Chapter Title: Brother Bother
Characters: Sherlock, Mycroft
Rating: K+
Summary: After leaving 221B, there is only one place Sherlock can go. It gives him the unfortuate time to actually think. The story title is from a lyric by Snow Patrol.

In this chapter you might say Sherlock seems a little out of character. Take into consideration he's been to Istanbul and God-knows-where else, and he's missed his friend. That friend just punched him and slammed the door in his face; thinks Sherlock betrayed him to a degree. You can't just shrug and walk away. High-functioning sociopath or not.

A/N: I think in the spoilers, it indicates Sherlock tells Mycroft he was mugged, but I figured Mycroft would already know the truth. He seems to have eyes everywhere anyway. What I'm shooting for is to emulate what I think they will put in the series. Minus some language. :P

Disclaimer: Mofftiss owns, and Queen Beeb. Not me.

Sherlock dabbed at his bloody nose, looked up at 221B a little sadly, stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked up at the doorknocker with a final air, and walked off down the road. He wandered into the wealthier part of London. He didn't particularly feel like hailing a cab. He could tell Mycroft he was mugged but he didn't think his brother would believe that easily.

He hadn't been here - to the old house - in a long time. Hadn't been this desperate. He couldn't go to a hotel, although he knew the Network was gone, he didn't quite feel like explaining to passerby his distinct face.
He knocked on the door. No answer.

Mycroft's car was outside so surely he was home. His brother knew he was alive, had known for a year and a half before the Network was completely irradicated. Mycroft was just being his usual self, trying to pay Sherlock back for the times he had phoned and Sherlock hadn't answered.

"Have it your way!" he shouted to the door.

He took out his mobile and Mycroft picked up almost immediatly. "Need a favor again?"

"Yes." He paused, then said in a rush. "Mycroft, can I stay here tonight?"

The butler opened the door, as though he'd simply been waiting for a signal. "He's in the parlor, do you care for some refreshment?"

"Yes, please." Sherlock allowed the old man to take his coat and be escorted to where Mycroft was sitting in his chair that not surprisingly resembled a throne.

"John didn't react well to your resurrection?" Mycroft smiled that annoying little smile.

Sherlock dabbed at his sore nose again. "Yes, I think his emotional connection to my death I severly misunderestimated," he said.

'I think if you would have told anyone your plan, you would have told him first," Mycroft said.

"I gathered that, thank you." Sherlock said, taking a glass of water that he sniffed and dipped one finger in and smelled that too before drinking. "But I couldn't do that. Moriarty's plan included him. With me dead, there was no one to operate the cases - so John's connection wasn't of interest anymore. His lack of knowledge saved his life."

"Perhaps he should be informed of that then."

Sherlock let out a strangled laugh. "Can't very well inform him without being prepared for a boxing match."

Mycroft hit a button on his desk, and someone walked in, wheeling a cart with various instruments. "Aw, come on," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

He took one cotton ball, tore it carefully in half, twisting the cotton and placed it in his nose, trying to disguise his wince. "All better."

Mycroft nodded to the doctor and the man left.

"So he just sits around all day waiting for you to push that button? How boring." Sherlock said.

"Don't get off the subject. John. How are you going to deal with him?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I can go back to consulting without him."

Mycroft shook his head, still with that annoying smile on his face. "You know very well you don't want admit you don't want to. Let him absorb that you're alive for awhile and maybe he'll come round."

"He'll probably send a text," Sherlock said, taking out his mobile and slamming it against his palm, as though trying to force a text out of it.

Mycroft turned back to his desk. "If you want dinner it's at 5." He seemed to make it clear for Sherlock to find his quarters. "You can have your room back if you like."

Sherlock let the parlor without a word, his brother and himself weren't one for graces. He remembered why he had left this house. It was so roomy it was suffocating. Same routine every day - of course it had always been that way, but for Sherlock he took adventure over the sake of routine. He might be a little late to dinner. Just to watch Mycroft twitch a little. Show him he wasn't completely in control. He wandered into his old room. Mycroft didn't seem to have changed anything. Same stack of books. Same bedspread. Same wallpaper in the adjoining bathroom, though the mirror and curtain were different.

This was not quite how he had pictured tonight. Even though he deserved John's reaction. He should have expected him to react that way, and yes he had expected some rage - but everyone else had just seemed shocked and relieved.

John wasn't everyone else. Clearly. He unbuttoned the shirt, touching the bruises with interest. As far as he knew, it didn't seem that John had broken anything. Though he would probably have a rather nasty black eye and swollen lip in the morning.

He touched his eye and winced. If Mycroft thought he was uncomfortable he would call that man with his instruments again - and Sherlock was quite used to doing things himself. The clock in the hall chimed. Four. An hour to play bored houseguest. At least he had time to think.

He had severely underestimated John's rage. He'd thought from seeing John at the graveyard that the soldier would be upset, but he had forgotten John's code of loyalty. The loyalty he'd learned from his unit in the war. The same loyalty he'd applied to Sherlock.

In fact he would probably consider Sherlock more the hero of actually dying so he could live in the first place, then Sherlock faking that death and solving the case.

He'd made a mistake, even if he wouldn't admit it. John was clearly affected by his death. Details that hadn't been there when he left did not go unnoticed. The darker jumper, the darker coat. The skittish appearance, even though he limped - that too, was back. The dark circles under John's eyes. The angles in his face sharper - as though he wasn't eating properly. Was Mary feeding him like she should?

They'd been engaged when he left - he'd thought by now they'd been married.
"You'll be the Best Man, Sherlock." He'd said with a smile. One of the rare occasions John had actually told him what to do.

He couldn't just sit here on the corner of his bed and reflect. He had to tell John what he meant to tell him. Before the bastard cut him off and started swinging.

Though he deserved that. In John's code, and even by his own. He should have known he could trust John, even though he was only trying to protect him.