Chapter Three – Mycroft Holmes
Sherlock stood up from the table and squared up to his brother.
"I don't think this is the time for a family reunion, do you?" Sherlock sneered.
Mycroft turned to look at Irene and then back to Sherlock. "Ah, I see what's going on here. I can't say I was expecting this. If anyone, I thought you would be with-"
"Mycroft, move along. I'm not really in the mood to have to talk to you."
"Well, isn't that a shame." he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He counted through a few notes and put them down on the table in front of Irene. "I do apologize, Sherlock has somewhere to be."
Sherlock picked up the notes and tried to hand them back to his brother. "You don't really believe you can just pay for this and that will make me want to join you."
Mycroft took the notes and placed them back where they were. "I don't believe that, not at all, but it is what is happening."
Sherlock was soon being forced out of the restaurant, without the chance to so much as say goodnight to Irene. Mycroft could be so demanding and stubborn and it agitated Sherlock, as he knew he wasn't much different.
The ride to Mycroft's club was silent and brief. Sherlock did not utter a word to his brother; instead he focused on the world outside his window. Nobody out there had any idea of what was happening; their lives were ever so simple in comparison. Yet, out there, out in the wide world, there were people who meant something to Sherlock. Yet those people did not know he was alive. He had told Lestrade, he was important, but why Irene? Why would he tell her before other people? She may have cared about him, but she wasn't as important to him; he had wasted valuable time.
There was even more silence while walking through the establishment, as this was apparently somewhere for silence. Sherlock found this dull, although, come to think of it, he found most things dull. They reached Mycroft's room and Sherlock took the seat in front of his oversized desk. Mycroft walked in behind him.
"How's John?" Mycroft enquired, walking round the desk and sitting down in the chair, placing his hands together.
"I don't-" Sherlock was cut off.
"I know you don't know, you're apparently too busy dining with Miss Adler."
"Give it a rest, Mycroft. I just wanted one night to relax."
"Ah, yes. I completely understand. Of course you would want a rest, I mean, it's not like your best friend faked his suicide and won't even tell him he's alive. When does John get a rest, Sherlock? When?" Mycroft was raising his voice.
"I'm going to tell him, Mycroft! It just wasn't tonight! Keep in mind; I've only been back for less than 24 hours."
"And you spent most of that time doing nothing and having dinner with Irene!" Mycroft had now stood up. It was plain to see he was angry at Sherlock.
"I was with Lestrade as well-"
"Sherlock Holmes, don't even bother. That's great that you have told Greg, I know you two are somewhat close, but did you even consider John?"
"I haven't stopped thinking about John, never once has he left my mind. But today was not the time to tell him. I can't handle the thought of how he is going to react." Sherlock's voice was cracking.
"Well you better hurry up-"
"I'm going to tell him, Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted. "Soon."
"It better be soon, you don't have much time. There is something I need to tell you, Sherlock." Mycroft had sat back down and his voice had slowed.
Sherlock looked puzzled for a moment and then his brain processed what was happening.
"What's happened to John, Mycroft?" Without realising it, Sherlock had shot up from the seat and was at Mycroft's desk.
"Sherlock, please sit." Mycroft said calmly.
"TELL ME!" Sherlock shouted.
"John is retraining for the army. He's going back." Mycroft was looking everywhere but at Sherlock.
Sherlock stood up from shouting over the desk. For the second time today, he focused on a spot on the wall and went blank. John was going to rejoin the army. He was going back to Afghanistan. John Watson, John Hamish Watson, would be leaving back to the warzone, but not the warzone where Sherlock could protect him.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft questioned.
"I need to go." Sherlock blatantly said, walking to the door.
"Please tell him soon, if he goes to war, the only way he will come back is either injured or in a coffin. Please don't leave it too late, for your own sake." Mycroft was calm, yet stern.
"Thank you for telling me."
"Be careful out there."
Sherlock left the room and slowly made his way out to the street. John couldn't go back there, he just couldn't. He hailed a taxi and directed it to the only place he wanted to be right now.
Once again, the ride was spent in deep thought. Sherlock was by no means ready to see or talk to John right now, in fear of rejection; but he couldn't let him go. Mycroft's words had gotten to him; the only way John would come back would be if something bad happened to him. John was his only friend, his best friend, and he wouldn't let anything happen to him. But in the war, Sherlock could do nothing.
The taxi pulled up and Sherlock got out. Baker Street. It had been 12 whole months since he had been here, yet nothing looked different. He stood on the pavement opposite the door to 221b. He wasn't sure he was ready to go back.
Just when he was prepared to take the first step towards the door, it opened. Sherlock instantly tried to blend in with the crowd. It was Mrs. Hudson. She looked no older than before, yet three times as tired. She had been crying. She seemed to walk as fast as she could until she was out of sight. What had happened to her?
He walked towards the door. He could hear shouting and loud bangs. He quietly opened the door and slowly made his way up the stairs. It was John.
"WHY SHERLOCK? DID THIS MAKE YOU HAPPY? ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? DOES IT MAKE YOU HAPPIER SEEING ME THIS WAY?" John screamed from inside the apartment.
Another loud bang, then another, then another.
"YOU WON'T NEED THIS WILL YOU? NO OF COURSE NOT! OF COURSE YOU DON'T, BECAUSE YOU LEFT ME!" The piercing sound of glass shattering made Sherlock cover his ears. John had smashed all his science equipment.
Suddenly, all the noise stopped and all that could be heard was the sound of crying. John was crying. John was crying over Sherlock.
"Please, please Sherlock," his voice cracked, "please come back. I need you here. I really, really need you."
A loud sound came again. John was throwing all of Sherlock's books across the flat.
"DO YOU EVEN CARE? CAN YOU HEAR ME? WHERE ARE YOU, SHERLOCK, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?" Soon every book that was ever placed on the shelves was now on the floor of the opposite wall.
"Mycroft keeps calling me and visiting me. Did you order him to spy on me? Why would you do that? Why can't you just visit me yourself? WHY?"
A single bullet sounded. Sherlock feared the worst, but he soon realised John had shot the wall. John was a mess. Of course, Sherlock had expected him to be upset, but never did he expect this.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," John whispered through tears, "I'll sort this, I promise. I just need to leave, I need to leave now. I'll replace it all, I promise."
Sherlock could hear him pacing around the apartment. The door was slightly ajar. Sherlock took a chance to steal a look of what was happening. What he saw was probably the worst thing he could have.
Sherlock's desk was over turned and paper was scattered everywhere, the books were everywhere, the bookshelf lay in pieces, the chairs were broken and the fabric ripped. The glass from all of Sherlock's science equipment was everywhere. Yet he wasn't the slightest bit bothered about the flat right now.
John Watson, the brave army doctor, was sat in a bed of glass, facing the window, his hands covering his face and Sherlock's coat in his lap. He was crying heavily, but Sherlock knew that this had nothing to do with the glass that was cutting his flesh, but it was worse. Physical wounds meant nothing to John right now; it was the emotional pain that hurt more than anything imaginable. John had seen his best friends be shot in action, yet none of it compared to this.
Suddenly, John got up, wrapped Sherlock's coat around him and headed for the door. Sherlock had to throw himself into his bedroom to avoid being seen. John walked down the stairs and Sherlock took one last look at the broken man. He had more prominent lines marking his face, along with baggy eyes that were clearly bloodshot. His face has slight cuts here and there and tears streaked down to his chin. Sherlock was speechless, and not in a good way. For the first time, Sherlock saw the emotional damage that his suicide had caused John. It was worse than he could have even fathomed.
The door slammed downstairs and Sherlock walked into the destroyed room. He began to pick up the books and stack them neatly where the bookshelf had once been. He found a broom in the kitchen and began to tidy away all the glass and splintered wood. He moved his desk back to its usual position - luckily the desk hadn't been broken - and began to reorder all the paper from the floor.
While sorting through paper, Sherlock found a pile of letters he had never seen before. They were all addressed to him, but only by his name, which was written in John's distinctive handwriting. They were bound together by a single piece of string. He took out the first one and opened the envelope. It was a letter from John. Sherlock didn't fully read through it. He read the first line and then folded it back up.
'Sherlock, please don't be dead, for me, just don't do this. If you're truly dead, you know I won't be far behind.'
Sherlock placed the bunch of letters by the door and finished the cleaning of the flat. After another good hour, the flat was almost perfect. There were still permanent reminders of John's outburst, the broken chairs and the lack of a bookshelf, but this was the best he could do.
He picked up the letters and ran out of the flat. It was late, really late. He began to walk down the street to try to forget what he had just witnessed, but it was impossible, completely impossible. The John Sherlock knew was gone, and it was his entire fault; he had destroyed John's life.
Before he knew it, mainly because he had absolutely no focus on the world around him, Sherlock was stood outside the door to the house that Mycroft had arranged for him to stay in. The house suddenly felt less and less like his home. This wasn't home, not at all. For once, Sherlock felt that he needed to sleep. Sleeping was the only way to stop thinking about this for as many hours as possible. He dragged himself up the stairs and placed the letters on his bedside table. He fell onto the bed and fell asleep fully clothed.
He woke up to the sun shining brightly into his eyes. What was he to do today? Was he to see John? How desperately he wanted to, but he couldn't bring himself to see him. There was one person he still needed to see, before John. At least if he saw this person now, it would give him someone to go to when everything fell apart with John.
He jumped up from bed and got ready for another day of feeling like he would be better off dead. He quickly grabbed a slice of toast and walked out the door. Once again, a taxi wasn't difficult to find.
"Where are you heading?" The taxi driver called to Sherlock.
