John and Sherlock turn to each other, speaking uninhibitedly at the same time.
"You have a sister?"
"Quinn?"
They pause.
"Okay, we've got to stop doing that."
Sherlock nods and motions for John to continue.
"Who's Quinn?"
"My brother. Well, half brother. Father didn't know of him until I found him. Apparently he had a midlife crisis and subsequently lived a bit recklessly."
"Brother?" John's face belies his disbelief. "You never said you had another brother."
"Oh yes, he's a faceless lackey for the government, which is where he takes after Mycroft, and is astoundingly precocious, which is where he takes after me."
"Yeah, your parents haven't had anything to do with that." Lestrade says dryly.
"It's a wonder my parents managed to procreate someone of my intelligence, much less Mycroft or Quinn."
"You're so humble. Cheers."
"Sherlock," John cuts in before he can retort. "You don't have a brother."
"Please, John, we may not be a typical family, but at the very least we still share some semblance of genetics—"
"No, I mean you don't have a younger brother."
"What do you mean? Of course I do. He's a posh, annoying know-it-all that started as a happy surprise to my parents and an inconvenience to me."
"So another version of you then." Lestrade mutters. "Wonderful."
"Sherlock—" John stops, trying to corral his thoughts. "I've never seen him, not in all the time I watched you—"
"He never visited me or Mycroft. We always went to him."
"My range wasn't restricted to just your house. I could see you wherever you went. He wasn't there, in any circumstance."
Sherlock said nothing.
"Do you think you just didn't notice him?" Lestrade asks. "I mean, maybe he was around but you were too focused on Sherlock."
"No," John shakes his head. "I felt four souls in that house, and one when Sherlock was alone. I would've noticed."
"Maybe he's defective." Sherlock suggested with a pique of something close to eagerness.
"Doubtful." John answers. "People see what they want to with me, so he may not have been able to see me, but I would have seen him."
"Right." Sherlock says, standing. "Back to London."
The carriage rocks leisurely as the countryside blurs and shifts in muted greys and soft gold behind the grainy window. John stares out, letting his mind roam the plains as they pass in front of him. The undulating motions of the train has already threatened to put Lestrade to sleep, and he'd excused himself to walk through the halls.
"You never let a case go unsolved." John says plainly, keeping his gaze on the horizon.
Sherlock doesn't answer, eyes skimming over his phone, and John has learned enough about him to be patient and wait until he answers instead of repeating himself. He knows that Sherlock has perfectly fine ears.
"Plenty of cases have been unsolved under my supervision."
"Not since you were still a junkie and never voluntarily abandoned."
"I felt our work in Baskerville was done."
"You never even visited the client!"
"Would you rather we stay and risk another attack, another visit from dear old Jim, or would you rather we be on the move, where he'll be looking for us instead of finding us?"
"He found you once."
"Us, John. He found us once. We're in this together. He's nearly killed you twice now, three if you count Gladstone, and that's thrice as many times as I will allow. You're in just as much danger as I am."
"He's set his sights on you. Not us. You. He'll find you, eventually, and I'd rather be destroyed or worse, be sent back to Sheol, than let him get his hands on you."
"I won't let him."
"Sherlock," John says wearily. "I don't think this is something you can control. You're dealing with something much greater and much more powerful than yourself."
"Says you."
"Says me, yes. You're human, Sherlock, whether you like it or not, so you're already at a disadvantage. I know this isn't what you want to hear, but you have to know that when he comes after you, he's going to get rid of me first. I don't know what that entails, destroying me or incapacitation—you saw what he did at Baskerville—or banishment, but he'll want you alone. He'll want you vulnerable."
"He'll kill me?"
"No," John says softly. "No, I don't think he will. You're the biggest prize on his shelf. I don't think he'll want to tarnish you. He'll hurt you though, if it means weakening you."
"He can't hurt me."
"Trust me, Sherlock, he most certainly can."
"No, I mean he can't hurt me because if he sends you away first, if he does away with you or whatever you think he might do, I'll off myself before he can start."
"No." John says, his voice full of such sudden coldness that Sherlock nearly flinches. "No, you will never kill yourself, Sherlock, you have to promise me you'll never do that."
"Why?"
"I can't protect you then. Wherever you go here, on this earth, I'm going to follow you. I can't do that if you kill yourself, if you sacrifice your soul for an eternity of darkness."
"I thought Sheol was Hell. We'd be together."
"Together? Together? Nothing is worth being in that pit, Sherlock, nothing! Not your soul, not us, not anything!" John's voice cracks and he stops. "It's—I know it's hard for you to understand…you haven't been there. But I have, and I'm telling you now, you will not send yourself there. We wouldn't be together; that would be like trying to find each other in the dark with miles of emptiness full of danger in between. You won't know if your next step is your last."
Sherlock says nothing, but leans forward, his eyes never leaving John's.
"If it meant finding you, being with you, I would do it." He says slowly, carefully. "I would walk whatever distance I had to, for you."
"I can't be your end, Sherlock. I can't."
"And I can't live a life without you, now that I've known what it's like. We're at an impasse, then."
The tracks scream underneath them for a moment and Sherlock is reminded of the sound John made when he fell to him. He wonders what sound it would make when he left.
"What would you do, if you lost me?" Sherlock asks solemnly
John stares at him.
"I would find you."
They sit in silence, full of a handful of heartbeats from one and nothing from the other.
Sherlock breaks the quiet, his voice calm and solemn.
"Then what makes you think that I feel any differently about you?"
John is spared having to answer by the carriage door sliding open as Lestrade enters.
"Right," He says, breaking the tense invisible chord wound between the two as he sits beside John. "We're about twenty minutes out. Where are we going once we get back?"
"An apartment near Hampstead."
Lestrade's brow raises. "Hampstead? We're going posh then."
"We're paying a call to my brother. Poshness is the least of your worries."
An hour later, the three stood outside an old homely brick complex situated opposite a heavily decorated building that screamed expensive living, covered in cream décor and large windows. Lush green ivy and aubergine pimpernel swarmed over the gate and face of the façade, giving the apartment the atmosphere that it had weathered its existence with quiet dignity, letting itself be claimed by the flora and ignored by passer-by until its appearance and old age belied its true worth, which must be in the double-digit millions of pounds considering the area. It was inconspicuous; it didn't draw attention to itself but stood like a wallflower among its expensive looking neighbours, camouflaged by a door the colour of night stuck between its death and dawn and the pale trimming along its simple windows.
After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock rang the callbox.
"You have visitors, little brother."
A beat of silence follows before a heavy sigh falls from the speaker.
"I'll let you in." A tired voice crackled.
"Oh, you can walk. I'd have thought you were soldered to that chair. May I check the state of your atrophied limbs or have they already been hacked off?"
"Do you want to come up or not?"
"It would be rude to leave guests out in the cold. Think of what Father would say."
The intercom clicks off and the sound of a door shutting comes from the open windows of the second floor.
The front door opens, revealing a lanky youth with a tousle of wavy dark hair, narrow face framed by thin, sharp glasses. His impassive gaze drags over Sherlock, who stands unmoving in front of him, blocking his view of Lestrade and John.
"Quinn." Sherlock says in greeting.
"Sherlock." His brother replies.
"How's the job?"
"Interesting." Quinn answers shortly. "Yours?"
"The same. I see Mycroft's string-pulling is as effective as always." Sherlock answers.
"As he should be." Quinn answers dryly with a sardonic grin. "I do own the whole building. You really should think of getting on his better side." His smile dropped from his face. "Why are you here?"
Sherlock steps aside and motions to John. "Him."
Quinn says nothing, his mouth parting slightly, eyes widening behind the frames of his glasses.
"It's you." He breathes.
Notes:
Quinn will not be related to the Bond universe, he resides solely in Sherlock Holmes and takes the place of Sherrinford.
The reference for Quinn's flat (obviously slightly different, more details next chapter): /maps/Psx56 (5 Windmill Hill, London, UK)
Next chapter: Why John couldn't see Quinn, why Quinn knows John, and Harry makes an appearance. Thanks for reading!