Sherlock rubbed his knee.
He rolled his eyes, too, and fixed his shirt and ran a hand through his hair and pointedly avoided the woman staring down at him, too, but at the moment he was most interested in rubbing the pain from his leg away and therefore all other actions were irrelevant.
So were her words:
"Mr. Holmes, you need to trust me; I'm here to help you. I know you don't want to be here, no one wants to go to physical therapy. But if you want to be able to walk again without that cane—"
He made the closest approximation to a growl he could muster. When she offered him a hand— a slender hand, with scuffed brown polish covering her nails, a few shades darker than her warm skin— he had a mind to push it away. He knew, however, that getting up on his own would take time.
He grabbed her hand, and allowed her to pull him up. She was strong; she was taller than even he was, and looked more than capable to carry him if he needed it. He didn't need it, and was not comforted by the thought.
"All right. Now, let's try that again, okay? Slowly, this time."
Living at home was a strange, recursive thing: home. He had never thought of that word in a positive tone, a warmth that most incorporated into the four-lettered signal, but Holmes Manor was the thing that came to mind when he came across it. Home, the first place he lived, the place he always found himself being dragged back to. In all of its luxurious, acres-wide glory. Holmes Manor.
How pretentious.
"You know, I'm not staying here," Sherlock had huffed, trying to unscrew his casted leg from the ceiling splint that kept it up. It felt dead. He felt dizzy. A guest bedroom had been turned into a hospital for him while he was gone.
Mycroft didn't have to move to keep him down. He smiled— that ugly, froggy smile— and re-crossed his legs.
"You've been shot, Sherlock. Just under the knee, thankfully. You'll do just fine to walk again, after some physical therapy, but you're going to need to rest that leg. And then, of course, there's the drugs you've been taking. How long was it after Dr. Watson left us that you started with them again?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, fingers sluggish. He couldn't keep himself up: his body was lead, was osmium, was the centre of a Neutron Star. He didn't answer. He didn't need to. He knew he didn't need to.
Mycroft knew, too. And he knew that Sherlock knew. And what was the point of having the conversation if they both knew that they both had all of the information? To irritate the other, of course.
But if the other knew that the conversation was being had simply for irritation? Well. The levels the Holmes brothers had had to work on to successfully trick or annoy the other were sinking like mud.
"Go back to sleep, Sherlock. You'll go home when you're ready."
He stood up, smoothed out his insufferably smooth trousers (intentional— he knew they were already smoothed, did it anyways; appearances, Christmas dinners, familial expectations— irritation). He turned the tiny knob on the side of the machine that gave Sherlock more drugged sleep.
Because Sherlock was supposed to be the irresponsible one, and Mycroft was supposed to be the one to mercilessly, carefully wean him off of the things his little brother already leaned on.
But Mycroft knew that Sherlock was the only one that matched him in cruelty. And Sherlock knew that Mycroft knew. And, in turn, Mycroft knew this, too.
And it was much more fun for Mycroft to watch him suffer— him, who knew.
And then, came the sleeplessness. The irritability. The inability to leave his room.
And then, the ability to leave his room.
The moment Sherlock could hobble down the steps, he hobbled back up them to grab his shoes and strap his broken leg in the plastic cast with the rolled walking sole. He hadn't grown too much since the last time he'd been in this house— a little wider over the year he lived in Baker Street, but a little thinner after the...
(sharp exhale, phone call, wool pulled over eyes, bones crunching onto pavement)
Drugs. He was feeling them. Well, the lack of them.
None of the cleaners batted an eyelash when he walked out the door.
Curious.
None of the gardeners looked up from their duties as he trudged out in the snow.
Suspicious.
A neighbour actually waved to him as he passed down the street, walking himself to the tiny train station that connected the tiny, antique town with modernity.
Downright infuriating.
His wallet was still in his coat pocket. His card still worked. He bought a train ticket to London, and sat through the entire ride with no incident.
Sherlock knew better than to think that this was the last of it.
The cabbie who picked him up was the normal sort: pudgy, old, worn around the edges. She griped about the weather, too cold, too windy; and then he stopped talking. She had a family he loved but didn't support as much as their father did, financially. That was a point of contention for her. Boring.
He pulled up to 221B Baker Street with no problems. He limped onto the sidewalk, the plastic bottom of his cast rolling into the sleet and rock salt— The lock hadn't been changed to the front door, so he slid in noiselessly. Up the seventeen steps— not so noiselessly, his plastic foot clacking on every step. He opened the door:
A woman sat in John's chair, legs crossed, reading the newspaper. The room was cleaned: the furniture was back. There were boxes on the couch.
She looked back when he opened the door, and smiled.
"Hi, I'm Doctor Farah, your physical therapist—"
He closed the door. Walked down the stairs. Knocked, slowly, gently, politely, on the frosted glass of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen door.
She had been waiting for him, it seemed.
"Sherlock, before you even start, I need to say, I— Oh, Sherlock, what happened to your leg?"
"Got shot. Can I stay for a bit? Or is she taking my room, too?"
Mrs. Hudson tried to start, opened her mouth, closed it, then opted instead to scowl, motioning for him to sit at the table while she started the kettle.
He sat— while he would love to be indignant, the pain in his leg was excruciating.
It was a long time before either of them spoke— the kettle broke the silence for them, and Mrs. Hudson poured the hot water into the teapot before settling down at the table with Sherlock.
"Do you know how long it's been since you've paid rent, Sherlock?"
She paused, but Sherlock understood that he was not meant to answer.
"Months. Months! I don't have much money coming in from anywhere else, I'll have you know. And so, about three weeks ago, I put out an ad for a room for rent. Just one! Just the upstairs. I'm not kicking you out, because you're much more to me than just a tenant, you know that—"
She leant forward, rubbed his forearm.
"But that room's been open for almost two years, now, I need to rent it out."
"So you rent it out the moment I'm out of the house?"
She narrowed her eyes.
"You have to pay rent, too, you know. And since you aren't... Your brother's agreed to."
"But only if you rent out the other room to my physical therapist, which he's hired."
"Sherlock, it's— Sherlock, get back here, it's convenient for everyone! Oh—"
He ducked himself under the bead curtain, swearing to himself. He'd been bested.
He'd have to do better next time.
Mycroft was reading when the front door swung open, and the softness of a single shoe followed by the clank of plastic followed it— he smiled to himself, folding the newspaper over itself to look his little brother squarely in the eye.
"Back so soon, Sherlock?"
"Don't start. You ruin everything."
Mycroft chuckled, mostly to himself: he had already folded the newspaper up. He didn't expect Sherlock to clank over to sit in the chair next to him.
"Why do you read that? You know everything important before it goes to print."
He hummed, pulling his lips back into a closed smile.
"Football scores."
"You don't follow football."
"How would you know?"
"Because I know you don't. You follow import, exports, elections in Latin America, Charity balls with known terrorists. You don't follow football. You're a husk of a person— you don't have the time for personal amusements."
"Hm. I suppose you're right."
They were silent for a long moment. Sherlock made no motion to leave: possibly because he was comfortable, probably because he knew that Mycroft needed to be alone to be able to think completely on a subject, and his very presence was distracting him from what needed to be done.
"You'll need to let someone know if you're staying the night, again: we've taken the linens off of your bed. I assumed you'd be at Baker Street by this time."
"No, you didn't. You rented out my room to your spies."
"No, I rented out Dr. Watson's room to your physical therapist. Nothing more. You can have a look at her file; the closest thing she's ever been to military is a Bond movie."
"You want me to stay here."
"No, I want you to stay at Baker Street. I wouldn't have rented both rooms if I didn't."
"No, you wouldn't have meddled if you wanted me to stay there."
"She was going to have to evict you if I didn't. You've been away for a long time, Sherlock."
"It's not even been a month since I was shot."
"I don't mean physically, Sherlock."
"I knew what you meant."
"I know."
There was nothing after that.
Sherlock hates the way the plastic cast echoes down the hall, but hates the crutches he has to use without it. Hates the wheelchair, the cane. Hates the cane. Hates the cane. Hates the cane.
"Sherlock, you need to—"
"Trust you. I trust you. Why can't I walk yet?"
"It's not easy. You want it to be easy but it's not and as soon as you accept that—"
"I'm accepting it! I've accepted that it's not easy!"
"Okay. That's good. Now, let's try again."
Anthea's phone has buzzed considerably less than it had in years past. It worries her, it comforts her at the same time. She knows what it is like to wait for the call of someone who is preoccupied.
She also knows what it is like to wait for the call of someone who has been dead for months.
"You don't need to worry. She's never in any danger."
Holmes would tell her at indeterminate points, and Anthea would know better than to believe him.
She knows that whatever words that man says, there is a dark back door from them into the motivations that spur white lies. Whatever he does, it is simply the first iteration of a chain that must occur for the optimal result to, ultimately, fall into place at his lap. He works so hard so he can do so little.
She knows this.
"Mr. Sigerson and Mr. Lozano have completed their objective in Perth, Mr. Holmes. With the team in Adelaide done, Australia is secure."
She tells him, because she has received the email and he is not at the computer.
"They want to know where to send them next."
They is a being completely unknown to her— a corporation of politics and money and power. It is not her concern. She does not concern herself with it.
"What is the state of South Asia?"
"Secure, Sir. As of October."
"Djougou?"
"Last year, Sir. Secure."
He thought for a bit.
"Send Sigerson to Abu Dhabi with Ms. Slowik. Send Lozano to Laos."
"Both of those places are Secure, Sir. They suggest..."
"France, I know. That is where he is rumoured to be hiding. Not yet."
"But soon?"
He nodded.
"We'll all be reunited quite soon. But not quite—"
She stopped him with a look. Someone's outside.
He shook his head. I know. Let him stay. I want him to hear it.
"Not quite yet."
Anthea nodded, settled back into her cell phone. Mycroft stretched his neck, left, right, downward, before pressing the headache at the base of his nose away.
By the time he had returned to his reading, Sherlock Holmes was back upstairs, booking flights.
Twenty-four million, one hundred fifty-seven, eight hundred seventeen... Thirty-nine million, eighty-eight thousand, one hundred sixty nine...
Sherlock took in a deep breath— it hurt, oh, God, it hurt, but he wasn't about to let her know that. Instead, he counted Fibonacci and pretended not to feel.
"Good, good, Mrs. Holmes. Now, up again—"
Up again. A slow, forced, pained exhale.
... Sixty-three million, two hundred forty-five thousand, nine hundred eight six...
"— And down. Great job. And—"
... One hundred two million, three hundred thirty-four thousand, one hundred fifty-five—
Sherlock let a tiny groan escape his throat, but he followed her lead. When they were finally done, she helped him to his feet, to the door, with a smile on her face.
"You're getting stronger every day, Mr. Holmes. You'll be running in no time."
He frowned at her, and left.
Boring.
Yes, he remembered what boring felt like. He'd never forgot it.
Sherlock travelled up the stairs, refusing to let himself feel pride at the fact that he no longer needed the hand rail, a cane, the shoulder of a physical therapist. He refused to let himself wonder what the insides of 221B looked like now. The scent of her perfume in the living room. The clean kitchen, save for a few stray dishes. It was hateful.
He'd been doing very little in the way of exploring, because he had bigger things to deal with— Moran's whereabouts, Moriarty's death, irritating Mycroft. Not that either of those ventures had been very successful— nothing on Moriarty had come up, and Moran had escaped from the police almost two years ago.
The world, however, turned— and a little more quickly than usual. Riots and criminals were surfacing all over, from New York to Canada to Perth to Cote D'Ivoire; simple, one-lined stories of how a crime ring was found and suppressed in this city, in that town, in that country. Sherlock tried to follow them, but the webs were tangled, too quick— if they were connected, it would have to be the work of hundreds of people. Probably boring.
Boring.
It was hot— so, so hot. Hotter than last year. How could it have been hotter than last year? Sherlock was lying on the floor in his pants, rolling onto his stomach, his back, his stomach, his back every time the hardwood underneath him heated up. This house was meant to stay warm— and it was doing a damned good job of it.
He scowled, he sat up, he put his robe on without tying it. He travelled down the stairs; it should be cooler on the lower floors.
It was— thank God, it was— but the couches were leather and stuck to his skin. The library chairs were too small, stuffy. The dining room wasn't even a question.
There were about six other guest rooms on the bottom floor, but in that moment Sherlock wondered— and not for the first time— on the status of his old room. A room that he hadn't been in for years— ten, fifteen, he didn't know— and had repressed any urge to enter for the two years he'd stayed stubbornly in this house.
It was on the second floor, which defeated the purpose of seeking cooler quarters, but the light in the moonlight reminded him of a childhood of crawling out the window with a rope of tied sheets, and he found himself thinking of planes leaving in hours and tip-toeing up the stairs before he could reason.
The door creaked, unlike any other in the house— they hadn't touched the room, as he'd requested. He could analyse years and years of dust records without hindrance—
Recently dusted. The entire room.
But no care for the doorway? The wood furniture unpolished?
Suspicious.
A feeling of intrusion swept over Sherlock as he stepped into his childhood room, keeping an eye out for cameras and microphones or simply a sign of who was in here last— and why they felt the need to cover their tracks.
He didn't turn the light on, but instead opened the thick curtains to let in the moon; the beige, detailed wallpaper, now peeling at the edges. The crammed bookshelves of books he'd forgotten about.
He opened the closet: a row of disguises, Halloween costumes, school uniforms. A never-worn football jersey. All of the pens were still on the desk.
He sat on the edge of the full-sized bed, springs groaning from disuse.
Of course.
He pulled the drawer to the nightstand. He pulled it completely off of the hinges.
The bag was still there— a yellowing Ziploc back of white powder, taped to the outside of the drawer.
He pulled the bag from where it had hid for years, feeling the grainy substance through the plastic under his fingers. How easy it would be to just—
He tossed it into the bottom of the drawer. It rolled once onto its side, tape sticking to the cracked leather of a tiny brown notebook. Dusted. Moved. Touched.
His first casebook.
What would anyone want out of this?
He opened the book, feeling the spine bend under his long fingers— A newspaper clipping from 1992 fell out, fluttered in the moonlight to land in his lap. Oh, of course— this is the woman whose husband hadn't killed her. He was still in jail, wasn't he? Sherlock had forgotten about him.
He flipped through the pages, touching little, paying attention to each detail. January, February, March, April.
May.
The third page of May had been—
Torn out. 17-23 May, 1992 had been torn from the history of this little book.
Sherlock lunged for a pencil on the desk, laying the graphite tip on its side as he rubbed it against the page for 24-30 May. Lightly, carefully. With bated breath.
On this page, the contents of the previous came clear to him.
17 May:
18 May:
19 May:
20 May: Triple Murder. Could not have been bartender. HEARING LOSS.
21 May: —N
22 May:
23 May: fire in dpt. Store. ARSON. WHY CAN THEY NOT SEE THAT?
He remembered this week. The Triple Murder had kept him occupied for days: he hardly paid any attention to the fire on the twenty-third, as he had still been trying to piece together the mysteries of the twentieth.
There was something scribbled out on the twenty first. He could make out, under the horizontal strikeouts, the letter N. Not in his handwriting— not in the pressure he had ever used writing, not at the angle. This author was left-handed.
Sherlock rested his chin onto his steepled fingers, then pulled his face into his open hands. He pulled at his hair. That N was familiar, so familiar, too damn familiar.
But it couldn't be. He wouldn't let himself think it.
He left the room. He got dressed and left the house. He smoked a single cigarette on the cab ride to the airport.