Author's Note: I'm so sorry again for the wait! But here's an extra long chapter, complete with some answers! Sort of. Thanks so much to everyone who is reading and to everyone who is reviewing!
Warnings: Mentions of drug use, violence.
Mycroft must have had tracking down Emily Dubois to an art. Just as Ethan Tyler had been somewhat of a personal case, his brother clearly had a hidden history with Dubois that Sherlock was not aware of. He could not otherwise explain how Mycroft knew the exact hospital wing in all of New Jersey that Dubois' mother would be in. It only took a half hour of people-watching to spot Dubois in the stream of visitors pouring in for the hospital's afternoon visiting hours.
She was wearing a slick black dress, a hat, and sunglasses that hid her face from his point of view. Sherlock easily disappeared into the crowd of people making its way into the lobby. A word of confirmation from the information desk pointed him in the right direction.
Sherlock ignored his aching muscles as he climbed the four flights to the Leukemia ward. He was surprised at how sore he was; somehow between flying across the Atlantic and falling unconscious at the hand of Tyler's crowbar he had lost his stamina. When he reached the top of the stairs he rest his head against the door for a moment, closing his eyes briefly to fight away the pain that was nagging him.
Taking a depth breath, Sherlock pushed open the door. He avoided eye contact with the nurses that passed by him, all giving him curious glances towards the stitches on his forehead and cheek.
At least he saw her once more- Emily Dubois. Hovering by the information desk as the secretary pointed her towards the correct room. He followed her, still unable to see her face, as she made her way down the hallway. There was a familiarity to the way she walked; a kind of confidence, although when she reached the correct doorway she paused, just as he had a moment before, and bowed her head as though saying a quick prayer. She placed her hand on the doorknob-
And looked right at him.
Sherlock froze, wishing for a brief, hopeful, moment that somehow she didn't see him. But somehow it was like he could see her eyeing him through her sunglasses.
Except now that he was looking directly at her, Sherlock realized that he knew exactly who Emily Dubois was. How could he have missed it before?
As soon as she saw him she spun around, storming through the door. Sherlock followed her, remaining silent as he opened the door and entered the room.
The silence of the room was muffled by the sounds monitors and equipment. A woman in her 60s lie in the bed. He knew she was sleeping, but he couldn't help but to think that she looked so empty. A painful lump formed in his throat as he thought of his own mother, lying ill in a bed in London, thinking her youngest son was dead and knowing she would die soon too.
"Something on your mind?"
Startled, Sherlock took a protective step back, his hand hovering over the pocket that held his knife. Looking up, his eyes hardened as they fell on Irene Adler.
"You look so troubled for someone who is about to commit murder," Irene finished, "but surely you wouldn't do such a thing in a hospital room. You know how security is in America- how long before the world realizes that Sherlock Holmes isn't dead?"
He glanced around, overwhelmed by panic at the sound of his real name. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink, still surprised by his short, light-red hair. After considering that Tyler would have told his contacts everything he had found out about Sherlock he had decided to change his appearance once more.
Irene took a careful step towards him, acknowledging that she understood he was armed. Yet that familiar confident smile spread across her lips as she raised a hand and ran it through his hair.
"You look hideous," Irene said, "but you'll do."
As her hand traveled from the edges of his hair, down his shoulder, and brushed down his arm he struggled to remain frozen, which only seemed to entertain her more.
"You're Emily Dubois."
"An excellent deduction," Irene said. She stepped away from him, instead turning to her mother. "Also known as Ann Paltrow, Catherine Wilson, Sandra Gilbert. The list goes on. I'm sure Mycroft thought he was clever, sending you to kill me."
"Mycroft knows?" He asked, careful to not let his anger show.
Of course Mycroft knew. Mycroft always knew. And the thought that his brother tricked him into traveling all the way across America with the instructions to kill someone he knew personally shook him to the core, tempting him to run out the door, catch the earliest flight to London, and strangle him.
Irene rolled her eyes.
"Oh sweetie…" Irene trailed off with a sympathetic sigh, "if you knew just how much Mycroft knows…"
"What does that mean?" Sherlock demanded.
Irene smiled once more but didn't reply as she turned back to her mother. Silence fell between him, and despite the fuming anger towards his brother and despite the frustration he was feeling for no particular reason towards Irene, he couldn't help but to feel sympathetic towards her.
Because, in a way, they were in the exact same situation.
"I'm sorry about your mother," he offered.
She shook her head.
"I don't appreciate empty sympathy."
There was a pause, and he debated for a brief moment before blurting out:
"My mother's dying." Irene's eyes flashed towards him, a combination of sorrow, shock, and empathy. He swallowed, wishing he hadn't said anything. Whatever it was about Irene Adler that seemed to make his brain spin in circles was taking a strong effect on him now, and worse he felt as though she could see straight through him. "In London. Cancer. Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."
Irene nodded.
"Bad timing," she agreed, "considering you came to murder me."
He could feel his cheeks turning red hot in embarrassment.
"I came to track down Emily Dubois," he stated.
"And you were going to kill her in her own mother's hospital room?" Irene said, eyes narrowing. She stepped towards him once more and placed a cold, soft, hand on his cheek. He shuddered ever so slightly, and a smile played once more on her lips. "What's happened to you, Sherlock?"
He didn't reply. He couldn't help but to think back to Mycroft, declaring his disapproval of the person he had become. When he glanced once more into the mirror, Sherlock admitted only to himself that he was hard to recognize not only because of his disguise, but because of the coldness in his eyes. A violent nature had always been a part of him; a natural instinct to do whatever it took to defend himself or the people around him. But the idea that he had grown accustomed to accept this darkness without so much as a second thought was even enough to bother him, if he spared a moment to consider it.
Shaking himself out of it, Sherlock was grateful when Irene continued:
"I only wanted to come by for a quick visit," she explained, "I knew I was taking a risk. I should have known I was hiding from you. What with your brother-" she stopped when his eyebrows shot up in curiosity, "how about we go somewhere less sobering?"
He hesitated, knowing this had to be leading towards a trap. The wheels in his brain spun, working in overdrive as he considered every possible outcome of this scenario. Somehow, each ended with a vision of his body being placed in a body bag-
Suddenly he noticed a small gun poking out of the sweater Irene wore over her dress.
"That wasn't a suggestion."
His hand immediately flew towards his pocket, but she took a step closer to him, her eyes flashing towards the window in the doorway.
"Surely you don't want to make a scene?" She asked.
He didn't answer.
A firm smile rest upon her face.
"Lovely," she replied, "you saw where I left the car. Go."
They didn't speak as Sherlock followed her through the parking garage. When they reached Irene's sedan (rental, owned for less than a week) Sherlock paused, meeting her eyes before slipping into the passenger seat.
As always Irene was more complicated to read than anyone he knew, but her eyes always gave her away. Her pupils narrowed and she glanced away momentarily, and a small smile stretched across his face. This wasn't meant to threaten him or hurt him; whatever Irene's endgame was, she was being forced into this. And it seemed that was how it always was.
"Can I ask you something?" He said as he got into the passenger seat.
He ignored how his head spun as he sat down and how when he looked towards Irene her figure crossed twice through his line of vision.
When she didn't reply, he continued:
"When you told me that you knew who was behind Moriarty," he swallowed nervously, reluctant to bring up Moran, knowing the more he discussed him the more she would discover about his past, "how did you know Moran was behind it all?"
Irene stared straight ahead, her eyes falling on the figures of innocent pedestrians, as though she wanted nothing more than to be anywhere except in the car with him at that moment. Instead of replying, she simply ignored him. As Irene started the car a sickening feeling violently swept over him. He could vaguely hear Irene shouting his name as he slumped against the passenger window and closed his eyes, welcoming the serene darkness.
When he came to he found himself laying on a shabby couch with the smell of mothballs and alcohol suffocating him as he forced his eyes open. Sitting up, he could see through hazy vision that he was in a small flat that was furnished only with the couch he was sitting on, a torn armchair that sat across from it, and a tiny kitchen stocked with rotting cookware.
And beside him, an anxious Irene Adler was staring at him, wide-eyed.
"You didn't tell me you had a concussion," she shot, "you passed out in the car."
"You kidnapped me," he mumbled as he ran a hand through his hair.
He shook his head when he was surprised to find his hair cut short. It took him a moment of thinking to remember changing his appearance. He had been somewhere in the American west…
"Las Vegas?" He wondered out loud to no one in particular.
Irene glanced towards him, disturbed and confused.
"Are you alright?" She asked.
Shaking his head again, he fought to understand. He could remember coming to America with Mycroft, being in the desert at one point, and a Russian woman. But when he tried to string the clues together a haze overcame him. But yet, he managed a smile.
"Yes," he replied, "yes, I feel quite fantastic. Can we get back to the part where you kidnapped me?"
Irene rolled her eyes and stood up, crossing her hands over her chest. He hadn't seen her this vulnerable since Karachi. Her hands shook ever so slightly, further confirming his earlier theory that she wasn't acting of her own will.
The door to the flat opened and as hollow footsteps neared them someone began clapping their hands. Sherlock made to stand but resorted to sitting back when his limbs were too weak to move. It was then that he realized his hands were trapped in handcuffs. He looked to Irene for answers, but she simply smirked.
His eyes trailed back to the door as the clapping stopped. When he saw who had entered the room he froze.
A gunshot. Piercing through the dark alleyway, sending him tumbling back with such a force that he forgot he was not the one who had been hit. A moan of pain. Moran, screaming nonsense, the gun flailing about. Moran, shaking him, slapping his cheek to bring him back to his senses. Telling him they'd have to run. Sirens. A policeman, taking him by the shoulders. It was going to be okay. Stumbling backwards still, falling to his feet. Head spinning, ears ringing. Moran shouting as he was put into handcuffs. Cool metal closing around his wrists as well.
"Just a precaution," the officer reassures him.
One glance to Moran, and he was met with hatred. A deep, sincere, hatred. Sherlock swallowed, and he was suddenly grateful to be surrounded by police officers. Moran's eyes narrowed with warning- a threat.
Sherlock stared as Moran approached him. He hated himself more than ever for feeling so weak. He could only watch as Sebastian Moran glided towards Irene. She looked away, disgusted as he took the gun from her.
"Concussion?" Moran said. "That certainly limits what I can do. We can't put you through too much, can we? What would they say if Sherlock Holmes turned up in a hospital? A dead man walking. Or even better- a morgue. I'm sure Molly Hooper would have some explaining to do."
Sherlock sprung to his feet, his heart pounding, adrenaline shoving away the pain as he glared at Moran.
"Brave, I'll give you that," Moran said, "but stupid. This is the second time Miss Adler has beat you, yes?" Sherlock glanced towards Irene, who still refused to look at him.
Moran laughed, and in a flash a fist left where his hand had been resting in his trouser pocket and flew through the air, knocking against Sherlock's jaw with a force that sent him falling back onto the couch. Before he could recover Moran was on top of him, his hands wrapped around Sherlock's neck. He was choking on his own haggard breaths, his blurry vision igniting a dizzying sensation in his head. He tried to pry Moran's hands away, but the effort only seemed to to make Moran's strength stronger.
"Do you know how many years I spent in prison because of you?"
"This is all for revenge?"
Even as he fought to maintain consciousness, Sherlock couldn't help but to be confused, and his desperation for answers became greater than his efforts to fight back.
"Believe it or not, Mr. Holmes, not everything is about you."
At last Moran let go and shoved him back into the sofa. Fighting for breath, Sherlock ran a hand across his neck, messaging the now-tender skin. Irene was still looking away, looking like a puppet on strings who wasn't aware that they had the free will to run away.
As he regained his breath Sherlock considered Moran's statement. The realization that this was bigger than him- bigger than Moriarty- was beginning to dawn on him-
"What does that mean?" He demanded.
Moran stared at him long and hard with that same hatred, that same threatening darkness. Suddenly Baker Street and John was a fading memory; it might as well have been a dream. Suddenly it was 2006 again, and the small flat in New Jersey was an abandoned warehouse in London. He didn't take his eyes off of Moran as his old friend sat down next to him.
And he couldn't help but to shift, uncomfortable as Moran took out an all-too-familiar needle. Moran smirked as he realized how uncomfortable Sherlock was.
"Oh right, you're clean now," Moran shot, "almost seven years. Impressive." Sherlock didn't blink as Moran took out a cigarette and lit it. He swallowed as the intoxicating scent filled the room and his mind itched at the memory…it took all of his strength not to flinch when Moran handed him a cigarette. "Not even a smoke? Someone's turned their life around. I suppose you would like to know what's going on. Well, unfortunately that's a story for another day. Today, I came here to send you a simple message."
Moran leapt to his feet; Sherlock shifted, determined not to appear threatened though inside, his heart was pounding. He knew how dangerous Moran was, and while he tried not to fear for his own safety he would always think of those he left back in London. Simply because he obeyed Moriarty's endgame did not mean the rules could not change. Once again Moran leaned closer to him, and the twinkle in his eye reminded him of Moriarty.
"If you thought that you could run around the world, killing off my men, without me noticing, then you should consider taking up a different field of work. And if your brother sincerely believes that I don't know he's been tracking me then the prime minister should be very frightened, because his number one man is losing his touch."
"What does this have to do with my brother?" Sherlock shot.
Moran laughed, laughed so hard he took a step back, relaxing a bit as he shook his head.
"'What does this have to do with my brother?'" Moran mocked in a sickening high-pitched voice. Sherlock swallowed, partially wishing he had kept quiet. Moran's eyes narrowed, and his tone darkened. "What does this have to do with Mycroft Holmes? Everything. The amount that Mycroft Holmes knows that the rest of the world- that you- doesn't is astounding. Frightening. Now, I'm told that you've recently had a run in Ethan Tyler. Zachary Monroe. Raymond Rodriguez. Have you gotten used to it, Sherlock? The feel of someone else's blood on your hands? Let's stop pretending. This isn't your game."
Sherlock stared at him, shocked. The memory of similar words coming from his brother's mouth had the wheels in his brain turning, sent anger pumping through him, as he realized there must be a connection- as he realized exactly what Moran said next:
"Mycroft Holmes knows more than he is letting on."
Moran spoke in almost a sing-song tone; a sickening tease that sent a shiver up his spine and had his blood boiling. Sherlock struggled to remain calm and appear collected.
"Doesn't he always?" He replied coolly.
Moran's eyes darkened, unamused when Sherlock seemed not be shaken by his teasing. Deep down, years of memories were pouring back to him as he remembered being in the government facility, being held as Mycroft forced him through withdrawal. Being sent to rehab. Being kept in the dark as he knew his brother was questioning Moran- torturing him, most likely…
"I don't want to hurt you, Sherlock," Moran continued. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I simply want to send your brother a message." Sherlock allowed their eyes to connect. "Stop. He knows what I want. All of this can stop. There's no reason for you to be in bloody America, Sherlock. This has all gotten entirely out of hand. Moriarty was…" Moran laughed once more and rubbed a hand over his eye; obviously he had not slept in awhile- if he even slept at all. "Moriarty was a mistake. Just tell Mycroft Holmes to stop. Tell him to simply do as I say, and all of this can stop. You can go back to London, to John-" Sherlock stiffened at the sound of John's name but did not reply. "Your brother knows Sherlock. Everything. He knows how to end this, so let him."
Moran clapped his hands together, much like Moriarty would have. Sherlock remained still, keeping a straight face, determined to not reveal how shaken he was. Mycroft knew. Of course he did. Mycroft wasn't disturbed that Sherlock had become an assassin out of concern. It was out of guilt. All of this was because somehow, Mycroft had known how to stop Moriarty but never said anything. Never did anything. And here he was, letting him go around, killing these people-
A grin spread across Moran's face, and Sherlock knew he believed he had won. Sherlock stiffened once more as Moran pulled out a syringe and loaded it with a substance he didn't recognize.
"Something tells me you haven't been getting much sleep," Moran said, "a car ride from New Jersey to this old flat doesn't do justice to weeks of insomnia. So here's a little something to help. When you come to, I'll be long gone, and you can get in touch with your brother." He placed a mobile beside him with a familiar number on the screen. "It's been nice to see you again, Sherlock. I wish I could say you look well, but-"
He smirked, and without warning the needle was jammed into his arm. Sherlock flinched violently but had no time to take in the pain as he froze up, his limbs turning limp again as darkness overwhelmed him once more.
The first thing Sherlock noticed when he woke up next was that his head felt like his brain had grown three times its size. He was certain that if he looked in the mirror his entire head would be swollen. It must have been days since his last memory- talking to someone in a flat in America. Where in America, he couldn't remember. He had flown into the country with Mycroft, he remembered something about Vegas- no, Reno-and…Irene Adler.
Rubbing the back of his head, he felt a knot there. A small knot that was healing from an old wound. When he touched his cheek and forehead it no longer stung from a cut he remembered receiving. A crow bar, he thought. But as hard as he tried, he only received a familiar sense of dejavu and being unable to string the clues together.
Sherlock tried to open his eyes, but his vision was too blurry. Someone was calling his name, but the voice seemed too far away to be real. He collapsed back down into the fabric he was laying on, which smelled disgusting, as though it had been stored in an elderly person's home for decades. He could feel hot sunlight pouring in through window, though he was pretty certain the last time he was awake it was night.
A numbing sensation in his arm drew his attention to his left forearm, where Sherlock felt around until his fingers landed on a raw mark. Even without opening his eyes, he recognized it as a mark from a syringe. Something cold landed on his forehead, making him squirm, and strong hands held him still.
His name was being called again, and he fought the dull pain in his neck as he turned towards the voice, opening his eyes ever so slightly. Through a hazy darkness he could make out the blurry form of his brother. Yet his brother didn't smile at the sight of him regaining conscience. Instead, Mycroft Holmes was frowning.
"Sherlock, it's been days," Mycroft said, his voice finally clear.
Sherlock blinked a few times, and at last he could see well enough to discover he was in a one-room flat. From the look of the sun it was morning, and judging by the bags under Mycroft's eyes his brother had indeed been there for multiple days.
"I received a call three days ago," Mycroft explained, "someone simply said 'he needs you'. Do you remember? Who was that, Sherlock? Did you find Dubois?"
Dubois. Dubois…someone he had been after.
And then it hit him. He flinched as he remembered Tyler in the warehouse, coming after him with the crow bar. Mycroft's hand clasped around his arm at the sudden movement, but Sherlock ignored him. He remembered being held hostage, twice. Looking at his hands, he could see the fading red lines where handcuffs had once been. One of those times must have been in Reno. And the other…
New Jersey. Someone dying. Irene Adler.
Sebastian Moran.
A message, a warning.
None of which he could remember clearly.
Groaning, Sherlock threw himself back into the pillows.
"Where the hell am I?" Sherlock muttered.
He was shocked at how hoarse his voice sounded; he could hardly speak. He gladly accepted the water Mycroft handed him.
"You tell me," Mycroft replied. "I was able to trace the call to this location. I found you unconscious on the couch, in handcuffs, with a new scar on your chin."
Sherlock raised his hand to his jaw, where he could feel the faint jagged line of a scar.
"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Mycroft asked.
His eyes narrowed, and suddenly Sherlock felt like he was a kid again, being interrogated by his older brother. Shaking his head, Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to remember.
"Is that a no you don't want to tell me, or a no you can't remember?"
Sherlock opened his eyes and glared at him.
"I see," Mycroft said quietly, "Sherlock, memory loss is serious-"
"Don't interrogate me, Mycroft," Sherlock shot, "I'm perfectly fine. I was drugged, that's all."
"'That's all?'" Mycroft repeated with a smirk. "Sherlock, you already had a serious head wound when you arrived in New Jersey. You've fallen unconscious at least twice that I know of in the past two weeks, but I'm assuming at least three since someone had to carry you here. You've been drugged heavily, and-"
"New Jersey?" Sherlock asked. "What was I doing in New Jersey?"
Sighing, Mycroft closed his eyes, folding his hands together and resting them on his chin before replying calmly:
"Dubois, Sherlock. Emily Dubois. Did she do this?"
"No," Sherlock replied, hating how weak he sounded, "no…Moran-"
"Moran?"
Mycroft leaned forward, as though they shared some secret the empty flat should not hear.
"Sherlock, what was Moran doing here?"
He studied his brother, whose eyes darkened not with concerned, but fear. A kind of fear one felt when afraid of being caught.
And then Sherlock remembered.
"A message," Sherlock replied quietly, "a warning. To you. He knows what you're doing. Y know what he wants. He says…you know how to end this."
The two brothers stared at each other. He wasn't sure if he had ever seen his brother look so guilty, and for a moment he almost wanted to forgive him. Whatever it was, Sherlock had to wonder how he could have so easily believed Moran.
"Right," Mycroft said. He pushed his chair back as he stood. "Well, that can't happen. How do you feel? Do you think you can stand?"
He didn't feel like he could do anything, but all he wanted to do was know the truth.
"Mycroft-"
"Sherlock this is none of your concern."
"None of my concern?"
His words bounced off the wall with a sharp echo. Words seemed to be trapped in Mycroft's throat as he stared at him, looking embarrassed. Embarrassed to be caught.
"I'm sorry that you got caught up in this, Sherlock," Mycroft said, "but I'm guessing you know by now that this is bigger than you. This is bigger than John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. You can't know, but-"
"I can't know?" Sherlock shouted. "I can't know?"
"Sherlock, calm down!" Mycroft shot, eyes glancing around anxiously.
Realizing he was still too weak to move, Sherlock slammed a fist down onto the couch. Mycroft flinched; he might of well have punched him in the face.
"I'm sick of this, Mycroft," Sherlock continued. "I'm sick of your secrecy, of your superiority complex. I don't give a damn what government position you occupy. I deserve to know what's going on because somehow, I feel like I could personally kill every person on the list of people connected to Moran and this still wouldn't end. What is this, Mycroft? Some game? Something to keep me occupied with?"
"If I'm not mistaken, this was your idea," Mycroft said quietly.
"Just stop!"
"You're acting like a child!"
"And you're not acting like a brother!" They stared at each other for a moment; Mycroft looked shocked that he would actually accuse him of not acting like family. Never before had that been a concern to him, and it wasn't, but Sherlock knew it was that kind of accusation that would hit close to home for Mycroft. "Frankly, Mycroft, I've never cared that we're brothers. You've never much acted like one. You just like having the power- your job, being older than me, being able to tell someone what to do and being able to control everything. If I'm not mistaken, I'm under the impression that all of this is your fault. And you've been dealing with the guilt for years. Well now it's time to pay the price. I'm cleaning up your mess, as always. As always it's Sherlock Holmes who looks like the bad man. Moran's after us, Mycroft. Apparently you know what this is all about, and it's not about Moriarty. Or Mrs. Hudson. Or Lestrade. Or John. Whatever this is about, it scares you. I can it see it in your eyes. I can see it in the way that your hands are shaking. I can see it in how your breath smells like whiskey and your clothes smell like smoke. I can continue playing this game. I died to play this game. But until you decide to tell me what the hell is going on, none of it will matter."
Mycroft's eyes fell to the floor, and for a moment Sherlock was fooled into thinking he had actually gotten his brother to listen. But then, without speaking, Mycroft walked over to the counter top and picked up a rucksack. He stormed back over to Sherlock and dropped the sack on to the floor beneath him with a force that made him jump. Suddenly Sherlock was cold and shivering, and as he caught his breath he was forced to remember the condition he was in.
"Five thousand dollars, U.S. cash," Mycroft announced, "a change of clothes. A fake passport and I.D. Hair dye. You need to look like the photo I.D. and not like how Moran will remember you. It should be enough to get you out of the country and then send you off to wherever the hell you want to go." Sherlock's eyes widened, startled as he realized that his brother was sincerely angry. "You're right, Sherlock, this is bigger than you. I've been trying to warn you about that. But you're wrong: my position in the government does matter. More than you can ever know. And that's why you have to get out of here- leave America. Go into hiding. I'll take care of this."
He didn't like that his brother's plans did not include another suspect to hunt down, nor did it include contacting Sherlock in the future.
"Mycroft-"
Sorry was so close to coming out of his mouth but he stopped when his brother looked at him. The guilt, the sorrow, in his brother's eyes was enough to know that he had been way out of line when he accused him of not caring.
"It is absolutely essential that you allow me to handle this. We'll find a way to get to Moran's men, but first there is something that I must take care of. Moran knows we're after him, and he'll be looking for you. If any more of his men go missing…" His brother looked ill as his voice trailed off into a whisper. Sherlock looked away, an unexplainable guilt taking over him. He had no reason to feel guilty- even if Mycroft did care, he was still lying. There was still a far more in depth game going on here than Sherlock knew, and he wanted to know what was going on. He had a right to know. But he also knew that, for whatever reason, now was not the time. "You're going to have to stay out of trouble, for the time being. I feel as though I've failed you-"
"Mycroft-"
His brother held up a hand and briefly closed his eyes as he caught his breath.
"We can't continue this right now, but you can't return to London either," Mycroft said, "so I'm going to ask you to listen to me, this one time, and trust me."
"Trust you?" Sherlock shot. He sat up, ignoring the pain that erupted through him as he did. "Trust the man who sold my life's story to Moriarty?"
"Sherlock-"
"Trust you, when you aren't even giving me so much as a clue as to what's going on?"
"Sherlock, stop it-"
"Trust you?" Sherlock continued, standing to his feet as he did. He stumbled a bit as he stood for the first time and days. His brother winced at this sign of weakness, but Sherlock ignored him. Instead he laughed, and Mycroft closed his eyes once more, obviously feeling uncomfortable as Sherlock took a step closer to him. "It's funny, Mycroft. Everyone thought I was the fraud. But it was you. All this time there's been an entirely different game going on. How long did you think you could fool me? Did you really think that I would kill Irene Adler? What was Moriarty? Just another pawn in the game? Tell me, Mycroft!"
Mycroft shook ever so slightly, tilting back a little as Sherlock leaned towards him, shouting as he finished his rant. He could tell Mycroft was disturbed by this outburst of anger, but Sherlock had never felt a greater reason to be angry at his brother. Just thinking of everything he was sacrificing, everyone he had left behind, and everyone he was placing at risk, was enough to justify his anger. Feeling a bit overwhelmed, he placed his hands on his brother's shoulders and shoved him backwards, as though that would guarantee him receiving answers.
Instead Mycroft looked away, appearing almost disappointed. Sherlock raised his fist, but, Mycroft caught his hand before he could attempt to hit him.
"Sherlock, stop it," Mycroft said again. "I understand-"
"You don't. You couldn't. Have you ever pretended to kill yourself, Mycroft?"
"Perhaps now you are beginning to see why I did not agree with this idea of yours in the first place!"
Eyes narrowing, Sherlock took a step back as he crossed his arms over his chest.
"Would you rather me be dead?" He challenged quietly. When Mycroft didn't respond, he continued: "How about John, should he be dead? Or Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson? She's just a landlady, for god's sake!"
"That's not what I meant-"
"That's what would have happened!"
"I'm aware-" Sherlock opened his mouth to interrupt once more but stopped when Mycroft raised a hand; a desperate attempt, he knew, to silence him. "I know what Moriarty's threat was. Trust me Sherlock, I know better than anyone. But can't you see that he's winning? He's made you like him-"
"I am not like him!"
"This is what he wanted," Mycroft said, "if he knew what you were doing, well, I imagine he would be standing in front of us, smiling."
Sherlock raised his fist again, but Mycroft quickly continued:
"I'm on your side, Sherlock, I wish you could see that. I wish you could see how much I've worked to stop this."
"Well clearly it's not working."
Wounded, Mycroft swallowed, fighting to find the right words to continue.
"Moran's right," Mycroft said, "there is a way to end this. But trust me, Sherlock, it's not what anyone would want."
Drawing in a deep breath, Sherlock glanced towards the ground. The rush of adrenaline was dying as his injuries were catching back up with him. His head was suddenly pounding again, and his vision was growing dimmer. But he refused to back down before being given some kind of answers.
"Why can't you just tell me what's going on?" Sherlock said, his voice hardly above a whisper.
Their eyes met, and he knew at that moment that Mycroft was sincere when he replied:
"You have no idea how much I wish I could."
Yet the reply was unacceptable. This was getting him nowhere, and meanwhile there was still a battle to be won. He couldn't just stop. Moran wouldn't stop. He knew that back in London Moran was probably tracking John and possibly Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson as well. He had been wrong in thinking their lives would no longer be at risk if he played this game.
Without saying anything else Sherlock grabbed the rucksack from the floor and stormed towards the door.
"Sherlock-"
"You want me gone?" Sherlock said as he threw the door open. Their eyes met for one final time, Mycroft pleading with him to not go until he could be given clear instructions on what to do. Sherlock just shook his head in awe, thinking it incredulous that Mycroft would even begin to believe that he might still listen to him. "Here, I'm going."
He fled down the hallway of the building, chasing the stairs as quickly as he could until he reached the exit to the street. A warm summer's afternoon greeted him as he stepped onto an unfamiliar street. Looking around, Sherlock couldn't even be sure that he was still in New Jersey. He held the rucksack close to him as he leaned against the brick wall between the building and the adjacent café. Throwing his arm over his eyes, he pressed hard against his closed eyelids, fighting tears that threatened to surface for the first time since standing on the rooftop of St. Bart's. He didn't know why he felt so weak at that moment. Perhaps it was weeks worth of injuries catching up to him. Perhaps it was the fact that he was in an unfamiliar country where he wasn't even sure which city he was in.
But he knew, deep down, that fear had finally won. It was a fear he had ignored for months. A fear that he would never be able to turn to London, and a fear that overwhelmed him as he admitted to himself, for the first time, that despite the risk he would have been taking he regretted ever leaving London.