John paced across the living room once more, to glance out the window and down at the street, which was still empty.
Taking his sweet time, of course.
John wouldn't have expected anything else.
But that didn't mean it didn't try his patience.
At long last he caught sight of the familiar black car pulling up at the curb.
Finally.
He cast one last look around the flat, wondering for a split second if he should have cleaned up a bit, before quickly dismissing the thought. Mycroft wouldn't care. And Sherlock would notice.
A knock came at the door, and he crossed the room to let the elder Holmes in, nodding awkwardly and only receiving a brusque glance and a raised brow.
"I'm sure you're well aware that I don't make… house calls very often." Mycroft stepped inside, brushing past him. "So I can only assume that whatever it is you've called me about is of the utmost importance."
"Yeah, well, it is. Important."
The Holmes took stock of the flat, in all its chaotic, homey, slightly dusty glory, before nodding. "I take it Sherlock is out. And likely will be for the next…" He checked the time. "…Seventy-five minutes, give or take a few."
"Right. He's out doing… case stuff. I guess. It's just lucky he decided to leave for a while, to give me a chance to ask you a few things."
Mycroft smiled demurely as he made himself comfortable in the armchair. "There is no such thing as luck, John."
"Oh…?" John took a seat across from him, trying to decide how to best proceed, and whether it was really worth pushing the subject. "Well… anyway. What I called you here for is to… I wanted to ask you a bit about Sherlock. Back-story. Because, obviously, you were there, and all that. I want to know what really started this."
"You're asking me to tell you all the details of the horrendous struggles and grievous internal hardships of my little brother, hmm?"
"I'm being serious here, Mycroft." John tapped his fingertips against the arm of the chair, setting his jaw stubbornly.
"As am I."
...
The grey cloud cover had melted off, and the sun broken through, by the time Sherlock returned to the flat.
John was reading in the armchair when he came in, and glanced up, thankful for an excuse to stop trying to focus on the words, if only to have something to focus on.
"Hey, Sherlock."
He grumbled something about 'dead ends' and shrugged off his coat.
John waited until the detective had paced the room a few times, and ruffled up his curls in aggravation, before he spoke again.
"So… I take it you didn't find anything new?" After a few moments without an answer he set the book aside. "Look, I've got something I've been wondering about. Something you said."
Sherlock paused by the window, but stayed silent.
"Should I take that as an 'okay, John, go ahead'? Hmm? Alright, fine…" John scratched the back of his neck. "Back in that murdered girl's flat, you said something about… thinking about… er… doing something."
Still, no response.
"I can't just ignore that. That isn't what friends do, you know? I want to help you. …Sherlock?"
"Can we just act like I never said that?" Sherlock snapped, turning to glare at him. "There was a moment of weakness, and that slipped out, and it was years ago, and I never meant to tell anyone at all, and now you won't leave me alone!"
"But… Sherlock… that's serious… really serious. Having thoughts like that. I don't want to be in the dark about this. Especially now. What if you start feeling—"
"That's the problem, isn't it? Feeling. I'm so sick of it. It's distracting, and useless, and despicably human, and—"
"Painful."
Sherlock paused, looking at him in quiet surprise. John almost fancied he could watch his pupils contract in the sunlight filtering in through the window.
"I may not be a genius, but I'm not an idiot, either, Sherlock. Whether you meant to tell me or not, you did. You said something stopped you, but there's still the rest of this we're working through now. I know you try to pretend like you don't have feelings, but honestly… that charade kind of fell through the first time I found out you'd been hurting yourself. You weren't just bored. I know that."
"Stop. Stop it. I don't have time for this; I have a case to solve. I don't have time for friends, or feelings. I have work. I don't have time to devote my attention to anything other than the most important thing right now, and that is stopping Moriarty."
"You really don't want my help, do you? Alright. Alright, fine. I get it. Okay. I'll just… go 'care about someone else,' then. That's what you said you wanted, isn't it?"
Sherlock stared at his back as John stood up and turned away. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to speak, but no words came out. Then he set his jaw and looked down at his hands, which were clenched so tightly the knuckles whitened.
Fuck.