"Are you sure about this, Sherlock?"
It's not something that Mycroft asks often. But this is different. His brother stands before him, bedraggled, wearing a look of intense focus Mycroft has only seen a few times before. Sherlock glances around Mycroft's office like he is expecting armed assassins to leap out of the walls. Mycroft hadn't expected that owning office space in Switzerland would prove useful; it's always satisfying to get a return on such an investment.
"Of course I am," Sherlock growls. He is shifting from foot to foot, antsy, wanting to be gone, to be as far away from here as possible.
"Everyone thinks you've drowned," Mycroft tells him. "John in particular is most distraught."
Sherlock closes his eyes, fists clenched. "Don't bring John into this. His distress is a regrettable by-product of the whole affair."
"I'm sure he'd be delighted to hear you talk like that."
Sherlock glares at his brother. "Listen. Mycroft. I need your help. I need your access to records and surveillance, I need your contacts."
"Of course."
"And - I need you to arrange my death. I need it to appear that I have vanished from the face of the earth. I intend to disguise myself completely before I begin to hunt down the remaining members of Moriarty's network. I must become invisible, Mycroft, completely invisible. Will you do that?"
The decision is difficult, but not impossible. Mycroft understands his brother's drive, his need for revenge. Yet unlike Sherlock, Mycroft understands what this disappearance will do to John. To Mother. To everyone in Sherlock's life.
"You must tell me where you are. At all times. Keep in contact."
Sherlock scowls and scuffs at Mycroft's imported carpet with his dirty shoe. "Having contact with anyone could jeopardise-"
"Keep in contact, Sherlock. Or you will find your access to my records and contacts mysteriously revoked."
"Fine."
Mycroft has never been good at platitudes. He feels something needs to be said, something to mark this occasion, but he can think of nothing. Strange, in a man who has made false words and diplomacy his living.
"Don't get sentimental, Mycroft, it doesn't become you."
Mycroft turns away and sits at his desk. "Don't die, Sherlock. I expect to see you at Christmas dinner."
And Sherlock leaves, with nothing but his clothes and an illegal British Army service revolver that will remind him of the one thing he regrets leaving.
Mycroft waits for four days before he catches a cab to 221b Baker St (he wouldn't normally use something so mundane as a taxi, but the last thing John needs is for a mysterious black car to appear outside his flat).
John comes to the door in his pyjamas, unshaven and dishevelled. "Mycroft."
The word is barely a greeting. It slips from John's mouth and into the world with the minimum necessary effort, more of an observation than a pleasantry. John stares at him blankly, waiting for him to speak, barely conscious enough to formulate a sentence himself.
Mycroft grasps the shorter man's upper arm. "John. May I come in?" he says. He doesn't say, "Pull yourself together, man." Or "I'm sorry for your loss." Or, "He's not dead, you know."
John blinks at him for a moment before the request reaches his brain. "Uh - yeah. Yeah, of course, come in. Excuse the mess."
The flat is stuffy. The windows haven't been opened since John got back from Switzerland, Mycroft guesses. Sherlock's things still litter all the available surfaces. John has made a slight effort to clean them up - there are even a couple of cardboard boxes on the floor, filled with papers and crime scene photographs.
"I, um, tried to clean up a bit," John says haplessly. "He's not going to be needing that stuff anymore, is he?"
"One would assume not," Mycroft says. It's probably the wrong thing to say, but then again, there's not a right thing to say.
John clears his throat. "Tea? We've - I've not got much in, Sherlock dashed off to Switzerland before we could do the shopping."
"Thank you."
John shuffles into the next room. While he is gone, Mycroft takes the opportunity to look around the flat. He is much better at reading rooms than faces. There's a mostly-empty bottle of Scotch on the floor, next to the chair that Mycroft presumes is John's. John has been sleeping in the lounge, by the looks of things. Crumb-covered plates adorn several flat surfaces. Sherlock's violin is tucked out of sight behind a stack of papers.
There is a crumpled piece of paper on the arm of John's chair.
Intrigued, Mycroft picks it up. Most of the words have been smudged beyond recognition, by water or tears or alcohol. At the bottom is a single sentence unmarred by John's grief.
Believe me to be entirely yours,
SH
"Probably should have put that away."
Mycroft looks up to see John standing sheepishly in the doorway, clutching two mugs of tea to his chest as if they can somehow protect him from the world. He is smaller than Mycroft remembers.
"Would have gotten rid of it if I knew there would be company," John says, and hands Mycroft a mug. He tugs the letter out of Mycroft's hand, gently, careful not to tear the paper.
"I'm sorry that my brother left you," Mycroft says, before he quite realises that he's speaking.
"Yeah," John says, "me too."
He sighs, seemingly on the verge of tears. Mycroft is not good with tears.
"I'm sorry," John says. He puts down his mug and scrubs at his eyes. "I just - it's thoughtful of him to have left that, I suppose, but it's so - he was always so clinical. I just wish he'd said a bit more."
The two men drink their tea in silence. Mycroft bids John farewell and John, staring at the floor, appears not to notice.
On his way back to his office, Mycroft stops off at a stationer's and buys a pack of envelopes.
Sherlock calls from Switzerland.
He doesn't waste time with pleasantries. "I have exactly two minutes before a member of the criminal underworld comes round the corner and sees me using this public telephone. How is John?"
"Terrible," Mycroft answers, honestly. "He is a lesser man without you."
"Of course he is," Sherlock replies with his usual cockiness, but there is a tremor in his voice.
"He kept your letter."
"Don't. Don't tell me about him."
"You asked," Mycroft points out, but lets it drop. "I trust you're keeping yourself out of harm's way. Within reason."
"No," Sherlock says defiantly.
"Be careful."
Sherlock hangs up on him.
Two weeks after Sherlock's apparent death, Mycroft visits John again. This time, he brings a single envelope, containing a single typed sheet of paper.
Mycroft is not a romantic man – indeed, in his line of work there are barely time for feelings at all – but he knows a broken heart when he sees one. He recognises, on some level, that John is lost without his detective, just as Sherlock is lost without John. And if John is not around to witness Sherlock's triumphant return to the world of the living, then Mycroft feels the world will be the poorer for it.
So he goes to 221B, carrying an envelope, containing a single typed sheet of paper.
John is dressed, this time. He attempts to smile at Mycroft but the muscles in his face are not inclined to co-operate with him.
"You don't have to come and see me, you know," John tells Mycroft over their mugs of tea. "I don't – you needn't pity me."
"I don't pity, you, John. I worry about you."
John snorts into his mug. "You – really. Do you. Really. Great. Thanks."
Mycroft sighs and reaches into his jacket to pull out his envelope.
"John, I have something for you. Before he left for Switzerland, Sherlock entrusted me with a few of his affairs – including the rent on this flat, if you desire to stay here. He was most adamant that should he not survive his trip, I was to give you this letter. There are others, as well, but this will do to be going on with."
John stares at the envelope. Then quickly, hungrily, he snatches it from Mycroft's fingers and tears it open, devouring the words inside. There are tears at the corners of his eyes.
"This – it – he says he's sorry. For going." John looks up at Mycroft. He isn't entirely convinced, Mycroft thinks. He'll have to be more careful with the next one.
"And I'm sure he is," Mycroft assures him. "I'm sure he is."
Sherlock calls from Austria.
"I've just killed a man."
"Mummy would be so proud."
"How is John?"
"No better, no worse."
Sherlock sighs, a rush of static in Mycroft's ear. "I wish he could have come with me. It's preposterous, of course, totally impractical and dangerous, not to mention distracting. But I wish he was here."
Sherlock hangs up, and Mycroft puts down his phone and begins to type.
"This going to be a regular thing, then?" John asks Mycroft as he hands him a mug. He's shaved this morning, and his clothes look clean. An improvement, then.
"I do enjoy these visits," Mycroft lies.
"No, you don't," John replies, with the faintest hint of a smile. He sips his tea in silence, his eyes constantly lighting on Mycroft's jacket, approximately where the inner pocket is.
"I think we could learn to appreciate each other's company," Mycroft says. "With time." He reaches into his jacket and offers another envelope. John's hand shakes as he takes it.
John's lips move as he reads the letter, occasionally twitching into a smile. Mycroft takes this to mean he's getting better at pretending to be Sherlock.
"Thanks," John says, eventually. His eyes are damp again. Mycroft makes a mental note to leave before they get to the crying part next time.
"Must be off," he announces, rising from his chair. He is halfway down the stairs when John's voice stops him.
"Mycroft."
Mycroft pauses, turns back, fixates on a point just above John's head.
"Do you miss him?"
"In small intervals," Mycroft replies truthfully.
Sherlock calls from Lebanon.
It's been three months since they last spoke. In the interim, Mycroft has continued to visit John each week. Sometimes he brings a letter, sometimes not. Sometimes they talk. Usually they are silent. Mycroft composes letters, shying away from any discussion of emotion (real or imaginary). John reads them and cries.
"Where are you?"
"Lebanon. Is John alright?"
"He's surviving."
"Good. Tell him – don't tell him anything. Tell him everything. Tell him where I am, he can catch a plane and be here tomorrow."
"Sherlock- "
"You're writing letters to him. I know you are. The same stunt you pulled with your girlfriend in sixth form. It would be touching if it weren't so nauseating."
"Were I to write another, what would it say?"
"I hate you."
Mycroft waits for five minutes before Sherlock says, "Write about the stars."
Mycroft carries the letter about stars up the stairs to John's flat. It is John's flat, now. All of Sherlock's things are stored in the upstairs bedroom, where John never has to go. His skull is still on top of the microwave, though. Apparently Mrs. Hudson hasn't the heart to remove it.
Mycroft has let himself in. He has made a habit of it over the past three months. John doesn't appear to mind very much.
He finds John asleep in his chair. He has been drinking again. Mycroft doesn't wake him; he simply leaves the letter on the arm of the chair.
When John wakes, he reads about stars. He doesn't take a swig of Scotch or think about climbing onto the roof of 221 Baker St and stepping off into thin air.
Sherlock calls from Egypt, from Nigeria, from Venezuela, from New York.
He begins to dictate to Mycroft. He is a better Sherlock than Mycroft ever was, but John doesn't appear to notice the difference. Through Mycroft, Sherlock encourages John to go back to work, to keep in contact with Lestrade, to try his hand at another date with Sarah (Mycroft questions the sanity of this last point and Sherlock politely tells him to do something unmentionable with his umbrella).
Slowly, John stops crying when he reads the letters. He begins to laugh. Sometimes, he will read excepts out to Mycroft, who will smile and pretend that he didn't listen to his brother agonising over just how to phrase that sentence, that sentiment.
John tells Mycroft that he misses Sherlock. Mycroft nods and doesn't tell John that Sherlock misses him too.