"Mycroft, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Mycroft, reading a newspaper in a firelit corner of the Diogenes Club, lifted his head and was unsurprised to see John Watson making his way through the front antechamber. He was, perhaps, the only unsurprised person in the Club. In that hallowed silence, a human voice had the same impact as a gunshot elsewhere. Several other gentlemen had risen in alarm, and old Douglas in the opposite corner looked like he was going to go ahead and have that stroke he'd been threatening for the past twenty years.

"Touch me and you'll regret it," John said, without even looking at him. His tone was unmistakeable; anyone who touched him just then would regret it. He stood before Mycroft, five-feet-seven-inches of barely contained fury.

Mycroft sighed and folded his newspaper twice with deliberate care. He set it on the sideboard next to his chair and sipped the last dregs of his cup of tea. Then he rose, beckoned John into one of the inner rooms and shut the door behind them.

"Charming," he remarked. "Do you generally speak that way to nonagenarians?"

"Shut up," John said. "And don't bother asking me why I'm here. Went to pay the rent today—I'm a month behind. Or at least I was, a couple of days ago. Apparently, I'm now paid up to the end of the quarter."

"Oh?"

"And I'll tell you what, my bank balance has done interesting things today, too."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Remarkable."

"I don't want your bloody money, Mycroft!"

"Keep your voice down," Mycroft said. "You know we have rules against unnecessary noise in the Club, even in the areas where speaking is permitted. Let's not revisit that. Calm down and have a drink."

"I don't want a drink, and I don't want to keep my voice down!"

"If you must learn the hard way." Mycroft shrugged, pouring a drink for him anyway. "John, this isn't charity—"

John put his face in his hands and laughed, a bitter, low sound. "Oh my God. It was you."

"In a manner of speaking." Mycroft set a tumbler of cognac at John's elbow. John ignored it. "As I've been trying to tell you, this isn't charity, so there's no need to be so proud and offended about it. I'm simply fulfilling my legal obligations."

"Your legal obligations?"

"My brother was a wealthy man, and I am the executor of his estate. His will stipulates that a large portion of his legacy—"

John's eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare," he seethed. "Don't you dare talk to me about Sherlock…"

Mondays where Lestrade got into work to be informed of a violent disturbance at the Diogenes Club were difficult. Mondays where Lestrade arrived at the Diogenes Club to find Mycroft Holmes with a suspected broken nose, John Watson with a suspected broken hand, and half a dozen slumberous old gentlemen more scandalised than they had been since 1972, were really difficult. And Mondays where Lestrade had to arrest John Watson for assault, while his victim (nasally, muffled through a bloodied tartan handkerchief) protested, but John himself demanded a cell…

Well, at least the day wasn't likely to be boring.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you two?" he demanded once he'd got both men to accompany him back to the station. Or rather, once he'd got Mycroft to accompany him, since John didn't have much choice in the matter. He'd gone quietly, though. On arrival at the Club, the responding officers had found him politely waiting out front for them, with only the blood on his knuckles to account for what had happened.

"John?" he tried again. "Come on, I'm not asking you just to hear the sound of my own voice."

John shrugged. He'd pulled his sleeve over his bloodstained hand and was staring at a spot of sunlight on the carpet some way across the room.

Lestrade got up, going to the window to stare out at nothing in particular, just to give the man a break from his gaze. Pressing him harder wasn't the right way to get a stubborn man to talk, and it wasn't going to help his blood pressure or anyone else's. Mycroft, who had been sitting in a chair near the door, rose and went over to him. By now he'd quelled his nosebleed, but still had blood smeared from his nostrils to his chin and on his pinstriped shirt. "I really don't think this requires the intervention of the law, Inspector," he said, a little thickly.

Mycroft Holmes could have been reading a phone book aloud and it would have irritated Lestrade. Something about that smug tone. However, the man was going to show up to work tomorrow with two black eyes, and his nose was never going to be the same again, so there was that. Lestrade, for a few seconds, felt like congratulating John for belting the posh git. "I think I'll be the judge of that," he said instead, folding his arms in a gesture he used to show he meant business. "Being that it's my job and everything."

"All this fuss. Given the conversation John and I were having at the time, you might even say I deserved it."

Lestrade, bewildered, glanced back at John again. So far back as his memory went, the only thing Mycroft had expressed he deserved was adulation for being a wealthy and well-connected genius. "He did hit you, though," he said. "You admitted it. I mean, look, I appreciate you being all… magnanimous about this—" Mycroft always brought out the inner thesaurus in people—"But John can't just go around thumping people like that."

Mycroft shrugged. "If John decides to 'thump' anyone else, then you may deal with the situation in whatever way you please," he said. "So as far as I'm concerned, there's no harm done. To myself, that is. But I suspect John may need medical attention for his hand. Broken in at least two places."

John, overhearing this last remark, looked up. For a second or two, Lestrade thought he was going to punch Mycroft again, broken hand or not.

"Okay, listen to me."

As it happened, Mycroft's guess had been conservative: x-rays at the local hospital had confirmed that John's hand was broken in three places, though two fractures were only hairline. Lestrade had taken him home, mostly to ensure he went home and stayed there. He was now sitting on the lone chair, both hands curled harmlessly in his lap. Lestrade was making instant coffee with the same amount of aggression he'd need to fight a bear.

"Are you listening?"

"Yeah," John said defeatedly. "Yeah, I'm listening."

"You can't keep doing this." Lestrade put the hot cup in front of John, who tried to pick it up with his battered hand and switched at the last second. "I realise you're upset about... what happened. We all are. We all miss—"

"Don't."

"And I realise Mycroft gets on your nerves. God knows he gets on mine, but I've never punched him. And this is the fourth person you've punched in as many months."

"It's hardly my fault I keep meeting people who deserve to be punched."

"John, I'm serious." Lestrade, unable to deliver a very convincing lecture while sitting on the bed, stood with his arms folded.

"So am I," John said. "I don't need Mycroft's money, and even if I did, I'd sooner live on the streets."

"And how close is that to happening?" Lestrade spoke quietly. He'd noted, as Molly had, how cold the room was; and he wasn't buying that the heater was faulty, either.

John shifted in his chair. "I'll manage."

"Will you?"

"Yes. Jesus, not you too."

"What do you mean, me too?"

"I mean Molly Hooper's been here every day for a week and a half, treating me like an invalid. Thanks for that, Greg."

"She's worried about you," Lestrade said. "Imagine that. She means well, and she's harmless."

"So?"

"So what's your problem? If it makes her happy to do some shopping for you, you may as well let her. Won't hurt you to have company every now and then."

"I'm not suffering for lack of company," John said acidly. "God knows I'm having trouble getting some people—" by some people, he meant Harry—"to go away. Anyway, how did you know she'd been doing shopping for me?"

"As if you having food in the flat for a change didn't give it away, she told me. And stop changing the subject. We're not talking about Molly Hooper. We're talking about how you just went and punched a man so powerful he could have you whacked and they'd never find—"

Lestrade sighed and adjusted his tone again. Best not to speak lightly about that kind of thing around John, even yet.

"He may as well have pushed Sherlock off that roof," John ground out. "And he thinks money is going to fix..."

Lestrade had never weighed in on how much he thought Mycroft was responsible for Sherlock's suicide, and he refused to be goaded into it now. "John, you're not the first person in the world to go through this," he said. "You won't be the last. You can't just go 'round hitting people at the drop of a hat."

John said nothing, but his expression conveyed I'm pretty sure I just demonstrated that I can.

"It's not going to change anything—" except perhaps the composition of Mycroft's face—"and it's not going to make you feel any better."

The side of John's mouth twitched. "I don't know, I'm feeling pretty good about it right now."

"Yeah, I guarantee you'll be hearing from your hand tomorrow. And you and Mycroft won't have got anything sorted out between you."

"I'm not interested in sorting things out between us."

"I noticed."

There was a short silence. Outside, there was a distant commotion as a group of girls made their way up the dark street, laughing and shoving one another. A shrill giggle pierced the night. From somewhere closer came the muffled sounds of a door closing and the evening news from a TV in one of the nearby flats. Lestrade noted, and not for the first time, that John didn't have a television or a stereo or any other thing to make a companionable sound on a solitary night. There was the laptop, but that was in its case and sitting neatly near the foot of the bed, and he couldn't remember when he'd last seen it open and on.

"Trust me on this." He gave in and sat down on the bed. "Just about every day, for nearly thirty years, I've had to deal with some bonehead who thinks it's okay to hit his missus, or his kids, or someone who bumps into him in the street, just 'cause he's angry. You're better than that, John."

John looked at the floor.

"And the last thing I need is my superiors wondering why I'm letting you walk when you assaulted someone. Do you know how easily simple battery can become manslaughter? All someone needs to do is fall into a table... or a glass door... and it happens more often than you'd think. You're going to end up in prison if you keep this up."

"I told you he wasn't going to take that well."

Mycroft hadn't even had a chance to shut the front door behind him before, he reflected, Sherlock was on the case. Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Nasal Fracture. Everything was a potential case to Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Ignored Text. Sherlock Holmes and the Strange Case of the Leaf on the Carpet. Sherlock Holmes and the Mystery of the Dripping Tap…

"What happened?" Sherlock had been reading beside the fire in the smaller drawing room, but had stood up, his book lying on the carpet near his shoes.

"Based on the evidence at hand, I'm confident you'll be able to make a deduction." Mycroft took his jacket off, inspected it for bloodstains, hung it over the chair in the foyer, and stalked upstairs without a further word. He returned with a fresh shirt on and a clean face, pouring himself a much-needed drink from the sideboard and sitting down in the armchair. Sherlock was still standing before the fire.

"… John?"

Mycroft picked up the evening newspaper and pretended to read it for a few seconds. "Your brotherly compassion overwhelms me. No, I didn't press charges. Lestrade took him home."

Sherlock flopped down into a nearby armchair, tucking one foot underneath him and flicking the balls of his hands against the arms.

"Jean-Baptiste Bedárd," Mycroft said absently.

It was several seconds before Sherlock turned his head. "Sorry...?"

"Oh, my mistake. I thought we were playing that charming game of yours where I have to guess what you're playing in your head based on that infuriating fidgeting," Mycroft said sourly, flicking the paper in his hands. "Jean-Baptiste Bedárd. Les Quatre Ages de L'Amour. Bit maudlin for you, surely?"

Sherlock ignored this. "Did you tell him it was my money?'

"Tried to."

"Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"If John punched you in the face and took your money, I regret to inform you that you've been mugged."

Mycroft rose and went back to his jacket pocket, retrieving his phone. "Sent it via bank transfer yesterday," he said, thumbing numbers into the keypad. "I'm not stupid enough to think he'd accept a cheque. I imagine the money's still in there, since he…"

He trailed off into a chastened sort of silence.

"… What?"

"He took the money out in person, today." Mycroft held the phone out to Sherlock, who took it. "11:28am. Every penny."

Sherlock examined the transaction record in silence. Then he stood up, went to the door, and reached out for his coat and scarf hanging on the stand in the corner. "Going out," he said.

"Sherlock—"

"Oh, calm down. I didn't spend so much time and effort on this just so I could actually get killed."

Mycroft paused, looking Sherlock up and down, as if trying to evaluate him against something. "I want you to take the umbrella," he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "For God's sake…"

"Just for tonight, Sherlock. It's important."

"Do you know how ridiculous I look carrying an umbrella around on a fine night? Come to think of it, do you know how ridiculous you look… fine." Sherlock yanked Mycroft's umbrella from its stand near the door. "Why an umbrella, anyway?" he went on, examining the spring-loaded handle. "Surely those geniuses you work with would know that a man looks suspicious when he's carrying an umbrella he has no need of. I'm surprised so few people have caught on. They must think you've got a dreadful case of hydrophobia." He moved his attention to the pointed tip, poking it. "Why not a grenade masquerading as a wallet, brother?" he asked. "Or, I don't know, a fountain pen full of nerve gas…"

"Careful with that!"

Not even dignifying this with a response, Sherlock walked out of the house, carelessly swinging the umbrella in his hand. If John Watson had been on hand he would have told him he looked like Charlie Chaplin, and been exasperated at the blank look he would have been given in return. But John Watson was not on hand. He hadn't been on hand for three months and six days.

It was just under an hour later when Sherlock reached the cemetery, and well after nightfall. The cemetery gates were shut, but Sherlock scaled them like a cat, landing lightly on the hoary grass on the other side with very little sound.

The dew was already setting in. The sod beneath Sherlock's feet was spongy, and everywhere was the bitter scent of putrefaction. As a small child, Sherlock had been taken to this graveyard, and others. On one occasion, he'd asked Mummy if that smell was "somebody dead." Mummy had said no, it was when people put flowers on graves and then forgot about them until they rotted away. Much later, Sherlock was to learn that "somebody dead" smelled quite different. But he still associated that dank odour of soggy flowers with graves unvisited, with the absurdity of buying a gift for the dead which, in its turn, would also rot.

Sherlock had brought no torch, but the layout of the cemetery was very familiar to him now. The night was calm but cold, and the moon was bright. Bright enough to see, at some distance through the trees, what he expected to see.

There was a long white envelope resting on his grave.

He knew by the weight that it contained, in cash, the thousand pounds that Mycroft had put in John's bank account the day before. What he didn't know, until he was back in his room at Mycroft's and could see it properly, was that Sherlock Holmes was written in John's hand on the now-soggy envelope: the painstaking yet hopeless scrawl of a fastidious left-handed doctor. Inside, and tucked between the banknotes, was another note in the same hand.

I miss you.

A/N: Thank you for reading. if you enjoy my work and are interested in reading some of my exclusive original crime fiction, PM me for details :)