Disclaimer: same as Chapter 1
Author's notes:
- To LienaGrace: Hi! I am glad you liked the fact John kept himself on the straight and narrow after Sherlock's "death". I've always thought he's too decent and honest to drown his sorrows in foolishness!
Chapter 10: Big brother is watching you
After an overly-grateful, thanks-stammering and all-around annoying Gregory Lestrade had left the flat, his mind reeling by the fact he had been forgiven and his career was back on tracks thanks to the detective and the doctor living on 221 B Baker Street, Sherlock let out a heavy sigh: the DI didn't seem to know when to leave; he would stay around until the last dog was hung! The younger Holmes remembered the time he played possum at St. Bart's morgue, lying on a cold metallic slab while the pain from his injuries was getting intolerable; but Lestrade, summoned to identify his body, had made such a scene, crying and yelling all over the hospital that this tragedy had been entirely his fault, Sherlock had thought for a brief, panicking moment he wouldn't be able to fake death any longer and take a sharp intake of breath, revealing his deception to the policeman and thus ruining the plan for keeping John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade safe from Moriarty's hit men.
Fortunately, Mycroft had shown up in the nick of time, kicking the DI out with a few brief, but chosen, words; right after the morgue's door had slammed on the desolated Lestrade's face, Sherlock had moaned from his injuries and Mycroft had covered his sibling's mouth with the palm of his hand while the doctor was getting ready a syringe filled with pain-killers. Sherlock had lost consciousness right after the injection, leaving the rest of the matter to his brother's capable hands. He had woken up two days later at the Holmes' family house, guarded by Secret Services' creatures while Mycroft was on the phone, choosing a casket from the most expensive undertaker of London.
"Trust Mycroft to keep a certain amount of decorum, even during a deception," thought Sherlock.
But thinking about his brother made the detective remember the text received at dawn; Mycroft said he would come at 8:00 but Sherlock knew he wouldn't resist coming about fifteen minutes earlier, a more-or-less subtle way to disconcert his audience. Sherlock was accustomed to this behaviour and, if it hadn't been for John, he wouldn't have moved an inch from the couch. But John was still sleeping in his lap and whereas Lestrade had been efficiently silenced about this little fact, the younger Holmes doubted his brother would hold his tongue. The detective didn't care about Mycroft's opinion or orders – he had even walked through Buckingham Palace in his birthday suit, with only a bed sheet wrapped around his body, just to express his dissatisfaction about being summoned by Mycroft off the cuff, but this action had only involved him. John was more concerned by public opinion and Sherlock didn't want their renewed friendship to be compromised by embarrassing the doctor in front of his brother.
Very gently, Sherlock released John from his hold and made him lie down on the couch, his head resting on the pile of cushions. John groaned lightly, probably from being deprived of his comfortable, warm human mattress but he kept on sleeping, making the younger Holmes realize how tired his friend must be after three years of mourning/working non-stop/defending his memory. After brushing away a strand of blonde hair falling on John's eyes, Sherlock stood up and walked towards the bathroom.
After a shower, a shave and a change of clothes, the detective went downstairs to Speedy's, the coffee and sandwich shop next door; he bought pastries (mostly for John, unless Mycroft was skipping his diet again), a large cup of black coffee for him and a medium cup of tea for the doctor; while the waitress (a new girl, who apparently had no idea about the identity of her customer) was struggling to type the bill on the cash register, Sherlock discreetly picked up packets of sugar and dropped them negligently inside the brown bag holding his buys (Mycroft always over-sweetened his tea). After the waitress had managed to get the bill printed, the brunette dropped a few banknotes on the counter and left without waiting for his change.
Back at 221 B, Sherlock wasted no time cleaning up the tea set previously used, which had been lying around on the coffee table, and put the kettle to boil. Five minutes later, tea was ready and the detective was seated in his favourite armchair, his long fingers pressed together under his chin and his keen eyes locked on his still-slumbering friend. At precisely 7:45 a.m., the characteristic sounds of a Rolls-Royce motor was heard through Baker Street to stop at their building. A slam of a metallic door, followed by another one from the entrance door, and heavy footsteps were heard in the staircase with the usual grunting of Mycroft Holmes, who simply detested any form of exercise.
The tall, well-dressed man with his eternal umbrella twirling in his hand looked around the living room and raised one eyebrow at the sight of John Watson lying on the green leather couch, oblivious of his arrival; Mycroft opened his mouth to ask a question but a sharp nod of Sherlock's head cut him short. Shrugging, the elder Holmes contented himself with sitting down on the armchair opposite to his brother's; he made a movement to pull the Union Jack cushion from out of his back but here again, a frown from his relative made him stop. This cushion was John's and Sherlock would be damned before anyone would even try to discard it.
After five long minutes of silence, Mycroft finally asked: "Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Aren't you going to offer me tea?"
"Help yourself," was the curt answer.
The unofficial British government rolled his eyes heavenwards; if three years of exile hadn't changed his sibling, then nothing truly would! He relinquished his grasp on his beloved umbrella and started pouring tea in the cups.
"I'll be mother, as usual,"
"Oh, brother!" groaned Sherlock.
"You shouldn't have brought pasties; I'm still on a diet."
"These are not for you, but for John. Besides, you have restarted your dieting program only a few weeks ago, not enough to erase the pounds you have cumulated during my absence so easing up on the sweet treats can't hurt."
"Yes, well, thinking about you being abroad had made me hit the scones pretty hard," said Mycroft with a disdainful smirk. "You know I worry constantly about you."
"You certainly weren't when babbling away my life's story to a notorious psychopath."
Mycroft stifled a sigh in his teacup, but refused to raise the bait; instead, he emptied five packets of sugar in his tea. After their triumphal dismantlement of Moriarty's crime web, the Holmes brothers didn't need an argument about painful past mistakes so it was better – and urgent – to change the subject.
"You must be happy, though. Catching Sebastian Moran on the act has put the final nail in Moriarty's coffin. I presume you have given all the merit of his capture to that incompetent Lestrade?" asked Mycroft while sipping delicately at his tea.
"He's not as useless as you think he is," retorted Sherlock. "Re-boosting his career is a sure way to provide me with work; Lestrade will contact me as soon as a case is too complicated for him to solve – God knows, it will happen often – and I'll be able to make my deductions without having to endure the usual bore from Scotland Yard."
"Well, it was a smart move. A grateful DI in your back pocket is always better than a resentful one in front of you. And I suppose Mrs. Hudson will be deliriously happy about renting you this flat again but what about John?"
The detective raised his steel-like eyes towards his brother with the speed of a striking cobra.
"What about him?"
"Are you planning to ask him to move back here, and to participate in your murder inquiries?"
"Of course, I do. He's my friend, in case you've forgotten."
"Perish the thought! It is just that you may have to consider he may want to move on with his life. You have been absent for long, he may have lost the thrill of the chase, the taste for action..."
"Rubbish! I damn well know that your goons, the ones who had given us a hand at Camden House last night, have already told you John has remained by my side the whole time we have been lying in wait for Moran. John never hesitated, not for a second, to follow me in a very dangerous operation even though we had been reunited only for a few hours. And now you're telling me he might stop our partnership in the drop of a hat? Where does this nonsense comes from?"
Mycroft remained silent, drinking his tea while perfectly knowing his little brother was "reading" his clothes, face and general attitude, just like he had done it a few minutes ago on Sherlock. After a short while, the younger Holmes chuckled lightly:
"Oh, so it is this "Caring is a disadvantage" talk again? I thought I had been clear the last time we've discussed this, Mycroft."
"Sherlock, you have to consider it is a valuable point. Caring about an ex-soldier, a landlady and a cop has indeed put you in grave danger, and all this just for the fun to solve trivial problems while your talents could be put to a much better use, in a place where you would be living in the most absolute security. Why won't you work for me, for God's sakes?"
"Because I don't like backstabbers, Mycroft, and the role you've played in the Moriarty case has brilliantly illustrated this point. It would never cross John's mind to betray my secrets to enemies, not even to save his life; Mrs. Hudson had endured mistreatments from your CIA buddies rather than giving them Adler's phone; and Lestrade may be a fool but he's an honest one – which is more than I can say about some Bow Street runners I happen to know. But for Queen and country you betrayed me, giving a criminal mastermind all the needed tools to destroy my reputation. You live in a quicksand world, Mycroft, where people are used, manipulated and then sacrificed without another thought. You call it "the greater good", but the greater good towards whom? And you think I'd give up my job for this? Well, I'm not interested! I prefer to have my enemies in front of me, not behind."
"Sherlock..."
"Don't try to frighten me, Mycroft. It won't work. I thank you for having watched over John during my absence but it doesn't mean I am indebted to you. Quite the contrary, you're the one who owes me a lifetime of obligations since it was your morbid quest for information which has led you to sign a pact with the Devil in the first place, before unleashing him. You could have warned me, like in King Philip Augustus of France's note to John Landless about the release of King Richard Lionheart: "Look to yourself as the Devil is loosed". But no, you sat and waited for days until you had no other choice but to summon John to your silly Diogenes' Club and humiliate him before confessing your misdeeds."
"Why are so protective of him?" growled Mycroft, slamming his cup down on the saucer. "You've never expressed the need for a friend before, so what's it to you?"
"None of your business."
"I never thought I'd see the day where you would be so attached to a man you would spend hours cradling him while he slept!"
"Who says I did?"
"You showered and changed your clothes to hide it but your arms are still a bit stiff from holding him, aren't they? Besides, he's sleeping peacefully and that's odd, considering he has been having nightmares since your suicide – I have all the CCTV evidence to prove it – and the only time the war dreams have relented had been when he was your flatmate. You have somehow a soothing presence on him, Sherlock, which makes me wonder about the good doctor's mental health. Perhaps his mind has been broken in the battlefields much more than his therapist thinks..."
"Shut your yap-trap!"
"Oh, Sherlock! Language!"
"Keep your voice down! You'll wake John!"
"Sherlock?" asked a sleepy voice at the other end of the room.
The Holmes brothers turned their heads towards the couch and, indeed, John had awakened. His hair was mussed and he was looking blearily at his surroundings, but realization lightened his dark blue eyes in a flash as he recognized their visitor sitting near the fireplace: it was a face he hadn't seen in three years and he sure hadn't missed it one bit.
"Mycroft? What the Hell are you doing here?"
"Hello to you too, Doctor Watson," answered the elder Holmes in an icy tone.
"Can the attitude, Mycroft! Sherlock has told me all about the role you've played with Moriarty so give me a reason why I shouldn't punch your lights out!" roared John, jumping on his feet, his fists clenched for an upcoming fight.
"Peace, John," said Sherlock, raising his hand. "My brother has already done his mea culpa through and through; let's just hope he has earned a lesson and he will be a bit more cooperative in the future in our investigations."
"Why, yes," answered Mycroft with a smug half-smile on his face. "After all, you wouldn't go very far in solving your trivia without me having your back, would you?"
"Excuse me?" asked the detective, his features hardening ever so slightly.
"Oh come on, Sherlock! I've lost count of all the times I've pulled you out of trouble – the both of you, for that matter. Who did you think pulled a few strings so Doctor Watson won't be accused of vandalism in the Black Lotus business, or how I granted access for you to visit the Baskerville military site without pretending to be me?"
"And you seem to forget that John and I have solved a few things for you... Like retrieving the Bruce-Partington plans or straightening the matter of that foolish "female young person" of royal blood who has so stupidly compromised herself with the Adler woman."
The doctor let out an exasperated sigh: "Are you both through?"
"You're right, John," said Sherlock with his usual half-smile. "If you don't feel murderous towards my brother any more, please be seated and enjoy a good breakfast with us."
"No, no, I'll leave you to your mastication," said Mycroft smugly. "I have to go to the office for an important meeting about... well, never mind that. John, I hope you'll be in a better state of mind at our next meeting. It was nice to see you in the flesh, though; watching your image on TV screens was getting bothersome. Sherlock, I daresay I will contact you again if the need arises, like it or not; in the meantime, think about what I've said earlier."
The unofficial British government delicately dabbed his lips with a napkin to clear away the last remnants of tea. Then he stood up, grabbed at his umbrella and nodded in the general direction of John while Sherlock remained statue-like. The doctor answered with a furious glare, but unclenched his fists. Only after the front door banged after the elder Holmes did John heavily sat down on the recently-vacated armchair.
"The nerve of your brother is amazing," grumbled the doctor as he combed his hair with his fingers, messing it more than ever before.
"It runs in the family. Would you like some tea? The pastries are for you, by the way."
"You've bought breakfast? Oh, thanks."
"Bah, I know my John!" said Sherlock while pouring tea in a clean cup. "You're always famished in the morning. By the way, are you aware that Mycroft is a bit jealous of you?"
John's ocean eyes widened to the point they looked ready to pop out of their sockets.
"Excuse me?"
"Mycroft can't eat a cake without gaining a few pounds, while you can devour the contents of a fridge and remain lean! My brother has always been very concerned about his weight; in fact, a few years ago he was borderline obese, thanks to his apathetic nature. But you can't pretend to lead a country if you are incapable to get out of a chair on your own, can you? So Mycroft started a regime with more or less success and it had rubbed off on his character. He was a bothersome idiot before, but as a dieting idiot he's unbearable!"
"God helps us," whispered John between two mouthfuls of sultana scones. He munched in silence for a few minutes and then he raised his eyes towards his friend... and frowned. Sherlock seemed troubled by something and it usually never bode well.
"What's wrong?"
"I was wondering... Look, John, I know it may be a bit early for me to ask, but... I mean, I'd like to ask you a question but you are not forced to answer me right away... You can take all the needed time to make up your mind, and..."
"Please, what is it?"
John was puzzled: the brunette was usually more straightforward when he wanted to ask him for something and an unsure Sherlock was a scary sight.
"John, I know I've been away for a long time and I would understand if you refused, but... Well, would you like to be my flatmate again?"
The detective was inwardly quaking in his shoes out of fear: what if Mycroft were right? What if John had found a woman during his absence, and was already planning boring things like getting married and settling down? What if... Sherlock had come back too late?
"Of course I would, you tall drink of water!" said a beaming John.
Sherlock felt as if a ton of lead had been lifted off his shoulders.
TBC...