When the consulting detective re-entered 221B, he thankfully wasn´t covered in monster blood or anything suspicious apart from a few cuts.
John had not moved from his seat. He had tried to blog something, but questions kept bothering him. How many times had Sherlock lied to him? How many times had they chased what seemed to be a normal criminal but actually had three heads and a dragon´s tail? John had looked for demigods in the Internet. He had found myths and common characteristics. They lived dangerous lives (oh, really?), went on sever quests (you don´t say!), and apparently inherited several attitudes from their godly parent. The doctor stopped his search. Who was Sherlock´s godly parent? Did he or she have something to do with Mycroft also?
The blank search box stared back at him. What had Sherlock said before huffing and pouting like a three-year-old? Nemesis? John typed in the word and scrolled through the results. "Goddess of revenge... bad temper... not precisely patient... out-spoken..." he read. "Am I reading the Holmes resume?"
A shuffling of feet unglued his eyes from the screen.
Sherlock flopped himself on the couch. "Hi," he muttered tiredly.
"Um, hello."
"Don´t worry, John. There´s this thing called Mist that blocks things from the mythological world from mortal eyes."
"I´m not- so they saw a mad man in pyjamas and a gown stabbing thin air with a magnifying glass?"
"Actually, stabbing a poodle, I think," Sherlock answered calmly. He turned to look at his flatmate, his hands joined at the tips and placed under his chin. "You are taking this all quite calmly," he noted.
"Well," the soldier admitted, "I´m used to getting strange news of and from you."
Sherlock returned his gaze to the ceiling and silence fell over the flat for a few minutes. John was the first to break it.
"I looked her up, you know. Nemesis. She´s your godly parent, right?"
"Correct."
"Also Mycroft's, I suppose? She is "Mummy"?"
"No," the black-haired man answered to John's surprise. "Mummy is a rich mortal woman who had the misfortune of being cheated on with a goddess. Mycroft is my half-brother. But don't mention it when you see him. He will ramble on about honour. It´s tedious."
"And the eye patch?" Sherlock frowned. "I have a feeling it fits in here somewhere, Sherlock."
"I have said enough." And with this, the detective closed his eyes and openly ignored his friend.
During the next week, John decided to use Sherlock´s own medicine against him. While the detective was trying to prove some crazy theory in his kitchen, solve a case, or stare at the wall and mourn about his boredom, his phone kept buzzing.
Eye patch –JW
Where did you get an eye patch? –JW
Sherlock! –JW
Sheeeeerlock –JW
EEEEEye patch –JW
Throughout that week, John also discovered why ignorance was bliss. His walk to the clinic changed completely. He saw a harpie, a gorgon, a thing (the Internet was not able to explain what it was), and a couple of thirteen-year-olds buying chips with swords hanging from their belts. And they saw him, and that was not nice. Also, Mycroft had noticed something new under the sun, and kidnapped him as usual. John didn't say anything.
On Saturday morning, John had given up all efforts to find out more about the eye patch. "He´ll tell me when he is ready," he told himself, "and I'll just keep lying to myself and pigs will fly. Like that is going to happen." John made a mental note to search flying pigs in Greek mythology. Just in case.
But it did. When John walked into the living room on Sunday, Sherlock stopped plucking his violin and said, "My half-brother´s."
"Excuse me?"
"The eye patch. It´s my half-brother´s," Sherlock explained.
"Mycroft´s?!" John exclaimed in surprise.
"No. Another son of Nemesis. Ethan Nakamura." Sherlock spat the name slowly.
"Why haven´t I met him?" John asked, but then changed his mind, "Never mind, I really don't want someone else kidnapping me."
"He wouldn´t kidnap you, John," Sherlock snapped, "And if you want to meet him, you just have to go to Los Angeles, find a place called DOA Records, and enter Hades´s realm!" John had never seen Sherlock so flustered, not even after he saw the hound. The doctor searched through his recently acquired knowledge. Hades... lord of the underworld and- (His eyes locked with his flatmate's disturbingly grey ones.) –and lord of the dead.
"I´m sorry," he whispered. "I´m so sorry, Sherlock. I-"
"Don´t, John. Just... don't." A long pause. John thought, just for moment, that something wavered in Sherlock´s hard eyes, but it couldn´t be. "He died a hero´s death, you know. Something I could never get."
John felt a knot in his stomach. The room seemed to swivel around him. Or maybe this was only an excuse for leaning in, just an inch, a tiny, harmless inch. "Yes. Yes, you could. Don't you dare say that you couldn´t, Holmes. You are the brav-"
"No, John," the detective answered. "Don't lie. You are the bravest man I know and will ever know."
"Maybe I don't know myself yet," the blonde grinned.
"Obviously you don't. After all, you seem to be incredibly ignorant of how truly brilliant you are," Sherlock said with a neutral tone before breaking his eyes from John´s. "Now, how could a fifteen year-old maid sneak a poisoned mint into her mistress´s pocket? Any ideas?"
John didn't have any ideas. He was too busy staring at the side of his flatmate´s head with his mouth hanging open. "How- What- Excuse me?!"
"A mint, John. A small, round, hard candy-"
"Not that!"
"Boooys!" Mrs. Hudson's voice called. "Someone is here for you!"