The signs are all there. Narrowing gaze, flaring nostrils, a slight tilt of the jawline, squared shoulders, and the ever telling taut fists. John, the soldier, is gearing up for battle. Thankfully not of the physical kind but a tiff is certainly imminent.
Not wanting to spoil his current excitement just yet, Sherlock preemptively applies a countermeasure.
Step one: avoidance.
After vacating Lady Smallwood's unmarked black sedan, Sherlock takes a moment to straighten his armor and readjusts the collar of his Belstaff. John stands at attention beside him, most likely waiting for Sherlock's coconspirator to leave before airing out his grievances like so much dirty laundry to the masses. Not much for public displays of antipathy, Sherlock steps forward at a steadfast pace and was bursting through both doors leading to his flat without further ado. A few beats later, he hears John gave chase, stampeding up the stairs heedless of the racket he was making. In so doing, alerting Mrs. Hudson of their return and no doubt waking up Rosie in the process. Just another sign of John's escalating need to 'talk'.
Even without a quick scan, Sherlock knows with a certainty of John's widening eyes and heaving chest just by the sound of his friend's billowing breaths, prompting the detective to employ step two: create a diversion.
He swipes up his violin from his preferred seating. Then proceeds to orchestrate an unfinished piece by the window whose arrangement has been stuck in his head for weeks. Since Mycroft happened actually. He stops abruptly at the realization. The rest between notes was not intentional. He omits from jotting it down on the score.
"Sherlock!" cuts in John as the opportunity presented itself, undeterred and full of discord to the composer's opus.
Sherlock makes a face and transitions to step three: parry and deflect at will.
"Yes! I'll have a cuppa. And don't forget the biscuits!" he states with a firm nod atop his Stradivarius and even shoos John with a flick of his bow to hurry it up. His guise of tuning the strings not fooling anyone.
John cracks the window of opportunity wider lest Sherlock decides to withdraw into his mind palace as the next course of action. His clever friend barely got two notes out when John rudely speaks above volume, "Of all the asinine feats you've pulled, this has got to be the most egregious!"
Sherlock's brow furrows in consternation, no doubt miscalculating John's resolve as the doctor steamrolls his point further, "Mycroft is missing and here you are, capitalizing on it! Your own brother!"
Unimpressed by both the interruption and the repeat chorus, Sherlock skips to step five: bludgeon the opponent without remorse. His weapon of choice, full tilt diva.
He gently stores his violin away, lest it be collateral damage and returns with verbal jibes armed and ready. Sherlock, eyes piercing bright with manic scorn, proceeds to meander about the flat, expectorating harsh truths wherever he goes, "I am a consulting detective! That's what I do! Or have you forgotten? You know how many times that lazy arse brother of mine drops by to freeload on cases."
Sherlock then exaggerates Mycroft's expression and posture before declaring, "Always pointing out how smarter he is but couldn't be bothered. Well now, the British government is my case! I can finally lord that over him for eternity! So what if I'm capitalizing on it, call it my finder's fee."
Belligerent to the end, for John has been cited by many good authorities including the famous hat detective himself as the moral compass of said friendship, he rejoinders scathingly to match the other's tone, "So professional of you. I hope you can live with yourself when this case closes one way or other. Need I remind you of Norbury?"
Sherlock flinches back as if physically assaulted. He had only told Mrs. Hudson of the significance of that word. What it meant to him, what it will remind him of: a check and balance of his own hubris. Yet, John utilize it to its full effect. Not because Sherlock told him so, but because the man was there himself. That word, that name, that person took Mary away. It was Sherlock's greatest failure not just as a detective but as a friend and guardian for Mary and Rosie. His vow irretrievably broken.
Seeing the effects of his words, John's contrition wasn't enough for him to stop his lecture. He needed his next words to hit further home. So he presses onward, though his voice gentles to soften the blow, "This isn't a game, Sherlock. Your brother's life is at stake."
The silence that fell between them was deafening. Not even all the creaks from the flat and downstairs or the road noises outside could permeate the suffocating weight of it. It was unbearable, yet John didn't know what to say or how to break it. For the expression on Sherlock's face, or rather, the lack of any emotions on it was alarming.
When Sherlock suddenly lurches forward, John prepares himself for an attack, thinking perhaps he might have gone too far in using such a sore subject between them to get his point across. However it needed to be said and John wasn't above using such an advantage. He stood his ground firmly and felt off kilter when Sherlock walks right pass him and out the door.
It was shock that mainly held John back. Not because he misjudged Sherlock's retaliatory nature but because of the expression that finally settle onto his friend's demeanor. Of all the response he reckoned Sherlock would exhibit, unadulterated wrath was not one of them.
"God help those poor bastards," breathes John to the empty flat.
It was long pass midnight when the silhouette of a familiar figure grace the elegant halls of the upscale Holmes estate. Without its current owner though, the staid décor and drafty rooms felt hollow and cold. Sherlock never cared for it much and finds the prospect of inheriting it revolting. Yet here he is, unwilling to flee the premise. A shiver racks down his spine despite his armor firmly secured. He blames it on the chill of the night's air and decidedly steps pass the threshold and closes the door with a resounding thud. The ensuing echo only stand to emphasize the emptiness throughout.
He should leave and yet his feet propels him forward to shut down the silent alarm system with five seconds to spare. Sherlock doesn't bother to shed his layers and hang them up properly. After all, there was no harpy of a brother to comply any social norms for. He doesn't bother with the lights either. Knowing the layout by rote, he finds himself haunting the halls and visiting each room as if to verify something he already knew. He couldn't stop the compulsion though nor heed the escalating pulse beat as the final door to his brother's chambers grew near. Surely it was all a test? A joke on Mycroft's part to even the score for the clown incident. Through those doors he will find his brother sleeping soundly and will wake up mocking him for his failure to see through the charade.
His hand pause at the knob then hurriedly completes the motion a second later. The mahogany door creaks loudly in the absence of other sounds. Irrational hope sinks to the pit of his stomach and wallows in dismay.
Sherlock should have known better.
The four poster was empty, the Egyptian sheets as flat as when his brother left them, and the black silk robe lay waiting at the foot of the bed for a master who never came home. He should leave. There is only one to two places unexplored and he doubts his brother would be so lame as to hide in the en suite bathroom or his walk-in closet for that matter.
He should leave, yet didn't know where to go. He had no plan, only a compulsion. Now that he saw it through, the usual satisfaction left him feeling…lost. Was this what Mycroft felt on the many occasions when Sherlock disappeared? This dread that latches on one's state of mind and leeches it…empty?
He couldn't concentrate, couldn't think pass the notion that his 'smarter than thou' brother had failed and is the one currently in trouble. What good can Sherlock do if Mycroft was bested by this enemy? What if he makes the same mistake? What will happen to… He couldn't finish the thought. In fact, he refuse to entertain it.
He should really leave, yet finds himself sitting down next to the discarded robe. The plush mattress sinks under his weight and his cold stiff fingers encounter the silky fabric. Unbidden hands grasp it like a lifeline and he buries his nose within its folds. Like a hit of cocaine, Mycroft's familiar scent scorch his senses and Sherlock fell back on the bed welcoming it, to willingly drown in the sensation.