Title: Get Your Epitaph Right
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft. Perhaps Molly if I can write her. Possibly Sherlock/John later. Friendship fic for now.
Rating: changed to T, Drug use discussed in this chapter.
Summary: It's been three years. They can't just pick up where they were. They have to find the pieces first.
A/N: I'm on a writing rampage today :D From what I know, takeaway can be pickup or delivery. Sherlock opted for pickup as it is less Euros. Correct me if I'm wrong and I'll edit. My knowledge of British life is limited to telly.
Thank you to The Beth midgit for reviewing! I like your idea and will probably use it for their case next chapter.
Enjoy! Thank you to anyone who drops reviews, they are like awesome cookies :D
Sherlock clicked the mobile shut, handing it to John with a tight smile.
"It will be ready for pickup in a half hour. 16 Pounds."
John shook his head and pulled out his money clip from his coat draped over his chair.
"No - there's no need for that. Unless you want a brew?"
This was uncharacteristic for Sherlock. He rarely bought anything - to the extent that John sometimes assumed he had no money whatsoever.
"No thanks, there's a case on the counter. Surely you noticed."
"Yes, of course, it was merely an offer." He'd seen it. A few of the empty cans in the bin, he was prying - seeing how far John was taking his drinking. If it might be cause for concern. "Alright," he smiled again. "I'll be off then. Back in three quarters of an hour?"
"Wait," John certainly did not want to be left in the apartment alone. "I'm coming too."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, back to his old self. "And hobble the whole way? You can pay the cab fare then."
"Fine," John shot back, realizing halfway down the stairs he probably wouldn't need the cane anyway. But he hailed a cab just in case. Sherlock was being his usual bored self and didn't step into the street for such courtesy. "Did you get bored during the time you were away?" John finally asked, though he knew the answer to that.
"There were times, yes." All I could think about was you, he thought, but didn't say it. "Did you get anything new to work on?"
"No, really been busy at the clinic though." John saw the place as the driver pulled up to it.
"I can see that." Of course he'd noticed. "You should probably see a specialist about your hands before you're discharged." He opened the door to the cab. "Only be a moment."
Five minutes later he walked out, carrying several bags. "Wasn't sure what you wanted, so there's several to choose from. Leftovers can be an experiment."
John made a humming sound, but didn't reply. They didn't talk until after they'd reached the flat, and John paid the cab.
Sherlock stuffed his one hand in his pocket while the other carried his takeaway. "You'll have to unlock the door."
"How'd you get in earlier?"
"Mrs. Hudson let me in. I told her I was your flatmate but you weren't in yet. Precisely five minutes before you arrived. Hence no phone call."
"Is there nothing you won't do?" John asked, flinging the door open, trying to adjust what he was carrying.
"There are some things, yes. But must we bore ourselves with them all?"
The takeaway was consumed in a somewhat peaceful silence. John was a little surprised that he could actually consume two rather than the one.
Sherlock seemed content with his. "So how's the blog going?" He was already tuning his violin, just making himself at home.
"I haven't posted since ... that last one. When you were dead." John still seemed to be trying to wrap his head around it. "Are you going to tell me where you've been? What you've really been doing?"
"I found all of Moriarty's Network. Only reason I could return."
"Did you have any adventures?"
"You know me, John. I got bored waiting. Of course I had adventures. A sultan thought I was trying to steal his daughter. I narrowly missed loosing my head."
He didn't tell John the whole story, as he seemed at the moment to think that typical. "Yes, that would be you. Always getting into some sort of trouble when you're bored."
He didn't answer. There wasn't reason to.
He didn't tell John how Mycroft had found out his existence. He'd done some experimenting in Austrailia. Frustrated with the slow progression of the case, he'd bought a combination of chemicals from one of his contacts. It was certainly better than being bored.
The coppers found him singing like a drunkard in an alley somewhere in Sydney. Or so he'd been told. They contacted Interpol, and due to Mycroft's contacts, his brother had found out of his existence. It wasn't exactly a setback, Mycroft's hands in everything served well with wrapping up the case. It might have taken five years instead of three. Not something he would admit easily.
But he didn't tell John that side of the story. John would only worry, and pity him. Sod it all, he refused anyone's platitudes or pity.
"Sherlock?"
"Hm?"
"Was it dangerous?"
"The sultan? Oh no, Mycroft cleared that up nicely."
"So your brother knows about this."
"Unfortunatly, yes."
"He knew, and I didn't know. You clearly don't trust me."
"No, though inconvenient his network was somewhat necessary to the timely elimination of Moriarty's men." He continued plucking the strings. He'd missed the old instrument. "I trust you, John. With my life. I had to entrust your life so that you not know of my existence. How is this not clear?"
"I'm just trying to understand..." John's response was subdued.
Bloody hell, he'd messed up the response. So easy to just pretend it was nothing. That John's feelings meant nothing.
"I faked my death to save you, what about this is unclear."
"Nothing. I just wanted to hear you admit that you actually do care."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Sherlock," John's tone had switched to one of patience, as though he were explaining a simple problem. Sherlock didn't particularly like that tone. "You admit that you did something inconveinent for yourself to save someone else. I'm ... sorry I called you a machine. I think you are the most ..."
"Human person you've ever known, yes, yes." Sherlock didn't want to admit that John was right. The act had continue, because that was all he knew. This new vulnerable was unfamiliar, and not in the adventurous way that he remotely liked.
Sherlock picked up. "Lestrade. Yes, I'm alive." He answered two of John's unanswered questions. Pretty good for one night.