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Chapter 10: Meddling (2)

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Mycroft Holmes had very rarely been impressed in his life. It just wasn't something he was used to feeling – not that he was used to feeling much, mind you. But today D.I. Lestrade had managed to impress him. His attempt in itself had been quite pitiful, of course, and if some people might have considered it to be bravery, Mycroft would only see it as incredible stupidity. But it had nonetheless revealed something about the inspector: that he cared enough about Sherlock to throw away his whole career for him.

Mycroft had always seen him as a very fatherly figure for his little brother – a keeper, so to speak, who would look after him and whom Sherlock needed to get cases. In other words, Sherlock couldn't just shun Lestrade like he shunned him. He sighed.

He knew Sherlock would be affected by John's disappearance – that was the whole point. But if Lestrade was willing to sacrifice his job so John could go home earlier, then it meant Sherlock was in far worse condition than he'd thought. Not that the D.I. was particularly observant, or that he trusted his opinion. But his dramatic reaction implied that Sherlock hadn't even bothered to hide his sentiments. He was so far gone he hadn't cared at all.

And so he'd let Lestrade get to John and bring the doctor back to Baker Street. In fact, his coming had served his purpose: there was no denying now that his little brother had become pathetically dependent on John's presence – or even just the idea of his presence, the certitude that he'd always come back.

He was roused out of his reverie by a very noisy bustle downstairs and wondered what in the world was going on. It took him less than a second to understand, and he rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh.

"We've been watchin' the signs, we've been readin' the news, and now we're starin' amazed at your shame-faced bluuuuse..."

Two security guards came in and walked menacingly towards the drunk man, but the eccentric vagrant who'd burst into the Diogenes unannounced and was making a racket was surprisingly agile and strong, and dancing around drunkly, still managed to send them to the floor by aiming at some specific pressure points.

"We shoulda guessed it I guess, we shoulda guessed it... You've been walkin' the line like a bad man's dream, never pay who you lay, never say what you mean... You should get arrested!"

Mycroft burst into the room at the same time as three other guards, and Sherlock turned to them with a sparkling grin:

"Give us something to trust in! We've been wastin' our time on you. All we want is a fighting chance and you give us handstand weekends, peaches in the darkness, cool hand dealin', leeches lookin' harmless... You should get arrested, You should get arrested!"

He smirked as his brother walked up to him with a death glare, perhaps to stop the three guards from joining the two others on the floor – and also, perhaps, because he thought Sherlock couldn't handle three of them, and regardless of how infuriating his little brother was, he would never want him to come to harm.

"Hello, brother," Sherlock said with a smile, tilting his head sweetly to the side.

"Follow me," Mycroft whispered back through gritted teeth, his face burning as he left the room with all the dignity he could manage. Once they were back in his office, he closed the door and turned to Sherlock with irritation and contempt.

"You never cease to embarrass me."

His patronizing tone made Sherlock snap, and he dropped the act.

"And you never cease to interfere with my life."

"If you were more responsible, I wouldn't have to."

"Responsible? Responsible? I'm not the one who kidnaps people on a whim, Mycroft!"

"Would you please stop shouting? I can hear you quite well."

Sherlock's pupils lost their outraged sparkle and became icy.

"I came to tell you one thing, and I expect you to respect at least that: never lay a hand on John Watson again."

Any other man than Mycroft would have shivered at the unfaltering tone and cold-blooded expression.

But this being Mycroft, the British government snorted, disbelieving and scornful.

"Dear God Sherlock, can you hear yourself?"

Sherlock's eyes turned to slits, but his mouth curved into a sardonic grin.

"And you? Do you get the sound, or just the image?"

Mycroft almost paled with rage at this, but in a second his disdainful pout was back. So that's how you want to play? Fine. Have it your way.

"Will you scream louder if I tell you I get no sound?"

Sherlock's grin grew wider.

"I might."

Mycroft walked closer to him, and his tone became falsely lighter.

"So, the bathroom? That was quite entertaining I must say. But really, Sherlock... 'I had wet dreams'?"

Sherlock refrained from biting his lip and closed his eyes. Mycroft was hovering around him.

"Don't play that game, Sherlock, you're going to lose. I know you're ashamed. I hadn't seen you cry in..."

"Stop it," Sherlock snarled. "You can spy on us all you want, Mycroft. You can put cameras in the bathroom and bugs under the bed if that's how you get your fun, I don't care."

"Really?"

"...But if you ever touch John again, you'll come to regret it. You know me, Mycroft. You do not want me as an enemy."

Mycroft scoffed.

"Possessive, aren't we? And I thought I was already your 'archenemy.' "

"But we both know that's not quite true anymore, don't we?" Sherlock replied coldly.

This time Mycroft almost shivered, seeing the emptiness in his little brother's eyes. He frowned.

"Sherlock..."

"Spare me the pitying speech of support," he cut in, turning to the door to leave.

"You are making a mistake, Sherlock. How many times must I tell you? Caring is not an advantage. What will you do next time he disappears? When I am not the one behind it?"

"I will find him."

Mycroft laughed.

"You didn't find him this time, did you? And he was so close..."

Sherlock's gaze flared up.

"You're just confused. This is mere chemistry, Sherlock."

"But it does wonders."

"Haven't you experimented enough already? You're only going to get hurt."

"I already am. And it would've been worse if John hadn't been around."

"See? How could you be any more reliant?"

"I'm not reliant!"

"Oh Sherlock..."

"I don't need him! I want him."

"You are completely delusional, aren't you? Maybe you do want him, but above all you need him."

Sherlock shrugged. Clearly tired of the conversation, he put his hand on the door handle to leave. Mycroft's face darkened.

"Tell me... What happened in the basement, Sherlock?"

The younger Holmes froze. Then he sneered.

"Oh, so you don't know that?" he said, a cynical grin playing on his lips, his eyes still fixed on the handle.

"I want to hear it from you."

"This is none of your business, Mycroft. I am fed up of you meddling with my life."

"Was it so bad?"

This time the caustic tone in Mycroft's voice made Sherlock look over his shoulder and lock eyes with his brother. He grinned sardonically.

"Is your sex life so non-existant you need to get the details of other people's to shake your boat? Or is it, perhaps, that you get off only on me being fucked?"

Mycroft Holmes had never been rendered speechless in his entire life. As he stared dumbfounded at the door being slammed in his face dramatically, he realized that life was truly full of surprises.

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xXx

Lestrade was sorting documents in his office, wondering when the sword of Damocles that was hanging over him would fall and cut right through him. He was expecting a call every five minutes, telling him that he was to be transferred to some God-forsaken place. So when Sergeant Donovan entered his office with a puzzled look and gave him a kraft envelope addressed to him specifically, he thought his time had come.

"Thank you, Donovan. You can leave now."

She eyed him suspiciously, but complied. Lestrade opened the envelope and was surprised to see no trace of a letter, but only a small USB flash drive that he almost missed. He took it out, puzzled, and wondered briefly if those were perhaps a series of compromising photographs or any kind of data, real or fake, that Mycroft intended to use against him to make his downfall complete. He gulped, but taking his courage in both hands, slotted the flash drive into his computer, and waited for the file to open. It was a video, with a ReadMe file attached.

Lestrade shivered. What could Mycroft possibly have filmed that could be used as a threat? He had always thought he had nothing to hide, but now he was very anxious to see what the elder Holmes had devised for him. He clicked on the video file nervously.

As the first images popped up on his screen, he froze. Gradually his face was filled with horror. He was too shocked to close the video, or even to turn the sound off. He watched, transfixed, until the very end.

"Oh God..."

It took him almost a minute before he could get out of his daze and open the ReadMe file. There was only one line, but it made his blood turn cold.

Thanks for helping my little puppet to get his pet back, inspector. Here's a treat! Yours truly, JM

xXx

John had been waiting for hours at home for Sherlock to come back, so when the disguised vagrant finally entered their living-room, he was sulking. He'd just gone so suddenly and left him behind, again. Even if coming back for the sandwich had been unexpectedly sweet of him, John still wished he'd answered his numerous texts.

"How did it go?"

"Fine."

The laconic answer and the bored tone unnerved John even more.

"What did you do?" he insisted.

"Talked to Mycroft."

"I know that, but..."

He was efficiently shut up by a cold pair of lips, and the hands roaming under his jumper persuaded him to just let go. He knew this was coaxing, but found the fact that Sherlock was trying to get himself forgiven by snogging him incredibly arousing nonetheless. He melted into the kiss.

Sherlock on the other hand wasn't really involved in it. He was thinking about Mycroft, and where he might have put bugs and cameras in their flat. He knew it'd be pointless to look for them and get rid of them, unless they wanted to do so every day, for Big Brother would just have the place bugged over and over again. Of course he hated the idea that his brother was watching him. It was hard enough to have John hearing him and watching him – but he could hardly get rid of him – so his own brother? Mycroft?

John wasn't stupid enough not to notice eventually that Sherlock wasn't paying attention at all. What the hell? He'd just burst into the flat, barely answered his very legitimate questions, jumped on him to snog him senseless and he wasn't even paying attention? That was just adding insult to injury. John broke the kiss.

"Hey. Can't you just kiss me when you kiss me? Do you have to make it seem like you're doing me a favour?"

Sherlock was already on edge, and to be called back to reality in such a way when he was thinking didn't improve his already sour mood. He didn't understand at all why John should be feeling offended – did he really have to be so difficult now of all times?

"If it's not good enough for you, I just won't bother," he said, stepping back and taking off his coat.

John stared, dumbfounded.

"What do you mean you won't bother? Is this a bother to you?"

"Oh, don't be daft, John."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

But Sherlock had frozen on the spot and was no longer listening to him. Frowning, John walked up to him and looked over his shoulder. The detective's eyes were fixed on the strange series of smileys that Cubitt had printed for him to see. The man had finally left to get on the last train to Norfolk, but John had to bear his presence all afternoon and listen to him being dotty about his wife for hours.

"A client came," he said moodily. "You've got a case. Here are the notes I took – not sure everything's relevant, but..."

He stopped in mid-sentence, as Sherlock didn't even seem to be listening to what he was saying and had just grabbed his laptop.

"Can't you at least use yours?" John snapped.

The detective ignored his comment and went online to check his website, almost frenetically. Panic was bubbling in his chest already – cold, implacable fear.

He didn't notice that John was feeling utterly discarded now, and simply thought it was all because Sherlock had got himself a new case.

John was standing in silence, watching his friend's back with a jaded look on his face. How could he have thought for a second that the detective would ever see him as something more than a nice teddy bear to cuddle when he was down? Sherlock didn't give a damn, and as he was already coping somewhat better, he'd clearly found that focusing on cases was just what he needed. So what, now? Would he just keep using him as a guinea pig?

John's thoughts were bitter, and they hurt. But he knew Sherlock hadn't lied. He had never hidden the fact that he only wished to experiment. John had just been a fool to expect anything else. And maybe, maybe, even a monster too – for hoping he could get out of a broken Sherlock something that the real Sherlock would never give him.

"I'm going out. Need some air."

He waited a few seconds by the door for an answer which never came. His flatmate's silence only confirmed him in his views. Turning to hide the pained look on his face, he left. I'm pathetic.

Sherlock heard the door shut behind his only friend. But his eyes remained fixed to the screen that was displaying a message – one small message, just a few words that had poured sheer terror and mortification into his chest, drowning him from the inside.

As John walked away from 221B, more vexed and hurt than words could describe, Sherlock was falling in a world of silence, his empty eyes unable to tear themselves away from the hope-consuming message.

Hello, beauty! Isn't your keeper nice to stand up to Big Brother just to get Johnny back?

But don't worry, I've sent him my best regards. So you can fully concentrate on my little riddle...

What do you think of the dancing men, Sherlock? :D

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xXx

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tbc