Chapter Text
There was no grand return, no reception committee. Just one of the British Government’s ubiquitous black Jaguars waiting on the tarmac at Brize Norton, complete with its anonymous driver, his courtesy transport to London. For two bits Sherlock would have stuck a finger up at the nearest surveillance camera and made his own way home. But he had no money, no phone and anyway he ached all over; the thought of hitching or being jostled on the train was untenable.
Mycroft had gone ahead, after the initial debrief, leaving Sherlock to be patched up in a military hospital in Dusseldorf before being put on the army aircraft to England. It had been a perfunctory job, a few stitches here and there, a couple of blood tests but generally Sherlock was in better shape than anyone who had endured what he had, had the right to be, and could be treated with antibiotics and some mild painkillers and then sent on his way. Sherlock was not inclined to protest; he was bone weary and just wanted it all to be over.
The journey was a little under two hours, the car warm and comfortable, and Sherlock closed his eyes, and gave the impression of dozing while his mind raced to assimilate to his new circumstances. After around an hour he detected a change in the sights and sounds outside and he opened his eyes again in time to catch a glimpse of the Polish War Memorial from Western Avenue, nearly home.
The car delivered him to Mycroft’s office, where his brother was sat behind his desk in the usual manner, face a little rounder, hair slightly thinner but otherwise unchanged. If it hadn’t been for the encounter in Serbia, Sherlock might have supposed that the man had not moved a muscle in two years.
Sherlock snarled and postured when Mycroft gave him the Underground case but inwardly he acknowledged that nothing would help him restore some semblance of normality to his life more than The Work.
But there was something about his air of self-satisfaction as Mycroft reviewed Sherlock’s files that made him want to wipe the smug expression off his brother’s face.
“You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp!!”
He was angry with Mycroft, but he had enough self-knowledge to admit that he was merely diverting the anger from himself. He was angry that the mission had taken so long, angry that he had wasted time in Tibet, angry that he had misjudged the situation in Serbia and got caught, angry that his brother had witnessed his humiliation and taken the credit for getting him out.
Knowing he wasn’t going to win Sherlock abruptly changed the subject. “And what about John Watson?”
“John?” Mycroft repeated the name with a slight inflection, as if there was some question as to which of the many John Watsons of his acquaintance Sherlock referred.
“Have you seen him?” Sherlock was in no mood for games, which was unfortunate as Mycroft was determined to play.
“Oh, yes – we meet up every Friday for fish and chips.”
Mycroft gestured towards Anthea who produced a folder and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock took the folder and opened it, scowling at the photograph inside while his brother droned on.
“You haven’t been in touch at all, to prepare him?”
“I rather think that was your job, brother mine.”
There was a brief silence before Sherlock, eager to retain the upper hand replied.
“I think I’ll surprise John. He’ll be delighted!”
“You think so? “
“I’ll pop into Baker Street. Who knows… jump out of a cake?”
“Baker Street?” Mycroft sounded incredulous, “He isn’t there anymore.”
Sherlock’s bland expression he usually adopted when in his brother’s company gave way to surprise.
“Why would he be?” Mycroft continued “It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life.”
Sherlock dismissed this as ridiculous, “What life? I’ve been away.”
“He never went back to Baker Street after your demise. Naturally, I kept a weather eye on him, at first. He refused all offers of my assistance, frankly he was quite belligerent, warned me off several times. Thus, once the British arm of Moriarty’s operation was eliminated, I deemed it unnecessary to continue to monitor his movements, according to the last report I received he was living near Salisbury, but that was some months ago. I imagine I could arrange for someone to track him down without much effort, even if he does not wish to be found.”
“I wouldn’t want to put you to any more trouble.” Sherlock replied. “I can do my own legwork where John is concerned. As you say it shouldn’t take long to track him down.”
Mycroft sighed, although he was glad to see his brother home, and relatively unscathed after his adventures it did not take long for the fraternal affection to wear thin. “You know, it is just possible that you won’t be welcome.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It’s up to you but if you’ll take my advice, you’ll wait for Dr Watson to come to you.”
Sherlock wondered if there was some sense in what Mycroft was saying but was not about to concede any points to his brother.
“It was taking your advice that got me in this mess in the first place.” Sherlock snapped back. “Now, where is it?”