Chapter Text
Sherlock had spent the week he'd been home looking for a new case that would pique his interest. Despite his efforts, nothing surfaced, nothing worth his time anyway. The streets of London were once full of intrigue and mystery, now they were just boring. As he stepped out of his flat onto Baker Street, everything felt... Wrong. Two years might as well have been forever.
He hadn't heard from John all week, not since their last, rather violent, encounter where John had punched him in the face multiple times. It was a painful reminder of how strained things had become. The doctor's blog, once a constant stream of intriguing cases, was now nothing, John must have turned the comments off years ago. His website was flooded with nothing but abuse, despite being vindicated. He couldn’t muster the energy to sift through his email either, knowing it would likely be more of the same.
He had made the decision last night, but paused to think it through one last time. He had no choice. Sherlock threw his coat over his shoulders and paused for a moment in the chill of the early November morning. The air was crisp and biting, as he hailed a cab, wrapping his scarf around his neck to fight off the coldness.
Arriving at Mycroft’s office happened too quickly for his liking. He had hoped some mystery might arise on his route here to grab his attention. Give him something to do that would be far less dull than what his future was about to be.
Sherlock knocked on the door, a rare gesture that made him realise just how much 2 years in Europe had changed him.
When Mycroft called out to enter, clearly unsure who it was, Sherlock stepped inside, his posture not that of the confidence he once had.
“You knocked?” Mycroft remarked, noting the unusual formality.
Sherlock offered only a slight shrug in response, his face drawn and tired. He had basically had an entire week off yet was more exhausted than ever.
“What do you want, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice softened at the state of his brother, concern lacing his usually stoic expression.
“A job,” Sherlock stated flatly, his eyes meeting Mycroft's with a resolute gaze.
“You want a job?” Mycroft repeated, slightly taken aback by his brother’s directness. All the years he'd tried to push Sherlock into government work, and here he was, asking for it.
“It’s clear things are different now. Even though everyone knows it was all lies, things won't be like they were before,” Sherlock’s voice was steady, but there was the unmistakeable sound of resignation there. A lost hope.
“And Doctor Watson?” Mycroft probed gently, aware of how deeply Sherlock felt for the other man.
“Gone. Moved on. Has a real life and a proper girlfriend. Now, can I have a job or not?” Sherlock’s impatience flickered across his features, a hint of the old fire still burning within.
“There’s one waiting for you. There always has been. You can have the office next door,” Mycroft replied, gesturing towards the adjoining room, which was prepared for Sherlock at a moments notice.
“And what will this job entail?” Sherlock asked.
“Meetings, assessing data, finding security leaks. That sort of thing,” Mycroft explained, watching Sherlock closely, concern beginning to creep in.
He opened the side door and showed Sherlock through to the rather expansive space, a desk and a filing cabinet at one end and a table at the other.
“You can do whatever you see fit to the room. Whatever you need to do to be comfortable."
Sherlock looked around at the sparse decor, wondering what his skull would look like on one of the shelves.
“Computer?”
“Your choice. Name your brand and your monitor size. It will all be set up this evening.”
“You really just had this place waiting for me?” Sherlock walked into the room more fully, it didn't feel corporate or suffocating like he was expecting it to.
“I only stopped trying to push you down this route when you moved into Baker Street, little brother. Once you were with John Watson you seemed... Well content. Set up.”
“You could have done anything with this space. Could have made your office bigger.”
“My office is plenty big enough as it is. And Anthea has the office the other side. I suppose I always held out hope you might come to your senses.”
Sherlock smirked slightly. “And the pay?”
“£100,000. 6 weeks holiday. Unlimited sick time. Monthly bonuses when earned. Flexible office hours when possible. You're here when you're needed and you work late when it's needed. You will also have access to your own car and driver. No more relying on cabs.”
“So I'm on call?”
“No more than you were before.”
“£200,000. And 8 weeks holiday. I might want to travel again. And I want 10 suits dropped off this afternoon. I am not going shopping.”
Mycroft stared at his brother for a moment. “Done.”
“And no more threatening me with knighthoods.”
The older Holmes actually laughed at that and Sherlock let his eyebrows raise. He couldn't remember the last time Mycroft had done anything more than smile.
***
Feeling slightly lighter at having a purpose again, Sherlock headed home, this time his own driver took him straight from his new office to his front door.
The early afternoon light filtered through the slightly grimy windows of his flat as he climbed the seventeen steps and walked in.
The disarray around the place was usual for him. Piles of books lay haphazardly strewn across the floor, scientific instruments from past experiments collected dust on the mantelpiece, and several days' worth of newspapers had formed a small fortress around his armchair.
At least, it used to be usual for him. Now... now he really didn't like it.
In the midst of this chaos, Sherlock stood motionless, his gaze surveying the room with a growing sense of unease. The mess was more than just an inconvenience; it was an obvious reminder of how much everything had changed. With John now gone and his own mind no longer preoccupied with unresolved cases, the mess felt like it was crushing him.
Taking a deep breath, Sherlock took his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, a determined glint in his eye. The act of cleaning, though mundane to some, was a necessary catharsis for him—a way to leave his old cluttered life behind. He began methodically, picking up each book and placing it back on the shelf, organising them by author and subject matter as he had always preferred.
As he moved around the room, his movements became more at ease. Every item had its place, and as the order was restored, so too was a measure of Sherlock's calm. He pondered on what to do with the chemistry equipment but decided he didn't need it. He wasn't going to use it anymore. He used several black bags to dispose of it all and clear out the kitchen completely.
With the newspapers gathered around his chair, he was more ruthless. Most were tossed into the recycling bin, save for a few articles he clipped for further analysis. Clearing everything out felt like a purge and he was resisting the urge to burn it all.
“Mrs. Hudson?!” he yelled. Then felt bad. He put the book he'd been holding down on the table and ran down the stairs before Mrs. Hudson could make her own way up.
“What is it, dear?” She asked curious about the state of her tenant.
“May I borrow your hoover please?”
Her eyes widened in surprise.
“Yes, I know. I've never vacuumed before. But it needs doing. And I have a new job. I'll hire a maid. Maybe they could give you a hand too?” he offered.
Hours later, as the sun began to disappear behind the houses opposite, Sherlock stepped back to the doorway to survey his work. The physical act of cleaning had been completely new to him and had granted a temporary reprieve from the chaos of his emotions.
He wished he could get John Watson out of his head. He hoped disaster struck at his new job, at least then he would have a worthy distraction.
***
The following day, Mycroft was surprised to hear noise from the office next to his at an unusually early hour. It was only 6.45, what was going on? He found Sherlock rummaging through the chest of drawers in the corner, already deep in his new role. His suit jacket on the back of the chair and his sleeves rolled up.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft paused as he watched his brother lift a pile of folders from the cabinet and dump them on the desk. “It’s 6:45, what are you doing?” And was Sherlock wearing a tie? He'd made sure they were provided, but he hadn't expected the capitulation.
Sherlock looked up from his meticulous sorting of the cabinet’s contents, his face a mask of concentration that softened slightly when he saw Mycroft. The early morning light spilled into the dimly lit office, and Sherlock was using the lamp on his desk to read.
“I’m organising,” Sherlock replied succinctly, his hands pausing briefly in their task. “I need to know exactly what I have to work with if I’m to do this job properly. Failing at it isn’t an option.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over the organised chaos the piles of files had created on the desk. “I see. And was it necessary to begin at such an ungodly hour?”
Sherlock shrugged, a flicker of the old impatience crossing his features. “Time is a commodity I find myself rich in currently, and it isn't too early... you're here, after all.” he said dryly. “Besides, sleep has been... Somewhat hard to find.”
Mycroft’s expression softened slightly, detecting the underlying tension in Sherlock’s voice. “I understand office work isn't what you are accustomed to, but perhaps it’s a good enough distraction for the time being. However, you needn’t overdo it on your first day.”
Sherlock resumed his rummaging, deciding on what he should prioritise and read through first.
Mycroft watched his brother with a mixture of concern and admiration. “This job is crucial, Sherlock. The data you’ll be analysing, the meetings you’ll attend—they’re all integral to national security. Your role, while different, is no less important than your pursuits in Europe.”
Sherlock nodded, his eyes scanning the contents of the file in his hands. “I understand the gravity of it, Mycroft. I’ll adapt. It’s what we Holmes' do best, isn’t it?”
“Adapt, yes, but you've adapted more than most the last few years.”
Sherlock shrugged. “I didn't have a choice. Moriarty had to be dealt with. So did his network.”
“And you won't even talk to the man you did it all for?”
Sherlock dropped his head for a moment, pausing in his shuffling of documents.
“I have tried talking to John, Mycroft. I tried when you first brought me home. He punched me in the face. Several times.”
Mycroft sighed and dropped his head.
“You couldn't find something else to do until you started work?” Mycroft’s tone was both enquiring and gentle, hinting at his understanding of Sherlock's restlessness, it was to be expected. “You aren't mean to start until 9.”
“Do you not want me here?” Sherlock's voice dropped, a rare vulnerability peeking through his usually impassive facade. He thought he could maybe belong here, but if Mycroft disagreed it was a non starter.
Mycroft flinched slightly at the question, taken aback by how young Sherlock sounded. His tone reminded him of their childhood. “It's not that I don't want you here, little brother, it's that this job is demanding and stressful all on its own. Without the sleepless nights and war wounds you currently... Possess. You need to pace yourself from the beginning,” he explained, his voice softer than normal.
“You manage. I'm sure I'll be fine,” Sherlock retorted, his usual confidence flickering briefly across his face but it was gone in a second.
Mycroft regarded him for a long moment, taking in the stubborn set of his jaw and the tired lines around his eyes. It was too early for Anthea to be here, but he was sure he could figure out the coffee machine. “At least come and get coffee with me,” he suggested, hoping to ease some of the tension.
Sherlock stared at him a beat too long before finally sighing, “Ok.”
“Really?” Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, not expecting his brother to acquiesce so quickly.
“You wanted me to say no? I can—” Sherlock’s voice trailed off, ready to retract his acceptance.
“No. Come on,” Mycroft interrupted, leading the way.
Sherlock watched Mycroft leave the room and frowned, his mind a whirl of confusion.
Mycroft’s head appeared around the door again, his expression softer. “Are you coming, little brother?”
“Yeah,” Sherlock responded, pushing off from his desk that he had been leaning against and following Mycroft to the small kitchenette where the promise of coffee awaited.
Mycroft led the way to the small kitchenette typically reserved for senior staff, a place where countless late-night coffees had been brewed and strategic discussions had taken place despite not being meant to. He started fiddling with the coffee machine, a newer model that Anthea had insisted on, which supposedly did everything but drink the coffee for you. Sherlock hovered by the doorway, watching Mycroft’s unusually domestic act.
As the machine sputtered and began to whir, Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock, who still wore an expression of contemplative confusion. “It’s quite a transition, isn’t it?” Mycroft ventured, his voice still soft, like his brother was a baby bird. “From the freedom of running around London to the confines of an office.”
Sherlock leaned against the frame of the door, his arms crossed. “It feels like a cage,” he admitted bluntly, his gaze fixed on the floor. “But it’s a cage of my own choosing, isn’t it? John’s moved on, and I...” He trailed off, unsure how to articulate the mix of abandonment and necessity that had driven him here.
Mycroft poured two cups of coffee, handing one to Sherlock. “We all make choices, Sherlock, for better or worse. This job—while it may seem... constraining—offers you a unique position to influence matters at a national, even global level.”
Sherlock took the cup, his fingers curling around the warmth. “Influence,” he echoed, the word tasting strange in the context of bureaucratic work. Like he hadn't just spent countless months influencing the exact same thing from afar.
“Yes, influence,” Mycroft affirmed, leaning against the counter. “Think of it not just as a job, Sherlock, but as a platform. You have the capacity to effect real change here, perhaps more so than you ever could chasing street-level criminals.”
Sherlock sipped his coffee, considering the weight of Mycroft’s words. “And what about the thrill? The chase?” he asked, a tinge of nostalgia in his voice. He knew he would miss it, he had while he'd been away, he just doubted he'd ever find it again.
“That, I cannot replicate here,” Mycroft conceded with a slight shrug. “But I can offer you complexity, challenge, and the satisfaction of knowing your work has far-reaching consequences. You may never admit it. But the crimes and puzzles you solved were done for more than just intrigue. You did it to help people too.”
Sherlock pondered this, his eyes distant. Finally, he nodded slowly. “Perhaps that will be enough,” he said, more to himself than to Mycroft.
Mycroft watched his brother, a mix of admiration yet concern in his eyes. “It will have to be,” he replied quietly. “At least for now.”
They finished their coffee in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Sherlock was the first to break the quiet. “Thank you, Mycroft. For the job, and for... this,” he gestured with his empty cup, a rare acknowledgment of the older Holmes' support.
Mycroft nodded, a hint of a smile touching his lips. “Anytime, Sherlock,” he whispered as his brother turned and left.