Notes: A day has elapsed since the events of Chapters 1 and 2.
Sorry this one took so long! Full notes at the end :)
The bored woman barely seemed to see Jeremy Sigerson as she shoved the shallow box at him across the table. She didn't appear to notice his battered knuckles or the blood caked around his nose and in the corner of his mouth, much less recognise him from his picture in old news stories. But that suited Sigerson just fine, having been in hiding as long as he had, and he was more than happy return the courtesy of her disinterest.
He frowned down at the contents of the box. That mobile phone was new to him; he certainly had not been carrying it on his person when he had allowed the police to apprehend him the previous night. It was flashing green with a notification – Mycroft, of course. As a gift, it was unsolicited and entirely unnecessary, but it was undeniably a useful object to have. He took lightly it in his hand as if it felt familiar, made a token show of checking the text (actually a voicemail which of course he had no intention of listening to), and pocketed the thing, hiding as best he could his distaste for his brother's imperialistic benevolence.
The remaining objects were no surprise: his sleek pocket knife was there, though the gun was gone (Mycroft could have recovered it for him with a little effort, he was sure), and there was also a worn black wallet containing cash and a few forged cards, a Canadian passport, and a crumpled packet of Fisherman's Friend – some kind of sucking candy or gum could go a long way toward fleshing out a persona that would otherwise be seen through in no time at all.
It was a pity about the gun, Sigerson reflected, though it had certainly served its purpose. He'd have hated to be caught without one last night if it had been Moran's men rather than the police, and he could be almost certain that John's illegal service revolver would not have been retained in a household where he had planned one day to have children. But the gun's utility as a weapon wasn't the only reason he had filched it from Moran's – or rather, Nguyen's office; it had also afforded him some valuable information. The police had known to investigate the flat of Nguyen's last afternoon appointment for an armed suspect (who they'd logically assume to be John, at least initially), meaning that whoever it was that discovered Nguyen's body (probably the private who had brought the tea) had not called the police until after checking his desk drawers to see whether anything was missing. That in turn demonstrated that they thought Nguyen's death could have been the result of a burglary, and the fact that they would even consider that theory under the circumstances signified that not everyone associated with that office was aware of Moran's scheme. It didn't tell Sigerson how many people he was actually up against, but it could certainly inform his decisions.
"All set, then?" droned the woman. She couldn't have seemed less interested if she tried. Sigerson nodded, and her male counterpart emerged from behind the counter to escort him outside.
–-
As his eyes adjusted to the dark night outside, he shed Sigerson like snakeskin, letting his bearing, his manner of speech, his walk fall away in transparent sheaths. Sherlock Holmes sighed to feel the night air fill his lungs – his lungs – a pleasure that he had ill been able to afford of late. It was risky even now, but on these empty streets and under the cover of the night, he could ration himself a few short moments of lightness and ease.
Picking up his pace, he reflected on how much more pleasant an experience getting out of lock-up could be with Mycroft's help. Although his company in the cells had not been much improved... Sherlock rewound his scarf, adjusting it to cover new bruises on his jaw and neck. Some things could not be helped, he supposed. But as much as he hated to ask his brother for anything, this might be worth remembering for the future. He swallowed down his distaste and resolved not to delete the experience after all.
He was a few seconds late for the light at the first big intersection he reached, and as he waited to cross, a chill crept up the back of his neck, and he turned around to see that he was, indeed, being trailed: his pursuer (quite predictably), a luxury car just shy of ostentatious. Sherlock sighed. His first instinct was to ignore it and change his course, to make a sharp right and seek out a one-way street where cars couldn't follow, and lose them that way. But it was a long walk to John's flat and he could hardly take a cab there without attracting Moran's attention – a risk he didn't want to run right now – and he had no delusions about his ability to evade his brother's fleet on foot for any significant length of time.
In the glow of the streetlights, Sherlock could just make a feminine figure in the passenger seat, face cast downward, likely engaged in a mobile device or tablet judging from the angle of the neck. Anthea? It was curious to have her sitting in the front. The Queen must have decided that this crisis necessitated personal involvement. What an unappealing situation.
Sherlock still hoped to keep his brother in the dark to the furthest extent possible with regard to this matter (excepting, of course, the information necessary to protect John – and what was Mycroft doing to ensure that his friend remained safe? Doubtless he had it covered, most likely a patrol and the ever-present CCTV, but still Sherlock couldn't help but feel that the task with which Mycroft was charged was too important for him to be out roaming the streets in some pretentious automobile like in those ridiculous spy movies John watched) but upon considering his options, it seemed that he had little choice but to take Mycroft up on his offer.
Just as Sherlock had resigned himself to getting in, the side door opened a crack, beckoning. He sighed in frustration and made his way to the kerb, opening the door the rest of the way and settling into the plush leather seats beside his older brother.
"Mycroft," he said, with as much detached dignity as he could muster. His brother had indeed aged, as one would obviously expect – though upon closer examination, he looked a bit older than three years seemed to warrant. But it did look like the diet was going well (very well, in fact; not only did Mycroft's waistline indicate that he had been successful in avoiding the dessert trolley, he looked healthy, and his hair and skin clearly showed that he was getting his vitamins) – the weight taunt wouldn't do, then. Pity. It had always been such an easy button to push.
"My dear brother," Mycroft spoke, and his voice was simultaneously saccharine and caustic to Sherlock's ears. "It's good to see you in the flesh again. You're looking well."
"Wish I could say the same," Sherlock bit back, knowing it was a lie and feeling certain that his brother could hear the hollowness behind his words.
Mycroft folded his well-manicured hands in his lap and smiled benignly. "Still as prickly as ever, I see," he observed. "Wouldn't want to let a few years as a recluse change us, now would we?"
Sherlock didn't have the patience for this game. "Where is John?" he asked. "Is he at his flat? What are you doing to protect him?"
"I've taken care of it; don't worry," replied Mycroft smoothly. "I don't suppose you've had the time to listen to my message, but I've made sure that Dr. Watson is perfectly safe... and of course you can rest assured that I've taken similar measures for the other two likely targets as well." The last part of this statement was delivered in a particularly biting tone, and it was obvious why, but Sherlock wasn't going to take the time to delve into it at this juncture.
Mycroft didn't appear keen to discuss it either, and he continued on as if nothing had been meant by it (though they both knew that no word to pass his lips was not carefully considered and measured). "I could take you to him, if you like," he offered. "Initially, I might have hesitated to do so, as I'm sure you'd prefer to avoid endangering his life unnecessarily, but upon further reflection, I admit that I must wonder whether you've got anywhere else to go."
Sherlock gritted his teeth and said nothing. The expression on his brother's face was not actually a sneer, although it may have in its heart of hearts aspired to be one. Mycroft was annoyed; he had never hesitated to make it clear how his younger brother's antics plagued him. He was still embarrassed to have been deceived by Sherlock's trick and frustrated to have been let in on the secret in the manner he was – via cryptic messages from the Homeless Network – and only then as a cog in Sherlock's plan, to start him off in his pursuit of Moriarty's men.
"To the good doctor's flat, then?" asked Mycroft, cocking his head. "Very well. Should any alternate destination come to mind, do be so kind as to inform me and I'll have the driver change course."
Sherlock didn't respond, and he intended to maintain his silence for the remainder of the journey. It stung Mycroft to be kept in the dark. There was no doubt that he had already found out quite a bit about Sherlock's situation (why else, then, would he have sent envoys to trail Sherlock, bumblers who tripped him up and exposed him to the risk of having his cover blown and the Work ruined?), but Sherlock was sure that no matter how hard he strove to hide it from his face and his voice and the set of his neck and shoulders, Mycroft still had questions that he desperately wanted resolved. But of course he couldn't ask – Mycroft could never admit to not knowing (or worse, to being unable to find out) – and Sherlock would steadfastly refuse to give him the satisfaction of answers. Mycroft would have to content himself with whatever information he could glean from his brother's outward appearance; Sherlock had nothing else for him, no matter how intently Mycroft was staring and trying to get his attention.
Mycroft cleared his throat. "You will permit me a word, dear brother?"
Sherlock's eyes darted futilely left and right and his mind raced, but it was clear that there was no escape to be had. Damn.
Rearranging himself in the spacious back seat (Sherlock was still getting used to how much less of Mycroft there was to rearrange), Mycroft adjusted his necktie and angled his posture toward Sherlock, leaning forward very slightly.
"I only want to express," he began before, "that I believe it may have been something of a blessing that Mummy did not have to go through all of this. It would likely have taken quite a toll on her." He cast his eyes downward and his voice dropped to a lower register. "To judge by my own experiences, that is."
Although he might often work to persuade outsiders to the contrary, it cannot be said that Sherlock Holmes was incapable of feeling. He may have admittedly experienced some difficulty in categorising or recognising individual emotions, but the past several years had seen a great deal more sentiment in his life than he ever would have expected, and he now found himself much better versed in these concepts than he once had been. But one advantage of keeping a relatively small circle of acquaintances was that it did tend to aid him in the categorisation of the less familiar emotions, those that did not often pop up in everyday life. Being able to associate one of these feelings with a certain person was useful in picking up or explaining the more puzzling aspects of the behaviour of normal humans. Sherlock found it incredibly beneficial indeed to be able to reference the tells exhibited by a suspect against his index and determine whether the emotion she displayed when speaking of the victim was closer to the mutual contempt and frustration in which he and Anderson held each other or to the disappointment and almost affectionate annoyance he felt when John was staring a conclusion in the face and simply refusing to see. In this way, he had discovered that – under the proper circumstances and in the right doses, of course – caring could very well be an advantage.
What Sherlock was feeling right now was not something that he often associated with Mycroft. It was not the desperate, all-undermining fear of inferiority or the need to prove and distinguish himself, nor was it exasperation, suffocation, or the infuriating imbalance of beholdenness and obligation. If anything, it was closest to (though still clearly distinct from) emotions he most often felt in regard to John. Realising oneself to be the object of another's concern and unconditional affection. Witnessing a selfless, altruistic feat of daring and acknowledging that some important gift had been given; desiring – not being required – to return in kind.
Sherlock knew there was only one way to do this and that there would not be another chance. Still, the words were blocky and cumbersome, and they didn't come easily. He had to virtually force them through his vocal chords. "I have given it considerable thought," he said hoarsely, "and I still cannot imagine why, despite his great intelligence and perception, Moriarty only planned for two snipers."
"Ah," Mycroft murmured softly, and he studied his hands as they shifted in his lap. He was silent for a moment, refusing to betray himself, to display any sign of emotion beyond what he already had. "It may be," he ventured finally, "that he assumed that my actions – which I now have the perspective to regret most deeply – gave him cause to assume a change in... the circumstances of our relationship."
Sherlock avoided meeting Mycroft's eyes. "If that was the case... rest assured that he was entirely mistaken."
Mycroft took a deep breath and let it out harshly. "My dear brother," he said, and the term carried none of its usual bitterness, none of the sarcasm. It was simply a statement of fact. Sherlock wanted to jump in then, to prevent Mycroft from venturing any further, but the words caught in his throat at first, and he had to swallow down a hard, sour lump and try again.
"Nothing more need be said, I'm sure," he whispered.
"Of course," Mycroft replied, sounding just as relieved as Sherlock felt. "But I would be remiss if I were to forget to welcome you home."
Sherlock nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. And so they sat, not speaking, not acknowledging the other, as the streetlit scenery of London rushed by outside, and if either breathed the slightest a sigh or allowed his features to twist and betray some sign of a softer man, he would have found his brother's senses uncharacteristically dulled, and such an offence, for once, would have gone entirely unnoticed.
–-
The second time that Sherlock climbed the stairs up to John's flat, he was able to skip the ones that he knew would creak. It was hardly the same level of familiarity he had once had with the seventeen steps up to 221B, but he felt a small flicker of satisfaction, a sense of ownership and belonging that he had missed sorely while he was away from London. He raised his hand and rapped his knuckles briskly against the wood.
But when he raised his hand to knock at the door once again, he felt a strange sense of hesitation that had not been there before. He quashed it down at y had), and rapped his knuckles briskly against the wood.
A moment later, there was John.
"Back in one piece, I see," John said to Sherlock with studied levity. He turned on his heel with military poise and gestured for them to come in.
"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said.
"Mycroft," replied John. "Bailed him out again, have you."
Mycroft had to have made some sort of response, surely, but it was lost to Sherlock, who was studying John. John. During their time at Baker Street, when Sherlock would meet John again after a separation, there would be a few short seconds of evaluation where Sherlock allowed his eyes to flicker across John's person and the gears would whir as he catalogued any and all manner of change that had taken place in his friend since they had last met. He had known to expect something similar upon their reunion, of course, but this... this was still too overwhelming. The changes in John were too great, their numbers too large, and the effort to process all of it at once made him feel as if there was a short-circuit in his brain, as if walls were popping up unbidden to block the pathways of his Mind Palace. This was the third time he had laid eyes on John since his return (though the first was only a brief glimpse followed by half an hour of clasping John's hand underneath the table and trying to calm the roaring of blood in his ears) but each time was as the first and his mind still refused to accept these changes on a more permanent basis. Sherlock was accustomed to constantly revising his theories based on newly acquired facts, but John was proving to be much more resistant to update, to recategorisation than the other data he chose to keep.
"Sherlock," said John, and it was the face he used when he was repeating himself. "Will you just sit down for a moment? I'll get you cleaned up."
Sherlock took a seat on the couch, deliberately avoiding the spot around which John had set up the breaking and entering scene – clearly, that was John's place. Which would almost certainly, he realised too late as his thighs sank into the soft but threadbare cushions, make this spot the one where John's late wife had used to sit. Mycroft sat down as well, choosing the armchair perpendicular to the couch.
An open book lay, dog-eared, face down beside John's seat, but the telly was on – he must have been reading, but still feeling anxious enough to need the sound on for reassurance. On the screen, a young man in green tights with a goatee and a slight Australian accent (Tasmania or thereabouts, Sherlock guessed) was fencing an older man in a red and gold cape. It was in colour but still an old movie, late 30's or early 40's. The way the men fought was gratingly unrealistic; all those acrobatics and yet they still aimed not to break their opponent's defence but to clash their swords together. Mycroft reached for the remote and switched the sound off.
John soon returned with a first-aid kit in one hand and a bowl of warm water in the other. He deposited the former onto the middle sofa cushion and the latter gently into Sherlock's lap, and pushed the coffee table back a bit so he could kneel between Sherlock's calves. A few seconds later, his face was mere inches from Sherlock's and John was studying him intently without registering him, seeing only his bruises, and the scene was so familiar as to be jarring. Something twisted inside Sherlock's chest, leaving in its wake a resonant ache that he could not quite name.
Though John had changed significantly in many respects, Sherlock observed, the deliberate practicality of his movements, remained entirely unchanged. John was a good doctor. His focus when he set to a task, the decided course of action he dedicatedly followed, the quiet confidence in his expert hands, the way not one of his movements was wasted – all of these things made Sherlock's fingers itch to hold his violin again. He had often wondered what had become of that treasured possession since his Fall (he had long since given up fighting the way the word resonated through his head in Moriarty's voice), and although he hadn't touched any musical instrument since then, he could already hear the melody he would create from the way John moved as he swabbed gently at Sherlock's temple and jaw.
Sherlock watched the progression of knowledge in John's eyes as John catalogued how old some of these bruises and scrapes were, how frequently they had been repeated. He took the bowl from Sherlock's hands and set it on the table, rocking back on his heels to retrieve a tube of ointment from the first-aid kit, which, like John himself, was neat and compact and purposeful and prepared for any eventuality.
John squeezed a bit of the gel out onto his index and middle fingers (Sherlock noticed a new cross-hatching of scars on the palm of his left hand) and, biting his lip, leaned forward, arm extended. He began to apply the cool gel directly to Sherlock's skin, dabbing his fingers gently against a scrape that stretched across his cheek. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. He felt suddenly exposed – intolerably so – and he had to fight the surely not-good urge to inhale the scent of John's skin at his pulse, to bite at his fingers or take them into his mouth to fill all his senses with the data he had long been missing.
John leaned back and studied Sherlock's face from a distance. This time, their eyes met for a moment and Sherlock felt his pulse quicken. Maybe later there would be a time enough for him to drink in the sight of John, to dedicate himself fully to learning every new line in John's face, the evident tension in his neck and jaw, but now was not that time. There was a curious heat in his stomach, a prickling beneath his skin, but he tried fastidiously to ignore it.
As with Mycroft, however, there were more new lines in John's face than there ought to be, than John should rightly have earned in the time that had passed. One could surmise that those years had been harder ones than most. Sherlock didn't want to allow himself to dwell on this, not now, but once he was aware of it, he could see that John's experiences were laid out there for the taking, revealing themselves to him one after another in the tilt of an eyebrow, a curve of the lip, and surely – if he reached out his hand – John's skin would yield the rest beneath his touch.
From the armchair, Mycroft cleared his throat, and Sherlock realised that he had been holding his breath. He tried to let it out as inconspicuously as possible – slowly and naturally through his nose – but part of him was sure that he had already been found out.
"Please forgive my abruptness, but I believe we have much to discuss and little time for it. If you are finished tending to my brother's injuries, perhaps we could set about it presently." Mycroft crossed his legs and leaned back in the armchair.
Giving an affirmative, John rose from his spot on the floor and settled onto the couch beside Sherlock. He sat up straight, letting his wrists cross in his lap, and waited for Mycroft to begin.
"As you are aware, my brother was unable – or perhaps unwilling – to avoid being apprehended in the fiasco that you witnessed yesterday." Mycroft addressed John, flashing a sideways glance at Sherlock. "Military personnel promptly discovered the corpse in the office where I presume you had your appointment, and they did not hesitate to contact the authorities. I was, however, able to provide an irrefutable alibi for Sherlock's whereabouts until the time his appearance at your flat, and – thanks to a prior... debt owed to me by a local law enforcement official – they were soon persuaded to release him from custody and reconsider their theories as to the murder of Lieutenant Colonel Geoffrey Nguyen."
Mycroft paused and turned his attention to Sherlock. "Speaking of which, baby brother, I must remark upon how lucky you are that mistakenly killing this man only served to make you aware that you were outnumbered. I shudder to think what would have happened to Doctor Watson if you had dispatched of this Nguyen and then come out of hiding straight away as you seem to have planned," Mycroft said, shaking his head.
Sherlock could feel colour rising in his cheeks and anger in his chest but he suppressed his outward reaction as best he could.
"Really, Sherlock," Mycroft continued. "I did notice that the records had been doctored specifically to this end, but I could hardly believe that you'd be taken in by such amateur work."
Sherlock caught a slight movement out of the corner of his eye. John was shifting in his seat, visibly annoyed with Mycroft and itching to object. Sherlock was taken aback by the wave of emotion he felt at this site – to know that John's faith in his abilities was still unshaken, to see John prepared, as ever, to leap to his defence. But Mycroft continued on briskly, and there was no time for John to speak up or for Sherlock to process this rush of feeling.
"Even for his most recognisable exploits," Mycroft said, removing a folder from his briefcase with a rustle of paper, "while they did make some effort to edit the coverage made by major news outlets, it appears that they quite forgot the smaller papers entirely."
He leaned forward to hand John and Sherlock identical copies of an old article from a Suffolk newspaper called The Beccles and Bungay Journal. The headline read "MILITARY MAN SAVES DAY IN TIGER SEWER NIGHTMARE," and it was followed by a picture of a young man – decidedly not Nguyen, though he must have been about the same age when the picture was taken – standing beside a large cage, looking quite smug. His clothing was dated and his bearing military. His light eyes, which stood out against tan skin, squinted as if facing bright sunlight, and a thick moustache drew the attention toward a pair of thin lips. Was the paper creased, or...? Sherlock rubbed his thumb across the line and no – that was a scar crossing the bridge of Moran's nose.
To have been deceived at all was unacceptable, but for them to have hidden away someone with such recognisable facial features (and for Mycroft, of all people, to find him out) was simply unbearable. Sherlock gritted his teeth very slightly and committed the new face to memory, cursing himself and his brother.
Mycroft tutted and leaned back in his chair. "Dreadful affair. Escaped from its cage and somehow found its way into a drainpipe – just like the Eliot poem, you'll note. Resulted in mass hysteria, of course. Moran crawled in after it, cornered it, and managed to come away with his life, God knows how."
John was looking at the article with no small amount of amusement. It was an unusual enough story, Sherlock supposed, and probably quite appealing to someone with John's tastes in horrendous action movies.
"I supposed that you wouldn't have heard about this matter, Dr. Watson," Mycroft stated. "I believe you would have been in the early stages of your military training when it took place. Hard to keep up with the news at a time like that, I'd imagine."
"Yes," John said hesitantly, and he frowned, knitting his brow – trying, doubtless, to weigh the image of the disciplined, stoic colonel whom he had met against the reckless lunacy of pursuing a jungle cat through a sewer. "That is Moran, though," he remarked. "A bit younger, but I recognise him."
"I'm sure," replied Mycroft drolly. "Rather distinctive-looking fellow, is he not?" He cast a sideways glance at Sherlock, who had already looked away in anticipation.
"In any case," Mycroft continued, placing a pair of manila folders on the coffee table, "I will leave the full files here for the two of you to review, but what we must take away from all this is that my brother's assumption that it was safe to return home was a premature one. There still remain men who are loyal to Moran – to Moriarty – and are willing to assist in this scheme, and you cannot count yourselves safe until we have found out who they are and settled upon a way to stay their hands."
"So what is the plan, then?" asked John. "What are our options here?"
Though he must have known that Sherlock had already guessed, Mycroft was hesitant to speak his answer aloud. He cleared his throat.
"I believe that our best hope under these circumstances... is to maintain the appearance of normalcy and allow your presence here to lure them out into the open."
John just looked at him. "Bait," he said flatly.
"If you must put it bluntly, yes."
Sherlock winced inwardly. How many times before had John served just that purpose – kidnapped, drugged, or simply grabbed and immobilised with the threat of a knife or a gun or a vest of Semtex – at the hands of someone who had stumbled upon the best way to ensure Sherlock's cooperation? John's prowess as a fighter, as a doctor, his quick wits and sharp instincts were all ignored and he was treated simply as a bargaining piece, a lure, a decoy. And now in the space of a few short days, he had discovered that this was the case not only for the mission for which he had been selected but also on the part of Sherlock and Mycroft, his supposed allies. But John's expression remained blank under Sherlock's scrutiny; he was saving his ire and frustration, putting aside such foibles because he recognised the merit of this plan.
"All right," John said gravely, nodding. "So we wait here – both of us?"
"In principle, yes," agreed Mycroft. "I have already engaged a team for the protection and surveillance of this flat, as I'm sure you will have noticed. They are certainly capable of providing protection for the two of you individually, but as there is no real advantage in separating you, I plan to concentrate our resources in one place." He raised an eyebrow and gave what, on a less diplomatic man, would have been a smirk. "I'm sure that you both will prefer it that way in any case."
John did not rise to the taunt and Sherlock strove to follow his example.
"Now what steps," asked Mycroft "ought to be taken to this end? What must be done to convince them that nothing is amiss?"
Sherlock spoke up. "I've already emailed Nguyen and Moran from John's account. My message informs them that his sister has agreed to enter a treatment program and that he is therefore free to leave London for the mission. It also asks what actions they would like him to take. There has been a response from Moran confirming its receipt and promising further details soon."
John was staring at him. "Haven't you just got out of gaol?" He asked incredulously. "And how did you know my –"
"Hmm. Inconclusive but hardly an encouraging answer." Mycroft responded to Sherlock, ignoring John.
"So what then?" interrupted John. "We wait here and hope that Moran or someone shows up. Then, your men will," he gesticulated, "spring the trap, I suppose, and you'll take it from there."
"That is the gist of it, yes," Mycroft confirmed. "But regretfully, Dr. Watson, due to the nature of my position, it is necessary that I make every effort to stay aboveboard in my dealings –"
Sherlock snorted. Loudly. If it sounded like he couldn't have suppressed it (as if he could have been arsed to try), all the better.
Mycroft ignored him pointedly. "...to the furthest extent possible," he finished."
John fixed Mycroft with his gaze, not fully trusting him and decidedly unwilling to parse through layers of courtesy and pretty words to get at the truth. It could be quite intimidating, Sherlock remembered, to be on the other end of that stare. But to direct it at Mycroft Holmes with no trepidation? John really was a singular man.
"So what exactly are you trying to say?" John asked impatiently. "You're not telling us that you can't do anything, are you? Due process of law and all that."
Mycroft was silent.
John's eyes narrowed. "Are you serious?" he exclaimed. "I'm sorry if this offends you, Mycroft, but it's just that you always act like you're so bloody far above all that! And you're going to ask us to just wait here when you need a fucking judge and jury before you can so much as lift a finger to save our lives!?"
Mycroft pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, waiting out John's outburst. All the while, his face remained a perfectly placid mass of "Are you quite done?" – after all, one did not rise to the heights that Mycroft Holmes had by allowing oneself to engage, by permitting attacks to register on an emotional level.
"Under ordinary circumstances, Dr. Watson, you would doubtless find my capabilities more than satisfactory. At the moment, however, I'm afraid that my hands are quite tied – unless, that is, you're prepared for the government to learn of my brother's return. Unless you would have me cite the necessity of protecting the two of you from a three-years deceased criminal as the underlying reason for the carnage that will no doubt ensue, I must be somewhat more modest in my actions than usual. We cannot risk attracting undue attention – in fact, we can ill afford the spectacle of the force that I have already provided – if Sherlock wishes to remain in hiding. But if we are able to catch Moran and his men in the act and I have the proper justification, I assure you that you will not find my treatment of them in any way lacking."
For the briefest second, Mycroft's eyes drifted in Sherlock's direction – possibly unconsciously, possibly calculated. The glance was just barely long enough to be noticeable, but Sherlock registered something in John's expression softening slightly. Mycroft. Sherlock gritted his teeth.
"All right," John repeated. "So you need to catch them red-handed. We'll do what we can to help you with that."
Mycroft nodded politely. "Thank you for your understanding, Dr. Watson." He readied himself to stand, casting a cursory glance at his wristwatch. "It is already quite late," he said, "and nothing is to be gained from further discussion at this early juncture. Once we have more information, we can consult again and proceed accordingly." Brushing off his trousers, Mycroft rose. "For now, I shall be off. Thank you for your hospitality."
Sherlock remained silent and John bid him a half-hearted goodnight but did not get up to see him out. When Mycroft reached the door, however, he paused momentarily before turning his head to address them again.
"Oh, and Dr. Watson?" he enquired, and Sherlock grimaced. Trust his brother to wring every ounce of drama from a simple departure. (Come to think of it, John had always laughed when Sherlock criticised his brother's penchant for theatrics, though it was hard to imagine why.)
"I do hope that I don't leave you any cause for doubt this time." Mycroft's expression was carefully controlled but his voice was somewhat strained. "This matter is of the utmost importance to me and I doubt that I shall think of anything else until it has been safely resolved."
John nodded, blinking lightly, not entirely sure how to respond.
Mycroft swallowed. "I am a different man than the one you knew three years ago," he said softly. He drew in a breath and let it out quietly. "Goodnight to you both," he said with a nod, and he was gone.
The door closed behind him and John waited for the retreat of his footsteps before turning to Sherlock. "That was an apology, wasn't it?" he asked, incredulous. He didn't wait for a response. "From two Holmeses in as many days?" he marvelled, leaning back. "Never thought I'd live to see it..."
Sherlock made a vague noise, but offered no comment.
"He did have one for you, didn't he?" John asked, suddenly changing track.
"He did," Sherlock answered curtly, and John didn't pry beyond that.
"I suppose that's all right then," he concluded, and seeing perhaps the low probability of further discussion on the subject, he redirected his attention toward the telly. The earlier program had ended, transitioning into a children's cartoon featuring anthropomorphic mice in foolish hats. They were accompanied by a large, jowly dog, but rather than appear alarmed at the presence of a predator, they seemed bent upon using the animal for transportation. Its floppy ears suddenly folded and bent in a geometric configuration, forming a staircase by which they summarily alighted. John appeared slightly amused but soon took the remote in his hand.
"Unless you're enjoying this?" he offered. Sherlock shook his head and John switched it off.
"It's better than what they've got on in the daytime," Sherlock remarked, finding his voice. "Unless that's changed while I've been gone."
John gave a surprised laugh. "Not bloody likely," he answered. "Crying shame, too." He then, lapsed into thoughtful silence for a few moments, and when he spoke again, his voice was gentle, carefully avoiding accusation. "Sherlock... three years is a long time, you know."
Sherlock could feel John's eyes upon him, studying. Yet he did not chafe under John's gaze as he did with Mycroft; it was easier, in fact, to return it than to look away. And when John's eyes met his, they were the same slate grey, and they were filled with the same acceptance and intent to understand as always. The face and clothes and hair may have changed, the man may have been grown older and sadder, but this was unmistakably his John. Sherlock felt a sensation of settling, not unlike tectonic plates, but more gentle as they shifted into place. He felt lighter somehow, confirming that the past few years had been worth it, that his efforts – however much pain they had caused – were not something he would regret.
"It's hard to get used to," John said, his voice perfectly level, his tone conversational. "Seeing you again." He shifted slightly in his seat to face Sherlock.
Sherlock tilted his head inquisitively and John was quick to respond. "Not a bad thing, of course – I just can't quite believe you're here, that's all."
"Ah," said Sherlock, and took a moment to weigh his answer. "I understand what you mean," he ventured. "It should pass soon enough, in all likelihood. Though I imagine it may take longer for you, given the difference in expectations during our separation."
John let out a small huff of breath – laughter? Not entirely off base, but there was a subtle difference that made Sherlock think that that was not quite it.
"That's one way to put it," John mused. He gave his head a little shake, trying to dispel... what? Unwanted thoughts? An emotional fugue?
He struck his palms against his thighs, forcing energy into his voice. "Shall I make us some tea, then?" he offered, getting to his feet.
"All right," Sherlock responded, drawing his bare feet up onto the couch. He listened as John filled up the kettle in the other room. It was no surprise that John still had not switched to an electric one. For him, a daily habit was as much a ritual as a means to an end. Filling the kettle, the boiling and waiting, the shrill whistle calling him back to the kitchen were all parts of a rite, a ceremony that gave affirmation and comfort. And, for that matter, most electric kettles couldn't make tea as hot as John liked it.
Sherlock heard John getting out the milk and sugar and then came his voice. "Still take it the same?"
"Yes," Sherlock called back, and then unconsciously, "Thanks!" He startled as the word passed his lips unbidden. To be honest, he couldn't quite remember the last time he would have said it, but here, sitting comfortably on a couch, hearing John at work in the next room, he had responded like Pavlov's dogs to a bell.
After a few seconds of silence, John spoke up again. "You know, I had a lot of dreams about this." His voice sounded oddly flat, disconnected. Sherlock turned to look at him, but saw that John was standing so that his face was obscured by the dishware cabinet, an ancient, protruding monstrosity with a fresh coat of cheap, white paint. Clearly the topic John intended to introduce was a sensitive one.
"About making tea?" enquired Sherlock blithely. Often he found that nothing was more effective in weaselling out painful information than an egregiously wrong guess.
"About you, you wanker," John shot back with a laugh. Sherlock blinked. Of course, there was always the risk that his guess would be taken as a joke. The probability of this seemed to be particularly high where John was concerned. Although it certainly could be the case that John simply recognised his interrogation techniques – Sherlock had seen John employ them more than once to some effect – and refused to be taken in by them.
John was rummaging through the silverware drawer now, with the cabinet door still open (sloppy, uncharacteristic), though how long it seemed to be taking to locate one spoon, Sherlock couldn't believe (deflection mechanism, obviously).
"About you coming back," corrected John in that eerily casual voice that left Sherlock ill at ease.
"Ah," he responded. His voice wasn't very loud. He was unsure whether it would carry to the other room.
"Only once in a while. Not all that often," John amended. "But every time..." He was cut off by the trilling of the kettle and he turned to remove it from the heat, lifting it carefully with one hand. "Every time," he continued softly, "I just couldn't quite seem to get it through my head."
Sherlock said nothing but all his attention was focused on John, who had diligently set about making the tea, busying his hands as he spoke.
"The first time I had one, I had no idea I was dreaming, of course. I don't usually. But anyway, it was actually a church I found you in – somewhere we'd been for a case, I don't really recall – but why there of all places, I've no idea. But I was just so happy to see you that I ran right up to you and hugged you. And I was asking where you had been and how you had done it and telling you how glad I was to see you. And you hugged me back and you were laughing – it was your laugh, too; it was... I heard it, in my dream. It couldn't have been anything else. It was uniquely yours and I'd have known it anywhere. And then you let me go and you stepped back you smiled, and then you just walked away until I couldn't see you anymore and you didn't turn around."
John tossed the used teabags in the bin and gave his hands a quick rinse under the tap. Steam rose in wisps from the two cups.
"A lot of people have dreams like that, after they lose someone," he reflected, drying his hands on the dish towel. "And of course it's just wish fulfillment – how could it be anything else, really? – but it helps them to come to terms with it all, to realise that no matter what else has happened, that person isn't suffering... And a lot of them take it as a sign and use it to help get on with their lives. So I thought that's what it was, and so I was grateful for it. I mean, I don't believe in ghosts or angels – and I'm positive you don't either – but if anyone could have figured it out, how to communicate from the other side, it would have been you, so I just let myself..."
John's voice trailed off. Sherlock knew John better than anyone could (though, to be fair, one could say the same for his knowledge of most people, but that spoke more to the average man's stupidity and blindness than to the overwhelming repository of data on John he had collected) and he knew John was not given to philosophising or monologues. This story was something of an outlier and Sherlock planned to listen intently.
"Foolish, I guess," murmured John, shaking his head. Sherlock refrained from commenting on that. John returned the milk to its place, and when the refrigerator door was closed, he began to speak again.
"And then I had the next one," he said quietly, standing facing the refrigerator, in a voice so low that Sherlock had to strain to hear him. "And I was so damn happy that time, too. And the time after that..." John pursed his lips, casting his eyes downward.
"I could never realise that I was just dreaming, and I never remembered – dream-me never recognised that I'd dreamt exactly the same thing before. And then in the morning, I'd realise it, of course... But then, little by little..." The lines in John's face stood out as he swallowed like he tasted something bitter, and he stopped and reframed his thought. "The thing is, Sherlock, I never did figure it out. Every time, I was so happy to see you, still bubbling over with excitement and asking you everything I could think of."
"You were the one who changed, Sherlock. You'd still be there with me – and I saw you in so many different places, too, all over London – and you'd stay and you'd talk with me, but the whole time, you'd just keep staring at me like I should have figured it out by now, like 'Why don't you see?'"
John's voice was thick and choked, but his words washed over Sherlock like watercolours, painting before his eyes a picture of the damned obstinacy of John's hope, the curse of his belief. One after another, the details of John's story committed themselves to his memory, and combined with his knowledge of John, he felt almost as if the experience had been his own; he could have moved inside John's dreams, slip through their backdrops as easily as he could the streets of London.
The mug of tea (the wedding china put away now) made a soft clink as John set it on the table, and Sherlock felt the cushions shift and there was John sitting beside him on the sofa. He pulled his knees up in an imitation of Sherlock's posture and brought his own mug to his lips to blow, although there was no longer any steam.
"But I'm not entirely sure how I knew it was real this time," John said softly, taking a small sip. "In the dreams, I'd always thought I was awake, hadn't I? And in movies, people are always pinching themselves to make sure something's real, but I haven't felt that way, not for a second." He took another sip and savoured the taste as he swallowed. "I could be crazy, I guess. Like I've finally snapped and made all of this up, right? But I know I'm not."
Sherlock swallowed and stared down into his tea. He had acted out of caring – that damnable weakness – to save John greater pain, but he had understood enough to know that John would still suffer. But now he truly saw what effect it had truly had on John, what John had gone through, and he knew now how much he owed John (though he had already owed John a debt he could never repay – that was the reason any of this had happened to begin with), now he understood the depth of his friend's devotion. There was nothing Sherlock could add, not really, no comfort he could offer beyond this simple fact of his existence and his deep regret. All he could do was hope to distract.
"Would you like to know how I did it?" he whispered.
John regarded at him appraisingly, grey eyes oddly calm as he considered the question.
"You said you did it to save my life," he said, finally. It didn't sound like a question, but Sherlock nodded. "What did you mean by that?"
Sherlock spoke carefully. Self-possessed and articulate as he had always been, it was not often that he chose his words beforehand. He doubted that in his lifetime there would be another statement he had thought over so much, simple though his words may be. "Moriarty would have had you killed," he said. "You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. He had snipers on each of you and that's how he forced me to jump."
It was John's turn to stare, at a loss for words. He was looking at Sherlock very closely and it quickly became apparent that he was blinking rather more than usual. His breathing was slow and deliberate but his face was doing something very difficult to interpret. Normally, Sherlock could read John like a book but here all he could do was study him, with the strange sensation of being on the wrong side of a mirror, wondering what John was seeing in Sherlock's face and feeling a little dizzy that he did not know.
But John, as usual, did not speak until he was sure he could mask whatever he was feeling. "I see," he said softly, and he set his mug down on the table. "You look absolutely knackered, Sherlock," he added evenly. "And I am, too, to be perfectly honest. So why don't we let that be enough for now, and you can tell me the rest another day?"
Sherlock was startled. John had always asked how he did it as if it were a magic trick, had gleefully followed his explanations like a bedtime story – of course he wanted to hear how Sherlock had survived. But – and perhaps John's perception was to be commended – Sherlock was not sure that he had the strength to explain this trick at the moment, knowing what he knew now, understanding all too acutely how John had felt in his absence. "All right," he said, nodding gratefully.
"Great," replied John, setting down his tea, and then he hesitated. Something flickered across his face and he knitted his brows. "Could you... just stay with me for a while?" he asked, and Sherlock gave another nod, suddenly feeling the full extent of his exhaustion. He hadn't slept in lock-up – it hadn't been safe to let his guard down, leave himself defenceless – and without a case to render his physical status irrelevant, he found himself shackled by his body's needs.
"Thanks," said John quietly, and moved, with a self-deprecating smile, a little closer to Sherlock, reaching out to put an arm around his neck, a steadying hand on his shoulder. Sherlock let out a painful breath –one he didn't even realise he had been holding – and allowed his head to fall forward, allowed John to pull him close. He slumped bonelessly against his friend's chest, registering the pressure of John's cheek against the top of his head, and there it was – there was everything that had kept him alive, that had pushed him forward – and he breathed in the warmth of John's body, and it wasn't long until he surrendered to his exhaustion, with only John's breath in his ears.
・ Many thanks to the wise Piplover, who was kind enough to call me out on my lack of knowledge of UK gun laws. I tried to cover my ass in this chapter, but I know nothing about anything, so please educate me!
・ Sigerson's first name is Jeremy in homage to h3rring and makokitten's lovely The Sigerson Letters (which just go read it already!). I thought the name was canon for a while, though.
・ John's dreams are actually mine. I was hesitant to just insert them and struggled with posting something so personal, but ultimately, I'm glad I wrote it. I never would have been able to talk about them otherwise (I still can't imagine talking about it out loud), and looking at them through John's eyes has helped me understand that even if I keep having these dreams for the rest of my life, it's because part of me will never give up on my dear friend. KS, there are no words to describe how much I miss and love you still and always.
・The two movies referenced are The Adventures of Robin Hood with my boy Errol Flynn and The Great Mouse Detective.
・Wow, tons of notes. Sorry. Any feedback, good or bad, is welcomed with open arms!