Three days after his father's funeral, John decided to make a run to Tesco to pick up some groceries for his mother. Their neighborhood store was only a few blocks away so it was no hardship for him to pick up some much needed items. He'd spent the morning on the phone with his landlord in New Mexico making arrangements for his few remaining possessions to be sold off at an estate sale. After being back, John had decided he wanted to stay in London and try to keep a low profile. His mother had offered him his old room for as long as he needed it. His father had left both he and Harry a modest inheritance for which he was grateful. He had no intentions of living off his elderly mother any longer than necessary.
He wasn't destitute, but his dwindling bank account had taken a hit with a cross continental flight. He found that picking up and starting over never really got any easier each time he did it, but the idea of coming back home to London eased something he hadn't known he was missing.
His phone pinged as he began his return journey back from the market, and his stomach gave a little lurch. He stopped a moment and set his bags down in order to pull his phone from his front pocket. He'd not received any more texts since the last mysterious message, and he had put it from his mind in order to deal with the hordes of family that had descended on the Watson household the past few days. His aunts, six or seven cousins and his sister had been in attendance, hovering over his mother and offering all manner of condolences and help. It was really great to see everyone again. After being separated from his family for so long, they all welcomed him right back into the fold and admonished him for being "away" for so long. He'd been overwhelmed at the warmth and support everyone had shown his mother, but it was him that she seemed to lean on the most during this time. He found he didn't mind how much she needed him. It gave him a sense of purpose to be there for her.
It all seemed so perfect and healing except for one problem: he didn't know if he'd ever be free from his former life. Case in point, the phone in his hand felt too warm. He swiped the screen and the text read: You forgot the tea.
He simply stared at the message. Sure enough, he thought back over his purchases and found he had forgotten the tea. But, he and his mother would just have to manage without it because John would not be going back to the store.
"Git!" he said aloud to the sky. "Git, git, git…." A woman made a wide circle around him as she walked past him on the sidewalk. He was sure he looked the lunatic with a furious look on his face. "Git!" he said one last time. He squared his shoulders and trotted back at full speed to his mother's house with the groceries. He let himself in to the now quiet house and set the bags down on the table. No one was home just then and that gave John a moment to pull a kitchen chair out and sink down in it.
"Git," he said softly to the swirling dust motes floating through the morning sun in his mother's kitchen. It had to be Sherlock. John knew the consulting detective had the means to know if or when he'd come back to London, and he also had the means to have him followed. He was sure the homeless network probably still provided Sherlock with plenty of information, so it shouldn't be a surprise that he was being watched so closely. They had probably been on the lookout for him since he'd returned. He had no idea if Mycroft was aware Sherlock had faked his own death either. If Sherlock wanted to remain "dead" so be it. He didn't know if Sherlock could have kept something like that from Mycroft for long, but he wouldn't give the secret away.
He had no idea what the texts might mean, but Sherlock, it seemed, was trying to reach out to him. Did he want that? Was that why he'd come back?
John got up to put the groceries away before his mother returned from where ever their family had taken her this morning. He felt hungry so he fixed himself some food remembering that long ago lunch when Mycroft's men had spirited him away while he tried to drink his tea. As he ate, he thought back to very beginning of the whole "collared" business. He wondered what would have happened if Mycroft hadn't interfered in his life.
He felt that if there was one person in all the world that could have eventually taken Moriarty's network down, it would have been Sherlock. If they'd just been given the chance….
His phone trilled and John sighed. He'd been expecting another text so the incoming call surprised him. He looked down at the number showing on his screen, unlisted. He answered with a curt, "Yes?" and waited tensely for a reply.
The voice on the other end was deep, melodious and intimately familiar but not the one he was expecting, "Hello, Dr. Watson."
"Mycroft," John said expelling the breath he'd been holding in so the last part of the name came out in a half whisper. The bottom had dropped out of his stomach at the thought he'd been caught yet again by the unforgiving British Government. He thought he might have more time before it all started up again, or he'd even dared to hope he'd just be forgotten and left to live a quiet life of a NHS clinic doctor.
"I see you've found your way back to London. My condolences on your father's passing," Mycroft said pausing a moment. John marveled at the man's attention to social customs even in the most extreme situations.
"Uh, thanks," John replied trying to gather his composure, "Have you been texting me?"
"No…" Mycroft drew the word out. "I have not. But, I do wish to meet with you."
"So, we're scheduling a meeting this time? I get to have some input on the when and where?" John asked raking a hand through his short, blonde hair that was only a touch greyer than it had been two years ago. A fleeting thought ran through his mind, I wonder what Sherlock looks like now?
"Of course. I have a matter of some urgency to speak with you about."
"Matter of some urgency? Is that code for claping me in irons and hauling me away to some little room?"
"No, John," Mycroft replied using his first name. That made John pause. He couldn't recall a time that Mycroft had ever used his given name to address him. "I have a job offer I'd like to propose. There's a car waiting outside your residence if you have time now?"
John pulled aside the kitchen curtain and saw an unobtrusive, black sedan with tinted windows waiting outside. It looked out of place in his mother's quaint old neighborhood. It reminded him of a purring housecat. It looked domesticated enough, but underneath its inoffensive exterior, John knew it contained a lethal predator capable of shredding unsuspecting prey.
"Job offer? What if I say no?" he asked challengingly.
"Then, I'd be disappointed," Mycroft said and the unspoken threat hung heavily in silence that followed.
"Yeah, I can come," John said after the pause, because if it was starting again, he may as well face it head on. Long ago Mycroft had diagnosed his need for danger. Perhaps that was why John felt a little thrill run through his heart at the thought of getting into the black sedan. Maybe the sedate, run-of-the-mill life with a wife and kids would never be in his future. Maybe, deep down, he didn't want it to be.