I Am The Masquerade was begging. yes, begging for another chapter... so here you go ;)

Chapter Eight

The next two days, John didn't hear from Sherlock, just as he had feared. He had told him before he left; he had told him that he was stubborn. John should pay better attention when Sherlock chose to declare something about himself that involved emotions. But, allowing himself some stubbornness on his own, John did not text or call Sherlock either. He knew he was being really rather silly and that Sherlock probably had a good reason to not get in touch with him, but John thought that he'd rather be stubborn now that Sherlock was away than when he was back. God, he missed him.

On Saturday, Mycroft sent a car to pick John up on his way home from New Scotland Yard where he had delivered a folder with files and John greeted Anthea enthusiastically, which caused her to stop typing and look at him surprised.

"Your sister is much more talkative, you know?" He knew that trying to have a conversation with her was futile, but he suddenly felt much more at home in her presence than he had before.

She did not answer, but he could see a small smile on her lips in the reflection of the car window. John did not ask her where they were going and when the car stopped, he found himself in yet another deserted factory hall.

"Mycroft."

"John." He sounded positively happy to see him. "I'm so glad you could come."

"I sometimes wonder what would happen if I didn't," John answered, squaring his shoulders.

Mycroft just smiled his nonchalant smile and then drew an invisible circle on the floor with his umbrella. "I heard that you've made some calls to Canada?"

What was he aiming at? John had no idea what to expect, but one thing was certain; that Mycroft knew exactly what was going on.

"I also heard that you have not made use of the opportunity for exactly fifty hours?"

"Did you bring me here to ask me to call Sherlock?"

"No, I could have sent that message in a different fashion. I am here to ask for the reason."

"The reason is private, I don't think…"

"John," Mycroft interrupted him, sounding unusually impatient. "We are beyond that, don't you think?"

John decided to just stare at him.

"You have questions?" Mycroft could read him like a book. For a second John wondered if there were any other super-human Holmes siblings irritating someone in a different part of the world; he had never asked Sherlock.

"Do you have any cameras or other recording devices in our home?"

"Home, ah, yes." John's eyes narrowed, but Mycroft smiled, leaning forward just to swing back a second later. His happy attitude was unnerving. "Sherlock forbade such intrusion shortly after you moved in."

"He forbade it? That doesn't mean than you wouldn't do it anyway, does it?"

"I had no need for such things after you decided to stay. I knew he trusted you, so I knew I could trust you."

Somehow, this was turning into something bigger than he had expected. "So that's a no, then?"

Mycroft smiled down on him. "Yes."

"But you know why I did not call Sherlock?" It was unlikely that Mycroft missed anything concerning his brother. "I mean, why am I really here?"

The tall man tipped his head to the left side in an eerie mirror image of Sherlock's mannerism. "You do understand that his work will always come first? You have become part of his work, so figuratively speaking, you also come first, but considering recent events, I thought you should be made aware of that again."

Was Mycroft going to tell him what both Sarah and Lestrade had told him before; that Sherlock could not be changed beyond the degree that he had changed since he met him? "I am very aware of that."

"But you don't act accordingly."

"And what would you suggest would be the right thing to do?" John knew he sounded annoyed, and he did not want to end up being angry again, he was tired of being angry, he just wanted to go back to…normal. Only normal was exactly the problem, because it meant that nothing would change and that his emotions would not interfere with Sherlock's work. He had missed that normalcy so much that he had forgotten all the little annoyances and quirks that came with it. All those moments when he snatched his laptop from Sherlock's hands because he had yet again used it without asking; when the milk carton sat empty in the fridge and John knew that Sherlock had walked past the shop; when there were scratches or burns on the kitchen table and Sherlock refused to tell him how they got there. He and Sherlock were completely different, and Sherlock had driven him nuts more often than he could remember. But Sherlock had also been frustrated with him, annoyed at times, because he wouldn't see the obvious, because shopping for food and caring about murder victims were things beyond his intellectual horizon. Those things had defined the past year. There had always been conflict, and now he had just expected all of this to be gone?

With a frown he realised that he really did not want things to change. Sometimes he needed to be annoyed with Sherlock, needed to be mad at him, exasperated, and at the end of his wits just as he needed to tell Sherlock off when he behaved anything but civil or to refuse cooperation, even if Sherlock always found a way to make him change his mind in the end. With Sherlock, he could act out conflict, he could show his teeth and be mad without having to fear anything else than the endless frustration when Sherlock proved him wrong yet again and maybe a bit of horrific violin playing. What scared him now was the force with which he had thrown the phone against the wall, the passion he had felt, the anger that seemed to come from a place that he did not want to go to, ever. He had opened himself up to Sherlock and let down his guard. It was only natural that he was bound to get hurt. But in the end he wanted to be vulnerable around Sherlock. He wanted to trust Sherlock, and he would be disappointed again and again, but that always happened in a relationship. He had been spoiled by Sarah, really, but he had been in relationships where he had been badly hurt, on purpose and not accidentally. And this time he would gladly accept being hurt and disappointed if it meant that he could be with Sherlock, because there was no way that he would let him go again, now that he had him.

When John looked up at Mycroft, he could see him smile.

"Have a good day, John." And, happily swinging his umbrella, he wandered off.

The car took him home and he thought carefully about his realisation. How in the world had Mycroft been able to tell that John would come to a satisfying conclusion? He was just as brilliant and manipulative as Sherlock. Thank God Sherlock had no umbrella to swing around.

Grinning, he climbed out of the car and unlocked the front door to 221B Baker Street. Home it was, yes, but not without Sherlock in it.