John rolled over in bed, opening his eyes to his beautiful wife. Wife. They were married. He was married! They were entering their life as one unit. It was unbelievable to comprehend. He waited for a wave of bliss to overwhelm him from head to toe, but it only washed over him like a weak current.
A nagging sensation filled John's stomach. There was something not quite right being here with Mary. He loved her. Of course, he loved her. She was his wife for goodness sakes! Yet something about what Sherlock had said at the wedding, or maybe it was the face he made when he thought John wasn't looking. He seemed… he seemed heart-broken, which John didn't understand. He should have been happy. He was at a wedding, and guests were always happy at a wedding. But then again he was Sherlock Holmes, and he never acted the way ordinary humans acted.
A sigh escaped John's lips. Why couldn't the bloke just be happy for him, or act like it at least. He had given a wonderful speech, composed a beautiful waltz, and he should have been dancing with everyone else. John didn't realize precisely when his best man left. Sometime between when he had last talked to him and when he had left the dance floor for a drink, Sherlock had disappeared. He'd asked Greg, but he only got a shrug in reply. Later, Molly told him that she saw him go shortly after playing the violin for them.
John lay in bed looking at the ceiling. Why had he left so early? John knew that Sherlock didn't like crowds. He always said that it made for "too much idiocy in one place." John had expected him to retreat to his room at some point in the evening. He and Mary had reserved the first few floors of the hotel for their guests, Sherlock included. John had even slipped a few bottles of beer and a tin of tea into Sherlock's room for when he knew the detective would slink off. However, when he checked the room later, while Mary was busy chatting with her old friends, there was nothing out of place. The duvet wasn't wrinkled the slightest bit. There wasn't even a splash of water on the counter by the sink.
Sherlock had never entered the room. John must not have known Sherlock as well as he thought. He had been sure that Sherlock would stay. Sherlock always seemed to make exceptions when it came to him. John carefully rolled out of the bed, trying not to disturb Mary. He looked around the room. It was identical to every other room in the hotel, except for the additions of Mary's wedding dress and John's tuxedo, which were thrown haphazardly on the floor. John ruffled through his suitcase and pulled on a fresh pair of pants as well as jeans and a sweater.
He padded into the bathroom to make a cup of tea with the cheap electric kettle. Maybe it was something he said that made Sherlock leave so suddenly, but he honestly couldn't recall much of the conversation after Sherlock deduced that Mary was pregnant. He had been a little dazed by the alcohol he had consumed, the adrenaline of solving the locked room murder, getting married, and being told he would be a dad.
Oh god he was going to be a dad. What was that even going to be like? John wasn't prepared in the least to be a dad. Would he be a good father? Would his child be a boy or a girl? Who would be the god parent? Harry or Sherlock? The obvious answer was Sherlock. He was around much more than Harry was, and truthfully he trusted Sherlock to care for his child more than he trusted Harry. But would Sherlock even accept that role?
The kettle began whistling and John quickly unplugged it, hoping that he didn't wake Mary. He made himself a cup of tea and sat down on the toilet to drink it in silence. They had a long trip ahead of them, and John wanted Mary to keep her strength up, especially now that he knew she was pregnant.
His thoughts turned back to Sherlock. Maybe he would send his best friend a text to see if he was doing okay.
Hey Sherlock just checking in. I noticed that you left early. I just wanted to know if you're doing alright. –JW
As John sent the text, he heard Mary moving about. He poured her a cup of tea and brought it into the room with a smile.
"Hurry up John. We're going to miss our flight!" Mary prompted John as soon as they had gotten through security.
"I'm coming. I'm coming." John scanned the crowd one more time. He felt like he was being watched, but he couldn't find anyone stalking them. He followed his wife to the terminal, but he twisted around one last time, hoping to catch the stalker. Instead he saw the back of a head with brown, curly and a long black coat. It looked just like Sherlock, but it couldn't be. He must have hallucinated it. Sherlock should be at 221B Baker Street right now doing experiments on bacteria and eyeballs or something like that. He saw the figure hunched over his phone typing something. He then straightened, grabbed his duffle bag off the floor, and heading toward a different terminal. All the while, John never saw his face.
A moment later his phone went off in his pocket. He looked at it to see there was a text from Sherlock.
I'm fine, John. Have an enjoyable honeymoon. –SH
John was vaguely disappointed by the message. It lacked the normal enthusiasm that Sherlock exhibited. Then again all of Sherlock's texts had been getting shorter and more to the point. The two of them used to joke around when they texted. Nothing much, just jesting over whose turn it was to get the milk and keeping body parts out of the fridge. John shook his head to clear those thoughts. That life was behind him now. Sherlock was fine. He was probably at home doing whatever Sherlock does when left to his own devices.
Mary tugged at John's hand. "We really need to hurry up if we're going to catch that flight."
"Yes. Of course, let's go." John gathered his scattered thoughts and refocused on the here and now. He was going on a honeymoon with his gorgeous wife, and his life was turning in a new direction. Everything was wonderful.
"Everything is not fine, Mycroft!" Lestrade yelled. He had been pacing in Mycroft's sitting room for nearly twenty minutes now. "You just sent him to his death."
"Greg, please calm down. Sherlock knows what he's doing. He dismantled Moriarty's web when it was still strong. I'm certain he can take care of this problem too." Mycroft replied, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair as he did so.
"You're not seeing the whole picture, Mycroft. He's vulnerable right now. Sherlock had to watch the only love of his life marry another person. He's going to be rash, impractical. He'll throw his life away on nothing, just because there is not a single thing tying him back to London."
Mycroft opened his mouth to argue otherwise, but Lestrade cut him off. "We both know that John was the only reason he stayed. He can live without you or me or that landlady of his."
Lestrade took a deep breath to recollect his thoughts. Mycroft stayed silent, waiting to hear what else the Detective Inspector had to say. Doubt, planted by Lestrade's words, was already creeping into his mind, though. Perhaps, he should not have given Sherlock the mission as quickly as he did. He had simply been trying to help his brother in the only way that he thought he could.
"He's not going to be thinking straight while he's abroad. He's going to slip up, and it's going to cost him his life." Lestrade's hand rested on the back of his neck his voice shaking as he came to this realization. "He's not coming back to London unless it's in a casket, and you know it. I'm never going to see him again, and I didn't even get to say goodbye."
Mycroft's lips flattened into a straight line. He couldn't allow that sort of thinking. "I have known Sherlock since he was born. I knew him as a child and as a drug addict. Even when his mind was clouded with harmful chemicals, he was still more brilliant than any other "intelligent" adult in a one hundred kilometer radius. I'm sure that he can manage his emotions. He's done it for years, why would it be a problem now?" Mycroft responded. He didn't believe every word that he said, but he willed himself to accept it as the truth.
"He can't just turn his heart on and off. Maybe he used to be able to, but not now." Lestrade moved his gaze from a small patch of the wall directly to Mycroft. "Do you know the thing about love Mycroft? It's the most addictive drug in the world. You start to appreciate someone. Then you start imagining how dull life would be without them. Soon enough, without really realizing it, you're addicted to being around that person. It's hard to let go of loving someone, because you just want to be optimistic that everything will work out in the end. Even if it's obvious that it won't."
Lestrade stared at Mycroft, willing him to argue, but Mycroft kept his mouth shut. What if Lestrade was right? Had he unintentionally sent Sherlock to his death? "Whatever the case is, the truth of the matter is that Sherlock Holmes has already left London. In three hours time he will arrive in Plovdiv, Bulgaria and begin searching for the organization. If what you say is true, then we must keep a very close eye on him."
"Are you sure that's all you can do? Can't you bring him back?" Lestrade asked. He was nearly begging, and Mycroft longed to comfort him by assuring him Sherlock could be convinced to return to London. However, he refused to lie to Lestrade, especially in this manner of great importance.
"You know as well as I do that Sherlock will only ever go where he wants to go. We cannot force him to come back to London." Mycroft dropped his eyes to the wooden floor, wondering what the fate of his brother would be.
"What about John?" Lestrade inquired suddenly.
"What about John?" Mycroft mimicked in a confused tone.
"Did Sherlock tell him where he was going? Does John know any of this?"
"I doubt that Sherlock told him." Mycroft said slowly. "He and Mary are leaving on their honeymoon today. Sherlock wouldn't want to disrupt them."
"So John doesn't know?" Lestrade pulled out his mobile, but Mycroft stopped him by putting a hand on the phone.
"I suggest that we don't tell John unless it becomes absolutely necessary." Mycroft said. "You seem to think that my brother's heart and mind are overrun with sentiment right now, and I don't entirely disagree. If Sherlock has let himself become vulnerable due to this sentiment, then we most certainly should not bring Doctor Watson into this matter. It would only make the situation worse."
Greg sighed and slid the phone back into his pocket. "There must be something to for us to do."
"There is nothing to do but wait." Mycroft responded, folding his hands together and placing them on his lap.
"No there must be something. Tell me about this Fox Den group again." Greg sat down across from Mycroft.
"I've already told you-"
"Then tell me again. I might have missed something the first go around." Greg interrupted. He was nervous, and Mycroft wanted to reach out to him. However, he kept his hands and mentally ran through the facts before saying them aloud.
"The organization is not incredibly new. It's been active for five or six years; however, they didn't get much interest until three years ago around the time that Moriarty was on trial in court. Since then, they've been a blip on the radar, but no one took the L.B. seriously. The organization was out of the way with no well known leader or any leader at all. As I told Sherlock, it was a loose, forgotten thread on Moriarty's wed. I believed that the organization would crumble with the news of Morairty's death."
"But it didn't."Greg supplied. Mycroft nodded.
"It did at first, but in the past few months it's been on the rise. Why it's been growing at such a fast pace- I do not know."
"Do you have any idea on what the L.B. is planning?" Greg asked. Sherlock always played him as a fool; however, Mycroft saw his intelligence. There was a reason that he was Detective Inspector.
"As far as I know, the organization is trying to reconstruct Moriarty's web."
"Right you said that earlier, but how could they reconstruct Moriarty's web without Moriarty? He was the tie between everything. Without his genius and authority, I guess, how could the L.B. even begin to reassemble all the strings in the web? It doesn't seem possible."
"Sebastian Moran." Mycroft said simply, as if the name explained it all. Greg's raised eyebrow and blank expression showed that he didn't understand the magnitude of the situation. "Sebastian Moran was Moriarty's right hand man. I never had informed Sherlock of Moran before yesterday, because I considered him to be too much of a risk. I've been tracking him for the past two years, but he never stays in one place long enough to capture."
"You never informed Sherlock of this man? But he was near the very center of the web. Sherlock should at least have been aware of him."
"I thought it would distraction. The mission was to destroy the key components of Moriarty's web and get Sherlock home safely. Moran didn't fit in with either of those objectives." Mycroft replied. There was a harsh edge in his voice that Lestrade rarely heard. He was taken aback for a moment before leaning closer to Mycroft.
"Don't you think we should tell him all this information now? If we can't convince him to come back, then we can at least prepare him for what he's up against." Lestrade spoke smoothly, trying to be a calming force for Mycroft.
"He'll become too invested in Moran and focus his attention on the man instead of the organization. It would be a waste of his talents and his time." Mycroft replied. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to sort out the problem. It seemed like the situation was spinning out of control at a speed much faster than Mycroft could have ever seen coming. There was a creak from the wooden floor as Greg reached for Mycroft's hand, running his thumb lightly across his skin. It was distracting but in a positive way. The feeling helped Mycroft regain his composure over the situation.
"Okay then. I trust you know what you're doing Mycroft." Greg said. He didn't dismiss anything Mycroft had said. He was a Holmes, and Greg expected that he knew more about Sherlock than he did. However, he didn't feel right knowing that Sherlock didn't have all the information he might need at his disposal. "Can you at least create a file on Moran with all of your notes on him? Not saying that he'll need it, but if Sherlock does need to know everything about Moran, then you can send him the information immediately."
Mycroft nodded as Lestrade said this. "I already have a file ready, but I can add my own notes to it, if you think it will help. I highly doubt that Sherlock would take my opinions to heart, but perhaps I could add something useful to the file."
Lestrade lifted Mycroft's hand and placed a kiss on it. He knew that once the idea was in Mycroft's brilliant mind, the Holmes brother had to complete the task. It would be best to leave him alone as he worked. Plus, Lestrade had a pile of paperwork sitting on the desk in his office. "I'll be back this evening, unless you tell me call me to say otherwise."
"Yes, I will see you tonight Lestrade." Mycroft said the parting without focusing on it. His brain was already working through his observations on Moran, and what he thought Sherlock would want to know. Their mental processes worked very similarly, but sometimes Sherlock found an answer in the smallest detail that Mycroft would overlook. Of course, he would never admit this to his brother.
His baby brother who was halfway to Bulgaria right now emotionally impaired and ignorant of what he was facing. How was he ever going to keep Sherlock safe against these odds?