Sorry this took so long, school's been a bit hectic

Life does that, apparently


A little over three years since the death of his Sherlock and Dr John Watson of 5th Northumberland Fusiliers decides that life would be much easier were he unconscious. So he faints.

When he comes to he's just confused at not waking up in his own bed. And why exactly does his head this much? It takes a few seconds for anything resembling concentration to penetrate his brain, when it does, he remembers. He remembers and sits up so fast that he almost vomits.

Some part of his brain registers a probable concussion but it's not important right now. His head's not important, where he is is not important, not even his family's that important right now. The person standing by the window is important. The person standing by the window is so important that it hurts.

It's not a phrase, it's not an affectation or metaphor. The man by the window makes him hurt, Sherlock Holmes is making him hurt all over again, making the concrete at his core as heavy as it ever was. Making that concrete pull him down, down towards the breaking. Again.

Bastard.

Sherlock realises that John's awake and walks towards him, probably to check that he's not about to faint again. Sherlock Holmes is walking towards him. His Sherlock. His dead, bleeding, beaten Sherlock is walking towards him. And John can't handle it. He can't handle this at all.

When Sherlock kneels down in front of him, hands reaching out to check the sore spot on his head, John snaps. It's not a loud, clean snap. It's quiet and it compounds and it fractures and shatters, cracks spreading like wildfire along the bone. John Watson snaps more quietly and efficiently than he ever has in his entire life. And as John Watson snaps, so does Sherlock's nose, helped along by John's fist.

Some part of John -the kind compassionate, rational part- registers what he's done, registers that he's just attacked his best friend and that's not right. But a bigger part –the part of hurt and rage and fury and such pain- roars back, shouts the smaller part into submission. Sherlock attacked him. Attacked him more efficiently and more painfully than John could ever hope to do back to him. Sherlock's been attacking John for fucking years now.

Sherlock's on the floor, holding a hand to his face to try and stop the bleeding. He's pleading, pleading with John to calm down, to please just stop, please just listen, that there's a reason, he promises, just please John, please just stop. Please.

John's fury alarms him, it alarms that small, rational part left in his brain. But the small rational part isn't in the driver's seat right now, please leave your name and number and we'll get back to you. The fury makes John snarl at the prone figure on the ground. How could he do this to him? Does he have a fucking clue what it's been like? What it is Sherlock did to him, what he did to Mycroft and did Mycroft know? And just what the fuck did he think he was doing and Oh God he can't fucking handle this, it's too much and he has a son now and a wife and what the fuck is he meant to do about that? Because Sherlock can't just fit there in that life and even if he could John doesn't want him to, not now, he can't. Can't handle. He just can't.

This is too much and he's sorry.

He just can't.

John ignores the man on the floor as he staggers out of the flat, ignores the cries of the protest as he almost falls down the corridor, ignores the pleas and the concern as he wrenches himself down the stairs. If he ignores it, he doesn't have to deal with it. Doesn't have to deal with the pain in his chest or the concrete at his core. Doesn't have to deal with the shakes and the voice of recrimination as his fury and his adrenalin wears off. Doesn't have to deal with the fact that all those tears and sobs and dry heaving and grief was all absolute bullshit.

John ignores the yelling man as the leaves the block of flats.

He ignores Mycroft as well, ignores his words, his questions and his concerned tone. He ignores Mycroft until the other man places a hand on his arm, stopping him. He places a hand on John's arm and squeezes, just a little, just enough to give the impression of solidarity. John ignores Mycroft until Mycroft does something human.

And then John is squeezing back. John is grabbing Mycroft's arm and squeezing hard enough to hurt. John is holding and squeezing and then he's falling. Falling into Mycroft. And Mycroft is catching him. Mycroft is guiding him down to the ground and Mycroft is at the stage of Never Letting Go. John can feel it.

Sherlock Holmes' presence next to them goes absolutely unnoticed.

Mycroft sits there, on the ground, with John in that filthy estate. He gets his suit dirty, he puts down his umbrella and he holds onto John, and John clings to him.

Mycroft Holmes will hold John Watson until it is over. Until the sobs stop, until John can breathe and think and move again. He will hold him until the concrete is light enough again for John to stand, light enough that, with a bit of help, he'll be able to walk again. He will hold him until John goes home to his family, to his boys and his wife. He will hold him as explanations are given and arrangements are made. He will hold him until John is safe and then, only when John is as safe as Mycroft can make him, he will let go.

But for now, he will sit on the ground in this filthy estate, he will put his umbrella down and he will get his suit dirty. He will do something human.

Mycroft Holmes will hold John Watson until it is over.


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