The Long Week

CHAPTER 9: THURSDAY

John sits at his computer, typing up the last week's events in his blog. It's a complicated task. There are so many confidential details in this story; he has to censor himself and it gets difficult to make intelligible sentences. After a lot more of write-edit-delete, he gives up and settles for a quick summary of the case. It's only one paragraph and he's labelled it: The Long Week.

Sherlock walks in the kitchen as the blogger reviews his spelling one last time. He's still wearing his pyjama bottom - no shirt because half of his torso is bandaged – and his long dressing gown is safely tucked around his shoulders. The shorter man hits the send button and promptly stands to inspect the detective's wound. The young man lets him, without a word.

John carefully prides Sherlock's robe open checks that the bandage he made last night hasn't moved too much. He gives it a satisfied shake of the head, happy to note his handiwork held through and tugs the garment closed again. The young man strides back to the living and lets himself flop down on the sofa, with less flourish and a little more caution than usual.

"Tea?" the doctor asks to his retreating back and gets a positive hum in reply.

He walks in the living a few minutes later, simmering cup in his right hand a plate of cookies in the other. The 'Crime Zone' has mostly disappeared now; Sherlock even gave John a hand with that. After he'd tended to the young man's injury on the sofa, he'd tried to usher him to his bedroom in the hopes that he would catch some sleep. Sherlock had all but refused, walking straight to the wall and their suspects list instead. He'd then quickly started to tare down the snapshots and post-its notes. He did it all one-handed, his lean fingers shaking slightly. He'd started with his brother's picture; promptly crumbling the papers and tossing everything in the bin with more force than was necessary. Only then did he allow the good doctor to take him to his room.

John had walked down to the kitchen afterwards, in the mood for a sandwich. He ate it in silence as he let his mind wander back to the events that had taken place earlier.

He had followed his flatmate's instructions to the letter. Going up to Whitehall to pursue Astonbury wherever he went. He walked close to him when the man went out for lunch, sat at the next table and kept his eyes fixedly on him the entire time. Then he'd followed him back to his office. He didn't try to be subtle about it. Be obvious, Sherlock had written, act stupid. And he had, unquestioningly, he had done just that. And as the detective had imagined, he got kidnapped and interrogated. And because everyone involved assumed he was plain and stupid - a mere pawn in their grand game of chess - to be moved around and disposed of easily, they got careless. They let him see their faces and they forgot; they stupidly forgot that John was not an idiot. He wasn't plain nor daft; he was a doctor and an army veteran and he showed them he wasn't a pawn. He showed them all he was a knight and he moved forward on the board with a vengeance; knocked off the bishop and checkmated the king.

Mycroft had given him a run down of the latest day's events in the car that took them to the little studio the siblings had been renting. John's eyes had widened in horror when they got to the part of the story where the detective had gotten shot. Mycroft hadn't bothered hiding his guilt at this point and John respected the rare bout of honesty- or maybe that was just a sign of how tired the younger man truly was.

Sitting now in the living room, John can't begin to fathom how this was going to affect the brothers' already complicated and tensed relationship. They always seemed to be knee-deep in a feud or another. Criticising each others' eating habits and chosen fields of work. Throwing barbs and barely veiled insults in each other's face; seemingly forgetting they are each other's own flesh and blood. Well, it seemed, life had decided to throw at them a painful and eloquent reminder. And life had been successful, the doctor surmises, if the way Sherlock was slightly leaning against his brother's strong shoulder on the ride back to 221B was anything to go by.

Sherlock digs into the cookies happily, munching contentedly. He always gets craving for sweets and biscuits once he's finished with a case.

"So," John starts reaching for the morning paper. "That was one hell of a plan."

The consulting detective hums positively, seemingly content.

"Get yourself kidnapped, John and if possible, do try not to get killed and ruin everything," he recalls Sherlock's instruction.

"Good plan indeed," the young man says with a fair amount of pride, somehow completely missing in on the sarcasm in his friend's voice. The shorter man throws the newspaper back on the table forcefully. He would have thrown it in Sherlock's face if the detective hadn't been wounded.

"I could have gotten myself killed! They tied me to a chair!" he tries to explain some of his frustration to his thick mad flatmate.

"You got yourself out, obviously," the dark-haired man points out, waving his left hand in John's general vicinity, as if to prove his point that the shorter man was indeed well alive. "Mycroft also had doubts," he remembers, helping himself to another cookie. "Convinced him you could be trusted."

"Can't believe he went along with this stupid plan," John mutters and Sherlock snorts at how close the words resemble his brother's.

"So," the sandy-haired man starts again hesitantly after a moment of comfortable silence. "You two: you're good now?"

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, unsure of the meaning of his flatmate's words.

"You and Mycroft," John clarifies. "You spent a whole week working together and all…"

The young man looks at him in earnest now but he's unsure how to respond. Yes, Mycroft and him hadn't worked together in long time, and that week had been arduous and painful and dangerous and… there are many other adjectives piling up in his head now but he forces his mind to slow down and he chases away the images of blood and the fear. He decides to settles on a better adjective. "Good," he says at length.

He knows most siblings are close; it's how it's supposed to be. They hang out together and have fun, do pedestrian things like birthday parties and Sunday brunch. But that's never been Mycroft and him, well, it hasn't been for a long time and if they ever were close, the both of them have forgotten about it (mostly). They've grown up and thread dangerous circles now where caring is not an advantage. But if he is truly honest with himself, he has to admit that it's nice to be reminded sometimes that they are related and that when push comes to shove they can truly count on each other. He gives his blogger a smile.

"Thank you," he says in an honest voice. "for helping us."

"It's what friends do," John replies with a smirk.

Lestrade drops by in the afternoon, thankfully without Donovan and he records Sherlock's statement. He confirms to them that Astonbury is behind bars, and although he had an army of lawyers visiting him in the morning, the DI doubts he will see the light of day anytime soon. Not with Ishram Benzema - the man who tortured John - quickly spilling the beans in the hope of saving himself. Lestrade had also received a copy of a memo from Thames House informing them that Steven Nicholls - the MI5 traitor - had been interrogated by their own services (undoubtedly unpleasantly) and had confessed to have killed Deckers, acting on Astonbury's direct order. Everything was piling up against the man and there was no way he wasn't going down.

"Your brother should be cleared of all charges in no time," the DI adds but Sherlock doesn't seem to be interested. John wonders what's happened to the elder Holmes. He had not seen or heard of him since the ride back to Baker Street. But then he surely had a lot of explaining to do and a week's worth of work to catch up on.

"Deckers killed Layot and Nicholls killed Deckers," Lestrade finishes. "We wouldn't have been able to solve either murder without your help Sherlock," he thanks him in his own way but the detective barely gives him half a smile in return.

"What a week," John sighs as the DI gets up, shrugging his coat back on; ready to go down to Scotland Yard to put the finishing touches to his report.

"There's just one thing I don't understand," he says on the threshold, looking pointedly towards Sherlock who is lying back down on the sofa. "They all worked for Astonbury but what was his endgame?"

"Politics," Sherlock breathes out in a deep voice but all John hears is 'boring'.

TBC.