Chapter 4

The Past Rekindled

When John woke, feeling surprisingly well-rested, he blinked away the sleepiness from his eyes. He didn't remember finding his way to his bed or undressing to his pants. He didn't remember inviting Mycroft Holmes into his flat, let alone his bedroom, either.

He sat up fast, wincing and holding a hand to his rib cage. The sheet crumpled forgotten around his waist. Staring at the man staring rather intently, he cleared his throat, thoughts racing through his mind. Did Mycroft know about what he'd been up to these past couple of months? Or worse, had he learned what Moriarty did to him? He'd been brought to a hospital by Moriarty's command or by someone who found him dumped on some random street, so he supposed Mycroft having knowledge of that incident was a given. Damn. He remembered his present condition was less than ideal and attempted to cover the worst of it with the sheet, suddenly self-conscious.

"A bit late for that, don't you think?"

There were a lot of different reactions he considered having, but he settled for resignation. Although he was well-rested, he was feeling very tired with Mycroft's weighty presence in the room. The man could read a person as easily as he read a newspaper.

"Right, well, can you enlighten me as to what you're doing in my bedroom? Um... How long have you been there exactly?"

"For as long as you've been asleep. Does that bother you?"

"Does that- Are you joking?"

"Pulling your leg, perhaps," Mycroft said, the corners of his lips twitching slightly. Then he became serious. "I need you to come with me, John. Please get dressed."

"Why?" he demanded.

He did not want to go anywhere with the other man. For the last six months he said nothing more than "piss off" to Mycroft, and now he had the nerve to come uninvited into his bedroom. There couldn't possibly be a miscommunication going on here.

Mycroft climbed to his feet, leaning on the umbrella grasped in his right hand with practiced ease. His gaze was ever so intimidating but John wasn't about to let it change anything he had to say. Problem was, he didn't want to say anything to him and he was beginning to get unnerved by the continuing silence permeating the room.

"I understand your antics of late have been less than..usual."

Swallowing nerves, he didn't back down from looking right into those annoyingly forceful eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Your blog. TW, an informant who has been helping you with whatever it is you've been up to."

"So you don't know."

Relief flooded through him but it didn't last long when Mycroft moved on and hadn't missed a beat in exposing John's secrets.

"I know Moriarty is alive and I know you didn't bother to tell anyone."

The comment initially had John rolling his eyes, and then the man added, "I know what he did to you. Don't know why you bothered to hide it."

"Really? The great Mycroft Holmes can't figure that one out?" he spoke with such derision, it obviously affected the posh man, but he covered it by tilting his head to the side and looking sympathetically to John's marred body.

"John."

"What?" he nearly yelled.

John was getting worked up and he'd sworn he wasn't going to let his emotions get to him for once. Highly complicated to follow through on when the man he was trying desperately not to think of had a brother standing in his room. The important thing was Mycroft was none the wiser about his activities in the NSA. His kept secret fell away when the serious expression returned, all business and calm.

"Your sister is in hospital. I've a car waiting outside to take us there. It may have been Moriarty's doing. Must you be told anything else?"

He went with Mycroft.

/

Two days later

Inspector Lestrade paced back and forth impatiently from one end of the basement morgue to the other. An anonymous tip leading to an exhumation order, expedited by a certain government official he highly suspected he knew. Here he was with Molly Hooper and several of his men, waiting for the result. Had he been miraculously fooled for half a year? If anyone could fake their death and get away with it, he supposed it would be Sherlock Holmes.

The lid of the casket finally removed, it became clear he fooled them all. The casket was empty. His eyes roamed along the interior where a body belonged in irritation and relief. He'd been tricked, but his friend was alive. He still had opportunity to apologize for doubting Sherlock like a right prick.

"Well if he's not in there, then where in the bloody hell is he?"

His gaze found Molly quite by accident, and he saw the lack of astonishment on her face. In fact, there wasn't a hint of surprise or happiness upon learning there wasn't a body in the casket and Sherlock was alive. He prided himself on being pretty decent at detecting and this was no exception.

"Molly, you knew. All this time you knew Sherlock wasn't in there."

Her eyes were wide as saucers and she stuttered over whatever her response was to be. Lestrade would demand answers from her later, but for now, something far more interesting was occurring. Sherlock Holmes, dressed in the same long black coat and same blue scarf wrapped around his neck, strolled in like it was any other day.

Molly was still trying to form speech. A brisk wave of his hand in her direction and his words, shut her up. "Stop that. Hello, Lestrade. Looks like we can save the explanations since you've already seen I'm every bit alive and not in that casket."

"Save the explanations? What? Are you mad? Explain to me how that's possible!"

Sherlock had the nerve to literally try to wave him quiet as well. That really set him off. He'd worked an extra shift to personally oversee this sudden request for an exhumation. He would rather go home to his family than be conferring with an assumed dead man, no matter how glad he was to learn he was among the living.

"Now see here, Sherlock Holmes! I want answers. I want to know how- No, never mind how. I want to know why you pretended to be dead."

"A simple enough matter to work out. Now, I came to see you about something else entirely. I need to know what you've been working on with John. What have the pair of you been up to while I was away? That's what interests me."

"Oh," he shook his head from side to side in disbelief. "So because answers are what interest you, that's what we'll talk about? Right. Nice to see you haven't changed a bit."

"Mm..thank you. Now, John."

"John. Now there's someone who is going to be upset about you. He's been having quite the miserable existence, what with seeing his best mate die before his eyes. At least, that's what he thought he saw. Well, I won't be talking to you on anything that's between me and John. I refuse. Now go and tell John you're not dead."

"Lestrade, please. I need to know."

He'd said please, but it certainly hadn't sounded like he meant it. To him, it was the mimic of a word he heard used in order to get something. In other words, it was very much like Sherlock. And like Sherlock, he refused to listen. Lestrade eyed his co-workers while the returned man prattled on.

"Come on. Tell me. What could it be that would possibly endanger his sister? Because if it isn't Moriarty, it may have something to do with whatever John's been getting into in my absence."

It was nice to know Sherlock was willing to tell him something, but it was far from enough. No, he wasn't having any of this. Not when the report he was going to have to file would be a real headache, and not when John was still in the dark about his flatmate.

"Oh, so you know about that then. Upstairs, fourth floor, go and see him. We're done talking. I have loads of paperwork to do now and you, you would do well to lay low. There will be a lot of questions for you and answers will be expected for most of them."

Sherlock's bored look became..almost uncertain and fearful. This was different and he suspected he knew what was causing such an expression. It explained his skittish, rapid movements as well. Sherlock Holmes was nervous and worried about going to see John. Sherlock. It was a sight to behold.

"Room 407. Go on. Go!"

/

She was asleep. Harry had fallen asleep after hours of panicking and fear. He could hardly blame her for being so afraid. A man held her hostage in her own home and forced down drink after drink until she was throwing it up, and then he made her drink more. When she passed out, that was that. Clara arrived to discover Harry lying on the floor with a weak pulse, the medical bus arriving in moments. Clara hadn't called them, so either a neighbor caught on something was amiss or the attacker made the call. It didn't matter. John would choke him out either way when he got his hands on the culprit.

Mycroft hadn't hung around long after taking him to his sister's room, which he was relieved about. Although the two suits standing just outside the closed door told him he wouldn't be getting to do much of anything in the near future without Mycroft knowing. Sure, the men were there as a manner of protection for his sister, and maybe him, but they were also there to inform on him to their boss.

When he was certain his sister was sleeping without trouble, he let himself go. He expected there to be tears, silent ones. The quiet tears turned into sobs, however, and once started they couldn't be stifled. It was a culmination of events really. The past month struggling to put an end to the NSA mission he couldn't wait to get distance from remained at the forefront of his mind. There was the stress of keeping his distance with people either out of anger or need to keep them safe while he worked his cover. Torment and injuries dealt by Moriarty, and losing Sherlock. None of it was easy and almost losing his sister had him at his wits' end.

He never heard the door open but something made him turn toward it when he managed to stifle the loudest of the sobs. Sherlock Holmes stood inside the closed door. John turned back to his sister, wiped his eyes, glanced at Clara asleep curled into herself in the corner, and dared to look again. Sherlock was still there. Sherlock was standing in the room. It wasn't wishful thinking or his imagination run wild.

Sherlock stared hard at him, those piercing eyes boring into his very soul, and deemed it fit to speak. "Hello, John. I'm..not dead. Always been alive, you see."

John stood, walked straight over to stand in front of Sherlock, and sighed tiredly. "Well, of course you are."

He socked the other man in the jaw, knocking him to the floor. Another punch to the face ensured he was unconscious. Once certain he wasn't going to be getting up anytime soon, John returned to his sister's bedside. He resumed holding her arm tenderly as she slept.

The following morning, John had fallen asleep partially resting on the hospital bed. His sister was still out, but bleary eyes told him Clara was at Harry's side again. When she saw he was awake, her gaze moved downward to the floor before returning to him.

"Uh, who's the bloke on the floor?"

"Nobody."

"Oh my."

John sat up straighter as Mycroft came through the door and zeroed in on his brother's prone form. Scratch that. His brother's shifting and waking form. The querying eyes moved over to John.

"I thought it best he reveal he was in fact alive in front of witnesses to prevent unnecessary trauma. It seems it did not prevent you from believing he was not real? Or wait... Ah. What did he say?"

"His exact words?" He didn't wait for a response, just repeated what he'd been told automatically. "Hello, John. I'm not dead. There was a bit more, hardly worth mentioning. Guess I hit him harder than I thought. Well-deserved though."

"That I don't doubt," Mycroft said, even as he stooped to pull his brother straight.

Sherlock pushed his brother away to stand stiffly, facing John as though waiting for something. He caught the frown starting to grow on his not dead friend and turned away with internal disgust. His own face remained neutral despite his feelings, unwilling to show Sherlock his unhappiness.

"I hope you don't expect anything from me. The damage is done."

"Why are you upset? I'm the one who had to fake my death and spend six boringly dull months making sure no one knew I was alive. I did that to keep you safe, keep everyone safe. What's the problem?"

"Sherlock..." Mycroft started.

John gritted his teeth and refocused on watching his sister. She appeared peaceful but he knew there was likely a war going on in her mind. A part of her that desired rest and solitude, and the part that wouldn't let her and would persistently remind of the damage done. It was unavoidable. He took her hand and squeezed it in order to reassure himself as well as her that they were together and safe. Clara, meanwhile, was beginning to look alarmed. He gave her a look of assurance that it was okay and she made to try and ignore everyone in the room, save for Harry.

"What? Stop being so sensitive. Yes, you thought I was dead. Yes, I'm sure the emotional ramifications of that are significant. But your sister has been attacked and we should get to the bottom of it."

"I find out you're alive and all you want to do is solve another mystery?" His eyes were glued on Clara soothingly brushing the hair away from Harry's face.

"Yes, well, no, not only. But John, time could be of the essence and so-"

"My sister is lying in hospital. She almost died. How can you act like this? Be so cold?"

He felt like he very much already had this conversation with Sherlock but he was honestly hoping somehow, in his absence, maybe his friend learned a thing or two about the real world. He wasn't so lucky. Sherlock had the tenacity to sound impatient with him.

"By understanding I can't change anything simply by feeling more."

"Really now. And people think I'm cold-blooded."

John froze, completely. He wasn't breathing. Slowly he turned round to find Jim Moriarty standing at the door. When he caught John's gaze, he smirked. The men stationed outside the hospital room must have left sometime while he was asleep, because no one did anything as the criminal sauntered into the room. Until Sherlock did. Moriarty made the mistake of thinking he could approach John, and apparently that was a no-no.

The criminal consultant was slammed against the wall next to the door by Sherlock in one swift motion. He held Moriarty there with a single arm pressed to his chest, the other flexing and unflexing, obviously wishing he had a gun.

"I don't know how you managed to pull it off, but I am more than happy to put a bullet in you, do the job good and proper."

"Ooooh. Terrifying," Moriarty mocked.

Making up his mind, he stood and faced the man who tortured him for six days. He never suffered more than when it was by this man's doing, especially when he had Sherlock taken from him. He hated Moriarty, but he had determined to never let himself be crushed to the point of giving up.

"Did you do this to my sister?"

"Why no, John. I did not. You would know if I had."

He ignored the stares coming from the Holmes' and nodded. "Yes."

"I came to extend my wish for your dear sibling's swift recovery, in the form of a gift. I suppose it's really for Sherlock. But..we know how that bond works, so a gift for him is a gift for you."

"What could you possibly give me that I would ever want?" snarled Sherlock, shoving Moriarty against the wall when he started to push off of it.

"Your reputation, as the one and only detective consultant," Moriarty responded as though Sherlock was being dense.

John realized the extreme anger permeating from Sherlock toward the criminal mastermind was for him. Usually Sherlock couldn't help but hold a little interest in the man who was on his intellectual level. Now he held barely contained fury and perhaps a glint of desire to inflict physical harm. He knew. He glanced in Mycroft's direction, wondering if the man had known all along his brother was alive and if he'd been the one to tell what happened to him.

"Oh, please," Sherlock said, staring down at Moriarty with great disdain. "If you clear my name it is for selfish reasons. Perhaps so you can play another one of your games with me. I won't play."

Moriarty gave nothing away, choosing to ignore the man holding him to the wall to observe Clara speaking softly to Harry, lips grazing her cheek. John had to hand it to the woman. She was adept at blocking out the drama unfolding in the room. He supposed there was the benefit she didn't understand it and none of it mattered to her. In his case, all of it mattered very much to him and he wished it didn't.

"Ordinary people are adorable sometimes, aren't they? So raw and honest. So..sweetly innocent and naive."

Condescending tone, check. Directed to the two women in the room, strange. John could see Sherlock was wondering about his not being equated with the other "regular" people as well. Moriarty took pleasure in reminding Sherlock that he was only a pet and nothing more. Still, John didn't like the way he was talking.

"You're a devil," he informed the devious man.

He grinned at John, ready with a response. "And you're a doctor. Guess we can't always avoid the inevitable, Dr. Faust."

John stared. A clever allusion to a story he liked. Moriarty was familiar with the story. Two vastly different people with a similar taste in stories. He never thought he would have something in common with Jim Moriarty.

When he felt the beginnings of a smile form on his lips, he turned away, reminding himself of his sister's poor condition. He didn't have to look to know Sherlock was frowning between the two of them. Mycroft would bear a neutral expression as always.

The entire building shook. At least the entirety of this half of the building. Car alarms began to go off and Clara popped out of the seat to go peer out the window. Mycroft walked over to her, pausing when Moriarty's drawling voice followed the explosion.

"Whoops!" High-pitched and echoing falseness. "Looks like I left something in the parking lot. May be some injured folk down there wondering what, oh what might have happened. Fun stuff, eh? Better go let someone see me so the vultures know who to write about. I did sign my name but the media can be awfully daft. I'll be seeing you, Sherlock. Your decision to sacrifice yourself for your friends means you're pure. That gives you so many delightful weaknesses. Bye, John!"

He followed John's farewell with a wink and this time Sherlock had to restrain him when he made to go after the bastard. He was in pieces and he never wanted to be. Not in front of emotionally repressed people like Mycroft and Sherlock. Not when his sister was lying as still as the grave she'd almost been put in with the percentage of alcohol detected in her system. Not when Sherlock was alive and well and still a target for Moriarty's stupid games that got people killed.

John wasn't certain when the restraining arms became an embrace. He noticed when things seemed to almost slow down for him. Clara was at the window, mortified expression telling how horrible the scene outside must be. Mycroft was on his phone barking orders, yet serene. How did he manage that?

Sherlock lowered his head, speaking into his ear. "Home."

What was Sherlock saying? There were people running to and fro in the hallway. Shouts and screams could be heard, seemingly from every direction. It occurred to him that as a doctor he could lend a hand to the chaos reigning outside, but he was moving for the exit. How was he moving to the exit? Oh, Sherlock was guiding him toward the quickest way out of the building. An emergency exit loomed ahead and he meant to scold and tell him they shouldn't set off the alarm, but the words never made it out.

"Where are we going?" he asked, maneuvered into a cab.

It didn't escape notice, even through the shock he was experiencing, that Sherlock was careful not to jostle or touch the worst of his bruises. He did know.

"Home. We're going home."