Chapter 2

Before Sherlock had gone to visit Margaret and Sigurson Holmes, before Mycroft Holmes had been born, Sherlock had done the math.

If everything went well and Margaret and Sigruson's child lived a long, healthy life, they would be an adult by the time Sherlock's curse was at its end. They would be around when Sherlock would begin his search for John Watson.

And that was something that Sherlock could use to his advantage.

After being cursed by the witch, Sherlock refused to let anyone know about the existence of John Watson. He feared that, without the ability to be in John's presence to ensure the man's safety, people would use it as an opportunity to use him against Sherlock. After all, the witch had correctly deduced Sherlock's weakness within seconds of meeting him. If someone decided to get back at Sherlock for one of his many transgressions and they knew that John was his weakness, there was nothing Sherlock could do to stop them or even warn John of any incoming danger.

And that terrified him.

So he resolutely kept his mouth shut about John Watson. For 500 years, he let his family believe he was alone - save the dead wife they believed he had - and he never mentioned anything that so much as hinted to another immortal being on this Earth aside from himself. He suffered silently - or even not so silently, but those were usually incomprehensible shouts of rage - and he kept John locked up tight in his memories.

But when the 500 years were up, he would finally get to show off his partnership to John again, this time in all aspects of said partnership. Times had changed for the better when it came to same-sex relationships, and so he wouldn't be sentenced to death or imprisoned for holding his partner's hand down the street or sharing a kiss in public.

It was a nice thought to have, but it wasn't something he would be able to have if he didn't know where John was to begin with.

So when Mycroft was born, Sherlock did everything he could to help sharpen the child's mind. He spent more time with Margaret and Sigurson and Mycroft Holmes than he spent with any of his past relatives, and as Mycroft grew, Sherlock taught him all he knew.

When he was younger, Mycroft was fascinated with him. Sherlock was one of his role models, and he did all he could to earn Sherlock's praise - much like Sherlock had once done for John. He strived to have perfect grades, read every book in the school's library and honed his ability at deductions until he was on par with Sherlock's own ability.

On one hand, it was interesting to watch a child grow into a man, and even more so to have that person be so interested in Sherlock. To be looked up to, to be held in such high regard, was foreign to Sherlock. He himself had never had children - never wanted to - but Mycroft seemed to be the closest thing to a child of his own, and Sherlock wasn't quite sure if he was up to the task he had presented himself with.

After all, he'd only done this so he would one day have the man's help in finding John. He hadn't intended on creating any emotional bonds that he would have to nurture.

But as it was, it was too late to take any of that back now. While Mycroft no longer followed on his heels like a baby duckling, he did still care for Sherlock. He showed up at the man's flat unannounced whenever he thought Sherlock was getting himself into trouble, he kept watch over him - stifling as it was - to ensure the man stayed safe, and when he'd gotten high enough in the government, he provided Sherlock with the necessary papers and background to look like a true British citizen in a time where it was becoming more and more difficult to just show up and claim to be someone. Nowadays you needed identity and birth certificates and health records, which Sherlock predated by many, many years.

Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship may have morphed and changed and taken on new meaning, but it wasn't all that changed from when Mycroft was 5 and Sherlock was 655.

0-0-0-0-0

It's one in the morning and Sherlock and Mycroft are sat across from each other in Mycroft's sitting room. Despite the hour, the man is dressed as sharp as ever, and if it weren't for the fact that Sherlock had made a living out of being observant, he would have thought Mycroft had been awake before Sherlock had called.

However, he's had centuries to craft the skill of deduction, and so he knows for certain Mycroft had been asleep when Sherlock called him. The fact that the driver had taken the longer route to get here is only the first clue of many to back this idea up.

It doesn't matter though. Sherlock is here for one thing, and one thing only.

"I need you to find a man." He says finally once they're both settled.

Mycroft's expression doesn't change, but Sherlock was the one to teach him everything he knew, and so he can read the curiosity and interest in an instant.

"I'm flattered that you think I can read minds, but I am going to need more details than that," Mycroft says, still keeping up pretenses, to which Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Let's not play these games tonight, Mycroft. I am in no mood. I asked a favor, but I will just as quickly demand it." Sherlock tells him, his tone letting the other man know just how serious he was.

"And why would that sway me?" Mycroft asks, to which Sherlock leans forward, a smile stretching his lips into an almost feral look.

"Because I will be finding this man one way or another, whether you help or not. You can either help me now, and I will return the favor in the future when asked, or you will forfeit your help and I will do this on my own. I felt it was only polite to offer you the option first." Sherlock tells him, his words dripping with false sweetness as he clasps his hands together on his crossed knees.

The two stare at each other for a moment as tension builds in the air. Finally, Mycroft gives.

"Who is it that I am meant to find?" He asks. Pleased with the outcome, Sherlock pulls a folded sheet of paper out of his coat's inner pocket and slides it across the table between them.

"Blonde, blue eyes, approximately 5'5", and appears to be around late 20's, early 30's. Most likely, he is still going by the name of John Watson." Sherlock relays as he sits up straighter in his seat. Mycroft looks the sheet over for a moment before meeting Sherlock's eyes again.

"Do you have any photographs of this man? While I appreciate your confidence in my abilities, there are many men in London fitting this description." Mycroft tells him, to which Sherlock's lip twitches into another smile.

"Oh, not just London, nephew. I haven't a clue where he may be. I suspect somewhere within Europe, but even that I cannot be certain of." Mycroft takes a breath at that, and Sherlock takes pity on him, pulling out another page from his coat. This one was far more important to him though and he clung to it, hesitant to give it up.

After a brief internal struggle, he slid the aged paper over just as he'd done with the first.

"It may not be a photograph, but I feel this captured his likeness rather well," Sherlock says, almost wistfully as he watches Mycroft carefully unfold the paper to reveal a portrait of John Watson. Even from here, Sherlock could see the curve of lips done in charcoal and the eyes twinkling with highlight.

"And just who is this John Watson?" Mycroft asks. Sherlock could tell it had been a question that the man had been holding back for some time now, but Sherlock would not indulge him in answers just yet.

"All you need to know is that he is important. Extremely so. He needs to be found by whatever means necessary." Sherlock says firmly. He submits to Mycroft's scanning eyes and curses the day he ever taught the man to observe.

"Hm. Of course. I'll do what I can." Mycroft assures, taking both pages in hand and standing along with Sherlock.

"I want to be updated by the hour," Sherlock demands as they both begin walking to the door.

"I will make sure that you are. Have a good day, Sherlock." Mycroft says, holding the door open as Sherlock passes through with a nod.

"Happy searching, Mycroft."

0-0-0-0-0

Mycroft is unsure whether Sherlock is aware of one of his only tells.

The ring that sat on the immortal man's finger had always interested Mycroft. If it were for fashion it would be worn on a different finger or even hand, but it was sat primly on the ring finger of his left hand. That's not even to mention that it wasn't exactly a fashionable ring to begin with. It looked to be a normal band of metal, not silver or gold or platinum, but well-worn pewter that looked its age, whatever that may be.

The fact that the man never took it off told Mycroft that there was sentiment behind the object, but there were no inscriptions or engravings along the outside, and if there were anything on the inside the only one to know would be Sherlock.

When he was little, Mycroft had at first had the idea that it may just be Sherlock attempting to thwart off any unwelcome advances from anyone interested, but as he got older that theory began to change.

Because Sherlock fiddled with that ring at the oddest of times. Whenever someone mentioned his past - questioned if he was lonely or if he would ever think of seeing someone - Sherlock would twist the ring around his finger and change the subject entirely. He always did it masterfully - to the point that Mycroft hadn't noticed for almost two entire decades that Sherlock was evading answering those questions - but the fact remained that there was something he was keeping hidden and that something had to do with the ring.

Sentiment. It was the obvious answer. While it wasn't Mycroft's strong suit, he knew enough about it after observing his peers as Sherlock had taught him to know the signs when he saw them.

The most logical conclusion to be drawn from his observations was that Sherlock did in fact have someone in his life. Most likely many, many years - centuries even - in the past. This was confirmed when he had visited the man on New Year and took the leap of mentioning this elusive partner.

And Sherlock's reaction - explosive as it had been - told Mycroft all he needed to know about the subject.

Sherlock had loved them, that was obvious. He had loved them, and he had lost them - most probably due to outliving them - and he was still mourning their loss all this time later.

Mycroft had been so sure of this theory that he'd felt the case was closed on Sherlock's mysterious past regarding his ring. However, when he called to have Mycroft look for some random man, with only a drawing for reference, everything Mycroft thought he knew about Sherlock was suddenly tipped into chaos.

Especially because Sherlock couldn't stop fiddling with his ring the entire time they were talking.

That meant that this man was important. Whether it be someone Sherlock had met in recent past or something more, Mycroft didn't know, but he already had quite a few ideas regarding the subject.

What he knew for sure though, was that this man was important.

And he was going to do everything within his power to find him.

0-0-0-0-0

Next to London, Paris had always been one of his favorite places to visit.

The city held many fond memories for him, the best of which being the times he hadn't been so alone. Even after the separation though, going back would always fill him with a sense of contentment and nostalgia.

Being there now, those same feelings envelop him and he sighs happily as he lies down in a huff on his bed and stares at the ceiling of his hotel room. Paris feels the same as always, but now there is the undercurrent of excitement and anticipation that he can't shake away. It calls of something yet to come, something big that will bring with it chaos.

And he cannot wait.

A smile stretches wide over his face and his nerves begin to vibrate with unspent energy until he is no longer able to lie still.

Sitting - and then standing - up from the bed, he moves to the window and looks out at the lights twinkling throughout the city at the early morning hour. Seeing as it may as well be night with how early it is, there aren't many people out and about. Even still, the streets aren't entirely deserted and he can see a group of late-night party goers moving together. Some had their arms in the air, waving them about, while others seemed to either be shushing them or egging them on. From this distance, it was difficult to determine, but in either case it was clear that they were all having a good time.

Looking away from them, he gazes back across the city and sighs. He knew he should probably go to sleep, but he was too giddy with excitement to even attempt it. He knew all it would accomplish was a few hours of frustrated tossing and turning, and so he decides a walk would do instead.

Grabbing his coat and scarf, he leaves the room and hotel. He didn't know where he was going to go, maybe a pub, maybe a park, maybe nowhere at all, but he did know that all of this energy wasn't going to release itself and so he had to be proactive about it.

In the end, he decides on wandering aimlessly throughout the winding city, letting himself become mindlessly lost. He looks at the mostly empty streets around him and remembers days long passed when carriages dominated the streets, and then he looks to the sky where the stars and moon were unchanged. He had always loved the stars, because as everything below them changed, they remained the same. The one constant aside from those cursed with immortality.

Sniffing, he shoves his hands into his pockets and turns around. He had already been walking for quite a bit and the cold air was enough to sap the excited energy just enough to allow the exhaustion to creep back in.

For now, he would sleep, and when he woke again, he would wait.

After 500 years, he'd become rather good at waiting.

0-0-0-0-0

Much to Sherlock's chagrin, the search for John Watson was taking Mycroft longer than he had first anticipated. Luckily, however, Lestrade had called within minutes of Sherlock leaving Mycroft's asking for help on a case that was definitely worth his while.

As the days passed, Sherlock ran all around London in search of clues and leads without noticing the passing of time. So far, there had been four murders, and if he was correct, there would be another sometime today. Probably within the hour. While he didn't yet know who was committing these crimes, he had an idea as to the why and was hoping to confirm his theory with the newest piece of evidence that he had gathered.

Deciding that it would be best to analyze this evidence - dirt left behind at one of the crime scenes - Sherlock hopped into a cab and ordered them to head to St. Barts. As he pulled out his phone, his eyes flickered to the date and he was struck for a moment to see that it was already February 2nd. Nearly a whole week since asking Mycroft to find John.

With a scowl, Sherlock shut the phone off. He had intended on warning Lestrade that there may be another murder today, but with his mood soured he was no longer in a helpful mood. His hands clenched into fists in his lap and he took a breath before raising his mobile once more and opening it to Mycroft's messages.

In his preoccupation with the case, he hadn't noticed the buzzing of his nephew's updates, but looking at them now it seemed that his relative had been at a loss as to where John may be for the first four days. It was only in the early morning of February 1st that there seemed to be any substantial update in which Mycroft was able to find record of John Watson taking a flight from America to Germany near a month ago now. Unclear whether this was the John Watson in question, he had had some of his men take a closer look at where he had gone since but was having trouble with that as well.

Not for the first time, Sherlock wondered if it really had been worth bonding with this generation of Holmes when it seemed he may have been able to do a better job of this himself.

When the cab stopped, he shoved his mobile in his pocket and all but threw a wad of notes at the cabbie before leaving the cab and striding into the building. He moved without thinking to the lab, still more preoccupied with his thoughts of John and the abysmal search that Mycroft was conducting. It was only as he walked into one of the labs and saw Molly raise her head in surprise that he was able to put the thoughts on hold and focus back on the case.

"Ah, Molly, perfect." He starts, strutting over to a stool and pulling it up in front of a microscope. Pulling out the evidence bag of dirt, he places it on the table and looks at the woman who was wearing her usual flustered look of infatuation.

"Sherlock, I-I wasn't expecting to see you today. Do you have a new case?" She asks eyeing the evidence bag and fidgeting with the hair at the end of her braid.

"Yes, I do. Black, two sugars." Blinking, Molly opens her mouth as if to say something. Her confusion is clear as day and only further irritates Sherlock as he sits down at the table.

"You were just about to go and get yourself coffee. I'll have one as well. Black, two sugars." He states, repeating himself slowly and clearly in the hopes that the woman would finally do something other than gape like a fish at him. He loathes repeating himself, just as much as he loathes waiting for Mycroft to wisen up and finally locate John, and so his bad mood is only growing worse as a result.

For a moment, he thinks that Molly has finally stopped receiving any signals at all from her brain, but then finally she is nodding and standing from her own stool.

"Um, yes. Right. I'll just... go and get that." She says before scurrying out of the room with her head down. She looks flustered and almost dazed as she leaves the room, but when the door finally shuts behind her and leaves Sherlock alone in peace he lets out a deep sigh of relief. He has little patience for the ineptitude of the masses today and can only hope that the case continues to be as thrilling as its promised to be thus far.

Molly Hooper's crush on him, while useful at times, was mostly annoying. On one hand, it allowed him to manipulate the woman into giving him access to labs and body parts, but on the other, she was barely able to speak three words to him without stuttering. He had half a mind to wave his ring in front of her face and let her come to her own conclusions, but there was no guarantee that she wouldn't assume - like many before her - that his partner was long gone. The chances she would redouble her efforts, while also pitying Sherlock's lost love, was not a chance he was willing to take and so he let her continue being infatuated with him and did his best to keep back all of the biting deductions he had made about her cat obsession correlating to her lack of a dating life.

Trying to refocus his attention on the case, Sherlock began pouring out the dirt onto a dish, and then took a smaller sample and put it onto a slide which he placed under the microscope. He didn't get very far into analyzing when his phone buzzed on the table where he'd placed it, distracting him just enough for his curiosity to take hold. Peeking at it - half hoping it was Mycroft and half hoping it was an update on the case - Sherlock smiled excitedly when he saw it was Lestrade informing him of another murder.

30 minutes ahead of schedule. Interesting.

Putting the dirt back into the bag, he stood hastily from his stool just as Molly returned with two mugs of coffee.

"Excellent timing. There's been another murder so I'll be needing you to analyze this for me." Sherlock says, gesturing to the bag of dirt on the table as he brushes past her. He doesn't bother waiting for her flustered reply and instead leaves the room in a haste. Stepping outside, he finds a cab quickly and gives the address of the newest crime scene.

And when his phone buzzes again, he doesn't even notice.

0-0-0-0-0

John Watson is as much of a mystery to Mycroft as Sherlock Holmes is. More so, even. At least the Holmes family have been able to scrape together a few details of Sherlock's immortal life. This John Watson, however, is new. Somehow, he is tied to Sherlock, and while Mycroft has a few ideas as to how, he can't know for sure.

Which is how he finds himself in Paris, awaiting the arrival of one of his cars holding John Watson, who he is told went along willingly. Excitedly even.

It's curious. It seems John Watson knew they were coming, or, if not them exactly, someone. That, or he has a penchant for the reckless which isn't something to be discounted so quickly. However, it does eliminate the idea that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are enemies. After all, people are not normally excited to see their enemies. That is, unless, he was expecting someone else.

There are far too many variables, and far too few facts for Mycroft to make any solid conclusions with, and that in of itself is maddening.

Hearing the slam of a car door, Mycroft straightens his spine, raises his chin, and emanates an air of calm and confidence that he has watched Sherlock do all his life. He feels it's a very good imitation and it usually yields the results he wants.

Listening to the footsteps slowly echoing throughout the empty building, Mycroft watches as John Watson steps in and eyes Mycroft speculatively. Not expecting him then, but still excited regardless.

Looking the man over, Mycroft is pleased to see that the portrait Sherlock had given him - one he suspects Sherlock had made himself - is a near-perfect mimicry of the man standing in front of him. While it hadn't been done in color, the sandy blonde hair and bright blue eyes are as Sherlock had described, and if it weren't for the cable-knit jumper the man was wearing, he might cut quite an imposing figure for such a small man.

"Not every day I get called out to an empty building in the middle of Paris." The man says in fluent french, his accent sounding native. The records on John Watson were all but nonexistent, but Mycroft would bet money regardless that, despite the perfect accent, John Watson had not been born in France himself.

"No, I would think not," Mycroft replies placidly in English, feeling safe and confident despite the many unknowns of the man in front of him. He knew that the guards placed strategically throughout the building, not to mention this very room, would shoot Watson long before he could ever reach Mycroft.

"An Englishman? To what do I owe the pleasure?" John asks in English as fluent and perfectly accented as the french had been. With a bright, cheery smile, the man's excitement only seems to grow at Mycroft's language of choice and there are so many variables and clues and tells that Mycroft is near to bursting with all of the information flooding his mind.

"I am afraid that is not something even I am privy to. It was requested, however, that I find you and take you to London." Mycroft answers, more for the reaction than anything. When he notices John attempting to suppress his ever-growing joy, Mycroft was able to disregard a few of his previous theories.

"I think I should first ask who it is exactly that sent you to find me before I decide on going anywhere with you," John says, shifting weight to his left leg as he glances around the room. What had been a poor attempt at hiding his excitement only seconds ago was now changed entirely to a calm, possibly even deadly, demeanor. It was such a sudden and unexpected shift in body language that Mycroft nearly experienced whiplash.

"I think you will find that the who does not matter. You will be coming to London regardless." Despite Mycroft's firm words leaving no room for argument or negotiation, John doesn't look all that perturbed or even cautious. Instead, there is still a calm confidence about him, contrasting sharply with the deadly undertone.

"I think it will be you who is going to be surprised when you find that to not be the case. You can try all you want, but I can assure you that I will not be stepping foot anywhere with you until I know who it was to send you." John said without even a hint of fear or worry.

With a frown, Mycroft curses Sherlock - not for the first time, nor the last - for not giving him more information on this whole situation. If he knew definitively whether John was a friend or an enemy, he would be able to accommodate accordingly, but as it was Sherlock hadn't answered a single one of his texts, much less his calls.

Which meant it was left to Mycroft to judge for himself.

Looking John Watson over carefully, Mycroft notices the hint of a leather cord around his neck. Whatever it held on it was hidden underneath his jumper and the padded material didn't allow any bulging to help him discern what it was. A quick check of the man's left hand showed no ring, and no signs of one being worn for some time, if at all.

Gathering himself, Mycroft allows a congenial smile to slip across his lips.

"How brave, to risk your life so needlessly. Though, brave is the kindest word for stupid, yes?" He taunts, but John fails to rise to the bait as he matches Mycrofts smile.

"It's not my life that is at risk, so I wouldn't know." He answers without hesitation.

"Oh? In that case, I suppose you believe it is me that is at risk." Mycroft assumes, scanning the man once more to determine his potential threat level. While he still held full confidence in his guards abilities, he was still clever enough to be wary of the desperate.

Not that John Watson seemed desperate at the moment. However, Mycroft wasn't going to allow himself the weakness of relaxing when tensions were beginning to rise. That was a mistake only the idiotic made. Calm and deadly was well and good, but cornered and desperate left room for unpredictability.

"Not at all." The words are said in a friendly enough manner, but there's an undertone of sarcasm that hints otherwise.

Silence falls heavy over the two as Mycroft decides where to go from here and John awaits his decision patiently. Finally, Mycroft tilts his head in Johns direction.

"I don't believe we have been properly introduced. I am Mycroft Holmes." He says peaceably while watching for the mans reaction. He gets it in the form of John's smile becoming much more natural and his posture relaxing.

"John Watson, but I believe you already knew that," He answers with rising excitement that Mycroft can see in the shifting of his weight.

"Yes. I believe we may have a mutual acquaintance; one Sherlock Holmes." And there, John's shoulders dropped and the relief was near palpable in the air. Mycrofts gamble had paid off, then, and John wasn't, in fact, an enemy to Sherlock.

"It would seem so. He's in London then?" Emotion is layered thick in John's voice as he speaks and everything is suddenly becoming sparklingly clear to Mycroft.

"Before I answer that, I would like to know one thing," Mycroft says, not wanting to give John all of the answers before he had any of his.

When John raises an eyebrow in a mixture of curiosity and impatience, he continues.

"How is it that you and Sherlock are connected?" Mycroft asks, umbrella held in a firm grip with both hands. The smile is back on John's face - the man is expressive, extremely so - and there is more emotion yet to this one. Glee, adoration, and from what Mycroft can determine, infatuation.

Or perhaps it was love. How tedious.

"Well, I believe nowadays he would be considered my husband," John answers, pulling the leather cord out from under his jumper. As it dangled in the air, Mycroft was quick to spot the ring that was strung securely onto it.

After decades of examining Sherlock's ring from a distance, Mycroft knew it well, and so he was able to see in an instant that the one around John's neck was an exact replica, down to the aging of the pewter.

Blinking, Mycroft felt every stray piece of this mystery slot together in an instant. That sudden rush of euphoria that followed an epiphany was familiar and welcome.

"So you're like him," Mycroft says, mindful of the guards still stationed within the room that should not learn about the reality of immortality.

When John's smile widens, Mycroft knew his words were correct. John nods in answer as he tucks the ring back safely under his jumper and Mycroft is left with only one question. That question, however, can wait to be asked.

Instead, he clears his throat and straightens his posture from where it had begun relaxing throughout their conversation. Shifting his hold on his umbrella to his right hand, he begins stepping toward the door, and consequently toward John as well.

"In that case, we best not keep him waiting," Mycroft says eloquently, not bothering to check if John was following behind him. It wasn't necessary, because not only could he hear the mans footsteps, but he could also hear the desperation as he answered with a simple:

"No, we shouldn't."

0-0-0-0-0

Their murderer was clever, but not clever enough.

Standing over the latest victim, Sherlock was able to spot precisely three mistakes their serial killer had made. With them, he was sure that even the imbeciles of New Scotland Yard would be able to find their man.

"Please tell me you've got something," Lestrade asks despairingly as he walks in, notepad in hand and shirt rumpled. Sparing only a moment's glance at the man, Sherlock can see that the sobbing mess of a family member he had been interviewing had been less than helpful and the DI was at his wit's end with this case.

"Plenty. For starters, your murderer is not, in fact, Leonard Hewitt." Sherlock reiterates - not for the first time. Hewitt was one of the main suspects in Lestrade and Donovan's books, but as is expected, they were both blinded by the data and drawing all the wrong conclusions from it.

"Sherlock, we've been over this, if you're going to make claims like that I need some kind of evidence-" Lestrade stops speaking as Sherlock stands and rolls his eyes, gesturing to the room around them.

"Look around you, Lestrade! The evidence is all around you. Leonard Hewitt is a woodworker, yes, and while that ties in nicely with the wood shavings left behind at the last three scenes, it does not explain the dirt found at the scene previous to this." Sherlock starts, pulling out his phone to show the text he had received from Molly.

"Soil and fertilizer, not unlike something you would find in a garden. A garden Hewitt, nor any of our previous victims, have. Now, who is it that we know that does have a garden?" He asks with a raised eyebrow. When Lestrade only stares blankly at him, he sighs in a mixture of disbelief and frustration.

"Giles. Patrick Giles, Lestrade. Ringing any bells in there?" Sherlock asks, tapping a finger on the mans forehead. Its Lestrades turn to roll his eyes as he waves away Sherlock's hand.

"Yes, yes, okay. Patrick Giles. He's the one with that massive garden with the pansies, right?" He asks.

"Oh, so you do pay attention then. Interesting." Sherlock mutters as he turns back to the body on the ground.

"You are correct. I believe we should be focusing our attention on Giles rather than Hewitt. While many of these crime scenes seemed to have been pointing the finger at Hewitt being the murderer, I believe that that is merely what they were manufactured to make you believe." Sherlock begins, examining a stain on their victim's shirt for a moment.

"Hold on a minute, you really want us to believe Giles did all of this?" And just when he thought he was getting somewhere, Donovan has to come in and ruin everything.

"What I want is for you to be able to do your job properly, but I see that I shouldn't hold my breath on that count." Sherlock snarks, not bothering to look Donovan's way.

"We get along just fine without you, freak." She says in answer, all but snarling.

"Really? I'll remember that the next time I'm called in. It shouldn't take too long seeing as I've nearly wrapped this one up for you." He says as he stands again to examine a shelf that had been knocked off the wall - not properly secured to the brackets meant to hold it in place.

"Oh please, as if-"

"Donovan, that's enough," Lestrade says tiredly as he rubs a hand down his face. While she doesn't look happy to have been stopped, Donovan does stop speaking which is all Sherlock can hope for.

"You were saying?" Lestrade asks with a pleading look that is almost pitiful.

"Sir, there's someone here for Mr. Holmes." This piques everyone's interest as all three of the room's occupants turn to look at the bobby tasked with giving them the message.

"Who is it?" Lestrade asks at the same time that Donovan scoffs and says, "Bet they're here to finally lock him up."

Ignoring them both, Sherlock's heart begins beating quicker without his consent. He thinks back to when he had checked Molly's text and realizes belatedly that there had been notifications informing him of Mycroft's missed messages. He had thought he would have had the time to wrap this case up and then check them, but something must have happened that required his immediate attention.

After all, Mycroft wouldn't send a car for Sherlock if it wasn't something he could call him about. He would only bring Sherlock to him if there had been a substantial update, and Sherlock could think of a few ideas of what those updates may be.

He didn't even think for a moment that this could be anyone other than Mycroft and instead moved to leave the room. After all, who else would show up to a crime scene requesting his presence? Surely not Mrs. Hudson.

"Hold on a minute, can't you tell me what you know before you go?" Lestrade calls after him desperately, but when Sherlock doesn't answer or make any indication of stopping and coming back the man curses and follows hurriedly with Donovan in tow.

"Nosy buggers," Sherlock mutters under his breath as he follows the hall into the sitting room and then out the street door. He squints as his eyes adjust to the harsh light of day in comparison to the dim lighting of the home and scans the street looking for one of Mycroft's cars.

What he sees instead is Mycroft himself, and Sherlock's mouth goes dry at the sight.

Stalking over to his relative, Sherlock glances at the car his nephew was leaning against before dismissing it entirely.

"Mycroft." He says in greeting.

"Sherlock. If you wanted hourly updates, one would think you would actually check them." Mycroft says with an air of indifference, though Sherlock can see he had been irked by Sherlock's lack of response.

"I thought it best if I did you the favor of waiting until there was something worth seeing. I was beginning to think you had lost your touch." Sherlock answers easily, though they both knew that hadn't been the case. If it had, Sherlock would have pestered Mycroft or even gone off on his own in search of John. The fact that he was instead at a crime scene told Mycroft everything he needed to know.

"I see. Well, in that case, I have called off the search." For a moment, Sherlock didn't think he had heard correctly. It hadn't even been one week yet and Mycroft was giving up?

"Really?" Sherlock asks slowly, skeptical. Scanning the man, he could see that his words were not a lie; Mycroft truly was giving up the search, but Sherlock was at a loss as to why.

"Yes. I have done all I can." Mycroft assures, and something about the man's posture, his expression, his words, niggle suspiciously at Sherlock's brain.

But he's too invested in this search to step back and observe as clearly as he usually does. This is John they were talking about. John, who he hadn't seen in 500 years. John, who was only gone because of Sherlock's careless, egotistical mistakes.

"Maybe I shouldn't have gone for the coffee after all." And in an instant, Sherlock understands. His heart stops its excessive beating and freezes altogether at the sound of a voice behind him - one he hadn't heard in centuries but hadn't forgotten.

Spinning to face him, Sherlock felt the breath leave him in a whoosh of air and his entire posture relaxed at the sight of John Watson standing in front of him with two coffees in hand.

"John." He says breathlessly, feeling both hot and cold at the same time and wondering if an immortal could go into shock.

"Sherlock," John answers, a smile lighting up on his face as he steps closer. Scanning the man, Sherlock eagerly takes in his appearance and observes every new piece of information there is to see. He looks unchanged from the last time he had seen him, and yet there are differences in expected areas such as clothing and hairstyle.

One big difference, however, that makes Sherlock's stomach drop is the fact that the ring finger of John's left hand is bare. There are no signs of there having been a ring on the finger for quite a while, and Sherlock sees that as more telling than anything John could have said verbally.

"Coffee really was a bad idea." The words snap Sherlock's focus away from the missing ring and instead on his face where John is looking regretfully at the two take-out cups with a frown. In an instant, Sherlock understands what it is John wanted to do, and so he grabs the two cups out of his hands and turns to Lestrade - who was staring along with the rest of the police force in a mix of confusion and interest.

Sputtering at suddenly having coffee thrust upon him, Lestrade opens his mouth to say something - most likely along the lines of how he's not here to hold Sherlock's coffee's - but Sherlock doesn't pay him any mind as he turns back to John and the two immediately wrap their arms around each other.

Even if John doesn't want them to be together romantically, maybe he'll be alright with staying friends.

"See, it wasn't so bad, was it?" John asks quietly, softly, in Sherlock's ear. Tightening his hold on the man, Sherlock shakes his head minutely and forces his breathing to come slower.

He wasn't going to become a blubbering, hyperventilating mess. Especially not here in front of the idiots of New Scotland Yards finest.

"It was awful. Detestable. Execrable." Sherlock lists, saying each word with more disdain than the last. John laughs at that and pulls away, still beaming despite Sherlock seeing the signs that the man is admirably fighting off tears.

"I see one of those books you read while I was gone was the dictionary." He says fondly, and Sherlock finds himself smiling back as well.

"First edition." He confirms, which elicits even more laughter. Warmth pools in Sherlock's gut at the sound and he does his best to commit it to memory. It was a sound that he never wanted to go without again, much less forget.

"I hate to interrupt-"

"Then don't." Sherlock hisses to Lestrade before he can say anything more. Any semblance of his good mood plummets in an instant at the reminder of their audience.

"Sherlock." John reprimands lightly, though he's still smiling which leads Sherlock to believe he isn't all that annoyed at Sherlock's rudeness like he once would have been.

Probably a product of their long-time separation.

"Sorry, but who are you?" Sherlock doesn't bother fighting back the groan as Donovan inserts herself into the conversation, pushing herself forward to eye first Mycroft, and then John skeptically. Glancing to Sherlock briefly, John steps forward with his congenial smile - another thing that hasn't changed about the man - and stands at what Sherlock recognizes as parade rest.

Which brings a whole new slew of questions to Sherlock's mind as he reexamines John in the hopes of seeing something new. However, his ability to observe and deduce is difficult when it comes to someone who is immortal and therefore doesn't change outwardly. While the ease and familiarity John has with falling into a parade rest screams of someone with army experience, Sherlock can't determine whether that experience was recent or not.

John isn't any tanner than is normal, and so that excludes him from any recent wars in places such as Afghanistan or Iraq, but then that begs the question of whether his time was served during the most recent wars or not. For all Sherlock knew, John had served in the American Revolution and he wouldn't be any the wiser unless he told him.

"My name's John Watson. It's nice to meet you." John introduces, though it did nothing to answer the questions that the police force had.

"Right, and what are you doing here, exactly?" Donovan continues probing. Sneering, Sherlock was ready to make a retort - one that may or may not have been a bit 'not good' - when Mycroft steps forward, halting his words.

"If I may. Dr. Watson has only just returned home after being deemed MIA during his time serving in Her Majesty's Royal Army and I'm sure he would like to spend some time reuniting with his husband." Sherlock is just as surprised by this information as the rest of the Met, but he knows better than to show it or question Mycroft's words. Instead, he changes focus entirely and turns to Lestrade.

"I already told you enough to be going on, Lestrade. If you need me, don't." He says dismissively before grabbing John's hand with only a brief second's hesitation and dragging him toward the waiting black car.

He wasn't sure how much of Mycroft's words were true - if any - and he especially didn't know how John would react to the last bit. They couldn't exactly hash out the details of their relationship status out in the open like this and so Sherlock wasn't sure if John would take issue with being introduced as his husband.

In 500 years a lot can change. With Sherlock having caused John problem after problem, wouldn't he have found after all of this time apart that being with Sherlock was more hassle than it was worth? What if he had found love in someone else - or even many someone else's? He had taken his ring off, after all, which may have been to avoid scaring off any potential lovers.

There was also the possibility that he was still angry after all this time that Sherlock had gotten them cursed and was only avoiding making a scene. Because John was polite. He was kind, brave, strong, and he would never, ever cause a scene in public if he could help it. Sometimes his anger could get the better of him, yes, but in this case, there had been 500 years to leave it simmer; 500 years for it to stay on a low boil until John found it time to reignite the light beneath it.

So what if they returned to Baker Street and John ignited that light? What if he shouted and raged and gave them both the closure of ending their relationship once and for all?

But as they reached the car and the driver got out to open their door for them, John squeezed Sherlock's hand and he felt his doubts slowly wash away. They weren't gone entirely, but they weren't at the forefront of his mind either.

Sliding into the vehicle after John, Sherlock almost didn't mind when Mycroft got in as well. The three of them remained silent as the driver returned to his seat and started the car, heading toward Baker Street without having been asked.

"Army?" Sherlock finally asks, unsure whether he was asking Mycroft or John that particular question.

"Not entirely a lie," John admits with half a shrug.

"As of today, John Watson was once a member of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers; only recently found after having been declared MIA. I thought it best if he had a background where he wouldn't be questioned too extensively." Mycroft explains primly, clearly pleased with himself.

"People are unlikely to bring up a topic that they feel will make a situation awkward or uncomfortable." Sherlock agrees, shifting ever so closer to John as he does.

"Precisely. Of course, if you had mentioned Dr. Watson was... of a similar disposition as yourself, I could have created a more thorough background. As it is, I will need time to provide him the proper documentation of a recently returned British Soldier." Mycroft says with a put upon sigh. Sherlock feels no pity for him however and only hums noncommittally.

"I'm sure you will find the time between toppling governments and having tea with ambassadors." He says with a wave of his hand.

"Prime Ministers, actually." Mycroft corrects, pulling out his mobile and tapping away on it.

"For all that you two are similar, the family resemblance really shines when you speak." John finally pipes in, amusement in his voice as he looks between both Mycroft and Sherlock. The two fall silent at the comment, but that only seems to amuse John further as his smile grows.

"Ah, Baker Street. Goodbye Mycroft, I'm sure we'll be seeing you again soon." Sherlock says in relief when the car pulls to a stop in front of the flat. He's under no illusion that Mycroft won't be back to question John's existence as well as how long Sherlock had been aware of it. However, Sherlock would very much like to spend time with John now that he has the chance.

Who knows how long he'll be able to after all.


Second chapter done, only one more to go!

What did you all think? Especially the part with John and Mycroft. I was trying my hardest to stay within character as much as possible, but I'm not sure whether I succeeded or not when it comes to that scene. Doing this story is really pushing me to write things I never thought I would ever attempt trying, but I'm happy that I am!

Oh, and the summary has been changed due to a request from a friend. It's not a big change, just a little tweak, but I think I like it more now than I did before.

As mentioned last chapter, chapter 3 is nearly finished. I don't know when I'll get it up, though. I'm hoping for about a week like I did with this chapter, but there's the possibility I may take a little longer that due to being busy with work and college. In any case, it will be up, it just may take a couple of weeks.