Disclaimer: anything you recognize isn't mine.

Chapter Two: Flight, Not Fight

Sherlock breathed deeply. The wooden door had changed colour again. This time, it was a brilliant red, with deep blue hinges. He prayed it meant his brother was in a good mood, because he needed Mitch to be. There was no way that he could face this alone. Not when the universe had stopped making sense.

He could have been ordinary and rung the bell, but if his brother was taken by a creative mood, there was every chance that he would ignore it. Good thing that his skillset included lock picking. The door clicked open obediently, and Sherlock rushed through, without bothering to close it. After all, any thief who came in would be disappointed by his brother's lifestyle. The man's eclectic taste meant that very little in his flat could be resold to any sensible person.

A rapid inspection revealed that his brother was in the bedroom, so there Sherlock bolted, slamming the door behind himself. The last thing he needed was for the man to decide to inspect how much havoc Sherlock had wreaked in his home and lecture him. Again.

Mitch (the name on his birth certificate might be Mycroft, but he refused to indulge their mum's idée fixe) sighed at his entrance.

Annoying as Sherlock found that habit, it didn't even occur to him to complain this time. Besides, he'd texted Mitch about being on the way to an interview that could prove fruitful not long ago—as always with any evidence that his profession was, indeed, the right choice. "You have to save me!" he whispered, getting in Mitch's personal space. The elder one might hate it, but there was no time or space for niceties when the very fabric of the world was crumbling.

Mitch rolled his eyes, which was rich of him. If Sherlock had taken his drama queen ways from anyone, it was from his big brother. Refusing to be Mycroft—the cold, calculating, manipulative man of their mum's favourite stories—he'd decided that an extra bit of flair would hopefully get the point across to her. It didn't work, but it certainly passed onto his sibling a tendency for flamboyance. "Breathe, Lockie, and then tell me what's up."

"You won't believe me. I can scarcely accept it myself," the journalist said, turning to stride across the room.

"Well, I can't help if I have no idea what the problem is, can I?" Mitch asked, closing the book he'd been trying to read. Good. This couldn't be solved with only half of his brain. Not when all of Sherlock's was overloading.

"JohnWatson," Sherlock mumbled, all in a breath, facing the wall and its collection of Mitch's earlier attempts at painting. Completely experimental, the artist himself would have said. Complete nonsense, their parents lamented.

"Loud and clear. If you intend to involve me, that is," his brother requested. Instead of a reply, he received a flying mobile phone, thrown without looking. It landed on the bed, one inch from his elbow. Sherlock hadn't even turned around.

His brother had a brain, he might as well use it. Sherlock couldn't say out loud what happened. That would have made it true…and it couldn't be. Not unless he'd stumbled into a candid camera show, but a hospital was hardly the place for such a thing, was it?

It didn't take long for Mitch to find John Watson's number. "I don't know who you're trying to conceal, but given the fact that you refused to change your name, the effort is quite poor. Anybody will guess that's a fake," he huffed.

Sherlock finally pivoted, ignoring his brother's disappointed moue. He didn't care if Mitch expected him to be cleverer than this; he wished he was just an idiot. He groaned loudly. As much as he tried to be reserved and snappish when anyone was around—he had a reputation to hold up—Mitch didn't count. "It's not fake, that's the problem. It was supposed to be just a job, and then…John Watson crashes into my life. And you haven't heard the worst part. He's an army doctor."

Mitch's eyebrow shot to his hairline. "That's…odd. Is that why you asked for his number? A relatable experience, for once?"

"He gave me his number. Because he wants to have coffee with me. I would have thought that he was mocking me, but I deduced him and he appreciated that. Before he knew my name. Who in their right mind likes being deduced, Mic? I have a lunatic after me!" Sherlock marched forward, snatching his phone from his brother's hand.

The elder one laughed. Which might be a proper reaction when the universe is playing a giant joke at your family's expense, but still made Sherlock's cheeks flush. How dared he! He wished his brother had been pressured into membership of a Diogenes' club. How nonchalant would he have been after?

"Why haven't you deleted his number, then?" Mitch asked.

"Because I need to identify threats to my sanity, why else? That doesn't matter now anyway. You have to save me."

"Well, what do you expect?" Mitch shrugged.

"You're about to leave."

"And it's not like you to state the obvious. Yes, I'm leaving for Italy in two days. I have to negotiate the loan of a few pieces for the Dulwich Gallery, but I still don't see how this relates to your Watson infestation."

"I'll come along, naturally. A few hundred miles should ensure that I'm safe from pursuit," Sherlock said.

"Okay. I will tell mum I need your help with something or other, as long as you tell me exactly why you like your John so much. Or you could do it…if you want to speak with her. The last thing we need is her dropping by your place again, in an effort to get back into your good graces, and realising that you've been absent for days. Neither of us wants to deal with it, do we? " His brother moved to sit cross-legged on the bed, back against the wall, like he'd done hundred of times when he wanted to be comfortable for a long, complex tale from his brother's school day.

"Have you been listening at all, Mycroft?" the younger man snapped. That was a low blow, and Sherlock knew it—he only used his brother's birth name when he was furious.

"Yes, I have. But I've also lived with you for the last twenty-three years. You can't have changed that much in the last two. If you were simply annoyed, you wouldn't come for help. You'd just verbally skewer the poor man to pieces, and if he still didn't back down, you have the ability to make him regret ever coming after you. If you're planning nothing short of emigration, it's because you don't trust yourself to actually refuse. So now you're going to tell me how fascinating this doctor of yours is. In detail." Mitch grinned.

"He's not obvious, for one thing. People's reactions are terribly predictable, but—he apologised. For hurting my feelings with a Sherlock quip. Not even exactly hurting, he wasn't spiteful, and if I hadn't heard those jokes for two decades straight, I wouldn't have minded. He should have been demanding I apologise to him instead, not joking." Sherlock sat down himself…on his brother's desk, rather than the chair.

Mitch glared weakly at him, but his curiosity won over the habit of raising a fuss. Pity. Sherlock hoped that it'd be enough to stop him from enquiring. "You said for one thing. And for another?" the older one asked.

"His hair. It would drive you nuts. So many shades of blond, that a faithful portrait would take ages. Good thing that he still has the military haircut, or he would look like the real life model of an angel, and as kind as he is, that's definitely not his whole nature. Thank God."

This time, Mitch smiled affectionately. "Come on, don't make me ask again. You know, for a journalist, you're oddly reluctant to put things into words. One last reason at least to persuade me that you should be as far from your Watson as possible."

"It's not my Watson." Sherlock kicked the chair. "But if you want one important reason he shouldn't be anywhere near me… Here's one that you really shouldn't need to have explained. He was an army doctor. Your trust that I could kick his arse if needed might be excessive. Not that I believe he's a violent person as a rule, or my deductions should have set him off like a whole shop ready for Guy Fawkes. But, well, I couldn't knock him down."

Blissfully, Mitch didn't ask why he tried that. Otherwise, a lecture about being aware of one's surroundings would be following.

"Fine. You're coming. I can't in all good conscience leave you here knowing that if you do accept that coffee, it might eventually devolve into a brawl. Jesus, only you could manage to find this man. Though mum would undoubtedly say you should have expected that. Fate finds a way, and all that."

"Which is the reason you're not going to mention any of this to her. Or I swear that I'll call you Mycroft to your dying day, brother dear," Sherlock hissed.

"Oh please. Give me some credit. If I wanted to ruin your life, I'd find a much more elegant way."