his deep, dark secrets just to help yourself. Is all of this really worth Sherlock's death?"
Mycroft raised an eyebrow ever so slightly, considering what he should say to diffuse the situation.
John let out a growl of frustration at Mycroft's apparent silence and flung himself at the desk, sending paperwork, phones, ornaments and a laptop crashing to the floor with a sweep of his arm.
Mycroft pushed his chair back a little as John moved, managing to avoid any falling objects. He'd expected an outburst of some kind, but not for the floor of his office to end up littered with debris.
"Where is my assistant?" Mycroft asked calmly, watching the pacing and panting army doctor. He would have expected Anthea to have heard the shouting and to have come running by now.
"She's dead. I shot her in the head." John hissed, his eyes wild with anger.
"Oh." Mycroft replied with a slight frown of displeasure. Anthea had been a loyal assistant and he hated the thought of having to begin searching for another all over again.
John let out a strained laugh, "She's fine. She's out on lunch and supposed to me meeting me." he said, "Why would I kill her? I have no issue with her, she didn't betray my best friend."
"Is this what you're here to do, John? To kill me?" Mycroft asked calmly, relaxing slightly when he heard that Anthea was still alive and well.
"No." John admitted, a calm and collected expression coming over his face, "I was going to, and I do want to, but he wouldn't have wanted that."
Mycroft let out a breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding, strangely relieved that he wouldn't end his days in his own office by the hand of his brother's grieving best friend.
John returned his attention to the objects that were still intact on the floor. One by one, he picked them up and threw them at the wall, watching with a dark enjoyment as they shattered and cracked further with the impact.
"No. Not that one." Mycroft said quickly, getting to his feet as John picked up a glass paperweight. He'd been quietly watching John destroy the items from his desk, letting him get it out of his system.
John raised an eyebrow at him, "Why not? What's so special about this?" he asked, tossing the glass ball in the air and catching it again, "Surely the Ice Man doesn't have feelings towards an object that can be so easily replaced?"
"It was a gift from my brother. After he finished his time in rehab, he left that on my doorstep." Mycroft replied, watching John throw the paperweight into the air again, "It is sentimental to me."
"Sentimental? I thought caring is not an advantage? It's you betrayed him and you alone that killed him." John hissed.
"Yes, I did. I told Moriarty everything in return for information that I hoped would protect this great nation. I have the rest of my life to regret and apologize for my actions." Mycroft replied, "Just don't destroy the last thing that my brother gave to me. Please."
John looked down at the paperweight and considered his options for a moment. He'd charged into the government official's office and had taken his rage out on the man's office furnishings without being arrested or even thrown out. He could leave now or cause even more damage and risk eventual arrest. He didn't want Mycroft to be able to have him sectioned for insanity so he carefully placed the paperweight down on the now empty desk.
"Keep that safe. Don't let it fall like you let Sherlock fall." John muttered through clenched teeth.
"I will." Mycroft replied, his eyes drawn to the only intact item from his desk, "I will also remove all cameras and status alerts that I have on you."
"Good." John said with a nod. He stamped again on what was left of a fountain pen before he turned on his heel and walked out of the office, leaving the door wide open behind him.
Mycroft watched him go before he slowly looked around his office, taking in the debris, the damage to his wall and the ink stains on his carpet. He sighed as he planned how he was going to explain the need for an office redecoration to his superiors. He kneeled down and picked through the debris, pulling out his now cracked and broken mobile phones. One for work, one for home and one to keep in touch with his very much alive little brother.
John sat alone in his flat and laughed quietly when he thought about Mycroft's shocked face as he'd swept confidential paperwork and other items to the floor. He'd wanted to hit the other man, to shoot him and watch him die in pain, but he was pleased that he'd restrained himself. Instead of killing the man, he intended to ignore him and move on. He was still amazed that it had been two whole days since the incident and he still hadn't been arrested or sectioned. Clearly Mycroft had understood his not-so-subtle message to stay away as he was no longer being followed or watched by cameras.
As the adrenaline began to ease and his anger left him, be began to realize the full extent of what he'd lost. Yes, he still had a home and a job, but there would be no more adventures. No more adrenaline. Nothing left to keep his psychosomatic limp away. The realization that he might soon need his cane again drove John off the sofa and over to the drinks cabinet.
For the first time since Sherlock's suicide, John allowed himself to cry and break down. He drank down a whole bottle of whiskey and sobbed, mourning his friend, their life together and the future that could have been. The alcohol helped to soothe the pain of his grief, but he knew that tomorrow he'd wake up alone and have to face another day without Sherlock. It was only with his flatmate now gone that he realized how much he had cared for the so-called sociopath.
He promised himself that tomorrow, once his hangover had subsided, he would visit Sherlock's grave for the first time since the funeral. It was time to face his demons.
