A/N: You are all going to hate me. And don't worry if things don't fit; It'll all make sense soon.
Sherlock quickly learnt how dependent he had become on John, and how his absence was well, unnerving, to say the least.
There was little he could do to make those lingering thoughts on his boyfriend dissipate. He found himself at crime scenes, hesitating just slightly, expecting to hear a bright voice and a see a wide smile as the word; "Fantastic" echoed the room.
There was many a time when he caught himself talking aloud, little deductions and things that caught his eye, only to remember that no one was listening, no one was there, no one was going to reply.
Mrs Hudson, despite her amiable attempts at inviting the persistently scowling youth down for tea, soon left him to his own devices – a little peeved at being on the receiving end of a particularly spiteful remark concerning Mr Chatterjee and his many wives.
As a week went past and Sherlock simply withdrew more, Mycroft intervened, perturbed at the thought of his brother falling into darker roots of distraction.
But, it seemed, Sherlock had found something different.
Mycroft arrived at 221b, heart in throat, expecting to see the sight of his youngest sibling with eyes like marbles, but instead found himself quirking a delicate – almost unperceivable – smile as he entered. Sherlock sat in the middle of the floor of his living room, dressing gown loose around his skinny frame, surrounded by photos.
Photos of John and himself.
Much to Mycroft's amusement, Sherlock looked disgustedly irritated in half of said photos, whilst John to his side was smiling like a child who'd found his favourite toy. They were photos from everywhere: restaurants, their living room, Hyde Park, crime scenes. Mycroft bent at the waist to pick up a considerably worrying photo of Sherlock facing the camera giving it two thumbs up with the sight of yellow police tape him behind him. John must've taken that one.
"Are you planning on standing there smiling like a schoolgirl all day, or have you come for a reason, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, sounding peeved, not looking up from where he was apparently picking a favourite between a picture of John and him wearing sunglasses and a photo John asleep on Sherlock's shoulder in the back of a taxi, drooling slightly.
"I came to inquire about your health, but it seems it is your mental sanity I should be more concerned about…" Mycroft sneered.
He stepped forward, mindful of the photos, to take a seat. Sherlock snarled as he approached John's armchair, so with a roll of his eyes he took up sitting in the black armchair opposite.
"Should I bother asking about the photo gallery you've prepared?"
Instead of replying, Sherlock raised a hand to wave it in the general direction of the fireplace. Mycroft turned and found on it a newly opened letter. From John.
But, of course. Who else could draw out such a violent state of calm from his brother?
[Dear Sherlock,] it read,
[Firstly, you are an utter twat. Seriously, I honestly can't believe you would do that to me. Bloody hellfire. I suppose I should thank you for the seventeen page dissertation you sent me in your last letter on the current state of my penis. Just so I know: how bored are you exactly? Please, if you expect me to come back with an iota of mental stability, don't ever include any part of my body in a medically accurate essay ever again. Please. Rant over.
On a lighter note, how are you, love? You mentioned something in your last letter about Lestrade consulting you over a triple murder? How's that going? I don't know why I'm bothering with asking as you've probably already solved it, but just in case; I'd love to hear about it. I miss being there with you on cases. Did you know your eyebrows pull together when you're thinking too hard? It's adorable. It makes me want to kiss you. I want to kiss you right now, actually. I'll have to make do with my hand, ha ha. Not long now 'til I get back anyway.]
Mycroft paused, eyes rising from the page. Sherlock seemed completely immersed whatever he was doing, paying no attention to his brother. The letter seemed awfully intimate; why was Sherlock asking him to read this? Despite his worries, he read on anyway.
[Now, I know you said that you were perfectly capable of providing yourself with something to do, but I'm not going to lie, I think that's bullshit. You always complain about being bored and since I'm not there to complain to – you'll start on Mrs Hudson. So because I'd quite like to still have a flat when I get back, I started planning something quite a while back.
In the cupboard under the sink (the one with all the cleaning stuff – not that you'd know that, you lazy sod) is a box of photos. I can practically hear you rolling your eyes; stop thinking about how boring this will be and listen. If you go through them, there are some of me, some of you, and some of us both. I got most of them from your iPhone I hope you don't mind. While we're on the subject; why were there some of me sleeping? Bit not good, dear. But anyway, go through them, and piece them together and you'll find a clue as to where I hid your chainsaw. I know you haven't found it because I haven't received news of someone finding your brother's bloody remains scattered around the Sussex Downs.]
There, Mycroft couldn't help but snort.
[How does that sound? I know, it's a bit naff, but we aren't all geniuses you know.
Have fun with that, and don't miss me too much!
Miss you,
John xxx
P.S. Books! ]
Placing the letter down tentatively Mycroft let the side of his face curl up onto a smile. He'd obviously misjudged this endearingly little man who had successfully captured Sherlock's attentions.
Not that he would ever say that out loud, of course.
"Solved it yet, brother?" Mycroft clasped his hands in front of him, elbows at his sides.
"Nearly," Sherlock growled, eyebrows pinching together.
"And how long have you been at the job, exactly?"
"Since four this morning."
Mycroft started. It was twelve o'clock now, meaning Sherlock had been trying to work out John's clue for eight hours. That didn't seem quite right.
"May I ask what's taking you so long?" The elder brother enquired.
With an aggravated sigh, Sherlock pulled himself to his feet with his usual ethereal grace. "I got… distracted."
"Distracted?"
"Yes."
There was a pause, a flicker of uncertainty. The moment Mycroft caught his brother's pale eyes, they dropped to the floor, singling out a photo that lay close to his feet. It was of his own, grinning face with John pressed up against him, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek, eyes crinkled shut.
Mycroft understood. It pained him, but he understood. Sherlock was missing John, and it hurt; the photos reminders of the times they had spent together. Mycroft knew more than anyone that these feelings were alien to his brother, and could practically feel the younger man's sorrow radiating from him in waves.
With a shake of his body, the emotions fell from Sherlock's face, and he once again became merely a thinking machine.
"All the photos have the time and the full date they were taken printed onto the back," He began, hands flying out to indicate his point. "All of them save four, where date and time have had some of their numbers scrawled out or written over, always leaving two sets of numbers. A cipher. John's Post Script of 'Books!'-"
"So it's a book code." Mycroft intervened, his lips pressing into an impressed line.
"To specific pages. And specific words on those pages."
"Indeed. So, what is the message?"
"Well, that would depend on the book; that's the cunning of the book code."
"And have you deduced the book in question?"
Sherlock's turbulent eyes roamed the sea of photographs once more, before turning sharply and clamouring over to the bookshelf by the window. His fingers twitched restlessly, a murmured, "Come on, come on…" falling from his full lips.
"Aha!" He exclaimed, and reached up to pull a thick black cover from the disarrayed mass of books. Mycroft twisted to catch the title. 1894 by George Orwell. Interesting choice.
"I saw John reading it at the hospital," Sherlock divulged, "Then again in several of our photos together."
He launched forward and flipped the first photo of John stuffing spaghetti into his mouth over. The numbers '23, 3' were printed bold across the back. Excitement rising in his chest in a thick heat, Sherlock thumbed the book open.
Page 23, third word across; "put".
"Put…" He echoed softly, then flicked the next photo (this one of himself surprising John in the shower) where the numbers '202, 40' had been written.
This time, it was the word "your".
The third set of numbers, '194, 23'; "telescreen", made Sherlock pause. Telesceen was most likely referring to the television.
And then, the fourth and final word: 299, 38 – "on".
Mycroft tapped his long fingers along the armrest. Personally, he had been expecting something much grander. "Put your telescreen on." He murmured, then raised an eyebrow, nodding his head towards the forsaken television. "Well, go on then."
Practically vibrating with excitement, Sherlock barraged forward, pressing the smooth round button that operated the telly.
Then waited.
For a moment of agonising silence, nothing happened. Then, with a whine of static, the television fluctuated into life.
There, on the screen from what appeared to be a CCTV in the top corner of the room, was an office. The walls, lined with mahogany panels, were bare and uninteresting; the floor was a stylish cream. To one side, a cluttered desk lay facing the room, and on the other a row of bookcases. All together not very interesting.
Where the interest lie, of course, was in the people situated inside the office.
John sat on a simple wooden chair facing the desk, the side of his face visible on the camera. He was dressed in loose grey clothing Sherlock knew instantly wasn't his, and held himself in a horrid rigid stillness that seemed to centre around his shoulder. His face was worn, battered, lines furrowing deep into his beautiful face. His hands were clasping and unclasping with frayed nerves on top of his lap, and his feet were bare.
Opposite him, behind the desk, was James Moriarty.
A few days after Sherlock had been discharged from hospital, Mycroft had visited Sherlock with file upon file of documents all consolidating around the illusive villain. Photos, childhood education, dubious links to numerous crimes across the decades. 'Europe's most dangerous man', the files had said.
And he was now sitting in the same room as his boyfriend.
Shit.
"Is he safe?" John was asking, his voice sending frissons of fear down Sherlock's spine. He sounded terrified and tired. "Is he alright?"
"Oh, don't you worry your pretty little head, he won't be hurt." Moriarty giggled, "Well, he won't be hurt more."
"I did as you asked," John seethed, "I carried out my end of the deal, and now - it's your turn."
"I will release your daddy when and where ever I want." Moriarty's eyes flared dangerously, even from the gritty screen, those brown orbs flashed violently. "I've had him for four years now, what makes you think I'll let him go so easily?"
"I have done everything you made me do." John's hands contorted into fists. "Everything."
"No… not everything."
"I'm sorry? What- what do you mean?" A tone of heart-breaking desperation entered John's voice.
"Let me make this very clear to you. Your job, Johnny, was to make Holmes fall in love with you. Nothing else. And what did you do? You fell for him as well. How touchingly sweet. Oh no, no, no, no – your job… is far from finished, my dear."
"What else am I supposed to do?" John exploded, rising from his chair to slam his palms against the desk with vehement force. Moriarty didn't even flinch.
"Oh, not much." Moriarty's leering smile spread like a rash over his pale cheeks. "That camera over there is streaming this live to Holmes' television. So go on, smile for the camera!"
John's worn face stretched as his mouth fell open in a look of heart-wrenching horror.
"You… bastard." John snarled, anger colouring his skin. "You fucking bastard! You said you'd tell him I'd moved on, not tricked him!"
"Oh Johnny, after all we've been through, do you really think I was telling the truth? How utterly adorable! Really, you are the cutest." The villain clapped his hands together in glee. "Oh, this is too gooood!"
John looked back at the camera, tears filling his blue eyes. There was the slightest movement, as John mouthed the words, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." For a moment, Sherlock almost believed him.
"Do you think we made him cry, Johnny?" Moriarty sneered, "We both know he loved you, let's be honest here. But how much do you reckon you meant to him?"
Everything, Sherlock whispered in his mind; you meant everything to me.
"How much do you think we made him hurt? You know, for a genius he really is stupid. Someone falling in love with Sherlock Holmes? Ha!" Jim giggled gently and checked his fingernails. "Pathetic."
The screen exploded in a rain of glass as Sherlock threw the nearest thing to hand at the screen; a mug. Fat tears rolled down his flushed cheeks in agony. The sharp ache of his chest was spreading, until he couldn't breathe; he couldn't think.
"Sherlock, calm down-" Mycroft began, but was cut off by a mug aimed directly at his head.
"Get. Out. Of. My. Flat!" Sherlock bellowed, his hands flying up to rip at his hair.
"I don't think you should be on your own when-"
"I swear to God, Mycroft if you don't leave now I will hurt you." His grey eyes, rimmed with red and filled with tears, blazed horribly, breath drawn from between his teeth.
"Fine." Mycroft got to his feet, mouth set sternly, "Just text me when you've calmed down."
He picked up his umbrella from the side and stormed out, coat trailing behind him, and closed the door in a matter of seconds.
As soon as the door was shut, Sherlock tore forward and threw his fist into the wood with all his force. The wood splintered around his split knuckles, and pain exploded along his hand. But it didn't help. Nothing would make the pain in his chest go away. It throbbed and burned worse than a physical wound.
John, his beautiful, trustworthy John, had betrayed him.
Not yours, his mind whispered. He's not yours anymore.
Tears poured in a torrent down his cheeks, and finally his legs gave out. He slumped, back against the door and slid to the floor and cried hollowly, his face crumpling. His chest burned; the pain was too deep, it hurt, it hurt.
He raised his hand clumsily to wipe the tears away, feeling like a little child, but they were just replaced by more.
"John," He whimpered, little breathy sobs spilling out.
In the van, he had told Mycroft he thought he'd felt love John.
But now, he couldn't feel a thing.