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There were voices downstairs. Masculine voices. John frowned in confusion, still half asleep. He was in his bed, upstairs, in Baker Street. God, he was exhausted, the cobwebs hard to shift. But there were men downstairs, arguing men. Part of his brain was sure there shouldn’t be anyone downstairs, but another was equally unconcerned. There shouldn't be people, should there? There hadn’t been sounds like this in years, not since…
He came back, John remembered. Sherlock had come back the day before. Spectacularly. The smell of someone else still lingered in the pillows. John pressed his nose down and inhaled, greedily. He had hazy, relaxed memories of Sherlock’s long limbs wrapped around him as he slept.
Sherlock had come back, and now he was downstairs arguing with his brother.
And then Sherlock was yelling, furious with Mycroft for some reason; John thought he caught his name, muffled though it was. There was a sudden, house shaking crash that made John jump, followed by silence.
Complete silence.
He raised himself up on his elbows, listening. There was a faint creak of the floor-- someone softly crossing the front room, then nothing.
John debated, worried, then threw back the covers and headed downstairs, forgetting to so much as grab his cane from beside the door.
Legs. He could see sprawled legs as he came down the stairs, then from the doorway there was all of Sherlock plastered across the floor. Mycroft was crouched over him, one hand buried in his brother’s hair. He looked up at the intrusion and pulled back. “Ah, John, I think we could do with some help.”
“What the hell, Mycroft?” John crouched down and registered a regular enough pulse in Sherlock’s neck. He rolled Sherlock over into the recovery position and raised an eyebrow, questioningly.
“I’m afraid he got himself rather…” Mycroft shrugged, helplessly, “Overwrought.”
“You mean he yelled at you so hard he passed out?” Mycroft shrugged again, then reached down and gently carded his fingers into his brother’s hair. John leaned down further, listening to Sherlock’s regular breathing until he was satisfied. Looking up he caught an ashen tone to Mycroft’s face and hurried to reassure the other man. “I think he’ll be fine. He’s been through a lot lately, and was more worn out than he realised.”
If anything, Mycroft looked more perturbed.
What that meant, John had no idea. He busied himself by standing and grabbing a knit blanket and cushion from his chair, spreading the blanket over the still senseless detective and easing the pillow under his head. Mycroft continued to stroke Sherlock’s hair the whole time. John hadn’t realised he’d been staring until Mycroft caught his eye and his lip twitched. “I used to do this when I’d catch him overdosing on God knows what. It calms him down, and I like to think, reminds him that there are people who do in fact care. No matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise.”
John found himself sitting down on the rug across from Mycroft, Sherlock between them.
The purported politician was wearing his usual three piece suit, but there was something rumpled around the edges about him, and not just from being on the floor. After a moment, Mycroft seemed to come to a decision and his hand stilled as he said, “I lost him, John.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.” Mycroft looked embarrassed, even ashamed. “We’d been so careful for so long.”
Remembered words from the day before came to mind. “Sherlock said he was so ready to be done that he got sloppy.”
“That may be, but I still lost him.” Mycroft sighed and resumed the gentle stroking. “I knew he was in eastern Europe. Most likely Serbia, but I couldn’t figure out where. Then the trail grew colder and colder, and I thought I may very well have lost him forever.”
“You worry about him.” It was a statement rather than a question.
Mycroft nodded in affirmation. “Constantly.”
The fight that woke him up had been the worst John could remember witnessing between the brothers. “Was that what he was so angry about?”
“Hardly.” Mycroft snorted in surprise. “Sherlock knows he didn’t make proper use of our failsafes. No…” John found himself the subject of an appraising glance that was frankly unnerving. Instead of elaborating, Mycroft said, “That was another matter.”
Sherlock shifted and mumbled something that could have been his brother’s name.
Mycroft leaned down and said, firmly, “Wake-up, Sherlock.”
Sherlock rolled onto his back, knocking his brother’s hand from his head, and peering owlishly at the two men. “What happened?”
Mycroft left it to John to break the news, which he did haltingly, “You, ah, fainted.”
There was a scowl in return. “I did not.”
“Yes,” there was the faintest curling of a smile on Mycroft’s lip, “you did, brother mine.”
Both men stood up to be out of elbow range as Sherlock struggled indignantly to a seated position on the floor, then looked angrily at them both, “Get me up.”
They hauled him up by his elbows and deposited the still shaky man in John’s chair.
“Right,” John looked at the pallor of both brothers. “Tea, I think. Sweet tea for you, Sherlock. You’re probably running on empty again. Mycroft...”
“I have to go, John.” Mycroft consulted his wristwatch, “Duty calls.”
“Fine, but why don’t you come back tonight? For a drink after dinner?”
Mycroft looked at John, and something passed between them that Sherlock couldn’t read. At length, Mycroft gave a jerky nod. “Yes. Yes, I will. Thank you.” He quickly collected his umbrella and gave a gesture of salutation, “Until tonight.” Then hurried out of the flat.
John counted to three under his breath, and then…
“You invited my brother to come back?” Anger and incredulity were warring in Sherlock’s eyes.
“Yes, Sherlock, I did.” John’s voice was straying into Captain Watson territory, something he rarely directed at the detective. “And not only that, you’re going to be civil to him.”
It was the ultimate betrayal. Arms crossed over his chest like a child, Sherlock glowered towards the fireplace. “I will not.”
“Yes, you will, because I have a deduction of my own.” Sherlock looked back to John at that, curious, despite himself. John took a breath and asked, “Were you yelling at your brother about me?”
“You heard us.”
“No.” John amended, “Not really.” He sat down in the chair across from Sherlock. “I was trying to figure out what you could be so angry with him for, if you don’t blame him for getting caught in Serbia.”
Sherlock frowned, “Why would I blame him for Serbia?”
“Ask him that.” John leaned forwards with his elbows on his knees. “Why were you yelling at him?” Sherlock was at a loss. This was dangerously close to feelings territory, if not well in it already. But John… John understood and said, “Tell me what you said to him.”
“I said, ‘how could you let it get like that’.”
“Go on.”
“You were supposed to look after him. You were supposed to look after all of them.” John nodded, encouragingly, so Sherlock continued, “But you didn’t. You didn’t because he was sad, and he’s poor, and his limp has come back.”
The words cut, deeply, but John forced himself to keep his features neutral. “What did Mycroft say?”
“He said, ‘that’s what happens when you lose someone you love’. He said, ‘caring is not an advantage’.”
Someone you love. So Mycroft bloody Holmes had figured it out perhaps even before John himself. He remembered their first meeting: You're not haunted by the war, Dr Watson. You miss it.
There was a lump in John’s throat that he had to work to speak around. “He was right. Not about caring, but the first part.”
Sherlock looked at him, sharply, then gave a jerky nod. “I think I said a few more choice words, but then it all got a bit dark.”
John got up and walked brusquely into the kitchen, snapped on the kettle and clattered in the cupboard and fridge to fish out tea, sugar, milk and mugs. He made two cups while he considered what to say; forcing as much milk and sugar into Sherlock’s as it could take and still remain vaguely palatable. Eventually, the tea was ready and he walked back into the front room, forcing a mug into Sherlock’s hands and sinking back into the opposite chair.
“Don’t talk, Sherlock, just listen.” He took a sip of tea to prolong the inevitable, then began, “I blamed Mycroft, alright? I knew he’d given information about you to Moriarty. I was furious, and I blamed him. If you’d told him to look after me then I am here to tell you that was an impossible task. He had to try to give me some money and a song and dance about an inheritance. I just about threw him down the stairs.” John broke away from Sherlock’s wide eyes and took another sip of tea. “You have to realise, however much you might hate to admit it, that he tried to help. He tried his best. And despite whatever old scores there are between the two of you he truly does care, in his own way.” He stopped, hoping the words had sunk in.
Sherlock’s eyes glittered, narrowing with a slight frown. Eventually, he said, “You almost threw him down the stairs?”
John nodded, ashamedly and jerked his chin towards the entryway. “I had him pressed against that wall with an arm twisted behind his back. Pretty sure I gave him a bit of a black eye. He didn’t come back after that, but some funds appeared in my bank account, regardless. Mrs. Hudson’s too, I believe. There didn’t seem to be any questions about the rent while you were gone.” He looked down and addressed the last sentence to his tea, “And I was too much of a coward to ask her.”
John looked back up to find Sherlock appraising him, words coming out low and slow when he said, “Never, John.” Sherlock smiled, and it reached his eyes. “You’re never a coward, John Watson.”
“Huh,” John let out a huff of breath that was half a choke and half a laugh.
“Never.” Sherlock reached across the gap and gave John’s knee a squeeze. “Now why don’t we think up the most outrageously expensive whisky we can text my brother to bring this evening? If I’m going to suffer his presence, his wallet can feel a little pain as well.”
John let out a very real laugh at that. “Oh, yes please.”