Title: Get Your Epitaph Right
Characters: Sherlock, Mycroft
Rating: K+
Summary: "He won't care about where I've been. He'll want to know why I left. He blames himself. And because I left, that leaving is betrayal. Betrayal that he is determined I will pay for in some regard. He won't take platitudes or excuses. He is a soldier, Mycroft. He deserves a proper explanation."

A/N: Thank you for all the alerts and to Chessie13 and thatperfume for reviewing :D This next chapter is to you two wonderful people. There is so much Sherlock fic right now it would take me a good year to read them all.

Sherlock sat in the chair, his elbows on the arm rests, his fingertips tapping together in a rhythem symbiotic with the clock on the wall, though he didn't hear the ticking, and he wasn't watching the time. He was thinking. Calculating.

How would he tell John next? He couldn't very well stay here - he would most likely not sleep.

As though he slept in Baker Street but at least there he was free to play his violin at all hours. Here he didn't even have the violin.

He couldn't stop John in the street again. The soldier was too rattled for that. Besides now he'd be looking over his shoulder, probably would carry a pistol if he felt the need to.

He was lucky John hadn't pulled his gun and shot him. Not to kill him, of course. John missed him too much to want him dead. John was teaching a lesson that Sherlock just couldn't go off and pretend to be dead without consequences.

He knew that - he knew John wouldn't react well to his return at first. Might claim denial, might tell him to prove he wasn't a ghost. He knew the list of possibilities. But the one where John punched him and told him to sod off wasn't very high on the list.

The clock chimed five.

Sherlock waited three minutes, then got up out of the chair he was sitting in. Then flicked the bathroom light on. He pretended to be preening - but he was really looking at the still-pink saber scar on his right shoulder. From Istanbul of course.

Someday John would like to hear that story. In fact, if he was completely honest - he could have dodged quicker if he wanted.

He heard a knock on the door as he turned the water on. He opened the door to another of the servants, different than the butler. "Yes?" He tried not to seem testy even though he knew that came across anyway.

"Your brother wishes to tell you that dinner is served."

Sherlock turned off the water and dried his hands on a handtowel that seemed far to fluffy for a spare, unused bedroom. "Well, let's go then, shall we?"

He smiled, but it wasn't real. He was just showing off, as usual.

"I'm not even going to ask why you're late. Seems like a boring and pointless conversation," Mycroft stated when Sherlock entered the dining hall.

Why his brother ate in this grand room by himself - or perhaps with his assistant sometimes, Sherlock knew why - but he didn't quite understand the logical sense of it.

A waste of dishes, a waste of food - in fact just a waste of space.

Sherlock did not sit across the table. In fact, he was seated a few paces away from Mycroft. If they brought out the rest of the chairs from the storage in the garden, he would be about three chairs away. A comfortable distance.

"Have you decided about John?"

"I'll have to wait to see him. Perhaps a week?" Sherlock paused for effect. "I don't plan on being here in your castle the whole time."

"Well, that's a nice gesture for you."

Sherlock smiled tightly. "I don't want to be dirtying rooms the servants clean once a week anyway."

"You know it's not a problem. But John. What about it? How will he react?"

"I'm a detective, Mycroft. Not a psychic. He might react well. He might not."

"He certainly didn't react well today."

"No. That's because he was in the street. I couldn't tell him to sit down and listen."

Of course he hadn't done that in the first place because he expected John to shoot him if he deigned to enter their flat. But he didn't tell Mycroft that. His brother would simply rub in the mistake. They were far too similiar to like each other, and yet so different they couldn't properly talk.

Mycroft liked his routines, his wealth, and his influence.

Sherlock liked his adventures, haphazard way of handling things, of exercising his mind in the scientific field, instead of the mathematical or political one.

Of course neither particularly seemed to care what the other's choices were.
Though Sherlock wanted nothing to do with Mycroft's political involvement. In his mind, the best term was "corruption" - and this perhaps was the explanation of the coldness between them.

"You could just tell him you were taken captive after you faked your death," Mycroft was saying, amused.

Of course that wouldn't be a lie, but that didn't explain why he was gone for three years. "No, I am not doing that to John. Amusing that you would be the one saying that, one would think that you of all people would remember his loyalty. He deserves to know the truth." Even if I don't want to tell him. It has to be done, just as this "death" had to be done in the first place.

Sherlock pushed away what little he had put on his plate. He wasn't particularly hungry at this time anyway.

"You're not going to go there now are you?" Mycroft was a little too eager to offer his bodyguard.

"No, of course not. It's too soon. I might go to though. This house is too spacious for me to think."

"Of course. Raymone will take you."

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't be bothered with an escort. I could still be recognized."

Mycroft nodded, but Sherlock knew there would still be people watching that he would have to shake. Of course the plan was to go into the Homeless Network and perhaps get their assistance, with a disguise. Mycroft would be having him followed anyway, though the act of "big brother" he found annoying.

Sherlock turned to leave. He rarely said goodbye or told anyone where he might be off too. Besides, Mycroft would know within the hour anyway. There was no point to telling the truth or lying.

"Sherlock," his brother's tone indicated he had something important to add to the conversation, so Sherlock turned back before reaching the door, a bored expression on his face. "What if he can't forgive you?"

He hadn't really thought of that option but he had a ready answer for it. "I'll continue with my consulting. Perhaps go somewhere else. I don't need him to solve these crimes." The last was a blatent lie, but Mycroft didn't need to know that.

"Come see me if you need someone to think out loud to," the offer seemed uncharacteristic. Likely Mycroft wanted both a favor and to feel he was back in his brother's non-existant graces.

"I'll be sure to call then." He turned to open the door of the dining hall. "Til then, Mycroft. Goodnight."

The Homeless Network kept him occupied for a couple of days - he got them what they needed - and they provided a disguise.

Of course it wasn't exactly pleasent but that was the point. He watched John at a distance. John limping to work with his cane, still refusing to take a cab. John limping back to 221B - Mycroft had clearly had a hand in him keeping the flat.

Once John took the cab; Sherlock could see that his hand holding the cane was shaky - both from the fact he had thrown himself into his work that day, and the fact that he wasn't properly eating. That only seemed to happen when Mary couldn't be over during the afternoon. He clearly didn't make himself dinner. Probably just drank a cuppa, and sat in the flat. His motions indicated he clearly wasn't getting much sleep. Likely depressed, possibly suicidal.

This needed to be done with as soon as possible. It was not only because Sherlock wanted to get back to his consulting. It was the strange, unfamiliar feeling of driving guilt.

John not only had to know. He deserved to know.