Cause the world might do me in
It's alright 'cause I'm with friends
Cause I'm giving up again
It doesn't matter.
And I'm feeling like a ghost
And it's what I hate the most
Cause I'm giving up again
And this time…
"John?"
John Watson was startled; he wasn't used to being so lost in his own thoughts that he wouldn't notice when Mrs. Hudson brought up his afternoon tea. But the familiar scent of a black blend tea and Hudson's crisp voice had grounded him back in the present.
"Thank you, really." He said rather quietly as she set the tray on the coffee table.
She sat in the empty chair across from him, watching him silently as he added one sugar and a pinch of cinnamon to his tea. "You've been so distracted lately," she pondered quietly. "Is this about Sherlock again?"
John bit back a sharp inhale and let out a slow breath, picking up his glass and sipping the hot confection in the uncomfortable silence Mrs. Hudson had so graciously put into the air. Yes, it had been about Sherlock, everything had been about Sherlock. Even when the two were at odds he was all John could think two had been through hell and high waters over the years, and sometimes it was hard to believe that the two had once been incredibly close. They were much closer to being mere strangers now.
He set the cup back down and looked up to Mrs. Hudson, who was a very patient woman whom he knew wouldn't drop it until he said something. "Yes. It is. But it's nothing to be concerned about."
Her expression suggested she didn't believe him and would be doing much worrying of her own on the matter.
"Well," she stood, both hands on her knees before folding together in front of her gently. "I won't push for details, I know how these lovers' spats can go-"
"He's not my lover!" He snapped, and this time it was the truth. It wasn't simply playful, bashful denial anymore. It was a painful admonition on his part that he and Sherlock weren't even on speaking terms anymore, much less being quarrelsome lovers. Sherlock left. John had never understood such truer words than those of the famous poet Edgar Allen Poe. "That years of love have been forgot, in the hatred of a minute." Or in this case, one terrible year and a perfectly timed falling out. Rather too perfect to have not been fate, and that had crushed him beyond belief.
"I apologize for lashing out," he spoke rather softly now. It wasn't Mrs. Hudson's fault, after all.
"Don't worry dear, I quite understand," she put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, a reassuring gesture, before tottering down the short stairwell that connected the upper apartment of 221B to the rest of Baker Street. And with that, John was once again alone in the all-too-silent room.
Try and hear me when I'm done
Cause I might just say this once
Seen this play out in my dream
It doesn't matter
Time for giving up the ghost
Fuck, it's you I hate the most
And there is no guarantee
It doesn't matter
The door opened downstairs. Idle chatter followed, too quiet to be heard from the upper apartment's common area. And suddenly Mrs. Hudson was peaking back at him from the doorway. "Visitor, dearest."
With that, John begrudgingly grabbed for his cane and stood, the psychosomatic leg injury flaring up much more often than it used to. He made his way down the stairs and seemingly glared at the all-too-familiar face of that girl. Mycroft's girl. The one whom John had been so accustomed to seeing as a precursor to Mycroft's whims. He knew how this worked by now.
"Where's the car parked?" He said tiredly, dragging himself down the last few steps as he spoke. "I can't walk very far today and I'm sure you're not willing to carry me."
"No, I'm really not." The woman let out a soft, almost inaudible snort accompanied by her smile that almost seemed to taunt him. "Doorside service today."
He sighed with a twinge of annoyance. It wouldn't have mattered where the car was parked. Again, he knew how this worked by now.
The two stepped outside into the chilly morning air. The sounds of the street seemed much more somber and almost unrealistic; a dead opposition from the usually animated and lively street he'd come to know as home over the years. And as promised, Mycroft's car was parked directly in front of the building, pressed dangerously close to the sidewalk as if to give John a small break as much as they could afford him. How comforting.
John and the woman got in on opposing sides and sat in silence for most of the ride. John had nothing to say, and the woman was not one to volunteer information. Her mysterious nature is probably why she was picked to work for one of the shadiest men John had ever met, and he thought about it often. He wasn't one to gossip, but he could never do a job like hers that required absolute secrecy.
He had been so lost in thought that he hadn't even noticed when they pulled up to a small corner cafe on the north side of town. The woman, who'd remained silent the entirety of the trip, gently patted his leg before he moved to get out, a gesture that was both understanding and encouraging, and it made him wonder how much she really knew about recent events. She'd never tell.
The cafe was rather dead when he stepped inside, making it easy to spot Mycroft at a corner table picking apart a blueberry muffin with a fork. He, too, seemed to have a rather lot on his mind.
As John approached the table and took a seat, Mycroft gave him a gentle smile and continued picking at his muffin. "I'm truly sorry to have heard about my brother," he offered. "He can be rather impulsive. He would have never hurt you on purpose."
John sighed. He did understand that, but no matter how many times he heard it, his heart was still aching. "I know."
"For what it may be worth, I much prefer you to that Lestrade fellow any day." It wasn't worth much to John but he did appreciate the sentiment, no matter how cruddy it had seemed. If Lestrade made Sherlock happy then so be it. He wasn't a bad man in the least, but he would be forever on John's blacklist as the man who took his partner from him.
John's silence seemed to encourage Mycroft to keep talking. "I do hope you'll still consider spending the holidays with us." With me seemed to hang off that sentence. "I truly have come to enjoy your company since we met."
"Of course," John answered too quickly. "It would be wrong to allow this with Sherlock to keep me from enjoying the company of my friends." Yes, he could consider Mycroft his friend.
"Excellent." Mycroft had successfully split the blueberry muffin in half with his fork and he offered one half to John. "You know, I was actually hoping we could meet at my place a week from today and chat over dinner? We haven't spent any real quality time together in months and I'm sure we could both use the companionship."
He wasn't wrong, John really needed to be more social. But something in Mycroft's voice told him it would be more than just dinner and a conversation. Perhaps that would be discussed then.
"That sounds lovely," he said, feigning ignorance with an unassuming tone. "I suppose I should expect your car to pick me up around…?"
"Seven in the evening."
"Right." John had now picked at his half of the muffin until it was a crumbled mess on the plate. He hadn't been in the mood for sweets. "Dress code?"
"Come now Watson, it's just going to be the two of us." He watched John as he demolished the muffin. "Comfortable, yet presentable."
Before John could speak, Mycroft continued. "It may not seem like much to have brought you here simply to invite you to dinner, but many of the things I wish to discuss with you wouldn't be appropriate for a cafe setting. While I'm sure no one here cares enough to eavesdrop, you never know who may be listening in."
That was true. John had often questioned why he couldn't have just text, instead of forcing everyone to take time from their days to entertain him this way. He often wondered if it was a show of power, displaying what kind of control he has. But the more he got to know about the Holmes family the more he understood it was simply how Mycroft felt safest. He knew his words were reaching the only people they needed to this way.
There was also no way he could justify a dinner invitation in a text, whereas in person his tone was questionable but clear enough that John could tell that there was more to it than that.
"I understand." John stood following Mycroft, both shaking hands as if they'd just made a business transaction. Mycroft's hand seemingly lingered much longer than intended, and John really wondered what was on the other man's mind. What threw John off even more was that Mycroft seemed perfectly himself, absolutely nothing was inherently different about him despite the odd gestures he'd received from the man. Perhaps it was better that way.
"One week," Mycroft said as John walked towards the door. And when he turned back to meet Mycroft's eyes one last time, he let a small smile creep onto his face. It made him feel good knowing he had a friend to spend time with.
This time I might just disappear.
