For once, Mycroft is doing the right thing. Keeping me away from London tonight might just be the best decision he's ever made, as if he suspects that it might be a "danger night" (such an irritating name, but he didn't listen when I told him that. Of course he didn't.). The driver doesn't say where we're going, and frankly I don't care. Anywhere but back there will be good enough for me, even if we keep just driving around all night. (This is Mycroft, though, so I'm sure there's a bigger plan at work, but I won't ask because that will only please him and he'll have a big enough head anyway after guessing correctly that I'd need an escape.)
I settle into the leather seat and stretch out my legs, tilting my head back to see out the back window. The stars are out, beautiful as they are. I never told John that I tried to learn them, once, after he laughed at me about the sun. There are a lot of things I've never told him that I should, such as the fact that I slightly enjoy the ridiculous television programmes that he enjoys (but only because they amuse him so much) or that his nagging about body parts in the fridge was one of the reasons that I brought home so many while he lived in Baker Street before. Before everything else got in the way.
I sigh and close my eyes, think of the way he reacted to the head and chuckle to myself. That was so long ago. We were just learning to tolerate each other, though in some respects he was already one of the best people in my life. It was only later that he acceded to the very best. Moriarty hadn't even made his appearance then, though the puzzle of the name was nothing to the puzzle of the man.
Then he got fond of bombs, and threatened John, and the fun all drained out of the puzzle before the two years of hunting and killing. John has seen the scars, of course, but he hasn't asked. (I'm glad, in a way. I don't want him to look at me differently the way that I know he would if he found out about the torture. The pity in his eyes that he'd try to hide, and the gently prodding questions.)
I miss it, sometimes. (A lot of the time.) Having John at Baker Street meant concern and worry, but it also meant running out with him on a murder case at three in the morning and celebrating with take-away, things that have changed now with Mary. (Though she doesn't try to keep us apart, it happens anyway, an evolving division. He has other concerns now that don't fit with mine, don't align the way that things used to with us, and isn't that like a punch to the gut?) Looking back, it was a carefree sort of time filled with adventure, even when the boredom was driving me mad. (It was never as bad with him there as it was before.)
Everything was far easier before, anyway.
(At least, some things were.)