A/N - biscuits and chocolate for kate221b and Sevenpercent
John hadn't even noticed when the crowd around the door to 221B Baker Street had been cleared away. He'd drawn the curtains after retrieving his very wet Browning from the washing machine the morning before. The paparazzi had already begun to gather.
The papers were continuing to run stories claiming that Sherlock was a fraud, now adding bits insinuating that John had gone into seclusion, either from grief over his lover's suicide, or embarrassment at having been fooled by the false detective. He wouldn't give them further fodder for their puerile stories, though he was unsure how he'd get through the crowd to make it to his shift at the surgery on Tuesday without all but inviting them to take pictures of his grief.
While he tried to work that out, though, he stayed away from the windows, and had thus only learned that the crowd had been rousted when Mrs. Hudson bustled upstairs, bringing him another plate of biscuits. She hadn't stopped baking since he'd come home.
"Must be something happening, John, dear," she said, putting the plate on the table.
"Oh?" John replied, folding the paper down to see her.
"Yes, dear," she replied, then glanced up at him and saw the newspaper. "Oh, I don't know why you read that rubbish. Lies, all of it."
"I know, Mrs. Hudson," John agreed, not able to explain why he continued to read the papers. They only added fuel to his anger, which burned quite hot enough already. "You were saying?"
"Well, it's the photographers, John. The reporters outside? They're gone. Every one of them. Good riddance."
She didn't wait for his response, just gave him a light pat on the arm, and headed back down the stairs through the kitchen door.
John sighed and folded the paper. Rising, he moved cautiously to the windows and peered through the curtains. The pavement below was empty. Briefly. As he watched a sleek black car pulled up to the kerb.
John cursed under his breath. He hadn't seen the paparazzi being forced to decamp, but he should have realized why it had happened as soon as Mrs. Hudson had mentioned it.
John glared down at the car for a moment before turning away from the window. He crossed to the kitchen and put the kettle on, pulling out the tray, the teapot, and the cups and saucers. Opening the cupboard door he reached behind the box of teabags and found the jar of loose tea, measuring some into the teapot. The he opened the fridge and pulled out the milk that he knew would be there.
He hated knowing that the milk would be there.
John heard voices downstairs, and knew that Mrs. Hudson was greeting their visitor. Only one set of steps trod the stairs. They were slow and heavy. John felt a flash of a grim comfort in that observation, and pushed it away with a frown.
The kettle switched off. He poured the boiling water into the teapot, put the lid on, arranged some of Mrs. Hudson's latest batch of biscuits on a plate, and moved the tray to the sitting room table. He would play the part of the proper host. Hide behind the formality. If he didn't, he knew that Mycroft would end up in hospital, and he would end up … somewhere not nice.
There was a polite cough from the landing.
"You never asked permission before, Mycroft," John remarked, not looking up from the tea tray.
When Mycroft hesitated, John turned to look at the bureaucrat. The doctor in John noted the sagging flesh in Mycroft's jowls, his grey complexion, the exhaustion in his eyes. His glare did not soften, nor his anger lessen, but John was forced to acknowledge that, facial structure and hair colouring aside, he was staring at the same face he saw every time he couldn't avoid the mirror. It was clear that the other man was suffering.
"Come in, Mycroft," he said grudgingly. "Tea?"
"No, I don't ..."
"I wasn't actually asking."
"I … see. In that case, thank you, Doctor Watson. Yes."
John watched as Mycroft stepped inside the flat and didn't sit so much as slumped down onto the couch, leaning his ever-present umbrella against his knee. John rolled his shoulders slightly to ease the tension, positioned the strainer over one of the cups and poured the tea.
"Why are you here, Mycroft?" John asked after the other man reached to take the cup and saucer extended to him.
Mycroft didn't answer immediately, taking a moment to sip his tea, his eyes closed.
"Moriarty is dead."
John startled. Mycroft's eyes opened and met John's gaze. John swallowed hard.
"Sherlock?" he asked.
"No."
"You're sure?" John wasn't sure if he was asking about Moriarty's death, or if if had been Sherlock who killed him.
"Very," Mycroft's response was clearly meant to answer both questions.
John nodded. Part of him didn't doubt that Sherlock would have killed the criminal mastermind, given the chance. But Sherlock hadn't killed before. John was glad he hadn't died a murderer.
Mycroft sipped again from his tea, resettling his cup in the saucer with the smallest 'clink' before speaking again, on another topic.
"There won't be a service, Doctor Watson. Sherlock hated sentiment and had no faith in a higher power."
"Services are typically meant for those left behind, not for the one departed," John rebuked, then sighed. "Though any service for Sherlock would undoubtedly be overrun by the vultures you had chased away from my door," he laughed grimly. "You know, just two weeks ago Greg tried to tell me that everyone was happily jealous of us. Of my 'relationship' with Sherlock. Now all they want to do is find another way to smear his name."
"A most perceptive observation from the Detective Inspector. Sadly, the only thing that sells papers better than sex is scandal, I'm afraid," Mycroft sighed.
"You're planning to do something about that, aren't you?" John asked, shooting a hard glance at the man on the couch.
"My hands are tied, Doctor Watson. There is evidence to clear Sherlock, proof that Moriarty was real ... but if it passes through my hands it will be automatically discredited, assumed to have been … altered at best. Created out of whole cloth at worst."
"What the bloody hell is all your power good for, then?" John demanded.
"Where Sherlock is concerned, nothing at all, I'm afraid," Mycroft answered with a heavy sigh. "I can, however, do a few things for you."
"I don't want anything from you, Mycroft."
"Perhaps you can be persuaded to accept on behalf of Mrs. Hudson? Or the surgery at which you are employed? You are planning to return to work?"
John glared at Mycroft. The other man moved to pour himself more tea, then settled back against the couch. John huffed his annoyance and nodded for Mycroft to continue.
"I can arrange to keep the paparazzi off of Baker Street, and away from the surgery. They will doubtless turn up wherever you go, for a while, but your home and your workplace would be free from their … delightful presence."
"That would be … appreciated," John allowed, finally.
"Very well." Mycroft nodded, sipped his tea, and continued, "His headstone will be installed next Thursday. Paddington Old Cemetery."
They sat in silence for several minutes, drinking their tea. John cleared his throat.
"If there's nothing else, then, Mycroft ..."
"Just one more thing, Doctor Watson," Mycroft interrupted, putting his cup and saucer down and reaching into his jacket pocket to withdraw an envelope. He extended it to John. "A copy of his will."
John hesitated for a moment before accepting the offering.
"He has left you all his physical possessions – the contents of the flat, a storage unit, and a safety deposit box. The details are there, and the keys are here," he placed two keys, one large, one small, on the table before reclaiming his teacup and helping himself to a biscuit.
John raised his eyebrows as he slid a finger under the flap and opened the envelope. "All his physical possessions, huh? His toenail collection? The congealed blood in the cupboard? The mold experiments?"
"All yours, now, Doctor Watson," Mycroft replied with the ghost of a smile. "He has also left instructions for his estate to continue paying the rent here until such time as you give other directions."
"The rent?" John asked, eyes moving down to the single sheet of paper in his hand.
He didn't take in a single word of the brief form, until the scrawled signature and the date.
It was dated 28th April of the year before. Shortly after the incident at the pool with Moriarty and the damned semtex vest. The second page was an addendum giving information about the safety deposit box, dated 14th February.
John realized that he was holding the paper in a clenched fist and forced himself to relax his grip. He drew in a breath, keeping it steady only with great effort.
"Only his portion I'm afraid," Mycroft continued.
John laughed at that. His laughter was bitter, but genuine.
"Bastard," he muttered.
"Yes," Mycroft agreed.
John looked at the surviving Holmes brother. His colour had improved a bit, though the sagging flesh and haggard expression still spoke of bone-deep exhaustion. Mycroft seemed to be almost imperceptibly relieved. More than John might have expected to result from their strained exchange. John wondered at the fact that Mycroft's barely noticeable improvement made him ever so slightly … glad.
The other man's jaw twitched, and John knew he'd just been deduced, his reaction read and understood. He was surprised to see a briefly conflicted expression flash across Mycroft's face before the bureaucrat looked down, brushing invisible lint from his trousers in preparation for standing.
"Finish your tea, Mycroft."
Mycroft looked surprised.
"Anthea hasn't been taking very good care of you," John said, turning slightly to direct his statement into the empty flat behind him, voice raised slightly.
"I assure you, Anthea has more important things to do than worry about me," Mycroft replied, mildly stressing the woman's name in an indication that though he knew to whom John was referring, it was not her true name.
"No, I don't think so," John shot back. "Don't get me wrong, Mycroft, I'd trade you for Sherlock without a second thought if I could. As that doesn't appear to be possible, I'd love to offer you free reconstructive surgery on your nose, courtesy of my fist," his bluntness was rewarded with a vaguely shocked look. "I am angry with you," he continued, his voice cracking as his anger briefly surfaced. He paused, forcing himself to be calm. "But the world has already lost one of the Holmes brothers. I don't think it could stand to lose the other."
"Don't think for a moment that the world could stand to lose you, either, Doctor Watson," Mycroft replied, picking up his teacup and drinking down the last of his tea. "I will survive this. See that you do, as well."
"As soon as I remember how, Mycroft, I will," John agreed. "Now," he continued without malice, "get out."
Mycroft nodded, replacing the teacup and saucer on the tray. He collected his umbrella and stood, moving to the door. He stopped at the threshold, half turning back.
"John, I ..."
"I know, Mycroft."
John watched as the other man squared his shoulders and stepped through the open door. He closed his eyes and counted the steps as Mycroft descended the stairs, listening as the front door opened and closed again.
