A/N: Pfew... I had a hard time writing this one! I would like to know what you guys think, so please leave a comment!

Chapter 3 – It doesn't have to hurt

Could a spark
Illuminate the dark
You did it all
You've always done

A false alarm
A light that blinds us all
You're heaven sent
But cold within

When you lose yourself
In a gasp for air
When it doesn't have to hurt
It always will

It doesn't have to hurt – Kensington

Although he was, to say the least, surprised by the arrival of Mycroft, John tried to recover quickly. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest, his hands began to sweat, But the last thing he wanted was to show Mycroft his emotions. He got up from his chair, chin up, hoping that the shaky feeling in his legs wouldn't betray him.

He narrowed his eyes and looked closely at Mycroft. The man had not changed much. Still the same neat suits, the slick hairstyle, the same stiff gaze and his umbrella in his hand. Yet, there seemed to be something different about him. he seemed tired, almost exhausted, as if he had slept very badly for a few nights.

As John looked closer, he saw that Mycroft was holding his umbrella more firmly than usual. It looked like he needed the umbrella to lean on so he could to keep his balance, which was strange.

Neither one of the men seemed to want to start the conversation. For moments they stood opposite to each other, waiting for the other to take the first step. The thick, uncomfortable silence hung between them. John searched for the right words to open the conversation, but nothing came to mind. After a few more loaded seconds, Mycroft coughed softly.

"Tea?" John suddenly asked. It seemed the only right thing to suggest.

Mycroft looked a little surprised and frowned slightly. Then, he gave a short nod. John walked out of his office and straight into the kitchen, trying to avoid eye contact.

Fortunately there was nobody there. He took two cups from the cupboard and switched on the kettle. Only then did he notice that his heart was still reeling, his hands still sweaty. He sighed deeply, trying to regain his composure.
The click of the kettle indicated that water was ready. John poured the hot water into the cups. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his somewhat superficial breathing. He leaned against the counter.

'Come on, Watson,' he thought. 'This is not the time to panic. You know why he's here. You know what he's coming to tell you. You already expected him. Panic is therefore not necessary at all. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.' John took a couple of deep breaths. He felt his body relax a little. For a couple of seconds, he stood there, his hands resting on his face covering his knew he had to get back to Mycroft. He took one last breath and walked back to his office, feeling a little bit more steady.

"I'm glad to see you found the decency to come here in person," John said, putting the cups of steaming, hot tea on his desk.

Mycroft had sat down, his legs crossed, his hands resting on the armrests of the chair. John took back his seat behind the desk.

"Obviously," Mycroft answered slowly.

His choice of words could not have been worse. A shiver ran through John's body. The Holmes brothers didn't resemble each other in many ways, but sometimes they sounded just the same.

"So," John started, not looking up from the cup he held in both hands. He tightened his grip to keep his hands from shaking. "You found him then?"

There was no immediate answer. John really did not want to look up but when he did, he saw the small nod Mycroft gave him.

Although John had been preparing himself for this for months, it still felt as if someone hit all the air out of lungs, as if the ground was sinking underneath him. He sucked in a breath.

That was it. It was over. Defeated by his last mission, died of an honorable death. The way he wanted it. Suddenly John no longer felt the panic he had first felt. He felt a kind of calmness coming up instead. It was what it was. It was the way he wanted to die. It was okay.

John quickly tried to regain himself and got up from his chair. He didn't want to know anything more. He wanted be alone. He held out his hand towards Mycroft as a sign of goodbye. "Thank you for letting me know. If you would like to excuse me now, I have two house visits."

Mycroft didn't move, his face looked puzzled. "Sit down," he ordered. "We need to talk."

"I don't think we have anything more to say to each other."

"Oh, but I think we do."

John started to lose his patience. He gritted his teeth. "I don't need any details, Mycroft," he spat.

Mycroft still didn't move but gave John a piercing look. "Dr. Watson, sit," he ordered again.

John felt the anger creeping into his body and knew that he could not control himself for much longer. Normally, he was able to control his anger. He had learned this during army training. But Mycroft had turned John's life upside down too many times now. The man didn't seemed to have no problem pretending that someone was dead, to let someone do the dirty work "for the governments' best interest," or to send one of his relatives away on a suicide mission. No, he didn't have any goodwill left for the older Holmes brother.

He did not listen to Mycroft. Instead, John walked to the door, opened it, and gestured him to go. "Leave Mycroft, now. Before I will throw you out. I know what you are going to tell me. I've been around your brother long enough, I am able to deduce," John snapped, walking slowly towards Mycroft with a threatening look in his eyes.

Mycroft looked up, straight into John's eyes. "You can't say his name, can you?"

Another rush of anger ran through John's body. Where did he get the nerve, of course he could say his friends' name!
But he knew Mycroft was right, as always. John always talked about "his friend", or "his brother." He couldn't remember the last time he spoke out his name. Sherlock. It even hurt just to think about him.

Finally, Mycroft straightened his back and looked like he was going to get up and leave. Then he spoke again, not letting go of John's gaze. "John, please sit down."

For a moment, John was startled. Mycroft spoke to him by his first name, something he almost never did. There was something about the tone in his voice, too. John couldn't quite place it. He almost sounded... desperate?

John decided to give in, knowing he would not be able to get Mycroft to leave. He looked away and sat down again behind his desk. He ran his hands over his face and closed his eyes. Mycroft followed John's movements and sat down as well.

"You know," John started, his voice sounding a little weaker then he liked. "I've planned his funeral at least a dozen of times in my head? I even wrote my last words to him." He sighed. "I hate to admit it, but I think even a little part of me feels relieved."

When Mycroft didn't reply, John looked up. He was surprised by the look on Mycroft's face. His expression was soft, thoughtful. He seemed to look for the right words to say. This was not the cold, distant man John knew. Sure, he tried to be. But there were small things that didn't seem fitting. Using his first name. The tone in his voice. The slightly sad look on his face.

An ominous feeling crept up as John looked at him, a feeling he knew all too well. "What's going on, Mycroft?" he asked, his voice slightly hollow.

After a long moment, Mycroft tried to regain his composure and cleared his throat. "I don't expect that there will be a funeral."

'Of course there won't be,'John thought to himself right away. 'Typical.'

But Mycroft continued. "We found him."

John gaped at him in disbelief, his eyes big. The words didn't seem to land. His mind was racing, his heart was, again, pounding in his chest. What did he mean? He didn't understand.

And then, like a bolt out of the blue, it clicked. They had found him. Not his body, him.

"What?" was al John managed to say.

"Sherlock's alive, John."

John ran his hands trough his hair, feeling the panic rush over him. "No," he stammered. "That's not possible. I don't believe you. I swear to God Mycroft, if this once again turns out to be one of your sick little tricks, I will destroy you. I will kill…"

Mycroft cut him off. "It's not. Believe me John, it's not."

There was a slight quiver in Mycroft's voice that made John believe him instantly. He clenched his jaw. How was this possible? How could this be happening, again? Suddenly, John knew exactly why Mycroft was here. He wasn't just here to bring the news, he needed something.

"You need my help," John stated.

Mycroft let out a small sigh. "That I do."

John considered this for a quick moment. Then, he rose onto his feet. "I want to see him."

"Obviously," Mycroft replied. He stood up from his chair, leaning heavily onto the armrests. John saw him wince slightly.

"You're hurt."

Mycroft took hold of his umbrella and stood up straight. "Nothing I can't handle, but yes."

"What happened?" John asked.

"Sherlock."