Mycroft P.O.V
Neither brother spoke as they listened to John's footsteps fade away. The slam of the front door echoed dully through the house.
Several minutes passed as they stood stock still, both deep in thought, before Sherlock broke the silence.
"Brolly."
Mycroft looked up from where he had been staring at the carpet, frowning in confusion at his little brother.
"Sorry?"
Sherlock fixed him with a calculating stare. "He said 'brolly', just before he left. The word had no bearing on the conversation, yet it seemed to mean something to you. Not to mention the fact that he was speaking directly to you when he said it. What did he mean?"
Mycroft warily eyed his brother as he carefully chose his words. Trust Sherlock to skip over the disastrous confrontation and turn his attention to John's incriminating outburst.
He wasn't surprised. Truth be told, he had expected Sherlock to latch onto evidence of he and John's relationship. But if Mycroft was honest with himself, he had hoped for more time to sort things out with John before intimating details of their relationship to his brother.
As things were, Mycroft didn't know if John even wanted to continue relations with him after discovering his titanic omission. He wouldn't blame John if the man broke off contact with him altogether.
Mycroft was hyper aware of his responsibility for John's pain. When he had failed to do all he could to protect Sherlock from Moriarty, he had personally opened the door for the psychopath to inflict as much damage as he could. John was right; he had been collateral damage, in a sense.
Thankfully, Sherlock's back-up plan had kept everyone he loved out of the grave. If not for his 'suicide', Sebastian Moran might have fulfilled his master's mission, taking away the most important person in Sherlock's life.
And his own, Mycroft thought.
Had John been assassinated, Mycroft would never have gotten any closer to the doctor beyond gathered facts and his own observations. Strings of numbers and notes in databases were all that John Watson would have been to Mycroft — and such a sorry thing that would have been.
Becoming involved with John had been an unexpected but positive result of the whole debacle. Mycroft cared for his brother and was pleased with to have worked with him for the good of their country, but it was a nice change to have someone to look after who cared for him in return.
Over the past three months, John had begun to fill a void inside of Mycroft. Unfortunately, revealing the truth to John may have irreparably broken the doctor's trust. Mycroft may have lost the closest thing to a companion he had ever had.
His own advice to Sherlock from last year rang bitterly in his memory: All lives end, all hearts are broken.
Caring might not be an advantage, but it was one of the few weaknesses that Mycroft had indulged in in quite some time. After having to be strong for so long, it had felt good to have someone help him release stress.
A growl of irritation erupted from Sherlock.
Eyes narrowed in suspicion, he stalked forward until he was mere inches from Mycroft. "What does it mean?"
I'm sorry, John, Mycroft thought fervently. He sighed softly.
"He said 'brolly' in order to express his dissatisfaction with the situation. It acts as an immediate 'cease and desist' code. Some time ago, John chose the word for immediate use should he feel distressed in my presence."
Mycroft could practically see his brother turn over the words in his mind.
Nearly a minute passed before astonished understanding lit up Sherlock's face. "A safe word. 'Brolly' is his safe word, chosen for interactions with you." He scowled darkly at Mycroft, nearly vibrating with righteous indignation. "You led me to believe all your information was gathered by your underlings, but you've been keeping a 'closer' watch on his developments, haven't you? Why would John need a safe word?"
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Why might two consenting adults require such a thing?" he mocked, rhetorically. "John and I have a personal arrangement that contains a sexual component. I won't regale you with the details for the simple fact that they are none of your concern."
"John is my concern," Sherlock said through clenched teeth, glaring.
"John is a consenting adult, Sherlock. His decisions are his own," Mycroft stated, cool in the face of his brother's ire.
"His consent is suspect if he was not in his right mind. You said yourself that he was grieving. In his fragile state, he would have accepted attention from anyone," Sherlock spat.
"So quick to champion his weakness when mere hours ago you were defending his strength. I'm curious, Sherlock, is it because it was me that he found solace in or that he found happiness at all after your 'death'?"
Mycroft would not back down from his brother's barbs when he had to contend with so many from his own conscience.
Sherlock reared back, as though physically repelled by the question. His jaw jutted out stubbornly. "This isn't about me, Mycroft."
"On the contrary, this is all about you, isn't it? You're acting like a child, upset that you have to share. Grow up, Sherlock. People can and do form bonds with many people throughout their lifetime. John is no different. Give him the respect he deserves to make his decisions."
"He was hurting. You took advantage of him!"
"He came to me."
An odd, choking sound left Sherlock's throat as his eyes went wide with shock.
Hands thrust into his trouser pockets, Mycroft surveyed his brother with bored indifference as he rocked back onto his heels.
"I empathize with you. When he came to me, I had my doubts about his reasoning as well. But we have an agreement based on open honesty and trust. And he has had plenty of time to change his mind. It is not your place to pass judgment on this matter. All I ask is that you not take your resentment out on John just because you either can't or won't support him for finding happiness. If you care for him, if you are his friend, then give him his space. Now that he is aware of how things stand, he'll need time to readjust. When he's ready, he'll seek out you. Don't press him, Sherlock, not in this."
And with that, Mycroft turned and swept out of the room. He intended to check on John from afar.
Hopefully, his brother would have patience this time.
John P.O.V.
John lay prostrate in his bed atop the covers, completely clothed in the darkened room. His arm was thrown across his eyes to shut out the meager light of the street lamps coming in through the window.
Pain throbbed in his head. An empty tumbler sat haphazardly on the edge of the nightstand.
It had been three days since Mycroft had revealed the truth to him.
Three days during which John had refused to communicate with or even be physically near another human being. He had even ignored his sister's calls, going only so far as to listen to the worried voice messages she had left behind. There had been nothing from either Mycroft or Sherlock.
John wasn't sure if he was pissed that they hadn't attempted to contact him or if he was relieved to have space to think without their distraction. Unsurprisingly, his opinion on the matter had fluctuated frequently, depending mostly on the amount of alcohol clashing with the present mood.
A good portion of his conscious hours had been spent staring into his whiskey, wondering if the meeting at Mycroft's had really happened or if he had finally cracked.
John didn't understand it—Sherlock being alive had been something he had dreamt of for months, yet he was having difficulty in finding happiness in the realization of his dream.
Perhaps because it had all been a lie.
No matter how much safer he had been not knowing the truth, it still rankled at him that he had been brushed aside from the action. He felt like a toy, abandoned for something more interesting, more 'important', until he was remembered by his owner once more.
It was infuriating, really.
John had spent years as an army doctor, saving countless lives out in some of the most volatile and inhospitable war zones before a bullet had lodged in his shoulder. Not to mention the dangerous situations he had followed Sherlock through (which had made him appreciate his army training).
Captain John Watson, M.D. could take care of himself, no coddling required.
But that was only part of what really irked him.
John had spent a year and a half with Sherlock before the man had jumped off St. Bart's roof. He knew that 'courtesy' wasn't really in Sherlock's vocabulary, along with words like 'appreciation', 'tact', and 'kindness'. He was used to being left out of Sherlock's loop— only the loop had never before been this big.
The real problem, the thing that had left a sour taste in his mouth, was that all his grieving, heartache, and depression had been for naught. Every tear shed in Sherlock's name had been worthless.
John had lived in a nightmare for seven months and couldn't simply 'shake off' the memory because it had all felt real. It had been real, for John at least.
John had grieved for Sherlock. He had started to accept a life without Sherlock in it, had started to let him go, with Mycroft's help.
Mycroft.
John had mixed feelings about the elder Holmes brother.
Though he could understand why Sherlock had lied to him, it was more difficult to put his finger on Mycroft's reasoning.
Sherlock might prefer to believe he, the world's only consulting detective, operated without emotion, but John knew better. You don't sacrifice your livelihood and put yourself in danger for someone you don't care about; even if the reasoning was selfish, like wanting to hunt down the threats to his friends without being tripped up by lesser mortals than him, John could still appreciate the rarely demonstrated protective instinct of his friend.
But Mycroft was harder to explain.
John knew Mycroft understood how essential he had become in Sherlock's life. He could see John's strengths and how they had made up for Sherlock's weaknesses.
It was hard to believe that he had allowed his brother to leave John in the dark and go out on such a dangerous mission without backup in a time Sherlock had needed help the most. After Mycroft essentially bungled things by letting Moriarty free with ammunition against his brother, John was amazed that he had sent Sherlock out, virtually alone and emotionally crippled. He had courted the possibility of bringing about his little brother's destruction (again). Sherlock needed a companion, an assistant to protect him from himself and Mycroft had helped Sherlock willingly deprive himself of such a person.
Hadn't Mycroft learned anything from dealing with Moriarty?
It baffled John that the smartest men he knew had deliberately made such stupid decisions when they were trying to protect someone important to them. It was as though the excess emotions had addled their exceptional brains.
Whatever reason Mycroft initially had in keeping John out of the fray, John was sure it had changed a few months ago. Mycroft's actions may have been as selfish as his brother's: doing what he could to protect what was his— even if it meant hurting them.
Despite feeling slightly betrayed by his lover for being allowed to suffer for so long, John couldn't find it in him to hate the man or the arrangement they had.
John's pain had been real, but Mycroft had eased him through it and made him happy. The same, John felt, could be said in reverse. John's powers of observation weren't anything like Sherlock's, but he could tell their relationship had done Mycroft some good as well. He had smiled more and even bantered with John during their lunch dates.
And the passion…
A smug smile slid onto John's face. It would take one hell of an actor to mimic the need John had seen in Mycroft's eyes, the helpless moans that John had wrought from his lips…
No, their relationship had been real and might've become part of why Mycroft had kept his brother's secret, and that meant it had been real for Mycroft as well.
If Mycroft felt the same way, then how could John possibly fault him for giving him happiness in his darkest hour?
John sighed softly to himself as he rolled to his side to grab his mobile.
He ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble and filth that had accumulated during his pity party over the past few days. Hung-over and tempered by his musings, John grimly considered the phone in his hand.
He couldn't linger in his depression any longer. When he had been shot, John had wallowed in self-pity for nearly a week before steeling his spine to work through his emotional trauma— the physical recoup would come later. Unlike before, there wasn't an injury holding him back from recovery, only himself and his excuses. And that was unacceptable.
John rolled onto his back again as he pulled up a number long ground into his memory.
He typed out and sent a text before he lost his nerve.
I understand why you did what you did. I'm happy you're alright. - JW
He laid the phone on his chest. He hadn't texted Sherlock since before his 'suicide', but John was sure the number hadn't changed. Why should it? Everyone thought he was dead. John knew Mycroft would have reunited Sherlock with his mobile after any police investigations had concluded (not that there had been much of one, what with John as their witness/suicide note).
Fifteen seconds went by, John counting every one of them with mounting apprehension, before his text alert sounded in the quiet room.
Startled, he eagerly opened the message.
I wanted to tell you. - SH
Emotion tightened John's throat as he typed back.
I know. - JW
And it was true, he did know. It must have killed Sherlock to not be able to explain every detail, to not be able to dazzle John with his brilliance and receive the praise John would give him for being so clever. It's no fun being a show-off when you can't show-off.
There was more to it than that, he knew, but John wasn't completely free from his 'pity stage'; he could snark if he wanted to, given the state of things.
How are things on the freedom front? - JW
Settle on a neutral topic, John thought, anything to escape the tension growing in his own room.
John lay patiently waiting for Sherlock's reply. A siren wailed faintly in the distance and he wondered absently if anyone had died. Amazing really, how Sherlock Holmes had brought out the morbid in him.
A ping sounded. John raised the phone, the glow of the screen illuminating the room.
Slower than expected. Apparently, coming back to life is more difficult on paper than in reality. - SH
Most people stay dead when they die, John thought, sorrow threatening to overtake him. John mentally shook himself. No, he wouldn't bend to this misery anymore. Sherlock was alive and back and all this nonsense was over now. John almost believed it.
He sighed into the darkness.
Annoying Mycroft in the meantime then? - JW
Hopefully, the subtle inquiry after his brother would get past Sherlock. He didn't know what Sherlock knew about his relationship with Mycroft, if he knew anything at all. The consulting detective had a knack for spotting affairs in his line of work, but would his powers of observation avail him if one of the subjects was Mycroft?
Perhaps he wouldn't need Mycroft in order to figure it out, John mentally cringed.
John had always been something of an open book to the younger Holmes brother, a fact proven within the first fifteen seconds of meeting the man.
Probably knew every damn thing already from the fiasco at Mycroft's, he despaired. Without contacting Mycroft directly, John had no choice but to try to lure information out of his brother. He wasn't ready to speak with Mycroft yet, but he couldn't ignore Sherlock anymore, not when he'd been gone for so long.
Not when John had missed him so much.
His phone sounded again.
I suppose I would be if I were still staying with him. I am in 221B again. - SH
Fear coursed through John as he stared at the message.
Mrs. Hudson…
Another message popped onto the screen as he lay frozen in horror as scenarios flew through his mind.
Before you do yourself in with worry, she is fine. Mycroft went to Baker Street personally and discussed everything with her as gently as he could HOURS before I walked through the door. Took it better than you did, actually. - SH
John felt his heart rate drop down to a less frantic tempo. Thank goodness, he thought, ignoring Sherlock's tactless reference to his own reaction.
Mrs. Hudson had put up with a lot when he and Sherlock had been her tenants, but finding out someone you thought was dead was actually alive, well…
At her age, a shock of that magnitude could have been fatal.
Another ping.
She's fine, John. A bit shaken, but pleased nonetheless. I am to relay a message from her. She says that 'you are welcome to your old room, since it is available again'. I myself would not mind your presence in 221B again, if you were agreeable to the idea. -SH
Uncertainty settled over John as he considered the words. Going back to Baker Street and solving crimes with Sherlock once more… it was like something out of a fairy tale, his wishes coming true…
It would be as though the last seven months never happened.
A chill lanced through John's heart as he imagined never getting to know Mycroft, never looking past the icy exterior to the passionate soul within 'the Man Behind the British Government'. John would never have approached him had Sherlock not pulled off his 'magic trick'. He wouldn't have given it a moment's consideration, not with Sherlock in the picture.
John's crush on Sherlock had not dissipated when he had fallen off the roof; it had festered and clawed at his soul, the unfulfilled longing at times threatening to drive him to the brink.
Mycroft had helped him find his way back through the spiraling darkness, but he could still feel it there sometimes, at the fringes of his subconscious, the mass of confusing emotions left behind by Sherlock's sudden departure.
All the what if's and things that could have been still lingered in the back of John's mind, but had been pushed further and further back by the growing affection and desire for someone else— for Mycroft. Without Mycroft in his life, John's would have ended months ago, consumed by the pain Sherlock's absence had brought upon him.
John might hate the agony and rage Sherlock's fall had put him through, but it had been worth it to find Mycroft waiting for him at the end of it all. Even if Sherlock's suicide had been real, John had been learning how to live again, with Mycroft as his rock.
He had a dilemma.
As much as he yearned for his old life, if he jumped at the chance to resume life in Baker Street like the past seven months hadn't happened, something would break inside of John.
He needed to remember the pain if he wanted to appreciate what had brought him to Mycroft; it was an acknowledgement of what had brought him to Mycroft. If he went back now, so soon after coming to terms with the truth, John felt that it would cheapen what he and Mycroft had— and that was an injustice Mycroft didn't deserve.
As much as John loved Sherlock— yes, love, because you don't go through that much despair and anger only to forgive that person of you don't love them— he needed to be on his own for a bit longer.
In time, he would return to Baker Street (after all, Sherlock would be lost without his faithful blogger), but for now, John needed to understand where he was emotionally with the Holmes brothers, without any undue influence.
He refused to climb the stairs of 221B a more broken and confused man than he was two years ago when he had first arrived there. He wanted to heal, needed to heal, and Mycroft Holmes might be the only one who could help him.
Setting his jaw, John sent a text before rolling off the bed.
I appreciate the offer, but I need more time before I try to pick up where I left off. I need to figure out where I stand. This isn't a 'no', it's a 'not yet'. I just need more time. - JW
Grabbing the empty glass from the nightstand, John made his way out of the room, tossing his phone onto the bed as he passed. For the first time in three days, he was going to make himself presentable.
He was in the shower when Sherlock's replay came.
I understand. And for what it's worth, you have my blessing. - SH