Thank you everyone who informed me of the formatting and posting corruption. The last chapter and this one were posted out of order, I'm looking into how that happened, but for now, enjoy an extra chapter this week!
They took a cab in silence to 221B. John was quiet because he didn't know what he wanted and he was uncomfortable with the feeling that Sherlock would try to accommodate him, whatever it was. He didn't know why Sherlock was silent. The man stared out of the window like the passing city held answers for him. Finally, the cab pulled up to 221 B Baker Street, the residential building as quiet and unremarkable as ever. Or, at least, in John's eyes. Sherlock bridled at the sight and pulled himself out of the car, yelling something about his brother and leaving John with the tab.
Another cab he couldn't afford. He was going to spend this month eating at a shelter.
"So, I'll just pay this, shall I?" John grumbled, trying to get his wallet out of his trouser pocket. He'd been hours out of his slings. Too long. His joints were still and sore, his left shoulder in particular feeling like it was slowly pulling away from itself beneath the weight of gravity.
A hand jutted through the open door and threw a load of twenties at the driver in a little flutter of shimmering bills. John gaped at Sherlock but the man had already turned away.
"Come on, John!" Sherlock called, dashing toward the door to 221B. "He's straightened the knocker. He always corrects it. He's OCD. Doesn't even know he's doing it," Sherlock rambled, clicking the knocker off-center again. His hands were shaking, John noticed. The beginnings of withdrawal, nervousness or both? It was hard to imagine a proud man like Sherlock going through withdrawal, John thought, following the man into the dark hallway. But then, he figured, closing the door, it'd been hard to imagine himself shitting his pants in a car park before he'd done it.
Mycroft was sitting on the steps up to their flat, his hands clasped between his knees.
"Cabs are slow. I don't know why you insist on taking them," he gloated. John waited for him to get to a point. "Now save us some time; where would we be looking?"
"We?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft raised his eyebrows as if disappointed that Sherlock hadn't guessed. John glared at the man. He had better things to discuss with Sherlock. Mycroft met his gaze, looking just as surprised at him. For once, John thought he understood the message. Did he truly have something better to discuss with Sherlock Holmes? Did he have anything to discuss at all? He could understand why Mycroft would be surprised by the notion.
"Mr. Holmes?" a voice called from the flat upstairs. John grimaced, recognizing Anderson's voice. Now, that was just spiteful. Sherlock's face twisted in disgust.
"For God's sake!" he shouted, pounding up the stairs.
"Coming up?" Mycroft asked in that way he had of making everything sound like it held a deeper meaning. He pushed himself up from the step with his umbrella.
"Yes," John said, deciding that no matter how confused he was about his motivations, he wasn't going to reveal his doubts to Mycroft. Mycroft smirked and started up the stairs.
"It's good to see you're recovering," Mycroft stated, reminding John that they hadn't seen each other since Sherlock's jump. John started to wonder if Sherlock had seen him since then either. He rather doubted it. Sometimes it felt like Mycroft had the instincts of a shark, only showing up for Sherlock when there was blood to be found. Other times, the man truly seemed to care. A proper enigma for a Holmes brother.
"It's been awhile," John commented darkly, trying not to let the exhaustion leak into his voice as he started up the stirs. He was tiring rapidly.
"Hmm," Mycroft hummed and climbed slowly up the stairs, apparently aware of his injuries.
"Anderson?" they heard Sherlock snarl upon getting to the landing. Mycroft stepped inside and John followed him. Anderson was standing inside the kitchen, checking out the microwave. A couple strangers in sanitary gloves were going through their dishes.
"Oh, that's him, isn't it? He's said to be taller," a strange woman breathed, looking a bit starstruck. Sherlock dropped his keys on the kitchen table with a loud clang and stared at John like he'd brought it all about. John glanced around the familiar flat, wondering if he'd missed any signs that Sherlock was so close to relapse, when he'd left. He would have contacted Mycroft on his way out, had he known. But then, surely Mycroft was notified the moment he'd walked out of the front door, kicking his duffel bag in front of him. Mycroft cleared his throat.
"Some members of your little fan club, to be polite," Mycroft commented. "They're entirely trustworthy. Even willing to search through the toxic waste dump that you were pleased to call a flat."
Were pleased? When did he move out? Has he been living this entire time in that drug den?
John frowned at Sherlock, wondering when the man had left 221B, if he truly had. Sherlock curled up in his chair facing the kitchen, ignoring them all. He looked cold. He probably was, given how unhealthy he looked.
"You're a celebrity these days, Sherlock. You can't afford a drug habit," Mycroft scolded.
"I do not have a drug habit," Sherlock growled, sounding frustrated.
Bullshit, John thought, looking into his bloodshot eyes and wondering how long it'd be before he'd have his turn at shouting at the man. He was rather inclined to sit and wait, he thought, but his chair was gone. That stung worse than he wanted to admit.
"Hey, what happened to my chair?" he asked, glancing around in the hope that it'd simply been moved, but the armchair was nowhere to be found, nor was the union flag pillow he usually kept with it. Had Sherlock specifically hauled it down to the curb, or just thrown it out the window to fall on the bins like the American?
"It was blocking my view to the kitchen," Sherlock answered. John nodded slowly, trying to accept that. There was a reason he avoided moving in with girlfriends, and he was reminded of it now. It was this kind of thing that always cut him to the quick; the changed habits and discarded objects.
Discomfort settled in the room, everyone pausing but the strangers going through Sherlock's dishes.
"Well, it's good to be missed," John said as casually as he could, trying to brush it off, at least publicly. Anderson winced and turned away. John looked away from him to see Mycroft smirking, like he'd seen it all coming.
"Yeah, you were gone, I saw an opportunity," Sherlock replied. John blew out his breath, trying not to respond to the statement. Anderson was glancing back and forth between them like they were some kind of confusing tennis match.
"No, you saw the kitchen," John groused.
"What have you found so far? Clearly nothing," Mycroft scolded the strangers, taking some kind of strange pity on them. John kept his eyes pinned on the fireplace, thinking it better if it didn't get involved at all. He should go; he knew that. He'd told himself that a dozen times. But he wanted to yell at Sherlock first.
Yell, what? That Sherlock was exactly as miserable as he'd hoped, but wasn't reacting to it the way he'd expected? That was spectacularly unfair.
"Your bedroom door is shut. You haven't been home all night. So, why would a man who has never knowingly closed the door without the direct order of his mother bother to do so on this occasion?" Mycroft pondered, starting toward Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock's head jerked up from his sulk.
"Okay, stop! Just stop!" Sherlock shouted, pushing himself up from his chair. "Point made," he said in a more calm voice, when Mycroft paused, his hand on the doorknob.
Drugs found, John concluded, some last bit of hope dying in him. Sherlock hadn't done drugs to make a contact on the street; he'd brought them home. To this home.
"Jesus, Sherlock," John breathed, the conclusion sinking in. Was there any stronger way for Sherlock to declare that this was no longer their home?
"I'll have to phone our parents, of course, in Oklahoma," Mycroft drawled, making his way back to them. "Won't be the first time that your substance abuse has wreaked havoc with their line-dancing."
He sounded remarkably smug. But Sherlock, for a moment, looked incredibly remorseful. He closed his eyes and dipped his head, looking like he was fighting off some memory, and John was reminded how little of his life Sherlock had ever truly shared with him. Then Sherlock just looked angry and he pushed himself up from his chair. John looked away, not wanting to argue with him about whether or not Sherlock had hidden his cocaine abuse under the guise of a case or if he'd just run straight for it without remorse. He didn't want to know. He just wanted to tear the whole flat apart, get back to his bedsit, and put his arms back in their slings.
"This is not what you think, this is for a case," Sherlock insisted, his eyes wide. Mycroft tilted his head toward John and smiled grimly.
"And what case could possibly justify this?" he asked softly, his smugness finally falling away. He looked tragically disappointed for a moment. For the first time John wondered if the man might actually like him.
"Magnussen," Sherlock said, like it'd end all arguments. To John's shock, the name apparently meant something far more than he'd understood. Mycroft's grim smile melted from his face and for a moment, he just looked furious. "Charles Augustus Magnussen," Sherlock enunciated, driving home the point.
Mycroft inhaled slowly, turning around to face the strangers still puttering about Sherlock's kitchen, now without a task.
"That name you think you may have just heard, you were mistaken. If you ever mention hearing that name in this room, in this context, I guarantee you on behalf of the British Security Services that materials will be found on your computer hard drives resulting in your immediate incarceration. Don't reply. Just look frightened and scuttle," Mycroft threatened. At one point, that threat would have been interesting, John thought, watching Anderson obediently usher the strangers out and close the door. Mycroft turned around and headed back toward them. Sherlock sighed and dropped his head to stare at the grody carpet, looking exhausted.
"I hope I won't have to threaten you as well," Mycroft commented lightly, meeting John's eyes.
What the fuck could you do to me now? John wondered, rolling his damaged shoulders."Well, I think we'd both find that embarrassing," John replied. Sherlock snorted and turned away to hide his laugh and John felt his lips twitch in a smile. Mycroft ignored them, his expression only getting more stern.
"Magnussen is not your business," he ordered. Sherlock turned around, looking intrigued and smug for himself now.
"Oh, you mean he's yours?" he asked. Mycroft stood his ground.
"You may consider him under my protection," Mycroft growled.
"I consider you under his thumb," Sherlock shot back.
What the hell is going on? John wondered. They'd apparently entirely forgotten about the drugs.
"If you go against Magnussen, then you will find yourself going against me," Mycroft announced, lifting his chin like that was the most formidable statement he could have uttered. It sounded like goading to John. Surely Mycroft knew Sherlock better than to say such a thing.
"Okay, I'll let you know if I notice," Sherlock replied cheerfully, starting to walk him toward the kitchen door. "Erm, what was I going to say? Oh yeah, bye-bye."
Mycroft turned around next to the door and sneered at John.
"It was for a case," he confirmed, as if that would suddenly convince him to stay. John nodded slowly, as if he cared, so that Mycroft would finally leave. Sherlock shut the door behind his brother and stared at it for a moment. John waited in the living room, unsure what more to do. He scratched at his forehead for a moment.
Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, can you do that for me? He knew he should go. Nine days of torture, a month of recovery. What more was there between them now?
But he didn't want to leave.
"Uh, Magnussen?" he asked finally and Sherlock turned around to stare at him.
"Magnussen. Magnussen is like a shark. That's the only way I can describe him," he said, walking forward, sounding like he was trying to seduce him. John swallowed, hating the way he could feel his pulse in his throat, thinking about Sherlock going after a threatening man again. Surely, he could not do all this again. "I've dealt with murderers, psychopaths, terrorists, serial killers. None of them can turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen."
Sherlock walked into the living room, his pale eyes locked on John's. Truly trying to recruit him with this, John thought, sighing. And he knew he wanted it.
"You know Magnussen as a newspaper owner but he is so much more than that. He uses his power and wealth to gain information. The more he acquires, the greater his wealth and power…" Sherlock kept talking, his gaze darting about the room. He was nervous, John thought. That made sense. They both were. What the hell were they doing? He needed to leave. They hadn't even been in a relationship and he'd broken up with this man.
Keep your eyes fixed on me. When had that memory lost its power? Now he remembered Sherlock stepping into the hospital room, looking so harried and so scared.
"And I'm not exaggerating when I say that he knows the critical pressure point on every person of note or influence in the whole of the Western world and probably beyond," Sherlock said, glancing at John as if to check that he was still there. "He is the Napoleon of blackmail."
John swallowed and nodded, as if he were paying close attention to the information. He would have done, years before, during one of their case briefings that always felt like a tactical briefing before a battle. Now, he spent more time looking at how a month had stripped Sherlock of the last of his fat deposits and thinned his hair. They were in no position to start threatening 'the Napoleon of blackmail' now. Sherlock checked his phone for the time and growled.
"I'll be meeting him in three hours. I need a bath," he said, starting across the room. He hesitated by the door to the bathroom and looked back, something inscrutable in his eyes. John drew himself up to attention, unsure what else to do beneath that penetrating gaze. Sherlock nodded sharply, as if that had answered something, and disappeared into the bathroom.
John glanced around the room, unsure what to do with himself now that he'd landed here. He needed to sit down and rest his arms, that was certain, but he didn't even know where his chair was, now. And this was Sherlock's home now, clearly. Somehow, he had never imagined Sherlock moving on, after he'd left. Though he couldn't quite say what he hadexpected.
That seemed rather backwards, all told. He'd never moved on, when Sherlock had left. He couldn't lie to himself about that, not when he'd been stuck in a bedsit, attending A.A meetings to take out his assassins and seamlessly blending in. He'd been addicted to Sherlock Holmes and that had never gone away. Not until he'd learned that Sherlock was alive. There was something sick in that. But Sherlock had given up on him in less than a month. He'd imagined Sherlock appearing at his bedsit door, soaked with rain and desperate to be let inside. Or manufacturing crimes to try to entice him back to their games. Not bringing drugs home, when John would never stand for it, and shooting up where John would never find him.
He hadn't forgotten about those. John approached Sherlock's bedroom slowly, trying to think of where he'd hide drugs in the sparse room. Surely Sherlock would have thought of a dozen impenetrable places.
"And stay out of my bedroom!" he heard Sherlock shout over the shower, apparently as aware of his thoughts as ever. John paused, unsure whether or not he should ignore him. If this were his home, he'd be tossing every ounce of drugs he found into the trash bins without regret. But this was quite clearly not his home. As Sherlock had so quickly pointed out, he'd left.
Damn it.
John approached anyway. He'd throw out this batch. Hopefully somewhere deep down Sherlock would see that meant he cared. To his shock, the doorhandle turned. For a moment he imagined Sherlock stepping out, having performed some insane scramble over their roof to prove a point. But a woman opened the door and stepped out, wearing just a shirt. Sherlock's shirt, John recognized dumbly, knowing he was staring.
"Oh, um. Hi, do I know you?" the woman asked, pulling down at the shirt tails to cover where she was quite clearly not wearing underwear. John blinked rapidly, feeling like something in his stomach was twisting and threatening to climb up his throat.
"Uh. No. Erm. John, John Watson," he stammered finally and she smiled awkwardly, clearly not recognizing the name. John sucked at his teeth, trying to ignore how that stabbed at him.