Author's Note: I have outlined this fic for about 11 more chapters so I'm all set for those. Still keeping them short. :)) I'll try to update every week since Monday's my only day-off to do stuff. As of yet, there's no slash in those 11 chapters, so idk, there may not be any.
"Damn it, Sherlock." John curses, dialing the number again as quick as he could. Sherlock doesn't answer.
The phone keeps ringing for a few minutes. He hangs up and then dials again. A person answers on the third ring and speaks to John in an entirely foreign language, one he can't even recognize. He says sorry to the man, and hangs up once more. He looks at the phone in his hand and says, mostly to himself, "he's thrown his phone away."
Furious, he shoves the useless thing back into Mycroft's hand and turns to leave, deliberately not meeting the elder Holmes' eyes. John refuses to have anything more to do with him. But Mycroft merely ignores this and says, "It seems my brother is keen in making sure you don't follow him."
John lets out a bark of a laugh, stops his exit and faces Mycroft decidedly. "He should already know by now that that would never happen. There is nowhere he can go that I won't follow," John states matter-of-factly.
He stares at the man across from him. John's eyes, his stance and the tight set to his mouth are all declaring a challenge, as if daring Mycroft to test him, to ask for proof, to deny the truth in his words. John looks at him and he remembers the first time they met in that old warehouse. John hadn't been frightened of him then and he certainly isn't afraid of him now. The anger in him is egging him on, telling him to grab Mycroft by the lapels and slam him into one of those bookshelves. He wants to hurt him, punish him somehow. But then he pictures the bookcases pivoting to reveal dozens of secret agents, all armed and ready to kill at the slightest provocation. John clenches his fists hard, digging his nails into his palms to prevent himself from doing anything idiotic. Mycroft may have an infinite supply of resources at his fingertips, but there is no way in heaven and hell that John will let the man stop him. He's had worse odds before; after all, he invaded Afghanistan.
"If your bloody git of a brother contacts you again, tell him for me that-"
"I don't think he will, John."
"What do you mean?"
The question escapes his mouth but he already knows the answer a second later. Sherlock is not going to contact Mycroft. He won't ask him for help. He's completely on his own. The stubborn bastard. Why won't he just let me help him?
"If Sherlock intends to have you remain here in London where he believes you're safe, then he most certainly will not allow any form of communication to avoid the risk that you may somehow acquire that information."
"Well, as if that were actually possible. What does he think I'll do? Tap into your phone? Is it even possible to spy on you when you're essentially the British government?
"No," he answers, a slight smile playing on the corners of his lips.
John scoffs. "Yeah, I figured as-"
"But I could just tell you."
Mycroft's words make John's eyes narrow in confusion and suspicion.
"And why would you do that? You were completely on board with feeding me lies just minutes ago."
Mycroft looks at the soldier standing before him, sees the determination and the resolve and he knows that there is nobody else on Earth whom he'd trust to protect Sherlock. The loyalty of this man knows no bounds; and Mycroft doesn't even pretend to comprehend its depths. All he knows is that he himself had failed where John had not. John wasn't the one who betrayed his brother; he hadn't given James Moriarty the perfectammunition to destroy Sherlock. That was all him. Mycroft Holmes had made a mistake. It's practically a scandal. Never again, he had told himself. He can't afford any more mistakes.
"I assure you I did not enjoy it," Mycroft says sincerely. John doesn't reply.
"Look, John. You know my brother. You know how he is. There is no telling what he'll get himself into."
"You should have stopped him going alone then. You should have told me."
"I'm sorry."
Silence fills the air around the two of them. His pride is telling him to walk out, to do this on his own and to refuse Mycroft's attempts to make amends and let him stew in his guilt. But for some reason, John feels a bit lighter. He looks at Mycroft with softer eyes and he only sees his concern for Sherlock. His anger has dissipated a little, dissolving into the still air around them. He hasn't completely forgiven him yet, but he thinks he may someday. People make mistakes. The Holmes brothers, although seemingly beyond human at times, are no exception.
John clears his throat and gives a little nod as if to say it's fine.
"Let's find him then before he gets himself killed for real this time."