Chapter summary: John and Mycroft have a talk and a maniac gives Sherlock puzzles to solve.

Author's note: About the previous chapter, to answer a "What just happen", I apologise for not changing the rating of this fic. I will keep faithful to myself and I'll take this story to where I always wanted to since I started writing this second part. If you want to keep following, thank you for your support. If don't, I'll be absolutely fine with it. Someone asked if they will ever get together and about incest. Just remember John and Sherlock are not biological brothers and still we don't know if something will ever happen between them.

There will be more frequent updates, promise!

Apologies in advance for my mistakes. Thanks for reading and please, review!

"You never told me -"

"It was obvious," Mycroft said, cutting John off. "It surprises me you haven't deduced it already."

John was angry. "I do not deduce."

"It was obvious, John."

"Obvious?"

Mycroft nodded. "Has he ever introduced you to any sort of... woman, shall we say?"

John shook his head.

"And have you ever seen him with a woman? Has Sherlock ever talked to you about one?"

"No."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Our brother had always fancied men, John."

"Don't say it like that!"

"Like what?"

John gasped. "Are you fucking kidding me, Myc?" The doctor said angrily. "You're speaking of Sherlock's sexuality as if it'd been the most obvious thing in the world!"

"Mummy and Father knew."

"What?"

Mycroft nodded. "Everyone knew."

"Everyone but me."

"Maybe you didn't want to see it," Mycroft suggested. "Or maybe you didn't want to accept it."

John ran a hand over his face. "Look, I don't have anything against homosexuality."

"Obviously."

"I..." John trailed off. "How did you - ? Never mind."

Mycroft's eyes were on his younger brother. "Sexuality shouldn't be something to be embarrassed of, John."

"I fucking know that, Mycroft!" John said, exasperated.

Mycroft had always known. It had always been so obvious. Not as if Sherlock was an obvious homosexual who liked to wear his Mummy's shoes and dresses and try make up. But that was only a cliché. Sherlock had always been a boy who liked to look at boys. His parents and even Mycroft thought it was just a phase - confusion. But Sherlock reached his teenage years, then he was reaching adulthood when once by just looking at him you could tell he had been in another man's bed.

And that Sherlock was afraid of saying so.

Mycroft never asked but he knew both of their parents were fine with it. If Sherlock was happy that way, then they were happy as well.

Sherlock had been this close to tell everyone about his sexuality when their mother died and John joined the Army.

And that was one of the triggers that caused Sherlock to lose his own mind, do drugs and finally forget half of his own life.

"John, I need you to understand Sherlock's intimate life is not what you are thinking."

John looked at his older brother. "What am I thinking?"

"That our brother is a promiscuous homosexual."

"I don't think that -"

"Then," Mycroft cut him off. "You're surprised he's gay and that you never knew."

John said nothing.

"Sherlock had a boyfriend when Mummy died and when you left to Afghanistan."

"What?"

Mycroft swallowed. "Sherlock wanted to tell everyone, but he was afraid," the politician sighed. "It happened when Mummy died and when you joined the army."

John remained silent.

"The man was several years older than him. He was married and had children about Sherlock's age."

"You knew?" John asked. "You knew and you didn't say a fucking word?"

Mycroft shifted on the chair. "I knew nothing -" the politician sighed. "I knew nothing at that specific moment."

"And what happened?"

"You already know that. He did drugs."

John shook his head. "What happened to Sherlock's boyfriend?"

"He left Sherlock."

John couldn't believe it. When they lived together Sherlock used to disappear every now and then for several hours, sometimes most of the day and even for a weekend or just for one day. John always thought that maybe Sherlock was on a case, just walking around, or maybe with some 'girl' but now he understood.

And John couldn't help but feel so guilty. He blamed himself - because he should have known what his brother felt, what Sherlock was going through and he should have helped him.

How could he have been so blind?

"He had some lovers... nothing to be worried about," Mycroft added. "But the man you saw, Victor, he's different."

"What d'you mean?"

"Sherlock has Victor wrapped around his finger. He doesn't love him, he doesn't want him either. Sherlock only plays with him."

John nodded. "Yeah, I had to listen to them for a whole night."

"Ha-ha," Mycroft laughed sarcastically. "I've seen and heard worst, believe me."

"Ugh, don't tell me you actually saw Sherlock -" John rolled his eyes. "Myc, for God's sake!"

"I ought to take care of our brother," Mycroft said. "He likes dangerous men."

John said nothing.

They shared a nice but awkward silence just for a moment.

"Sherlock wants you."

John's eyes widened. "What?!"

"He has found you fascinating, and not so many men had done so."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Mycroft's green eyes were on John's. "That he has found you sexually attractive."

"Myc, this isn't funny."

"I do not 'joke'," Mycroft said. "And Sherlock bringing his sex toy to Baker Street and having loud sex wasn't casual. He's trying to get you into his bed. And he will do it."

John gasped angrily. "We're brothers!"

"Technically speaking, it wouldn't be incest."

"Mycroft, please!" John hissed. "I can't -"

"I'm not asking you to get into our brother's bed and satisfy him," Mycroft said, somehow angrily. "I'm merely warning you. Because Sherlock does not stop until he gets what he wants. You know that. He insisted for more than five years until Mummy got him that skull."

John covered his face with his hands because he knew Mycroft was right. Sherlock always got what he wanted. Always.

But John was certain he would never end up on his brother's bed.

No.

Never.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Bored," Sherlock replied from his chair.

He was sulking again.

"What?"

"Bored!" Sherlock shot again. "Bored!" Another shot. "Bored!"

John ran to him and took his gun odd his hands.

"Don't know what's got into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them."

The doctor rolled his eyes. "So you take it out on the wall."

"Ah, the wall had it coming."

John's blue eyes fell on Sherlock. The detective was lying on the sofa, sprawled, sulking, and John remembered the talk he had with Mycroft.

"Sherlock wants you."

"Anything in? I'm starving -" John opened the door of the fridge and then closed the door shut again when he realised there was a human head, on a silver plate, inside their fridge. "Oh fuck -" John opened the door again and looked at the head. Yes, it was an actual human head! "It's a head. It's a severed head!"

"Just tea for me, thanks," Sherlock said dismissively.

John returned to the living room. "No, there's a head in the fridge!"

"Yes."

"A bloody head!"

"Well, where else was I supposed to put it?" Sherlock asked sarcastically. "You don't mind, do you? Having a head..." John looked at him. "In the fridge? I got it from Bart's morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death."

Sherlock turned his head to see John was sitting on his chair, his hands buried on his hands.

"I see you've written up the taxi driver case."

"Yeah."

"'A Study in Pink'," Sherlock said. "Nice."

John nodded. "Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone, there was a lot of pink. Did you like it?"

"No."

"Why not? I thought you'd be flattered."

"Flattered?" Sherlock asked angrily. "'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'" The detective knew the words by heart.

John licked his lip. "No, hang on a minute. I didn't mean that in a -"

"Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way?" Sherlock asked, sitting on the sofa. "Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister or who's sleeping with who -"

"Whether the Earth goes round the Sun -"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not that again. It's not important."

"Not important -" John shifted on the chair to look at Sherlock properly. "It's primary school stuff. How can you not know that?"

"Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it."

"Deleted it?"

"Yes!" Sherlock said, exasperated. "This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful - really useful. Ordinary people, like you, fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

John nodded. He remembered Sherlock complaining when they were little about going to school to learn the Solar System. Sherlock told their parents it was meaningless. John said it was fascinating. And of course he knew how Sherlock's brain worked.

Sherlock had deleted him.

"But it's the solar system!"

"Oh, hell! What does that matter? So we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots." Sherlock went back to his position flat on the sofa, but with his back to John. "Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world."

John watched Sherlock curling into a ball, giving his back to him.

It hurt.

But it reminded him of their days as teenagers, when John had dates and Sherlock stayed at home.

God.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked when he turned to see John walking to the door. "You just got home."

'You just got home.'

"Out. I need some air."

"Oh-oh!" Mrs Hudson smiled when she realised his tenant was sulking. "Have you two had a little domestic?"

Sherlock walked to the window and looked at John crossing the street.

"Oh, it's a bit nippy out there. He should have wrapped himself up a bit more."

"Look at that, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said, his eyes still focused on John's form, walking away from him. "Quiet, calm, peaceful. Isn't it hateful?"

"Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock. A nice murder that'll cheer you up."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Can't happen too soon."

"Goodbye, John," Mycroft said smiling. "See you very soon."

John sighed and glanced at Sherlock. The detective looked angry. Almost jealous.

"Why'd you lie? You've got nothing on, not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

Mycroft had come to Sherlock after the explosion because apparently some 'Westie' lost an important memory stick with information - some 'plans' of the government. Sherlock refused to help saying he was busy so finally Mycroft left John in charge of it.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Oh, I see."

Sherlock looked at him confusedly.

"Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

"Why are you obsessed with Mycroft? He's hateful, annoying, ugly," Sherlock said, half angrily. "You're always thinking I'm rude to him."

"Because you are," John said. "He's your brother. At least you have one who cares about you."

Sherlock shrugged. "You don't even care about your sister, the drinker."

It felt like a knife in his heart.

Sherlock's phone chimed. "Sherlock Holmes."

And John watched Sherlock's eyes lit up.

"Of course. How could I refuse?" The detective finished the call and stood up. "Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?"

John licked his lip. "If you want me to."

"Of course," Sherlock said, opening the door for John. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

"Carl Powers."

John frowned. "Sorry, who?"

"Carl Powers, John," Sherlock repeated. "You don't remember?"

Of course John remembered. It was Christmas Day, they had unwrapped their presents and they were watching telly together when they saw it on the news. A boy about their age died drowned in a swimming competition in a pool in Bristol. The reporters were explaining that apparently the kid, Carl Powers, suffered an epilepsy attack during the competition and no one could save him. John recognised the kid immediately when the photo appeared in the screen. He was their classmate.

"He didn't had epilepsy. Someone killed him."

Little Sherlock ran to Mycroft, to his mother and even to his father saying all his deductions leaded to the conclusion someone killed Carl Powers and that he had to call the police. All of them couldn't help him, not because they doubted about his deductive skills, they weren't fools not to notice Sherlock's intelligence, but they knew the police would refuse to hear an under-age kid with deductive skills. After that, Sherlock was angry. He knew someone killed Carl Powers and he really wanted to prove it, but no one cared about it but John.

John sat next to him on his bed and squeezed his hand reassuringly.

Sherlock told his brother all his deductions and how he knew the kid was murdered.

"It's all fine, Sherlock. I believe you."

John knew he couldn't tell Sherlock about that night many, but many years ago. "What is it?"

"It's where I began. The curtain rises."

"What?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing."

"No," John insisted. "What did you mean?"

"I've been expecting this for some time." Sherlock's phone chimed. "Pass me my phone."

"Where is it?"

"Jacket."

John blushed. He walked towards Sherlock and started patting his jacket, slightly angrily.

"Careful!"

John bit his lower lip. He found Sherlock's mobile on the pocket inside his jacket. He could feel how warm Sherlock felt and the detective slightly moaned when John slid his hand into his jacket.

God.

"Text from your brother."

"Delete it."

John was confused. "Delete it?"

"Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it."

Any progress on Andrew West's death? - MH

"Well, Mycroft thinks there is. He's texted you eight times. Must be important."

Sherlock sighed exasperated. "Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"

"His what?"

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this - why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?"

"Try and remember there's a woman here who might die."

Sherlock looked up at John. "What for? This hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?"

John looked away.

"Mycroft said he cried by my side. See how good it did to me."

The doctor remained silent.

"Any luck?"

It was Molly Hooper.

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock said happily.

Behind Molly was a man, a man neither John nor Sherlock had seen before.

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock was still working on his microscope, not looking at Molly and not even at the man she was introducing them to.

"John Watson. Hi," John said politely.

The man smiled. "Hi." He looked at Sherlock. "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?"

Sherlock remained silent.

"Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance," Molly commented awkwardly.

"Gay."

Molly's eyes widened. "What?"

Sherlock turned. "Nothing. Um, hey."

Jim dropped a metal dish to the floor.

God, it was so awkward.

"Sorry! Sorry!"

No one said a word.

"Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at the Fox, 'bout six-ish?"

Molly smiled. "Yeah!"

The man smiled at Sherlock. "Bye."

Sherlock remained silent.

John knew he was trying to flirt with Sherlock.

And it was so painfully awkward.

"What d'you mean, gay?" Molly asked, as soon as Jim left the lab. "We're together."

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

"Two and a half."

"No, three," Sherlock corrected her.

John sighed. "Sherlock -"

"He's not gay. Why d'you have to spoil -" Molly said angrily. "He's not."

"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock asked almost mockingly.

John gasped. "Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair."

"You wash your hair. There's a difference. No - tinted eyelashes. Clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines. Those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."

Molly frowned. "His underwear?"

"Visible above the waistline – very visible. Very particular brand," Sherlock said and then took the paper left under the dish Jim had dropped. "That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly was close to tears when she ran away the lag, slamming the door shut.

"Charming. Well done."

"Just saving her time," Sherlock said calmly. "Isn't that kinder?"

"Kinder?" John asked sarcastically. "No, no, Sherlock. That wasn't kind."

"So why's he doing this, then – playing this game with you? Do you think he wants to be caught?"

Sherlock smiled from his chair. "I think he wants to be distracted."

"I hope you'll be very happy together."

Sherlock turned to him. "Sorry, what?"

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual human lives… Just -" John was angry. "Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

"Will caring about them help save them?"

"No."

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"And you find that easy, do you?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, very. Is that news to you?"

"No." John said, with a bitter smile.

"I've disappointed you."

John smiled even widely, but bitterly. "That's a good deduction, yes."

John was disappointed because this Sherlock was nothing like the Sherlock he used to be. The Sherlock he knew was not like this. The old Sherlock cared, had feelings, smiled, loved his family. This Sherlock was all the opposite. This Sherlock never cared, had no feelings, never smiled and hated Mycroft.

And John wondered if Sherlock hated him too.

Because there had been many people taken as hostages, a fake painting, an old lady died and Sherlock seemed not to care at all.

And it hurt.

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

"No, no, no! Of course he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!"

John chuckled from behind. "Knew it was dangerous."

"Hmm?"

"Getting you into crap telly."

Sherlock nodded slightly. "Hmm. Not a patch on Connie Prince."

"Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?"

"Yes. He was over the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood. Again."

John smiled. "You know, I'm still waiting."

"Hmm?"

"For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well, it didn't do you any good, did it?"

"No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective."

"True."

"I won't be in for tea. I'm going to Sarah's," John said, standing up and heading to the door. "There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge."

There was a look of pain in Sherlock's eyes. "Hmm."

"Uh, milk. We need milk."

"I'll get some."

John frowned. "Really?"

"Really."

"And some beans, then?" John asked, knowing Sherlock would probably say no or protest.

"Yes."

John left.

The detective pulled out his computer and typed a message on his website.

Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect.

The Pool. Midnight.

Finally, he was going to meet not only Carl Powers' killer, but also the man behind the game.

Promise for next chapter: John finds himself wearing a jacket with enough semtex to blow him up and the unexpected happens.