Nakskov, Denmark 16th September 2013
If Moriarty could see him now he would laugh himself to death.
Sherlock tapped the edge of a photograph on the table thoughtfully before tossing it across the paper-strewn surface and burying his head in his hands.
So close.
And yet…
They'd scattered to the wind. Moriarty's network. As soon as they realised they were being hunted and as soon as the big names were arrested or started to disappear the rest simply collapsed away.
The sniper with them.
Evidently there was only so much hold a dead man could have over criminals.
But the snipers…they had been trusted. The three others that had aimed guns that day had been men for hire, there to prove a dramatic point. In truth, all Moriarty needed was one who was committed and rumour was that his pet sniper had been very committed.
One man. One single man stood between Sherlock and his son.
It was infuriating.
His phone went and, grateful for something else to concentrate on, Sherlock reached for the damned thing.
Mycroft.
Again.
Berlin. Museum. J age. Lunch
John's age.
The eighteenth.
Somehow, some way, Sherlock had become the father of an eighteen year old.
The thought was terrifying. Not least of all because the last time he had seen his son, the boy had been a devastated sixteen year old sedated in Mycroft's bed.
No
Sherlock pushed the phone away after he had finished texting, as if that could push the issue away as well.
No. They did not need to talk. Sherlock did not want to hear how well John was doing with his studies or how badly John was doing with his therapy. The mere thought of his son carrying on life without him was a physical ache like no other. Sherlock did not want to sit and hear how close Mycroft and John had become and seethe with envy nor did he want to hear the opposite and be wracked with guilt.
The phone beeped.
It's important.
His brother had gained everything and Sherlock had lost.
No
It seemed as if that was the end of it.
Then:
Please. You know I wouldn't repeatedly contact you unless it was necessary.
Sherlock closed his eyes.
Damn him.
The man knew what was at stake.
London January 2010
"The gun," Sherlock said calmly as he sat opposite the cabbie.
"Are you sure?"
It had been disappointing in the end. There was something about the case; the modus operandi that was beautiful and elegant but the practicalities?
A gun?
As John would say, it was cheating.
"Oh yes," Sherlock said with a smirk. "The gun."
He could see it in Hope's eyes. The amused defeated smirk of a man who had nothing to live for anyway.
He pulled the trigger and the lighter flicked on, an unsteady flame bursting out the top to blaze about the same length as the space in between the knuckles on Sherlock's smallest finger.
Still, if people were that stupid that they didn't know the difference between a novelty item and a weapon then perhaps Hope was a form of natural selection.
"Well, that has been fascinating," Sherlock said, standing up. "I'm sure the police will be delighted to talk to you-"
"Out of curiosity," Hope said as Sherlock stood. "Which one would you have picked?"
Sherlock blinked down at Hope, then back at the pills.
A game. A test to see whether Sherlock could deduce from one single move. It was a delicious idea; tempting certainly.
Sherlock picked up the container closest to Hope.
"Ah…" Hope cackled. "Interesting."
Sherlock ignored him, studying the pill. There were no obvious signs that he could see that would indicate whether he had the placebo or the poison. Taking it out, Sherlock plucked the pill up to the light.
There was certainly something inside. But it could be poison or it could be lemon sherbet for all Sherlock knew.
"You're bored," Hope sneered. "The great Sherlock Holmes, so tied down by life, by the stupidity around him. You'd do anything to escape that, wouldn't you?"
Sherlock tilted his head.
"Play the game. Prove you're right."
Sherlock looked down at the man and stared at the triumphant gaze.
And, with great amusement, placed the pill back in its container.
Hope's face fell.
"If nothing else," Sherlock said seriously. "Take this as a sign that psychology is not your forte." He did the container up and shook it with a smile.
"You're bored," Hope said, sounding stunned.
"And I have a fourteen year old son."
Hope stared, stunned.
"You were willing to kill for yours? I am willing to endure some boredom for mine. Believe me, I know which is the greater sacrifice." Sherlock sniffed as he pocketed the pill. "And, for the record, I am hoping this has the poison. I certainly don't want you shoving that in your mouth and escaping questioning."
Hope closed his eyes.
Sherlock glanced at his watch. Lestrade should be another few minutes at least. Sighing at the man's poor timing, Sherlock sat back down.
Hope, to his credit, didn't bother running for the door. Instead he stared at Sherlock as if he'd never seen him before.
"You have a son?" Hope asked sounding bewildered by the idea. "I didn't see him-"
"I was tracking a serial killer," Sherlock muttered. "How irresponsible do you think I am?"
And John would have slowed him down.
He couldn't wait until John was older.
Hope still looked shell-shocked.
This was going to be a long nine and a half minutes.
It wasn't too late when Sherlock returned to Mycroft's house, let himself in and wandered up to the room John used when he stayed with his uncle.
"That was quick," John muttered as he looked up over the laptop.
"He wasn't as clever as he thought he was," Sherlock replied sitting on the edge of the bed. "Fake gun, two pills…he isn't speaking at the moment."
"But you know how he did it?" John asked, yawning.
"He had…" Sherlock hesitated as he took in the sight of the tired teenager. "There are a few loose ends. I will deal with them tomorrow.
"Mm," John said, looking back at the screen. "You mean you'll try to work them out so you can piss Lestrade off when doing the official statement."
That too.
Moving up the bed so that he could see John's laptop screen, Sherlock sat with his back against the wall and peered at the blog page.
"Your assignment?" Sherlock asked.
John nodded. "I can't think of a title," he murmured.
"Why does it need one at all?" Sherlock muttered, watching the cursor blink at John, waiting and ready to go.
"I dunno," John said, sounding a little unsure.
The tone surprised Sherlock enough that he glanced back to see John staring at the screen and chewing his lip thoughtfully.
It had been a while since he'd seen his son look nervous. Truly nervous. And, for once, the look wasn't directed at him. It made Sherlock smile, oddly nostalgic for when John had been smaller, more eager and accepting of reassurance.
"You are tired," Sherlock declared, sneaking a quick brush of John's hair and earning the obligatory teenage glare for his trouble.
"I'm thick," John whined, banging his head back as if to ward off another parental attempt at comfort.
"I don't raise thick children," Sherlock muttered as he stood up.
"Didn't say children, I said me. One child," John corrected. "Although, I suppose if things go well with Ms Llewly, Mycroft might let you share his kid."
Share?
"I do not share you," Sherlock snapped, turning around. "You are my child. No-one else's."
John looked up, apparently startled at the sudden change in atmosphere. "I was kidding," he said after a moment. "Though, don't forget mum."
If only he could, Sherlock thought as he watched his son. "Mycroft is not your parent," he said firmly, not entirely sure what else to say.
"I know," John said not looking up, the hunch in his shoulders indicating just how deeply uncomfortable with the conversation he was.
"He is your Uncle," Sherlock added, part of him knowing it didn't need to be said, that just by saying these things he was making more of a fuss than was needed. "He will never be anything more."
"Dad."
The tone made Sherlock meet John's eyes and for a moment he started down at his son, not entirely sure what emotion he was seeing.
"I know," John said after a moment.
Sherlock nodded and pressed his lips shut.
Berlin, Germany 18th September 2013
They'd come to the museum before. The Egyptian museum had been one of those places that had stuck in their mind. The café opposite, San Marino, had seats outside in the warm September sun that faced the grand building.
"Smoking?"
Sherlock tilted his head to the sky, refusing to look at his brother. "I thought this could be a day of unnecessary risk."
The chair scraped against the pavement as Mycroft sat down.
Sherlock frowned as no rebuke was heard, as no sigh echoed out. Suspicious, he tipped his head down to study his brother.
Tired.
Strange that was the first thought that hit him. There were other more noticeable changes; his wedding ring, the slight hints of grey in his hair now. The fact Mycroft was a little thinner than he had been in years.
But it was the tiredness that screamed out to Sherlock. It was clear in Mycroft's eyes, in the way he had done his tie, in the way he sat. And it wasn't work related…
"Is fatherhood taking its toll?" Sherlock spat at him.
Mycroft's gaze skittered away, his mouth firming into a thin line, and Sherlock felt his blood turn to ice.
"What happened?"
Mycroft stared at the table for the longest time and then slowly looked up, studying Sherlock in a way that Sherlock rarely experienced. It wasn't a look that tracked the surface, that deduced his day and looked for an opportunity to get one up on Sherlock.
This was…looking for something. Worrying, it seemed as if Mycroft was looking for…
Strength.
"John…" Mycroft pushed the cutlery to be perfectly perpendicular to the edge of the table. "He ran away."
A slither of relief flooded through.
Mycroft wasn't any better at parenting John that Sherlock had been.
"Are you here to ask for advice?"
"He hasn't come back and he hasn't contacted me."
John was eighteen; did Mycroft think he was still an eleven year old child that would hide in the park and wait to be found?
Still…there were far too many risks to have John out unprotected for long. Space might be what his son wanted (and a large part of Sherlock could fully understand that John wanted space from Mycroft) but there needed to be some protection, some form of safety for John.
The idea that no-one was watching over John suddenly sunk in and Sherlock shifted, uncomfortable with the strange tightness in his chest. "How long?" he asked, barely recognising his own voice.
Mycroft still wouldn't look at him.
"How long-"
"I have been trying to tell you," Mycroft snapped. "For months now I have been-"
"Months?" Sherlock snarled. "Months?"
Mycroft sat back, anger emblazoned in his eyes and jaw tight. "Not months, Sherlock. A year."
No.
Nothing else managed to make its way through Sherlock's brain. All he could focus on was…
No.
"What…What did you do?"
Mycroft's jaw clenched and he pressed his lips together to form a tight white line as fixed as a scar. It didn't matter, Sherlock's brain was already racing ahead.
"He's not in the country then," Sherlock decided, sitting back and letting his thoughts whirl. "He's shocking at languages…America? As I recall he was taught to do a passable accent-"
Mycroft shook his head. "He went there first," he said staring into the restaurant. "By the time I managed to catch up, John…" Mycroft shook his head. "Either he isn't there or has successfully managed to assimilate himself.
"By the time you…" Sherlock tried to ignore the impulse to stand and kick something. "How long did it take you to-"
"I was distracted," Mycroft hissed.
"Distracted?" Sherlock breathed furiously. "Distracted?"
Mycroft's gaze suddenly snapped to Sherlock's, meeting his glare with a defiant one on of his own. Strange, really, to see that emotion on Mycroft's face.
"I had other family matters to attend to," Mycroft said tightly. "Matters that did not mean John was less important but simply meant that I missed certain signs and wasn't thinking straight when he first left."
Sherlock stared at him.
Then pushed back, away from the table and started to storm down the street.
If he punched Mycroft the fight would draw attention. Now more than ever he needed to keep himself quiet, a whispered shadow, a ghost. If Moriarty's people had concrete evidence that he was alive…
"I will not have you walk away from this," Mycroft's voice called as his footsteps echoed behind Sherlock.
"You were distracted?" Sherlock hissed whirling around. "Family matters? I gave him to you. I gave you my son and you were distracted by-
"My daughter."
Sherlock paused and blinked.
What?
"You…" he looked at the cuff of Mycroft's suit and then for any other possible markers.
Nothing.
"Do you think I am going to broadcast it?" Mycroft asked, looking around as he adjusted his stance. "Or that I brought her with me?"
No.
Mycroft had a child.
A baby.
A deep, aching jealousy suddenly hit. Blinding in its force and decimating in its power.
Mycroft had a child. Could rock his child to sleep, could see it at night and know it was safe. He could watch his child grow, safe and happy.
He would never have to live with the fact he had missed years. That he had failed to protect his child. Mycroft would never know the agony of walking away not just once, but twice.
Of knowing his child had been hurt and he was powerless to make it better.
"Then go home to her," Sherlock snarled. "Go back. I do not need you to-"
"This is John we are talking about," Mycroft snapped. "I am not going to walk away-"
"Yet you let him walk away," Sherlock yelled. "I gave you the one thing-"
"I know."
Sherlock looked away, not wanting to see his brother's expression.
"I will deal with it," Sherlock said after a moment as he studied the wall. "You will simply draw more attention to him. Go home."
"You want to find him while pretending to be dead?" Mycroft asked wryly. "I think you may be slightly overestimating your skills."
"Better that than over estimating yours," Sherlock snapped as he turned around again. "Go home. You are no longer required."
Next Chapter: Not alone
