Why must he insist on these silly theatrics? Really.
Mycroft huffed quietly to himself as he shuffled in the cold, empty warehouse.
"Honestly, dear brother, if you are truly ready to stop wasting my time and just come out with it, I would be more than pleased."
Mycroft tilted his head over to the shadow that had been lurking in the corner since he had arrived in the damp and desolate place.
Sherlock stood from his crouch in the darkness and sauntered over to his brother.
"Really Mycroft, is twelve minutes all the patience you have to show me? And after all those nice little loose ends and errands I tied up for you, I must say I am rather let down."
Mycroft sighed once again, this time accentuating his annoyance with a further rolling of his eyes. "My time is precious, and more valuable than you can afford. What is it exactly that you want?"
Sherlock gave his pompous brother a semblance of a glare, "You know why you're here."
Mycroft gave a pretentious 'oh' and rocked once back and forth toes to heals in fake joy. "OH yes, the happy reunion. What is it that you need from me for this joyous occasion?"
His brother gave a deeper glare before biting his bottom lip a moment, contemplating his next words carefully.
"He left me messages you know. I want to send him one back. I need to get him into Royal Albert Hall on the evening of the fourteenth of this month, but I just don't know how. You know him, he would never voluntarily go to a concert. Especially not on his own. I need you to get him there."
Mycroft's eyebrows shot to his hairline, "You do ask for the difficult favors don't you brother dear? How do you propose I accomplish this?"
Sherlock rolled his head over to his brother to challenge him with a stare of barely controlled frustration. "Don't play ignorant, brother dear, It doesn't work for you. I think we both know more than well enough of the ample ways you get people to be where you want them to be. I don't care how you do it, I just need John to be there."
Mycroft stood to his full height and twirled his trademark umbrella once around before turning to Sherlock with a knowing smirk, "I suppose you shall see him in the audience then."
John took a deep breath of the moist London air as he stepped out from 221B.
He closed his eyes to absorb the sensation for a moment. The winds were changing. It had already been months since his tags had disappeared from Sherlock's gravesite. Stupid teenage delinquents. Still nothing much had changed. But change was coming, the winds were moving, the seasons were passing. Soon. Something would happen, soon.
Reopening his eyes, John had to take an alarmed step back.
Speak of the Devil.
John frowned at the black town car in front of him.
I close my eyes for one minute.
And just as the first time he had been abducted by these goons, the door was opened and the command was given just as clearly as it had been before, "Get in the car, Dr. Watson."
John shook his head, but stepped into the neat interior of the car.
Now this is not something I ever thought I would have missed.
John glanced over at the smartly dressed woman next to him. "So who are we working for this time? Is this another errand for Irene or are you working for the Big Man again?"
John had to snicker at his little pun, Sherlock would have enjoyed that one.
Anthea gave him a small smile in acknowledgement, but turned back to her blackberry without an answer.
Guess it remains to be seen then. This will be fun.
Once again John had to admit to himself that he really had missed this. The mystery, the intrigue, the excitement of just not knowing what was going to happen next.
Time to come back Sherlock. I miss you.
John turned his attention to the outside world that was passing him at a steady stream now.
Uptown. That's a bit of an improvement. At least I know I'm safe from being abandoned in the middle of nowhere again.
John's brow creased as the sleek car eased into a slow stop.
Royal Albert Hall?
Maybe he would be joining Mycroft for an intense interrogation during intermission. Of course the git would work even during play.
The door was opened for him and John was ushered out with a gesture of the hand.
Uncertain, John hesitantly approached the front doors.
"Good evening, you must be Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes has left very specific instructions for you. Please follow me to your seat."
John removed his coat for the usher to keep as he followed the elderly gentleman to a seat directly in front of what appeared to be the violin section, if the musicians busily tuning their beautiful stringed instruments were in their correct spots after all.
John cleared his throat and looked around, feeling more and more out of place by the minute. He was incredibly underdressed, and more than a little uncomfortable. Where was that insufferable idiot anyway? Surely these would not be the seats of Mycroft's choosing. John laughed at the image of the immaculately dressed man sitting among the general public with a distasteful scowl. That would be the day.
John's little amusement came to an abrupt end when the lights began to fade, signaling to the attendees that it was time to take their seats. John took one more glance around him. Mycroft still had yet to show up, but the seat on either side of him were still vacant, maybe the man would refuse to come until he would not be noticed sneaking into the 'common wealth' section.
John rolled his eyes at that thought. The sad thing is that he would do that. It's not even a joke.
Clapping began to roar in his ears and his attention was drawn to the stage.
The orchestra was full now. Men and Women all nicely dressed in black and white, holding their instruments lovingly and watching attentively to their conductor. John looked up to him now, and his hands began to clap along with those around him as the gray haired man bowed a few times before the crowd.
"Ladies and gentleman, we welcome you to the Royal Albert Hall. We are excited to share with you tonight our production of 'The Fall'."
John's breath caught in his throat.
Was this some sort of sick joke?
"We hope you feel the surge of emotion as we spiral into our harrowing story, that you hold your breath with us as we reach that fateful climax, that you breathe with us in rapture of life again, and that you feel as deeply through all these pieces as we all have before. Ladies and Gentleman- The Fall"
The bases began with their low notes and one by one the other instruments chimed in their places to leave the crowd clinging to their seats as the music truly grew and spiraled around them. John's jaw clenched with every note. This was sick. Someone had taken the worst moments of his life and had put a tune to them. Had encapsulated all the anguish,the confusion, and the pain into notes, and these notes were being played now by musicians who had no idea of their effect.
Mycroft. I am going to kill him.
John shifted restlessly in his seat as the inevitable crescendo of noise descended into the softness and stillness of the violins and flutes.
He was going to kill that man. He could feel his eyes on him even now. The bastard was enjoying this. This is why he never showed up for these seats. He had gotten his own seats in some far off high corner for the sole purpose of watching John's every reaction. To gauge him. To read him as he always had.
This was not funny.
John had just about had enough, fancy Hall or not, he was leaving.
John clenched his fist and stood, passing by other rows, he paced his way back down the aisle. He was done. Ignoring the disapproving stares and grunts of complaint John kept going.
Until a single violin sounded.
John's blood ran cold.
He knew those notes, he knew those sounds.
He couldn't turn around. Paralyzed. Frozen. He couldn't move.
The music got louder, more compelling. Calling to him, begging him to turn around.
John tried to swallow around the mass that had lodged in his throat.
Eyes turned on him now, not in anger, but in wonder? In confusion? John's eyes shifted around him to search their eyes. They were compelling him to turn around now. They were asking him to look.
John gulped in a breath, and did it.
He turned on his heal, a full about face from his military days. He would face this.
And there he was.
Sherlock.
Tears pricked his eyes and glassed them over.
He was there. And he was playing for him. Facing him, at the very edge of the stage as if he was ready to chase John down himself if need be.
He looked so alive. His cheeks were flushed with adrenaline and excitement. His eyes were so fluid, reading him and trying to speak to him in return. His elegant fingers moved constantly on those old strings, never wavering, as if they knew their place and their importance.
Sherlock.
He's back. And now he is never going to leave me again.