A/N: I'm so sorry this is late! Here we are again with me being late, this week's gone really fast has it not? Mine has anyway, I've had loads of final exams and such, which between those and a sleepover on Saturday are the reasons why this chapter is late :S I'm sorry :'(
Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers, you made my week! (You always do XD) You're all amazing :)
To theimprobableone, thanks for the review since I can't reply to you other than here :D I thought that 3 months was better than three years as I wanted the time frame to be shorter… and plus I don't think I could stand it being the whole three years! XD I agree with both those details by the way, but I thought adding my own opinion into the writing may be bad since I know lots of people think different things and I didn't want to be controversial XD Heehee, sorry, I'm bad enough keeping to schedule (as evident here) never mind being early XD I'm such a terrible person :D
Disclaimer: I have escaped from the truck! With just a hairclip and a stash of TNT hidden in my jacket pockets, I escaped the vehicle and am currently stranded in a field somewhere, although I don't know where. I'm currently sleeping in a tree, trying to get signal and have decided to build my own satellite in order to get mobile phone service!
John barely remembered moving into his room yesterday after falling asleep on the chair. He vaguely remembered a muffled goodnight to Sherlock, who was still playing his violin and shuffling into his room. It was as if all of the sleepless nights had caught up with him at once and he had crashed, desperately needing sleep. However, his mind didn't completely settle as he remembered panicking for a moment, wondering what he would do if he awoke and Sherlock wasn't there, like a dream that ended all too soon. He could hear Sherlock playing violin in the living room and although it paused for a moment, as if in consideration, it had continued playing and John could swear it was slightly louder, reassuring him that Sherlock was still there, the impossible notion of his friend assuring his tired blogger of his presence made John smile and he flopped into bed, leaving his door open to hear the music.
After that, it hadn't taken long for sleep to come over him, listening to a vaguely lullaby tune from Sherlock's violin, a sound he remembered he had both been woken up by and fallen asleep to before. He didn't remember his dream or if he even had one at all and now, as the morning sunshine come in through the gap in his curtains, he realised that this was the first time since Sherlock had disappeared that he had slept for so long and so peacefully. Relief: Earth's natural sleeping medication, John thought. He pulled his legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a moment, rubbing his sore thigh. It still hurt, no less than it did yesterday but it didn't seem quite as important anymore. He'd deal with the pain in his leg since there was no longer the aching pain in his chest anymore; there wasn't the constant thought of "alone" in his head. He got up and scavenged in his wardrobe for some clothes, padding out into the living room barefoot after he had changed.
When he got into the living room, he spotted Sherlock, stood watching the television. John felt himself relax in relief. Yesterday hadn't been a dream, Sherlock was still alive. John wanted to say that he looked the same as he always did, but that wouldn't be entirely true as the night hadn't worn away at the tired, battered look on Sherlock's face and John could see straight away that Sherlock hadn't slept that night. His clothes were the same since yesterday, rumpled under where Sherlock had slung on a familiar silk dressing gown and John had to ponder if Sherlock had tried to get to sleep at all and had failed to or if he had stayed here all night, playing his violin, driving Mrs Hudson crazy like always and watching TV. John guessed that it was the latter as Sherlock looked like he hadn't slept in days and the bags under his eyes were more noticeable today than they were yesterday.
Sherlock's attention was fixed on the news at the moment and he looked more attentive to it than he ever did, his eyes locked on the screen when usually they were fixed on his laptop and flung its way casually every few moments when the promise of a case appeared. Sherlock was stood too instead of crouched on his favourite chair and John drew his own attention to the screen, seeing what Sherlock was finding so engrossing.
The news report was similar to the one John had watched yesterday and Sherlock looked almost to be analysing it, the expression he always had when he was deducing was locked onto his face and John could almost hear his mind whirring from here.
"The post-mortem was held before a private funeral ceremony in which none of the names of attendants were released. Thus far there has been speculation that members of Scotland Yard turned up for the ceremony, leading to suspicions that the internal inquiry may have been led by such individuals in an attempt to clear Mr Holmes's name," the newsreader said, "So far their efforts have proved successful as yesterday new evidence came to light that Mr Holmes may have been involved in an elaborate scheme-"
John saw Sherlock's interest shut off and he guessed that he had seen everything he had too. John had seen only one other expression cross Sherlock's face, so whatever information Sherlock had garnered wasn't easy for John to decipher, as the only change in Sherlock's expression had been surprise at the mention of the "private funeral ceremony" and the speculation on attendees. It was true that some members of Scotland Yard had turned up, Lestrade being the first one to arrive, followed by two obscure officers that John had never seen and then, shockingly, Donovan and Anderson, obviously there on either Lestrade's orders or on guilt. Anderson had a look of disgust on his face, leaving ten minutes before the service began but Donovan had stayed for a short time after that and if John didn't know better, aside from the gloating aura about her, she did seem ever so slightly remorseful at Sherlock's death. Donovan was an idiot by all standards and she had blamed Sherlock for reasons John couldn't guess at, but she was also a police officer and ultimately, she had good intentions. That didn't stop John from shooting her a hateful glare but he didn't say anything, not that he could have anyway, he had barely spoken all day.
Sherlock had seemed surprised at the idea that anyone had bothered to turn up for his funeral and John's mood sank a little. The most human human being I've ever known. It was true that Sherlock could be cruel sometimes, with a complete disregard for anyone's feelings, John knew that first-hand, but he also knew that out of everything Sherlock could have done with his mind, he had chosen to help people. He had chosen to do good and although not many people got to see that side of Sherlock, whether because they couldn't or because they simply didn't want to, there were some people that were willing to believe that there was more than just the arrogance and the insults. It was after all, what they had all stuck around for.
Mrs Hudson had seen that Sherlock was a good man when he had helped her with her husband and ever since allowed himself to be mothered by her with as minimal amounts of complaining as he could muster. Molly had seen something perhaps none of them had yet, something she had loved and followed, even when everyone else said it was pointless. Lestrade had seen it, or at least, he was hoping to, he had said it himself that he was waiting for the day when he could say that Sherlock Holmes was a "good man". And John didn't know quite what he had seen when with Sherlock Holmes but what he did know was that it was something that made Sherlock Holmes who he was. Not just a hero or a detective or an idiot sometimes or a genius or an arrogant prick or a friend; it was something within that and between that and inside all of those things that defined Sherlock Holmes not just a great man, but a good one too; yet seeing this from all the little snapshots of Sherlock that people could see made it difficult to see the whole picture, the whole of who Sherlock Holmes really was. John was sure that he had yet to see all of who Sherlock Holmes and yet, that was the whole point. If it meant only catching snatches of Sherlock being a hero or a friend or a genius in order to see that there was more to him than meets them all, then there were people like himself, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson who would all wait to see those glimpses.
"John if you are making an attempt at deduction, I think I should remind you of Carl Power's shoe and advise you not to try it again. I think that just once is sufficiently embarrassing enough for you," Sherlock said suddenly. John jumped, flicking his attention back from the TV, noticing Sherlock's eyes on him. It took him a second to process what Sherlock had said and he scowled.
"You were the one that old me to do it in the first place," he growled, pretending to be angry however, as much as he never thought he would say it, he had missed Sherlock's insults and dry humour too much to be too angry about it. Sherlock shot him a grin and walked over the coffee table and chair to grab his laptop from the side where John had put it a few weeks ago when he had been unsure of what to do with it.
Sherlock climbed back over the chair and coffee table again to sit at the table, opening his laptop as he did so.
"I assume you've seen the news?" Sherlock said, "New evidence revealing that Moriarty was real all along"
"Yeah, it was on yesterday," John said, wandering into the kitchen, "Do you want a cuppa? I'm making some breakfast too if you want some." Sherlock shot him a look that clearly read "Sherlock Holmes doesn't need to eat", before he returned to tapping away on his laptop. John rolled his eyes but a pang of worry shot through him. Just how long had it been since Sherlock last ate something? He could barely imagine Sherlock getting food for himself while he had been away; doing whatever it was he had been doing for the past three months. That thought unnerved John; the idea that he didn't know where Sherlock had actually been for the past three months. Sherlock hadn't said yesterday where he had been and John's curiosity was piqued, as well as a growing concern for the state of the already thin detective.
"It's good isn't it? I mean, getting your name clear is good news right? Now Moriarty's gone there's no-one to refute it, you'll be in the clear," John said from the kitchen, raising his voice over the sound of the kettle boiling. He didn't turn to look at Sherlock's face from where he was stood but he could practically feel the intensity of how concentrated Sherlock was on his computer screen.
"Mm," Sherlock gave a vague, non-committal sound of agreement but John could tell he wasn't really listening. It took a few more seconds for Sherlock to seemingly listen to what John had said and pull it through his brain, drawn out of his deep thoughts on the news report lighting up his computer screen. "I don't doubt it's useful to me John, the question is, what new evidence? In fact, there is more than just one question here. Who led the investigation and why? It doesn't make complete sense that the police would look into my suicide-"
"Faked death," John corrected.
"A technicality," Sherlock said, obviously arguing the point that suicide sounded better, "My point is that there are things missing from the puzzle John, things that are being kept secret. I fully intend to find out what."
John raised an eyebrow. A day back at 221B and Sherlock was already back to a case.
"So what, you think something fishy is going on? It's weird that someone in Scotland Yard would want to clear your name? What about Lestrade? He's been pretty quiet lately, maybe he's been on this investigation thing," John suggested. Sherlock shook his head.
"It's not just about wanting to clear my name John, it's about someone stopping to think that maybe I wasn't dead, then taking it to the top to begin a private investigation into it, then to actually find the evidence that would clear my name – it seems an awful lot of trouble even for a D.I like Lestrade," Sherlock said. Now that Sherlock put it that way, it did seem a little odd. The very same day Sherlock had returned, his name was cleared after months of investigation into a man that had been publically shamed? Sherlock wasn't wrong about it being off.
"Who do you think it is?" John said, "Who would go to all that trouble to clear your name?" He paused a moment. "You don't think Mycroft has anything to do with it do you?" John heard Sherlock chuckle and he looked over at him, seeing Sherlock smiling. It was a small smile, one that made his thinned out face look even bonier and John decided that not only was he going to make Sherlock breakfast, he was going to make sure that he damn well ate it.
"John, my brother may be defensive of me but if there is anything that Mycroft cares very little about, it is public image. He likes to keep the world turning and the Times stocked with news, I don't think Mycroft would be scrambling to stop the presses on my defamation," Sherlock sneered and John didn't miss the familiar resentment in there, however it seemed more biting than usual, "I believe my brother would however be concerned for my wellbeing and whereabouts so I suspect he's spent his time making absolutely sure that I am in fact dead, since I doubt my brother believes everything that he reads in the paper. However, after all, I am the only person ever to have been able to fool my brother."
John remembered Mycroft saying something on similar lines to that and he made sure to keep his expression hidden from Sherlock as he felt anger boil in him. Mycroft had been the only person John had expected at the funeral that had not come. In fact, John hadn't seen Mycroft at all since his betrayal and that thought alone made his blood boil, imagining Mycroft realising what his betrayals had done to his brother and then crawling back into his lair like a snake and leaving John with the fallout. If anyone other than Moriarty held the blame for Sherlock's fall, it was Mycroft and nothing anyone could say would convince John from that.
There were a few companiable minutes of silence after that and John cracked on with the breakfast, content to have his mind focused on something less irritating than thoughts of Sherlock's brother. John was quite happy to be cooking breakfast for someone other than himself, even though he was dreading trying to make Sherlock eat it. In fact, he was happy to be doing anything at all other than sitting in the flat, doing nothing like he had been doing. He had missed the job interview, of course, but that fact had faded into the background after yesterday's event. With actual motivation to keep the flat and thereby get a job, John reckoned he could get a job, even something small, with his qualifications. Right now he was happy to just enjoy the moment.
However, enjoying the moment didn't quite stretch far enough to stop him from thinking over what Sherlock had said earlier. Secrets were being kept from them and as true as that was, John felt as if he had been kept in the dark more than anyone else. No-one had spoken to him during Sherlock's absence, Sherlock hadn't told him he was alive, the police hadn't told him about the investigation and now, above all, Sherlock was keeping more secrets from him. No matter how much Sherlock dodged the questions, John was still suspicious of his story. Where had he been and what the hell had he been doing for 3 whole months? What had he discovered about Moriarty's plan that had made him want to fake his own death? It didn't add up, none of it did and he couldn't get the suspicious feeling out of his head. Find it out yourself, he thought. He knew that if Sherlock didn't tell him, there was always the chance that he could find out himself, he'd followed Sherlock Holmes around enough to know a few detective tricks or two. The trail would be cold now but if John couldn't learn anything from Sherlock Holmes, world's greatest detective, about picking up a trail, then he didn't know who he could learn from.
The world's greatest detective however, as John rediscovered, was also a pain in the backside by all accounts as when John finally triumphed over the breakfast (two burnt sausages, a dropped egg and the disposal of a suspiciously mouldy looking rasher of bacon later – cooking was something the army taught you but didn't necessarily specify that you had to make a good full English) and placed a large plate in front of Sherlock, the detective gave it a look that looked like he half expected it to jump off the plate and eat him instead.
"Come on Sherlock, I've not just spent like an hour in the kitchen for you not to eat it," John said.
"36 minutes to be precise John, an hour is a slight over-exaggeration," Sherlock corrected him.
"You were counting?" John exclaimed. Sherlock gave him a withering look.
"There is a clock on the laptop screen, I looked at that," Sherlock said dryly and John scowled at him.
"You're probably one of the only people I know that can be irritating this early in the morning," John sighed.
"I'm not irritating," Sherlock argued but him poking at the food with the fork didn't help his case and John sighed louder, sitting down next to him and proceeding to tuck into his own meal, watching Sherlock very closely, observing how engrossed he was in the news story and taking some comfort in that here, doing what he did best, he looked exactly like he used to, focused, absorbed and still a little annoying.
Every once in a while John would prompt Sherlock to start eating his breakfast and each time he got waved off with a maddening flick of Sherlock's hand. It didn't help when Mrs Hudson came up, fussing and generally paying as much to attention to Sherlock as possible. John didn't usually think of his friend as a grouchy person in the mornings, bar a few days, but when he was on a case, or was beginning to think he was going to be on a case, he was rude at best and he made no effort to partake in Mrs Hudson's conversation, forcing John to fill in for him. Mrs Hudson didn't seem to mind and, much to John's pride, he gave Sherlock a sterner telling off about his eating habits than John would have done and John smiled behind his jumper sleeve and fork, hiding his amused expression until she left.
"Well, Mrs Hudson definitely seems to be happier about having you around the flat Sherlock," John grinned and Sherlock gave absent minded nod at him and John scowled. He hadn't expected everything to be sunshine and daisies once Sherlock had returned, far from it, but it still stung that despite how much John had grieved for Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes would always be just Sherlock Holmes and John knew better than to expect any form of apology from him, in fact, to expect anything else than the usual nonchalant demeanour that Sherlock always had. However, Sherlock seemed even more distant than usual and for a moment John wondered vaguely if he had done something wrong. He tried to shrug it off and not to let it get to him but even though he'd expected things to be a little different before things settled down, it was shakier than he'd expected.
Just as John was about to give a sharp retort to Sherlock's uninterested nod, John heard the door go downstairs and he narrowed his eyes in its general direction, annoyed that his perfectly good comeback had been ruined. He heard Mrs Hudson go to open it and he stopped eating, toying around with a scrap of bacon as he listened. He couldn't hear the conversation, but he heard Mrs Hudson saying something along the lines of "He's upstairs" and John tensed. He knew he was being illogical, that after three months of Moriarty being gone that he would still expect someone to be coming to take Sherlock again but he couldn't stop his muscles from coiling in readiness and he looked round to the open door to the stairs. He heard Sherlock stop typing next to him and was surprised to feel him tense also, waiting. He shot a glance at him and Sherlock looked almost grateful that John had been so ready to leap to his defence.
"You expecting anyone?" John said, trying for a casual tone. Sherlock gave a small smile but shook his head and stood up, shortly followed by John who had to use the table to ease himself up, his leg still stiff from a night of sleep. He heard a thank you from downstairs, too muffled to detect who it was and then footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock let out a low groan from next to him and John looked, concern sweeping his expression.
"I wouldn't bother standing up if I were you John," Sherlock said and John immediately knew that whoever it was, Sherlock had recognised their step, deducing who they were with ease, "His Royal Highness only needs people to stand for him on formal occasions". John frowned, perplexed and then he turned his head to where the footsteps had stopped. There in the doorway, stock still and umbrella in hand, was Mycroft Holmes.
Mycroft didn't move from the doorway and if he heard Sherlock's jibe, he didn't react to it. He simply stood there, his hand clutching his umbrella, staring at his younger brother. Sherlock, for his part, stayed seating and, even though he hadn't seen his brother in three months, he didn't greet him or even look at him for that matter, merely typed away on his laptop coolly.
"Mycroft," John said finally, "What are you doing here?" He tried to keep the anger from his voice but it took more effort than he thought it would and he was pretty sure that Mycroft noticed it. John could barely believe that Mycroft had the nerve to walk in here. After what he had done. He'd betrayed Sherlock and now he expected to be forgiven? John didn't know how much Sherlock knew and that was the only thing that was stopping John from punching Mycroft straight in the face, but John was livid at the sheer gall of it. Mycroft had admitted betraying Sherlock to Moriarty of all people, he had basically set up his own brother's death if Sherlock had not escaped and he sauntered in, goddamn umbrella in hand like none of that mattered?
Mycroft didn't answer for a long while, continuing to stare at his brother, his face a half mix between shock and calculation.
"Mycroft!" John barely kept his voice from a shout and Mycroft's frozen state seemed to shift.
"Sherlock," Mycroft said simply, "How-"
"Ah, see John! Someone who asks how you see! Granted, it's only Mycroft, however," Sherlock said suddenly and he turned to smile at John who raised an eyebrow, strongly resisting the urge to yell at the older Holmes. Mycroft took a step forward, peering at Sherlock in that same only-a-Holmes way that Sherlock sometimes did when he was deducing, like Mycroft was checking it was him and not some man in a mask or a puppet or something equally as plausible as his brother coming back from the dead.
Suddenly, Mycroft seemed to come to his senses and he looked away, nodding at John.
"Doctor Watson," he greeted, "You're looking a little… tired, I'm sorry I couldn't give you any assistance during my brother's… absence… I was looking for him you see, I thought it was best I didn't spread… false hope." The last words were spoken with more poignancy, even with each word being spoken with great care, Mycroft glaring at his brother. False hope. It coalesced to John that Mycroft certainly had believed his brother to be dead. Good, John thought, I hope you felt as guilty as hell and twice as responsible. John gritted his teeth.
"Mycroft. You're looking… perfectly well, to say your brother has been missing for over three months," John ground out, his hands balling into tight fists. Mycroft looked as well kept as he ever did, his face no more tired looking than usual, his clothes still perfectly pressed and dry cleaned. Mycroft Holmes. So perfectly well presented that he couldn't let a hair fall out of line for his brother. John's blood boiled. After everything Mycroft had promised to do, after everything the two Holmes had done, he had betrayed his little brother. And John could never understand it.
Mycroft's jaw tightened a little and he gave a small, twisted facial expression that showed his discomfort, making Sherlock smirk.
"If you're here to talk to me about Moriarty, Mycroft, he's gone I'm afraid, as you'll probably know. There's nothing I can do for you," Sherlock said, "You've read the papers, made your deductions. That should leave you with no further questions other than-"
"You've been alive all this time and you didn't come to me with it?" Mycroft said, his voice unnervingly calm. Sherlock met his eyes and for a moment John was sure that the air between them was going to set on fire. Mycroft's gaze was holding firm, a barely restricted fury behind it, whereas Sherlock's own gaze boiled with challenge and petulance. John almost snorted at Mycroft's statement. Sherlock was expected to tell his brother he was alive? John was pretty sure that if Sherlock hadn't told him, there was no chance in hell he was going to tell Mycroft.
"This isn't about Moriarty, Sherlock," Mycroft said and although his voice was utterly smooth, he felt like there was a storm inside him, something twisted and thundering because for the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes didn't know how to feel. He didn't know whether to be angry or happy or relieved or sad that Sherlock hadn't told him but was back all the same. The stir of feelings made his chest pinch tightly, confusion and the weight of three months of grief crashing down onto him. He hadn't been to his brother's funeral because he had refused to believe he was dead. Sherlock must have tricked him, he was sure of it. Mycroft knew it all. He knew that Moriarty was dead and that Sherlock had jumped but… he couldn't have really jumped. Sherlock must have known. He must have known Moriarty's plans for him. Mycroft knew his brother's weakness, knew that Moriarty would use it against him because although Sherlock was a Holmes, he also cared just too much and, in the end, how else would a Holmes fall?
But as time passed on, the doubt started. The doubt of if Sherlock had really known Moriarty's plan, had he been smart enough? Had Mycroft's input thrown him off, had that been a factor, had his brother been beaten? And then, more questions. What if Sherlock was really dead? What if Mycroft was to truly never see his little brother again? They argued, of course, but Mycroft was supposed to watch over him, to keep him safe and he had-
He felt fear then. Two months into searching and he had found nothing and Mycroft Holmes was afraid. Afraid that he had sold the only thing that was really of any worth to a Holmes, the only thing they would take a fall from a building from. Mycroft was afraid he had sold out his family and Sherlock had paid the price for it. He visited Sherlock's grave that day. Just stood and looked at it in the rain, umbrella in hand and over his head, but it didn't make a difference to Mycroft. He read the name on the grave stone over and over again and like a tonne of bricks, it hit him. Sherlock Holmes was dead. His little brother. And he had been the one who had gotten him killed.
"Where have you been, Sherlock?" Mycroft choked out and Sherlock gave him a knowing smile, as if he was happy to have deceived Mycroft. He probably was, it was probably a game to Sherlock, hide and seek but with more of a chance to scorn Mycroft.
"I thought you were looking for me?" Sherlock said and that goddamn smile didn't disappear and it was beginning to annoy Mycroft, "You can't have done that good a job if you didn't know where I was." Mycroft clenched his teeth and fixed his brother with a glare.
"This isn't a game, Sherlock," he snarled, "You disappeared, I thought you were dead-"
"That was kind of the whole point," Sherlock shrugged. Mycroft's eyes narrowed further and John thought he saw the man twitch a little. He was angry? With Sherlock?
"I asked you a question, Sherlock, where were you?" Mycroft repeated and there was a cold, sharp tone to it now that goaded disobedience, dared it, like Mycroft was throwing down the gauntlet for Sherlock so he could let loose on him. Sherlock tapped a few words on his laptop, purposefully slow so that Mycroft was forced to wait.
"It's none of your business, Mycroft;" Sherlock said finally, "Where I have been doesn't concern you"
"I'm our brother!" Mycroft snapped, "It doesn't concern me? Of course it concerns me, Sherlock, now for God's sake stop being childish and-"
"You're the one being childish," Sherlock interjected.
"Don't make me order you."
There was a short tense silence before Sherlock returned his gaze to the computer, Mycroft's steely eyes still on him.
"I would like to see you try," Sherlock said. It was smooth and familiar and John smirked, watching Mycroft's facial expressions twitch in anger.
"Sherlock," Mycroft snarled and John thought that he had never seen Mycroft so angry before, it was barely restrained and John wondered if Mycroft was only keeping it in because he John was there and he had to keep up appearances. For a small moment, John felt sorry for him. He'd been angry when Sherlock had returned and although he had felt guilty, wondering if he could have said more, done more, things he wished he could have said sorry or thank you for; it was nothing compared to what Mycroft had most likely felt. It was either to break down and let that grief control him or to wall it off with anger and John knew what Mycroft would prefer to do. There were things after all that Mycroft was similar to Sherlock in, his pride being one thing.
Mycroft visibly stopped and took a moment to calm himself, taking a deep breath and restarting his sentence with less bite to it. "I heard from an informant watching 221B that you were alive," Mycroft said softly and John could tell that it had hurt him to find out like that, "I came to confirm it." His demeanour was suddenly all business and John saw the flash of pain in his expression; it had been hard to boil his brother's appearance down to simply business for him.
"Well, now you have," Sherlock said, completely oblivious to his brother's situation, "So you can go now" Mycroft almost flinched at that and he swallowed, straightening his jacket and gripping his umbrella a little tighter.
"Always good to see you too, little brother," Mycroft said, "Good day."
John raised an eyebrow at the curt goodbye and didn't bother to nod back at Mycroft as he nodded at him and turned to leave down the stairs. He made the decision in a matter of moments and he quickly followed him.
"I won't be a minute," he said to Sherlock, sure to remember to tell him he was going out. Leaving Sherlock on his own, even just to step out, was something that John wasn't entirely comfortable with just yet. Sherlock waved a hand from where he was sat as John dashed down the stairs to follow the older Holmes.
"Mycroft! Mycroft!"
The man turned, not looking surprised in the least that John had followed him. In fact, it almost looked as if he had expected it.
"Ah, John," Mycroft said and it confirmed John's idea that he had known he'd be followed, "I thought that you'd run after me. You are rather loyal to my brother, I must-"
"That's more than I could say about you," John snapped, "What the Hell was that? You didn't even tell him-" John cut himself off to lower his voice in case Sherlock was listening. "You didn't even tell him your part in Moriarty's plan! You told me to tell him, you know I didn't get the chance, not before- Anyway, you knew he didn't know and you didn't even," he spluttered for a second, too angry to get the words out.
"You're doing a pretty good job of keeping it quiet yourself, John," Mycroft said calmly.
"Tell him," John said, ignoring the jibe even though it made his blood boil, "Go back up there and tell him, right now."
"Tell him what? That I betrayed him? If Sherlock doesn't know, then it's over. What's done is done. I've said it before John, we have a complex history, Sherlock and I. What's past is gone, bring it up now after it is all done would seem a little counterproductive, don't you think?"
"That's not the point," John snarled, "He deserves to know."
Mycroft sighed and looked at his umbrella, as if admiring it. "Perhaps," he said.
"Perhaps? That's it? Perhaps? Mycroft, for God's sake, he's your brother, he deserves to know the truth-"
"Would you tell your sister, John? If you had done the same? Would you have told her?" Mycroft shot at him. John narrowed his eyes at him.
"I wouldn't have done the same," John said.
"Then that is where you and I are different," Mycroft said and twisted his umbrella in a way that told John that this conversation was over, "I'm sorry John. We come from two very different worlds. What Sherlock expects of me and what you expect of me are two very different things." He turned and John couldn't bring the words to his mouth to respond to that, anger and confusion mixing together to prevent him from coming up with an answer for Mycroft.
"You care for him, Doctor Watson and I appreciate that. However you make the mistake of overestimating my own capacity for caring. Sherlock has grown to expect very little of me, I would urge you to do the same."
He was halfway out the door when he called back to John. "Do make sure he eats something," he said and with that, the door closed and John was left, staring at it. John stood, his mind ticking over what Mycroft had said. My own capacity for caring. Mycroft was insinuating that he didn't care but John knew just as well as he did that wasn't the case. Sherlock had said to Moriarty once that he didn't have a heart, to deflect one of his nemesis's threats and Mycroft had done exactly the same just then, deflecting John for fear that he would overestimate him. Now we both know that isn't quite true. Was it possible that it wasn't quite true about Mycroft too? That looking after his brother wasn't simply a promise or a responsibility or even a biological compulsion to protect his own family but it was because, out of all the possessions Mycroft Holmes could have in the world (and being as rich as he was, he could have his pick), the one thing he really did care for was family? And not just family, but his brother.
His world may have been different to Mycroft's and Sherlock's too up until now but as a medical man, John knew for sure that everyone had a heart. Perhaps it wouldn't be too hard to consider that Mycroft Holmes' heart was, just maybe, his own little brother.
A/N: Well, don't hate me for the cheesy thing about hearts, but I was thinking that if Sherlock Holmes' heart was John and he'd be willing to jump off a building for him, Mycroft Holmes' heart may well be Sherlock (?) :)
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed that chapter; I really enjoyed writing that one X) A real quick question: How does everyone feel about a little storyline within the main one where John investigates Sherlock's death and finding out why he did it? I hinted at it in this chapter so I could ask what everyone thought about me doing it, so any feedback is much appreciated :S
Thank you for reading, as always all reviews are appreciated! Thanks very much!
Until next time!