Chapter 16
With the ends of his hair still dripping slightly from the shower, Sherlock re-entered the main area of the gymnasium. His body was a bit sore from the exercise, but it was a pleasant sort of feeling. In any case, he was much more relaxed than when he had left the morgue, and that upsetting incident with his friend Molly.
The memory of her tear stained face suddenly reemerged in his mind and he promptly pushed it in one corner. Instead he focused on his mates, wondering now what they had decided to do with the rest of their night. Lestrade had appeared to be highly suspicious when he calmly consented to go down the pub, and catch the Cup semi-final on the television.
The recovering detective had explained that everyone should have turn; John had wanted to go to the hospital, he had gotten to visit the gymnasium and now it was only fair that Greg should decide where their merry band should go next.
'Ready,' Sherlock announced as he approached the two men who were talking softly with their heads close together.
'So...the pub?' Lestrade repeated unsurely, as though checking to see if his answer had changed within the last 15 minutes.
The young man rolled his eyes. 'I already explained...'
'...it's not normally your speed,' John cut across him before an argument arose, 'but it's all fine if you want to go there.'
'Forward then!' Sherlock pointed imperiously out the door as he trotted off happily; the matter being settled satisfactorily in his mind.
The Inspector exchanged pained looks with the doctor.
John was pale but composed as he took Sherlock's decision in stride. While it was always pleasant to have a co-operative Sherlock around, Lestrade was missing their temperamental companion as much as John was. The man in front of them was like a watery painting, when compared to Sherlock's normally tempestuous spirit. They should be enjoying this lull in the frenetic whirlwind that came with being close to the world famous detective, but they unfortunately were not.
Sherlock turned around when he realised that no one was following.
'Ready?'
Lestrade forced himself to laugh loudly then, trying to diffuse some of the tension. He threw an arm across Sherlock's shoulders and drew him close in a playful bear hug, 'Yeah, we are ready but we better head to my place to dress. I don't think you have anything proper to wear.'
'He doesn't,' John agreed with a small smile, hurrying to catch up with Sherlock on his right.
The young man raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing as he was pulled along. He was just glad that he had somewhere to go and someone to be with. He was in no hurry to face another night staring into his empty mind.
'Who is playing?'
This was obviously the right question as all the way there, the two football fans animatedly traded factoids and other interesting statistics. They seemed to forget that he was there in between them, which made Sherlock feel a little left out, but he stubbornly sucked it up and tried to at least memorise some of the team names and the major players.
They took the tube and between one stop to the next, he was hopelessly lost.
Terrific.
He considered asking the two men to change plans for the evening, but he couldn't; not when he saw how excited they looked. He knew John was feeling the strain of baby sitting him all day. He couldn't take away this opportunity for him to have break, could he? What sort of best friend would do that?
Soon they had arrived at Lestrade's house and Sherlock didn't know where to look next as the man laid out his numerous football jerseys on the couch; generously inviting him to take his pick. It warmed him from the inside out, the supreme pains they were taking to make him feel welcome, and to be part of their excitement.
Unfortunately though, it did not appear that he followed the sport as John could not reveal his team preference.
He fingered a blue and gold sport jersey tentatively. 'This one, then?'
Lestrade declared this to be a splendid choice and quick as a blink, he had the jersey over Sherlock's head. Sherlock looked down to survey his new look. The garment fitted him well across the shoulders but it was bit loose in the mid section.
'Do I look well?' he asked his mates, as he attempted to flatten his curls into order.
Lestrade had then enthusiastically offered to paint Sherlock's face to which the recovering detective backed off in alarm, hitting his shoulder against a cupboard in his haste to escape.
'For crying out loud,' Lestrade scolded, waving the small pots at him, 'It's not make up! Get a hold of yourself, man!'
John also firmly declined the offer of face paint as he took a jersey for himself. The older man sniffed at their conservative attitude, while happily proceeding to deck himself off in his team colors from head to toe. They were almost ready to leave when Sherlock turned back and scooped up an extra jersey.
John shrugged in answer to Lestrade's questioning look, but time was of the essence now to get good seats, and they hurried to the Inspector's favourite establishment (HD TV people; HD).
However, if anyone asked Sherlock what he thought of semi-finals night, he would have to admit that he really couldn't hear much over all the screaming, cussing and yelling. It was meditative though to watch the numbers on the screen slowly tick by, and he employed himself watching the minutes and goals pile up; sipping his single beer while safely cocooned between John and Greg's bodies. They didn't seem to at all mind his subdue viewing of their game.
Every now and then though Sherlock glanced at the door or his mobile phone, hoping that his specially invited guest would arrive before the festivities were over. However, they were twenty minutes into the first half before the door finally opened.
Yes!
Hastily he removed their jackets, which they had piled on to the empty chair to save it from being snagged by one of the other patrons. Sherlock waved his arm vigorously trying to get his brother's attention,'over here! what's the matter? Are you blind? I am the only one here in a blue and gold jersey!'
'Huh?' was Lestrade's semi-intelligent remark at the sudden appearance of the suit clad, umbrella carrying government agent, in the grimy loud sports bar.
John looked equally stunned and then worried as Sherlock continued to point vigorously at the empty seat while Mycroft looked at him flatly, certainly not impressed that his brother's summons had caused him to be in this disreputable place. After a while, the older man turned around and walked out the door while Sherlock stood there, mouth hanging open slightly at the snub.
John instinctively tried to put a supportive arm around his friend, only to be angrily pushed off as the detective barreled out the door in pursuit of his big brother, presumably to give him a piece of his mind.
'Save the seats!' John called over his shoulder at the Inspector, as he hurried to follow.
'Are you kidding?' the man yelled back, 'What the blazes is going on? I can't keep three seats in this crowd!'
'Use your badge!' he yelled back in reply.
The doctor was moving so quickly that he almost stepped on the two brothers who were just outside the front door.
'So, you are a bastard, all of the time,' Sherlock growled testily to his sibling, crossing his arms defensively across his chest in a telling show of how he really felt at the man's refusal to spend any of his off duty time with him. 'I have been told we don't get along, but really? Isn't this juvenile? We don't have to talk, you prat! It's so loud in there we would need a megaphone.'
'Ah John,' Mycroft intoned genially, not addressing his brother directly, 'come to referee, as per usual.'
The doctor eyed him stonily, warning him that he was not in the mood to be belittled by anyone with the last name of Holmes.
Your brother is alone and hurting. Say something appropriate before I hang you by your stupid neck tie.
However, the government agent was not in the mood to do anything but smirk, apparently deeply amused to see his little brother so festively attired.
In the meantime, Sherlock's arms dropped to his sides in defeat as the silence lengthened. Truly now, he couldn't wait for the day to get his memories back. He was making a hash of everything; first Molly and now this. He should stick his stupid head in a stupid paper bag, and never come out.
'Wait here, I will get you a beer before you go,' he mumbled, 'Do you drink beer?'
Mycroft blink rapidly in reply, no longer able to appear unaffected by this entire episode since receiving Sherlock's text message invitation.
When was the last time Sherlock had ever looked at him so kindly? When was the last time Sherlock offered him something to eat or drink? When was the last time his brother desired to have his company? He couldn't remember or perhaps he didn't want to remember.
Caring is not at an advantage, or didn't you know?
Sherlock was his brother yes, but he was also a specially honed tool in his arsenal for the good of the Empire; the very best instrument he had at his disposal.
Hesitantly, Mycroft stepped forward. When Sherlock didn't react, he stepped forward again and reached over to push an errant curl off Sherlock's forehead, as though he was a small boy.
The detective frowned uncertainly at the gesture and backed away; unconsciously moving to stand closer to John.
'Well a few minutes wouldn't hurt,' the older man remarked briskly, half afraid that Sherlock was about to change his mind and entirely surprised to realise that this possibility bothered him. 'If you want to spend time together we can do that, but perhaps somewhere quieter next time. Might I inquire who is playing?'
Sherlock grinned hopefully at his brother's change of heart but his smile slipped, when John suddenly stepped in between the two of them.
'I disagree,' he hissed, 'I think even a few minutes would hurt; a lot actually.'
The two men looked down at the shorter man in astonishment.
'I think you better get back to where ever you came from,' he added rudely.
'JOHN!' Sherlock yelled out in a strangled voice,''what are you doing?'
The doctor held up a gentle hand to quiet him.
'You know I am right,' John muttered to Mycroft, 'but I will make you this offer. When his mind returns, I will remind him of this night and he will decide then if he wants to come to you.'
Mycroft glared knowing full well that would hardly ever occur.
'He's a wanker I know that, but he's my brother,' Sherlock whined, 'I want him to come watch the game with us.'
'No you don't, you just think you do,' John countered softly, 'Go inside to Greg now. Trust me, Sherlock. Trust me to take care of you until you are well.'
The brothers' eyes connected over the top of the doctor's blonde head and Mycroft felt fairly ill, when Sherlock turned around and retreated into the sports pub.
'You are overstepping yourself here, Doctor Watson,' Mycroft warned in a chilling voice.
John walked back to the bar careful to keep the man in view, just in case. The way Mycroft was looking at him now reminded him once of a conversation, where Sherlock had admitted that the government agent was the most dangerous man he would ever meet.
'Good grief, the things you've done to your brother in the past,' John snorted in disbelief, 'you don't deserve him and the thing is... you know it!'
'John,' the other man intoned coldly, irritated to be called out on something that he knew to be true, and not understanding why it should irritate him at all, 'that is really none of your business.'
'Look, I don't want to fight but don't make me the bad guy here,' the doctor interjected in a conciliatory manner, 'I hope, rather than actually believe that you can rise above this cat and mouse game the two of you pass of as a normal sibling relationship, but until he recovers himself, I want you to keep your distance. This is not fair to Sherlock to ...take advantage.'
'Don't test me, doctor,' he replied enunciating every syllable with deliberate precision. 'I can take Sherlock so far away from here that you would never see him again.'
'But you know that you will have to walk over my dead body to get to him, right?'
'I could arrange that!' Mycroft snapped.
John grinned defiantly at him as he re-entered the pub. 'Get in line.'