John had only just stepped out of the supermarket door, his arms laden with shopping bags, the flimsy, cheap plastic ones that often broke before you'd made it all the way home, before the sleek, black car pulled up in front of him in the cold, drizzly morning, typical of the temperamental British weather. The door closest to him opened and John stooped lower to see who occupied it, already knowing the answer. Anthea sat on the opposite side, tapping away on her blackberry, not even sparing a glance in his direction.
"Good morning, Doctor Watson," she chirped. "Need a lift? Weather's appalling." John wondered just how she knew this. Her perfectly manicured hands where constantly glued to her phone, and her eyes seemed to do the same.
John looked around him. The weather did seem to be worsening, his clothes already sticking to him from the dampness acquired by the drizzle, and in all honesty, he didn't think that the carrier bags would make it all the way back, and he'd rather not risk it. He gave a reluctant sigh and ducked into the car. He placed his bags between Anthea and himself. She would not mind. John knew from experience that these trips tended to proceed in complete silence. The car was warm and comfortable, a combination not often provided by the standard London taxi service.
"Just a quick detour first." Anthea's eyes never moved. John wondered what on earth, or who on earth, could require so much attention from the woman. It seemed of vital importance however, as her hands were never idle.
"Detour?" John roused himself from his thoughts and what she had said began to register. He was just about to ask why they needed a detour before he answered his own question. His exasperated sigh filled the silence that had fallen upon the car. He gazed out of the window, watching the tiny water droplets collect into much larger ones, before racing each other down and across the smooth, tinted glass.
"Does Mycroft have an inability to figure out the use of a mobile phone?" He rolled his eyes. "Seriously, why does he have to go through all the bloody dramatics? A quick text would do." Anthea ignored him, still focussed on the utterly enthralling words that seemed to dominate her screen.
"Hmm?" Her head angled towards him, questioning, but her eyes were still locked on the device in her hands.
"Never mind," John chuckled to himself. He was sure he could tell this woman anything, but she wouldn't hear him – too wrapped up in her gadgetry.
They continued the car journey until they reached the polished front door of a rather large, white, marble house. John turned to pick up his shopping, but Anthea gestured for him to leave it in the car and proceed into the house – at least that's what John assumes from the tiny flutter of her hand in the general direction of the shopping and then beyond the door.
John got out and straightened up. The rain had gotten a lot heavier during his brief time in the expensive black car. He walked up to the front door, already soaking. He heard the slam of the door behind him and he turned around and saw that his groceries were no longer in his field of view. He turned back to the house and knocked on the door. The impressive golden lettering against the dark wood of the door reminded him of Baker Street, and increased his desire to get back there as soon as possible. He'd left Sherlock to his own devices, and John had a uncomfortable feeling that it would involve an experiment that had the potential to burn the flat down.
A tall, well dressed man answered the door. He hurried John through the door, eyeing the water dripping from him wearily. He was directed into the hall, and was left to the side of the room, away from the carpet. John laughed to himself at the obvious discomfort on the face of the man stood in front of him. He was reminded of the way Mycroft had first surveyed him, with caution and subtle distain, as if John was some disgusting creature that a cat would drag in through the door.
"Mr Holmes will be with you shortly." John nodded in acknowledgement. "He's currently writing a rather important letter to the Prime Minister." The man's face contorted into an expression of utter smugness, as if such important matters were above John. Once again, John nodded his head. He tried to keep a straight face, but as the man walked away, John couldn't help but let out a short laugh. If the man heard it, he didn't react.
John shuffled his feet and looked quickly around the room. It was well furnished, with expensive looking paintings on the wall, and Persian rugs on the polished wooden floors. It smelled like exotic, oriental spices and tea. There was not a speck of dust to be found anywhere, and John was sure that it would be the same throughout the entire house. The man who let John in clearly prided himself on tidiness and the presentation of the house. It was nice, but it didn't have the same feeling as Baker Street. It didn't feel lived in, loved, looked after. It was a house, but not a home. It was cold, and unwelcoming. Exactly like the man who inhabited it. The man who at that moment in time, opened the door to John's left.
"Doctor Watson. Please do come in." The was no welcome in Mycroft's voice. It was an instruction rather than an invitation. John followed Mycroft through the door into what could only be Mycroft's private study. He had a desk at the opposite end of the room, but unlike the desk John shared with Sherlock, everything was neat and tidy. All papers were stacked up in organised piles. Pens were in line with each other, and everything was set out at right angles and straight lines. It made John uncomfortable and scruffy.
"Please have a seat, John."
Mycroft sat himself behind his desk, as John seated himself in the comfortable (he hated to admit it to himself, but it was – Sherlock's distaste of all things Mycroft related seemed to be rubbing off on him) chair opposite the desk. Under Mycroft's scrutinising eye, John felt like he was back in school, about to be reprimanded by his headmaster.
"What do you want Mycroft? What could you possibly want that required all of this instead of just ringing me?"
Mycroft's face hardened as John waited for a reply.
"It has come to my attention that you and Sherlock have returned to working with the Metropolitan Police Service."
"Yes, so what?" John challenged.
"But it seems that Sherlock is in a," Mycroft paused for a moment as he searched for the appropriate word, "delicate situation."
Mycroft knew. He knew about the incident at the crime scene.
"Well, so would you if you were ridiculed for years, died to save lives – well, faked death, and then when you came back, people were still doubting and ridiculing. Please don't try to understand or sympathise Mycroft because I don't think it's a talent of yours." John didn't mean to speak so harshly, but he had been holding back a lot of irritation and anger towards the Met, especially Donovan, Anderson and even Lestrade. He didn't like the way Mycroft was talking about Sherlock, and everything just seemed to spill over.
Mycroft eyed him cautiously.
"John, I'm not going to pretend I understand what Sherlock is going through. But I do know that I have a better understanding of who Sherlock is than you do."
This caught John off guard. He always assumed that Mycroft and Sherlock were similar in their emotional aspects. But Mycroft had just shown John that he was wrong. Despite all of his prejudges' and assumptions that Mycroft was – as that Adler had put it – an Iceman, Mycroft did have a softer side, a side in which Mycroft did care for his brother.
"John, I'm not going to dictate to you how to take care of my little brother, we cold be here for days and I'm sure Mrs Hudson wouldn't appreciate you standing her up for dinner tonight." So, Mycroft knew that as well. John did not question this, as he had learnt not o question things when it came to the oldest Holmes brother, but just to take it in his stride and let the moment pass. "I'm just telling you to be careful. Keep an eye on Sherlock. It could be dangerous in his position, and we don't want history to repeat itself."
John knew exactly what Mycroft was referring to, and he completely agreed.
"Sherlock wouldn't."
"We'd like to hope he wouldn't, but this is Sherlock we're talking about. No-one truly knows what he would and wouldn't do."
"Well, you're wrong. I know Sherlock would never do it." The words were out of John's mouth before he could stop himself. But he did not make any attempt to take it back. Instead, he stood up and walked straight out of the room. Mycroft didn't try to stop him. As he crossed the hall, he walked purposefully on the carpet, ignoring the indignant noises being made by the stupid slave of Mycroft's. He made an extra effort to slam the door on his way out.
He was soaked through, angry, tired and desperate to get home as soon as possible. He knew he was right about Sherlock, but at the same time there was a small voice in the back of his head, which sounded suspiciously like Mycroft, telling him that maybe he was wrong, and reminding him about Sherlock's dark past.
He stormed down the stairs and opened the car door with such force that he was surprised that he did not rip the door off. He sat down next to his bags of shopping and slammed this door too. Anthea actually looked up from her phone to stare at John for a few seconds. John glared back at her and then barked at the driver to take him back to Baker Street that instant.
There was a tension in the car. John's irritation increased with every click of Anthea's phone, and by the time they reached Baker Street, he felt ready to snap. He gathered up the bags and got out of the car. He fumbled of the keys, his arms full of shopping and his fingers slippery as the rain continued. He swore loudly, not caring who heard, although there was no-one around to hear him.
Eventually, he managed to open the door. He stumbled into the warmth, and let it completely envelope him. This is what a house should feel like. It smelled like baking, that was Mrs Hudson. It also smelled like chemicals – Sherlock. Sherlock!
John ran up the stairs, two at a time before he reached 221B. He opened the door and strode into the flat. Sherlock was sat at his microscope, incredibly focused and just… well… Sherlock. He was utterly normal - well, normal for Sherlock. He breathed a sigh of relief, before dumping the shopping back unceremoniously on the kitchen table.
Sherlock looked up at John as he put away the shopping.
"What did you argue with Mycroft about?" John did not bother to ask how Sherlock knew what had happened.
"It's nothing." It took barely any time for John to pack away the groceries. Mrs Hudson had got the vast majority of what they needed the night before, he just got a few more essentials, plus all the ingredients for the night ahead. He left them out on the side as a reminder to Sherlock that Mrs Hudson was coming over tonight.
"It was about me wasn't it?" Sherlock's voice was curious.
"Didn't take you long to figure out, did it?" John didn't turn to Sherlock, choosing instead to focus on organising the food products on the side. His tone was slightly harsher than intended, but John guessed he was still highly irritated and frustrated from his encounter with Mycroft.
Sherlock did not press the matter any further. His vast knowledge of emotions and behaviours gave him the advantage of knowing when to back off. He allowed John to keep pretending to be busy as he obviously gathered his thoughts and pulled himself together. Sherlock returned his attentions to the cultures under his microscope, but every few seconds his eyes would flicker back to John, who still had his back to him.
"Sherlock," John began, the words catching in this throat, almost as is he was having trouble articulating a complete sentence. If it were any other person, Sherlock would lose his patience and snap, but this was John, and Sherlock made an exception. "Sherlock, you- you wouldn't-" he sighed, trying to reform the words in his head. "I know it's been tough for you, it's been tough for both of us, especially what happened yesterday. I just want you to know that you can always talk to me if you need to."
Sherlock considered this for a moment. "There is obviously something else troubling you. Please don't hold it back to spare my feelings."
"You wouldn't do anything stupid would you?"
"John, in all the time that you have known me. when have you ever been able to describe me as 'stupid'?"
"You know exactly what I mean, Sherlock." John had gone from caring doctor and flatmate, to commanding soldier within a matter of seconds. This was one of the many things about John that fascinated Sherlock. How easily he could abandon one persona for another, as if he was shedding his skin in favour of a new one. This often happened during a chase, when one or both of their lives were in danger.
Sherlock thought about John's words. There was only one thing he could have been talking about.
"Who put that ridiculous idea in your head? Was it dear older brother?"
John shifted uncomfortably where he stood, but his gaze was still steady, eyes fixed on Sherlock, demanding an answer.
"John, it's been years since I've touched anything stronger than paracetamol. Do you really think I'd be so ridiculous as to even go near that kind of stuff just because Anderson and Donovan are giving me a bit of a hard time? I'm wounded by your lack of faith in me John." He let a smile play around the edges of his lips, and saw John relax slightly as he spotted the subtle expression of amusement on Sherlock's face. But then worry clouded his face again as he recalled his conversation with Mycroft.
"But Mycroft said you were in a 'delicate situation' and I know how much it upset you yesterday and I just-"
"Mycroft believes that it is his duty to interfere with my life. He may come across as concerned, but growing up he was cold, manipulative and opinionated, and he has not changed over all these years. Do not let him fool you into distrusting me John. Your trust is the only thing I value as much as my own intellect."
John was utterly stunned as Sherlock's words sank in. He had never realised how much Sherlock placed on John's role in their lives. John felt rather flattered, and he could feel the blush slowly creeping across his face.
"Sherlock-"
"I mean it John."
"I- No! I believe you it's just-"
"Then there's nothing more to discuss." Sherlock, once again, resumed his observation of his cultures. He let a few moments of silence pass before looking up at John, who had not moved and was still watching him with a look of utter shock still etched on his face. Sherlock glanced over John's head at the kitchen clock, and then back at John.
"I should get started on that dinner if I were you. Mrs Hudson detests lateness and delay, and we did promise her a 5 star service after all."