Chapter Text
Five days after Sherlock’s funeral, Mycroft Holmes took a trip to 221B Baker Street. It was his duty as Sherlock’s brother to clean up any mess he makes and this… well John Watson was the biggest one his brother had ever made. The psychological trauma he had been through was detrimental at the least. Obviously, he had to check up on him for Sherlock’s sake. It had nothing to do with Mycroft’s worry over John’s well-being - most certainly not – It instead had everything to do with keeping the family together. And unless stated otherwise by Mummy, John was part of this family.
When the funeral ended, John walked away with his body tense and right hand twitching in a way that made Mycroft’s eyes narrow in concern. Mycroft didn’t have to be a genius to know this wasn’t going to be easy for any of the party members. It was Sherlock’s hope, however, that once a few months had gone by, those he held close could return to a relatively normal life. Mycroft sneered at the sentiment of Sherlock’s statement. It never coincided well with a Holmes. It clouded judgment in the most imperative of times – when Sherlock needed to be rational, but Mycroft hadn’t said that out loud. He was a pragmatist, not a hypocrite.
Mrs. Hudson let Mycroft in after three knocks, her eyes wet and lip worried to tatters. She told him what Mycroft had already known from the CCTV recordings; John had not left the apartment since the funeral. She had gone up only once to leave some groceries for him outside the door, but she didn’t (more likely couldn’t from the way she adverted her eyes from 221B’s door) go in. All she could really report was that John was moving about constantly. Sometimes he was making loud noises throughout the night, shifting large pieces of furniture around in what Mycroft assumed was his way of remembering the nights he was woken by Sherlock’s violin.
Mycroft sighed as Mrs. Hudson finished. He thanked her like the diplomat he was, and turned towards the stairs. His journey up the steps was churning with some trepidation as he braced himself for something that he wasn’t even sure he knew. When he got to the top, he held his breath and knocked once. When he heard the movement in the apartment stop, he waited, but got no response. Then, he opened the door after knocking again and getting no acknowledgement for a second time. He took one step into the apartment and that was as far as he was able to go.
“Go away-”
“-May I implore as to what it is you are doing?”
John’s face was set in a large frown, staring at Mycroft with obvious distaste, but that was not what Mycroft was focusing on. John had been working hard on transforming the apartment, apparently. He had cleaning supplies, books, papers, tea cups, and miscellaneous items strewn around most of the apartment’s surfaces. There was a mop leaning against the fridge, several spray bottles containing Clorox and bleach next to the sink, and plates and pans stacked along the counters and floors. Two tea kettles were currently sitting on the stove, one was turned on and one steaming in the back. Each piece of Sherlock’s equipment was stacked, freshly cleaned in the sink’s drying rack; anything in the fridge that was once Sherlock’s was now in the trash. All drawers and pantry doors were wide open and airing, having been scrubbed profusely if the shining spot where the scorch mark had been was anything to go by.
A couple of tea cups with various amounts of tea were littered throughout the kitchen table tops and other flat surfaces in the living space. A vacuum and duster lay next to the davenport where a small armada of tea cups laid on top of multiple reference books. Sherlock’s violin and microscope, the laptops, and a messy bundle of rags were huddled in front of the fireplace. The skull on the mantel was dusted, shiny, and sitting next to a stack of three tea cups. Currently, a large carpet cleaner hung in John’s right hand, a cup of tea in the left. The place was ridiculously messy and becoming much too clean at the same time. It frankly worried Mycroft more than he was willing to admit.
“What, never seen anyone actually clean before?” John raised the cup of tea to his lips, “Oh, that’s right, you don’t care for getting dirty. My mistake.”
As much as Mycroft tried to tell himself that he couldn’t do anything to help Sherlock before the fall, he was still affected by John’s words.
“You have patched the walls, washed the wallpaper, cleared every surface to a polish, and are proceeding to get the blood stain out of the carpet with actual results. If it weren’t for the fact that you are mourning the loss of your fiancé, I would have thought you were trying to clean up a crime scene.”
John stopped cleaning to glare up at Mycroft, “Piss. Off.”
He turned away from Mycroft, heading towards the kitchen. He stepped over and around the objects on the floor before pouring himself another cup of tea. There were no more clean tea cups in the apartment, so he used the cup he had closest to him. He hoped that Mycroft would have taken the hint and left, but he did not and instead sat down in Sherlock’s spot. John ignored him as best he could. Going back to the stain in the carpet, John set his tea down on the table by an apple he had yet to eat for his lunch today, or maybe yesterday? He wasn’t quite sure at the moment.
The carpet stain was about as big as John’s head with splatters here and there before he had begun to clear it away. He had succeeded in getting most of the stain out of the carpet so far, but there was one piece that wasn’t coming out. He would have to soak it with bleach or else it wouldn’t go away. Now was that in the living room or did he leave it in the kitchen…?
“Trying to erase him from your life isn’t going to help you when you still wear his ring around your neck.”
John scowled as he defensively wrapped his hand around the ring next to his dog tags.
“How did you-,” John cut off, shaking his head, “Never mind. It’s not important. Just get out of our apartment Mycroft.”
John didn’t even recognize his use of ‘our’ and if he did, Mycroft doubted he even cared, so he sighed and leaned on his umbrella.
“John, you could move in with me and leave this place if it only brings you bad memories. I can easily transfer money from his trust into yours as his will asked. You wouldn’t have to stay where all the reminders of him are. Sherlock would not have wanted you to be stuck here, wasting away without him.”
Sherlock asked me to watch over you. I intend to do just that whether you are willing to come with me or if I have to come to you. This is what he wanted to say, but could not.
“Like hell that’s what Sherlock would have wanted. He would have bleeding told you off for suggesting it. You can keep the money - I have no use of it. Now kindly piss off! Go blow up Russia or something. And stop acting like you care!”
John spat at Mycroft in purely frustrated anger. He marched over to the door, only stumbling over one pile of books, and opened it.
“Don’t come back. I will not be here if you do,” John sharply stated.
“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft’s face was indifferent, but inside his emotions were molting into forlorn sorrow at John’s mental state, “Given the circumstances, I will take that threat seriously. I shall have Anthea drop a care package off at your door the beginning of each week until I see that you are functioning normally. Rest assured, you will not be seeing me anytime soon.”
Mycroft stood and walked steadily over to the door.
“Or ever,” John just said, still waiting for Mycroft to move his fat arse and leave him alone. Before Mycroft stepped out, he hesitated, eying John carefully. His attitude turned completely passionate as he said the last words he could to John.
“My brother was a foolish, dreadful man who enjoyed stripping things down to the bone, but he never cared more for a person than he did for you, John. Do not doubt that fact.”
John slammed the door shut at those words, his eyes closing as he held back a wave of unshed tears. He turned, leaning his back on the door as he listened to Mycroft descend into the hallway. Mrs. Hudson must have heard the commotion for Mycroft’s voice murmured a bit along with hers before both went silent. Then the street door opened and clicked shut. Only then did John stand up, walk over to his tea, and curl into Sherlock’s spot, emotions frayed and all hope lost for this to be a dream.
John cast his eyes sedately over the surrounding mess until they stopped at Sherlock’s violin. He gulped down his tea as his eyes closed. The tea was warm, sliding down his throat in a comfortable embrace. It reminded him of the times where he was happy, listening to Sherlock play his violin while he read the news and drank. He could sometimes imagine Sherlock’s serene face as he played John’s now favorite song, Vincent (Starry, Starry Night) whenever he took a sip. It comforted him almost as well as Sherlock’s smile had…
That night, John’s tea cup was filled seven more times before he fell asleep in Sherlock’s bed.