"Rain didn't make things messy. People did that all on their own."
― Barbara Delinsky, The Secret Between Us

October 2013

"And what about John Watson?"

It was the pause – a pause so slight most people would have missed it, but he was not most people, and he knew his brother well – that first alerted Sherlock to the fact that the answer to his question might not be the one that he was expecting (hoping?) to hear.

Having just (very gingerly – he was still sore from the beating he'd undergone in the Serbian prison) slipped into his suit jacket, Sherlock froze in his task of straightening his lapels and turned his head towards his brother. He felt a prickle of unease at the back of his neck, just above the hairline, when he saw the look on Mycroft's face. It was a wary, calculating look, a look that Sherlock had seen before. A look that said, An ordinary person might find what I am about to relate distressing; my brother is not ordinary, but he is unpredictable, and so I cannot be certain as to exactly how he will react – therefore, I must proceed with great caution.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

Mycroft gestured to his assistant, who stepped forward and handed Mycroft a thick file. Mycroft nodded. "Leave us," he said quietly.

She went, shutting the door behind her. Sherlock turned to face Mycroft. "What is it, Mycroft?" He demanded. His eyes were on the file, but Mycroft did not extend it to him. Not yet. Instead, he simply studied his younger brother for a moment.

Sherlock had kept to Mycroft's rule about checking in once every fortnight, probably more because he wanted to ensure that Mycroft would have no excuse to come after him than from a desire to avoid worrying his older brother. Their conversations were sometimes long and detailed, sometimes short and to the point, but they were always, always focused on the task at hand – dismantling Moriarty's empire entirely, nothing more and nothing less. Occasionally Mycroft would inquire after his brother's health in such a way as to make the question sound flippant, partly disguising his actual concern, and Sherlock would respond in a like manner that would mask his own attempts to reassure his brother (and, by extension, their parents, to whom Mycroft would surely be reporting back).

Never once during the twenty-eight months that Sherlock was away did he ask about anything or anyone in England: not his parents, not Baker Street, not Mrs. Hudson, not New Scotland Yard, not Lestrade…not John. Not once.

Mycroft had wondered about that. Of course, he didn't object to it, or offer any unsolicited information (no point in opening a Pandora's box worth of trouble if he couldn't answer Sherlock's questions about John truthfully), but he did wonder.

Mycroft had narrowed Sherlock's lack of curiosity down to three possibilities: firstly, that he was so focused on the job at hand that he neither wanted nor needed any distractions, and news from home, especially news of unimportant, day-to-day happenings, would definitely qualify as "distractions." Secondly, he probably trusted Mycroft to keep him informed if anything really important happened…for instance, if something were to happen to one or both of their parents, who were in their seventies.

Thirdly…ah, thirdly. Mycroft considered a moment. In many ways, his younger brother was still a child: an easily distracted child. Take his toys away and he'll fuss, but generally only until he is given a new one. Sherlock was, Mycroft knew, far too brilliant to be able to truly relate to the people he naively called his friends. He might have missed them at first, but once his attention was diverted to his new adventures…well, Mycroft was reasonably certain that Sherlock did not ask after his old "friends" simply because he didn't think of them anymore.

Well…Mycroft had been reasonably certain. The way Sherlock was looking at him now, with an air of anxious expectation, like a man bracing himself to hear bad news but hoping against hope he would hear anything but…Mycroft would have to reevaluate. He could reassure his brother on one thing, anyway, and that with absolute certainty.

"John is alive and safe, Sherlock. They are all alive and safe."

Rather than reassure Sherlock, it seemed to make him even more uneasy. He turned to face Mycroft fully.

"Mycroft," he said warningly, his voice low and dark. "Where is John?"

Mycroft gave him a humorless smile. "How would I know?"

"You always know. Where's he going to be tonight?"

Mycroft studied at him a moment longer with that appraising gaze, then took a deep breath.

"Tonight he will most likely be where he's been since …shortly after your name was cleared a week ago: sleeping on the sofa at the flat belonging to Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Sherlock blinked, nonplussed. "Why would he be staying with Lestrade? Sentiment? Are they celebrating my exoneration? Why would Lestrade have a flat in town? Ah, he and his wife have finally finalized the divorce…obvious. Likely he chose a flat nearer to the Met when he moved out, leaving the house in the suburbs to his wife, save himself the commute…a single man, divorced, would find it difficult to afford a large flat in the city on a policeman's salary. Lestrade isn't likely to take on a flat mate at this point in his life…must be a little more than a bedsit. So why not have a celebration at Baker Street? More room, Mrs. Hudson would no doubt like to take part, probably would provide the food…makes no sense."

All this was said in a typical Sherlockian, deductive rush. His speech skidded to a halt and his clear gray eyes locked on Mycroft's again.

"So, Mycroft…what is it you're not telling me? Is…something wrong with Mrs. Hudson?"

Mycroft made a mental note of the slight wavering in Sherlock's voice as he referred to Mrs. Hudson and stepped nearer, holding out John's file. "This will tell you everything you want to know."

Keeping his narrowed eyes on his brother, Sherlock took the file. He pinned Mycroft with his piercing gaze a moment longer, then turned his back on him as he opened the file and began to leaf through it.

Mycroft could pinpoint the exact moment when Sherlock saw John's arrest report with the charges clearly laid: accessory to kidnapping. Attempted murder. Assaulting a law enforcement officer. Resisting arrest. Fleeing the scene of a crime. There was no discernable movement, but instead Sherlock's body seemed suddenly to turn to stone, becoming hard, still and cold. The only sound was the turning of the pages, more and more rapidly as Sherlock flipped through the file, until at last he stopped at the most recent addition and all sound ceased.

A moment passed. Then another.

Mycroft became uneasy. Hesitating, he stepped forward. "Sherlock."

No answer.

Mycroft tried again. "Sherlock?" And he moved to touch his brother's arm.

It was so sudden, so unexpected when Sherlock yanked his arm away, spun around and punched him in one smooth, lightning fast movement, that Mycroft didn't realize what had happened until he found himself blinking bemusedly up at the ceiling, a fierce burn in his jaw quickly dulling to a numb throb. He shook his head a little to clear it and rose up on one elbow quickly when he heard Sherlock utter a sharp, short cry of distress that instantly propelled Mycroft back some twenty-six years to a Yorkshire kennel, but the only thing he saw was a flap of his brother's coat disappearing around the door frame and a newspaper clipping fluttering to the floor.

Sitting all the way up, Mycroft carefully pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it to his lips with one hand while he slowly reached for the newspaper clipping with the other. It was the photo and article from the Daily Mail, the one from the day John had been vindicated in court. The press that had been so eager to castigate Sherlock and John two years ago was now singing their praises and calling on the Met to be held accountable for their blunders which led to one man being driven to suicide and the other to having his name dragged through the mud (ironic, that) and incarcerated for two years.

Mycroft studied the photo, his throat tight. It echoed the October 2011 photo in that it showed John Watson exiting the Old Bailey accompanied by his lawyer and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. This time, though, John wasn't standing quite so tall and impervious to the shouts and calls for his attention. Though his face was as stoic as before, this time he seemed clearly uneasy by the proximity of the reporters, and very intent on trying to avoid the cameras being pointed at him, hanging back slightly behind Lestrade, keeping his eyes on the ground, turning his face away. It was a hopeless attempt, though, and the photographer had no trouble documenting in full color the horrific, two-inch wide scar that now stretched from the corner of John's left eye, down over his cheekbone, and around his mouth to the point of his chin…as well as the haunted, guarded expression he could not quite conceal.

Perhaps, Mycroft, thought, rubbing his jaw, Sherlock had been thinking of his friends during his absence more than he had surmised.

Lestrade waited until he was in the dark, chilly, subterranean car park before reaching into his open coat to draw the pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. He threw a cursory glance around while he tapped one cigarette against the cellophane pack before raising it to his lips. Seeing and hearing no one, he flipped open his lighter. Ostensibly he had given up these things, but it had been a hell of a week, and old crutches are easy to return to when pain flares up. And dear Lord, had it flared up this past week…all that shit regarding Sherlock and Moriarty hitting the fan and bringing up the old hurts, the story exploding in the press, the black eye to the Met (though it was Lestrade himself who had finally managed to prove that Moriarty had indeed invented Richard Brook and had set both Sherlock and John up), and then the whole mess with John…Lestrade felt like he could go home and sleep for a month, maybe more. But it just wasn't on – there was still far too much to deal with at the Yard, and Mrs. Hudson and John – John, especially – needed him.

He suppressed a sigh as he took his first drag. At least somebody did.

It had been about a month before John's conviction – right around Christmas, and wasn't that bloody lovely timing – that he and his wife had separated for the last time. Almost exactly a year to the day, come to think of it, that Sherlock had told him she was sleeping with the PE teacher. He had been angry and upset at Sherlock's callousness and lack of empathy at the time, but he supposed it was because he, Lestrade, had been badly shaken to find that his efforts to reconcile were being met with further betrayal. He hadn't wanted to admit that his marriage just wasn't working – he'd given his word – but in the end he'd recognized the truth and moved into a small bedsit not far from the Yard. He wished at the time that he'd listened to Sherlock…and then wondered if, in his own way, Sherlock hadn't been trying to help him by telling him the truth.

It was a bit demoralizing at his age and place in life to be back in something like a bedsit, but over time he got used to it, and even to like it…he might get something a bit bigger at some point, but it was nice not having much to clean, not having to go far for the shopping, and not having a long commute in. And if he was sorry that John had had to curl up on his small sofa these past few nights, John himself didn't seem to mind, and indeed seemed to find the small size of the bedsit…reassuring.

John was accustomed to small spaces now.

Lestrade took a deep drag and let it out slowly, shaking his head in admiration. Brave John. He had stayed steady as a rock for almost every bit of these past two years, but when the judge had announced that he was now deemed to be innocent and cleared of all charges and was free to go, the blood had drained from his face and he had staggered slightly, lurching into his lawyer's side. His sister had flung herself at him, sobbing and apologizing, and Mrs. Hudson had pulled him into an embrace that was shockingly strong for a septuagenarian and begged him to "please come home now." John had not responded to either of them but instead had raised helpless, shell-shocked eyes to Lestrade's.

Lestrade had come to the rescue at once. He had been unable to help Sherlock when it counted, but he could and would help John.

"You come on home with me, mate," he'd said, grasping John by his good shoulder. Harriet had protested that John was her brother, and Mrs. Hudson had argued that all John's things were still at Baker Street, waiting for him "just as he left them," but Lestrade gently interposed himself between John and the two women and placated them, telling them they would get it sorted out, but for now John just needed to get his bearings, and if they tried taking him back to Baker Street or to his sister's the press would camp out at the door – with Lestrade, he could lie low for a bit. The gratitude on John's face had made his approval of the plan perfectly clear, and the two men had fled the Old Bailey, John almost stepping on Lestrade's heels in his attempt to stay close and away from pushy reporters.

By the time they reached Lestrade's car John was regulating his breathing in an attempt to keep down a panic attack. The scar that he'd got last year stood out on his face like a brand. They stood for a moment, facing one another, then Lestrade put his hand on the back of John's neck and pulled him in for a wordless embrace. John had stiffened at first, then the tension seemed to run out of him and he leaned the top of his head against Lestrade's chest and just breathed for a moment, in through the nose, out through the mouth, muttering steadily under his breath, "Oh, Jesus…Jesus," fighting back the tears.

They'd gone back to Lestrade's place where John had at once dropped down onto the sofa and fallen asleep without even taking off his shoes. He'd slept for thirteen straight hours.

The second night John's sleep hadn't been quite so restful. He'd awakened with a cry that had Lestrade bolting up in bed. "John?"

"Put on the light! Put on the light!"

Lestrade had scrambled to do so. He blinked as his eyes grew accustomed to the sudden blaze, and when they cleared he saw John sitting up on the sofa across the room, blankets twisted around his waist, pushing at his eyes with the heels of his palms as though he could reach through the sockets to wipe the dream away.

Lestrade watched him for a moment, then quietly got up and made tea. By the time he carried the two cups over to the sofa and handed one off to John, the doctor's breathing had slowed to near normal, and he looked up with bleary eyes and tousled hair.

"Thanks," he mumbled, taking the tea. Then, lower still, "sorry."

"No, mate, don't…don't apologize, yeah?" Greg said. He started to reach out, to put a hand on John's shoulder, then something made him draw back.

After a beat of silence, John told Greg he would go home, eventually (and by home, Lestrade knew he meant Baker Street), but it wasn't just the reporters keeping him away right now…it was the thought of all that space…and, even more, of everything being exactly the same as it had been on that night (barring Mrs. Hudson's inevitable tidying), a shrine to a life that no longer existed. It would be like stepping back in time to the day Sherlock had died, and John admitted that he wasn't sure he could face that just yet.

He'd missed the funeral; he'd never been to Sherlock's grave. For John, Sherlock's death was almost as fresh as when it first happened.

Lestrade sighed, dropped the cigarette to the ground, and ground it out under his heel, only half-smoked. It hadn't tasted good, and he knew "Doctor John" would give him the eyebrow if he smelled it when Greg got back.

Then, as he turned to his car, the detective inspector heard a voice from the beyond the grave.

"Those things will kill you."

The detective inspector froze in the act of reaching for the car door handle.

Greg Lestrade was no stranger to death and loss. He had loved and lost many people over the years to illness, accidents and old age (and yes, even to suicide before Sherlock Holmes). If it had been any voice other than Sherlock's, he might have fainted or doubted his own senses. As it was, he simply stilled as his brain attempted to process what he had heard.

Could it be true? Could Sherlock Holmes, somehow, have beaten death itself? No, not even Sherlock Holmes could come back from the dead…but could Sherlock have faked his own death so successfully that even his best friend, a doctor, a witness, could be fooled?

Yes, his brain decided. Yes, he could.

Lestrade turned his eyes outward to the driver's side window and saw, reflected in the glass, an achingly familiar profile. He could even see that the silhouette's collar was popped up.

"Oh, you bastard," he whispered.

The sudden rush of highly conflicting feelings – joy, rage, anguish, hope, fear, wonderment, bewilderment, sorrow – made him slightly dizzy.

"As far as possible…try not to punch him."

So he spun around and hugged said bastard with all his strength instead, ignoring the surprised, pained grunt this elicited.