This is the last chapter! I hope the read was worthwhile. If you enjoyed it, or have something to comment on, or feel like making my day a bit better, please review!
Chapter 4
"Sherlock." Mycroft smiled his tight little smile, setting his umbrella by the door. "How very unexpected."
Sherlock looked up from his position, seated on the couch.
"I need you to take care of someone for me."
Mycroft raised his eyebrows silently, turning and shutting the door before seating himself across the low table from Sherlock.
"Your flatmate is beside himself."
Mycroft watched as Sherlock's hands clenched for a moment, then relaxed. "He'll get over it."
"Hm." Mycroft folded his hands, making no move to get up and make tea – something Sherlock undoubtedly noticed. "I know how you scorn my help. Why come to me now?"
"You have the resources."
"That does not answer my question, Sherlock." When his brother made no move but to raise one languid eyebrow, Mycroft sighed. "And who is the unlucky individual?"
"Anderson."
Mycroft tutted. "Do you really think I would consent to settle your petty squabbles—"
"This is not a… personal vendetta," Sherlock said coldly.
"Hm." Mycroft looked at him through narrowed eyes, then stood. "Very well. But I expect a full explanation."
Sherlock smiled. "Wait on my text before you act, if you would."
"As you wish."
X
Donovan shut the door behind her with a heavy sigh, and took out her keys to lock it – twice, just to be sure. It had only been a week since Sherlock jumped, but the force was still dealing with the ramifications. Lestrade was facing an investigation; he hadn't made it to the office in days.
She turned and only prevented herself from screaming by sheer force of will. Fumbling in her bag, she pulled out her gun and pointed it at the long figure sprawled on her couch.
"I know what happened," said Sherlock, ignoring the fact that a gun was pointed at his head.
"You died. You're dead."
"Obviously not."
"You're a fraud—"
"Oh, come on, we both know that's not true."
She looked at him, hands not as steady as she would like. He looked back at her, completely at ease.
She lowered her gun but kept it in her hand.
"How the hell did you survive?"
"Come now, it's simple."
"Not to me." He made no move to answer. "You know that John Watson is going completely mad with grief—"
"John Watson is no concern of mine," he said coldly. "And as you so aptly told him, he will be better off away from me."
"You haven't seen him. I've never seen anyone so…" She searched for a word to describe the frozen look on his face, the way he turned up at the police station at odd hours, not talking to anyone but looking – they all knew – for a familiar black-coated figure. "Tell him you're alive."
"No." Sherlock sighed, pressing his fingers to his eyelids. "In any case, I know what I missed."
She started to bring the gun up, but, eyes still closed, he waved a dismissive hand and she let it hang at her side again.
"Missed what?"
His eyes snapped open. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about."
"No, I don't."
"Anderson."
She looked at him emotionlessly, practiced by months on the job.
He scoffed, throwing his gaze up to the ceiling. "Don't try that on me, you're not nearly good enough at it. Anderson. You know what I'm talking about."
This was Sherlock Holmes. Of course he knew.
"For how long?"
"Only since the fall. I'm afraid I completely missed it—"
She brought the gun up again and cocked it, the click echoing in the sudden silence. That damn casual tone—
"Do you have any idea—"
"I can take care of him for you." Sherlock held up his phone. "One text, and he's gone."
She looked at him, stunned into silence.
"How?"
"Doesn't matter how. I can do it."
"Why?"
"Doesn't matter—"
"Why? Because you failed? Because you can't stand the fact that you missed something so obvious?"
"Yes." He looked at her.
She laughed humorlessly. "God, freak, you really are a cold bastard—"
"And because it's my fault." He wasn't looking towards her now, but down at the table, fingers clenched. "Because I missed it, and then I made it worse."
"You feel guilty?" She couldn't bring herself to believe that. "But not about me… about your Doctor Watson, is that it? You can't fix things with him so you're fixing them with me—"
He stood abruptly and she flinched.
"I'm sorry." He took a deep breath. "I—feel an enormous amount of regret for what happened with you, and my part in it. Forgive me."
He sounded sincere, but this was Sherlock Holmes. "It won't be that easy."
"I know." He held up his phone again. "One text. Your choice."
She looked at the phone, then back at him. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there. Was this it, then? Sherlock Homes, the murderer? He's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored. But he wasn't doing this because he was bored. He was doing this because – in some sick, twisted Sherlock Holmes way – he actually felt something.
"I can take care of my own problems."
He cleared his throat. "Very well, then." He set the phone down on the table. "The first number – text them anything and they will take care of the rest."
"You're giving me your phone?"
"I have another one. And I've deleted all the files, so don't get too excited."
"Why should I take this?"
He smiled crookedly. "Think of it as – security. Should anything untoward happen."
He tied his scarf around his neck and walked towards the door, buttoning his coat. "I don't expect I'll be seeing you for quite some time."
"Seeing as you're supposed to be dead, yeah."
He didn't bother closing the door behind him, and she listened as his footsteps receded on the stairs.
"Thank you for the tea," he called distantly, then there was the slam of a door, and silence.
She looked around and saw the empty cup on the table, next to the phone.
"Bloody Sherlock Holmes," she said quietly. She picked up the phone and turned it over in her hands – an unremarkable bit of technology, black and unextraordinary.
Trusting in Sherlock Holmes, she thought. I must be an idiot.
For the first time in months, she slept without nightmares.
