He'd come home with bruised knuckles and a face like thunder. For the first time, an inkling he'd made a mistake, began to form in Sherlock's mind.
"What happened?" He asked, concerned by the thought of a fight John had been in, that Sherlock had not. It was ludicrous, really. In the years he'd travelled, far from those whose lives his endangered, they could all have been in any number of fights.
John ignored him at first, stomping through to the kitchen and punching the kettle on. Sherlock followed, observing his trembling hands. John got off on adventure, adrenalin being his drug of choice. Sherlock knew he couldn't be scared or shaken. Rage, then. His concern deepened.
"You've been in a fight." He stated. John looked up, but said nothing.
Sherlock took hold of his bruised fist, looking at it intently.
"…Well, not much of one, you hit someone, hard…No, wait, not hard but more than once, without them getting a single hit in. What happened?"
John told him then. He didn't use many words, nor did he seek any answers, but Sherlock felt his blood running cold at his statement.
"I bumped into your brother today."
Sherlock stared, first confusion, but cold, sick confusion, followed by a flood of understanding and other things he didn't want to feel. In an instant, Sherlock remembered. He realised what John must have thought, what had happened as a result and more importantly, what he himself, had forgotten to do.
He left his flat immediately, texting with one hand, hailing a cab with the other.
"Mycroft, meet me in your office, fifteen minutes. S"
He had no doubt, regardless of what exactly had happened, that Mycroft would oblige him. The thought that day, chilled him to the bone.
John's choice of words regarding his meeting with Mycroft, were strangely appropriate. Neither John nor Sherlock, had seen Mycroft since Sherlock's return. For John, that meant he hadn't seen him for a few months. While Sherlock had been gone, he'd occasionally seen Mycroft leaving Scotland Yard. The two hadn't spoken, nor had they been openly hostile. John simply did not have the energy to be angry, through grief. For Sherlock, it meant he hadn't seen Mycroft in three years and two months.
They had communicated of course, Mycroft had been vital in every part of Sherlock's fake death. Sherlock had needed help, even with his return home and what to expect when he got there. He'd called Mycroft before entering Baker Street. He wanted everything to go back to normal, instantly. He wanted to walk inside, explain what it had taken to win Moriarty's war and reclaim his former life. Mycroft had explained, patiently, that his friends were going to need time to adjust.
He'd been right of course, it had taken a week for John to stop flinching on site of him. He'd been overjoyed though, it had been messy and emotional and Sherlock had hated every second of it. He'd even found his own emotions hard to keep in check, in a way he had not been capable of, prior to Moriarty.
In amongst all of the time spent, easing himself back into other people's lives, all the explanations given, stories told and forgiveness sought, by him and from him, Mycroft had somehow slipped his mind.
They'd spoken, many times. Sherlock had needed to ask for advice more than once. He was better at that now too. Much to their mutual horror, they were almost getting along better because of it. What he had not done, was remembered that before he'd left, both he and Mycroft had ensured Mycroft was the leak, who put Sherlock in Moriarty's power. If Mycroft held the guilt of Sherlock's suicide, Moriarty's henchmen wouldn't think he was a threat. It gave him the best possibly chance, of watching over Sherlock's world, while he was gone.
Mycroft had, as expected, performed flawlessly. The problem was that on Sherlock's return, John had been consumed with the rage that grief had been preventing for three years. Had Sherlock remembered to explain everything, including how Mycroft had been by his side, one step ahead of the enemy from the start, John would have had nobody to take it out on.
Sherlock could not have foreseen their chance meeting, but he should have known John would not forgive his brother for the betrayal he believed he'd committed, three years and two months earlier. Even as he stood, absolutely lost for words in Mycroft's office, he knew the person Mycroft was going to be angry at, wasn't John.
"Two months. Fucking hell, Sherlock."
