Author's note: Something is going to happen in this chapter – I think.
I don't own anything.
Sherlock was used to waiting; for the next case, the nest proof, the next suspect.
And yet – this day proved to be the longest of his life.
Not only because they had to dig out Jim Moriarty's bones, but also because they might kill his brother. Because they might –
Mycroft had been with him all his life, no matter that he had barely been there while he had been struggling with his addiction. Mycroft had been a constant, and he might lose that constant.
And that hurt more than Sherlock cared to admit.
If killing Mycroft was the only way to stop Moriarty – to save the lives of his future victims – it had to be done; that didn't mean Sherlock would do it happily. His brother would die – die because of something that wasn't his fault, because he had been possessed by a demon –
He would become just one of the endless number of ghosts Sherlock carried around with him.
Most people assumed he didn't care when people died during his investigations, like Soo-lin Yao, like so many others who had fallen prey to their killers while he had been chasing another lead; they were wrong.
He remembered the names of all who had died because he hadn't been fast enough, just like he remembered the names of all he had killed.
And, somehow, despite everything, the unspoken words, the bale, the betrayal, the thought that Mycroft would join their ranks was simply unbearable.
And if he truly led the hunters to Moriarty's grave –
He knew what he would do, if he were them. As soon as there would be the least danger of Moriarty breaking free from the trap, he would ignite the bones. He would kill him and his vessel.
He knew it might be necessary; knew he might have to ignite Moriarty's bones and murder his own brother to safe everyone else. That didn't mean he would allow it until the very last moment, though. He had to consider every option before taking the final step.
Mycroft, the real Mycroft, wouldn't think much of his scruples; caring had always been a disadvantage for him (at least once he'd gone to university – there were other memories Sherlock kept locked away in his mind palace – of Mycroft comforting him after a nightmare when he was four, of Mycroft telling a six-year-old everything there was to know about pirates, of Mycroft explaining to him what it meant that their father had left – memories Sherlock chose not to think about). He would scoff at the consulting detective's determination to keep him alive at all costs; would tell him his life wasn't worth risking the country for.
But Sherlock knew better.
He had learned that allowing oneself to feel emotions had a prize, in his case, three years of isolation; but he had also learned that ultimately the experience could be rewarding. Not in a way Mycroft would understand – Sherlock had never got a single piece of information because of it, nor had it helped him solve a case – but in ways he could never have imagined when he was a young boy who decided that Mycroft must be right in not calling him for three months because he simply wasn't worth it.
Mrs, Hudson bringing him tea; Greg dragging him out of the street after his fourth overdose; John bringing him to bed once when he'd been awake for almost six days; it wasn't much, but it was enough to make caring worth his while.
And even though sometimes he wished he didn't – it would certainly make things easier if he didn't - the list of people he cared about included Mycroft.
John knew what he was thinking, or rather feeling, of course; his friend had always been better at understanding emotions, and he kept bringing him tea or trying to get him to eat and rest. He didn't succeed.
Cas happily accepted every cup of tea John offered him – according to Sherlock's count, he had had fourteen since they'd returned, not to mention the kettle he'd drunk while they had been gone – and followed Sherlock with his eyes whenever he could.
Really, the consulting detective would have supposed that a former angel of the Lord would be more interested in John than him.
John was trying to make everything easier for Sherlock, which admittedly wasn't easy; normally the consulting detective liked to be left alone with his thoughts before a stack-out or an arrest, and while this situation couldn't really be compared with those, the doctor saw the signs – the tense shoulders, the frown – that told him Sherlock would prefer some peace to go to his mind palace.
More peace than two brothers who bickered almost as much as they did and a former angel who drank almost more tea than John could give him.
After about two hours of waiting, Sherlock thankfully decided not to put up with the situation any longer – John had already begun to fear he would start deducing the Winchesters, and since they needed their help, that would definitely be a bit not good – grabbed his violin and stormed into his room.
Cas, who was once again coming out of the kitchen, although this time with two cups of tea (John idly wondered who it was meant for; Sherlock's cup still stood untouched on the table, and the brothers didn't seem very enthusiastic about his favourite beverage), stared at the door Sherlock had just slammed behind him with a frown.
Dean looked up from the gun he'd been cleaning, Sam from the book he'd been reading.
"Is he alright?" the younger Winchester asked.
John sighed. He hardly thought that "alright" was the right word to describe the state Sherlock was in, but he knew what Sam had meant.
"He just needs to be alone".
Sam nodded and went back to his book while he was brother recommenced cleaning the gun; Cas offered John the other cup of tea and the doctor accepted it, surprised.
"You looked like you could use it" was all he said as he sat down again.
A moment later, the music started.
John was thankful that Sherlock was playing real music, instead of just making screeching noises, then he remembered that doing so would probably only remind him of the many times Mycroft had dropped by.
Cas tilted his head to the side and listened for a few moments before saying, "Your friend is a gifted musician".
"Yeah" Dean said, looking up from the gun. "He's great. He always does that to blow off steam?"
"Not always. Sometimes he just tortures his instrument" John replied matter-of-factly and the elder Winchester shot him a puzzled look before replying, "You're lucky. Sam just makes a bitchface and mopes, and Cas just crawls into a corner and pretends he doesn't exist".
Castiel shot Dean a look John couldn't quite interpret, and the hunter shook his head. Whatever this meant, it apparently was enough to make Cas relax again; he gave the older Winchester a small smile which he returned.
John mostly made small talk with Sam for the rest of the afternoon; Cas was happy drinking tea and Dean seemed to prefer not to have to discuss what they were going to do.
They were interrupted only once when Mrs. Hudson stormed into their flat.
"Boys, I have you have an explanation for the – thing you painted in front of my door".
"That was us, Mrs. Hudson" Cas explained, politely standing up and smiling at her. "While I cannot explain why, I assure you it was done to keep you safe. And, while we are at it, you should probably put salt on all your window sills too."
"Salt? I just dusted!" their h – landlady protested. Dean, who had thankfully put away his gun by this time, stood up too and winked at her.
"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, and if I promise to clean up everything once everything's been sorted out?"
John saw his landlady blush once more and barely managed not to chuckle. Dean Winchester knew how to wrap her around his little finger, there was no doubt about it.
"In that case, I guess I can make an exception. Why don't you come with me and do it yourself? To make sure I am safe? I just baked a cake..."
Dean grinned. "Whatever you wish".
A second later, they were gone, and Sam shook his head.
"There is nothing Dean wouldn't do for a slice of pie".
"Yes there is" Cas said sincerely, and neither John nor Sam knew what to say, so they left it at that.
Dean came back an hour later, happily stuffed with cake. Sam rolled his eyes but Castiel beamed as the elder hunter told him "You might be unto something with this tea time stuff, Cas".
"Oh, and she's wearing an anti-possession charm now, too. I told her it was something to remember me by" Dean added with a cheeky grin, and John decided to concentrate on the music Sherlock was playing rather than on what the hunter was saying. There were some things he didn't want to imagine.
The sun set not to long afterwards. John was relieved. The consulting detective hadn't stopped playing the whole afternoon and he was worried. As soon as dusk had settled, though, Sherlock stepped out of his room and declared that "It was time to go".
No one answered as they all grabbed their jackets and followed him. Mrs. Hudson was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, looking at Sherlock worriedly.
He managed to give her a half-smile and assure her that "all was fine, Mrs. Hudson" even though it wasn't.
They took a cab to the outer fringes of the city, having decided to walk the rest of the way; while Sherlock had texted Anthea to let her know that Mycroft was to be occupied during the next few hours, they couldn't be sure it would work.
John hadn't thought Sherlock would find Moriarty's grave immediately, hadn't believed that the British Government had told his brother everything – in fact, he wouldn't have been surprised if Mycroft had lied to Sherlock – but his friend found the spot without any problems.
Reading the unspoken question in John's eyes, Sherlock said, "I was here before".
"Why?" the doctor demanded. It was Castiel who answered.
"To make sure" he said quietly, looking at Sherlock, who nodded.
So Sherlock had been afraid that Moriarty might come back on some level. And now he had, and not only that – he had possessed his brother.
Definitely a bit not good.
John squeezed Sherlock's arm before taking one of the shovels the hunters thankfully carried with them in their bags and starting to dig. Sam and Dean helped him; Cas and Sherlock stood at the side, ready to help out should one of them show any signs of fatigue. Normally, John as well as Sam or Dean would have complained; but since they all knew that this was not the easiest time for Sherlock – even though the Winchesters had yet to see his caring side – and that, somehow, he and Cas understood each other, they didn't say anything.
"Sherlock..." Castiel almost whispered so no one else would hear, "I promise you burning the bones is our last resort. We won't do it until we have tried everything".
Sherlock wasn't surprised that Cas knew what he was thinking and nodded.
About half an hour later, Dean shouted, "Got it!"
The consulting detective and the former angel moved closer and helped their friends taking the bones out of the grave and putting them into a bag.
"So now – " John started, unsure of how to proceed.
Sherlock's eyes blazed in the darkness.
"No we summon Moriarty."
Author's note: Something is happening. I am so proud of myself.
And there won't be many more chapters – I don't want this story to drag.
Dean flirting with Mrs. Hudson – I don't know where it came from, but I found it cute.
I hope you liked it, please review.