Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Spoilers: End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence, mentions of drugs, swearing
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Home, but not home
Stalking through shrubs and woods in wet clothes on a cold April night is tedious. By the time I enter Holmes Manor through its back entrance, I am frozen to the bones. The vastness of the place feels strangely unfamiliar, and I hurriedly retreat to the kitchen, one of my favourite rooms in this house.
Mycroft has stocked the fridge with ample provisions. He has let the water heat as well, I notice gratefully.
In the adjacent cook´s flat I step into the shower, disposing Sigerson´s clothes in a bin. The veil of hot water hits me seconds later and my body warms up under the refreshing spray. Finished and dry, I remove the contact lenses and crop my hair, which has grown during the two weeks spent in Belgian custody and shows its black roots again. The mirror reflects a clear image of my own blue eyes, and I smile back at the surprised expression on my face, welcoming a large part of me back.
The clothes Mycroft has chosen are not my usual attire, but practical: Jeans, a Shirt and a blue, exquisitely light cashmere jumper. My astonishment is genuine, though, when I find my coat - that coat – in the bedroom´s wardrobe. Mycroft must have been aware of how much I have missed it, he has given in to sentiment, but why?
My fingers trace the fabric gingerly, my senses suddenly overwhelmed by the faint odour of chemicals, cigarette smoke and bergamot from John´s frequent Earl Grey. The longing for my former live, for Baker Street, for John´s company, is nearly crushing my composure. But I need to keep a clear head. Thus I push any sentiment aside, grabbing the new clothes from the closet.
Dressed, and feeling much more like myself, saner and more alive than I have felt for ages, I settle down on the task of cooking. It is late in the night when I finish my meal and retreat to the bedroom. The heating has not come up yet, for the building has not been used for some time, and without a second thought I pull my coat on and settle into the sheets.
For once, I sleep soundly and untroubled through the night and late into the morning.
The following evening every single newspaper Mycroft left in the hall is read thoroughly, as are the memory sticks he placed together with a small notebook on the kitchen table. The Secret Service has gathered enough evidence to arrest several members of the web, and the hitmen assigned to Mrs Hudson and Lestrade have been jailed. Still, there is evidence that someone has taken command of the web. Who this person is still remains a mystery.
Deep in thought, my head rested on my arms on the kitchen table, I nearly miss Mycroft´s arrival in the early evening.
"You´ve already made yourself at home," he says as he enters, taking in the mess of strewn papers on the floor and the used tableware in the sink.
"I am at home."
"Not for long, I´m afraid. I don´t think it would be wise if you stayed," he answers, twirling his umbrella. His forehead crinkles in concern. "How are you?" he asks, glancing at my arm.
"Feeling myself again," I reply, tossing one of the newspapers aside, clearly aware that he was not referring to my mental state.
He sighs. "I am sorry you were hurt. If it had been avoidable…"
"Look, Mycroft, this was a dangerous assignment. I survived. Morbier got arrested. Case closed", I reply impatiently, grabbing several pages and pushing them into a heap. "My next move will be to find the new leader of the web. Certainly not a safe task, too."
My brother draws nearer, abandoning his umbrella at the sink and sits down. "As I said, I don´t consider it wise for you to stay," he says sternly.
I stare him down. "We´ve already discussed this, Mycroft. As soon as Moriarty´s financial network is destroyed I will return to London."
He regards me with an odd expression bordering on pity. "I know how much you would like to go back home. But you are not safe yet."
"I will be as safe as I want to be," I snap, sharper than intended. As much as my brother has his own plans for me I am not at all ready to comply to his wishes.
Sensing my tension, he shakes his head. "Sherlock, you can´t walk around London unharmed for long. We´ve recorded several calls recently where members of Moriarty´s organization discussed the possibility that you are still alive. They got more than suspicious about the efficiency with which the police forces disclosed Morbier´s plans."
As much as I loathe it, Mycroft has a point. Although Moriarty´s web has significantly lost power by the cut of its financial supplies, it is far from nearing destruction. And as long as Moriarty´s intimates are not caught, my return could jeopardize any advantage we still have on them. And, of course, everyone who is closely associated with me.
Gazing out into the darkening garden, I simply ask: "How long?"
Mycroft gets up and draws nearer, standing next to me, his hand lingering on my shoulder. "As long as rumours persist. If we don´t deliver living proof to their theory they should soon feel safe again."
"This can be indefinite," I say, turning to face him. "You don't expect me to lie low for an indefinite time span?"
"I want you to lie low for at least six months," he says. "Preferably at some remote place. Where nobody would recognize you at all."
"Which?"
He smiles. "Your choice, Sherlock."
I ponder his offer. In fact, there are several places I have always wanted to see. Not as a fugitive though. They all have their sights and characteristics, but there is one… "Nepal," I prod. "Six months in Nepal, then I´ll be back in London."
He nods, approvingly. "It is Nepal, then. About your return…"
"I refuse to debate this, Mycroft. I return in six months, except circumstances impede me. I won´t continue to abide to your rules."
Mycroft sighs, reading my stubbornness exactly for what it is - resentment of the fact that he has meddled with my plans for the past year and a half. "Do I really need to remind you that you can´t come back before it is safe for everyone - including John?" he asks.
My stony gaze settles on his. "Of course not," I reply, hoarsely.
He has spotted something in my expression which stops him from pursuing the subject further. Instead, he turns to face the stove. "Let´s make dinner, then," he offers. "I can fill you in on the newest developments later."
Sitting at the table, snuggling into my coat and watching my ever-so-aloof brother do the cooking I wonder how fast and dramatically things have changed in the past months.
