CHAPTER 2. PICTURES

Sherlock glared at his mobile, powering it down. Mycroft and his pathetic attempts to get him to work as a government minion was getting irritating.

"Coffee?" Molly's voice cracked a little and as usual Sherlock paid no mind, his eye was still going over the slides. "Alright then I'm off to lunch. Do you-"

"Molly, shut up."

"Alright. Bye-" he ignored the sound of her shuffling feet, and disappointed sigh. However he couldn't ignore the sound of an umbrella tapping on the sterile white tiled floor.

"Mycroft I see the diet isn't working."

Sherlock refused to look over at his brother who out of the corner of his eye he could see standing with an annoyed expression, amusing how easy it was to irritate the government man. Mycroft remained where he stood for a moment, as if contemplating what action to take next.

"Well on with it. I haven't the time to entertain you and your irrational notion of importance in relation to the rest of us commoners." Sherlock's biting voice echoed off the empty morgues metal walls."

"Sherlock when is the last time you spoke with John?"

"John?"

"Yes, your friend John Watson."

"I don't have friends Mycroft. You've seen to that." The younger Holmes brother refused to look up from his microscope, the sneer in his voice still very affective.

"Sherlock answer.The question." Mycroft had started to yell but dropped his voice down at the last part of the demand, reigning in his temper. No matter how much restraint he promised himself he would have, Sherlock always managed to get under his skin.

"I haven't spoken to him in years." an irritable sigh. "Why? What business of yours is it?"

"What of the letters and emails he sends." Mycroft knew he was pushing his brother, but he needed to know, needed to gage the degree of emotional distress his brother would experience. Needed to be sure this wasn't going to push his fragile sobriety.

"Well I'm surprised you don't already know the answer to that. The letters you forward to me, I'm sure you've read them. I know I haven't they go straight in the bin, as far as the emails I delete them. I have no urge to hear the pathetic drabbles of an army Doctor and his mundane activities. I'm busy. And like I said. I don't have friends. Why so concerned brother? Is the good Doctor back in London on leave-"

"He will be." Mycroft leaned back on the balls of his feet, his black umbrella held behind his back.

"It's of no matter to me." Sherlock scratched notes onto the paper at his side, refocusing the microscope. "Go on then don't you have a parade or some kind of homecoming planned? Have you been in contact with the good Doctor your best friend? If so don't bother asking me to show up."

"No brother. I haven't spoken to your-to John. We aren't in contact. And anyway it would not be a homecoming-"

"Mycroft what do you want? I'm in the middle of a case. I have no urge to carry on this ridiculous conversation about an old childhood acquaintance. One of no significance to the case I'm currently working to solve if you would leave me to it. As much as I love these heart to hearts-"

"A funeral."Mycroft's voice was casual as if reporting the weather.

Sherlock froze, his brothers words registered immediately but something in him did not want to process them. Whose funeral? Who was he talking about? What did his brother want now? John-John was coming home. No, not a homecoming, a funeral. He put his brothers words together uninterrupted and turned finally, running a doubtful eye over the man in the tan suite, his weight resting on the umbrella at his side.

Face, tense, bad news, shoulders stiff, something that will possibly upset him-no me, hands holding his umbrella and the other hand clutching an envelope. John's dead, John H. Watson. What had I said to him? What had my last parting words been? And the emails, I stubbornly refused to open. Except the last one, I opened the last one.

"John is dead." Sherlock's voice cold, and even. Why did his mouth feel dry, and was he getting sick his throat had an uncomfortable lump?

"Shot in the line of duty."

"You're lying." Sherlock growled.

"This is what I have so far." Mycroft offered in surrender.

Sherlock snatched the envelope from his brother, nearly tearing it open. "This is dated two days ago." the younger Holmes growled laying everything out on the long metal table in front of him. He scanned the pictures, read the report. One of those burned bodies was John's. John had been shot, and someone had gone out to help him only to be shot themselves. They left John's body, they left it behind and the enemy bombed the area, he was left there, they left him.

"He was already dead Sherlock. They did what their training called for. The body would have slowed their retreat." Sherlock didn't reply, he pushed the pictures away from him in disgust. Mechanically grabbing his coat and scarf walking out of the morgue without so much a nod to his brother.

Mycroft frowned now, collecting the confidential contents of the folder, noticing the small service picture wasn't among the cluttered photographs and report.

Sherlock couldn't think, couldn't breath, his feet carried him where he didn't know, didn't care. Distance he needed distance, six stop lights, five women, eight children sixteen men, he'd passed and counted. The air was cold on his cheeks, cold, it was cold of course wasn't it early spring? Think of anything, anything but John. John in the park, John disappointed, John laughing-crying, angry, more disappointment.

After walking around for several hours, Sherlock realized his phone had been shut off, Lestrade would be calling to know about the case. The case-what case? Nothing mattered. John is dead. That's all his brain was screaming out, John, the only person who no matter what Sherlock said or did never gave up on him.

Now he's gone, and Sherlock could deduce the pain the soldiers fatal injury. The trauma to a beating heart, the pain would be intense, but short it would be quick. The soldier would have died swiftly, more likely shock from the force of the bullet, hadn't even registered in the dieing man. Blood would have flooded the many valves and chambers of the injured organ he would have ceased breathing immediately. The science of it was comforting but it didn't stop another part of his mind from questioning it all.

Did he yell out in shock, did he even have time to think anything but God, let me live?

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson opened the door of 221, "Come inside young man you don't have a coat on! Why are you carrying your coat and not wearing it, you're nearly frozen." She chided "I'll make you a nice hot cuppa."

Sherlock was placing all these feeling in the room of his mind palace, the one labeled John, John had his own room, his own room and Sherlock hadn't dared open that door, he'd thought he locked the memory of John away, deleted everything about the blond soldier. Obviously his mind had yet to delete the other man, he wished again that people were easier to delete like emails or voice mail messages.

"Emails." Sherlock murmured holding the service picture of John. Emails, he needed to see them.