# # # - That's Where Skeletons And Dirty Secrets Hide

We don't revisit the topic the The Night Sherlock Was Caught In The Act, because John isn't aware I was doing anything, and it seems unimportant, forgotten, by the following morning. And for the weeks to come, there are more things to focus on, larger things.

Like, for instance, our first case together since my faked death.

A client comes to us the second it goes public that I am alive, and while many are unhappy about it – still thinking that I am a phony – most don't remember me at all. This client remembers me, however, because John, apparently, over the course of these past three years, has spoken via comment or e-mail to many fans of his blog who have come to him and expressed that they thought it was a pity I'd died, because they didn't believe for a second that I was a fake, not by the way John wrote about me (and pride fills me again over that, happiness that John had such faith, even before it was questioned, and that others could see that).

This client is one of those people. He wants our help, now, because he's been robbed, but not of his money or valuables, but of some of his personal, seemingly useless items, which is unusual indeed.

I agree to help him, if only to pass the time. Clearly someone close to him stole the items – what use would a stranger have with personal belongings that won't sell for much, if anything? – and judging by the background story he gives, I'm willing to bed the ex-wife or someone very dear to her who would do this for her, like a friend or sister – so the whole case is rather transparent, won't take very long to solve, but I need it. John needs it. We need something to do together.

We don't feel like friends anymore, and it bothers me. We're flatmates again, but we feel distant to one another. I thought he would be too absorbed in seeing me again, alive, that we could go back to our old ways. But I should have known better. It's not that John holds a grudge against me, but he was wounded more than I thought he would be, and that makes for this to be… ill at ease, for lack of a better term in such an unique scenario.

My phone rings and I am tempted to have John answer it for me, get it out of my pocket for me, like I used to have him do. I'll admit my laziness doesn't quite extend that far; I purposely wanted him nearer to me at the time, purposely had him touch me. Excuses are all I have. Excuses me from slipping up one day.

Considering John's current mood, I answer the phone myself. It's Mycroft, but I keep myself neutral. "Hello."

"Hullo, brother-mine," he says with a lengthy sigh. "It seems you're up and about again these days, taking the lamest of cases to keep yourself occupied. I was going to phone you the second Moran was captured – your big giveaway to your livelihood, I might add, but –"

"I hope you realize I really don't care whether or not you called me then or now, or even came to see me. I know it was you who gave Moriarty information about me; I already deduced as much, but John confirmed it for me a few days ago, and I needn't hear your attempts at apologies now," I retort sharply into the phone, just as John walks into the room. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

"Wait!" he commands firmly. I sigh through my nose, but I bring the phone back to my ear. "I am sorry, you know. And, this one time, I will admit that I was wrong. Doesn't that count for anything?"

A smirk touches my lips. John is staring at me. His eyes on me give me strength. "Actually, yes. I never thought I'd hear you say those words, Mycroft. It's a vast improvement to your entire person. You should say them more often."

"Don't get catty, Sherlock," my older brother sighs tiredly. "I only wanted to prevent you from being too angry with me. I thought you wouldn't answer your mobile at all, and when you did, I feared you would yell at me, and hang up."

"Aww, Mycroft has emotions. Tell me, do they make you feel small and human?" I scoff, and I might be enjoying tormenting him a bit too much, but in my eyes, it serves him right.

Textbook sibling rivalry or not, he is my older sibling, and older siblings are meant to protect the younger ones. He did the exact opposite of that, in the end, whether he meant to or not. And I have yet to forgive him for it. We will most likely never be on amiable terms, my brother and I, but I once loved him, once looked up to him, and if he wants any shred of that back, he will make this up to me. Theoretically speaking, had he not captured Moriarty and given him information on me, I wouldn't have had to fake my death. Wouldn't have been conjured to be a phony.

"He's a knob, Sherlock, but try to go a little easier on him, yeah?" John whispers as he walks past me, picking up a few fallen papers near the desk. I make a face at that, a sort of pouting one, because I can't refuse him now that he's said something.

Tedious as it is, I relent with a roll of my eyes. Into the phone, I say, "Sorry, Mycroft, I didn't mean that. You called, then, to make amends? I suppose I can allow that. Some money would do. I have none, now. All that I did have was stripped from me by death's fingers. So if you would be so kind, I'll take that as your dues, and we can be peachy."

My tone is awful, and Mycroft doesn't appreciate it, but at this point, I think he's willing enough to do as I say in hopes that we can at least return to how we were before Moriarty. "Very well," he says with difficulty. He clears his throat and names a sum. I bid higher. He, surprisingly, doesn't fight me on it, and that gives me pause. Maybe he means it after all. And maybe I could come to forgive him one day, if he keeps up this cooperative state of being.

Hanging up after our deal is made, I turn to John. "We'll have a bit of money coming in, soon. Hopefully it will pay off your debts to Mrs. Hudson for being allowed to keep this place on your own?"

The doctor is, as always, a little shocked. "I heard! I mean, I know the number you gave him, but he's really giving all of that to you?"

"It will hardly make a dent in his salary, let alone the gross national product. Now then, you're about to ask how I knew about your debt to Mrs. Hudson? Because honestly, John, even you should know how simple it is to work that one out."

He chuckles airily and rubs his forehead. "Come to think of it, it wouldn't be difficult to assume, no. I was going to ask, but I guess my living here alone clears it up. Obviously I couldn't afford a place like this by myself before, and the only thing that has changed is a steady income, but even with that… Yeah, it's not hard to work out. I do have a debt. She insists that it isn't a bother, but I know it is. But you don't have to spend your money on my debts, Sherlock; that's – Well, you don't have to do that. You shouldn't, actually."

"Any why not? You're a friend in need, and I am here to make amends to you much as Mycroft is trying to do to me." I wave his coming sentence aside the second he opens his mouth. "Don't give me that, John. I can read people as easily as children's books. You think I can't read how upset you are with me? You haven't even asked the generic questions I thought you would."

"Which questions?" he frowns, shifting into defensive mode, his arms folding over his chest, his weight leaning more to one leg (his left, I note; the one that didn't have the psychosomatic limp).

"'How did you do it, Sherlock? How did you fake your death?' and, 'Why did you do this to me? Why couldn't you have taken me with you, danger be damned?' – And so on," I say, making my voice higher and lilting my words a bit to mimic his tones and speech patterns.

"Well, first of all, that was a horrible impression of me," he titters, smile bright for a fleeting second, and I cherish it while it lasts.

"I wasn't aiming for accuracy, just a general rendition of your voice," I mutter.

"Secondly," John goes on, shaking his head, one hand on his hip as he steps forward, "And more importantly, I stopped caring. I don't give a bloody fuck how you did it or why you didn't inform me sooner that you were alive. I'm past the point of caring, because the details don't matter. You're back now, and while I'm still a bit irked, I'm just glad I wasn't crazy."

"Crazy? How do you mean?" I say with a frown.

John sighs jaggedly and runs his free hand through his hair. He leans his other palm on the desk, not quite peering down at me, but coming close to it a few times. "I… kept thinking I saw you a few times, or someone who looked like you. And…" This is difficult for him to admit. His eyes are closed for bouts longer than a standard blink. He's hardly looking my way, and when he does, it's not at my eyes. "I kept praying that you did fake it. I kept waiting for a miracle, for you to show up at my door, good as new. Normal people think these things in grief, I guess, but not me. I believed it. Because you aren't the average person, and I hoped that meant you could escape death, defy it. – Besides, you're too arrogant for suicide. You ruddy love yourself, don't you? So I… waited, mostly. Some days I caved in and thought I knew you'd never come back, but most days I trusted you would."

I don't know how long I gawk at John with him staring right back at me, free to look into my eyes now that he's said what he had to. It must be a while, because he leans off the desk and shifts uncomfortably and avoids my gaze again at one point. But I continue to stare.

"John… you're amazing," I say in a near-whisper, too late to catch it before it slips from my mind to my lips. He puzzles at that, cocking his head and looking embarrassed. I blink, look down at my hands. I think I may even be smiling a little. "I can't pinpoint why you are, or why you telling me that makes me think you are, but you are. You never doubted me, did you? Not once."

"Only once," John corrects softly. "When I saw your body lying on the cobblestone, blood pooled around your head, no pulse in your still-warm wrist. I doubt you then."

"But not when I was on the phone with you? Or when you were at my grave? You touched it sentimentally, so I thought that meant –"

"You were there for that?" John pales, and he puts his face in his hand, the other on his waist. "No, of course you were. You kept an eye on me the entire time you were 'dead.' That's why I thought I saw you so many times," he mutters. He sighs again and looks at me, hand dropping with an audible sound to slap his thigh. "To answer you, though: no, I didn't doubt you even then. You lied to me on the phone, I know you did. In retrospect, it was to make it easier for me to believe you were dead, and to cope with your death better. Thanks for that, but it wound up not helping at all, because I knew it was a lie."

"You are too clever to be deemed average," I say with a slight quirk of my lips.

He smiles as well. "Living with you must have rubbed off on me," John replies.

I chuckle to myself, my eyes focused on my hands again. I fiddle with my phone, tap it into my other palm. I put it down. "So," I say, lifting my gaze to meet his again, "I will help pay your debts to Mrs. Hudson, we will finish this robbery case in the morning – and yes, before you ask, I have finally worked out who did it and where they stashed the items – and we can finally move on, I hope?"

"Only if you swear to me you won't pull shit like this again," John admonishes, wagging a finger at me. "I don't like it when you go off on your own and I can't follow. Who else is going to save your arse when you get into trouble? Not to mention dress your wounds. You don't trust hospitals for that."

"Indeed I don't," I concur as I rise to my feet and tug down my wrinkled shirt. "So I promise, then. I swear not to pull a stunt like faking my death or destroying a web of criminals on my own ever again. Satisfied?"

"Yeah," John grins. "Very. Thank you." He stretches, yawns. "Now, if you'll excuse me, it's getting late, and I have work in the morning. Goodnight, Sherlock."

I watch him as he leaves the room. "Goodnight, John," I reciprocate idly. I turn to my phone and text our client about meeting in the morning to settle his plea. It's his ex-wife's sister; she took his belongings to avenge the ex-wife, whom didn't get what the settlement agreed on in the divorce, so her sister took it by force. Child's play. At least things can be settled for those poor fools. Normal people are rather predictable.

And cases like this – ones that sound interesting at first, like a robbery of things other than money and valuables, but turn out to be very plain and straightforward – always drain me more than the cases of murder and espionage and hostage situations, because at least those have the thrill of so much more hanging in the balance, and are, in fact, a bit more complex than meets the eye. I live for those cases. I detest ones like these.

But what am I to do? I have to keep my mind off of other things. And this is the only way to do so at the moment.

#

When John comes home the following evening, I have carry out on the table and a check in my hand. I lazily hold it up with two fingers as I stab my fork into the food on my plate with the other. "Here you are, John. Courtesy of Mycroft and myself. Give it to Mrs. Hudson, won't you?"

"You… got food for us?" he says as he shrugs off his jacket and hangs it over the chair opposite me. "And the money came this soon?"

"Mycroft's woman – his assistant, you know the one – delivered it herself today in one of Mycroft's cars. And I was hungry, so I did the natural thing and ordered myself some food. And I knew you would complain if I didn't think to get you some, so I ordered what I've noted to be one of your usual choices. Problem?" I ask, raising a brow and looking up from my meal, slipping some food into my mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

John smiles and takes the check. "No, I guess there is no problem, but what, we have one little chat last night and it changes you?"

"I am not changed," I retort a hair childishly. "Don't expect too much. It's only carry out, and what I said I would do. It's getting back to our old routine, that's all."

"Uh-huh," John says. "All right. Okay." He nods a couple times and waves the check. "I'll be right back."

"Mm," I hum around a bit of food, nodding once at him dismissively. I hear his footsteps, down and gone. I eat a few more bites before shoving my plate away. John can take care of it. I ate something, and that should sustain me for a while. I get up and wash my hands before seeking out my violin. Surely John wouldn't have sold it? But I haven't seen it in its usual places: the living room, my bedroom, the storage closet.

The only place left to look is John's room.

I walk without much thought to his room, finding the door open; an invitation as much as any.

In the closet or under the bed? Both are likely storage spots for something like my violin and violin case. Closet first; it is the most likely of the two, considering the sorts of things people put into their closets.

Now then.

I open the door and rifle through John's various shirts, jumpers, and pants hanging on cheap plastic and wire hangers. I give a start, however – fingers twitching, arm tensing – when I find a shirt of mine pushed to the very back of the line of clothing. It's my old favorite, a dark purple dress shirt. I had two because I liked it so much; one was older, tighter on me, and the other was newer, looser. The looser one is the one I "died" in. I still have that one. But my original shirt is hanging here, in John's closet. I know he kept some of my clothes – he brought them out, after all, to use on the sewing dummy to fool Moran – but this one. Why is this one so delicately hanging, ironed, in his closet? The others were winkled, creased; clearly having been folded and packed in a box for months on end. But this one…

I pick up its hanger, touch the fabric. John kept this one preserved. I know it was my most flattering shirt; it highlighted my hair and eyes, it was in perfect contrast to my skin. It made my too-long torso atop my average-length legs look proportionate. This is why it was my favorite. But it must have been John's favorite on me as well, because why else would it be hanging here?

"What are you doing in my room?" comes John voice, and I nearly break my neck as I turn my head 'round, facing the direction of the door. He's in the doorway, hand braced against the frame, assessing me with his eyes.

"I was looking for my violin. What have you done with it?" I demand instantly, stowing away my shirt and stepping back from his wardrobe.

John sends me a questioning look before pacing into the room and moving to his bed. Ah, so it was under there. That was my second guess. He drops to one knee and yanks it out from underneath the dust ruffle, wiping his sleeve across the top. He rises and holds it out to me, his hand gripping the handle too tightly. "Here, take it," he says tightly.

He's been caught. He knows I will ask why he kept my shirt, or any of my clothes for that matter. John doesn't like to shop for himself, probably would wear my clothes out of convenience if they fit well enough, but I know that isn't the case. Sentiment; he kept it out of sentiment. I just want to know which kind.

"Thank you," I say automatically as I take the case from him. He moves to his closet and takes down my bow from the top shelf. He snaps his wrist so quickly that a whipping sound is heard as he offers it to me with a flourish.

"This, too," he says. "Now get out of my room, Sherlock."

I've violated his privacy, and he doesn't like it, because despite my attempts to mend things, there is a lingering adjustment period that has yet to settle fully between us to heal us both. So me coming into his room is "too soon" for him. And he doesn't look embarrassed, but I wager he's seething with it, mingled with irritation.

I hurriedly take my bow from his outstretched hand and promptly exit the room.

I don't feel much like playing my violin anymore. Maybe tomorrow, but not just now.

In the kitchen, John's food is getting cold. And he isn't making a move to eat it up before it turns cold, either.

#

A/N: Admittedly, I was thinking of Brokeback Mountain a bit with the whole shirt thing. Whoopsie. XD