"Hello, John." Mycroft is perched stiffly in Sherlock's chair with his umbrella across his knees and a small upturning of his lips that would have been a smile on someone else's face. "Bad dream?"
John scrubs at his face and gazes with bleary eyes at Mycroft, who looks unchanged since the last time he had paid a visit to 221B Baker Street weeks ago. Judging by the bespoke pinstriped suit and immaculate shoes, one would never be able to tell that the man was sitting in the leather armchair of his dead brother. If he could muster up any shred of caring, he would be furious at Mycroft. Instead, John sighs and makes his way to the kitchen to put the kettle on yet again.
"Do you really need any more caffeine today?" Of course Mycroft knows exactly how John had spent his day and how much tea he has already had. Probably watched footage of John standing by Sherlock's grave - because no matter how often John asks, he is sure Mycroft's beady-eyed cameras still survey the cemetery - and tried to understand why this man who had known Sherlock for little over a year cared more than his brother did.
He's tempted to dump the tea on Mycroft's lap but hands the cup to him instead. Shame to ruin a good suit. "What are you doing here, Mycroft?"
The put-out frown fits Mycroft's face much better than that creepy half-smile. "I came to check up on you. The detective inspector is…concerned about your welfare. As am I. It's been two months since my brother's death and—"
The words echo his dream too much for comfort. "—and I should just get over it already. I should move on and pretend I didn't watch him kill himself right in front of me." An icy numbness grips his middle, and Mycroft watches him, frown deepening, as John grips his chair's arms a little too tightly for his neutral tone.
"He wouldn't want you to be like this."
John lets out a humourless chuckle at the attempt at sentiment. "How the hell would you know? We both know he couldn't stand being around you. You betrayed him, Mycroft. If it's anyone's fault that I'm 'like this,' it's quite possibly yours."
Mycroft's eyebrows fly up at that. "I see." He sets aside his tea and stands, umbrella in hand, to leave. John walks him to the door, his hand on the doorknob when Mycroft pauses and catches John's eyes with his own.
"Lestrade has you working on the Alexander case. He's going to be calling you shortly to discuss apprehending the suspect, Ned Alexander. I feel I should warn you to be careful. Alexander is linked with one of London's more dangerous crime syndicates, and he will not be an easy man to capture."
John nods curtly and opens the door. Mycroft reaches the end of the landing before turning to address him. "I regret my actions, John. I did care about my brother," he admits quietly.
"Don't come here again." He shuts the door loudly for the second time that day.
When he finally falls asleep that night, John dreams of the war. Guns and bloodshed and violence rouse fear and adrenaline that wake him gasping in the darkness as his hands scrabble at the sheets.
The Tube is crowded with lunchtime commuters, several of whom press closer to John than is entirely comfortable. He hates the noise and the bustle and had gotten used to travel by taxi, but money has gotten even tighter since Sherlock's death. With no more clients and no more clinic work, he knows sooner or later that he'll go to scan a box of tea or litre of milk at Tesco and an error message warning of insufficient funds will flash across the screen of the chip and pin machine. So he puts up with the pointy elbow of the skinny blond teenager behind him and the none-too-pleasant odour of the probably homeless man to his left and endures the ride in silence.
He manages to dodge the heavy traffic on Broadway after escaping the Saint James's station and arrives at New Scotland Yard without incident. Lestrade is at his desk, feet propped up and pastry in hand as he skims one of a stack of case files. When John knocks quietly at the open door, he swallows the large bite of jelly doughnut and sets down the file.
"Hey. Molly said you stopped by and she told you about the hairbrush. We're still waiting to hear back, should be soon though."
John nods. The silence stretches again, lessened slightly by the distraction of an assistant delivering another thick folder to Lestrade, who groans and rubs at his eyes. "When this day is over, I am going to be in serious need of a drink. I know you've been…er, busy, but would you want to go out for a pint?"
"Sure." Perhaps he could have put more enthusiasm into his response. Lestrade studies him, a frown too much like Mycroft's appearing on his face.
"All right, John? I know the last few cases weren't exactly action-packed, but you know the Yard really doesn't see that many exciting cases…"
The silence returns as Lestrade trails off apologetically.
"It's fine. I'm fine. A drink would be nice."
Footsteps behind him and the movement of Lestrade's eyes away from John's alert him to someone else's presence. Anderson, armed with yet another folder of paperwork and the sneer he seemed to reserve just for John these days.
"Detective Inspector, there seems to be a civilian taking up space in your office. Still letting him pretend to work here?"
Lestrade waves him closer, rolling his eyes with a sigh at Anderson's pettishness. "Not that it's any of your business, since I am in charge of this division last I checked. Is that the paperwork from the Prichard murder?"
"Lab results came in this morning, so I was finally able to finish the report."
As he walks forward to hand the file to Lestrade, he bumps John's bad shoulder and turns to smirk an apology. The tendril of anger rekindles in John's stomach, surprisingly and suddenly potent. Two months of putting up with Anderson's mocking condescension - made worse when fuelled by the presence of Sally Donovan - is enough to briefly cut through the fog that blankets John, and his hand twitches as he resisted the urge to shove Anderson through the glass wall of Lestrade's office. Although the glass is probably bulletproof which meant that, at best, Anderson would end up with a concussion. John thinks he could probably live with that.
But the time for retaliation passes as Lestrade flips through the pages of the report and queries the forensic tech about his writeup. It's as if he isn't even in the room, but it had usually been that way when Sherlock dragged him to the Yard to annoy Greg. Then, Anderson and Donovan were too busy harassing the consulting detective and Lestrade was too busy trying to keep up with Sherlock's rapid deductions. But Sherlock had always turned to ask John for confirmation or to explain some minor point or simply to give John that look, the one that said we're the only ones who really know what's going on here. Months later, no one knows how to act around John because he isn't getting better, and he feels like a nuisance.
Donovan chooses that moment to stick her head into Lestrade's office, looking flushed and winded. "Just heard back about Alexander. He's been spotted hiding out in Tottenham off Creighton Road."
Lestrade looks back to John again as he abandons the paperwork to jump up and grab his coat. "Do you have your gun with you?"
"Yes." John rarely leaves the flat without the Sig Sauer on him. It's a reminder of the good old days, back when he actually had to use it. The L106A1 would be useful if any of Moriarty's men decided to pay a visit, but two months after their leader had bled out on the roof of Bart's, John doubts any of them are very interested in coming after him. Sherlock and Moriarty are both gone, and his occasional involvement in Yard cases has been restricted to research and medical consultation. At least it's something to do, since he doesn't really feel like going to the clinic and attempting to bolster any patients' spirits.
"You can't seriously be thinking of letting him tag along on an arrest! He's still just a civilian, for god's sake. And that gun's illegal!" Anderson splutters. Donovan nods in agreement, adding, "Maybe this isn't such a good idea, sir."
She looks over to John almost apologetically. Despite her glee at Sherlock's fate, she's been mostly civil and almost respectful of John's loss, seeming to understand what Sherlock meant to John even if she clearly thought the bond rather one-sided. She had always been just a bit more tolerable than Anderson, though heaven knows what she saw in the man. "It's just that you don't, well, seem very up for it."
"Well, he's a better shot than either of you are. Let's go, John." He strides out of the office with John, Donovan quietly grumbling but stepping quickly to keep up.
Of course, the route they take would take them past a cemetery. John ignores it and the looks from Donovan and Lestrade, instead staring forward so intensely he thinks he might strain something. They park the unmarked car just past the intersection of White Hart Lane and Creighton. When he opens his door, he immediately turns up his coat collar; by now, what had started as yet another sunny day has turned cold and cloudy, a portent of a harsh winter to come.
"All right, backup's on call if we need it, but I'd rather keep this quiet since God knows we're up here every other week. Sergeant Donovan, I want you to go with John to check out the shacks behind that row of houses - he's probably hiding out back there since it's closed in by the houses and the cemetery. I'll check this side."
They nod and start off, walking quickly. The streets are quiet, as usual for a Monday afternoon, but it's not somewhere anyone would choose to linger. In fact, John thinks, it was probably more typical to see someone running down the cracked sidewalk. Trash blows alongside them as they make their way to a service entrance for the cemetery and draw their guns.
Mycroft certainly had not been overestimating the danger of apprehending Alexander if the man decided to fight. John had read the autopsy report, seen photos of the damage to his wife's body when she had decided to reveal information to one of her husband's competitors. But Lestrade had also been right: an obvious police presence in this stretch of Tottenham would drive Alexander underground. If they were lucky, they would surprise him. If not, backup was only minutes away.
He motions to Donovan to take the first row of shacks and she nods, tapping her cell phone where it rests in her pocket to remind him to call if he needs. John nods in return and makes his way quietly but swiftly back to the second row of cobbled-together sheds. It had been too long since the last time he had done this, run down a suspect in some back alley, gun drawn and heart pounding. He can feel the blood moving through his veins and his lungs fill with the burn of cold air, fighting back some of the numbness.
This was what had appealed to him about war: the adrenaline and the alertness and the hint of fear that whatever was coming he might not make it through…but if he did, his opponent certainly wouldn't. Of course, here the rules are different, but Sherlock had shown him the battlefield underneath the comparatively civilised veneer of London, and John still craves what he could only call the passion of the battlefield. Now even his anguish has begun to fade around the edges, becoming staler as time passes and any return to normalcy (was there such a thing in a world that had once contained Sherlock Holmes?) continues to evade him.
John waits briefly outside of each structure, listening for the slight rustles and murmurs that would indicate the shack is occupied. The only noises that meet him as he works his way from building to building, however, are the wind and the distant rush of traffic.
He has almost reached the end of the row when a crash, too quiet to be heard from the main road, echoes from the row Sally is searching.
Author's Notes:
Thanks to everyone for all of the story alerts and favorites! I'm so excited to be writing fanfiction again instead of just lurking and reading.
I forgot to mention in the first chapter where I got the name for this fic. "Run him like a blade/To and through the heart" is part of the lyrics from the song The Hollow by A Perfect Circle.
I had to do a bit of research for this chapter. Sherlockology (sherlockology[dot]com) was incredibly useful for maps of Sherlock locations throughout London and information about John's gun. I also had some assistance from a former English professor who was not fazed in the slightest when I asked him, "Hey, where would be a good sketchy place in London for a member of organized crime to hide out from the police?" Thanks also to the lovely Brittany (OodIsGood) for feedback and beta-ing.
I'm not sure what the update schedule is going to be for this yet. Right now I have lots of ideas and free time, but as the chapters are long-ish I'm pretty sure I won't be doing more than one update a week. It just depends on when I feel creative and what my work schedule is like, but I'm going to try and update frequently.
As always, reviews are very much appreciated.