Chapter Text
“Where’s Sherlock?” Lestrade came into the room and looked around, puzzled.
John turned from the door. “He left. Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?”
Lestrade shrugged. “He must have found a clue or put something together. I’ve known him for five years, and I don’t know why he does half of what he does. But it usually turns out he has a good reason.” Then he called out to the others, “Ok everybody. Done here.”
Mrs. Hudson looked at the boy’s bereft face. “You come downstairs with me. I’ll make you hot chocolate.”
John shook his head. Something didn’t feel right. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “He said he didn’t call a cab, but then he went with that man. I didn’t like the way he looked. Why wouldn’t he let me come?”
“I told you,” said Sally as she came in from the kitchen. “He’s a lunatic, and he will always let you down. I know that’s not what you want to hear, John, but it’s the truth.” She shook her head, almost sadly. Then she and Anderson were gone.
“Sherlock can take care of himself, John,” said Lestrade. “Don’t worry.” He was almost out the door when he turned back.
“Sally is wrong about Sherlock. He’s a great man. If we’re very lucky, someday he may even be a good one.”
“He’s good now,” John said hotly, his chin going up defiantly. “He… he saved me. He gave me a home. He didn’t have to do any of what he’s done for me. He is a good man.”
Lestrade shrugged. “I hope you’re right, John. I hope you’re right.” Then he, too, was gone.
“John…,” Mrs. Hudson started.
“I’m staying here,” John interrupted. “You don’t have to baby-sit me.”
“I know that. But maybe it would be alright if I went downstairs and made the hot chocolate? I'll bring it up and just stay a little while. I’m sure Sherlock will be back soon.”
John nodded. As soon as she closed the door, he took the mobile that Mycroft had given him from the pocket of his jeans and pressed the number one on the speed dial. Sherlock had been indignant that Mycroft was number one, while he was number two, but John explained that Mycroft had preprogrammed the phone. Since Mycroft was paying for it, Sherlock had waived his objections.
“What’s wrong?” Mycroft answered the phone within three seconds.
“I’m not sure,” said John. “Sherlock went with a cab driver. But he hadn’t called a cab. He looked strange when he left. Something’s not right.”
Mycroft said, “Wait just a moment, John.” Then, “I’m on my way to you. Tell me everything. As quickly as you can. Leave nothing out. ”
So John told him everything he could remember. He told him about the serial killer, about the night at Angelo’s, about the pink case, about the drugs bust. As he was telling Mycroft about tracing the GPS signal, Mycroft told him to wait. He was downstairs. He heard Mycroft running up the steps. Just as he opened the door, a chime sounded on Sherlock’s computer. Mycroft walked up to it, looked at the screen, and saw that the GPS has zeroed in on the victim's phone. The signal indicated that it was still on the move, far away from Baker Street.
“Oh my god. Sherlock….” Mycroft grabbed up Sherlock's computer and took out his phone from inside his suit coat, punching buttons as he moved. “DI Lestrade? This is Mycroft Holmes.” His voice faded as he ran down the stairs. John ran after him. As Mycroft approached the black car, he was shouting at his driver. John was right behind him. Mycroft turned.
“John, go back upstairs. I don’t have time for this. Get back upstairs.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No. It’s too dangerous.”
John set his jaw.
“He’s my… he’s my dad.” Sherlock had never said it, but he was.
Mycroft suddenly reached for him and flung him into the car, got in after him, and yelled, “Go. Now.” The car’s tires squealed as it accelerated.
John landed in a tangle in Anthea’s lap.
“Well, hello again,” she said, not looking up from her phone. The car swerved and bucked through traffic.
“Holy Mother,” said Mycroft, looking down at the GPS track on Sherlock's small laptop. “He’s taking him to the Training College. A nice, quiet place for a murder. Faster, driver.” Then he said, “We may be too late. He’s obviously taking him there to kill him.”
“Sir,” said Anthea pointedly, looking at John.
“No. You can’t let anything happen to him,” John said. “Please.”
Mycroft punched the one button on his phone. One was his speed-dial for Sherlock, of course. One for idiot, he thought viciously. No answer. Of course there was no bloody answer.
“If he’s going to live with Sherlock, he might as well get used to my brother’s chosen lifestyle," he said to Anthea bitterly.
Then to John, “I will do my best, John. I promise you.” Then, to the driver, “Here, here, stop.”
The car skidded to a halt on the cobbled drive between two buildings. “Stay with John,” he directed Anthea. He lept from the car and ran.
John scrambled out after him. He ran as fast as he could, trying to ignore the drag and pain of his bad leg. Anthea was fast, but not quite fast enough. John felt her hand on his shirt, but he twisted and kept going. He heard her swearing behind him. She stopped to remove her high heels, but John got into the building ahead of her. He ran behind Mycroft up a set of stairs, down a corridor. Mycroft suddenly stopped in front of a window. He smacked a fist into the wall. “Wrong building. Bloody hell.”
John came up beside him. Mycroft looked down. “Oh, for the love of God…,” he said. They both looked through the window to the window in the opposite building, across a courtyard. Anthea came up behind them.
“Sherlock!” Mycroft yelled. But it was too far. Sherlock and the cabbie each lifted a hand in unison, holding something. What were they holding?
“What’s he doing?” asked John.
“Trying to prove he’s clever. He’ll do anything at all to stop being bored….,” Sherlock’s hand came down, toward his mouth. “Sherlock!” Mycroft yelled again.
Suddenly Mycroft put his hand under his impeccable suit coat. When it came out, it held a gun.
“Stand very still. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Do nothing to distract me.” His voice was level. He lifted the gun. There was a terrific noise, the sound of glass shattering, then Mycroft dragged him away from the window. “Run,” he said. “This way.”
At the back of the building, he turned to Anthea. “Go. Move the car. Quickly. We’ll find you.” She sprinted away, high heels still clutched in one hand.
~~~~~
Mycroft stood outside the car with his hand on John’s shoulder. They were both relieved when they saw Sherlock come out of the building. The police officers made him sit in the ambulance, and they put a blanket around his shoulders. Sherlock was, obviously, arguing with them.
“Is he ok?”
“Yes,” said Mycroft. “They just think he’s in shock. Little do they know my brother.”
Sherlock stood as Lestrade came up to him. He was talking quickly and making gestures.
“Show off,” muttered Mycroft.
Suddenly Sherlock looked over and saw them standing behind the police tape. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Mycroft. He shook his head and said something else to Lestrade. Then he came over to them.
“So, another case cracked, little brother,” said Mycroft. “How very public spirited of you, although that’s never your motivation. The Detective Inspector explained everything to us earlier. Two pills. Terrible business.”
“What is John doing here? What in God’s name possessed you, Mycroft?”
“I had little choice. I’ll let him explain that to you later.”
“Good shot, by the way,” Sherlock said.
“Indeed,” said Mycroft, “it must have been, through that window.”
“It was an amazing shot…,” said John, his voice rising with enthusiasm.
Mycroft’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Hush, John. This is neither the time nor the place.”
“I’m surprised you’ve kept it up, Mycroft.” Sherlock had no better sense of time or place than did John. “I thought you had underlings to do that sort of thing now. Better get rid of the powder burns. Wouldn’t want a court case.”
“I appreciate your brotherly concern. That was… and will stay… strictly a family matter. Did it occur to you on this particular occasion that risking your life to prove your cleverness was both pointless and idiotic? That you now have responsibilities? You were going to take that damn pill, weren’t you?”
“I was just biding my time. I knew you’d turn up. John, are you hungry?”
John nodded. He wasn't really, since he had actually eaten at Angelo's. If Sherlock thought John was hungry, though, he might actually eat with him this time.
“There’s a good Chinese at the end of Baker Street,” said Sherlock. “Stays open late. Coming, Mycroft?”
“What, I’m invited?”
“Please come, Uncle Mycroft.” John turned to Sherlock, “He saved your life, didn’t he, dad?”
Sherlock stood quite still for a long moment. Something seemed wrong with his face, thought John. Maybe he shouldn’t have called him dad. Maybe he had misunderstood.
“I’m sorry,” John said, miserably. “It just slipped out. I know you said to call you Sherlock…”
“John, I would like it very much if you called me dad.” He closed the space between them. “I’m… I may not always be good at it. But if you’ll be patient, I’ll try very hard to be your dad.”
John threw his arms around Sherlock and buried himself in the folds of the coat he always wore. He felt a hand come up and tentatively touch his hair, then both arms came around him.
He heard Uncle Mycroft clear his throat. “So, Chinese, then. I hope this place has decent zhengjiao. I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving,” said Sherlock.
“Really, Sherlock. I just saved your life, so a few minutes without insults would be much appreciated.”
“You didn’t save my life. You always were trigger-happy. In ’96 when we were undercover in Kiev….” He stopped as they passed by a cluster of police officers.
Mycroft took John’s hand as they started to cross the street. “He’s always been so resentful, John. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.”
Actually, John could imagine the Christmas dinners. The thought made him happy. He felt like skipping. He tried, but he almost fell. All the running around had made his leg worse than ever. He felt Uncle Mycroft’s hand tighten on his.
“By the way, John, your appointment with the orthopedist is Monday.” John smiled up at him.
Sherlock was slightly behind them, and he seemed a bit preoccupied. “Mycroft,” he said, “have you ever heard of a criminal named Moriarty?”
John felt Uncle Mycroft's hand twitch slightly in his.
“Speaking of Christmas dinners,” Mycroft said, ignoring Sherlock's question. “Don’t you think it’s time you introduced your son to Mummy and Daddy?"
Sherlock sighed theatrically. “I suppose so. They’ll smother you with love, John. My mother will make all your favorite dishes. My father will want to play footie in the garden. He’ll take you to the pub and introduce you to all his friends. They never expected to have a grandson. It will be ghastly.”
John thought it sounded wonderful.
Sherlock thought that fatherhood was going to be both fascinating and demanding.
Mycroft thought he had deflected Sherlock admirably. At least for the moment.