Archive of Our Own

In the quiet of the office, John falls silent. Once before he'd come here to tell Mycroft what he'd done to Sherlock was unforgivable; and Mycroft had looked just as defeated; had taken it as quietly, and it had been terrifying. He sits now with his head turned slightly, not meeting John's eyes. John scrubs a hand through his hair; takes a moment just to breathe. When he speaks again the strength's leached from his voice. "Mycroft. You cannot leave him alone in there for a week. You know what that'll be like for him!"

"John." So very weary. "Again, wouldn't you like to sit down while we talk about this?"

"God damn it, no! Not until you say you'll do something about this. Get him out on bail, at the very least!"

"I can't. You must understand that."

"No. No, I really don't. You can do anything you want in this country. Why not help him?"

"Contrary to your idea of me, John, I do have limits. We passed several of them when, in full view of a multiplicity of witnesses, my brother shot an extraordinarily dangerous man, who had an unprecedented range of knowledge of half-a-dozen nations' key political players and their secrets. With his death we lost access to everything he knew. Further, we lost control of everyone he kept in check, and that is more significant than you realize, John. There is very little I can do for Sherlock yet."

John studies him. His hands lie steady in his lap, but his eyes reflect fear. John's heart jolts in his chest at the sight. "Why on earth didn't you stop him getting involved, then?"

Mycroft gives a short laugh. "You were there when I tried. My brother heeds my advice less and less these days, which is deeply concerning given how little he listened to me before. You heard me tell him to leave it alone. Why didn't you stop him?" Something beneath the words--something like bitterness.

Why hadn't he? Why hadn't he thought once that this could happen? "I trusted his instincts. I always have."

Another laugh. "His instincts. You must have noticed by now that my brother's instincts are invariably compromised wherever you're concerned."

"What the hell does that mean?" He wants to be furious, he ought to be, but fear is draining his capacity to feel it.

"He did this for you. He would do anything for you. You cannot possibly have missed that." The bitterness has risen from his voice into his face. "Why did you go back to your wife, John?"

It hits him like a slap in the face. His voice rises to a shout again, and breaks. "Because he made me! He didn't want me. He sent me back!"

There's a dead silence. On another day, he might have savored the sight of Mycroft Holmes, speechless. Today it only adds to the sense that everything is broken and wrong. He turns away; turns back, says, "I thought at least if I went back I could keep an eye on her. I don't trust her. He didn't want to turn her in, God knows why. He told me I'd made my choice and I had to stick by her. What on earth could I say? If he has a plan to handle her, he doesn't want my help. You know I've always needed him more than he needs me."

More than he'd meant to say, but it hits home; Mycroft's face goes blank. After a long moment, his eyes drop. He looks smaller, suddenly. "But that's wrong. He wanted you with him. I know he did; he always does." A pause. "You think he doesn't need you?"

That was not a question he'd expected. "Well--clearly. He didn't mind me marrying her." Again, more than he'd meant to say, but--"He helped us plan the wedding, for God's sake."

"Because he believed it was what you wanted," Mycroft says, still in that colorless voice. "He's made his regard for you quite clear. I watched the recording of his speech."

"I was stunned," John admits. He's saved my life so many times, and in so many ways. "I was proud. He said a lot of things that night. And then he said I wouldn't need him around anymore; and after that he never once asked to see me, never called."

"Did you call him?"

"I--" He hadn't. "I don't ask for his attention. He calls me, he texts me, he tells me when he wants me, and when he chooses to ignore me I let him be. That's how we've always done things." Night after night, he'd stared at the ceiling, wondering what Sherlock was doing. Wondering if he'd ever be asked on a case again. He'd dreamed about it. "I thought maybe he was done with me, hauling me around with him. Passed the job off to Mary. God damn it, Mycroft, you know he does that! You're the one who helped him make his plans when he decided to hare off to God-knows-where without me, chasing Moriarty's men--just when I'd started to think he might--" This is embarrassing, but he's been obvious enough now; he might as well finish. "I'd started to think he might really trust me, might depend on me a bit. And then he jumped and I thought he'd died because I'd failed him. He let me think that." He flexes his hand. "He chose that, to do it without me." It's a little hard to breathe. "He didn't need me."

"John," says Mycroft, and it's astonishing how much feeling he puts into that one word. "In spite of everything I have done to prevent such an outcome, in spite of every warning I have given him about the debilitating effects of sentiment, it is by now long past the point at which my brother became incapable of doing anything without thinking mostly of you."

"What?"

"I sent him away to detach him from you, John. I gave him danger and purpose and focus. I gave him time to forget, and he came back worse than ever. He could talk about nothing but you. I couldn't distract him; he insisted on seeking you out. And finding himself replaced by that woman did nothing to help him understand--No, he stayed by your side, stood up at your wedding and let the whole world see what you'd done to him, and didn't mind; and when your wife"--the word from his mouth sounds like a expletive--"shot Sherlock, you're telling me now that he sent you back to her and sacrificed himself to save your union with her." He lifts his hands in a helpless gesture and says, "I told him his heart would be broken, but I never thought he would let you go on breaking it in so many ways."

John's realizing just now that his legs may not hold him. He looks around for a chair. Mycroft watches him collapse into it. The anger in his face sinks away into astonished resignation, and he says slowly, "You never knew."

It may have been moments, or minutes, before he manages to say, and it comes out as a whisper, "I thought he couldn't feel what I felt. I tried not to need him too much."

"That's what you thought?" They sit silent, until Mycroft shakes his head and says, "And I tried to help him not to need you. Clearly neither of us helped anything at all."

"Christ. What should we do?"

"I don't know." He's never heard Mycroft say just that, so quietly, no hint of condescension. "What exactly is it you feel for my brother, John?"

This is it, then. He's never named the feeling, the disbelieving joy, the need, the sparks of light kindling within him, that first night, leaning, laughing with Sherlock in the dark. He's never spoken of it; not even when Sherlock was gone and there was nothing left to be spoilt by it. It had lain banked up and smoldering in the shadows of his mind, until he found himself staring, stunned, into Sherlock's laughing face (not dead), and it had blazed up again fiercely beneath the cover of his anger; and he'd hidden it carefully away to burn forgotten with the remnants of his hurt and pride when he forgave him. And now Mycroft was telling him that Sherlock had felt something like it too, had felt himself alone in it.

It wasn't so hard to say, then, "I love him. I'm in love with him."

"I see. I'd like to remind you that you have a wife." Mycroft is looking at him steadily.

"No, I don't. My wife does not exist. She's an invention of the woman who shot your brother, and I don't owe that woman anything."

There's a long moment in which he is regarded with an uncomfortable intensity he's only ever felt from Sherlock. It's strange to feel so laid bare before Mycroft Holmes, and not be scorned. Finally he nods. "Then we have plans to make. There's more at stake here than you realize."

She hears the door open at last; comes out into the hall in time to see John Watson shaking Mycroft Holmes' hand, and that is strange enough; but stranger still the smile that passes between them, a small, sorry thing, but genuine. John nods to her as he goes past, and Mr. Holmes watches him down the hall before he turns to her and says, "Yes, Anthea; come in, then."