Author's Note: Whoa, obscenely long gap between updates, sorry about that readers. Anyway, thanks for all the support as always. I started a new fic, by the way, for any Whovians in the audience, that I would love for you all to check out!

Generally, Sherlock enjoyed long car rides. Very little could actually be accomplished during them, but they were an excellent opportunity to think. He had enjoyed them even more once he'd begun working with John, since he could think aloud, as he preferred, to someone who understood what he was talking about (or at least, made an effort to) as opposed to cab drivers who simply stared at him as though he was out of his mind.

In this particular instance, however, with Mycroft's rather irritating assistant and the driver of the car present, he did not feel comfortable thinking aloud, for fear that the girl would communicate everything he said to her boss. He could already see from looking over her shoulder that she felt the need to convey every slight detail to Mycroft. He glanced briefly at the text message conversation they appeared to be having.

And in what condition did you find him? –MH

Comfortably wrapped in Watson's arms—L

Come again?—MH

Sherlock coughed slightly to express his disapproval. He personally was not especially bothered—he was used to Mycroft knowing far more than was appropriate about his life—but he knew John would be appalled at this complete breach of their privacy, and he found his concern for John's feelings especially heightened of late. But, sadly, the girl took no notice of him, and he decided not to pursue the issue further.

And so they drove on in an increasingly awkward silence. Sherlock took the time to reflect internally on what had happened the previous evening. Despite his condition, he remembered everything that had taken place quite clearly, and one point in particular had become very apparent to him:

He loved John. Truthfully, he had suspected it for quite a long time. In retrospect, Sherlock realized there was a high probability that he had been in love with John all along and not recognized it. After all, he had died for the man, in a sense. It was not until he'd been in the midst of an emotional meltdown that he'd been able to prove his theory, though, the words from his own mouth the strongest evidence yet.

And yet he was confused. He felt he should know how to react to these emotions he was now so keenly aware of. After all, he had spent much of his life observing the way other people behaved, and so many of the deeds of human beings were based on love or lust. But then again, as he had said to John a moment ago, he was not like other people. And as a result, he hadn't the foggiest idea what to do about it.

Adding to the confusion was the unfamiliar desire for physical intimacy. He had never experienced such a powerful desire for human contact before. He didn't properly understand why, but even now, he wanted to hold John, to kiss him, to experience the tactile ecstasy of running his hands over the other man's body…he tried desperately to shake off that train of thought, but it remained, like a new addiction moving in to replace the old…he wanted it, desperately, and he didn't understand why…but no, their situation was too complicated. It would not be appropriate, considering the circumstances of their reunion. True, what was socially appropriate had never been of terrible concern to him before, but his situation was dangerous and complex enough without adding…whatever this was to the mix.

Sherlock eventually decided the entire situation was far too complicated to tackle at once, and that he would need more time to analyze both John and himself, and moved his mind to a new line of thought: Mycroft. He began to consider how to get as much assistance as he could from his brother without appearing to ask for it or readily accept it.

Sooner than Sherlock would have liked, the car arrived outside of Mycroft's rather oversized estate. The girl who called herself Lenore opened the door and instructed them to follow her, which they did in silence. John made some small effort to have a pleasant conversation with her, to which she simply did not respond.

She could have simply not heard him, in theory, being so apparently engrossed in her phone, but no, Sherlock could deduce quite clearly that this woman put on a grand show of being easily distracted and light-headed when actually she was very aware, organized, and in-control. It was obvious to him, of course. She never seemed to take her eyes off of the phone, but her head tilted and turned to respond to every sound she heard very precisely, and while she didn't appear to look away from the phone she clearly knew exactly where she was going. Her hands were interesting; her nails were short and functional, but they were still carefully manicured, so she was concerned with physical appearance as well as practicality, and those hands typed away at the keyboard with far too much calculated intent for a mere social butterfly updating her Facebook. No, those hands were typing very important, carefully worded messages. Also, she seemed to enjoy agitating Mycroft. All in all, Sherlock found himself gaining a small amount of respect for this woman as he spent more time with her.

She directed them into what appeared to be am extravagant and, in Sherlock's opinion, poorly designed sitting room. He grimaced in disgust. What was Mycroft doing, planning some sort of grand reception?

"You'll wait here. Please have a seat." Lenore said, then left without acknowledging John's feeble "Thank you" in reply.

Sherlock flopped down with as little grace as he possibly could manage onto the couch. John sat down behind him, looking around curiously. Sherlock considered for a moment how else he could disrespect his brother's home, and elected to put his feet up on the table. John glanced at him reproachfully.

"You know, after letting him think you were dead for three years, you could act like you'll be happy to see your brother," he scolded.

"Why would I put on an act for him?" Sherlock replied, seeing that his behavior was irritating his friend and suddenly remembering how much fun it was to drive John to scolding him like a schoolteacher. "Isn't the point of family that you can be yourself around them?"

The exasperated expression on John's face reminded Sherlock of the past, when they were partners and friends and everything was all right, and it made him smile and laugh just a bit. John can always make me laugh, he thought to himself. He's the only one who can. He smiled fondly to himself as he looked around the room.

John continued to glare, and Sherlock finally gave in and looked at him. "Relax," he said, "it's just Mycroft." John huffed slightly and avoided Sherlock's eyes. A devilish little thought popped into Sherlock's head at this point. "Well, if you think it matters…" he sighed, and turned sideways on the furniture to stretch his long legs across John's, and the doctor's face flushed with discomfort.

"What are you doing?" he stammered, squirming slightly.

"This seemed to help both of us relax yesterday," Sherlock observed, "I thought it might prove effective again." He leaned back rather dramatically, unable to resist the opportunity to kill three birds with one stone. He was successfully fulfilling his craving for physical contact, amusing himself by making John's face flush with embarrassment, and, if the footsteps he heard approaching the door belonged to who he believed they did, confusing his brother.

Of course, he was right, and craned his neck to watch as Mycroft stepped into the room, with a guarded frown across his face and a stiffness to his walk.

"Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock said, emotionless. Some small part of him, he knew, was happy to see his brother, but he would never let it show in a million years.

Mycroft remained stony and silent as he walked around to stand in front of them and regard them critically for a moment. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him as if to say "Well?"

"You, brother, should be dead." Mycroft said it with the tone of a parent telling their delinquent child that they should be at school. Sherlock decided to use this in his response.

"I didn't feel like going," he said, as deadpan as possible. Mycroft shifted his weigh uneasily. It appeared that, for once, his brother didn't know what to say. Sherlock allowed himself a small, cocky smirk, which seemed to be enough to spring Mycroft's speech centers back into action.

"I don't suppose you would be willing to tell me your exact methods for faking your death?" he asked, as though proposing a business arrangement.

"No," Sherlock replied shortly, not bothering to be clever this time. Mycroft nodded thoughtfully.

"You might have told those close to you that you were not, in fact, dead," he said after a moment. "Just as a small comfort, you understand."

"That small comfort would have been little protection against bullets in their brains, I can assure you." Sherlock replied testily. Then, because he felt he ought to contribute something nasty, simply out of loyalty to their sibling rivalry, added "Do sit down, Mycroft, I'd much prefer you to be on my level."

Mycroft scowled at this last addition. "I assume by your return to London that whatever danger your associates were in is no longer present?"

"No, Mycroft," Sherlock replied, bitter sarcasm taking control, "I came to see John here with every expectation that he'd be brutally murdered as a result." He noticed John blink, mildly offended, but continue to say nothing. Since Mycroft had not taken his earlier suggestion to sit down, he jumped to his feet and walked up to get right in his brother's face. "Now, was there something specific you wanted from me, dear brother?" he said, still laced with sarcasm, "Or might my friend and I return to the business we have at hand?"

"An explanation would certainly be nice," Mycroft replied hopefully.

"Well you won't be getting one!" Sherlock raised his voice now, increasing the intensity of his words. What had happened was largely Mycroft's doing, and he was not going to give his brother the satisfaction of knowing exactly what had gone on at the time of his supposed death. He turned his back and began strutting about the room. There was a short silence as he walked over to stare out a window.

"I missed you."

Sherlock felt his stomach twist. That he had not been expecting. Of course, he'd imagined that his brother may have been negatively affected by his loss, but for cold, calculating Mycroft to admit he had feelings of mourning for Sherlock was a complete surprise.

"I know." Sherlock lied through his teeth a moment later. Mycroft coughed uncomfortably.

"I would be happy," he continued, "to see you returned to your former lifestyle, whatever your reasons for departing from and returning to it may be. As your brother, if there is any way in which I may be of assistance in your transition back to the public eye, I would be entirely willing to provide my services."

Sherlock turned again to look back at his brother. He felt as though he should say something rude or unappreciative. That was always how it had been with Mycroft; neither of them ever expressed any fondness for the other, neither gave nor accepted kindness, just hatred and disdain. But, as Sherlock was realizing more and more rapidly, nothing was the same anymore. Perhaps his intense rivalry with Mycroft would have to be relaxed slightly for the time being if things were ever to return to normal. He took out the papers that he had gotten from Molly and outstretched his hand, expecting Mycroft to take it from him.

"All public records of my life and death will have to be modified," he said, still careful not to grant his brother a "thank you" or any other gesture of appreciation. Simply accepting his help was a grand enough gesture as it was. "I'm certain you have people who can handle that. Here's a head start." He waved the pages around obnoxiously, refusing to step forward until Mycroft eventually stepped forward and snatched them out of his hand.

"Is that all you need?" Mycroft asked politely, but through clenched teeth.

"From you, certainly." Sherlock replied.

"Um, Sherlock?" John finally piped up, and Sherlock turned to face him. "What about that other thing?"

Adler, he means, Sherlock thought. "No, John," he said aloud, "Of course not. I need something to entertain myself while he does all the boring jobs." He pretended to ignore Mycroft's vicious scowl.

From what he could see, this little encounter had reached its conclusion. "Goodbye, Mycroft," he said as he started towards the door. "It really was rather nice to see you again. Come along, John," he added as he realized the doctor was not following on his heels. When he did not follow the command, he turned around to stare at John expectantly.

"See them out, please," Mycroft waved a hand at his assistant and let them be on their way.

Sherlock watched Not-Lenore curiously as she accompanied them back out to the car, scanning her for no real reason other than for his own amusement.

"Does Mycroft know about the sort of games you're playing?" he asked ambiguously after a moment, more to get a reaction based on his impersonal scanning ability than out of any actual interest in her business."

"He doesn't especially care" she replied, completely and utterly unfazed. Sherlock was mildly impressed. Of course, she had most likely been told what to expect of him, and it had been a rather vague observation, but still.

"Interesting," he observed. He stopped her. "I think we know where we're going, miss. Come on, John, we have a busy day ahead of us."

AN 2: I dunno why Mycroft's assistant is getting so much character development. For some reason she's just fun to write! Whatever!