´THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES´was blinking on the screen lazily.
"As you may have already heard from other sources, Sherlock is not dead and returned to 221B under rather dramatic circumstances," continued John typing.
"The media coverage of the events in the last fortnight was already extensive enough," meaning that journalists plagued both him and Mrs Hudson with calls and stupid questions - the same journalists who mere moths ago called for Sherlock´s head, "so I believe all I have to say to this is that I, Sherlock and all our friends are OK now, all things considering."
John sighed. Why did I never learn to write with all ten fingers? "As for myself, I have made a mistake some time ago - I have made assumptions without getting some crucial bits of data. An acquaintance," no, no, no, back, back, back, back, he risked his life for you, "a friend got hurt because of that.
I apologise for the delay of this post, but the last two weeks were rather hectic. Thank you all who supported me during the last months and believed in Sherlock Holmes."
Done. This would have to satisfy his followers.
He didn´t mention Mycroft´s name on purpose. He figured that the elder Holmes wouldn´t appreciate it because of his position even before he was advised by Mycroft´s PA. And by ´advised´ he meant a ´Mr Holmes prefers privacy´appearing on the screen in the middle of drafting this post.
It looked like being a PA of Mycroft Holmes and being an ordinary PA differed in much the same way as being a Secretary of State was miles away from being a secretary. The woman visited Mycroft regulary, bringing files with her as soon as Mycroft felt a little better and was able to navigate through his house on his own. John rather suspected that she ran Mycroft´s office in his stead.
Upon her third visit she stopped for a while to get some tea (Mycroft had ridiculous amounts of tea in his house.).
"Will you tell me your name now?" John tried.
She smiled. It looked like John got into her good books as soon as he started to be better friends with her employer. "Anna Theodora. My parents were very Greek indeed."
The elder Holmes was feeling physically better now, but the house was rather crowded in his opinion. Really, it had probably not seen so many people since that businessman´s family moved out ten years ago.
Mycroft would have protested, but he didn´t. Because his brother stayed under his roof on his own volition. Because Lestrade stayed there and brought with him tea and warmth everywhere he went. Because he didn´t rest like this in years.
The nurse his assistant hired was a fourty five years old woman who rather resembled a wardrobe when standing still. Which she didn´t do very often, choosing instead to move through the house with surprising ease.
She didn´t say much, though, as she probably felt her English had a lot to improve - it was true there was an accent there, making some words sound rather German-like and some far meeker than they were supposed to come out. A little research later (frankly, all he had to do was to ask Anthea - but he had his pride to maintain, so he did not ask for the file no doubt full of information on this woman), it turned out she was born in Bratislava to Czech parents.
Nothing could have pleased her more than Mycroft´s knowledge of Jaroslav Seifert. He wasn´t a diplomat for nothing, after all.
Mrs Klubkova stayed in the smallest guest room across from Mycroft´s bedroom on the first floor. He refused to move downstairs, claiming that he was supposed to get better soon and he is no cripple to not manage simple stairs. It was hard at first, mostly because he was feeling exhausted, but it soon improved and Mycroft lurked through his house like a restless ghost.
One of the other guestrooms was claimed by Gregory Lestrade when he was in - and he was in often, seemingly making a decision to try all of Mycroft´s teas. He probably didn´t know that they were more samples hidden in the larder.
John Watson took the role of food provider. He was in charge of making dinner and all inhabitants of the house suffered through rather monotone diet of a lot of milk, curry and pasta until Mrs Klubkova threw away all politeness and made chicken.
As for Sherlock, the younger Holmes migrated through the house. He has so far slept in John´s bed, on the floor in Mycroft´s room, in front of the fireplace, on the couch, in Greg Lestrade´s room, on a chair in the kitchen and curled barricading the main entrance with his own body.
When he attempted to nest himself in Mycroft´s dirty clothes in one of the bathrooms, an intervention was necessary. When given an ultimatum and having to choose one of the rooms to sleep in, he chose the library.
Right now, though, the house was silent. It was not unpleasant. It was the not-so-much silence of people sleeping in different rooms calmly and fire cracking happily in the fireplace and an occasional lone car moving past the windows. Quite different from the lurking, echoing silence of an almost empty house inhabited by a bitter middle-aged man, Mycroft thought.
He couldn´t sleep. He supposed his body just wasn´t used to so much rest, and as soon as the worst of the damage made by the bullet was healed, it resisted all atempts to spend eight hours a day doing nothing.
"Aren´t you supposed to be in bed?" asked a surprised voice from the doorframe. It was Lestrade.
"I can´t sleep."
"I see."
Greg joined near the fire, sitting on the carpet. He had a glass of water in his hands, from which he was sipping occasionaly.
Than the policeman shifted and asked suddenly: "Is there any reason why there are nettles in the middle of flowers in your garden?"
Mycroft chuckled. It must have nagged the policeman how is it possible to have such a perfect lawn and weed in one place. "Butterflies."
"I don´t follow."
"It was my old schoolmate´s idea. That it would be nice to have a garden both attracting butterflies and allowing their reproduction. The nettles are there to feed caterpillars of Aglais urticae."
"They looked like something was eating them," Greg is grinning.
"What?"
"Nothing," but Lestrade is still smiling. "You must show me your butterflies some day."
"It´s too clouded for them to be active much. Also, they are not mine per se."
"They eat your plants."
"You drink my tea and are not mine."
Something flashed in Lestrade´s eyes. "So, this friend is a lepidopterologist?" Another smile i reaction to Mycroft´s surprise. "Had a case few years ago involving a stolen butterflies collection. It was great fun."
"Entomologist. He was interested in all insects. I believe he was considered something of an expert of the Meloidae family."
"Was?"
"He died."
"Oh. I´m sorry."
"Don´t be. You didn´t kill him." There was something off with Mycroft´s tone.
"Mycroft? Are you alright?"
Mycroft subconsciously touched his ring and averted Greg´s eyes. But then, Lestrade already knew half the story. How did this man got through all Mycroft´s carefully planted defences was a mystery.
"It used to be his, you know. This ring," Mycroft muttered and sighed. "Adrian joined the Service at the same time as I did. And frankly, I found his ability to just let go and play with pins and dead insects fascinating - and enviable. I guess we could have became good friends in time, but I was never very good at the art of befriending someone."
Well, Mycroft thought, at least Greg isn´t attempting to lie and convince me that no, I am a born social butterfly.
"The mission he died in was a disaster from the start. He was sent there to make things better after some new field operative screwed up. He managed to patch up a lot - he was a capable fellow, after all - but still, he ended up captured in a hostile country."
"Oh shit," Lestrade breathed.
"Yes, that is an apt description," Mycroft laughed bitterly. "Our... masters... wanted to leave it. Just abandon him. Somehow I managed to convince them that Adrian was too promising a servant of the Queen and Country to be just left to die, so they sent me to try to extract him - at my own peril were the mission unsuccessful."
Did Lestrade move a bit closer while I was looking away? "I got to him too late. If I were a little better at convincing my boss, if I vere a little cleverer, just a little bit quicker... he might have lived. But when I finally found him, he was... in a bad shape. Dying already."
It was still bitter thinking about this. After all they´d come through, he was too slow to save his one and only friend in a long time. And in the end, it was Mycroft´s hand which ended his life, because it was the better option. Because he couldn´t just leave him there in a ditch dying slowly and painfully.
"He gave me the ring though. He and his fiancée bought matching rings just before he was sent away. They were planning to marry as soon as he he asked me to give it to her back home. Terribly romantic and completely useless, if you ask me, but I promised it nevertheless, because there was nothing else I could´ve done."
"Mycroft..." He´s going to tell me that I don´t have to continue. That if I don´t want to, he would understand, Mycroft realised. But what use would that be? As soon as I stop he starts to comfort me, Mycroft shuddered inwardly.
"It was a foolish mission all in all, though I did manage to get some useful information and send some of it via a contact to our people. But it didn´t last long and my situation caught fire and I was apprehended too."