Chapter 12

After the revelation no one said a word. Sherlock just stared at Lestrade who felt those piercing blue eyes pinning him to the door. He dared not to move or to breathe because he couldn't predict what Sherlock was about to do next. The latter stood frozen in the movement, helping John with his jacket. The conclusion had stunned him obviously. A little eternity later Sherlock awoke from his solidification and finished his task with one swift move. Lestrade inhaled deeply and blinked a few times to get rid of the tension. "Sherlock! Sherlock, why Mycroft?" he asked clearly out of his depth. With a grim expression on is face Sherlock shook his head remotely. "I don't know yet, but you can be sure, I'm about to ask him exactly this question! But first I have to take a look at the ruins. I need to evaluate some data." They left the hospital and Lestrade offered them to take them home in his police car.

Sherlock left John and Lestrade waiting in the car. He needed only a few minutes here. The dust from the rubble and the debris of the concrete swirled around his feet. He stood on some stones which had belonged to one of the walls. His gaze wandered over the ruins of the building. His mind replayed the last five minutes before the explosion. And finally he allowed himself to actually feel what he had felt in those moments. His whole concerns had circled around John. It had been his only goal to make sure John would survive the blast. His own safety had been irrelevant. This was interesting. He had cared like he did now, but without knowing. The last moments, shoving John into the crates, he had acted on mere instinct. His brain had shut down, not thinking just acting. His unconscious had taken over, had already known what took his conscious mind the last weeks to realise. He cared for John more than for his own life. His vision blurred. The rising wind blew some dust into his face so he turned around to look back at the waiting car. Sherlock wiped his eyes and extracted his phone from his coat.

Baker Street at once.

You owe me an explanation.

Better be a good one.

After sending the text, he took one last look around and made his way back to the car. "Mycroft will be waiting at Baker Street," he informed the Detective Inspector.

As they reached their flat in Baker Street Sherlock hesitated a moment before he got out of the car. He threw a glance up to the living room window. Mycoft's silhouette showed behind the curtain. His brother had his back to the window, but Sherlock was sure that he had heard the car of the Detective Inspector coming. Postponing the moment of truth, he turned to Lestrade. "It is not my habit, but thanks for everything! From here I take over alone." Lestrade nodded hesitantly, not sure if it actually was a good idea to let the clash of the Titans take place without a referee. On the other hand, it was not his responsibility to meddle in the affairs of the Holmes family. He thought it best to wait until the dust had settled after the impending storm. "I'll call if I have a new case for you!" Sherlock, who now waited on the sidewalk with John, nodded briefly and turned to enter the building. Behind him he heard Lestrade depart. He took John's right hand, squared his shoulders and entered the house.

Biding his time after entering the flat, Sherlock shrugged of his coat first and helped John taking off his jacket. He guided his friend to the red armchair and let him sit down. Still not ready for the answers his brother would give him he turned to the kitchen to flick the kettle on. Busying himself he put teabags into two mugs. He was not going to offer his brother one and he was sure Mycroft wouldn't accept one. Leaning against the counter he waited for the water to boil. Feeling the intense gaze of the man, who waited in the living room between his shoulder blades, he poured the hot water into the mugs. Now he was ready. He carried the tea into the adjoining room, gave John his cup and faced his brother. "Why?"

"I would suggest you ask Dr. Watson this particular question, but I am aware that he is incapable of answering." Mycroft hesitated for a moment. He still stood with his back to the window, both hands on his umbrella. His stern gaze moved from Sherlock to John and back again. "I am not asking John, I am asking you, Mycroft! Why? Why was it necessary to blow up a building with John and me inside?" Sherlock slammed his mug on the coffee table and crossed his arms over his chest.

Mycroft sighed defeated. He hooked the umbrella on his right arm, reached inside his jacket and pulled out a white envelope. He cleared his throat. "Sherlock, I am sorry about what has happened, I really am." He raised his eyebrows and studied the letter in his hands. "The plan was perfect, flawless. The explosion had been calculated, so that only a small part of the building would collapse. The walls were sheltered accordingly. Nothing should have happened to you both, only a few scratches. Look, Sherlock, I just took the opportunity as it fell into my lap. You two are dancing around each other for more than a year now. Everyone else around you can see clearly that you and John are more than just flatmates and colleagues. But you two are so stubborn. You both needed a big push in the right direction, to realize your feelings. A bomb was necessary to break your armour. So I took it upon myself to give both of you that push. Unfortunately, there was a small miscalculation on the part of the explosive experts and the building was destroyed. Of course they do not work for the British government anymore."

Sherlock started to pace the room up and down. This was just unbelievable. "Unfortunate? Small? Mycroft, I visited the place again today. I should have done it earlier. The walls have been prepared, that much is true. But your so-called experts provided the walls with so much TNT it could have blown up the whole street. Is that what you call flawless?" He could hear Mycroft taking two steps to the sofa so he turned to see that his brother was sitting now, the envelope in his hands. He flung himself into his chair and waited impatiently for further explanations.

Mycroft winced. It was obvious to Sherlock that his brother did not want to say anymore about the failures of his minions. Their mistake had happened under his responsibility. Therefore he was as guilty as if he had made the wrong calculation himself. And of course they would never work in public service again, not even sticking stamps on envelopes, because he had almost lost his brother and John was suffering from this dreadful mutism. Clearly not a part of the plan either. Sherlock brooded over these realizations for a moment, then he arched his left eyebrow. "Is that all that you have to tell me?" he sneered.

Mycroft's eyes wandered thoughtfully over to John. "No, there is more, obviously. He came and asked for help. So I provided help. But I am afraid he was the miscalculation that I made." Mycroft leaned back and finally let go of his umbrella. The envelope balanced on his left knee.

"John asked you for help? Miscalculation? I don't understand a word you are saying!" Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This was taking a road he wasn't ready to travel yet.

"Yes, I underestimated the status of Dr. Watson's heart and soul and the impact his feelings had on his mental sanity. And I failed to see what he was willing to endure to save you." Mycroft shook his head. "And yes, he came to me and asked for my help. If one wants to fight a Holmes it takes a Holmes to win. His thoughts not mine. I had preferred it if he had talked to you, but he wasn't ready to take this step." Mycroft placed the envelope onto the coffee table, planted his elbows on his knees and rested his chin in his joined hands. "Sherlock, you must understand that this particular problem we have here can only be solved by you. If you truly understand his motivation and what was going on in his mind than you will be able to pull him back to life." Silence spread between them.

"Help me understand." It was only a whisper, but Mycroft had heard his brother clearly. He shoved the letter across the table. "This is for you. He gave it to me and I promised to deliver it because this way he could tell in his own words what is going on in his mind. Please do read." Sherlock bent forward and grabbed John's message from the table. His hands shook as he opened it.

Sherlock,

I have no words to tell you how I feel or why I took this step.

I have no more to give you, but this. This is what is left of me. It is my heart. Please be careful with it, so it will not break.

And please don't hate your brother. He did it only to help me, to help you. I am the only one to blame here.

So please forgive me. I hope you can forgive me.

John

Sherlock read the lines three times. His heart hammered and he had to blink several times to clear his vision. Then, he raised his head and faced his brother. Sherlock had to admit that Mycroft looked rather guilty. What a rare expression, he thought. "Do you know what John has written?" he croaked. Mycroft shook his head slightly. "My dear brother, I may have spies all over the world, but the secrecy of the written word is something I honour highly. But to be honest with you, I recognize a loving heart when I see one." Sherlock gaze dropped onto the sheet of paper again. Something was boiling inside his chest. The paper crumbled in his grip. He curled himself up in his armchair into a tight ball and his breath became erratically.

Mycroft rose slowly from the sofa and took some steps towards the door. He watched his brother carefully knowing that in the state Sherlock was in any movement could cut him loose. "Before I go, there is one thing else I have to tell you." Mycroft knew that he risked his life here, but he had to say it. "I had some chats with the doctors you dragged John to. They didn't know the whole truth about John's mental state before the explosion. After I told them my observations they all agreed that he is keeping himself in the mutism. He is afraid of you and your reaction to his feelings. So it can only be you to wake him up. You know what to do Sherlock. You feel it inside. I can see that. Tell him your feelings and we all can live happily ever after." With that remark Mycroft vanished and the door closed behind him.

Sherlock longed for a fight. He felt betrayed and defeated. All this time his brother knew the whole truth. Easy when you're behind all doings to destroy your brother, he thought. The wheels of his thoughts turned with tremendous speed. His eyes flickered between the letter in his hands and his author in his red armchair. Suddenly he jumped up from his position and paced the room with long strides. Back and forth, back and forth. Thoughts still spinning he came to a halt in front of John.

"Why didn't you tell me you stupid idiot?" he raged breathless. "Why couldn't you just tell me? No, you wanted to spare me! Keep me safe! And so you went to my stupid stupid brother. Who managed to fail colossally! And sacrificed your mental health instead, you bloody bastard!"

He fell down on his knees in front of John. With his hands he grasped John's face and forced him to look at him. The urge to shake his friend was irresistible. Staring into his eyes Sherlock registered that they were not as emotionless as they had been the whole time after the blast. Something deep down inside and buried a long time ago cracked open and flooded Sherlock's whole body. Fire was running through his veins.

"Why couldn't you tell me how you felt? Why did you have to go to my stupid brother and order the catastrophe instead?" Sherlock's voice broke. He swallowed hard. His rage crumpled and turned slowly into despair.

"I could have helped you John. I know I am not always sensible. But I never would have hurt your feelings on purpose. And now it seems too late to do anything. What should I do, John? If only you would tell me." His voice trailed off. His eyes roamed over John's face. His fingers caressed the unexpectedly soft skin. "What am I supposed to do?" he whispered.

A knot had built up inside his chest and he had problems breathing properly. He remembered a fairytale of his childhood. The princess who had slept for a hundred years until the kiss of the prince awoke her. Funny that he hadn't deleted this memory. Sherlock inhaled deeply and bend slowly towards John. It was worth giving a try, wasn't it? He licked his lips. An inch before their lips met he saw John closing his eyes. Sherlock's heart hammered painfully. He murmured softly: "Please, come back to me, John. I need you to take care of my heart."

Without haste he bridged the gap between them and kissed John.