CHAPTER TWELVE
A/N Spoilers and whatnot in Chapter One.
John Watson left the hospital by the staff entrance. It had been an exhausting weekend and he was looking forward to a hot bath and some uninterrupted kip. When the saw the long black Mercedes pull up beside him he knew those things would have to wait. For a brief minute, he considered telling the driver to take a hike but he knew, from bitter experience, that the British Government didn't take no for an answer. With a resigned sigh, he got in the back of the car and fastened the seatbelt.
"Good evening, Doctor Watson," said the driver.
"Hey. Can we make this quick?"
"Not up to me, sir."
It wasn't a long journey. John stared at the Gothic pile they'd arrived at and got out.
"It helps if you ring the doorbell," suggested the driver.
"Right."
John squared his shoulders and walked across the gravel. He didn't need to ring the bell, the front door opened as if he were expected.
"Come in, John."
"Mycroft! What are you doing here?"
"I live here. Follow me,"
John followed the ramrod-straight figure down the hall. Before he opened the door, Mycroft turned to John and said,
"You should prepare yourself for a shock, John. May I just say that I am very sorry. You'll want answers. Just know this, if there had been any other way…anyway, go in, please."
John was curious and not a little perturbed. Close up, Sherlock's brother looked haggard, pale faced and red-eyed as if he had been crying. John preceded Mycroft into the room and stopped dead.
This was a hallucination brought on by being on-call, lack of sleep and desperate, helpless longing. It couldn't be real. Sherlock Holmes wasn't sitting there in a pair of pyjamas miles too big for him, he couldn't be. Then the vision spoke.
"Hello, John. It's all right, I'm real. And very much alive, thanks to my big brother here."
The bastard could still read him like a book.
"You're actually here. I don't…I can't…" Rage and disbelief mixed were making John stutter. Sherlock got slowly to his feet, wincing from his many injuries.
"Go ahead," he said. "I know you'd love to punch me. I'm adequately braced."
John's fist did indeed fly and slammed into the wood panelling behind Sherlock's head.
"You utter bastard," he yelled, rubbing his bruised knuckles. "All this time and not a fucking word! We all mourned for you, Sherlock! How the fuck did you do it, eh? How?"
"Will you sit with me?" asked Sherlock diffidently, gesturing towards the couch. "I will try to explain. But I think you need to know the why before I try and explain the how."
Mycroft left them to it, going into the kitchen and switching on the coffee maker. He had a feeling it would be a long night.
Two days since he had brought his brother back, forty-eight hours, since he had seen Greg and two thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes since he had last felt at home in this house. He was being haunted by memories that ambushed him at every turn. Even this one where he had taught Greg that the finest coffee doesn't come in jars.
The bathroom where a disposable razor and ordinary toothbrush sat companionably on the shelf beside his own electric brush and pearl-handled open razor.
The bedroom where they had spent so many ecstatic nights. Mycroft had given up his virginity without a second thought as it was his Gregory who was doing the taking but it was in this bed where he had been a most willing pupil and Greg the most patient and passionate of teachers. This was where Greg had told him he loved him. He had meant every word of his reply, even thinking about it now made his eyes fill.
It was the living room he couldn't bear to spend any time in. There, if anywhere, was where he and Greg had cemented their relationship, where they had talked, laughed, spent time in comfortable silence, watched TV, drank wine and watched pictures forming in the leaping flames of the open fire, held each other close and kissed for the longest of times.
It was all dust and ashes without him, Mycroft had realised and he didn't think he could bear it.
He could hear John's voice raise again and the reassuring grumble of his brother's smooth tones. Time to intervene, he thought.
"I don't know what to think any more, Sherlock," yelled John as Mycroft returned to the living room. Sherlock had the battered look of someone who had been shouted at non-stop for some minutes.
John…" It was an entreaty.
"I promised myself one thing if I ever got my miracle, you know," continued John.
"And what was that?" asked Sherlock.
John didn't reply, merely leaned in and kissed his best friend full on the mouth. Sherlock's gasp was audible and there was a sad smile on Mycroft's face as he watched his little brother relax into his first proper kiss, Sherlock's hands tangling in John's hair as John held him.
"I love you, you bastard," said John firmly. " I'm glad I had the chance to say it."
"I've loved you since they day we met, John."
John inclined his head, a half-smile on his face. His phone buzzed, he picked it up and his whole demeanour changed.
"And now I have to go and tell the sweetest, kindest man in the world that I can't move in with him after all because I'm in love with someone else."
Mycroft doubted that John could have surprised his brother more.
"You've got a boyfriend?"
"Not for much longer," said John, standing up.
"I'll get a car to take you home, John," offered Mycroft.
"It's fine, I'll walk. Thanks anyway."
John turned again to Sherlock before he left.
"I'll be here tomorrow after shift. You've still got a lot of grovelling to do."
Mycroft saw John to the door.
"A word of advice, Doctor Watson. I know you love my brother but beware of people who pretend they do not have a heart, for when they fall in love, people always end up getting hurt. He's done that already."
"I know that, "said John. "I'm willing to take that risk"
"Very well. Goodnight then."
"See you tomorrow."
Mycroft returned to the living room after closing and locking the front door.
"He handled that a lot better than I expected, little brother."
"Oh, he's still royally pissed off at me. Explaining things helped a lot."
"At least you got the chance," said Mycroft bitterly.
Greg Lestrade was utterly hammered. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this drunk. He couldn't remember much that night, most of his brain cells were gently marinating in a soup of beer and cheap whisky.
Two days and he still found himself physically checking to see if his heart had literally been torn from his chest. It certainly felt that way.
He'd had a genial argument about music with DC Smith earlier and he got up off the couch to find the book that would settle it. He grabbed his sketchbook by mistake and swore as the pages fluttered onto the carpet.
Clumsily he knelt down and picked the pictures up, replacing them with the meticulous care of the truly pissed. Some were works in progress but one…
He froze. This one he had almost forgotten about. Mycroft had insisted he kept it hidden for his, Greg's, eyes only.
His hands trembled as he held it and remembered how he had persuaded Mycroft to pose nude for him, not long after they had started sleeping together. How erotic it had been to watch him undress here in this very room. How he had sprawled elegantly on the lumpy sofa with a come-hither expression on his face that had made it almost impossible for Greg to concentrate on what he was doing. How pleased he had been with the result and how Mycroft had taken it from him and frowned.
"What?" Greg had asked. "You don't like it?"
"It's very good," Mycroft had conceded. "But Gregory, there's no way I'm that beautiful."
"You are to me, "Greg had said, meaning every word but there had been doubt still in Mycroft's eyes.
"Oh, you really don't believe that, do you?" Mycroft had shaken his head, slightly embarrassed. Greg had pulled him close and given him a long, lingering kiss.
"Believe it."
Hot tears spattered the picture as the memory faded.
"I can't forgive you," said Greg softly. "But I still fucking love you. There's no coming back from that, is there?"
TBC