A/N: Cookies for kate221b and sevenpercent!
He should have expected it. He'd already figured that the pompous git had something to do with the private room he'd … enjoyed … during his over-long hospital stay. He really should have expected something like this upon his discharge.
He slid carefully into the back of the black car that waited at the hospital entrance. To his mild surprise, it wasn't one of Mycroft's minions in the back seat, but the man himself. John studied the elder Holmes brother, knowing he was being studied in turn. He said nothing, waiting. There was a slight twitch in the other man's jaw just before he broke the silence.
"Doctor Watson. I am pleased to see that you have recovered from your recent injuries."
"Were you ever going to tell me, Mycroft?"
"No," Mycroft answered, after a lengthy pause. The twitch in his jaw returned.
"I don't suppose you'll tell me now? Explain? Give me details?" John asked, his voice hard. "Tell me why?"
"I … can't." Mycroft replied, the admission clearly costing him.
"Then tell me this. Is he coming back?"
"There is … a plan."
John snorted. "Of course there is. One I'm supposed to follow blindly. Literally, blindly, because I don't know what it is. But that's the point, isn't it?"
Mycroft said nothing. John shook his head.
"Is it your plan … or his?"
"His."
"When did you know about it?"
"When we recovered his phone from the roof of St Bartholomew's."
John took a bit of grim comfort from the fact that Mycroft had been taken in by Sherlock's charade, even if only briefly.
"He left you something on the phone. Why didn't he leave anything for me? He should have talked to me, Mycroft. Whatever his great plan was, I could have helped him. Why didn't he trust me?"
"John," Mycroft answered slowly. "Sherlock does trust you. In fact, he's trusting you to do something for him. Something he's never asked of anyone before."
"What's that, then?"
"He is aware that his actions have caused you not inconsiderable pain. He is trusting you to … forgive him."
Mycroft's words stopped John cold.
"Forgive ..." he breathed, then he let out a humorless laugh. "He asks for a lot, your brother."
"Of you, John, he asks everything, and you've never disappointed him."
"Yeah, well. There's a first time for everything."
"I sincerely hope that will not be the case."
John felt the conflict gnawing at him. The relief that had come from learning that Sherlock was alive made him tingle all over, a feeling akin to joy sparkling just under his skin. But deeper, buried in his heart, were six months of pain and grief and anger. Sherlock's reasons for putting him through hell would have to be bloody good ones.
John cleared his throat, and changed the topic.
"How did you know I'd discovered his trick?" he asked, then held up his hand. "No wait. Don't tell me. The room was bugged. That's why you had me transferred to Bart's and gave me a private room. That's why you've always had us transferred to Bart's."
The raised eyebrow was Mycroft's only response.
"And have you already bugged Baker Street?"
"The devices already in place have been … re-activated."
"Fine," John said shortly. "Why didn't he tell me?"
"Would you have stayed behind if you knew?"
"Of course not."
"They, my dear Doctor Watson, you have answered your own question. It was, and remains, imperative that you remain here."
"He still could have told me."
"If he had told you, and managed to convince you to stay, I'm afraid that your acting abilities ..."
"My acting abilities?" John cut in. "They were good enough to fool you, and he knows it."
Mycroft's eyebrows shot up, his jaw twitching. John sighed, his anger dissipating as he realized that he may have slipped up.
"I'm obviously not going to tell you about it, Mycroft, so don't bother asking. Figure it out yourself, or ask him."
Mycroft did not respond. John kept his face impassive and allowed the elder Holmes brother to study him. Eventually Mycroft inclined his head slightly. Not conceding, but putting the matter aside for the moment.
John sighed again and turned to look out the window. "I understand what is expected of me, Mycroft. And I'll do it, putting my 'acting skills' to good use. I just need one promise from you."
"And what would that be, Doctor Watson?"
"You have to tell me if there comes a time when I should ..." his voice shook, but John forged ahead, watching the other man's reflection in the window, "stop."
Mycroft's expression did not shift, though John thought he saw a faint twitch in his jaw.
"We don't know how long this will take, John."
"It will take as long as it takes, Mycroft," John said, turning back to face him directly. "And you will tell me if I should stop."
After a moment Mycroft nodded. John allowed his head to sink, resting his chin on his chest as he tried to breathe normally.
"Will you tell him?" he asked, not looking up.
"Do you want me to?"
"I … no. Probably not. Bit of a distraction, I should think."
"How will you proceed?" Mycroft asked.
"I've got a few ideas. Things that will look normal for … a person in my position."
"If you require ..."
"Nope, nothing, Mycroft," John cut him off. "Except that you tell me ..."
"I will keep you informed, Doctor Watson."
"Good, then. That's good," John said looking up to meet Mycroft's eyes. "And Mycroft, just so you know, I really, really mean it when I say I hope I won't be hearing from you."
A hint of a smile touched the other man's face as the car slowed to a stop.
"Good day, Doctor Watson."
"Watch your fingers, Mycroft," John said as he opened the door and stepped out, turning to glare back into the interior of the car. Mycroft met his eyes and nodded, not speaking, keeping his hands folded carefully in his lap. John slammed the car door before turning and storming away as angrily as his injuries would let him.
John carefully climbed the few steps to the door of the building where slept. Not lived. He watched the sleek black car pull away from the kerb in the reflection of the glass door. He didn't turn around to watch it go.
Sherlock was alive. Molly had confirmed it already, but hearing it from Mycroft made it real. It also made John angry.
He drew in a deep breath, pushing the anger and everything connected with Sherlock's fake suicide to the side as he opened the door. He couldn't afford to think on it, not in public. Not if he was to act convincingly.
Once inside the building he moved to the stairs, pausing at the bottom to shoot off a quick text.
Mike. You available to help shift boxes? Moving back to 221b. JW
After hitting send John put his hand to the railing, looked up, and sighed. Three flights of stairs lay between him and his room. His injuries weren't complaining – much – but he could feel them, and he knew that climbing the stairs would not be in his best interest. He sighed and moved to push the button for the lift.
His phone buzzed with a response while he waited for the lift doors to open.
When?
As soon as is convenient. JW
John sent his reply as he stepped into the lift, pushing the button for the third floor. He stared at the numbers above the door as they lit in sequence, marking his slow progress upward. When the doors opened he moved down the hallway, fumbling for his key. He had just stepped through the door when his phone buzzed again.
This weekend? I can come over after I drop the wife at the train station. Saturday? Around 5.
That'd be fantastic. Pizza and beer? JW
Chinese. And beer.
Thanks. See you then. JW
John closed the door.
A/N: If you're curious what John is hiding from Mycroft, you can find out over in my story 'Double Bluff'.