Seventeen hours.

It'd been seventeen hours since John had last seen Sherlock. That in itself was hardly cause for concern. Sherlock certainly enjoyed running off to do who knows what for hours on end. It was the fact that John hadn't gotten so much as a text in the meantime that was starting to worry him.

Sherlock was surely just being his usual annoying self, off pretending that the rest of the world didn't exist. He was probably sitting in some café somewhere flipping through John's worried messages like the obnoxious dickhead he was - no intention whatsoever of sending him even a smiley face in response so John could stop fretting about his body lying in a ditch somewhere.

The thought of Sherlock dead sent a wave of ice through his blood.

John unlocked the screen of his mobile. He stabbed viciously at the numbers while simultaneously hoping the other individual would and wouldn't pick up. It was answered after several long rings. John could just imagine Mycroft sitting on the other side of the call staring at his mobile, waiting for John to leave him alone and then finally answering when it appeared he wouldn't.

"Dr. Watson," the voice came icily from the tiny speaker. To say John and Mycroft hadn't been on the best terms in the past two and a half months would have been the understatement of the century.

"Sherlock's missing," John said curtly, cutting to the chase.

There was a loud exhale on the other end of the line.

"Last known location?"

"Baker Street, roughly seventeen hours ago."

John could hear someone moving about on the other end of the line followed by some distant typing. As much as he hated the man, he couldn't fault his ability to get down to business. Minutes passed by in silence broken only by the sound of someone working at a computer on the other end of the line. He waited patiently, resisting the urge to shout into the speaker for Mycroft to hurry the hell up, knowing a few minutes wasn't going to make any difference after so long.

Damn it, he should have called earlier.

"I can follow him up to Bouverie Street. It looks as if he went into a building and never came out, though I wager it was a trick to fool the surveillance. I'll send a team to be certain."

"I thought you already had a team watching him?" John snapped. If Mycroft was going to be a pervert spying on his little brother, the least he could do was be good at it.

"You underestimate Sherlock's ability to avoid notice. As well as his desire. It's quite clear he doesn't want to be found at this point in time. I assume there's nothing you wish to tell me?"

'Fuck off,' summed up he wanted to say nicely, but he resisted the urge knowing that having Mycroft on his side at the moment would make things far easier in regards to finding Sherlock.

"We didn't have a fight," John replied instead. And they hadn't – it'd actually been a fairly good day. Mrs. Hudson had been swimming about the room, dusting here and there, conversing to John about daytime telly while Sherlock looked on with a smile not dissimilar to the affectionate smiles one might give a favorite pet. John had even gotten him to eat something without having to threaten to hide the bullet casings he was examining.

"Yes, I see," Mycroft said, sounding like he was only half paying attention to what John was saying. "You should have contacted me when Sherlock didn't respond to your text about the toes."

"I didn't think-" John stopped abruptly. "Wait, how did you-? Did you just hack my phone?"

"I attempted to infiltrate Sherlock's but he appears to have disabled it. Normally I would still be able to track his location even with it off … he must have completely removed the chip," Mycroft murmured the last part as if he was more talking to himself than John.

Though John hated making comparisons between the two brothers as of late, he couldn't help but think of geniuses and audiences.

"I have a theory," Mycroft said, finally sounding as if a donut wouldn't be just as good to talk at as John.

"Yes?" John asked when it became apparent that was all Mycroft was going to say on the matter.

"It will require me coming to Baker Street to confirm."

Silence stretched between them. Not the comfortable silence he shared with Sherlock, but instead one that said there was a very good possibility one of them might be walking out of this with a bloody nose and a few missing teeth.

"All right."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Meaning he'd already been on his way when he'd asked. John ground his teeth and forced himself not to respond.

A knock came from the door fifteen minutes later on the dot. John couldn't help but wonder if Mycroft hadn't been standing outside with his watch, waiting for precisely the right time. Or maybe all Holmes really did just have a ridiculous sense of time.

"Mycroft," John said, opening the door.

"Dr. Watson."

Mycroft made no move to enter the flat and some dark part of John was pleased at the possibility that he might be too afraid that John might attack him if he did. Instead, Mycroft stood just inside the doorway, his eyes roaming the area, examining everything as if each individual item held the answers to the universe – before discarding said item when it became apparent the answers it held were not the ones Mycroft was seeking. It was unnerving how eerily similar he looked to Sherlock in that moment, and it was all John could do not to chin the bastard again. He was a man that had a striking resemblance to his brother, whom he was fucking.

Having apparently gotten what he needed, Mycroft nodded to himself and turned around to leave.

"Is that it then?" John called down the stairs as Mycroft descended.

"Tell Sherlock I don't have time for his games."

John clenched his fists at the lack of information but refused to call out to the man again. He forced himself to go make a cup of tea, certain that if Sherlock was in danger Mycroft would take care of things.

He'd just barely sat down not ten minutes later when the subject of his search waltzed through the door.

"Where the bloody hell have you been? I've been trying to call you for hours!" John snapped. He tried hard not to think of himself as the nagging wife Lestrade often joked that he was. The attempt was futile.

Sherlock had on that look he got when he was trying to work out the silly intricacies of humanity. "If you'd contacted Mycroft sooner, I would have been home earlier."

John pursed his lips and let out a rough exhale before he responded with, "You mean to tell me it was a bloody test?"

"Not exactly," Sherlock said, shrugging off his coat, "A test implies a grading scale to decide upon the appropriateness of the results. I had no such scale. Which is probably for the best considering you would have failed spectacularly. Consider this more of a bonding exercise."

He smiled at his own cleverness before turning to focus on John. John watched as the curve of his lips dipped down until his mouth was as expressionless as the rest of his face. It was Sherlock's mask, John knew. The one he wore when he realized he'd said something a bit not good and didn't yet know which facial expression would be deemed appropriate in the situation.

"I'm not about to bond with your brother, Sherlock," John said. He was careful to keep his mug from shaking as he tried to keep a grip on his emotions. It wasn't Sherlock's fault. It wasn't Sherlock's fault. He repeated the mantra over and over to himself.

Sherlock sighed and threw himself down onto the sofa. He placed his hands under his chin in concentration, looking for all the world as if he was in for a long night of contemplation. So, of course, he almost immediately turned to John, probably just to spite John's silent assumptions.

"What if you were to observe us in our natural environment?" Leave it to Sherlock to make it sound like some sort of nature documentary. "We could set up video cameras with audio and you could watch us interact." Sherlock sat up and John could see the gleam starting to form in his eyes. The one he got just before he did things like jumping into the Thames.

"Even if I wanted to spy on you - which I don't, for the record," John said firmly, feeling he'd better make that point clear lest Sherlock suddenly shove videos of he and his brother in the shower together in front of his face next morning. "I doubt it'd be accurate anyway. Even if we could keep it from Mycroft, you'd know and that would skew the results." Damn. Now he was acting like it was some sort of experiment.

Sherlock threw himself back down, a pout on his face. John's lips twitched before he could stop himself.

"While I consider Mycroft to be only slightly less annoying than Anderson on his best days, he does have a terrible habit of visiting the flat whenever he feels the need to engage in his bi-weekly exercise of walking up the stairs. I-" Sherlock turned his face towards the back of the sofa "-would prefer it if you two could get along. As you both so often point out when you're angry, it's not as if I have many other close acquaintances."

John rubbed tiredly at his eyes.

"I'm trying. I really am. I'm just not comfortable with the situation."

"Then logically I should be the one you are most angry with. As I've stated, I started the relationship. Everything was on my terms. If not for my addiction, I might never have gotten Mycroft to agree."

"Yes, but-" John stopped to process that last sentence. Perhaps his years with the detective had made him (justifiably) paranoid, but he couldn't help but feel there was something more to what Sherlock was saying.

"You got him to agree," John said slowly, trying to work it out.

"Obviously."

"Wait, just one more time. You came to an agreement. There were terms. Due to your addiction."

Sherlock looked very much like a cat who'd just been caught trying to knock the tea onto the floor. So there was something there.

"Sherlock. Tell me."

"What is there to tell?" Sherlock asked, shrugging. "After a particularly bad high Mycroft was so relieved that I hadn't managed to off myself he finally agreed to my terms."

Terms. That word again. It could just be Sherlock being odd, John told himself. He hoped it was just Sherlock being odd.

Everything has always been completely consensual on his end.

On his end. John paled. He'd been such an idiot.

"Maybe I'll just call Mycroft. See what his side of the story is," John said, just to see how Sherlock would react.

The tiniest hint of tension spread along the line of Sherlock's shoulders.

"Oh my-" John threw his hands over his face. "You cannot be serious."

Sherlock had the grace to look guilty.

"I cannot believe you did that to your brother! Your brother, Sherlock!"

"I didn't rape him," Sherlock snapped, actually sounding hurt at the idea.

"No! You only gave him the choice between letting his little brother continue on as a drug addict until he died or letting him have his body!" Sherlock clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white and John knew he'd guessed the terms correctly.

"You blackmailed him," John whispered.

Sherlock didn't deny it.

John jumped up from the chair, startling the detective but not caring. He ran a hand over his face and then continued it up through his hair. How had this conversation turned into him feeling sorry for Mycroft?

"John-"

"Not now!" John pointed a finger at him without looking. He'd lose his resolve if he allowed Sherlock to twist his thoughts with his oh-so-logical explanations.

Is that what had happened with Mycroft?

"I need some air." No, what he needed was to talk to Sherlock's damn brother and try to make sense of this mess. Bloody Holmeses.

"Are you coming back?" Sherlock asked and it was only the fact that John hadn't ever heard his voice sound so small, not even when faking for unsuspecting informants, that had him turning back to look at him.

He shouldn't have. Sherlock looked stricken – like everything he'd ever wanted was suddenly being snatched from his fingers. It could be trick. He could act well enough to pull it off and if he was really the sort of man to blackmail his own brother into a relationship….

I don't have friends. I've just got one.

John sighed. "Yes, of course I'm coming back. I just need to think about this. You-" John looked at him. Really looked. "You do realize that what you did is more than a bit not good?" Far, far more.

Sherlock's fists clenched against his trousers. "I'm not a monster." I'm not a villain. "I stated my case – the likely outcome of my death via overdose, and how he could help prevent such a situation from arising. It was an equal exchange for something we both desired. I didn't hold him down and- This is why it had to be him! People like you don't understand. You're not smart enough to see what's really happening!"

John closed his eyes and resisted the urge to punch a wall.

"I care about you." Sherlock swallowed. "As a friend. But I need someone like Mycroft if I am to have more. If I was give myself completely to someone, it had to be him."

Sherlock gazed at him with such honest earnestness, John had no idea how to respond to it. So he didn't.

"I'm going to talk to Mycroft. Get his side of the story. I will come back, I promise." He didn't say that it might only be for him to pack his bags.