Chapter Text
Week Seven
Afternoon
As soon as he left the cemetery the black car approached. Reluctantly, he stepped closer, opened the door and got in. He settled back with a sigh, steepled fingers under his chin. Automatic posture when concentrating.
This had not exactly been easy.
It had not been what he expected.
This had been worse.
For God's sake, what had he been thinking?
Everything seemed to slip between his fingers these days. His calculations had not quite worked out the way they were supposed to.
He would have welcomed some exercise right now, stretching his legs, perhaps. He had been imprisoned for far too long, and of course his prison warden had made sure that he couldn't escape the watchdog in his limousine, as always.
Had he ever dreamt of a day when he would actually feel the need for fresh air and and a beam of sunlight? How mundane!
But, bad as it was, he knew well enough that this wasn't his main problem right now.
Nothing but idle thoughts to distract him from the agonising scene he had just witnessed.
The vision would haunt him forever.
His "foolish excursion" had left him with a bitter aftertaste. What a smart-arse he was, his brother... 'You could have foreseen this, couldn't you?' A wry look, evaluating. Then smiling, sourly, what a stale triumph!
He knew exactly that all he wanted right now was to run like hell, just to escape his bothersome thoughts.
Not possible. Self-induced.
'Think it through, then delete it,' he told himself.
But he wouldn't.
Not right now, when closing his eyes felt like burning inside, and instead of soothing blackness he clearly saw the picture of one Dr John H. Watson... Trying to keep himself upright, failing, falling apart...
'Store it in your mind palace, think later.'
Perhaps this would be easier from a distance.
He should have known that John, always so preoccupied with his sentiment thing, would not take it easily.
But this?
'What had happened to him?'
Was he ill?
Was he perhaps suffering from a wasting disease that nobody had told him about?
It was necessary that he should know, he had insisted on being kept informed!
Nobody had told him that things were in such a bad way.
'Face it,' he scolded himself. That John was in such a bad way.
He raised his head, cleared his throat, straightened his facial features.
No use in displaying his dismay too overtly. Even this watchdog driver could collect data and impart it to his employer. Straightening up inside, however, turned out to be a much more intricate problem.
He stared out the window, trying to concentrate on the world outside.
'Boring.' Nothing to absorb his confused thoughts.
'Stupid, stupid!' He had so many pressing challenges waiting for him!
Why could he not simply concentrate?
But whatever tasks he tried to focus on, his mind was constantly digressing.
John had clearly lost weight! 4.25 pounds at least.
Due to the weight loss his face looked more wrinkled than ever. Circumorbital rings and lacrimal sacs clearly indicated a severe lack of sleep. Plus an overall radiation of strain to be deduced from his physical tension, obviously visible in every movement. All together this meant John had reached a highly dangerous level of exhaustion, both physically and mentally.
John must not break down!
He suddenly felt like using one of his former flatmate's preferred swear words.
Of course he didn't.
'Illiterate. Useless.'
That was exactly how he felt right now: 'Impotent.'
What had he done? - Yet...What else could he have done?
With time as limited as it had been, he could hardly have worked out a more elaborate plan.
It had been unpleasant, admittedly, but it had served its purpose. His nemesis was dead, he himself and the people he intended to protect were not.
'Objective achieved.'
But as things go in life, somebody had to pay the price.
He hadn't calculated with the payer being his former flatmate.
"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." So he had been told.
"They all care so much."
John had cared, too much. Now he had hit rock bottom.
He should have known.
And there was nothing he could do about it at the moment.
In fact, given the same situation again, he would act in the same manner.
It had been cruel, but it was definitely safer for all persons involved.
Actually, there were already too many people who knew too much, for his taste...
John was reliable to the core. He had committed his life to him numerous times, since the night with the cabbie. He was absolutely sincere and always straightforward, unlike himself, he had to admit. But that was the point, to be honest.
John was no great actor, and had he had the faintest idea, all of his elaborate plans would have become vulnerable.
Lives end. Hearts are broken. That's what hearts do.
It was for John's own good, he told himself.
But.
He had seen him.
'Stop it.'
John would cope, he would soldier on, he was strong! Had he not invaded Afghanistan?
"That wasn't just me," he had corrected him.
Now he was all on his own again. And he looked even worse than the short, ex-army doctor with a trembling left hand, determinedly limping through London, whom he had met back then.
He had seen him.
He was coming apart at the seams.
This was not logical.
For God's sake, John was a doctor!
He had found a proper job again, he would most certainly be able to afford Mrs Hudson's rent on his own now. He had colleagues. John madefriends with other people easily, didn't he?
What about all those mates John used to meet at the pub?
What about all his dates he always loved to boast about?
Why, he had even invited them home! Every now and then, Sherlock had been forced to stumble across one of John's recent acquaintances when returning to 221B after a tedious investigation. He couldn't even bring himself to bother with their names...
He did have a social life, John had pointed out on one of these rare occasions Sherlock had dared to so much as complain.
"At least I could have one, if you would not go and spoil everything from the start, every time I try to get off with a woman!" he could still hear him shouting. ”I'm going to be forty in no time and I really think I should at least try and settle down! It has never been my aim in life to be called a 'confirmed old bachelor' by these scandalmongers. Do you even read the papers, sod it?!"
It had not hurt, that one, not really...
For John, life meant more than chasing around London, always running after criminals.
It meant more than having belated dinners in the early morning hours at Angelo's with his freakish flatmate who could only eat after he had successfully solved a case. Never during work. Ever...
Right then, he had his beer drinking pals and his Sarahs and Jeanettes, why would he look so upset?
John was no longer alone, now, was he?
'Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!'
He had known John wouldn't take it easily, but this was different.
He had always known that John cared for him.
He could go on about it for hours if Sherlock had not been able to eat properly for days while on a case...
Even if he told him that it really didn't matter, that all that mattered to him was his brain!
It was not his fault.
He was just so pedestrian that he couldn't understand that Sherlock could only eat when he was at ease, when his mind was calm. He would rather ignore a rumbling stomach than waste time or energy on it that would be better spent on the case.
Information, details, clues were what he craved in those moments, revealing invisible connections, catching a glimpse of the faintest evidence, fitting them together in a novel constellation, so that in the end he was the only one to see the truth. Solving crimes fed his brain. And that was so much superior to securing his transport.
John had never accepted that, being the good doctor he was.
"No brain without a body, idiot!"he used to reply almost affectionately.
"Drink your tea."
What had he been thinking?
He had lived with this man for eighteen months.
In fact, John had endured his company longer than anybody else had, ever, ...voluntarily...
In the beginning he had tried to unsettle him, experimenting with John's capacity to endure his odd nature. He had always known that he was different from ordinary people. Superior. But, to his surprise, so was John!
Oh, no, nobody would call John a genius, not even a lunatic, although some of them seriously doubted his sanity when he moved in with Sherlock Holmes. To all the world he was just a nice mate, a good doctor, another ordinary bloke. All of them, with their funny little brains, why could they just not see, how special he was?
He was different in so many fascinating ways! Sherlock never grew tired of studying his reactions.
John could live with bullet holes in the living room wall, he could live with various parts of the human body in various places in his kitchen, which was actually Sherlock's laboratory, to be honest! As long as he could help himself to a cup of tea, he seemed to come to terms with anything Sherlock said or did.
Sometimes he would disappear, if Sherlock went too far, when he ran riot again, but he never left him alone, he never left for good.
Over the last eighteen months he had always been with him.
He had grown accustomed to the sensation of having a companion.
He had grown used to him, had slowly dared to build his life around him. Began to feel comfortable in his company, dared to relax, even enjoyed their mutual lives, well, most of the time...
"Piss off" had never come from John, he had always admired his abilities, blithely ignoring other people's whispers. He was the only person apart from himself who had ever spoken out loud and clear how "extraordinary", how "amazing" he was! He had, at times, seen the good man in him already.
How disappointed he had looked, when Sherlock had told him that he was not a hero. John was a man who would believe in heroes...
In the weeks leading up to his 'suicide', he had found out that he liked it better when they were in sync.
When John did one of his conductor-of-light-things only he could do.
When he had to admit he needed him.
Then he felt something he had never felt for another person before.
Trust. Friendship. ...Perhaps more? ...Love?
They had never touched on that subject, though....
But he was absolutely certain that John had once and for all accepted him the way he was.
He had never failed him.
He would be there for him.
The tiniest smirk flickered over his face.
He did feel sorry down to his bones for John, but at the same time he had to monitor the absurdly discombobulating sensation, creeping up warm inside his chest, every time he thought about this inexplicable man.
Thinking about the future was certainly less pleasant.
Would he eventually be able to return home some day?
Until this afternoon he had never doubted that this was his route.
He had not deliberately hurt John. He had been forced to!
After all he had had to deal with none less than James Moriarty!
But finding John as he had today, he honestly wondered if the man would ever take him back.
If John could ever forgive his betrayal.
Something to worry about for the times to come.
For now, he could do little else than store all his newly collected data about hisfriend in the special room called John inside his mind palace.
But he left a mental note on the door that read:
'Care for him, make sure that nothing harms him any further.'
'Return as soon as possible!'
Right at the moment, he had to face the fact that he would be eye to eye with his arch-enemy in exactly one hour and twenty-three minutes, if the man didn't delay London rush-hour traffic further by deliberately starting some minor war...
Late Afternoon
David Cameron slammed the door in annoyance.
If they had told him that he would have less power in his present occupation than a caretaker at a primary school, he would have packed it in!
In fact he could do now!
He wouldn't, anyway, ...but the man behind the door, brooding in his office, could well become his coffin nail, some day!
Like all of his fellow party members he had known him for years, and of course this had nourished his suspicions...
He would have guessed something rather obscure, ...secret service...?
But who'd have thought that the distinguished gentleman with his posh manners and his omnipresent umbrella was in fact the British government himself, these days?
He had been sent away like a schoolboy:
"Mr. Holmes has to attend to some more pressing business this afternoon," he had been informed by the ever-smiling assistant with the outlandish...Greek? ... What was her name?
Arrogant bugger!
Still
This would not be easy, he knew. It never was when it came to his brother.
All his life he had managed to become entangled in various sorts of trouble.
Even as a child he had always upset Mummy!
And from the beginning to this day he worried about him, constantly.
Mycroft Holmes sat at the huge conference table in his office at No.10.
Head bent, face buried in his hands, with a countenance of total defeat.
The last year had almost been carefree, it seemed now.
Since this Dr Watson had limped into Sherlock's life, he had been able to gradually loosen control over his brother.
He could slowly reduce his surveillance of 221B, leaving his baby brother to the care of the former army doctor.
Oh yes, he had been sceptical in the beginning; who would not have been, considering his brother's chosen profession and his drug-contaminated past...?
But it had taken him no time to deduce that John Watson was special, and in an almost fairytale way just perfect as a companion for Sherlock.
He could never quite lay a finger on how exactly their relationship worked.
But it did!
After just one case running around like madmen through the streets of London, the good doctor had already lost his psychosomatic limp.
The intermittent tremor in his left hand was a little bit more persistent.
It switched on and off depending on the state of John Watson's personal danger level he was living in, at any given moment. But unlike with real PTSD, which that useless therapist had diagnosed, the trembling vanished every time a situation provided the appropriate amount of danger. Thus, living with his brother had also cured that handicap, in a manner of speaking.
Sherlock supplied the doctor with enough excitement, and hence adrenaline, to forget about his ailment, rather quickly.
That had been a bargain as well.
Now Sherlock had a personal bodyguard who could shoot like a sniper, trained by the British military. Moreover, the man was a capable doctor and God knows, Sherlock needed one, far too many times.
The doctor's nightmares, however, had proven themselves a more permanent problem, but he managed well enough. Perhaps the two flatmates had come closer emotionally than they would have liked to admit? That could have helped.
The dreams would be back now, even worse...
Inexplicably, the two men had seemed to enjoy each other's company.
'Strange that...' Mycroft could clearly see the mutual benefits. ...'as for the rest?' he wondered.
He had never seen his brother, insane as he was, as relaxed as in these last eighteen months. Boyish, at times almost happy. More balanced, certainly, than he had ever witnessed him before.
He had been a difficult child.
Had he ever heard Sherlock laugh out loud genuinely, ... heartily?
Recent developments had given him the opportunity to loosen his tight grip a little.
He had hoped for Sherlock that he would seek his advice on his own account more frequently, but that had not been the case.
Sometimes his brother almost seemed to hate him...
At least Mycroft had known him in good hands.
As good as possible, considering the circumstances they all lived in.
Yet, in the end this strange sort of friendship had become more of a concern than any of Sherlock's cases.
Mycroft had foreseen some sort of catastrophe.
'Anyone could have seen this coming!' he thought with a frown.
Had he not told Sherlock often enough that caring was not an advantage? 'Obviously not.'
His ever stubborn brother had once again preferred to find things out the hard way!
He had given his heart, head over heels, to one short, forty-year-old Dr John H. Watson.
He had even given up smoking, if one could imagine that!
'He would never have done anything so thoughtful for Mummy or me,' Mycroft sighed.
But he could tolerate this arrangement whole-heartedly, because John Watson for his part seemed not to be too responsive to the numerous changes in Sherlock's character. Seemed not to notice Sherlock's growing affection for him.
Perhaps he just wasn't attracted to him?
No, given their behaviour these last months, one could readily assume that there had been some sort of deeper relationship looming.
John Watson had probably still been struggling with the concept of his predominantly heterosexual identity.
And what did his brother do? Go and spoil it all with one inconsiderate move!
Granted, Mycroft had his part in the disaster.
In the end they could consider themselves lucky to have escaped the spider's web alive at all...
This Moriarty man had been a real threat.
Not only to Sherlock, but also to himself, to world peace! He had had potential.
So you could not deny Sherlock a certain brilliance. His little brother was in fact a proper genius...
But why did everything Sherlock ventured have to end in such utter chaos?
Now it was up to him once more to tidy up the mess.
Only today had he finally managed to ascertain without any further doubts that this consulting criminal was no more, and even better, would no longer be, in the future.
It had been more difficult than anticipated, yet nonetheless of the gravest importance.
He would not have been the first one, nor the last, to have faked his own death.
Thus, first priority on Mycroft Holmes' agenda.
No wonder he could not muster the stamina to bother with those petty problems David wanted to discuss earlier...
'Definitely not today!'
The man could well wait until this crisis was dealt with.
World financial systems would manage to crash without their help, he was quite positive.
John Watson was a more pressing problem, right now. The man was looking worse day by day...
At the funeral he still seemed to be doing quite well.
John had blamed him and seemed to be fine with his hatred. Better than having nothing to cling to, Mycroft had soothed himself. No harm done. John Watson and his gun would never get near him without his knowledge, and so any potential for damage was eliminated.
Several weeks later things did look different, indeed.
His surveillance had revealed a more and more unbalanced doctor.
As time passed, he seemed to be focussing his wrath increasingly at himself, which was not good.
Mycroft certainly not only had the power to survey but also to step in when a critical point was reached.
But he would prefer not to!
'It would be inelegant... And highly embarrassing for both sides.'
He dreaded to imagine such a scenario.
However, if need be, he would intervene. Sherlock might go berserk otherwise.
Living with his brother was becoming increasingly hellish, as days stretched into weeks.
He spent most of his time at No.10, and his evenings at the Diogenes Club. Trying to avoid Sherlock's company as best he could.
The madman's moods could vary from bursting with manic energy to depressive within a single hour! It made Mycroft feel giddy.
'How did this placid doctor ever manage to flatshare with Sherlock?' he wondered not for the first time.
Well, not his problem. They seemed to match, and all that mattered to him was that he could get rid of Sherlock in the near future! - Mycroft frowned.
'But honestly!' Speaking of the insanity he had insisted on committing today...
"I need to go and see John!"
His brother was a genuine nightmare!
It was his own fault...
Increasingly irritated with Sherlock's unruly behaviour, he had casually mentioned the doctor's determination to visit the grave... ' Very bad mistake, that...'
At first it had seemed as if Sherlock was not even paying attention. His remark had not resulted in any comment from his brother's side. He seemed to ignore it as he did almost everything Mycroft said.
He had been relieved.
He shouldn't have been...
For once Sherlock must have listened, because that very morning he had calmly informed him that he would go and see John Watson.
That afternoon.
He needed to.
There was no way he could keep him from doing so.
How on earth had he found out? Dispensable.
One look in his eyes...
Mycroft knew his brother.
So he had made sure that one of the black cars was waiting at his back door at the given time.
It was all he could do.
He didn't tell him to be careful. It would have done no good.
He could only hope for the best, and pray that Sherlock would not crack completely...would not ruin everything...
Nothing was gained, not yet. There was still a long and hazardous way to go.
He heaved a sigh and rose from his chair as his assistant - whose real name was not Anthea - entered the room.
"Everything's fixed," she informed him. "We should be on our way by now."
Evening
Sherlock had been pacing back and forth through the room with increasing impatience.
He felt trapped like an animal in here! He didn't care for convenience or style. All he was interested in were his needs being stilled. He could not longer stay in his brother's house, hiding from the world, while outside the spider's web whose creator he had destroyed was slowly but steadily being rebuilt by his criminal remnants. There were still too many of Moriarty's partners busy with restoring his empire.
They had to be eliminated once and for all.
The moment had never been more opportune.
In this his brother did agree. Rare enough. There was hardly ever mutual consent between them.
'Mycroft...' - He did not like to think about his brother, but as things had turned out, he could not get around him for long.
Mycroft had always shown him his superiority.
Mycroft had always been jealous because Mummy had loved him better!
So he had bullied his little brother from the date of his birth down to the present day.
Sherlock hated to come to his brother with his problems, and had always tried to avoid it.
But the more details he tried to hide from him, the more Mycroft tried to stick his nose into things that were clearly not his concern.
When they were younger he had always been several steps ahead, which had left Sherlock furious with impotent rage.
Wasn't this his life, for God's sake?
The drugs had only been a logical consequence.
Sherlock took them because he wanted to escape from social constraints, from his boredom, from his brother's reproachful eyes. He could well have managed on his own, he had not been a typical addict. He was in control of his consumption! Had he at that time not already known Lestrade and helped him out with his little problems at the Yard?
But that had only confirmed to Mycroft that his prejudices were on target...
And he did indeed love to be dramatic about everything.
'Just take his obsession with Moriarty's death, right now!' He actually stamped his foot.
His brother simply couldn't admit that Sherlock had outplayed the criminal mastermind.
Of course the man was dead! He had practically shot himself in Sherlock's arms.
But no, Mycroft had to make sure. How could he simply trust the word of his little brother?
But today it should be over, Mycroft had promised him this morning, today he would get his information.
As if they hadn't known seven weeks ago...
Today...
"Stay, you can do nothing until we know for sure that there is no immediate danger."
"You cannot reveal yourself, you know that!"
"He wouldn't even know you're there!"
"There's no point! This is insane! Sherlock, don't go, for God's sake!"
He had waited for Mycroft to intervene, as John had entered the stage.
Of course he had tried in the beginning.
The whole nine yards, first threatening, then bribing, followed by open derision at last.
But.
'Everything had rolled off John,' he thought proudly. He sustained it with a little disapproving smile.
He moved calmly along his path with broad shoulders, and a straight backbone, his doctor...
Sherlock shook his head in annoyance.
He found himself cowering in one of those huge, tasteless armchairs of his brother's, all curled up, eyes closed, a goofy smirk plastered all over his face, dreaming of a short, blond, tired man...
Even Mycroft seemed to have accepted his flatmate in the end. As if he had become family in some strange way.
This was not what he was supposed to be focussing on right now, he told himself.
But this also was John.
Always ready to invade his thoughts, easily undermining his self-discipline, and he actually liked it.
Late Evening
Then he was no longer alone. They had finally arrived. Eight minutes and forty-one seconds late.
He darted off the armchair, straightened his jacket, prepared himself.
"Hello, brother dear, how are you?" How he despised his drawling manner of speech.
He didn't even bother to answer.
Anthea - who actually had another name - just smiled at him, as always.
One rarely heard her speak. Perhaps he should some day find out her real name, perhaps that would elicit more than a smile from her mouth.
Mycroft didn't ask, so he didn't bother to tell.
He was probably already fully informed.
The afternoon had been an emotional minefield. He wasn't used to squandering too many thoughts on other people's feelings, ...nor on his own.
It had been tedious!
And things didn't seem to be improving.
Suddenly he realised how uncomfortable he felt. 'Interesting.'
"As I expected, I was reliably informed this morning that James Moriarty is no longer with us."
"Cut your sententious lecture! I told you before," he snapped. "I was there, remember?"
He could not care less if he was annoying the most dangerous man he had ever known, the man he had to ask for help over and over again.
Hard to say who suffered more from their reciprocal dependency.
Mycroft didn't respond, instead preferring to change the subject.
"Well, we have been through this before and I'm quite positive you are capable of recalling the details of our further procedure." Mycroft actually had the gall to smile at him.
"So, have you steeled yourself?"
"No need to, I have made up my mind and I have no intention to change it," he answered, trying to sound more composed than he actually felt.
He folded himself into the chair Anthea had prepared for him.
Heartbeat increased, palms sweaty, mouth dry.
No need to be a genius to deduce that he was actually nervous.
"The chemicals all mixed? The implements sharpened?" Mycroft asked with his most amiable voice.
Sherlock had always suspected that his brother was a sadist.
Anthea had nothing but an angelic smile in return.
When she started he closed his eyes. He didn't want to see what she was doing to him.
By the time she was ready, he was soaked in sweat, fists clenched, jaw so tight it was giving him a headache.
Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, hardly dared to look into the mirror she held ready.
She had shaved almost all of his dark black curls and dyed the rest of his stubbly hair blond.
He looked defaced!
He began to feel sick.
Yes, he knew he was vain, always so concerned with his appearance.
Had John not numerous times complained about his cool looks? He had liked it. He had felt flattered when he noticed his looks!
'No John, not now,' he told himself as he watched his face in the mirror, the way it went soft with his thoughts.
'By the way, he wouldn't even recognise you now, even if you jumped on him,' he couldn't help thinking.
"What else?" he asked, in what he hoped was a cold voice.
It was meant to distract his brother, whose inquisitive look seemed to bore through him. It wouldn't work...
They gave him a bog-standard suit, glasses, and a tie of all things!
Mycroft knew that he never wore ties!
This was deliberate torture and mortification. He hated him for this!
Without a word he dashed to the bathroom, slamming the door as hard as he possibly could.
He had to take several deep breaths.
'Calm down!' he told himself. ' He enjoys a spectacle.'
Disgusted, he changed into his new clothes, took on his new identity.
'Something like this must come from a brother who is supposed to be the British government, after all...' he thought, gnashing his teeth in anger.
Night
There was nothing much left to say.
"Thank you," when Mycroft handed him his identity papers.
He was now one Mr Sigerson from Norway, for as long as it would take to bring down the rest of Moriarty's web.
Rather sooner than later, he hoped.
He missed his hair, and he missed his old life already.
He would have enjoyed the thrill of the adventure only two years ago, he was certain.
He would now too, he suddenly realised, if he didn't feel so lost.
The life he had led in the last year and a half had rubbed off on him.
He had asked his brother before, he remembered all of a sudden.
He wondered now if there was something wrong with him...
When had he become so sentimental? So pathetically weak?
He had left London before. After all, this was only a city, it would exist forever, and he would return someday, ready to explore its changes, absorbing even the tiniest alteration like a dried-out sponge, adding every new detail to his mind palace.
Just streets and buildings and struggling lives.
Data that would not get lost.
In the meantime he would explore the world of crime. This should leave him buzzing with anticipation!
'Couldn't be for the work,' he thought. His latest mission was so much more thrilling than the immature stuff Lestrade troubled him with, most of the time. And to never see the vacant faces of Sally Donovan, or heaven forbid - how could he now of all times waste a thought on him: Anderson - would be an unquestionable relief!
But they had only been on the fringes. They had no deeper influence on his life whatsoever. He would in fact be better off without them.
Lestrade, ...was his first name really Greg? How could he have missed that one?
Well, Lestrade had been a sport, at times...
And what about his fondness for Mrs Hudson?
She was his landlady, not his housekeeper! How often had she scolded him...? He didn't actually like being scolded, it made him feel... smallish?
And Mrs Hudson was fine, now! With danger averted, he shouldn't waste another thought on her. She was not his Mummy!
But all the same, she was the one who made 221B Baker Street feel like home.
Aside from other things, ...like his skull, his violin, ... his flatmate, all placid, caring, inspiring...
He missed John.
"I told you that caring was not an advantage, before." Mycroft interrupted his train of thought. Reading him, as ever...
"We would not be here in the first place if you hadn't cared so much."
He did not shout back in anger.
Instead he almost smiled.
Mycroft had never asked what exactly had happened on that rooftop.
Or why, in the end, he had needed to come to him for help.
Perhaps he thought he knew enough.
Sherlock had never explained.
"You care," he quietly replied, "or how else would you know that it isn't?"
For once his older brother was silent; embarrassed?
"We shall stay in contact and you will inform me about your progress," Mycroft finally managed to say.
"And you will keep an eye on him."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
Sherlock knew exactly what he was waiting for: 'Where are your manners, little brother?' he could actually hear Mycroft thinking.
Lucky he didn't do it out loud, the arrogant bugger!
"Please!" snarled.
Again Sherlock had to ask his brother for help, but this time it almost felt a bit good, because he did it for John.
He could leave now, because he would be told when he needed to come back.
Weeks. Months. Years.
Without another word he turned and left.
When he stepped out of the main entrance for the first time in weeks, he felt lighter. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and then once again he was on the chase.
It was different this time.
For the first time in what seemed a lifetime, he was on his own again.
He knew he had to be careful, but he had every reason to behave himself this time.
He did not want to die again any time soon.
His future seemed more important than ever.
He had to return.
He wanted John...to forgive him.
He wanted John...