"He spends a lot of time at work..."
The rain was drip drip dripping a steady beat against the roof, matched only in pace by the beat of Sherlock's pale thin fingers tapping against the arm of the chair.
"Mm."
"Doesn't do much besides that. He's stopped dating."
"Hm."
"You know the way you were pestering me for information I assumed you actually cared." The elder Holmes straightened up in his chair. He could tell from his brother's half-lidded eyes and distracted mannerisims that he was indeed thinking about the topic of their conversation, but that didn't mean he was going to let him get away with bad manners.
Sherlock looked up at his brother, rolled his eyes and sighed.
"I'm sorry. Would you prefer 'oh dear brother, please continue I do so ever love the sound of your voice'?" He snarled.
"I'd prefer a better acknowledgment, yes." Mycroft's mouth was a pin straight line of disapproval. "Of course I don't really think I need to tell you about John, considering last night's events..."
"Would you prefer I had let him stumble drunkenly into moving traffic?" Sherlock's voice took on a protective growl.
"I'd prefer you'd let me watch him like I did last year." Mycroft replied. "We had him under control. You let him knock a man's teeth in and drink half his weight in alcohol."
"Well what was I supposed to do?" Sherlock leapt out of his chair, the man resembled a starving wolf with his pale features, dark eyes, and sharp cheekbones. "Walk right up to him and say 'oh hullo, I'm not dead so please don't start trouble'? No, because I can't do that, because there's still one last man out there with a target on our heads!"
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. Being on the run, or at the chase as it were, had caused his brother to regress back into a more violent and angry person. Sometimes he wondered what it was about the doctor that calmed his brother so, other times his scientific curiosity paled in comparison to the admiration he felt for the man that tamed the younger Holmes.
"I'm not your keeper, Sherlock. Whatever stupid decisions you make are on your head. By all means." Mycroft sighed. "Just remember, Sebastian Moran is out there. What you decide to do, take him into account."
"I need air." Sherlock hissed, and he was gone with the slam of a door.
Being in disguise meant Sherlock had to make a few sacrifices. Although he refused to change his hair, he had exchanged his usual coat and scarf for a dark blue hooded jacket and a pair of jeans. It irritated him having to dress so below his usual style, but being one of the most famous men in London meant he needed to change it up.
It was still raining, so he was grateful for the hood over his head. With nothing else to do besides go back and face Mycroft he opted for a more preferable pastime: chain smoking, and looking for John.
It was the third pack of cigarettes he'd tried to smuggle into Mycroft's house, and had only gotten away with it by hiding it on his person. His brother had already threatened rehab if he returned to more dangerous vices, so he'd taken extra precaution with this slightly less threatening habit. As he smoked he walked the steps of John's schedule, stopping by his new flat, the surgery where he worked, restaurants he visited.
Three cigarettes and countless scowls later, John was still nowhere to be seen. Sherlock had nearly given up, until he found himself hovering around the cemetery where he was "buried".
He wouldn't be here...would he...? He thought to himself. Perhaps. He is so different from me, this would matter to him.
He forced himself past the invisible barrier that had for so long kept him from returning to this spot, a spot where years ago he'd heard John ask for one more miracle. A miracle that whether John knew it or not, he had delivered.
"I'm late. I know. Of course you usually didn't notice when I was away anyways. You just kept on talking."
Sherlock froze at the sound of John's voice, ducking behind a large headstone and tucking his knees up under his chin, showing a surprising amount of flexibility.
"Yep. I always came home, and you were there asking me for your phone for the fourth time...it was always right next to your arm you lazy git." John gave a sad chuckle. "You could only exert energy when it was involved with a case. Of course when it came to practical things like eating or sleeping you couldn't be bothered."
Sherlock's heart was pounding with the thrill of being caught, and he found himself unable to retreat to a safer distance. He wouldn't be able to hear what John was saying unless he was close by, so he stayed.
"Last night, I took on a few blokes. I'm not going to lie, it was nice to have some action again." John smirked for a second before it turned into a frown again. "They said some awful things about you...those things you tried to make me believe, trying to keep me from missing you when you were gone..." There was a small sniffle and then John continued. "I thought for a second...last night..."
John's face grew confused and sad, and he stared down at the ersatz grave.
"I thought I saw you...but I'll never see you again. That's what makes me sad is that I'll never see you playing violin at ungodly hours, never see you blowing up our kitchen with your experiments, never see you ruining the walls with my pistol, never see you smirk or frown or grin like your heart might burst with excitement...I'll never see you again and that's what's rotten about all this is that I just found out that I love you Sherlock Holmes." John wiped at his eyes. "Yeah...well...next year...you sod." He turned, about to leave.
Sherlock's breath was caught in his throat, and his body filled with the same nervous excitement as it did when he saw a crime scene. He stood up, pulled down his hood and spoke.
"One more miracle?"
I really didn't mean for this one to be a two-parter but I got requests for more post Reichenbach and it ended up like this.
Thank you all so much for reviewing. Enjoy!