Hey guys, thank you so much for your support on just ONE chapter! You all are way too nice (Not complaining though!). My acknowledgements once again to the thereichenbachfell for the beta!
The screen of the phone in John's hands jolted to life, a default background, most of the files obviously having been wiped. But there was no doubting it- this was Sherlock's phone. The keypads had been worn down from all the texting he was so fond of. There was a scratch on the top left corner where John remembered a sword had once hit it (long story, and, as their adventures went, rather dull).
There were two numbers in the contacts: John's and Mycroft's. The people who knew he was alive, obviously.
John could only hope there was a purpose to all this secrecy. Preferably one that resulted in his best friend being alive.
This means he would have been lying. He's been hiding from you, a small voice in his brain said insidiously. He shook the thought away. He doesn't want to hide. I know him. He doesn't care. He just wants Moriarty gone. He wants to make sure the spider is out of his web.
John opened the menu and navigated to the messages. He noticed there was only one message, a draft that said only: "Found."
It was addressed to Mycroft. Odd. If Moriarty's men were to intercept it, surely they would recognize the number as Sherlock's. John figured they'd probably thought this through well and sent the text regardless.
It was less than a minute before he received a text back. "Good. Go for a walk."
John sighed. He thought for a moment and grabbed his jacket and his handgun (for good measure) before he walked out the door into the damp, cold London evening.
The moon was out now, and its reflection was cast along the shining black pavement. The dank smell of London in the rain was everywhere, a strange mix of odours and conflict. John zipped his coat up tighter and took a right on the sidewalk. Soon a car would pull up, he knew, and it would take him to an obscure location so that Mycroft and he could speak properly.
What if he's there? John thought, nervousness in his chest rising. After all, Sherlock had been dead- at least to him. He'd seen him fall off of Bart's and his broken, bleeding body get dragged away. And it was all a fiction. He sighed. Yes, he was angry, but he understood. Moriarty was far too dangerous.
John was aware that a large car was slowing down beside him. The door opened, and John got in.
Mycroft's cronies had walked him from the car into a small office building that looked- on the outside- to be unused. It had a beautiful, if slightly outdated, front lobby, and the lights were dim. He stepped inside and was at once summoned by yet another henchman of Mycroft's up the staircase and down a hall. The hallway was away from the windows, so naturally the lights in this area were on and not dimmed. Down the hall and through a door sat Mycroft at a desk. This room had been renovated, so obviously this place had been in use for quite some time. This room had windows, but they seemed to be tinted. Probably a recent addition. John raised his eyebrows as if to ask What's with all this?
He already knew the answer.
"You obviously have been following along, so you understand the need to be discreet. Please, sit down." Mycroft said, in a tone less smug than his usual. He waved at his employee, who promptly shut the door, leaving them alone. John sat down, and Mycroft smiled.
"John. Lovely to see you again. I'm glad we can finally speak openly."
"Cut to it, Mycroft. Is he alive?" John said, the anger suddenly boiling up as if from nowhere. He had to remember to remain calm.
Mycroft hesitated, his eyes analysing John as if he hadn't made his mind up over the matter. "My brother... is... more alive than he has led you to believe."
John leaned back in his chair and looked down at the floor, trying to decide his feelings on the matter. He was happy, yes, of course. He was angry at Sherlock, at Moriarty, at Mycroft for keeping him away. He was nervous, definitely. After all, Sherlock wouldn't care if people thought he was a fraud. He would, however, care if there was another reason to hide. Namely, that Moriarty's group was still together.
"Moriarty?"
"Sherlock saw him kill himself on the roof."
"So?" John knew Moriarty was almost as cunning as Sherlock, and about five times more dangerous. And, like Sherlock, a supposed death scene would mean nothing.
"...Indeed. We have intelligence that suggests that Moriarty may yet be alive. In addition, the roof was cleaned shortly after Sherlock's jump and no evidence was found to show that Moriarty was even there."
John shivered. That was definitely Moriarty's style. Even if he was dead, the world wouldn't know.
Mycroft considered him for a minute, "Moriarty had snipers. They would have killed you had he not jumped."
John's brow furrowed. Sherlock had jumped to save him? "They were going to kill me?"
"I believe Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were also being watched," Mycroft added.
John nodded. It definitely made sense. Obviously if they knew Sherlock was still alive they would most likely send the snipers out again. Which is why the situation is even more perilous than before.
"This is like a twisted, murderous chess game." John said after a while.
Mycroft chuckled. "Yes, I suppose. It is a delicate matter."
John straightened in his chair, "You've called me here for a reason. What is it you need?"
Mycroft looked down at his desk, "Well, aside from merely letting you know that my brother is not dead and remains in extreme danger, I thought we could have a chat about the state of current affairs."
"Being?" John was persistent. Obviously there was something Mycroft had brought him here for. And as long as it required Moriarty being violently killed, he had no problem with that.
Mycroft opened the top left desk drawer and retrieved a file. He opened it, and pushed a picture of an unfamiliar residential house in front of John.
"We need to find Moriarty again. You are to suggest to Lestrade that they raid the building. There is a high-profile cocaine smuggler, no doubt sponsored by Moriarty's group, taking refuge here. Although take caution. They could be gone within the week." Mycroft also grabbed a small bag containing a small SD card, "Here is the card with the pictures. It also includes a coded message, informing him of the truth. You are to give Lestrade the key. It is, of course, touchingly simple, and my brother was dismayed, saying that this could insult even Lestrade's simple mind. His words."
"Why go through all this? You know that code could be cracked by Moriarty's men."
Mycroft smiled, "It will only work on Gregory Lestrade's work computer. Any other computer will not show that picture."
John nodded. "Done. Next. Do I get to see him?"
"He and I discussed this. He seems to think of himself as emanating an aura of danger and wishes you to stay away. But I think we both know how appealing that must sound to you, Doctor." Mycroft's smug grin was back.
John felt a shadow of a smile ghost his face. He felt his determination rise.
"Please. I need to talk to him."
Mycroft rose from his chair and turned his back, opening a door behind him. "You know, He's been insufferable without you. He was very keen on you figuring this all out by yourself, and I'm quite glad you lived up to his expectations." Mycroft gestured to the open door. John rose. "Down the staircase."
"Thank you, Mycroft." He stood and walked through the door, which concealed a small hallway with a staircase. He could hear soft strains of violin being played.
He couldn't help it. He smiled and went after the detective as he'd done so many times before.
As he approached, the playing stopped. He could hear the instrument being set down. Sherlock stood with his back facing John in a small sitting room, which it had obviously only been turned into a few months ago. It had essentials for living, but nothing too extravagant. John wondered if Sherlock had asked for a separate laboratory to keep busy.
It took a moment, but Sherlock spoke first. "Hello." He turned slowly to face the newcomer.
"Hello," John said, somewhat breathlessly. He hadn't realized his words would vanish. He took a breath, nervous. "You're alive." It was all he could think to say: stating the obvious.
"It's good to see you, too, John." Sherlock smiled reluctantly, as if he wasn't sure if John would be angry. John smiled back, a warm feeling of comfort overtaking him. "I thought I might have a few more days before Mycroft would let you in, but I must be annoying him more than usual. He thinks you being around makes me easier to stand..."
John only looked at him, not broken, not bloody. Sherlock, standing in his lounging clothes, completely and utterly alive.
"I've- er- missed you. Flat's not the same. And- you know- I thought… you were dead," John said. He'd never wanted to hug someone so much in his life. But Sherlock didn't do those things.
Sherlock walked over to him, a curious look on his face. Suddenly his arms enclosed John in warmth. It took John a moment to realise what had happened, and then he was hugging back. "Sorry." mumbled a voice against his shoulder. Sherlock pulled away and stepped back and in a very timid voice said, "I've… missed you too."
John shook his head, feeling genuinely happy; a feeling he hadn't experienced in far too long.