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"Mary." The name feels like a dull, unexpected thud against Sherlock’s ribs.
He thought John, loyal and steadfast , would not, could not, stop waiting. Not for a year. Not for a decade. He thought John would simply wait , a constant, unwavering point in the universe, just as Sherlock has always been for him, albeit from a distance. The thought twists, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the intricate gears of his mind palace. John, with someone else . The implications are complex, unpleasant, and wholly inefficient.
Mycroft watches, a shadow of an expression flickering across his face – perhaps a hint of pity, perhaps just a fleeting assessment of his brother’s current emotional state. He holds his tongue, a rare and deliberate act. The silence stretches, taut with unspoken truths and the hum of the private jet.
Then, the sharp crack of Sherlock’s fingers against each other. "My mobile." His hand extends, palm up, expectant. His eyes, keen and direct, lock onto Mycroft's. "The old one. The one you’ve been topping up with minutes, under 'William Scott,' of course. Couldn’t resist a touch of the sentimentality, could you, brother dear?"
A faint smirk plays on Sherlock's lips, a tiny victory salvaged from the raw wound of John’s moving on.
Mycroft’s left eyebrow arches, a minuscule gesture of impressed acknowledgement. With a sigh that carries a whisper of long-suffering patience, he reaches into the inside breast pocket of his impeccably tailored suit. He extracts a small, opaque plastic bag. Inside, nestled protectively, is Sherlock’s familiar, battered smartphone. Mycroft offers a fresh pair of black leather gloves from another pocket as he carefully reboots the device. Sherlock rolls his eyes at the theatrics of the gloves, but he pulls them on, his long fingers fitting precisely. The phone blazes to life, and his gloved thumbs dance across the virtual keyboard, a blur of motion.
"I’m going to send him a text while he’s sleeping." His voice is low, almost a mumble, yet resonant with intent. "It will read: 'I’m not dead.'"
He pauses, the 'Send' button looming, unpressed. His gaze flickers to Mycroft, a question hanging unspoken in the air between them. He doesn't ask, but he demands an answer, an assessment. Mycroft doesn’t disappoint.
"Clear. Accurate. Succinct." Mycroft’s voice is a smooth, even baritone. "But do you feel it’s…sufficient?"
A faint frown creases Sherlock’s brow. Sufficient . Of course not. He adds a few more words, his fingers flying. "I’m not dead… you’re welcome." He looks up again, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "Good?"
"Yes," Mycroft nods, a rare, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "That should do it."
Several hours later, John arrives at the Holmes Family Retirement Cottage, nestled within a tiny village called East Dean, down the South Downs Way, just outside of Sussex, England. John sees that the cottage is directly across from the Tiger Inn. Walking across the green, he takes in the Seven Sister Cliffs and Beachy Head, the vast expanse of the English Channel stretching out beyond.
It's only about two hours away from their London flat, but John has taken the time to think over his emotions, the whirlwind of shock, anger, and a desperate, surging hope.
Taking a deep breath, he follows the bees as they buzz lazily around the back of the cottage, a strange, almost surreal calm settling over him. He almost confronts the man whom he thought was dead, but Sherlock and Mycroft stand with their backs to him, silhouetted against the cottage wall. He's practically silent on the soft grass, his footsteps muffled, so as he approaches, he overhears the tail end of a conversation.
“I informed Gregory about how I approved of your strategy for announcing your faked death for Dr. Watson.” Mycroft’s voice is measured, almost clinical, yet with an underlying tone of dry amusement.
“And?” Sherlock's single word is sharp, expectant, a characteristic prompt for the next piece of information.
Mycroft smiles briefly, a rare, almost imperceptible upturn of the corners of his lips. “He’s decided we are quote, unquote psychopaths .”
Sherlock matches the small grin, a flicker of pure, unadulterated amusement crossing his features. “Ah, so no change, then.”
Despite himself, a wide, irrepressible grin spreads across John’s face. The sheer, unyielding audacity of them, the complete lack of self-awareness mixed with their peculiar brilliance.
"You absolute nutter!" he calls out to Sherlock, his voice thick with emotion, a blend of exasperation and overwhelming relief.
He breaks into a run, closing the distance in a few swift strides, launching himself at Sherlock, arms latching around him in a vice-like grip. They fall onto the soft grass together, a tangle of limbs, but John is crying and laughing simultaneously, the tears hot on his cheeks, the laughter bubbling from his chest, so utterly, blissfully happy to have this ridiculous, infuriating, indispensable man back in his life.
Mycroft, still standing, watches the spectacle with a faint, uncharacteristic softening around his eyes, a look that verges on genuine fondness.
Sherlock, winded but not complaining, wraps his own arms around John, clinging back just as fiercely. "Jawn," he murmurs into John's shoulder, the single syllable a universe of unspoken apology and immense relief.