And again, thanks to Sky Writes! :)
Hope you enjoy.

Chapter 9

It didn't take John long to make sure that ponytail-man must indeed have stepped on the train, for otherwise John would have spotted him on the platform. So he'd lost him. Great. Damn it, how could he have been so stupid?! Maybe, if he hadn't stopped that instant to watch Mycroft and that other man –

Mycroft!

A few seconds later, John was back at Platform 7. The two men were still standing very close to each other, but Mycroft had turned very pale.

"What's going on here?" John asked once he'd come close enough. They wouldn't lose another suspect due to his stupid hesitation today.

As John approached the two men, he could see that Mycroft had apparently just put something into the inner pocket of his jacket, but after another glance, he could see that it wasn't his jacket. It was a holster. Mycroft was carrying a gun.

"We should talk about this someplace else," said the professor in a low, hoarse voice. John looked from one man to the other, and when Mycroft consented, he too obeyed.

They followed the professor out of the station into a small pub on the other side of the street. They sat in the darkest corner the professor seemed to be able to find before anyone of them spoke another word.

"Would you now mind explaining what all this is supposed to mean?" Mycroft uttered in a low voice and somehow managed to also convey the suppressed anger in it.

Unsure, John again looked from one to another. Was it just him or was Mycroft talking to that man as though he knew him?

"Alright, after you've explained what you're doing here."

John's eyes widened. That wasn't the voice he'd heard earlier on Platform 7. And now, as he looked into the old man's eyes, there was hardly any doubt left. In the dim light, he couldn't tell from the colour with absolute certainty if the owner of those greenish-greyish-bluish eyes was indeed the man he, John, thought he was, but the expression was unmistakable. Still, he found it hard to believe.

"Sherlock?!"

His voice had been hardly audible, but still those unmistakable eyes told him to shut up. John shook his head. He knew that Sherlock was good at disguises. He'd often seen him going out in a disguise to do some research on a case, but he'd usually recognised him when he'd looked hard. This time, however, Sherlock had absolutely fooled him although John had suspected the whole professor's appearance to be merely a costume. However, he would never have suspected that it was his long-time friend wearing it.

"Now, Mycroft?"

Mycroft obviously didn't like this way of being interrogated, but he seemed to realise that it was the only way of learning something about Sherlock's plans. "I was… concerned," he said, and judging from his gaze, the table was immensely interesting.

"So concerned that you brought a handgun with you?"

Now Mycroft leaned forward again and looked his brother directly in the eyes. In fact, the two of them were so close to each other that their noses nearly touched.

"If you really want to hear it: yes."

"And since when do you walk around with a weapon?"

"Since my brother is caught up in problems that are so deep that his best chance is breaking into an army headquarters!"

Sherlock frowned (at least that's what John supposed he did, judging from the movements of the rubber mask) and looked at his brother with some insecurity. "You do realise –"

"Of course I do now! But that is what I thought, and forgive me that it wasn't my first idea that this was your plan!"

As much as John tried to enjoy this brotherly fight, he couldn't help but feel helpless, as he always did when the brothers talked to each other. What was this about?

"I'm sorry but what exactly was his plan?" he asked Mycroft. By now he had given up asking Sherlock that question.

"Well, obviously Sherlock only arranged all of this to find out if he could trust me or not."

John gazed at Sherlock, then at Mycroft, then at Sherlock again. "Is he right?"

"Of course I am right!" the elder Holmes brother said and now John could understand his irritation. "Sherlock has known all along where and when the handing-over would take place, because he was the buyer!"

John still didn't think he had understood it. "And why –"

"Yes, good question," Mycroft chimed in with a bittersweet voice and leaned forward again, looking into his brother's eyes. "Why did you think you had to mistrust me, Sherlock?"

"I can't tell you –"

Mycroft snorted, then he stood. "Good day, Sherlock."

John waited until Mycroft had left the pub before he turned to Sherlock again.

"You didn't really think he belonged to Moriarty's gang, did you?"

"Why not?"

John stared at him for a moment with incredulity then shook his head. "You…" He didn't know what to say. It was just absurd to think that Mycroft, the ever so correct Mycroft Holmes, could have joined a criminal organisation. And then to think he could have – deliberately – betrayed his brother…

"You didn't see him at your funeral," John said more earnestly again. "If you –"

"Oh yes, I did."

"You – what? You were there?" John tried to imagine that for a moment, but he found it difficult to do so. He shook his head, lacking understanding. "How cold-blooded does a man have to be to attend his own funeral?"

"To be honest, it was rather instructive. For example, it helped me to strengthen the impression that I could trust you."

John stared at him with his mouth open, but somehow he couldn't get any words out. He tried for some seconds then stood up. "You –" He shook his head. He still couldn't find his words, so he left the pub.

Outside, John breathed deeply for some moments. Sherlock… He shook his head. He just couldn't understand. He'd never thought that Sherlock could really be so cold. He nearly regretted that he had indeed trusted Sherlock, that he'd never believed him to be a fraud. Because if this was Sherlock's gratitude…

And yet, John felt that his anger was slowly ebbing away. Damn, why? He was right – he knew he was right! Sherlock was wrong in distrusting anyone who had believed in him and tried to help him. And still…

"Damn it!" John cursed and kicked against a cycle stand. He didn't want to let go of his anger, but at the same time he could somehow understand Sherlock. After all, he had been betrayed by almost everybody in some way and hardly anybody had believed in him. And if he was going to clear his name, wasn't it wise then to ascertain whether he could trust the people around him?

Maybe, John thought with a last sulky remainder of his anger, but I have never betrayed him. Not even…

Yes. Not even now.

John knew what he had to do. His friend needed his help, more urgently than maybe ever before. And no matter how much of a jerk Sherlock was behaving like, they were still friends. And friends helped friends.

The 'professor' was still sitting at the table in the corner. He didn't look up until John had taken the seat he had vacated a few minutes earlier.

"So – what are we going to do now?"

John had decided on not talking about trust and mistrust again lest he should forget his resolution and leave Sherlock alone with his problems.

But his resolution was put to the test. Sherlock didn't answer. John closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Shouldn't we inform Lestrade?" he proposed and his voice sounded suppressed with irritation. "Maybe he could help us to find the seller and maybe that would lead us to Moran."

Sherlock looked at him with an expression that he couldn't quite interpret, but there was definitely surprise in his it. "You know, that really isn't the worst idea you've ever had. If you would give me your phone? Thank you."

"What are you texting him?" John asked curiously, and his anger had nearly died away again.

" 'Bad news'. And as I know Lestrade, he'll be needing some moments to think about an answer to that, so we've got plenty of time to answer your questions."

That was the cue John had been waiting for, but had not dared hoping for. "How could you buy the plans? What about the real buyer?"

"I am the real buyer," Sherlock started explaining with surprising frankness and patience. "I had contacted Moran some weeks ago, pretending I was a deputy of the Vietnamese government and we arranged a deal."

"Then that note about the time and place of the deal wasn't written by Moran? You placed it there when you pretended to search his desk?"

"And I took it with me when we left, correct."

"But then why that trip to Tidworth?"

"I somehow had to let Mycroft in on the matter. If he had belonged to Moriarty's gang he might have suspected that I suspect him, so it wouldn't have worked to just knock on his door and tell him everything about my plans. Instead, I had to make him a part of them."

"But if he had intended to betray you, he could have simply not given you access to Tidworth. The guards would have arrested you and nobody would have been the wiser."

"I would have been the wiser," Sherlock disagreed. "Besides, if Mycroft wanted to get rid of me not in some way to save his country, but for his own benefits, he would be taking a risk by calling in the authorities. And I was quite counting on the element of surprise: Mycroft couldn't have known before that I would come to him to ask him to get me access to Tidworth. So he couldn't have had a plan, but he would have had to consider the possibility that I had made plans and that I would have foreseen his plans. So he would have had to think of a plan within minutes and also wouldn't have had the possibility of being present at my arrest at Tidworth. And such a risky and unplanned plot that had nothing more to go on but a hunch? That's not like Mycroft."

John thought for a second. "Still doesn't sound watertight to me."

"That's why Irene and I worked out a plan B in case I was arrested."

"Irene again, huh?" For a moment, John felt tempted to ask how Sherlock could know that he could trust her, but then he didn't want to open that can of worms again.

Instead he asked, "So how was that trap for Mycroft supposed to work? How would you have found out if he had been a traitor?"

"Well, if he had belonged to Moriarty's confederates, he would certainly have warned his comrades that I knew about the handing over of the plans today. And they would have made precautions – they might have watched out for you. That's why I observed if you were being followed, or they might have chosen another way to find and eliminate me. Or they might have called off the handing over in the first place."

"So… wasn't that a pretty dangerous plan?"

"Well, hardly, taking everything into consideration. If Mycroft had been a mole, the most likely solution for the gang would have been to call the thing off. And in the unlikely case that they had put in place a trap for me at the station, I had taken quite enough precautions."

If you say so, John thought and decided he'd just be glad that everything had gone well.

"One other thing," he said. "Mycroft and a gun?"

For the first time, something like a smile seemed to play around Sherlock's lips. "You probably should ask him, not me, but apparently that's his idea of a plan B."

"Instead of which plan A?"

"Instead of the official way. In Mycroft's point of view, someone – probably someone from another government – was going to get away with the Bruce Partington Plans. It's true that they're not that new anymore, but I guess they've still got the potential for some destruction. And if Mycroft had chosen the official way, people might have asked and poked around where he had got this information from, which might have given away or at least endangered me."

John frowned. "So he played cowboy to protect you?" It was somehow difficult for him to imagine Mycroft doing such a thing.

"That's one way of putting it."

John hesitated for a moment, but he just couldn't help but make Sherlock think about his behaviour. "So…" he said with the tone of a teacher at primary school, "what does that tell us about Mycroft's trustworthiness?"

The look with which Sherlock answered him was as fierce as John thought only a spear could be. "I had to make sure."

John laughed briefly, but not very cheerfully. "That's all you have to say?" He ran his hands over his face, trying to shake his impatience off. God, he shouldn't have started that topic. But now he had to end it somehow. "You know what? I know I shouldn't care. But damn it, I do. And I think you should have known your own brother better than that. And me, by the way. I mean, maybe you didn't realise or you didn't care, but we actually believed you all the time, and we had your back, and what do you do? You make us believe you're dead and then you come back and mistrust us. Just – just tell me, do you actually realise what you did?"

He ran his hands over his face again, murmuring "damn it". He wanted to get up and storm out again. He couldn't stay sitting at this table, but at the same time he had to know if Sherlock had understood at least a soupçon of what he'd done to all of them.

It seemed so, John thought, although the disguise, including the rubber mask, didn't let him get a good look at Sherlock's features. But at least the silence spoke volumes. John couldn't be sure – who could ever be sure what was going on in that head of Sherlock's? – but it seemed as though he was thinking, and this time not about some abstract criminal problem, but about real human feelings.

"So… Suppose I had done something wrong," Sherlock began, and John suppressed both a groan and the urge to go for his throat. After all, it was a start. "What would you want me to do then?"

"Apologise," John replied at once.

"Okay. I'm sorry."

John looked at him doubtfully. He wasn't sure if Sherlock really meant it. And to tell the truth he had intended that Sherlock should apologise to his brother, not to him, although, John thought, it wasn't inappropriate.

He wondered if he should let his friend get off that easily, but then again it occurred to him that fighting against the conspiracy of an entire country, feigning one's own death and coming back on one's knees to ask for help to put his enemies behind bars wasn't something one would generally refer to as 'getting off easily'.

And it would probably also be better for his own nerves to let the topic go. As if nothing had happened, he inquired, "What about the seller of the plans? It wasn't Moran, was it?"

John could have sworn he saw signs of relief on Sherlock's face when they returned to criminological questions. "Of course not. It must have been one of his henchmen."

"So how do you intend to prove something to Moran?"

At that moment, John's phone gave a sound. Lestrade had texted an answer. "'Come to Baker Street at 8:30 pm'," John read out aloud. "That's it, nothing else."

"We don't need anything else. We'll know more tonight."