A/N Alright, alright, so I am REALLY late. I did mention last time that I was going surfing and it is the reason why this late as I've only had a small amount of spare time to write it in :S I was going to post last night, however I was so tired that I just zonked out as I'd only had 2 hours of sleep in the past 48 hours, which is small even for me. So I apologise MASSIVELY for the delay *begs forgiveness*:/
Thanks again so much to everyone who read and reviewed and favourite-d and alerted, especially to my wonderful reviewers, you make my writing worthwhile and my weeks worth waiting for! XD Also, Cainchan, I will be checking out (finally) and replying to your message soon as I unfortunately have been working a lot (I has work tonight too :/) and it's been manic D': So, never fear my wonderful one, I am here!
Well, with no more further ado, (I'm already late D':), here's the chap my dearies!
Disclaimer: The execution went better than originally planned. The axe fell perfectly, our Majesty was well pleased and all in all, everything was great… until they discovered they had chopped off the head of my dummy double I had made with straw from my cell, a few trained rats from the tower and a "Happy execution day!" balloon I was given most kindly by the guard! Haha! Running to the Punch Bowl in London where I hope to hide and to ask Robert Downey Jr's Sherlock Holmes (presuming he is boxing there today) where our Sherlock is! To the pub!
The day was warm, the sun having hit its highest point already by the time Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had arrived at the field containing the dead couple. It was uncharacteristically warm for London, even at this time of the year and John was sweating despite the fact that he had been forced to put on something lighter today. However, in the scheme of things, that came lower down in his list of priorities as, from what he could see, the couple had been dead for a little over a weak and had subsequently been here ever sense and, quite frankly, the sun was doing nothing but worsening the already biting smell they were now emitting.
Lestrade had called John, not Sherlock, at first. Well, called was a relative term as Lestrade had given John a tentative text asking about how Sherlock was and then responded to John's answer with asking if Sherlock wanted to help on a case, to ease him back in. It was only then that Lestrade had called and Sherlock had pouted that he had called John and not him, drawing his dressing gown around him like an Edwardian villain and watching sullenly from the sofa. John had grinned at that. Same old Sherlock, petulant as ever and yet if John told him that, he'd receive Sherlock's indignant fury.
It turned out in the end that the case had been Superintendent Bob Sherrinford's idea and although John could hear the disgruntled quality to Lestrade's voice, it had done nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of Sherlock's acceptance and John had only a quiet apology to offer as any form of compensation.
"Well, as much as I hate it, we do need him on this one John. A dog walker found the bodies this morning and if we don't get it solved fast, people are going to think we're too busy with this Sherlock thing to do our jobs. As yet we're stumped," Lestrade had admitted on the phone as Sherlock had dashed off to find something or other. John thought he heard the words "riding crops" but had simply shaken his head and carried on his conversation.
"Sherlock thing?" he asked, "You mean, Sherlock coming back?"
"People at the Yard are up in arms about it, if we should trust him, what if he is still a fraud, stuff like that. There was gonna be a big meeting about it but the Super went all the way to the top with it before they got the chance and they approved using Sherlock on a consulting basis once again," Lestrade explained. John raised his eyebrows and let out a whistle. Sherlock may not be a people person but apparently his father was and he knew how to cut to the heart of a situation.
"You might want to skip this one out John, it's a bit grizzly," Lestrade's voice crackled from down the phone. John noticed that he sounded less tired and the lack of graininess to it made him sound healthier.
John gave a small, humourless laugh, "I think I've seen grizzly enough in Afghanistan to manage but thanks anyway," John said. Lestrade gave an understanding grunt.
"Well, it might do him some good if you're there anyway, be like old times," Lestrade said. From his tone of voice, John couldn't tell if that was a good thing or not.
"Yeah," John agreed, "A murder will do him a world of good." To say that about anyone else but Sherlock Holmes would sound sick and insane and yet to say it about Sherlock felt completely normal, welcome in fact.
At this very moment, however, the phrase felt much less welcome as John tried to ignore the smell still emanating from the couple despite having been given the balm to smear under his nose in order to block out the smell, a feeling of absolute pity being the overwhelming emotion in his gut. They were a young couple; perhaps only in their late twenties, not yet even married and here they were, side by side with one bullet each to stop their lives short. John couldn't help but feel pity towards them, wondering how much longer they could have been left here if the walker had not taken this path today.
Sherlock, however, as usual, seemed to be unaffected by the smell and John saw Sally Donovan's face turn up in disgust as he had shown up on the crime scene, refusing the balm and instead diving into his deductions with vigour. John had stayed close by, not oppressively so, giving Sherlock his space for his deductions. John could see Robert Holmes standing close to Sherlock, closer than John was, watching him like a hawk. John didn't know what to make of it, whether the older man was there to help Sherlock back on his first case as a reassigned consultant or because, like the rest of the officers here, he was partly here to watch the freak show return to town, as Sally Donovan put it. John tried not to focus on that, instead focusing on watching Sherlock and taking in the almost comforting, familiar sight of Sherlock at work. He looked comfortable here, like he always used to be and he seemed to fit into the scene like a piece of a painting that always drew your eye. Although crime seemed to always step ahead of Sherlock Holmes, like an eager dog trying to keep in front of his master, John knew that this was where Sherlock felt most comfortable, in the world of the macabre and the dangerous and it was the most at ease John had seen Sherlock since he had returned. He didn't want to interrupt it.
"This couple," Sherlock said, "were part of a con." It had been only a few seconds since Sherlock had first laid eyes on the two bodies and even John was surprised at the speed of the deduction. Sherlock looked to his father, stood with his arms folded only a few paces away from Sherlock, observing him closely, to John over his shoulder.
"A con?" John said, surprised, both at the absurdity of the comment and at the speed of it, faster than he had ever seen Sherlock work. He wondered if something had happened to sharpen the already razor intellect during his period away or if Sherlock was simply particularly eager to impress, both the officers he now found himself judged by, John who had not seen him in so long and, of course, his watchful father. "How do you suppose that?" John asked.
Sherlock repeated his glances, looking at John and then his father this time, his eyes falling calculatingly at his father, where they lingered for a few seconds. John had not asked as to why the Superintendent had come here, it seemed below him, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt and to assume that he was here to see his son at work for, presumably, the first time.
"The woman," Sherlock said, spreading his arm to point at her dramatically, "Undergoes changes to her physical appearance daily, as evidenced quite simply by the marks around her hair line, where spirit gum glue would be applied to keep a wig secured properly, her eyes are red where she has been wearing contact lenses excessively, the way she had put together her outfit makes it appear as if she is to change clothes at some point today."
Sherlock pointed to each detail as he spoke them, face intense and so utterly Sherlock that if John had not been stood at a crime scene, he would have laughed. Quiet, he remembered saying once, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene. He felt sadness tug at his heart. Sherlock hadn't laughed almost at all since he had returned, even with John.
"So, she could be an actor, but that would mean she should be at rehearsals at the time of day you said she died as West End season is almost done and they would be frantically preparing with every second. So a small time actress maybe? No, they wouldn't bother using spirit gum glue for wigs or lenses, especially glue as expensive as that appears to be. Therefore, she changes her appearance often but isn't an actress, so it's presumable that she could be conning someone," Sherlock concluded. John raised an eyebrow, following the logic but he was even more astounded than usual by the jump from nothing to deducing who this woman was.
Lestrade, who was lingering just in Watson's peripheral view obviously found it as amazing as he did as his mouth dropped open a little as he listened in, shooting John a look that he didn't return. John knew that Sherlock wanted an audience, whoever that may be, as he always did and if it helped make Sherlock look as relaxed as he was now, then it was worth giving him his undivided attention to see the spark flaring in Sherlock's eye again. Robert Holmes didn't move or give any indication of surprise or that he was impressed and John saw Sherlock shoot a quick glance at his father, almost too fast to be noticed, but John was watching close enough to catch it. Sherlock… was trying to impress his father? Of all the people he imagined wanting their father's approval, Sherlock was nowhere even near that list and yet, for some inexplicable reason, Sherlock looked like a child showing a painting to a parent, desperate for praise.
"Then of course, the man is evidence of a con too, neat, cautious, more money than someone with his position might normally have. You can see he's only a lifeguard at a local pool, from the identification card in his pocket, so doesn't get paid much and yet he has expensive clothes and a costly hair cut," Sherlock highlighted. He waited, watching the three men around him as they digested it, waiting as with an air of annoyance and impatience that he always carried with him on a crime scene.
John took the second to glance at the older Holmes man, his expression still stoic and unchanging, still watching Sherlock with hawk-like intensity. John looked to his left and saw Lestrade mentally working through the scene, applying Sherlock's logic.
"Well, what con were they pulling?" Lestrade frowned, "Whatever it was looks to have worked" John nodded, looking at the lady's expensive dress, the man's designer suit and cringing. It had done them no good in the end .Their money had failed to protect them.
"The question is not what con, but who were they working for?" Sherlock said. He waited for input, looking incredulously at them when he got none, only blank faces meeting him. "Oh come on!" he cried, "It's simple! A lifeguard and someone too inexperienced to cover up their mistakes, they're obviously not exactly seasoned criminals!"
"Then, you're saying someone hired them to carry out the con?" John said, amazed. Sherlock rolled his eyes in a large gesture and John had to stop himself from feeling too offended at it. It was annoying, perhaps one of Sherlock's most annoying traits, but he knew that it was both not as much of an insult as people would think and it was also practically impossible for Sherlock to resist the urge to let loose on someone, usually Anderson, if at all possible.
"Think John, think! Just stop for a minute and forget everything useless in that brain of yours and just think! Who would be able to orchestrate something like this without the need to be paid lots of money for it, someone who wouldn't mind being paid from a lifeguard's measly salary in order to watch them flounder?"
John frowned, confused for a second before his mouth dropped open in shock. "Wait- Wha- Moriarty?" John exclaimed. He heard Lestrade make a sound near to him that seemed midway between a gasp and a choked sound of surprise. Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smile, insanely proud looking and excitable.
"Of course John! Moriarty!" the detective cried, throwing his arms in the air.
"But, wait, Moriarty's dead," Lestrade said, confusing evidently plastered on his face, "We found the body, he's… he didn't do what you did, did he?"
Sherlock stopped dead, looking at Lestrade as if he had spontaneously grown another head and John held back a groan, daring not to think what Sherlock was going to say to him.
"Do you practice stupidity, Lestrade or does it come naturally?" Sherlock said and John cleared his throat meaningfully, shooting a murderous stare in Sherlock's direction, sending him daggers in the hope of pinning down any further insults. Sherlock looked at him and for a second he looked like a mix of a scolded puppy and a toddler wanting to ask permission to do something again. John shook his head. Don't you dare, the gesture said.
Sherlock sighed, rubbing his eyes as if the slow pace of his audience was making him tired and he drew in a slow inhale, like he was preparing to explain quantum physics to a class of small children.
"Moriarty's plans were still in place when he died. He was caught by surprise, not intending to leave things with loose ends, such as the people he was 'helping', like these people. He died and these people were left with the cons still in place and money belonging to James Moriarty in their banks," Sherlock said slowly. Lestrade blinked and the thoughts coalesced visibly on his face.
"Oh," he said. John saw Robert Holmes from the corner of his eye, catching the roll of his eyes and the exasperated look and he felt a spark of anger bubble in him. Why it was okay for Sherlock to be rude to both him and Lestrade and not his father seemed unfair and inexplicable even to him but for some reason, it riled him that the older Holmes showed disrespect to Lestrade, even though he was his superior.
"So, why were they killed?"
It was the first time Robert Holmes had spoken since John and Sherlock had arrived and Sherlock turned to look at him instantly; standing that little bit taller and John would have laughed at the strangeness of it if it didn't concern him so much. Sherlock never sought approval from anyone, not even from John, as far as he knew and yet this man, who seemed to be as unaffectionate as Sherlock himself, seemed to be someone Sherlock wanted to please more than anyone.
"Someone wants to clean up Moriarty's mess, so to speak, what was left after he was gone. That means, taking the money, hence the lack of bank cards in either of their pockets and to eliminate the loose ends," Sherlock said promptly, a glow of pride to him as he summed up his deductions. His father's eyes surveyed him and he stepped forwards a step, looking no longer at Sherlock, but at the bodies.
"They were a crack shot, whoever did this," the older Holmes said, looking intently at the bodies. "Dead before they hit the ground, using only two bullets."
"A sniper shot," Sherlock explained, "From other there." He gestured to a gathering of low trees to their left, tracing a line back, as if tracing an invisible bullet, back to where the couple had been standing. John blinked, backtracking.
"A sniper? You mean, like the ones back at the pool, where little Carl died?" he exclaimed. Just thinking about that night made his hands feel shakey and he could almost feel the bomb vest constricting him once again, an experience he knew he'd never forget, for as long as he lived.
Sherlock nodded. "Moriarty had many snipers in his employ, allowing him to get close to his enemies while still being as far from them as possible. I tracked several of them during my absence," he explained. John's mouth went dry instantly and he gaped, not caring who saw his dumbstruck look.
"What? You did what? Why?" John spluttered, barely able to get all of his questions out at once. He thought for a moment about Sherlock, wherever he had been, on his own, tracking Moriarty's snipers, wherever they had been and felt a mix of guilt and fear rise in him, fear that was too little, too late, for Sherlock's safety as although he knew that he was back, safe, he could still feel the choking sensation of terror when he thought about where his best friend had been for those months, guilt at the fact that he hadn't been there with him.
Sherlock merely shrugged and John added it to the list of "things most annoying about Sherlock Holmes". Somehow, Sherlock expected him to believe that a simply shrug would be enough, like he hadn't just told John how dangerously he had been living or how deep into Moriarty's world he had been, and instead had simply told him how they were out of milk at the flat, perhaps and John was expected to simply accept it.
"Moriarty's men had to be stopped, especially in order to stop things like this happening," Sherlock said and he gestured to the murdered couple, the cold barrier drawn up tightly around him, showing no feelings towards the corpses at all as he looked at them.
"Sherlock, you could have been killed! Why didn't you call for my help, Sherlock-"
John was cut off by the sound of someone clearing their throat loudly and John's head snapped round to look at Robert Holmes, who was waiting patiently for silence to fall.
"Dr Watson, if you would, now is not the time to discuss such matters, I'm sure you understand," he said, almost apologetically, "Sherlock has done a wonderful job here of deducing the nature of this crime. It should narrow down our search. Lestrade, we're looking for a sniper who worked with Moriarty."
"Moran," Sherlock said softly. The three men around him fell silent, looking at him questioningly. "His name," he said, "is Sebastian Moran, an army sniper who was a… colleague of Jim Moriarty's." John noted how Sherlock had not used the word "friend" and wondered if it was because Jim Moriarty simply did not have friends, not even anywhere close to, or, more worryingly, because if Moriarty had friends, Sherlock would feel too similar to him. Sherlock had admitted to John that he was considered a friend, something that Moriarty did not have, the one thing he would forever lack that Sherlock Holmes had both an advantage and a disadvantage in.
"He was the only man I failed to identify during my disappearance," Sherlock said quietly, too quietly for John's liking, especially when only a few moments ago, Sherlock had been comfortable and relaxed, at least by Sherlock's standards, "Every other sniper was relatively easy to locate, however this one man succeeded in evading my attempts at finding him." John realised that he was still gaping at Sherlock and quickly closed his mouth. He couldn't believe what Sherlock was telling him. That he had put his life on the line all that time, without telling him. That he may have been in danger and there was nothing to be done about it. The days in which John could have protected him were gone and he knew that the only wounds he could heal now where the ones that were still left internally on his friend. Sherlock may not have admitted it but with each passing day it was becoming clearer that there was more to his disappearance than he was letting John know.
"Excellent work boy," John heard Sherlock's father say and he watched the pride momentarily sweep Sherlock's face, the faint hope that left as quickly as it came, "Lestrade, if you wouldn't mind including in your report that Sherlock provided invaluable information to us and that further use of his consulting methods are highly recommended. Now, if you wouldn't mind asking forensics to return here to finish their work, I would be grateful." The tone was strong and allowed no questions or objection and John would have left as quickly as Lestrade had if the man was his superior. He could feel Lestrade's suspicion of Robert Holmes as if it was a palpable thing however Lestrade obeyed the order instantly, hurrying off to find the forensics team.
John watched him go, aware that the two men he now found himself with were both incredibly different and the same all at once. He knew that both men were intelligent and no doubt, at this very moment in time, they would both be analysing and deducing from the body in front of them. However, where he knew Sherlock, he didn't know Robert and he found himself watching him warily as Sherlock continued deducing, John making his own attempt at working out more about the person he was looking at.
Every few moments, after Sherlock made one more brilliant deduction, his father would nod, sometimes inputting a noise of approval, perhaps a sentence or so, only one, to express that he was impressed with what Sherlock was doing and, as John had already guessed he would, Sherlock's eyes grew hopeful every time, pushing his deductions further and further. Yet, when John looked back to Robert, the pride, no matter how hard John looked, had yet to reach his eyes. There was yet to be the smile that John gave Sherlock, encouraging him on as he worked, or the incredulous gaze from Lestrade that often only suited to increase Sherlock's ego even more. Even Mycroft raised an eyebrow once or twice, when Sherlock solved a particularly different crime or sometimes he even once or twice had told Sherlock to continue in his deductions, much to Sherlock's disgruntlement, by pointing out something he may have missed.
Sherlock's phone rang in his pocket, stopping him mid speech and he glowered at his pocket as if it had spoken to him and offended him in some way. Giving an irritated click of his tongue, Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and disconnected the call. John had to stop himself from heaving a sigh. Whoever had called Sherlock now either didn't know he had a case or was desperate enough to need him now as Baker Street could be burning to the ground and Sherlock Holmes would still not pick up his phone to hear about it if he was on a case. Then again, Sherlock often couldn't be bothered talking to people, on the phone or not. Sherlock made another irritated noise and shoved his phone back into his pocket before continuing.
John heard the phone buzz a few times after that, Sherlock obviously having put it on silent, ignoring the apparently persistent person who was still calling him. John lost focus on what Sherlock was saying, wondering who in the world it could be that wanted Sherlock to pick up so badly. Momentarily he worried for Mrs Hudson, wondering if she had called Sherlock because something had happened back at the flat and had panicked but he quickly quashed that worry as he reasoned with himself that she would have called his phone first, not Sherlock's. Also, as much as Sherlock pretended not to care about their landlady, John had seen first-hand that this was not the case. Sherlock had defended Mrs Hudson in a way that even John had found shocking and had continued to show care to her even after the assailant had been "dealt with". Even the small things that Sherlock did, like allowing Mrs Hudson to fuss and hug him unlike he did with anyone else and the way she knew him, the way she could always find anything he'd hidden, be it in his slippers or his dressing gown pocket, like a mother who knew her son inside out. John was sure that if it was Mrs Hudson who was calling so desperately, Sherlock would have picked up.
John was snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of his own phone ringing and he jumped, sending an embarrassed look to a few of the police men who were stood close by who gave him disapproving looks. Sherlock had been seen so many times with his phone, often times texting John to tell him to get there, that people had stopped bothering to scold him for him. Unfortunately the same didn't go for John and he felt himself turn slightly pink as he picked up the phone, glancing only momentarily at the unknown number.
"Hello?" John said.
"Ah, John," the voice of Mycroft Holmes drifted into John's ear, "You're with Sherlock, I presume?" John rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, it's nice to hear from you too Mycroft, you know, you can't just dive straight into questioning when you call someone you know. You're as bad as Sherlock," John said. Too many times John had got calls starting with "How many ways do you reckon you could kill someone with a sewing machine" or "Do you know where Mrs Hudson keeps the pickled onions? I've left a finger in a jar of hers somewhere?" and Sherlock still never listened to him when he told him that you at least had to say "hi" on the phone before you launched into no doubt another weird conversation.
Mycroft made a noise that blatantly told John how irrelevant he found the comment and continued anyway.
"I need to talk to him, he isn't answering his phone. Again," Mycroft sighed, "Can you tell him to talk to me and stop being so childish, it does become him."
"You're telling me," John agreed but then shrugged, even though he knew Mycroft couldn't see it, "He's on a case at the moment, we're at a crime scene, I'll have to call you back" Well, I would if you didn't block your number all the time, John thought, cursing the Secret Service nonsense that kept him from calling Mycroft without having to go through Anthea or whatever her name was before he could get to him. He looked over to Sherlock who had stopped for a second to listen to John's call before, apparently working out who it was, went back to looking around the crime scene.
"Is his father there?"
John's attention was pulled sharply back to the phone and he frowned.
"You know about that?" John said, being sure to keep the question inconspicuous. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to keep it quiet that it was Robert Holmes' other son that was calling him but John wasn't sure it was just the common decency of not letting him know they were talking about his that stopped him from being more specific about the eldest Holmes.
"Of course I know about that," Mycroft shot back and John felt unease settle on him as he heard the brittle, sharp quality to Mycroft's voice. He sounded like he was holding back worry so as not to let John know but it was still thick in the atmosphere of the call, the inherent caution in a Mycroft Holmes who had called three times before he pressed on to call John. John knew that that in itself, even talking to Mycroft on the phone, was cause for some kind of concern.
"Is he there? At the crime scene with you?" Mycroft pressed and John spluttered a yes, taken aback by Mycroft's forcefulness. Mycroft made a sound that that John couldn't quite place, halfway between a displeased grunt and the type of sound that Sherlock made when one of his theories came to be true.
"Why is tha-" John began.
"Put Sherlock on the phone John," Mycroft interjected. John gave a snort, Mycroft' rudeness making him stubborn.
"A please would be nice Mycroft," John growled, "And why is it important if he is here? At least he's showing him some support, unlike some people." Mycroft was silent for a few seconds and John knew that he had cut him deep but he didn't care. Mycroft could act as high and mighty as he wanted to, he could try to order John around and talk to his brother as he pleased but in the end, he still owed Sherlock. He owed Sherlock for what he had done, for selling him out and John would not stop reminding him of that fact until he admitted it to Sherlock and, although the act could never be made completely right, he had at least tried to do so.
John waited through Mycroft's silence, waiting for the biting retort that he would usually expect from Sherlock perhaps but instead, Mycroft seemed to let down the typical Holmes demeanour for a second, his voice quieter than usual.
"I will explain to you later why it is important, John. I really have to speak with my brother," Mycroft said, quietly and slowly, pausing a little before he spoke again, "Would you put Sherlock on… please?"
The "please" took John by surprise and he sighed, marvelling at how he still managed to find himself sane when the people around him were so changeable, Sherlock and Mycroft especially. The way they acted, one day happy and exuberant, the next they were mysterious and closed, sometimes they talked and sometimes they didn't and it had taken John all this time just to understand them to this extent and he knew that he would probably spend forever trying to understand the Holmes brothers completely.
"Fine," he said grudgingly and took the phone from his ear, walking closer to Sherlock, "It's for you." Sherlock looked at the phone in distaste and John knew he'd be in for an argument about it, no doubt.
"Sherlock, for God's sake, just talk to him," John said, "It'll take like five minutes. I avoid talking to Harry sometimes and I regret it, so you can suck it up and talk to him for a few minutes. Just see what he has to say." John found himself again covering up the fact that he was talking about Sherlock's brother and he wasn't overly sure why. There was just something about the way Sherlock's father was watching him with a concoction of interest and wariness that made him cautious.
"Go on, I can wait for the rest," John heard Robert say and Sherlock looked from him, to the phone, to John's stern expression and slumped his shoulders in defeat, snatching the phone from John and walking away a few steps, out of ear shot.
John watched him go, disbelieving that he had got out of that without an argument.
"He always was a stubborn child," his father said and John turned to look at him, a small smile on the man's face. John smiled himself, imagining Sherlock as a stubborn toddler, no doubt holding the strop of all strops over anything and everything.
"I bet he was a nightmare to raise," John said, making the older man chuckle. It was the first time John had really spoken with him one to one and he admitted that it was slightly intimidating in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on. The man was not overly tall or strong looking and yet he held this presence that captivated your attention and obedience almost instantly. It was also eerily reflective of talking to Sherlock, the way he looked and held himself and yet, it was almost like talking to a parody of him, a sick caricature as where Sherlock's emotions reached his eyes (even when he claimed not to have any), the eyes of the eldest Holmes remained blank and unreadable, like he was constantly calculating and reading you without pity or rest.
"He was." Robert said, "Children like Sherlock need a firm hand to raise them, it can be… difficult, of course." John felt an indescribable chill run through him at the man's words and he couldn't explain exactly what it was about them that made his blood run cold. "A firm hand". "Difficult". The way he had spoken about him sounded as if he was simply a rich land owner talking about cattle he owned and John felt resent build in his stomach. He wasn't sure if it was Lestrade's wariness of the man, Mycroft's panic or simply the churning instinct inside him that caused him to be guarded around the detective's father, but he felt uncomfortable around him, feeling as if was constantly looking too deeply into the man's words and actions, as if looking for something to tip the scales on his opinion of him.
"Well," John said finally, "At least he's turned out a good man, you must have got something right!" He gave a laugh but it came out nervous and although the other man smiled, it again didn't reach the cold, ever watchful eyes.
"A good man," Robert repeated, "Is not what I've heard about him. But he appears to be a good detective." John stared at him, feeling the need to tell him he was wrong and yet, something about him stopped John from saying anything. He didn't know if he meant what he had heard from the officers at Scotland Yard in the newspaper or if it was his own judgement, but surely he hadn't made his decision about his own son on what he had heard? It felt again like a rich man, selling his cattle and John could almost imagine it. He's a hell of a nuisance, but he's strong and a worker. I'll give you a real good price for him.
John kept quiet, looking away and back to where he could see Sherlock on the phone and wondered if the way Sherlock was raised really had anything to do with how he had turned out and, if so, how much of it was really down to the man standing by him and whether that was truly a good or a bad thing.
"What do you want?" Sherlock spat into the phone as he walked away, leaving John at the scene and making sure he was out of earshot.
"You know why I'm calling Sherlock. It would have been a lot less fuss if you had simply picked up the phone," Mycroft said calmly and Sherlock felt his temper rise at that.
"It's none of your business, Mycroft," he said sharply.
"He is my father as well Sherlock, you know. That makes it my business."
Sherlock gave a hiss of laughter, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Oh, does it?" he said, voice laced with sarcasm, "I thought you said that Father was no longer your business? Or is it only your business when it concerns me?"
"You are both my responsibility, Sherlock, it was you who told me that you no longer wanted me to interfere with it," Mycroft argued, his voice shifting up so it spoke a little louder and more forcefully down the phone.
"Does that no longer apply? Because if it did then you'd have no need to be calling me right now. Father is working for the police and I am working with Scotland Yard to catch a killer-"
"One of Moriarty's snipers, if my sources are correct," Mycroft interjected and Sherlock heard the sound of paper and files being rustled and moved at the other end of the phone. He held back a frustrated snarl.
"I am working with Father, Mycroft, there is nothing for you to be so interested in," Sherlock growled.
There was a moment of quiet on the other end and Sherlock almost hung up, seeing the opportunity to leave while he still had the last word and the upper hand but before he could, Mycroft spoke again.
"You're still trying to make him proud of you, aren't you?" Mycroft said softly. Sherlock's angry retort caught in his throat and it took a few seconds to dislodge and he silently cursed Mycroft for making him lose track of his thoughts.
"I'm not trying to do anything, Mycroft. I am solving this case, I am living back at 221B, I am a consultant again, I am not trying to do anything."
"So, you don't want his approval? You no longer want him to see you as incredible or intelligent?" Mycroft pressed and Sherlock's grip on his phone tightened, fury bubbling inside him. Why did Mycroft think he had a right to assume anything? For all Sherlock knew, Mycroft shouldn't even be concerned about Father and, for all he cared, him either.
"What do you want Mycroft?" he repeated and he reigned in his anger, taking a slow breath, "And tell me the truth or I'm going to hang up and tell John not to pick up if he doesn't know the number." There was a pause and Sherlock could tell that Mycroft was thinking it through, evaluating and deliberating on each of his options in his head.
"I want two things, Sherlock," Mycroft finally said, "And the second thing depends on your answer to the first." Sherlock scoffed and almost made a comment about Mycroft always being so cryptic but was cut off as his brother spoke again.
"Do you still want Father's approval?" Mycroft said and then, just as Sherlock opened his mouth, ready to say whatever was necessary to get Mycroft off his back, he spoke again, "And I don't want you to lie to me either, Sherlock, I know you're going to try but if you do, you may tell John not to pick up, but that won't stop me from calling both him and you and Scotland Yard every minute of every hour of every day until you're put through." Sherlock scowled and gritted his teeth, wondering if it was still worth it to lie. If John was there, Sherlock was sure he'd be impressed. He sometimes wondered if John and his brother were both competing for a prize on who could make the best use of so-called "tough love" as possible and he was the target.
"I want Father to-" Sherlock stopped, thinking of the best way he could tell Mycroft without actually saying the words, "see me as a good detective. I want him to… respect me like other people do. It's not a search for approval Mycroft, I am simply wanting some recognition for the fact that I have become an asset to Scotland Yard, the greatest consultant detective in-"
"You've become an asset to the place where father works," Mycroft said, cutting through Sherlock's words and Sherlock fell to a halt. He heard Mycroft sigh and he wanted so badly to snap something back, to deny it and yet, he had become an asset to Father, to the police. He couldn't deny it.
"Sherlock, keep away from him," Mycroft said. There was no emotion to the words, no annoyance or threat or exasperation, instead, he sounded like an automaton, like a broken record playing the same awful track and hating it.
"I'll see you soon," Mycroft said and Sherlock didn't say anything as the phone line went dead. He wanted to quip in with a rejoinder of some sort, daring his brother to order him to keep away from Father or perhaps to say that perhaps it should be him that keeps away his brother and not Father but he didn't say anything, instead simply listening for a few moments at the sound of the soulless beeping on the mobile before he too hung up. For a second he wanted to do nothing more than stay there, to not have to return anywhere, to make a decision as he had had to for the past three months, alone and where the consequences would always be pushing someone away further.
Instead, however, he gathered himself, running a hand through his hair and turned back towards the crime scene, headed purposefully back to John and his father.
A/N: Okay, so the 1st half of that fic was a bit meh for me, I was so tired while writing it that I think I was hallucinating at one point. I'm going to apologise if it doesn't even make sense :/ If you wish to rage on me, I will take it like a strong woman and agree. Otherwise, constructive criticism, reviews or even a quick hello are always welcome! Sorry again that this is late :S Until next time my wonderful dears, goodbye!