AN: Thanks for the feedback. I apologize for any mistake you may find here. My mind isn't working too well this morning.
IMPORTANT: THE PREQUEL OF THIS STORY, "WE ARE DIFFERENT", HAS BEEN RE-UPDATED AGAIN. ALL THE CHAPTERS HAVE BEEN FIXED (GRAMMAR MISTAKES) BUT THEY DON'T PRESENT SIGNIFICANT CHANGES. IF YOU HAVEN'T READ IT, GIVE IT A GO!
(sorry if you find more msitakes he)
He realized something was wrong when he passed two phones, two different ringing phones. And the third caught his full attention. A voice, a male voice John swore he knew by heart was talking to him and giving him indications. He could see the man speaking had full power judging by his indication and how the famous CCTV cameras around the city were moving towards him. And then a black car was parking by the side of the street and a man in black suit gestured him to get in.
And for some reason, John decided to take a leap of faith and meet this man.
A very pretty woman, who was sitting beside him, was deeply concentrated on the mobile phone on her manicured hands and John couldn't help but ask himself if he knew her. He was sure he saw that woman before, in some place. But he couldn't remember. She was certainly pretty, and he didn't hesitate asking her name, but she gave him a fake one.
"I'm John"
"I know"
"Any point asking where I am going?"
"Not at all, John. But you'll see"
After a few minutes, the car stopped inside a deserted warehouse. It was perfectly clean to be deserted and John saw a figure. A tall man was standing a few meters away from where the car was parked. He was wearing a dark suit and he had an umbrella on his right hand. John couldn't clearly see who that man was until he walked a few steps and his heart stopped beating.
"Have a sit, John"
He was Mycroft Holmes.
John looked at that tall man. He was wearing a tailored suit. His hair was perfectly combed and he had an umbrella on his right and. He was almost supporting his own weight on that umbrella. John knew this man. He knew his face, and he knew that umbrella.
That man, was his older brother.
That mas was Mycroft Holmes.
And something told John he was going to play along, just like he did with Sherlock. Because for some reason, the Army doctor knew someone or something had happened to the Holmes brothers. Sherlock couldn't recognize him and it seemed like Mycroft was the same case as his young sibling.
"I-I have a phone, you know. You could just... phone me"
That was such an innocent line. Such an innocent comment. But it wasn't. It wasn't because John knew, John experienced loneliness in Afghanistan. His letter were never read, he never got any correspondence from any of his two brothers and he knew something wrong had happened. No one phoned him, or at least sent him a letter telling him about his father's death.
But John wasn't angry for that, no. John was angry because none of them seemed to recognize him.
The ten steps from the car till he met Mycroft Holmes eyes again were as painful as hell. His walking was bad, and his leg was hurting him. His walking stick was making the loudest sound ever. And both men felt weak.
Weak because Mycroft had expected this moment for so long. And John too. The last time they saw each other seemed to have happened ages and ages ago. John promised he was going to be back, alive. Because he had promised that to Mummy. And he had also promised that he was going to take care of Sherlock.
And Mycroft felt so guilty. He felt so guilty when he saw his brother like that. He could see his left hand shaking, his limp and even his wounded shoulder. And with a quick eye movement, he understood John. He had been shot on his left shoulder. He was left handed. John was a surgeon. War killed John. War killed John's spirit and somehow, the war only returned a walking dead body. Because that is what John Watson was. John Watson was nothing more than a walking dead body, who returned to the world of the living ones eager to get a second chance.
The older brother had knowledge of every step Sherlock had over London. He didn't want to repeat his mistakes. Because he didn't need, he didn't want to find his brother overdosed. He promised John he was going to take care of Sherlock. And somehow he succeeded.
More or less.
"When it comes to avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down"
Mycroft smiled at him with his chin up. And John couldn't believe what he was witnessing, what he was being part of. Was this a revenge? A revenge because he took the place of an unborn baby also named John? Have the Holmes brothers reaping that hatred feeling against him? Because the man part of the British Government was laughing, mocking him. John could feel it.
"I don't want to sit down"
He looked into his brother's eyes. And as with Sherlock, John could see sadness. Mycroft had the same green eyes of their father Richard Holmes, and they used to shine. John remembered Mycroft's green eyes shinning every time they were watching the news and something good had happened to the country. And he knew his brother's green eyes were shinning because he had been behind that.
But Mycroft's eyes only expressed sadness.
"You don't see very afraid"
"And yo don't seem very frightening"
He laughed. He laughed in John's face.
And John fought against his own tears.
"Oh, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"
John couldn't stand it anymore. He wasn't going to play along with Mycroft. He was done.
"Why, Mycroft?"
The older Holmes let a tear fall from his green eyes and his umbrella met the floor. His hands were shaking and his legs were weak. John took his hand, just like he did when they first met and shook it. It brought Mycroft back to reality and then both brothers met in a very deep and warm hug. There were too many things to talk about, too many things to explain, but John couldn't care less. He had been craving that hug for so long that he felt that seeing his older brother again was going to be impossible.
"John... I missed you so much. I...-I thought I wasn't going to see you again"
The taller man stroked his brother's shoulders and removed the tears falling from his blue eyes. He wanted to apologize. To say how sorry he had felt and how sorry he was for all the things John had to be part of. Because John didn't need to go to that war. He wanted to help, yes. He wanted to kill people, no. But even having all the power on his hands, Mycroft couldn't prevent what happened to his brother. He lied to his father telling him he had men protecting John, that he was nothing more than a doctor. But the truth was, the truth is that John was John Watson, an orphan young man who had to learn how to reload a gun, how to throw a grenade and how to kill people.
And Mycroft felt guilty.
"I should have protected you, John. But I couldn't. Forgive me, John. I'm so sorry-"
"It's all fine, Myc. I was John Watson, there wasn't anything you could do. You occupy a minor position, remember? You couldn't send more soldiers. I know, I understand. Don't cry, Myc"
John's words were so sincere and full of sentiment.
"I'm back, remember I promised? I'm back"
Sherlock. Mycroft promised him he was going to take care of Sherlock and yet, he didn't know how he was going to tell John. How he was going to tell John that Sherlock couldn't remember him because he killed his memories with cocaine.
The older brother had all the power on his hands, he could keep millions of people safe everyday, but yet he couldn't keep his brother safe from himself and from the pain that was aching his heart when John left.
The dark figure ran and ran around Lauriston Gardens. He had to find that skip with the pink lady's suitcase, he had to. He was the great detective Sherlock Holmes. And when he did, he ran back to Baker Street.
Three patches. He needed three to think. Because for some reason, this John Watson man was a new mystery. He was a puzzle screaming at him to be solved.
Military man, wounded, psychosomatic limp, with family problems- a sister.
But there was more. Yes, of course there was more.
Because Sherlock Holmes felt a strange attraction to this man, and if this man represented a puzzle, he was definitely going to solve it.
The detective took his phone and sent a text.
Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH
"It's Sherlock, how did he- well, there isn't any point asking. He's Sherlock. Myc-"
"John, I need you to do as I say. There is something about Sherlock you should know"
The doctor ignored his brother's text and looked at Mycroft. His green eyes were darker now. And finally he was going to know why Sherlock had been ignoring him for so long, why Sherlock seemed to not recognize him.
"Why doesn't he recognize me, Myc? What happened? He looks so different, I know he's a man now, but I- what happened, Mycroft?"
"Since mummy died, Sherlock had been under a strong depression. It got worst when you left. He... he got involved with certain substances and I could get him clean before father died. After that, it got worst, John. It was hard to keep an eye on him when he knew all my methods. But after father's funeral I found him overdosed. He almost died and there is when DI Lestrade appeared-"
"Overd- What are you talking about, Mycroft?"
"I could move some of my contacts to get him a promotion. I needed someone on the police to perform the drug bust and provide Sherlock, shall we say, with cases to keep his mind occupied-"
"Drug bust? what-"
"There was a second time, John. He spent days living on a street alley injecting himself. Dose after dose. And when Lestrade found him, he had two heart attacks-"
"What happened with Sherlock, Mycroft?"
"The doctors couldn't explain it, but they believe Sherlock deleted that part of his memory which was haunting him with the overdose of cocaine. He found on cocaine a way to forget all his problems, and you, John. All the times I found him in such state, he always murmured the same things, that you were there with him but you vanished in the darkness. He told me cocaine helped him to delete you. And after the last overdose he had, when he woke up I mentioned you, but he didn't remember you. I subtly showed him pictures of you as a child, and then with him and he asked me who was that blonde kid with him. He deleted you, John"
John felt like if someone was shooting him again. But this time, at his heart. He was a doctor and he knew cocaine's side effects. And he knew Sherlock and yet he couldn't understand what he had done. Because it was his fault. It was his fault because if he hadn't left him, he wouldn't have gone sick. He promised his mummy he was going to take care of Sherlock and he didn't. He let Sherlock died.
"And my letters? You never gave him my letters?"
"I received all your letters, John. Believe me when I say I never read the ones addressed to Sherlock. Just mine. And I want you to understand I did it for his own well being-"
"How do you know that? I was asking him for forgiveness! You don't know how hard it was for me to be there, in Afghanistan, killing people and thinking Sherlock hated me! I... I wrote him every time I could. I wanted to know he was fine, because I knew something wrong was going on! And you could have told me! I could have come back-"
"It wasn't that easy, John! It was hard to get any word from Sherlock. He was heartbroken like the two of us after mummy's death! I tried, God knows I tried, but I couldn't keep him safe as I promised you!"
John thrown his walking stick to the floor and covered his face with his bare hands.
If inconvenient come anyway. SH.
Another text.
"You stopped his letters"
John wasn't asking Mycroft this time. John's voice was confident this time because he knew Mycroft Holmes. They grown up together.
"John, I tried my best. I tried my best. Sherlock is clean and I want you to keep with this flat-share, with your identity. If Sherlock finds out..." Mycroft Holmes looked down, not being able to meet John's eyes. "If Sherlock finds out, I don't know what consequences that may have"
It could be dangerous. SH
John put his phone back to his pocket and turned around, making his own way back to the car. He didn't have more words to say.