Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he certainly owns my heart! Enjoy! Reviews are appreciated, and may I suggest you pay extra special attention to the background info, there's a hint in here about Mary's fate! And for all the followers and reviewers who have taken the time to read my work, Thank you.
Chapter Eighteen
"Mycroft, and Coming Out"
John was exhausted. So tired he couldn't focus his eyes. He was awake enough to remember that sleeping at the desk in the front room wasn't the most brilliant of ideas. Sherlock was still in his chair, fingers under his chin. Squinting at his watch, John thought that it was either extremely late at night or depressingly early in the morning.
That's it, I'm going to bed. He hasn't said anything in about two hours anyway. John struggled to his feet, one arm braced on the desk until he found his balance. "Sherlock, I'm going to bed, I'll see you in the morning before I leave for work."
Sherlock didn't even respond, so absorbed in his mind palace that he probably didn't even register that John was speaking to him. This trance of his was different than the one he'd been in this morning (or was it yesterday?). His hands would occasionally move, as if shifting images around in front of his eyes. And thankfully he was blinking too. John watched him for a few more minutes, appreciating that Sherlock was back to normal. The scare he'd given everyone still made John nervous. Afterwards, Sherlock had been acting extraordinarily normal. Normal for him.
Sherlock had scoured the grounds, determined to find everything he could. John had eventually put his foot down just after lunch. Sherlock was covered in blood, dirt, and smelled of smoke. John hadn't had anything to eat since the evening before. John had gotten a tiny glimmer of satisfaction when Lestrade had sent Donovan out for food. He still checked the food to make sure she hadn't done anything to it. Getting Sherlock to eat when he was working was impossible. Unless you just handed him something to eat while he wasn't paying attention, and he'd just start munching away. John had winced at Sherlock eating his sandwich with hands that had been picking up bloody shell casings all morning, but the man was eating so he shrugged it off.
The sun had been down for hours when Sherlock had paused his mad hunt for evidence, clearly tired, but unwilling to stop. It had taken John to point out that he was too tired to keep going that kept Sherlock from continuing. To everyone's surprise, Sherlock had looked at John, and agreed. Even more surprising was that he hadn't declared he was going to Bart's with the evidence. That had struck John as odd; why wouldn't he go? There had been hundreds of samples and baggies of evidence boxed up and shipped out to the pathology lab at St Bart's. He usually had to be reminded not to open them until after the police had logged them in, the techs needing to smack his fingers.
John hadn't questioned it beyond asking Sherlock if he was sure, that he wouldn't mind going home alone. The second they were through the door, Sherlock had showered, thrown on his oldest night-clothes and robe, and ensconced himself in his chair. John had deliberately not joined him; he'd taken his shower afterwards. Sherlock's hesitancy in the shower that morning had been very clear. John had expected it to some degree, and he hadn't wanted Sherlock to think he was hounding him for anything he wasn't ready for. For all that Sherlock was highly aware of the mechanics of sex, and his willingness to pleasure John, he had obviously didn't know how to handle anything past kissing when it came to himself. Sherlock Holmes was a virgin, to be very blunt. John hadn't much experience with virgins; he had gleefully gotten rid of his virginity in his teen years.
John laughed silently at himself as he walked down to the bedroom. Look at me acting like I'm the experienced one! I have no more experience being in a sexual relationship with a man than Sherlock has with anyone! We're both virgins this time around. Guess the only difference is I know what I like, and that it's ok to feel it. John didn't even bother with the light, just peeled off his clothes, tossed them at the hamper, and hopped under the covers. John knew what he shouldn't do; the rest would come with time. Patience and understanding was always the best way to go.
Sherlock came back from his mind palace as John went bed. His foray this time was more directed, he knew what he needed to find. He knew where he ought to be looking. That day at the chemical facility had been arduous, though he refused to acknowledge it. The threat on the wall, the fires, bullets and blood had all been signs of who was responsible, and why. It was seeing past the chaos to the separate clues that had given him the last piece. The threat wasn't directly for him, it was against the ones he loved. Sherlock was certain that these new enemies would not come at him directly, but sideways through the people in his life. Through John.
I missed one of Moriarty's disciples. Someone he held close in his confidence, someone who had an emotional attachment to him, or vice versa. It's in the wording of the threat, the violent acts. I just don't know who yet. I need a name. It's revenge. Otherwise these people would've stayed hidden, under the radar. None of it makes sense otherwise.
Sherlock heard the deep purr of the Jaguar as it slowed to a stop outside his flat. A single door opened and shut, and a moment later his brother let himself into the building. Sherlock contemplated heading to bed just then to spite his brother, but he needed to talk to him anyway, so he waited. Sherlock turned to the fire burning in the hearth, wondering what topic Mycroft would bring up first. The doctor, or the disciple.
Mycroft paused in the door, taking off his coat, gloves. He eyed the still form of his little brother, neither of them speaking. Sherlock didn't even cast a glance his way until he sat opposite him in John's chair. Sherlock waited, knowing that his refusal to speak first would make Mycroft come to the point all the quicker. He'd be more of a pain, but it would be over faster. Minutes passed, and Sherlock suppressed a grin as Mycroft finally sighed in annoyance and spoke.
"Did you have fun, gallivanting about the river with your friends? With your Dr. Watson?" So it was to be John first then. Sherlock's involvement with the good doctor must be troubling Mycroft indeed.
"Hhhhmmm yes, 'gallivanting' is exactly what I was doing. Rather fun actually. You should have come, made a picnic out of it. Don't mind the blood, we have biscuits!" Sherlock replied, keeping his voice low, but the sarcasm high.
"Sherlock." His brother's tone was ominous, but Sherlock wasn't fazed.
"Mycroft." Sherlock looked his brother in the eye, and didn't look away. Mycroft's mouth turned down into a grimace, and he was obviously uncomfortable.
Sherlock raised a brow at his brother, and waited. Mycroft's face clearly said he had a lot to say, but didn't want to say it at all. He even started to fidget, his fingers picking at a tiny tear on the arm of the chair. Sherlock was in no mood to hear any lectures from Mycroft about his relationship with John. He had spent two years of his life away from the person he needed most in this world. He now found himself in an impossible reality where that someone loved him. Truly loved him for who he was. Not because he was their child, or a dream of love, or sibling to be tolerated. He found it to be the most precious thing he had ever experienced. And he would die all over again to protect it. Protect John.
"Mycroft. My relationship with John is none of your business. Save the lectures, the warnings, the doubts. You'll make us both happy if you do." Sherlock told his brother, looking him in the eye, gaze unwavering. Mycroft's demeanor settled, and he sighed deeply.
"This is most unusual, Sherlock. Surely you can see why it worries me." Mycroft's voice had changed, quiet in the peaceful silence of the flat.
"Tell me then." Sherlock made it a challenge, and wondered if Mycroft would take him up on it.
"I don't know what to say, truthfully." Mycroft paused, and looked away from Sherlock, to the fire. "I never expected this sort of thing to happen."
"Why warn me against emotional involvement if you never expected me to get involved?" Sherlock almost didn't ask, but he needed to understand. He was having trouble understanding this new relationship himself, as he had never expected it either.
"You frighten me, Sherlock." Mycroft's answer was quietly spoken, as if he didn't want to say it at all. Sherlock had no words, as he had ever heard such a thing from his brother before.
"If you were to lose someone you loved, who loved you back, I'm afraid of what would happen. Your control is sporadic, little brother. There are moments when I see the edge of insanity that accompanies genius. The danger that I fear is what would happen if you were to give your heart, and then have it broken. I thought my fears to be irrational, because you never showed an interest in anyone really. That Adler woman doesn't count, as she was more adversary than lover. The game with her was the attraction of talent and intellect. John is different. He has achieved the impossible. He has gotten you to let him into your heart."
Sherlock had never heard such sentiment from Mycroft before. He felt a flash of unease, for Mycroft's worry too closely paralleled his own. That without John anchoring him, Sherlock would become a monster like Moriarty.
"So you see no happy ending; I'm condemned to be either alone or a monster driven mad by heart-break?" Sherlock's mouth twisted into a bitter smile.
"Will you even have a heart once this is over? Better it would have been if John hadn't wakened it in you. He will be your downfall, Sherlock."
Mycroft paused, weighing his next words. His voice went cold, dangerous.
"Just be careful, brother mine. Madness runs in the family, remember. I will not hesitate to intervene again." Mycroft shifted in his seat, and gave him that sarcastic smile that was never too far from his lips. "Now, on to more pressing matters. Obviously there is a disciple out there that wasn't dealt with?"
"So it seems. I've spent a majority of my time thinking about it today. The only thing I can think of is that I failed to find all of them. I need to see my files." Sherlock told his brother. He ignored the implied threat from Mycroft, and turned off his worries to concentrate on the problem.
"Tomorrow afternoon. My place. I'll send the car," Mycroft stood to go, putting on his coat, picking up his umbrella.
"John as well, Mycroft." Sherlock added.
"Oh yes let's put everyone on the classified access lists! Fine, just let me know when. Try not to get in any more trouble before then, little brother." And so Mycroft left, slipping down the stairs and out the front door. The Jaguar purred to life and stalked out onto the streets of Westminster.
Sherlock turned back to the fire, wishing he could find some warmth from the flames. He didn't like the sensation he was feeling. His failure to stop all Moriarty's disciples could cost John his life. He felt doubt. Doubt and fear.
"Sherlock." John was standing in the door to the kitchen, wearing one of Sherlock's robes.
"John, I thought you went to bed?" Sherlock stood, walking towards his doctor.
"Hard to sleep when your boyfriend and his brother are talking in a small flat with no doors shut." Sherlock couldn't tell if John was upset, he sounded annoyed for some reason.
"Sorry, I thought we were quieter, I didn't mean to wake you." Sherlock was unsure of how he should act. His conversation with Mycroft had unsettled him. He just looked at John, and he had a sudden urge to reach out, to hold him. So he did.
Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, and rested his head on the other man's shoulder. Sherlock felt better the instant he did, the cold fading away. John returned the embrace, lightly at first, and then when he felt Sherlock sigh and relax into him further, he tightened his hold.
"You won't lose me, Sherlock. Anyone who thinks I'm an easy target will be sorely surprised. I won't let you become the monster that you and your brother seem to think you're capable of being. I won't let you." John said fervently. "And Mycroft is a rubbish big brother, by the way."
"You heard?" Sherlock didn't know whether he was embarrassed or not.
"I heard everything." John hugged his detective tightly, and kissed his neck. Sherlock shivered in response, and John kissed that spot again.
Sherlock was still sleeping when John's alarm went off. John had been awake for a while, just lying in bed, and holding Sherlock. He silenced the alarm, and carefully got up. Sherlock had been in a mood the night before, after Mycroft left. He hadn't gone back to his chair after John had found him in the living room. He'd come to bed, without a word, and wrapped himself around John. So John had just held him, both of them saying nothing, until the younger Holmes fell asleep. John's anger at Mycroft had just gotten more fuel for the fire. The elder Holmes had been outright damning of Sherlock's attachment to John, even going so far to threaten him with some reprisal if the relationship went badly.
What the hell did he mean by intervening again? Madness runs in the family? He ever thinks about meddling with Sherlock, he won't have time to worry about a disciple, he'll be worrying about me.
John got ready for work, being careful not to wake the sleeping detective. Sherlock usually never slept during a case. But then he never had anyone to sleep with before either.
Today is gonna be difficult. Mary will be there. Well, she might be. Somehow I don't see her working with me anymore, not after this week. I wouldn't blame her one bit if she left. Hell, she might even come to work just to make me pay for how I treated her. Should I even be going to work? What about Sherlock?
John dressed, grabbed his work bag from the corner, and paused at the bedroom door. He looked at Sherlock, still sleeping with his face buried where John had laid. John made up his mind, and went back to the dresser, and pulled out his gun. It was still loaded from the day before. He grabbed an extra clip, and secured them both in the holster he so rarely used. He tucked the holster into the waistband at the small of his back, glad he was wearing a belt. His jacket easily concealed it all.
I am no one's easy target. I won't let anyone hurt Sherlock. They come for me, they'll have a nasty surprise. Today is my slow day, I'll pop in, cancel the rest of my week, see what the situation is with Mary, and then come home. I've got plenty of vacation days built up.
John took one last look at the sleeping Sherlock, wishing he could stay. Responsibilities calling him out the door, John left, Sherlock not having stirred once.
The trip to the office was uneventful, John keeping an eye out the cab windows the entire way. A part of him felt silly, but he knew from experience that not being ready for danger was the fastest way to die. And dealing with someone who was close enough to Moriarty for the Holmes' brothers to call a disciple? Better to think them very dangerous indeed.
John got in well before his first appointment, and went to his office. The outer nurse's station was dark. There was no sign of Mary, and John felt equally relieved and saddened by that. He dropped off his bag, and went down the hall to the clinic's main reception office shared by all the resident doctors. The secretary was in, and the nasty look she didn't bother trying to hide made it clear that the news of his split with Mary had spread already. The television was on in the corner of the room, on mute, cycling through the morning news.
"Mary quit. Left a message this weekend on the answering service." He hadn't even the chance to ask, and the scorn dripping from the woman's voice was caustic.
He wouldn't even try defending himself. He had treated Mary badly, and he had nothing to say that wouldn't come across as insensitive. So he just nodded, and ignored her attitude.
"Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the week, and I'm assuming you already canceled them for today since Mary left." He stated, and she nodded, mouth tight. "I'll be taking a week's worth of leave then, I'll be back next Monday. Have a wonderful day." She nodded once more, and went tapping away at her keyboard, ignoring him like he didn't exist.
John turned to leave, but paused as his eyes noticed something on the television screen. There was no sound, but the image was fairly self-explanatory. It was a video of Sherlock and John kissing in full view of Scotland Yard, obviously taken by one of the people at the crime scene yesterday. It looked like a kiss straight from a movie, all impressive shot angles and melodramatic scenery. And from the time of morning, it had obviously been in the news cycle several times already. They just kept playing it on repeat while presumably an anchor was chatting about it that he couldn't hear. Seeing the kiss from the outside was a weird experience, and he found himself getting red in the face at the sheer amount of passion rolling off the screen.
Oh wow. That's equally embarrassing and incredibly hot. Coming out on national television.
Tearing his eyes away from the image of him and Sherlock lip locked, John saw the news ticker at the bottom of the screen. There was a brief line about a shootout at a local park in one of the rundown parts of town, multiple casualties, before the ticker started listing all the cases Sherlock had helped the MPS with over the years. John looked back at the picture of them kissing, and shook his head in rueful amusement before leaving the reception area. He heard the secretary gasp loudly as she saw the television screen once he left.