CHAPTER 55. THE CONVERSATIONS WITH OURSELVES
John returned from his late shift at the A&E to find both Holmes brothers sitting in the living room in complete silence. Well it would appear to be complete silence but in reality they were arguing mentally, the air was thick with hostility. He made his way to the couch and plopped down,
"Oh, great what's happened now?" both brothers remained glaring, dueling gray eyes icy, cool and unyielding. "Oh, nothing John how are you today."John decided to do an impression of Sherlock's deep baritone voice.
"Oh why I'm wonderful thanks Sherlock." he answered his own question.
"Yes, John that is quite the jumper you're wearing is it new?"his best and worst Mycroft impression.
"No, but thank you Mycroft. I haven't worn it in a while." he smiled cheerfully.
This got both brothers to look over as John continued to hold a conversation with himself imitating their voices horribly. Half way into a conversation about the old woman whose cat somehow got loose in the waiting room, only because she thought she was bringing it to the vet, this resulted in two allergic reactions and a handful of riled children all running about trying to catch the small ball of gray fur. Then resulting in three angry parents, and several tetanus shots, Sherlock decided to end the ridiculous and confusing conversation.
"What are you going on about John?" Sherlock snapped.
John looked across at him only shrugging.
"Nothing important. So what do we owe the pleasure Mycroft?"
"Mycroft is appealing to my sense of family and duty."
"Oh? I take it, it's not working?"
"You would be correct Doctor Watson." Mycroft was clutching the umbrella handle. John knew him long enough to know this was a bad thing. "We can talk later Sherlock."
"Don't bother the answer will still be no." Sherlock flung at his brother with such disdain that John flinched.
"Sherlock surely you can grant a dieing man his last wish?" Mycroft sighed heavily his eyes hard and unreadable to anyone else but the younger Holmes.
"Sentiment dear brother, he should understand by now, after all he did teach us this right? Sentiment isn't-"
"Sherlock?" John was frowning who could Mycroft be talking about? The older Holmes had a smug grin on his face now. As if he was just offered a large piece of chocolate cake with extra frosting. Sherlock realized too late what his brother was up, Mycroft's grin disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared.
"John. What are you doing this weekend?"
"As in the day after tomorrow?" John asked suddenly but Sherlock was on his feet.
"No Mycroft!" he warned.
"Well I think he would love to see Doctor Watson again. After all these years. I think the last time the two last spoke was sometime after starting UNI. Christmas maybe."
"No! Mycroft leave John out of this."
"Very well then. Gentleman." Mycroft started to leave a white knuckled grip on his umbrella.
"What just happened?" John asked no one in particular but it was the retreating Mycroft to answer irritably.
"Do keep up John. My father has requested Sherlock's presence, as the man is dieing-"
"Not quick enough." Sherlock growled.
"Wait. Wait. Hold on. Sherlock I thought you said your father was dead. Cancer you said."
"Well it was half true, he's dead to me and he does have cancer. Leave it John." Sherlock threw himself back in his chair.
"But he's your father."
"Well he didn't act like it."
"It wasn't like you made it very easy." Mycroft snapped before leaving the flat.
John wondered over the fallout. Was there no way to repair that broken relationship? He took a deep breath and made an attempt at reasoning with his best friend. "If you don't go you may regret it later, not having said your peace. Sometimes it's easier to just tell them how you feel while he can at least give you a reason for being so distant. You aren't a machine Sherlock." Sherlock scanned John's pinched expression.
"Would you have? If it were your father, would you have gone home?" Sherlock locked eyes with John, but John looked away first and shrugged.
"I don't know. Maybe. But it's not about me. My chance was long passed. The last thing I said to my father while he was still alive wasn't exactly pardoning."
"Would you have? Forgiven him?"
"I forgave him a long time ago Sherlock. It's just not worth carrying around that anger. No one benefits from it, and the only one who can truly feel it is you."
"Character flaw John Watson, you are entirely too forgiving."
"My father was troubled I don't know what he was going through. It must have been bad if he was trying to drown himself in a constant state of intoxication. He did have a few moments there where he was a decent person, or at least trying to be. Maybe it's the same for yours. Who knows. Anyway, tea?"
"Yes." Sherlock replied. "Thank you with sugar." Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin. He thought of John's father why would anyone forgive him, he was a wretched person, and his daughter was taking after him so beautifully. Mycroft knew by inviting John he would be obligated to accompany his friend not wishing to leave John alone with Mycroft. He might try to make him disappear or worse offer him a job with the government. Sherlock shivered at the revolting thought. Good thing they wouldn't be going.
"You alright?" John asked "Are you cold?" The Doctor was placing a hot cup of tea near Sherlock.
"I'm fine." He mumbled.
Sherlock continued to consider this idea of his father. His father had a small room somewhere deep in the mind palace. Where there was no sun shining through the study windows, a fire offering no warmth burning in the hearth, the smell of cigars and scotch. That balding man would be sitting quietly a permanent frown on his rounded face staring into the fire. The walls would be shadowed nothing hanging on them. Sherlock only felt a chill when thinking of his father. Figures he would send Mycroft to order him home. Father's favorite son. Fat chance.