A/N: I feel like I have to finish this story before Season 2 airs. And I know that I can't do this. So the question is, will you stick with me even after we know what's going to happen after the pool? Or is continuing this fic nonsense? I don't even know anymore. I don't know.
Warning: One nasty word. I think.
Quote: "I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having." - "What's that?" - "An enemy." (A Study In Pink)
Chapter Five_Mycroft
John stares into the fridge in disbelief, unable to comprehend what he's seeing. For a few long moments he simply stands there and breathes, deep and controlled intakes and exhales of air through his nose. Then he closes the fridge door, shuts his eyes and waits. Maybe he's wrong. Maybe he didn't look close enough. Maybe he isn't going crazy after all. After exactly five seconds he has regained enough control over his body to open the metal doors once more.
With the same results.
The fridge contains at the given moment: Half a bottle of orange juice; a bottle of apple juice; a bottle of Champagne; a jar with pickles; a pack of cheese; two beer cans; a half-eaten tin of sugar-free pineapple slices; an opened pack of bread rolls; a red paprika; a margarine box (not neccessarily containing margarine); and a cherry jar (definitely not containing cherries).
The fridge does not contain: Milk.
John's gaze wanders to the cup of tea in his hands without really seeing them. Instead he goes over the last few days in his mind: Wednesday, almost two days ago, he did some shopping at Tesco after his shift in the hospital. Apart from a wide variety of edibles and basic commodities he also brought five bottles of milk. He knows that four of said bottles have still been there yesterday evening, he knows. And yet now, not half a day later, they are gone. There aren't even empty bottles to be found anywhere; the milk simply disappeared. As if it had never been there in the first place.
He doesn't ask Sherlock. He knows better by now. It is, after all, not the first time that the milk meets its mysterious end in the confined spaces of 221b. (John still doesn't know whether his flatmate uses it for experiments or is simply a milk-junkie. One day he will have to find out, but he is not ready to face the matter yet. It is entirely possible that Sherlock simply empties the milk down the drain when he's not looking, if only to annoy John. Everything is possible. Right now he can't rule out either idea. It is kind of depressing.)
Whatever the case, the facts remain, and John has to make a decision: Either he drinks his tea without milk for the next days, or he does what a man has to do.
"Sherlock, I'm off to Tesco. You need anything?"
Sherlock appears in the doorway soundless like a ghost. He moves like a cat when he feels like it, without leaving a trace and without any noise. Most of the time he doesn't feel like it, stomping about in frustration, and this is a nice change if it weren't scary as something. Now he gives John a look, and it is one of those moments- the rare moments in which he seems about to say something spontaneously, illogically, something and then they both blink and the moment is gone. (It happens more and more often lately and to be honest, it frightens John.) But Sherlock grins a real, friendly grin, all guards down, and John doesn't fail to notice the rarity of the gesture.
"Oh, yes. But you couldn't remember it."
John frowns, irritated, but ultimately choses to ignore the sideswipe against his intelligence. "You could write it down, you know."
But Sherlock waves his hand dismissively and rolls his eyes as if there were little less absurd than this. "John. Please. It is entirely more rational to accompany you and get it myself."
This catches John off guard. Sherlock doesn't do shopping. Never does. The last time he offered to do, the evening ended with a darkened swimming pool bursting into flames. Now, John may not be a genius like Sherlock Holmes or Jim Moriarty. But he has been a soldier vor many years (and survived), and he has been a doctor for even longer (and still is), and he couldn't have accomplished both had he not a high perception. He has many gifts, this man, but most importantly he has an extensive knowledge of the human character. And that is why he sees right away what Sherlock (high-functioning sociopath his ass) couldn't say in a thousand words: You alone out there, and me alone in here, that frightens me, John. Don't just go off on your own.
"Fine", he says quietly. "Let's go together then."
The way down the street to Tesco would be entirely boring and uneventful if not for the fact that exactly this is making John nervous. He has a vague but bad feeling about it, and normally he can trust his feelings. Again and again he turns his head to glance over his shoulder, and eventually even Sherlock reminds him to act less suspiciously. John can't even say what is bothering him- he doesn't see anything out of place. The streets are more or less empty, and none of the friday-morning-shoppers look suspicious or dangerous in any way. It takes a long time- they are at the check-out, loaded with bags and boxes, and Sherlock is actually paying the groceries- until he finally gets that this is exactly what is wrong. It's not danger being where there should be none. It is no one being where there should be guards.
Mycroft's men have disappeared from the streets.
Sherlock doesn't say anything, but of course he knew after three steps from the door (the bastard). They hurry along on their way back, somehow balancing four plastic bags and two small boxes with quite questionable contents between them and discussing the possible use of an upright vacuum cleaner for their flat. It all goes well until a taxi stops next to them. Both men freeze immediately, senses sharp, and John's hand itches towards the gun that is tucked safely into his belt beneath the jumper and jacket. Ever since their first case they mistrust conspicuous cab drivers just a bit. John's eyes race up and down the street, analysing possible escape routes, and Sherlock holds his breath when the cab doors open and-
Mycroft gets out.
This in itself gives the day a new rank on the scale from One to Unbelievable. But that Mycroft takes one of John's shopping bags, walks right ahead and calls over his shoulder: "So, where were we?", that is something else entirely. That is new and in a subtle way wrong, just like it is wrong to meet a rockstar at the gas station. Some people just don't belong to normal, public places doing normal, mundane things. Some people are supposed to carry umbrellas or weapons or guitars but not shopping bags. But we already settled that John knows people- just enough to figure this one out and play along. (Also thanks to Mycroft, his right hand is now free for shooting, and he is afraid this was no coincidence.) Sherlock, on the other hand, may be brilliant and three steps ahead of them, but has the social grace of an elephant and therefore doesn't even bother to lower his voice when he asks:
"Something happened?"
Mycroft nods, absently smiling, as if they were talking about the mild october weather. But there is a stiffness in his shoulders and hard lines around his mouth and John swallows thickly. "Someone killed my driver", Mycroft says elatedly. "I had to hail a cab. Very unfortunate. Really, very unfortunate given the circumstances."
A strange cold seems to creep through their coats and right into their bones and it has nothing to do with the chilling wind. Without further words they fasten their steps until they reach the door of 221. John unlocks it and ushers them all in before following himself. He locks the door from the inside, turning the key three times before putting the chain on the door and finally turning around.
"Mrs. Hudson?" He calls into the direction of 221a while shedding his coat at the wardrobe and climbing the 17 steps to flat b. Sherlock has already unlocked the flat door and is now carrying the groceries into the kitchen, followed by a strangely quiet Mycroft. Both their shoes are already standing next to the door- Sherlock's one on top of the other, quickly stripped off and forgotten, Mycroft's lined up and blank. The infamous black umbrella waits for its owner in the corner next to the stairs. Only now it hits John how serious the situation is. Mycroft never takes off his shoes, because he never stays for long. And he never leaves his umbrella outside. It is like a law of nature, like photosynthesis and rain falling downwards. John isn't sure how to deal with the laws being broken.
He is ripped out of his thoughts when downstairs a door opens. Mrs. Hudson appears at the foot of the stairs, wearing a white apron and carrying a wooden spoon. She looks like the stereotypical grandmother from a fairytale and it makes John's heart ache.
"John, my boy, it's nice to see you back!" She waves the spoon at him and he goes back downstairs to meet her. The groceries in his bag are hers anyway. Yesterday he and Sherlock have in mutual agreement asked her to leave the house only in case of emergencies and to not open the doors to strangers. The elderly woman scolded them both for their "overprotectiveness" but in the end she agreed. Sherlock is rarely enough asking for anything. But whether he likes it or not- every blind man can see that he cares for this woman, and cares deeply. She is almost like a mother to him, and she likes it just as much as he does.
Moriarty isn't a blind man, and he's seen it too.
"Oh, thank you, darling." Despite his protests she takes the bag from him and smiles at him warmly. (For some reason it isn't embarrassing or derogatory at all when Mrs. Hudson calls him "boy" or "darling". It's simply affectionate. John often wonders if this is what having a living grandmother is like. Or a mother who cares. He never thinks further than this.) "This is so lovely of you. By the way, I made way too much soup. Any chance you'll help me get rid of it?" She winks at him when he follows her down the hallway into her small, neat flat. "Just this once, of course. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."
He laughs dutifully and takes up position in the kitchen doorway while she fills steaming soup into a big terrine. 221a is cut out similarily to 221b, but this flat is filled to the rim with wood elements and bright wallpapers and old furniture that actually suits each other. It is also very tidy and bright. Every time he comes here, John feels reminded of his first time in the Army, when he was still in England with the small too-clean rooms and then later the little shacks without any room and photos everywhere. Of course it is entirely different here, with the London sky outside and the fire in the fireplace and the smell of wood polish and food instead of metal and sand. Still he is strangely relieved when Mrs. Hudson hands him the terrine and ushers him out of her flat.
He'd thank her but she will have none of it. "Would you fancy coming up for tea later?" He asks instead, already halfway up the stairs. "Mycroft is here too. It'd be nice." (Mrs. Hudson has positively doted on Mycroft. Sherlock says it's because of his British manners and that he is ingratiating and it's a shame. The old lady herself once told John that Mycroft always seems a little sad and that she likes to see him smile once in a while. And this is the shame, John thinks and then bites his tongue every time and tries not to look too closely.)
Her face lights up immediately. "Oh, that'd be lovely. If little old me isn't too much of a charge on you young bucks." She winks again and there are little dimples around her mouth that make her look years younger. He only grins, honestly this time, and goes uptrairs.
The door is still open, and he shuts it with his foot before carrying the terrine into the kitchen. The boxes have miraculously disappeared in Sherlock's room, but the three shopping bags are still placed on the counters, waiting for him to come and unpack them. With a sigh he leaves them be. They can wait. There are more important things to think about right now.
Sherlock and Mycroft are seated in the living room, facing each other, but neither speaks. Sherlock is polishing his violin bow, seemingly lost in thought, but from time to time his gaze will flicker over to his brother's face. It is the elder Holmes who is staring out the window, unmoving. For a moment John is absolutely sure that he isn't breathing, so still and quiet is he. Then, as if he had read his thoughts, Mycroft takes a deep breath and turns away from his own reflection in the glass.
"You're staying", John says. It's not what he wanted to say. It isn't a greeting and not a question and somehow it's not a statement either and neither an order; it's not even a coherent sentence. But he still says it. Mycroft is now looking at him, one eyebrow raised, and Sherlock's mirroring him, and they look so alike that John wants to grab them by the shoulders and shake them- don't you see it, you belong with each other, you big stubborn kids- but instead he sighs and slumps into the free chair. "Sherlock is sleeping on the sofa all the time anyway, so you can have his bed. If you sleep. Does anyone really sleep in your family? Is that a genetic thing? God." He buries his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes and then his hair when he looks back up. Neither brother is answering, but both lift their other eyebrow simultaneously, and it is all John can do not to burst into hysterical laughter. "Never mind", he mutters. "Later. Let's talk about the stuff that matters. Your driver was killed."
A shadow flies over Mycroft's face, for the fraction of a second the corners of his mouth point downwards, then his indifferent expression is back. It is an honour to John that he is allowed these small glances behind those carefully built masks- that those men who are so reserved trust him of all people enough to drop their guards like this. It is also scaring the shit out of him.
What Mycroft finally says, is: "Those are the facts, yes. I hailed a cab to get here as fast as possible. I have received a threat."
(What Mycroft thinks, is: "I left the building and the car was already waiting for me. Of course I knew right away that something was wrong. The man holding the door open for me was a complete stranger, and I don't have strangers working for me. Then there is the fact that said man had blood droplets on his coat; obviously he overlooked them on the dark wool, but I didn't. The trunk had been damaged when it was forced open and then shut again moments ago, and the man reeked of chloroform. I didn't even look at him when I stopped the cab, bribed the driver and got here. The car followed me. It's waiting just across the street, and I can see it through the windows. The threat I received this morning wasn't the first, but I won't tell you about the others and neither will I show you its original wording. It is for your own good, even if you don't understand that."
What Mycroft will never say, is: "Today Linus Meyer was listed as my chauffeur. I know him well. He has been working for me for five years and seven months, and he just celebrated his 43. birthday. His wife, Rita, and his twins believe that he is the driver of some boring, nameless politician, and he leaves it at that out of loyalty and to protect them. They will tell his family that he died in a car crash. We don't have the body yet, but it is only a matter of hours, and once they found it I will identify him because I owe him at least that much. He was a good man, and I feel responsible for his death, but it is a burden I bear. The wording of the last text I got is frighteningly similar to the message sent to you, Sherlock- and it irritates me that I don't know who of us is in greater danger. But Meyers is dead, and John is alive, and what does that tell us? If I could, I'd lock you in somewhere and never let you go back into this world that smashes good people into annihilation without a second glance. But I can't do that. And one day they will call me to identify your body, and it will be like dying myself, over and over again every single day I live without you. And I am scared of that.")
What John hears, is: "My day was a mess and it is only getting worse. I am here because I can't go anywhere else and because I worry about my brother, constantly, even if he doesn't want to hear that. And I really need a few minutes by myself. But I am a Holmes, and I am the British government, and I am stronger than this." What he says, is: "I'll make some tea and then we talk, all right?"
What Sherlock hears, is: "Those are the facts I am willing to give you. The death of my subordinate upsets me and I hailed a cab impulsively, even though it could have ended badly, because Moriarty's ressources are unlimited. Why risk it then? Because I worry about you, Sherlock, and I came to look after you. Also I received various threats, each worse than the former, and it is time to tell you why I didn't answer your texts lately. Besides, you are an idiot and act like a child. Get a grip. We belong on the same side, you and I, and I need you." What he says, is: "All well and good, but what do you want?"
His brother leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling, as if the answer to every question was written down up there on the bright paint. Then he looks down again until his gray eyes meet Sherlock's and smiles one of his infamous this is life- smiles.
"I'm here to tell you that I see myself obliged to activate plan five seven three. I am here to say goodbye, Sherlock."