It was the beginning of June before John heard anything from Mycroft.

It wouldn't have bothered him much at all in regular circumstances- not hearing from Mycroft was, on the whole, a good thing- except for the fact that he'd had nothing to do but explore an empty house and converse with the same twelve people for what was nearing a month.

It was over a month since he'd jumped- a month and two days.

He hadn't thought at all about the anniversary of the event, but instead had it brought to his attention by one of the younger women with whom he'd forged a fragile sort of acquaintanceship.

Her named was Cecil- she wasn't his type, but just young enough for it not to matter- he'd sit with her as she dusted or polished silverware, listening to her as she talked about her dog back at home and her family and friends and flirting with her never too subtly the entire time. She seemed to enjoy it- play back, but never to the point of reciprocating.

You've been here for over a month, she said. He made the most of a rather non-committal noise, helping her tie the sheets on a bed that hadn't been slept in for probably twenty years. The cleaners (for he'd learned from Cecil that they were cleaners, not servants- they didn't live here, there was no one to serve, they just cleaned and re-cleaned and went home for the day) had tried to keep a good distance from John when he'd first got here but eventually time and persistence on John's part got them to let him talk to him, and they're glad to have him around now, she said.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that."

"Still wish you were outside, though?"

"Of course I do. I'm bored to death in this damned house."

She understood. She didn't really know why John was here (he'd tried to fill her in on as much as he knew, but neither of them could stick any more pieces together than the other) but she agreed- if she had to be in this house for a month straight, she'd lose her mind.

"You'd think they'd let you loose every once and a while. Even just in the courtyard. I mean, you're a grown man, not a dog- I thought they'd have let you go completely by now, you know, after Monday-"

She stopped.

She had a half of the sheet in her hands- John had the other half, and was fitting it tightly on to the bed when she had stopped talking. Her face was expressionless, her hands or body making no motion to continue that train of thought.

"Nevermind."

It was John's part to react, then- he straightened up, arching an eyebrow to her, his mouth separating slightly.

"Nevermind?"

"Yeah. I- I don't really know what I was talking about there."

"Yes, you do."

She stared at him, a conflict obvious behind her eyes- it seemed that whatever party John was up against had lost.

She spoke in low, breathy tones- less than a whisper.

"Sherlock won the trial. He's innocent. It's all over the news."

"Oh, well that's a relief-"

Trial?

"…What."

"You didn't- of course you didn't know. I should never have told you."

She picked herself up to leave the room, but John stood in the way of the door-

"No, no, what do you mean, trial? What was he on trial for?"

"I can't- I really shouldn't have- Mr. Holmes will have my head, he'll know you know, you know he will-"

She made to leave, and he shifted his weight to his other foot to stop her.

"I know he will, so you might as well tell me everything you know."

She looked at him in the eyes, sidestepping him and ducking under his arm.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

He hadn't seen Cecil since then.

Not that he'd been entirely surprised, but he had hoped that there were some things that Mycroft was deaf to. Apparently not. Hopefully she'd just been fired.

He was, however, very good at keeping to himself until he'd wanted to be seen.

John had been told that Mycroft (perpetually referenced to as 'Mr. Holmes') visited the manor once a week, every Wednesday, since John had arrived. Usually it was very sparse that he came home, once or twice every six months, to stay a single night in one of the countless rooms, always alone. He'd never actually seen him, however- and he knew all too well that this wasn't incidental.

He also knew that it wasn't an accident when he crossed paths with the man himself, two days later.

"Dr Watson, how lovely to see you."

The man in question stopped, tilted his head as if deciding on the best course of action, and pushed forward.

"Don't pretend. What's going on?"

Instead of answering him, Mycroft turned on his heel, beckoning him with one finger to follow.

Because just asking him to step into his office wasn't dramatic enough, he supposed.

"No, don't just lead me to your office. What's going on? Where is Sherlock?"

He followed him down the corridors, filling up space with his ever-increasing volume.

"Why was he arrested? What the hell happened, Mycroft?"

They were back in the office, a room that John had found constantly locked in his explorations- they were back to sitting where they had almost a full month ago.

"You're not going to tell me a single thing, are you."

Mycroft looked the same as ever- nothing to betray any hardships he might have in erasing the existence of a man.

Then again, it's probably not exactly a novel thing for him.

Of course he wasn't going to tell him anything. That would just be too easy.

If a Holmes gives you too easy, they're probably trying to kill you.

"How has my family's house been treating you, Dr. Watson?"

John stood for a long moment, his characteristic unwillingness to sit down overpowered by the fact that he always sits down, in the end. Eventually, he eased himself into the chair provided for him as he spoke-

"You know the problem isn't with the house, Mycroft. I'm bored out of my skull and I'm completely cut off from the world. You can't just drop me here without any information and expect me to sit quietly until- Until when? Until the whole thing blows over?"

"You're sounding more and more like my brother in his absence, Dr. Watson."

John pursed his lips, enunciating every word that followed with a clearly directed anger.

"What. Is. Going. On."

He stared at Mycroft for what felt like a long time, locking eyes with him and willing him into action. Mycroft returned the stare, looking at him with narrowed, judging eyes.

They rested like this- John waiting, Mycroft searching.

Finally, Mycroft unlocked a filing cabinet by his shins- he pulled out an unassuming folder and set it on the table, pushing it to John.

It was a standard folder, one that John was familiar with at the medical office, something that he would find a hundred others alike it, locked behind the receptionists' desk.

As John slid the folder closer to himself, the older man continued-

"This is your assignment. You will read every file, learn every fact, perfect every skill listed in this file. In one month's time, you will be tested on your performance. If your performance is satisfactory, you will be granted permission to complete the assignment. If not, you will stay here until 'the whole thing blows over.' "

He didn't need a change in tone, much less air quotations, to signify his distaste in the wording.

"Now, Do you require any more assistance?"

John tentatively pulled open the folder- inside was an American Passport, various documents with his picture on it, and a USB key.

"No. This- This doesn't answer any of my questions. Sherlock-"

Mycroft had already moved on to other things- he was thumbing through his cell phone, preoccupied with- well, John really didn't want to know.

"I think you will find that it does."

"… I don't even have a laptop."

A small, unkind smile.

"Oh, I think you'll find that you do."

He collected the documents back into the folder, standing up and taking a few steps backward to the door.

"Is Sherlock okay?"

By then, Mycroft had already receded into his other work, scribbling something furiously on a notepad with a heavy-looking pen. Absentmindedly, he answered as he shooed John away with his left hand.

"One can only hope…"