Chapter Text
The sun is bright in a clear blue sky, the kind of brilliant day that leads Londoners out in droves at lunch hour to soak up some delicious warmth before heading back into their offices for the afternoon. John weaves his way through the crowd in the park on his way to Tesco. His green jacket is a little too warm for the weather.
“You’re out of milk,” he told Greg, shaking the empty carton for emphasis, “and I need to do something.” He watched the uncertainty cross Greg’s face, followed by a blink and a slight shake of the head.
“Of course, yeah,” Greg said. “Pick up some biscuits while you’re at it.”
It feels good to walk in the sunshine. It feels close to normal. So, it should come as no surprise to John that as he crosses a street, a sleek black car turns the corner and follows him. He ignores it for a full block before giving in with a sigh. As he turns, the door opens. He pokes his head in, both feet firmly on the pavement.
“Get in the car, John.”
“Go to hell, Mycroft.” The man is seated on the far side of the car, an umbrella leaning against the seat. His expression is calm, but it seems a little more careworn than John remembers. He cannot deny a little satisfaction at that.
“Get in the car,” Mycroft repeats. “Please.”
John lifts an eyebrow. “Please? From a Holmes? Is this a holiday I don’t know about?”
Mycroft grimaces, then rearranges his features into their usual placid expression. “Do you suppose we could dispense with the dramatics? The sooner you get in the car, the sooner you can be on your way. You wouldn’t want the good Detective Inspector to worry more than he already does.”
John sits as close to the door as he possibly can without closing it on one of his own limbs, keeping the maximum space possible between his body and the car’s other passenger. “Dispense with the dramatics, indeed,” he mutters, refusing to even acknowledge the allusion to Greg.
Mycroft taps on the glass separating the driver’s seat, and the car pulls smoothly into traffic. John clenches a fist, forces his hand to relax, and watches Mycroft stare out the window at the passing scenery.
John lets several blocks go by before trusting his own voice. When he does, he inflects as much impatience as he can in a single syllable. “Well?”
Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes.
“You said to get in the car. Here I am. I’m assuming there’s a point to this little… whatever this is.” He pauses when Mycroft drops his hand to rest on the umbrella. “Or maybe you just thought I’d like a tour of the city? You could have just sent me a ticket in the post.”
“You’re upset with me, I understand,” Mycroft begins.
“Oh, you think I’m upset with you? No, you don’t understand anything.” John looks for any sign of emotion in Mycroft’s expression, but his bureaucratic mask is in full effect. No affront, no anger, certainly no guilt. Well, John expected that much. He snaps his mouth closed and looks out the window.
“John, I know this is… difficult,” Mycroft begins again. John covers the handle with his palm, considering the possibility of simply opening the door and rolling out into the street.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” says Mycroft. The brothers Holmes, mind readers both. “And even if you were to try, you would find that the door won’t open while the car is in motion.”
John leans back into the seat. He knew when he got in the car that he would be inside until the elder - the remaining, he reminds himself with a wince - Holmes brother allows him out.
“There are things that you need to know, and it falls to me to tell you. Believe me, this is not a discussion to which I have been looking forward.” John crosses his arms over his chest and glares. “And I am afraid that by the time you hear what I have to say, you will be even less kindly disposed toward me than you have been.”
John raises his eyebrows. “I really don’t think that’s possible.”
“I have no doubt.” Another long pause. The car pulls up in front of a building John recognises instantly, despite his few visits. Mycroft takes his umbrella in hand and steps out of the car with purposeful strides. John follows him through the main entrance of the Diogenes Club and into a room that John remembers well, and not at all fondly. Mycroft crosses the Stranger’s Room to pluck a bottle and a pair of tumblers from the trolley.
John clears his throat. “No, thank you,” he says, watching the liquor splash into the second glass, and then a third. Wait, a third?
When he looks back on this day, John will remember with crystal clarity this single second just before he noticed the man seated in one of the leather-upholstered chairs. He will remember that Mycroft’s voice seemed to reach his ears through water, muffled and slow, inviting him to have a seat. He will remember that he opened his mouth to refuse, but his legs clearly had other ideas, because he was seated in the empty chair before the words could come out. He will remember taking in the ragged trousers, the stained hoodie, the hands and face that were far too thin to be healthy, the hair roughly cut and bleached of colour, before finally meeting the intense silvery-green gaze.
“Hello, John.” The voice he thought he would only ever again hear in the dreams that refused to be subdued.
“On second thought,” John says, struggling to keep his voice steady, “I think I will have that drink.” Before the last word, he feels the glass press into his hand. He takes a slow sip, unable to break his stare.
Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin and waits, ignoring the glass his brother sets on the small table beside him. Mycroft steps away, sipping his own drink.
“It’s you,” John chokes out.
Sherlock inclines his head. Obviously hangs in the air, all the louder for being unsaid.
John sets his glass on the table and flexes his fingers, taking in Sherlock’s quick flinch. John shakes his head and settles both hands in his lap. He considers his next words carefully, rejecting several options, before asking, “Someone going to fill me in here?”
Sherlock smirks at his brother. “You see,” he says, “I told you. He’s fine.”
“Sherlock,” says John, the name awkward with disuse on his tongue, his voice a warning that snaps the newly-returned detective’s attention back to him. Sherlock’s eyes flicker over John’s face, and his expression freezes.
“You can bicker with your brother later. Right now, someone needs to explain how the bloody hell you’re here, but I have a feeling that if you try to explain, I’ll knock your teeth down your throat before you finish.” He stands up and turns his back on his friend, ignoring the flash of hurt that crosses Sherlock’s face. “Mycroft, you said you had things to tell me. Start talking.”
“There is rather a lot to say.” Mycroft sets his empty glass on the desk. “You may want to sit down.”
“If you think telling me what I want right now is a good idea, you may want to think again,” John growls. A bare hint of laugh comes from the chair behind him.
“Very well,” says Mycroft.
As he listens to the story, trying to absorb how very much he did not know, how much was kept from him, John struggles against the feeling that the air around him is turning to water again. He thinks of a box with a secret panel, a daring escape, a trick he read about but never even really tried to master. He thinks of the casket he watched go into the ground. He drops into the chair, elbows braced on his thighs. Mycroft pauses, and John waves a hand at him to continue, then sinks his face into both hands. He can feel Sherlock’s gaze on him and flashes a glare that freezes the man halfway out of the chair before closing his eyes. John breathes deeply, letting Mycroft’s words wash over him. When Mycroft finishes, John stays where he is, taking in big gulps of oxygen and listening to his pulse pound in the silence. In a moment, he will look up, and he will speak, and he will make sure that he really and truly understands exactly what the hell has been going on while he was grieving the very man who sits before him, alive and, to all appearances, at least mostly well. He will peer behind the curtain and learn the mechanics of an escape act that would have awed Houdini. Eventually, John will sort through the jumbled emotions drowning coherent thought at the moment, rage and relief currently duelling for control. Right now, it is all he can do to breathe and listen to his own heart and try to process the idea that his friend was - is - a better magician than John could have ever imagined.