Chapter 41

"Ah, John. Good morning. I see you've found my brother - and Sherlock has found something in his turn." Mycroft nodded and two large men pinned Sherlock against the wall by his arms and took the journal from him.

Sherlock cried out in protest as the book was handed to his brother. "Let me go," he snarled, struggling against the two men holding him, but it was to no avail. So instead he turned to Mycroft, practically screaming: "You can't do this!"

"What the hell is going on here?" John asked, looking shocked. "Mycroft, what is this?"

"The information in this journal is top secret, John. I can't allow you two to read it. It is the easiest way for all of us if you just let it happen. After all, I've also been of great help to you lately, haven't I, Dr. Watson?"

"Then why didn't you ask decently? They're hurting him," John said, wincing as he heard Sherlock scream with anger.

"You know well enough that that wouldn't have had any effect on Sherlock, John," Mycroft tutted. He waved and the men let him go.

For a moment Sherlock just stood there, shaking with rage. Then he launched himself at Mycroft. He had barely taken one step when he found himself being pushed back against the wall. "You fucking bastard!" he cried.

"Really, Sherlock, language," Mycroft said, pulling his vest straight with a condescending look.

"But- but if you knew that we were after the journal, then why didn't you stop us before?" John asked, feeling utterly confused and far too helpless for his liking.

"Oh, it was quite practical that someone would finally find the damn thing. We have wanted to destroy it for centuries," Mycroft said calmly.

"Destroy it?" Sherlock was becoming hysterical. "You can't destroy it. It's ... it's important. It will tell us..." Sherlock realised that he still didn't know what the journal would tell them, just that whatever was in it would justify everything that he had gone through, everything he had put John through. But he could never make Mycroft understand this. Mycroft was not interested in the truth. "It will tell us why," he whispered, knowing he was defeated.

"Why what?" Mycroft mocked him, pulling up an eyebrow. "Ah, brother dear. You've never had the ability to separate important matters from trifles. Give up, there is nothing you can do about it. At least your beloved doctor realises as much."

"No, I-" John started protesting. Though what could he do? It wasn't like attacking those thugs and getting shot would help them forward. "Mycroft, can't you just show him the journal? It's not like we're going to publish the contents, and he's been on this for days. Please."

Mycroft smiled. "No," he said, overpronouncing both letters. "I think we'd better go. Try not to ruin your flat, Sherlock. Good morning, Doctor Watson."

This time, when he was released, Sherlock just sank to the floor. Mycroft had won, and right now, everything seemed lost. He looked up at John. How could he just stand there? Didn't he understand what had just happened? With a sigh that was almost a sob, Sherlock hid his face in his hand.

"Sherlock..." Tentatively, John sank to his knees in front of him and put a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock recoiled. He couldn't bear to be touched right now. Not even by John. He just wanted to be left on his own. "Don't," he snapped.

John sighed and sat a little back. "Sherlock, just let it go. I know it's horrible, but there is nothing we can do right now. I'm really sorry. Let's go to bed."

"Bed?" Sherlock snorted derisively. "And how is that supposed to make anything better? But that's your solution to everything, isn't it? 'Go to bed, Sherlock', 'Get some sleep, Sherlock'." His imitation of John was cruel but accurate. "At least this way you got what you wanted, right? Now I don't have anything to stay awake for, right?"

"I'm only thinking of your health, Sherlock," John said quietly. "This never was what I wanted."

"No?" he spat. "You certainly were in quite a hurry to get me home and to bed. You wouldn't even give me time to get a proper look at the journal." Then suddenly he gasped, his eyes growing wide and round. "You played right into Mycroft's hands, didn't you? What did he tell you? That it was for my own good? For queen and country?"

John looked up. "Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. Why would I be on Mycroft's side?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's got some kind of hold on you. A favour, money, sense of 'obligation', blackmail..." He grabbed a fistful of hair and tugged in frustration. "I don't know. I don't care. But how else could he have known that I had the journal and was bringing it here, unless you told him?" Sherlock got to his feet and, avoiding John's eyes, began pacing.

John let out a deep sigh. "Really, Sherlock. After all this time you should know that I'm on your side. I never took money from your brother. The only favour I asked of him was to get me out of Blackpool police station so I could return to you, but I didn't even want to call him, I was calling Lestrade! I don't know how Mycroft manages to know everything, but I didn't even know that you were off to find the journal, I hadn't heard of the bloody thing!"

A small part of Sherlock's mind knew he was being irrational, but it was quickly losing to the rage that was surging through him. "On my side? Ever since this case started, you've done nothing but get in the way of solving it. Sleeping when we could have been working, whining about me calling one of the most important witnesses, distracting me and killing the main suspect before I got a chance to speak to him. If this is being on my side, I hope I never have to go up against you."

John's insides turned to ice at the words, just like they had done when Fitzroy sank down on the knife. "So there's finally what you really think, then? I don't understand why you still allow me around you if I'm so much trouble. 'No, it's not your fault, John.' Just until the moment you don't need me anymore. I thought it was different, that I wasn't someone you charmed like Molly or Ian, but I'm just the biggest fool of all, aren't I, Sherlock? How long have you been laughing at me for believing that you bloody loved me? As if you're able to do such a thing." John was shaking with anger.

"I did love you, I..." Sherlock stopped and stared at John in shock. "Oh god, I mean I do... I..." He stopped again, groaned and turned away. "I can't do this..." he muttered.

John looked up at him, his expression full of pain. "No, it's quite clear that you're shit at this, Sherlock. Everything is always about you. The smallest thing I ask is too much." Something had broken inside him, not only his voice, and now he couldn't stop the words.

Sherlock cringed. "I've done everything like you wanted it. I stayed trapped in this hellhole for weeks and weeks, just so you wouldn't have to worry. And the when I once... once dare to do something without your permission... one tiny little thing, not even something dangerous, and suddenly it's 'always about me'. When is it ever about me?"

"It was never for my sake that I kept you in. I'm doing everything for you. And apparently you don't even see it," John sighed, feeling tired.

"If you did everything for me, we wouldn't be here now. If you had let me go to Cardiff instead of keeping me locked up here like an invalid... if you had trusted me to be able to take care of myself, I would have solved this case days ago and I would have learned from Fitzroy why my brother was after that journal, and not have walked so stupidly right into his trap. And now... now we'll never know, will we?" Sherlock was not feeling the least bit tired. In fact he felt like he was about to burst. He looked at John as if seeing him clearly for the first time, and he felt that if he had to spend one more second in a room with this man, he was going to do something he would deeply regret. With a final exasperated huff, he whirled around, and was down the stairs and out the door in seconds.

John let himself fall on the sofa and buried his head in his hands. Anger was still bubbling inside him, but he also felt miserable and hurt. The look on Sherlock's face, just before he had left... God, they were a mess.

Once he was down on the street, Sherlock had no idea where he was going. It was a good thing he had not had time to get his coat off, because the air was still rather chilly. He tightened his scarf a little, turned up his collar and set off down the street, desperate to get away, no matter where to.

After a few minutes, John heard Mrs. Hudson climb the stairs.

"Morning, John. I heard you yelling from downstairs. You two had a little domestic?" she asked.

"Not very little, no," John sighed, lifting his head from his hands.

Mrs. Hudson sat down next to him. "You look like you could use a cup of tea, dear."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that's very kind, but I'm fine. It's just that he's the most stubborn man I've ever known."

"Ah well. You know how it is with you two, dear. By tonight he'll be back and you'll be happily together again," she smiled.

"I'm not even sure that that is what I want," John admitted, and then felt scared for thinking it. They should have been cuddled up in bed by now, not angry and apart from each other. Mycroft had ruined everything, and then Sherlock had, by taking it all out on John, after all he had done for him. He just couldn't take it right now.