Present
John was standing in the kitchen, making some pasta for Mycroft and himself, as the doorbell rang. He put the wooden spoon aside and went to the front door.
Since a few days John was back in the UK, back at home; he had sent Mycroft and Amanda a card from Italy, Positano and on Wednesday, Amanda had picked him up at the Heathrow Airport and as nice and warm-hearted as she was, she drove him back to Potters Bar.
John opened the door.
Just in front of him stood Mycroft, with a big, warm smile on his face.
"Hey Myc, it's great to see you." John said, and let him in.
They hugged each other amicably; John clapped on Mycroft's shoulder while Mycroft squeezed John's upper arm.
"It's good to see you, too. Great to have you back. Oh, and your card was in the mail yesterday, finally." Mycroft smirked.
"Oh Jesus, I've sent it after day four. Next time I'll bring it to the UK and give it to you in person." John grinned. "Saving money, you know."
They walked back into the kitchen; the pasta was almost ready. Mycroft leaned against a kitchen drawer.
"Oh, come on, as if you have to save money after your book came like a bombshell."
John grinned and shrugged his shoulders.
"Wasn't supposed to be like that."
"It's a great story and you know that, John. Don't be such a shy guy." Mycroft smiled.
"Yeah, thanks Myc. Come on, let's have lunch and after that the race is on air, we can talk later about my fame."
John smiled charmingly, and Mycroft laughed.
John had been looking forward to this afternoon with Mycoft. He was a good fellow, and it was always fun to watch telly with Mycroft. He hadn't seen any movies, series or shows, before he met Amanda, or to be precise, before John introduced Amanda to him. And now, Mycroft was totally into it, especially in Dr. Who.
It was nice to spend some free time with him, and it doesn't matter what they do. Regardless of whether they just sitting around, have a few pints in a pub or a nice evening in the theater or cinema, it was always quite nice and comfortable with him.
John knew Mycroft had changed a bit, had set his priorities in a new way, but he couldn't understand why Sherlock hadn't liked him. And he knew, he would never know.
Mycroft had been also looking forward to this Sunday and John. It was great to have him back in the UK, although he really has granted him that vacation.
The last two weeks were a bit nerve-racking, with Sherlock back in London and the knowledge that he has to tell it John.
Sherlock has stayed the last two weeks at Mycroft's place, and Mycroft had been totally right; Sherlock liked Amanda. Sherlock was still there; they hadn't talked this much, but it was a beginning and Mycroft really appreciated that Sherlock was back in London. He was eating and drinking and sleeping almost like a normal person; that's what made him look younger and healthier. And also, Mycroft liked the new haircut.
His brother had finished the book in the first night at Mycroft's place; he had asked for more, but there weren't more. John had published it a year ago, and it came like a bombshell; out of nowhere. It was published, and the people fell on that book like maniacs. And that included Mycroft, as well as Amanda, Greg and Molly, even Mrs. Hudson liked it. And now John was writing a kind of sequel, but he didn't reveal one single information.
Mycroft wasn't in a good mood today, at least – inwardly. Sherlock had begged at the breakfast table, that he tells it John today, and he had promised to do that. He knew John would do something bad with him; punch him or scream at him, torture him or worse - murder him. He would speak with him after the lunch and the Formula 1 race.
After lunch, they chilled down on the sofa, next to each other - with some sweets and chips. They watched the race, which started with a lot of rain and seven safety car rounds. There were a lot of crashes, a miscommunication between the driver at the pole position and his team, so that he lost his pole position after an embarrassing pit stop. The rest of the race he tried to catch Hamilton, but didn't manage it.
John had laid his legs on the coffee table as well as Mycroft. He grabbed some chips and put them into his mouth while Mycroft turned his head to him. Now or never, he told himself.
"John?" Mycroft asked carefully.
John turned his head and just nodded; his mouth was filled with chips.
"I have to tell you something... "
John bowed his head and swallowed the chips.
"What's up mate? Is there something with Amanda?" John asked curiously.
"No, no... it's fine; it's all fine with Amanda."
"Okay, I thought that you had a fight with her or something, you look a bit sick. Are you alright Myc?"
"No, it has nothing to do with Amanda. And I'm not just looking sick; I am feeling sick. I... John, I've lied to you." Mycroft said in a lower voice.
John sat up straight, eyed Mycroft and wiped his hands on his thighs. He took a deep breath, scratched his neck.
"Is it a small and good lie, or a big and good one... or a bad one which is small or big."
Mycroft sat up, looked at John and swallowed; he bit his lower lip and scratched his beard.
"It's a... big one, a really big one and a bad one too... and that's maybe an understatement, but I think, that lie becomes a big and good one in a few weeks or month."
John watched him.
"Do I want to hear that?"
Mycroft nodded.
"Yes, I guess you want to hear that. John... I'm sorry; I'm really sorry. What I have to say isn't easy. I'm really sorry for that. I didn't want it like th... "
John raised a hand and stopped Mycrofts babbling.
"Just say it Myc. Just say it. You can't change that back. Please stop that babbling and tell me what you were lying about."
Mycroft took a deep breath, looked at John, whose face was serious and a bit afraid.
"John... it's about Sherlock, he... he faked his death, because of Moriarty, there wasn't another possibility... Sherlock is alive... and he's back in London." His voice was low, apologetically and fast.
John's eyes were big, his mouth open; he looked very sick. The heart was racing against his chest like mad, it hammered against his chest. It was incredibly loud in his ears. His head was buzzing, his left hand was trembling. That couldn't be true.
"You're kidding Mycroft! Please tell me that this is just a really bad prank! Please tell me that you haven't lied to me since three years."
Mycroft said nothing, scratched his neck, looked to John.
After a few moments of silence Mycroft said,
"I can't, that would be a lie."
John watched his friend, pressed his right hand on the trembling one; he gasped for air.
"No!" John said with a hopeless voice, his eyes were already filled with tears. "No. Mycroft. No."
His heart was still racing like mad; a single first tear rolled down his cheek.
Mycroft lay his hand on John's shoulder, but his friend slipped away to the other end of the sofa.
"Don't!" He wiped away his tears and cleared his throat. "Don't touch me or I will punch you Mycroft. Are you... are you mad or something? What's wrong with you? You're my friend! I'm trusting you and now you tell me that... Sherlock... that Sherlock is... alive?" He stood up in rage.
Mycroft looked up to him; he sat there like a little boy who had done something really bad.
"John... I'm sorry, I wanted to tell you... I wanted to talk with Sherlock, that you aren't in a good state, but he always cuts me off; he didn't want to hear that, it was too dangerous, for him and for you, at least that's what he told me. I'm so sorry John."
John looked at him; his eyes were red; the tears were running down his cheeks. He was sad; it hurts; he was disappointed and upset, grumpy and mad with Mycroft and with Sherlock.
The tears were still running while he yelled.
"You are a fucking prick! You're just a fucking prick! You and your brother!" He snuffled and dashed away his tears with the back of his right hand, the other one was still trembling. More tears were running down his cheeks. "You're my friend Mycroft! My friend, as well as your mad brother. We've talked about so many things. After... after Sherlock... you know... after that, you were the first person who was at my side; you were the first person, who made me laugh and smile again, who was available every time I needed you; you came to Baker Street, stayed there after a nightmare and you came to Potters Bars to do the same. You were the first person... I mean from the persons I met after I returned from Afghanistan, which I have told that I'm gay! Jesus, you fucking git, I've told you that I'm in love with your brother like a maniac."
He kneaded his left hand, dashed away the tears again, but the cheeks were already wet again.
Mycroft played with his hands, didn't look to John. It was terrible to see him cry.
"I don't know what to say John. I'm terribly sorry for this. I know you've trusted me; you still can. I would never tell Sherlock that you're gay and in love with him, not without your permission. It was all for your own safety; I know that doesn't make sense in the moment, but it will; it will make sense. I promise. You're important to me John, and please don't doubt that I'm your friend. I didn't fake that, that's real, John. And I'm very proud to have a friend like you. And I would love to have you as my brother in law. I can't change that back, I'm sorry. It will make sense in a few weeks or months."
John gasped for air; the tears streamed over his face; he snuffled, kneaded his hand. Three years he had thought, that he was a terribly friend, had thought that he would never be able to say Sherlock how much he loved him, and now his best friend and probably the love of his life was alive. He couldn't understand that.
"How long... how long is he back?" John sobbed.
"Two weeks. Shortly after you were gone through the security area at the airport, Amanda texted me, that he's back."
"Why haven't you called me?! Why Mycroft... why?"
"I didn't want to spoil your holiday, and I wanted to tell you that in person. Sorry."
John looked through is red and swollen eyes. His head buzzed; the hand trembeld; his face was grey; the nose was running; he snuffled again and again; and the tears were rolling down his cheeks like mad, made his face wet.
He bridged the few steps to Mycroft, who looked up to him. He looked sick, honestly heart broken, because of John.
However, John couldn't hold back; he punched Mycroft hard – with his fist, right on the nose.
His friend was bleeding; the blood dropped from his nose to his button-up shirt.
John shook his hand, looked at Mycroft.
"I'm sorry, but I can't think straight. And you deserved it. And I'm feeling better, a bit... at least better in the context that you lied to me."
He buried his wet face in his hands, cried and sobbed – heart broken.
"I hate you Myc. I just hate you."
His whole body trembled.
Mycroft stood up, wiped with the back of his hand over his face, over the blood. It hurts, very much indeed, but John was right; he deserved it.
Mycroft stepped a little closer and caught that trembling, sobbing body in his arms. He held him close and muttered softly,
"No John... you don't hate me."
John sank into his friend's hug.