A/N: Okay so here's chapter two! Please don't forget to review.
Work at the clinic the next day was dull, John mussed as he wrote out a prescription for some antibiotics for an elderly gentleman, the gentleman had cut himself and managed to get the cut infected (which, judging by his hygiene levels, wouldn't have been hard) and the cut was looking nasty.
"There you go," John told him with a fake smile plastered on his face, "Just take it up to Katie at the till and-"
"I know how it works," the patient snapped angrily in a gravelly voice as he snatched the prescription from Johns hand and stormed out of the small room.
"Okay then," John said to himself, making some notes on his clip board.
John opened the door and looked into the waiting room, ten or so people all sat, faces down cast and at varying levels of un-wellness. John called the next name on his clip board; he groaned inwardly when he saw it was a crying child clutching at an obviously painful ear, his mother followed him looking distraught.
After a long half hour of trying to persuade the distressed mother that he son didn't have some highly improbable ear cancer, just an ear infection, John had lunch. For a long moment John welcomed the silence of his office then he removed his phone from his coat pocket. He stared at Mycroft's contact with a small feeling of dread; Mycroft had always made him more uneasy that Sherlock could have ever hoped to, the fact that he was at ease around people made him much more dangerous. John didn't doubt that because of his uncanny way to manipulate people and his contacts Mycroft would be able to get away with anything.
Which made him think.
If, and only if, Sherlock had faked his own death it would have made sense for him to involve Mycroft, after all he was his brother and the British government. John shook his head in frustration and reminded him that it didn't matter, he was getting closure for Martha and himself: Sherlock was dead. Keeping this in mind John sent Mycroft a text (should he be texting Mycroft? He knew Sherlock had preferred it, but was Mycroft different?)
We need to talk, Mummy send's her love. – JW
The reply was almost immediate.
Anthea will be there in ten minutes, a cover doctor will be with her. – MH
John smirked and finished eating his lunch, when he was done he took off his tag, closed down his computer and walked into the ever depressing waiting room as he shrugged on his coat. A rather large middle aged man stood in front of Shara, they were arguing quietly with narrowed eyes and biting words, he walked over quickly with his best oblivious smile.
"Is my car outside?" John asked the man. Shara looked shocked and opened her mouth to say something but the large man spoke over whatever she was going to say.
"Yes, that hot bird with the Black Berry is waiting for you," he told John while the army doctor winced at his choice of words.
"Alright," John said, "I'll see you tomorrow Shara,"
"Hold on, are you skipping work so you can go on a date?" Shara demanded with a shocked expression.
"No, she's the assistant of the man I was going to see," John replied, laughing at the idea of Anthea ever going on a date with him.
"You won't get paid for this John," Shara pointed out, "And you're struggling enough with the rent as it is,"
"Actually, he probably will get paid," the cover said, "Just not by your bosses,"
Shara sighed and shook her head, "Don't make a habit of this okay, you need work to distract yourself from him, it'll help you move on,"
"And when have you bothered yourself with what I need?" John asked in a cold tone with a raised eyebrow.
Shara sighed, "Since I became you friend,"
I don't have friends, just one.
"Right well, see you tomorrow," John spoke as he turned and began to walk towards the brown automatic doors of the clinic. The wind was bitterly cold against Johns face as he stepped out of the warm foyer and into the car park, a fancy, black car pulled up in front of him and he stepped towards it and opened the door.
"Hello Dr..." Anthea greeted in a bored tone as he slid into the leather seats. She had her Black Berry in her hands, an expensive looking diamond ring glittering on the ring finger of her left hand.
"John," he replied curtly, putting his seat belt on, " My name's John,"
Anthea stopped tapping into her Black Berry and looked at him with an amused expression, "Ah, of course,"
They stared moving and John stared out of the tinted windows, content to let the rest of the journey pass in silence while he watched the world pass by. The driver was taking them to the more industrial part of London, winding through the streets unnoticed, as normal. For the first time, however, Anthea decided to speak.
"Mycroft doesn't like being contacted you know," she said without looking up from her phone.
"I gathered that from his penchant for kidnapping people," John replied dryly.
"It's not kidnapping really," Anthea told him with a smirk, "You have a choice... Just making the wrong one is heavily discouraged,"
John laughed, but it didn't sound right, too forced, Althea's eyes flicked to him and he thought he might have noticed a small hint of pity. "I thought it would be,"
Another few minutes silence, this time the woman broke it by tucking he Black Berry into the breast pocket of her tailored coat. "You aren't the same are you?" she said bluntly, regarding him with a look of carefully controlled apathy.
"Did you expect me to be?" John replied quietly, he was shocked, he never expected the woman to ever deem him worthy to have a full conversation with him, and yet here they were.
Anthea shook her head, "He isn't the same, Mycroft I mean, it hit him harder than he'll admit,"
John snorted, "It's his own fault for giving Moriarty the information he needed."
Anthea glared at him "You realise the fact that he played such a big a role in Sherlock's fall just makes the guilt harder to bare, right?"
"He should have thought of that before he got his brother killed," John replied stubbornly, crossing his arms and clearing his throat.
"For god's sake John," Anthea spat, anger clear in the way she curled her free hand against her leg, "Don't be so childish! Do you honestly think Mycroft would have done that to Sherlock if he knew what that psycho would do?"
John breathed heavily through his nose, "No, even Mycroft couldn't be that uncaring, though I wouldn't put it past him,"
Anthea bristled, "Caring is not an advantage, John Watson." She turned back to her phone, the sound of her fingers on the keys much louder now as she pummelled the keys in anger.
The car rolled to a stop ten minutes later and John got out, He had been brought to a industrial estate on the other side of London and the drizzle fell lightly on the concrete, changing it from a light cream colour to a dark brown. Anthea got out of the car and opened her umbrella, without offering it to John she began to walk towards a green warehouse with the number twelve painted on it in yellow, a dull yellow, not smuggler yellow. When she got to the entrance she opened the heavy wooden door with ease and stepped inside, holding it open for the doctor. The warehouse was the same temperature outside with a damp timber type smell, light filtered through algae covered fibre glass in the roof weakly, shedding just enough light to see by, the rest was supplied by lights hanging from the ceiling. The floor was marked with darker and lighter areas where shelves had once stood but had been taken away, presumably for when Mycroft wanted to kidnap someone. Mycroft Holmes sat at a table with three chairs and steaming cups of tea in the centre of the warehouse, Anthea walked quickly to the table shaking her brolly of water as she went, she sat down in the seat beside Mycroft and murmured something in his ear before taking her Black Berry out again. John walked forwards and took a seat across from them, Mycroft slip of cup of tea towards him and John stirred it, as he did so Mycroft began to talk.
"I would like to remind you, doctor, that I am a busy man and I am not at your beck and call," Mycroft began coldly, fixing him with a hostile gaze.
"I suppose you are, tell me, are there many more family members to betray?" John asked sarcastically, Anthea glared at him again and cleared her throat, trying to remind him of the conversation in the car.
"I suppose you think I deserved that," Mycroft said with a smirk and a raised eyebrow
"I know you did," John replied staring down at his tea, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Is this what you asked me here to do?" Mycroft began, "To gloat about the fact that I was responsible for the death of my own little brother?" He was gripping the handle of tea cup so tightly his knuckles turned white but his face betrayed no emotion, Anthea reached over and gently took the tea cup from his hands, smiling at him gently.
"No. I came here to ask for your help," John replied, realising how stupid he sounded as he spoke.
Mycroft laughed, a patronizing and hateful sound that made John feel like a child, "Then you need to learn some tact dear doctor, for insulting someone then asking for their help normally involves you being told to 'piss off'."
John sighed, realising his mistake, he had come here to apologise to the man after all, but the moment he saw him all of the resentment he had felt towards the man had risen up again and made it impossible to hold his tongue. "I'm sorry Mycroft, I shouldn't have insulted you like that,"
"No, you shouldn't have," Anthea answered for her boss, fixing her brown gaze upon him.
"You said 'Mummy sends her love'," Mycroft said tuning his gaze back to the doctor, "When did you meet with Mother?"
"At Sherlock's grave yesterday," John told him, "She believes that the fall might have been faked,"
"And she asked you to find out and gave you my number so you could get the CCTV footage," Mycroft replied, filling in the blanks, the man shook his head, "Give up John,"
"What?"
"Give up before he disappoints you,"
"Have you even checked the CCTV footage?" John asked angrily, a tinge of pain shot through his leg and with a wince he began rubbing it.
"No. I've had no reason to, I've actually tried moving on," Mycroft sniped, watching the doctor rub his leg, he frowned, "Is the pain back?"
John nodded curtly, "Please Mycroft, get me that CCTV footage, if not for me then for your mother, we need the closure,"
"Mycroft, do it," Anthea interjected, shocking the two men "What harm can it do, if there's nothing suspicious about his death then John can move on and if, if, there is something then Sherlock may need your help,"
Mycroft watched her for a long time then glanced at John, a dangerous light shining in his eyes, "Fine, I'll get you the footage, so long as if there is nothing there you will forget this ridiculous notion, move on and leave Sherlock to rest in peace,"
"Are you not even tempted by the idea that your brother might not be-" John began but Mycroft cut him off.
"Leave John." Mycroft commanded, "We'll talk more another time, but I actually have business to attend to," John nodded and got up, he wasn't going to push his luck, "Oh before I forget, here,"
Mycroft reached into his breast pocket and handed him a stiff envelope, with a suspicious glance at the British government John slid his thumb under the flap and tore the glue. Inside there was a wad of £20 notes, John inhaled sharply and glanced up at Mycroft and Anthea, "Take it, John,"
"Thank you Mycroft," John replied honestly. Mycroft nodded, picked up his ever present umbrella and walked out of the warehouse, the opposite direction to how Anthea and John had come in.
Anthea glanced at John and then began walking quickly out of the warehouse, her heeled shoes echoing in the empty warehouse, John followed as quickly as his limp would allow him, damming his leg the entire time. They exited the warehouse and entered the car in awkward silence, when the car began moving Anthea just stared out the widow looking pensive, it wasn't until they were fifteen minutes to Baker Street that she finally said something.
"I hope you realise that you are now obliged to find him," she spoke softly, not meeting John's curious gaze, instead looking out at her shiny, manicured nails, " Mycroft will see that CCTV footage and realise that there is a lot more than just a slither of hope that his brother is still alive,"
The deduction wasn't that hard, given the knowing way she spoke, "You've see it haven't you?"
She nodded, still looking down at her hands, "Yes,"
"What happened?" he asked desperately, his eyes pleading, he needed to know.
Anthea smirked as she looked at him, her eyes tinkling mischievously. "We'll drop the tapes and stills off tonight, I don't want to ruin the surprise."
"Anthea..."
"John..." she looked at him pointedly, a playfully smile faintly tugging at her lips. He wanted to say something, but he knew it would be pointless; the woman seemed as stubborn as a Holmes. Instead he just stared out the window, counting down the minuets until he would be back at the relative sanity of his home, far away for the confusion of maybe-not-dead flatmates and government-MI6-godknows- brothers with umbrellas.
"Bye," Anthea said in that melodic tone she did so well as John got out the car.
"See you tonight,"
When he entered 221 Mrs Hudson called from her open doorway. From behind her, in the shadows of her flat, John could see Shara sipping tea from a flowery mug, looking determined.
"John, I've got a friend of yours in here," Mrs Hudson told him.
"Hello Shara," John greeted with a false smile, Shara returned it honestly and thanked Mrs Hudson for her tea and gave her the empty mug.
"Do you mind if I come up? I need to talk to you," she asked as she walked out of Mrs Hudson's flat; the land lady gave John a suspicious look from behind Shara then pulled the door closed.
"Uh, sure, It's a bit of a mess, I had Molly and Lestrade over last night," John told her, name dropping in case this was about his seeming lack of social life. Since the fall Shara seemed to take it upon herself to treat John as if he was a child, encouraging him to 'Get out and enjoy life!', like she was trying to force John to move on.
"Oh it's fine, you should see my house at the moment," Shara laughed as she walked up the stairs as if she owned the place, "Come on then,"
Trying to hide his frustration at Shara John followed her up the stairs and unlocked the door; he stepped into the flat and walked into the living room. Shara stared around at the flat, her face was a mixture of disappointment and pity that made John even more annoyed, he knew she was only trying to help him but he really wished she wouldn't act so condescending all the time.
"It's like a museum dedicated to Sherlock Holmes," She murmured, John's eyebrows rose and he gave an indignant cough.
"Excuse me?" He asked even thought he knew perfectly well what she said.
"I said it's like a museum dedicated to Sherlock Holmes," She repeated, "As a doctor I'm telling you this isn't healthy!"
"Look, Shara, you don't come into a person's house and tell them that," John said giving her an irritated look.
"I'm your friend John, and I'm telling you this isn't right," She continued, ignoring his comment, "You are stuck in a museum dedicated to Sherlock bloody Holmes surrounded by skulls and bullet filled walls and drowning in the memories of a man you barely knew!"
"I can't believe you!" John exclaimed, "I knew him a lot better than you did, a lot better than most people did!"
"No you didn't!" Shara told him in a pleading voice, her face begging him to understand what she was saying, "He was a fraud John, how long until you realise that he lied to you. Every. Fucking. Day?"
"He wasn't Shara!" John told her, before he could continue she was talking over him.
"He was a freak John-"
John stood then, glaring at her furiously, his face full of disgust, when he spoke his voice was low and dangerous, "Do not call him that, he was a greater person than you can ever hope to be!"
"Why did he tell you he was a fraud then John," Shara asked, crossing her arms, her mouth set in a stubborn line, "In his note he told you he was a fraud, why would he lie in his suicide note?"
"Get out!" John ordered, pointing towards the door but not meeting her gaze.
She laughed harshly, "You know I'm right," She said as she left, slamming the door in her wake.
John fell back into his chair and placed his hands over his face, fighting the urge to cry. Because she was right really, wasn't she, why had Sherlock told him in his last few minutes that he was a fake when it was blatantly obvious he wasn't? It just didn't make any sense, but then when had anything to do with Sherlock ever come close to making sense?
"Damn you Sherlock," John cursed as he wiped his hands down his face and neck, "Damn you,"
A knock at the door to the living room caused him to jerk into a sitting position, Mrs Hudson stood in the door way, looking sympathetic but in no way pitying, "I heard yelling, are you okay?" she asked as she cleared his cane and jacket off the sofa so she could sit down comfortably.
John shook his head, "No,"
Mrs Hudson nodded and smiled, "Come and eat dinner with me, I'm afraid I've made far too much pie to eat by myself,"
"Alright I'll follow you down,"