Author's note: So sorry for the wait, life's been hectic this week (and will continue to be so for the next three, so...) and I've only been managing to get writing done during the night. Well, hope this doesn't disappoint.

Enjoy!

Chapter 5: I wake with good intentions

Sleep seems to be a commodity available only in limited amounts and at the moment John Watson holds monopoly over it. Sherlock's eyes are wide in the dark, retinas struggling to make out shapes in the poorly moonlit gloom. Acutely aware of the strange sensation caused by sharing a bed with another breathing, moving body, he catalogues the input, trying to distract his thought process by focusing on the way his senses are challenged to adapt to the new situation. Sheet slithers against skin, linen whispers engaging in a bit of kiss-and-tell. Sherlock blames the residue vestiges of detox for his insomnia, but his brain isn't helping either.

Thoughts rotate in his head, re-playing this whole ordeal, which can easily be classified as a not-fully-voiced novaturient streak that's been threading its way in their lives even before their lives became theirs, before they found each other and became themselves in their current form. Thirst coats Sherlock's tongue, first like a fine layer of dust but progressing quickly into the insufferable aridity of desert planes. He lifts the sheet that covers him, watches for a moment the effect of cold air surprising the still-sweaty skin of John's back before letting the white cover of wrinkled fabric reclaim its place over John's sleeping form. Not blundering (because Sherlock Holmes never blunders) around, he starts looking for his garments. The floor likes like a deserted battlefield, dark slumps of discarded clothes resembling corpses abandoned after conflict. Managing to pick up a few of his own pieces, Sherlock covers himself up. The room is silver and black, all sharp angles of shadows and illusions of midnight light playing tricks over the intricate interior. Coldness of such light is completely incompatible with the warmth that swirls in the room like a languid cloud of smoke. The now-sleeping fire and something else...two bodies, each with their own heat, contributing to the temperature level, cause the space to be at odds with itself. Looking cold, when in fact it is near blazing. An unsustainable condition.

Sherlock's gaze falls onto his feet, the only part of him touched by light from the window. Ghostly pale, they feel detached from him in a way, as if they might start moving and take him somewhere without him ordering them to do so. Where to, where to...?

Snapping out of his trance, Sherlock moves towards the door. Tentative steps betray no sound as Sherlock makes his way across the cocoon of warmth and sleep-breath that they've created for themselves. Metal-cold-dead the knob is a liquid nitrogen stamp branding his palm in comparison with the flesh-warm-living of John's palm that's been the sole sensation caressing the receptors on Sherlock's palm only moments ago. Loss of heat, loss of contact, loss... Sherlock twists the knob the way a butcher twists necks of poultry and opens the 's got time, he knows. Dawn is still just a faint outline of an idea the night is contemplating, an uncertain possibility in the relatively near future. John will be asleep for hours, bar any nightmares. There won't be any, Sherlock knows. Not tonight. He crosses the threshold of the room and closes the door. The lock clicks in soft reprimand. On the other side of the door, John doesn't stir.

Echoes of his feet padding bare on the hardwood floor that peeks from under the very edges of the carpet trailing the corridor are quieter than they should be, given his weight and the size of the space. Almost as if it is another pair of feet trailing slightly behind in time, the sound comes out distorted yet hauntingly familiar. Sherlock knows it's in his head and yet he can't rid himself of the sound. It sounds like his feet, only smaller, lighter, pink and bare against the floor of the top floor of a medium-sized, two-story house he grew up in. Cursing his own mind, he tries not to draw parallels between his current progression and the way he used to sneak into Mycroft's room when the branches of the birch outside his window flogged against the glass during storms. Seeking out big brother when the storm becomes too much to handle – Sherlock stopped doing that ages ago. Another relapse, then.

Wandering around the halls, he treads the well-known root to Mycroft's room. His brother won't be asleep, he knows. The man is even less dependent on sleep than Sherlock – a handy trait when one's running quite a big chunk of the free world. He wonders if Mycroft will have guessed already the purpose of Sherlock's little late-night visit. Surely, the older Holmes won't miss out on the opportunity to quip up with some jab about Sherlock and John, but Sherlock's ready to put up with it. The situation calls for sorting out of priorities.

He doesn't knock. It's not even an expression of spite, but simply one of habit. No matter what, he never had to knock. Besides, Mycroft doesn't either when he barges into Sherlock's life. Turnabout is fair play.

"46 seconds of waiting in front of my door before entering. Whatever is on your mind won't make for an easy conversation, will it?" Mycroft's hunched over the work desk in his bedroom, a small lamp bathing the corner in a waxy yellow.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at his brother's showing off. And John calls him theatrical.

"It's about the case." Sherlock's feet are barely in the room. Mycroft continues writing without looking up.

"No, it isn't."

Confusion (but no, not really true confusion – only it's well-crafted impersonator) carves lines over Sherlock's face.

"Of course it is. It is about the case. My case."

"Well, when you put it like that..."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock's voice booms too loud for the witching hour. Mycroft sighs a heavy sigh of a man long-suffering the same nuisance, before replying in a tone of an exasperated adult explaining something to a child who should really be in bed.

"It's not about the case, Sherlock. Not the gist of it, anyway. It's late. Let's not waste time pretending we don't both know what this is really about."

Petulant silence comes as Sherlock's only reply. (Only, again, petulance is a sham...Sherlock is the king of masquerades.)

"It's what everything's been about. For quite some time now."

"And since you seem to know my own mind better than I do, please enlighten me. What is this about?" Sarcasm drips off Sherlock's words like resin from a wounded tree trunk. Mycroft finally stops scribbling, raising his eyes to Sherlock's. Blank like an unprinted page, his face holds no emotion as he replies, two (truest) words striking with the precision of a guided missile.

"John Watson."

If it were anyone else, Sherlock's almost imperceptible flinch would go unnoticed, but since it's Mycroft, Sherlock knows every tell of his body might as well be a neon sign. Mycroft catches even the most miniscule of reactions. It's the same conversation they've had already, only the roles seem to be reversed now. A negative of a déjà vu.

But opposite to Sherlock's expectation, Mycroft doesn't take it further. There's no taunting, no unwanted comments. Instead, Mycroft's eyes scan over Sherlock, followed by a short nod of head, as if Mycroft's agreeing with some inner voice that remains inaudible to Sherlock. He turns back to his writing.

"I'm not letting you on the case of your own abduction, Sherlock."

"Yes, you are."

"You sound very certain of yourself."

"You've been stuck for weeks now. No new leads, nothing to go on. Old trails have gone cold and your people have once again confirmed their status as incapable. You need me on this case, Mycroft. I'm the only one who can find Small and the rest of his band of thugs."

There is victory in Sherlock voice. He knows he's made his case. Moreover, he knows Mycroft knows. It's the thrill of being irrefutably right. As way of ascending to Sherlock's line of reasoning, Mycroft skips the actual act of agreeing and moves onto the practicalities.

"Naturally, you will want to take John with you when you located them." It's not a question. It was never a question.

"If by take you mean invite to come along, then yes." Of course Sherlock will want John along. As stated – it was never a question. Just as Sherlock's letting the buzz of getting Mycroft to agree to all this and of the idea of him and John doing what they do best, together, fill him like electrified fog, Mycroft speaks up again.

"Will you tell him about Mary?" Mycroft's voice is quiet, calm and steady. It is the voice one uses to talk about the weather. Smooth like well-kept suede, it fools one into believing the deceiving innocuousness of the exchange. Sherlock, still rooted in front of the door, gnashes his teeth.

"I will have to, won't I? Can't really invite him to come along without telling him."

"Then perhaps you shouldn't invite him."

"That's not an option."

"Why not?"

Is Mycroft an idiot? Of course he has to invite John. He has to, because John wouldn't forgive him if he didn't. Not a second time around.

"You know why." The incredulity caused by Mycroft playing dumb – Mycroft. Playing dumb. – shocks Sherlock into motion so he walks over and plops down on the edge of Mycroft's bed.

"'Trust issues' – you've read his file. Trust issues combined with my last...escapade. Leaving John out of the loop this time is not an option. Not this time, and not ever again. I'm not an idiot. I rarely make mistakes, and even when I do, I never make the same one twice."

"He may not want to come after you tell him. He may not even want to stay."

"And that is a possibility of which I am fully aware, brother."

"This could prove unwise, brother mine."

"I don't need lecturing, Mycroft. That's not what I came here for."

"Oh? And what is it, then, that you've come for? I don't recall us being in habit of midnight chats. We're hardly kids anymore, Sherlock, and unless I've missed something, you rarely seek out my company unless it is truly necessary."

"Would you believe me if I said I've come for your delightful manner?"

"As much as I would if you claimed to have come in order for us to braid each other's hair."

Sherlock can't help a smirk that snaps his lips into a bow across his cheeks. No matter how obnoxious, Mycroft is hardly a fool. In fact, he is the one person who makes Sherlock put in effort in order to keep up, because behind the unimpressive beige of his three-piece suits and the unreadable set of his features, Mycroft is a whole mechanism ticking meticulously in perfect order, numerous bits and pieces working together. Like different Mycroft's all working to form the final product, a versatile, multifaceted design equipped to deal with any conundrum that arises.

Mycroft, whom Sherlock scowls at, mocks, avoids and spites. Mycroft, who spies on Sherlock, scolds him, meddles and insinuates, annoyingly omniscient and omnipresent. Mycroft, who lectures and preaches and bores Sherlock to death. Mycroft – the man who manipulates and arranges people like chest pieces, all while sporting a (seemingly) docile smile and the facade of the very definition of the term 'exemplary'. The most dangerous man in England, if the occasion calls for it. The only one who's never given up on Sherlock (well, besides John...but John wasn't always there to not give up). The only man other than himself whom Sherlock trust enough with John Watson's life.

"I came to tell you that since we're leaving for Baker Street tomorrow, I will be able to start working on the case, so do send over the files." Sherlock stands up to leave before Mycroft can drag him further into the conversation. He doesn't see it, be he knows his brother has gone back to writing, ink being bullied onto paper without mercy. Mercy never was Mycroft's forte. Just as he is about to make his grand escape, Sherlock is once again stopped by Mycroft's voice.

"If that were really true, you could have waited till morning, easily. Ergo, whatever prompted you to get out of bed was important and troublesome enough to keep you awake. A few years ago, I would have believed you if you said it was the case. But not anymore. Which is why I have to urge you to think about what I said, Sherlock. You may be overestimating the extent to which John Watson is able and willing to go, regarding certain matters."

Something snaps in Sherlock's expression, causing his next words to come out in a barely-contained rage-rush.

"No, Mycroft. You are the one who is tragically underestimating John. You've been doing it right from the start."

Facing Mycroft, he is aware of the too-rapid raise of his chest for a man standing still. Mycroft looks at him, an amused, ironic smile screwed tightly onto his face like an ugly door penchant.

"Well...I guess I'll take your word for it. After all, you do know him more...intimately than I do."

A twitch of muscle in Sherlock's jaw is a traitorous break in his otherwise-expressionless poker-face, and Mycroft's chuckle burns like salt being rubbed into open wounds.

"And to answer your unvoiced request, which is the actual reason you came – yes, in case something happens and both your lives are put in danger, I will stay true to my promise and make sure he's safe. I held up my side of that particular bargain last time as well, didn't I?"

Sherlock can only nod, because, damn it, he hates that he feels relief at the fact that despite everything, Mycroft still knows Sherlock and is willing to do as promised. With another nod, Mycroft dismisses him, but not before getting the last of his opinion wedged into the folds of Sherlock's mind.

"Although, that aspect of my involvement might become a bigger problem than we first calculated. Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock stomps out of the room and back towards John's, doing his best to ignore the way Mycroft's words gnaw at him. It isn't doubt – he does not doubt John – but the maddening fact that Mycroft is often better at reading people than Sherlock ever was. And John, no matter how special, is still human. But no-no-no, Sherlock knows John. Knows him in ways no one will ever be allowed to know him again. In ways no one else would even be able to start to fathom. Sherlock knows John. And Mycroft – Mycroft doesn't know a thing. He doesn't even know why he thought going to him was anything but a horrid idea.

Brown – wood- carpet – vast – corridor – too far – bedroom – John – Sherlock's journey seems to take ages. He almost runs the last few meters to the door. The wood seems to be breathing in rhythm with John. Steady and soft, it lulls Sherlock out of panic a bit. Slipping back into the room, he presses the door closed. If he could, he would seal it up, make it air-tight so that nothing can enter. Silicone glue and cement. He'd make this room his tomb, if that's what it took. The door would melt into the wall.

But he knows he can't. Even if he managed to eliminate the door, the window would remain. Even if no one else was allowed in, light would find them. Ugly, bright light, exposing underbellies of thoughts and unappealing sides of intention. That's the advantage of night – it is merciful in its blindness.

Sherlock crawls back under the covers, where John has since turned toward the door, so that he is facing Sherlock's side of the bed. Facing Sherlock. It's a strange sensation, sharing a bed. Sherlock is sure he could get used to it. He could get used to the way John's breath tickles when Sherlock puts his face too close, and the way John's hand lays lax and available for taking, right there, inches away from Sherlock's own. Sherlock can be adaptable, if he wants to. And here, he certainly does.

As sleep finally sinks its teeth into Sherlock's flesh, Mycroft's damned words find their way from under the door, sneaking into Sherlock's semi-somnolent mind, and he wonders for how much longer will John be facing him?

Hours later, dawn comes and finally, John stirs. Dawn comes and John stirs, and with him so does their world. It's the first sign of tumult. It's the first whisper of an earthquake.