Please see chapter 1 for full author's notes =^_^=

Chapters 2 warnings:
Not-so-nice things about Mary, divorce, Johnlock, long-windedness, thickheaded characters, overuse of adjectives, long paragraphs crappy titles, and Mycroft being Mycroft.

EAVESDROPPED CONVERSATIONS

The leaves on the trees had almost all fallen as November drew to a close. The weather was beginning to turn cold, with frost covering the windows in the early mornings, and everyone began bundling themselves up in their winter coats.

John stepped out of the cab and breathed a sigh of relief, welcoming the coldness that sharpened his senses. He stood in front of the familiar door of 221B Baker Street and looked around. He was back. He was really back for good now. An hour ago he had met up with Mary at their house and informed her of his decision. She had cried, but to her credit she hadn't begged with him to stay. Instead, she had simply stated that she understood his decision and that once the divorce papers are served to her she will sign them without complaint. They will hold shared custody of the child, splitting the time equally between who gets their daughter. After thinking things over, John had agreed to let Mary keep the house, since he was planning to move back into Baker Street anyway. Even so, John didn't think Mary will continue living there. It was simply too painful. She will most likely sell it and move somewhere else, but that was her choice to make.

The only time Mary had choked up had been when she asked him about the USB. John had returned it to her, unread, and for that she seemed grateful. He had promised her that no one had seen the contents on the memory stick and whatever secrets she kept on there are still safe. Whoever she was, whatever past she had, John really just wanted to forget and move on. He told her that for the time being he really had no desire to meet her, aside from when things concerning their child are in question. Outside of that, he didn't want to be a part of her life anymore, and hoped she will keep away from his as well.

That had been difficult and John hadn't been able to look her in the eyes when he said that. He couldn't so easily shuffle away the feelings he had had for her in some little box and lock it away, it didn't work like that. Seeing her, hearing her voice, it all brought back the memories of when they had first met, all the cute flirtatious messages they had sent, the fun dates they had gone on, and of course, the glorious day of their wedding. That first waltz together, the lovely dress that fitted her so beautifully, and John had felt so in love, so lucky, he almost couldn't believe it. Well, it seems like he shouldn't have believed it after all. He didn't want to see the tears that fell from her eyes, he wanted her to smile that beaming smile again, the one that made it all OK. He had depended on that smile in his darkest times after Sherlock's fake suicide. She had held his hand through those tough nights when he awoke from the nightmares, still seeing Sherlock standing on the roof of Bart, feeling his heart jump to his throat as he watched the man take that step forward, and the scream that caught in his throat when he heard the thud of a body hitting the pavement. She had been the one who soothed away those horrors and brought him back to reality, and John had promised to her and to himself that he would love and protect her for eternity. John hated himself for breaking that promise.

Mary had tried to make it easy for him. She held strong, not breaking down in front of him except a few tears that she quickly wiped away. She told him that she was grateful for the love he had shown her, and promised that she will be the best mother she is capable of for their daughter. She didn't blame him for his decision, and she even asked him to apologize to Sherlock for her for shooting him. She said that she really did like Sherlock, and she was truly sorry for hurting him. In the future, she hoped that one day they could talk again, and John had left, telling her that maybe, one day, he will find it in himself to forgive her, but not today.

The entire cab ride back John had to bite his lip to hold back his tears. Even so, they stubbornly blurred his vision as they drove past cafes and restaurants that he and Mary had frequented. Everywhere he looked there were memories. He needed to get back to Baker Street. He needed to be around the familiarity of the flat again. He needed to see Sherlock and have someone who could understand what he was going through. John couldn't help thinking how idiotic that seemed. Sherlock, the person he turns to to understand his pains of divorce. The man who got engaged as a ruse to break into a building. Yeah, that totally made sense. And yet, John couldn't think of anyone else to turn to. It's not as if he and Sherlock would have a heart to heart talk over tea and biscuits, but sometimes they jut KNEW what the other was thinking without needing a word to pass between them. Right now John needed that. He didn't want to talk about anything, but he just needed someone to get it.

Unfortunately, John's hopes for some peace and quiet at the flat were dashed as he made his way upstairs and heard the soft murmuring of voices from behind closed doors. Sherlock had company. John paused and listened, trying to determine if he should interrupt or not. The voices rose slightly and John made out the distinct voice of one Mycroft Holmes. The man had come to visit Sherlock only once in the hospital and once after he had been released. Both times the brothers continued their usual bickering as if nothing unusual had happened, although John had detected a slight narrowing of the older man's eyes when he had first laid eyes on his younger brother laid out on the hospital bed, hooked up to morphine. He had tsk tsk'ed at Sherlock, chiding him for his carelessness at getting shot, to which Sherlock had merely rolled his eyes and practically kicked the man out of the room. Afterwards he had told John that if Mycroft were to ever come visiting again at the hospital John was to top up his morphine to its highest level.

John wondered what Mycroft was visiting for this time. Surely he wouldn't be putting Sherlock on a case so soon, and he could hardly just drop by out of concern, because the Holmes brothers never did anything quite so sentimental. Even if that was his main purpose, he would hide it behind some other excuse.

A particularly low growl from Sherlock on the other side of the door drew John back to the conversation he was eavesdropping on. A part of him tugged at his conscience to either make his presence known, or scuttle downstairs for a cup of tea at Speedy's and wait for Mycroft to leave, but curiosity froze his feet to the ground.

"Oh for chrissakes Mycroft, this is completely outside the field of your concern!"

John had to lean in closer to catch Mycroft's softer reply. He silently cursed the man for always being so calm and never raising his voice. It did make eavesdropping so much more difficult.

"My younger brother, getting involved with another human being. I would say that is right in my field of concern."

John blinked in bewilderment. Involved? Sherlock, involved? Involved with who? Janine? But surely Mycroft could see through that little ruse that Sherlock had pulled.

"I'm NOT involved for the love of God. I TOLD you during the wedding I wasn't involved, and I am STILL not involved. Don't be dense. I know better."

John could practically hear Mycroft rolling his eyes.

"Oh do stop being in denial, Sherlock. It is so unbecoming of you. You would drop everything in a second if he was even at risk of being in danger. Are you really so blind to your own plight?"

John blinked more. 'He'? Who? Who would Sherlock drop everything for?

"That's ridiculous. I make one speech at a bloody wedding and you start deducing that I've now entered the realm of ordinary people."

"Ah, but it wasn't just one speech at a bloody wedding, was it? Diving into a bonfire? Did you really think I wouldn't find out about that little incident? Composing a waltz? Making a...vow? How much more sentimental can you get Sherlock? Already I have enough materials to write a Disney movie with. Oh, and let's not forget that little adventure you and he had bar hopping...what do they call it? Oh yes, a stag party. You, organizing a stag party. And don't even try to deny how well you took his wedding. I know exactly what you did that night after you came home. How much more ordinary can you be."

John let out a soft breath that he didn't even realize he had been holding. That was probably the most he has ever heard Mycroft talk, and he wondered what Sherlock's expression must be by this point. From the silence that followed John figured it was probably somewhere between outrage and sulking.

"That was...it was all acting, Mycroft. You should know, you were the one who taught me about how to deal with the battlefield. John asked me to be his best man, I did everything necessary to fulfill that task. If that included certain acts of sentimentality then yes, I can master that too."

John's breath caught. For some reason the thought that Sherlock doing all that he did as an act, as something that he only did because John requested him to, made his heart wrench. Was it really all that was? That touching speech, the lovely waltz, all just acting? Had Sherlock really treated his wedding like a battlefield? Like one of his cases?

"Yes, but you accepted John Watson's request to be best man in the first place, knowing those expectations would be placed on you. You could have declined, I doubt anyone would be surprised at your absence at a social function, much less a wedding."

More silence. John wondered what was going through Sherlock's mind at the moment. How he yearned to see the man's expression, to try and discern what his real thoughts were.

"I...He...He said I was his.."

"Best friend. Yes, I know. How...sentimental. And that was all it took, wasn't it? A confirmation that he considered you a friend, his best friend no less. And with that you were willing to take on the battlefield of a wedding. Not involved. Of course, Sherlock. Absolutely. If you can continue to delude yourself with that then you're more of an idiot than I once thought."

John bristled a bit at the insult against Sherlock. Idiot? No one got to call Sherlock an idiot except him. Wait, where did that come from?

"All of that is irrelevant now, Mycroft. So what if he considers me a best friend. That won't change anything."

John could imagine Sherlock waving his hand dismissively.

"Oh but it does, brother mine. Sentiment changes everything. And who is to say that his consideration of you as his best friend is one way only? What was it you said at his wedding? Something along the lines of John Watson being between the two people who love him most in all the world? Was that also an act? Which book did you copy that out of?"

"I didn't copy that! Mycroft how dare you accuse me of..."

Sherlock's voice trailed off as he realized what he had just admitted. John held his breath again.

"No...you didn't. You didn't copy that. Nor were you acting. Sherlock Holmes. In love. How adorable. How...human."

Sherlock's voice dropped an octave and John had to press himself right up to the door to hear.

"Get out. Mycroft. Leave. Now. Immediately."

Afraid that he was going to get caught, John hurriedly scrambled down the stairs and slammed the front door shut. He leaped up the stairs once more, this time making as much noise as he could manage to warn the brothers that he was coming. He took a second to wipe his expression so that it gave no hint of the conversation he had just heard before opening the door to the flat, stepping in and blinking in faked surprise at Mycroft, who was in the process of putting on his jacket.

"Oh, hello. Didn't see your car downstairs. Walking now to lose weight?"

Sherlock snickered from his seat on the sofa. Mycroft awarded him with an unamused tilt of his lips.

"Anthea was seeing to some other engagements. I do have other matters on my agenda besides babysitting my little brother you see."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Get out Mycroft. Or I'll throw you out the window."

Mycroft buttoned up his jacket and turned to his brother.

"Don't be so melodramatic. Afternoon, John."

With a nod at John, Mycroft stepped past him and exited their flat, his footsteps fading down the stairs. John shut the door after him before turning to Sherlock.

"So, uh, what did he want?"

Sherlock looked up at him and shrugged.

"Who knows. Don't care. Not my concern."

John took off his jacket and laid it over the back of his chair. Right, don't care. He bit his tongue against the urge to yell 'liar' to Sherlock and demand to know what that whole conversation had been about. No, John, no. Eavesdropping, not good. Very not good.

John settled into his chair, happy for the familiarity of it. He found his mind in utter chaos. Now his meeting with Mary earlier seemed like a distant memory, and instead his thoughts kept returning to the exchange between the Holmes brothers. In particular, the last part of what Mycroft had said. Sherlock Holmes. In love. In love? In love. With...John Watson? John shook his head. Did Sherlock even know what that meant? In love? Perhaps it was just, in love like best friends in love. But the way Mycroft had said it, it sounded as if he was mocking Sherlock for harbouring a feeling that wasn't returned. But if it was mere friendship then clearly John returned those feelings.

But Sherlock had been so shocked to even be considered a best friend that he had drank tea with an eyeball in it. A feeling like love...romantic love...that just seemed so odd when thought in the context of Sherlock. John wasn't sure the man's brain was capable of processing that particular sentiment. Of course he's sure Sherlock knew all the chemical aspects that make up the feeling of 'love', but to actually experience it? He might level up from eyeball tea to just imploding.

A tea cup held in front of him shook John from his thoughts. He looked up and realized Sherlock was holding a cup of tea out for him, his other hand held another cup for himself. John accepted the offering with a nod of thanks and eyed Sherlock as the man walked around to settle himself down in his own chair, opposite John. The way the sunlight shone through the windows danced off the man's dark curls and for a split second John found himself staring.

"How...how did she take it?"

John forced his eyes down to meet Sherlock's and had to consciously process the man's question.

"Uh...?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You went to see Mary today, no?"

John blinked rapidly as his mind pieced together what Sherlock was asking.

"O..oh! Yes! Um, yeah, I did. It went..OK. As well as one can expect. She uh...she accepted my decision."

Sherlock took a sip of his tea.

"Of course she did."

John nodded and drank his own tea, noting that Sherlock had made it exactly how he liked it. Between sips, John snuck peaks at Sherlock, his eyes gazing over the other man from head to toe. Without a doubt Sherlock had a brilliant mind, if somewhat self destructive. One would be hard pressed to find another like Sherlock anywhere else in the world, and John would hazard to guess that there probably weren't many people like him in the entire human history. But on top of his mind, John never really thought about Sherlock's physical body. The detective was callously careless with it, abusing it to the point of exhaustion and using it for experiments. Often he seemed frustrated at the limitations his physical body placed on him and his way of dealing with it was to push it to its limits and beyond.

The man was lanky, a head taller than John. His eyes were piercing, a blue-ish green that changed depending on the light. Unlike his brother, Sherlock showed a range of expressions on his face, never bothering to hide when he was irritated, annoyed, excited or frustrated. His eyes could jump with energy or pierce with enough intensity to silence a room. His graceful hands and long tapered fingers were powerful enough to break bone in the heat of anger, or soft enough to cradle his beloved violin, drawing out the most delightful melodies from the instrument. The voice he spoke with was usually a warm baritone. His words came out in a flurry, usually giving the impression that his sentences could not keep up with the pace of his thoughts. He could manipulate that deep voice so that it became hard as steel when threatening his opponents, or soft and calm when he was sorting through his own thoughts. The man really was a beautiful creation in all sense of the word. Beautiful, mystical, and sometimes John still couldn't believe that such a bewildering man exists.

"John, your thoughts are on megaphone level decibels."

The younger man's offhanded remark shook John as he realized he had been staring, for how long he didn't even know. Oh God, could Sherlock deduce what his thoughts were? Did he notice a change in John's pupils' dilation? Had a twitch of his hand or a hitched breath given him away? If Sherlock had noticed anything he gave no indication as he waved his free hand.

"Well, I suppose you do have a lot to think over after today. We should call for delivery. You never did work well without some food, tends to make you..grumpy."

John swallowed the rest of his tea in one gulp, grateful that Sherlock had changed the subject.

"Yes, delivery sounds delightful. I'm starving."

Sherlock fished his phone out from his pocket and searched out the Chinese restaurant that he and John often ordered from.

"The usual?"

John nodded his consent and listened as Sherlock related their order to the restaurant staff. Maybe with some food he'll be able to clear his thoughts some.

I have a soft spot for Mycroft. That is all.

Thanks for reading!