"I thought you couldn't help me," John started in, angrily.
"The situation has changed, John."
"Obviously. For instance, I've been arrested and charged with kidnapping."
"When you came to me last week, you surprised me. At first I thought you were just upset, but then I received a call." John turned his head sharply to face Mycroft. "I think it will be best to explain everything once we are in a more secure location," he said, nodding towards the driver.
Eventually the car slowed to a stop, and Mycroft stepped out. John followed, and found himself looking up at a large, ornate house. "Welcome to the Holmes Estate, Dr. Watson." John could only stare.
As John followed Mycroft into the house, he felt uncomfortable. Seeing a more personal side of the man seemed downright invasive. Mycroft directed John into a sitting room, and exited momentarily. From what John could see, even this small room was elegantly decorated with expensive art and furniture. Quite a residence for a man who occupies a minor position in the British government, John thought with a smirk.
John revolved slowly as he admired the art on each wall. Then, one painting caught his attention. The image showed a skinny boy of about seven with dark, curly hair, staring intensely out at him. "Sherlock." The name escaped John's lips as a whisper. Without realizing it, John took a step towards the boy and reached out his hand. His fingers were millimeters from the painting when he heard someone enter the room behind him. Startled, but not taking his eyes off of the painting, John began to explain, "I was just admiring this picture of Sherlock."
"Really, John? Admiring a picture of a young boy while in your pajamas. People might talk."
The voice was so familiar—a deep baritone full of sarcasm and a tinge of sadness. John spun around to face the voice, but too quickly. Blackness crept into the edges of his vision, and the world was no longer steady under his feet. As John fell to the floor all he could think was, this will not help my concussion.
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