I think at this point I'm keep the chapters short deliberately. IDK. Sorry it took me so long. I was trying to figure out how to proceed. Well, here it is. Hope you don't hate it. :)
John feels incredible. His newfound hope is pumping through his veins, bringing with it a sense of clarity and insight.
Molly. Start with Molly.
She must have known, John thinks. There is no way for Sherlock to just walk off a cold slab in the morgue without her knowing it.
He's a few blocks away and he can feel his heart pounding with excitement. He knows he has to have a plan. What do I say? What do I do? Should I confront her? Should I play the pity card? What if I'm wrong about all of this?
As if to answer his silent question, a sleek black car pulls up beside him, matching his pace. He stops and groans audibly as Anthea opens the door and slides further in to make room for him. She barely spares him a glance, her eyes still focused on her blackberry. Before John can even think of running away, the passenger side door opens and a tall burly man comes out. John hops in without another word.
They take him to the Diogenes club. John remembers the last time he was here, when he had confronted Mycroft about the Richard Brook nonsense. They haven't been on good terms since that night.
John figures that it's no coincidence that Mycroft has inadvertently diverted him from seeing Molly. He doesn't think it's to prevent him from making a fool out of himself. Mycroft couldn't care less if he'd tried, the prat.
As he's led to Mycroft's office, he allows himself a grin. I'm on the right track. I know it.
The door is opened for him and John steps into the familiar room. Mycroft is already seated and waiting for him, holding a glass of scotch to his lips. He puts the glass down on the table to his right, and greets him.
"John."
"So why have you brought me here?" He asks as he sits down on the chair opposite, wanting to waste no time with pretense.
"You do remember sending me this rather…" Mycroft pauses for a moment, choosing the appropriate word to describe it and settling for "…disturbing text, don't you?"
"Yeah, and?"
"I'm worried about you."
John laughs as if he hasn't heard a joke in ages. The sound is rough on his throat, the laughter cracked and broken from underuse.
"A lot of good your worrying did for your brother, did it?" John asks. He knows he's being cruel, knows he's being unfair. But he doesn't care. Mycroft doesn't even flinch.
"You were on your way to Ms. Molly Hooper's residence." He looks at John, as if expecting him to confirm this. He doesn't. Mycroft sighs before continuing. "Care to tell me why?"
"You know precisely why."
"You know you won't find him. He's dead, John. You saw him."
"Well, you know how your brother is. He does love to be dramatic."
"John." Mycroft says in a tone that should be reserved for the clinically ill.
"I am not unstable, Mycroft." He says the name with disdain, trying to imitate Sherlock's tone and enunciation. He can't tell if he succeeded. "I know he's alive. He's alive. Has to be."
Mycroft hears the hitch in John's voice, notices the pinpricks of tears at the corners of John's eyes and he looks away as if to give him a shred of privacy.
"Tell me he's alive," Mycoft hears in the saddest voice he could imagine. The desperate plea of a man hanging on to hope by the edge of his teeth. He hates this, hates what he's about to do. He looks at John straight in the eyes.
"I'm sorry, John. You know he's not."
The man before him doesn't crumble, doesn't break down into hysterics or sobs, but Mycroft can see the change in his eyes. John shakes his head slowly, resignedly. He stands and walks out.
Mycroft is absolutely repulsed with this victory. He whips his phone out of his pocket and dials an unregistered number.
He waits for the length of a single ring.
"I hope you're happy, dear brother."
"How is he?"
"Devasta-"
The word snags in his throat as the door to his office opens once more and John is walking towards him with quick and sure steps. He snatches the phone from Mycroft's hand and throws him a furious but smug look before putting it to his ear.
"Sherlock."
For a while, all he hears is silence. Seconds tick by until he hears it. It's unmistakable.
"John."