Chapter Two:
John slid into the seat beside Sherlock, fighting the wince at the increased throbbing in his leg. Their tussle in the sitting room had overworked the muscle; it would only get worse in his experience. He situated his cane between them, a thin shield against the knowing gleam in Sherlock's eyes. The car smoothly pulled away from the curb and into the traffic. Sherlock's profile was lit by the dim gleam of his mobile. There was a scar on Sherlock's neck that hadn't been there the last time they'd seen each other. The white line disappeared down into his coat. As if he felt the gaze, Sherlock adjusted his scarf, hiding the mark from further examination.
"So." John pursed his lips, looking around the car interior and then expectantly at Sherlock. "Where are we going?"
Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat.
"Not important," he answered, never taking his eyes off his mobile.
"Not important?" John exhaled a dry laugh. "Is that going to be your response for all the questions I ask?"
"Only if they're boring," Sherlock replied.
John took another look around the car, fighting to keep his placid expression.
"Fine. How long will this take? I've got class in the morning." John tried again.
Sherlock sighed, looking up from his phone to stare at John. Then his gaze returned to his phone. John tapped his fingers on the seat, again taking stock of the car interior (black leather seats; open partition between the passengers and driver).
"Alright, obviously you have this idea of what I should be asking you. Go on then," John said.
Sherlock slid his mobile into his pocket, turning his head to regard John. His cool gaze swept over John again.
"You're angry. Expected since you feel betrayed. You truly thought I was dead, but here I am, and you're mad that I didn't confide in you. You want to know why, how, yet you won't address the issue at hand. Typical for you. A bit passive aggressive, if you ask me." Sherlock rolled the window down a bit, looking out at the passing street lamps.
"Oh, you want me to address the issue? Yes, how should we begin that conversation? Glad you're not dead, but thanks for letting me think that for fourteen months. It's been brilliant." John reached for his cane unconsciously.
Sherlock's hand bumped his, intentionally keeping John from holding onto the support. John just stared at him, hand mid-air. The seconds of silence were deafening. Instead of speaking, Sherlock lit a cigarette.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to put that out." The driver's sudden voice startled John.
Sherlock leaned forward and closed the partition in answer. Then his attention returned fully to John.
"I am sorry." Sherlock paused between each word. "It was the only way."
"No, no it wasn't," John replied fiercely.
Sherlock's gaze cut at him. His chin tilted up slightly, a familiar indicator of disagreement.
"It was the only avenue I was willing to pursue," Sherlock said quietly.
"What about the path where you were not dead? What about that one?" It was odd how he noticed at this very moment that his leg had stopped cramping.
Sherlock took a long drag off the cigarette and offered it to John. John shook his head, not about to get distracted.
"The effects would have been worse." Sherlock's tone felt faint, as if he was drifting away with the smoke.
"How so? Nothing would have changed, Sherlock. We'd be at Baker Street. You'd be taking only private cases, and I'd be….what now?" Sherlock had started shaking his head as soon as John uttered the phrase "nothing would have changed".
"I'd be at Baker Street, yes." As if that statement explained it all.
"And I'd…" John's mouth formed an o, and his gaze flicked to Sherlock. Sherlock watched him evenly, before returning his attention to the street. "So what happened on the rooftop?"
Immediately, John knew he'd found the question Sherlock had wanted him to ask all along. Sherlock passed over the half-smoked fag.
"I underestimated the lengths Moriarty was willing to go to in our game," Sherlock said, his lips twisted in a way that revealed the bitter taste of the word "underestimated".
"Papers said his death looked like a suicide," John replied.
He ignored the other headlines that popped up when he thought of the month after Sherlock had died. Well, not died, since he was clearly alive.
"Gun in the mouth. Messy," Sherlock said reproachfully.
John leaned his head back against the headrest, breathing in the nicotine. He looked at his hand, barely suppressing a glimmer of amusement. It was steady for the first time since the funeral.
"Well, good to know he won't be coming back after us," he glanced at Sherlock. "When are you officially coming back?"
"Few loose ends to tie up first, John," Sherlock answered. "I'm assuming then we're good? Isn't that what you normal people say?"
John laughed. It wasn't a weak, humoring chuckle, but a full-on, loud laugh. Sherlock looked concerned and pleased at the same time. It wasn't a good look for him.
"No, no, Sherlock, we're not good," John replied. "But we'll make do."
Sherlock patted John's thigh with a quick nod.
"Good." The relief was momentarily clear on the detective's face.
Sherlock returned to his mobile for the duration of the trip. John pulled out his, slowly poking at the screen in an attempt to call, well, text, in sick to work the next day. When the car came to a stop, Sherlock exited the car without a word leaving John no choice but to follow. Sherlock led the way into the drab looking office building. John limped quickly in order to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.
"Do you have your gun?" Sherlock murmured as they stopped before a door.
Panic settled over John briefly. He'd left it at the flat.
"I didn't think we'd need it," he answered.
Sherlock titled his head and raised his eyebrow.
"A gun is always appropriate when meeting with Mycroft." He pushed inside without knocking.
Mycroft's gaze leveled at them and he held up a hand to indicate silence, pressing the mobile closer to his ear. Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. Mycroft sighed inaudibly, looking to John as if it were his fault that Sherlock was not compliant. John looked away, taking in the bland office. Other than the desk and a few chairs, it was a far cry from the other office Mycroft had. Off the books meeting, then. A few quiet words and Mycroft terminated the call.
"Please, sit." The order was directed at Sherlock. "Hello, John."
John tightly nodded at Mycroft, gingerly settling in a chair. Sherlock took up position behind it, but not directly. He stayed in John's peripheral vision. Mycroft's thin smile betrayed his veiled disdain.
"I trust you two have made up?" Mycroft glanced at his brother.
Sherlock scowled at Mycroft before sullenly looking away. Well, that hadn't changed. John rubbed his nose and cleared his throat.
"Why am I here exactly?" he asked.
Surprise briefly flitted across Mycroft's face. John caught Sherlock's shrug and furtive glance in John's direction.
"Honestly, Sherlock. Must I do everything?" Mycroft sighed.
"Ha!" Sherlock huffed.
The elder Holmes retrieved a file from his desk. John moved to stand, but Sherlock stepped forward first, taking the file and then handing it to him.
"Thanks," John said.
Sherlock nodded imperceptibly. John flipped through the file, taking in the pictures and information with a frown.
"These men are dead," he finally said.
"Indeed they are. Fourteen months ago, we were alerted to a threat. Two of these men have been dispatched," Mycroft began.
"Hold on," John interrupted. "This man was in our flat." He looked up at Sherlock. "When I left Bart's, he was fixing that fixture in the hall that Mrs. Hudson was always on about."
The room fell silent. Mycroft's gaze was fixed on his brother. John twisted to look fully at Sherlock.
"Three men, John. One for Mrs. Hudson, that one," Sherlock said quietly, indicating the picture.
"And, how exactly did he die?" John flipped through the pages.
"The autopsy reveals exsanguination was cause of death," Mycroft answered.
The photos also showed the cleaned cut puckering across the man's neck like a wicked smile.
"The other was killed by a single shot to the head," Mycroft continued. "Unfortunately, the last sniper is proving difficult to locate."
"Your extensive resources cannot find one man?" John said dryly as he closed the file.
Mycroft stretched his neck with a fierce frown.
"Not when he is employed by New Scotland Yard," Sherlock answered. "And I can't just stroll in there. Dead, remember?"
"How do you know he is employed by Scotland Yard?" John asked.
"There was a sniper intended for the Detective Inspector. Given certain factors, it is logical that the individual must be in somewhat close contact with him," Mycroft answered.
"What do you need me for?" John rubbed his forehead, feeling the ache growing behind his eyes.
The sudden predatory smiles on both brothers' faces made John instantly regret he even asked.
Sam was thankfully gone when John returned to the flat. Sherlock hung his coat in Sam's place, straightening his cuffs before sweeping through the rest of the flat. John stood in the sitting room, still processing the past four hours.
"I'll take tea," Sherlock stated before taking a seat in John's chair.
"Didn't realize you were staying," John replied.
Sherlock tapped his fingers on the armrests of the chair.
"The most well-hidden place for me is in plain sight. Completely logical, John." There was that tone. The one that indicated that Sherlock's observation was basic and John was an idiot for not seeing it. It still conjured up the overwhelming need to punch Sherlock in the face, but this time, John let it slide.
"Where do you plan to sleep?" John shuffled into the kitchen.
"On a case, John."
"Oh, this constitutes a case?" John switched on the electric kettle.
"Of the highest priority." Sherlock stood in the threshold.
"Lestrade would be chuffed to know that." John reached for mugs, pulling down one for him.
He pushed some of the cups about before snagging the one he'd kept from Baker Street, Sherlock's plain navy mug. Sherlock just mumbled something before turning on his heel. John heard his bedroom door open and shut.
"Not bringing you your tea, Sherlock," John called.
The silence was a familiar answer. John smiled to himself, really smiled. He would have laughed, but Sherlock would have heard. When the tea was finished, John took his and the morning paper to his chair. He settled in; Sherlock would be out for tea. Without fail, Sherlock breezed back out, having utilized John's shower and stolen a t-shirt. His wet hair created a crescent on the back of the thin t-shirt.
"Could have asked," John turned the page.
Sherlock settled on the couch, snagging the paper John wasn't reading. John glanced at him once, and then went back to his reading. Triple murder. No suspects. John made sure to hand that page to Sherlock when he was done. Couldn't have him getting bored in here. Sam would have a fit if anything was out of place, or if say, heads appeared in the fridge. He could feel the weariness descending and fought it for as long as he could. When his head fell back against the rest, he barely registered the warm blanket thrown over him.
