Work Text:
Pretty Thing
"Between the idea and the reality, between the motion and the act, falls the shadow."
T. S. Eliot
I am very sorry to hear about Dr Watson's sudden difficulties concerning his situation at St Bartholomew's. Let me know if I can help, would you? A telephone call with Wentwall would be all it would take, I am sure. Of course, I do know that your brother has also offered his kind of help, but I wonder whether Dr Watson would be willing to accept it if he knew your brother's opinion about his no doubt extraordinary abilities.
Speaking of your brother; you and I will meet and have a conversation about his ambitious schemes. They are most unfortunate for everyone concerned, but I know you are just the man to talk some sense into him.
Enclosed is a DVD your brother should not be made aware of. Take a look at it and meet me at one o'clock this afternoon, Baker St corner Blandford St. I will be waiting in my car.
With best regards,
RH
***
John woke up slowly, reluctantly, stretching his legs and arms. When he finally opened his eyes to glance at the clock on the nightstand, he sat up abruptly. 11 a.m. He turned around to look at Sherlock only to find himself alone in the bed. For a second, John tensed all over and listened hard. Sure enough, there were rumbling sounds coming from downstairs, so John relaxed again and fell back onto the pillows, taking a deep breath. You have to stop this. Otherwise you'll drive Sherlock up the walls in no time.
After yesterday, John felt entitled to some worrying, though. As if the ghostly trip back to London hadn't been enough -with the snow, the black ice, and Mycroft and Sherlock not saying one word the whole time- the phone call from John's superior who told John that he had been dismissed in his probation period about ten minutes before they had reached 221b hadn't improved anyone's mood. Dr Green had sounded confused, and when John had asked for the reason, he hadn't really gotten an answer. Not that John had really needed one; he remembered very well that Richard Holmes had been a very busy man on the phone at six o'clock in the morning. As expected, once they were inside their flat Sherlock had exploded. He hadn't said anything; he had started throwing cups and plates. And after Mycroft's offer John had had to make sure that Sherlock didn't strangle his brother.
John sighed. It had been a very long day… and John didn't really look forward to this day, either. At least he hoped Sherlock would start talking to him again; the silence had been eerie.
There were more rumbling sounds. John frowned. What is he doing down there? Moving furniture around? With another sigh, he crawled out of bed and put on his bathrobe. Time to find out.
***
John opened the door to their living room, and then stood there, staring. There were people in there, far too many people, and not one of them Sherlock. "Mycroft! What the hell is going on here?"
Mycroft turned towards him, a dangerous look on his face. He raised an eyebrow and took a very pointed look at his watch. "About time for you to get up. May I assume that…"
"Mycroft! What. Is. Happening. Here?" John took two steps forward to glance into the kitchen; no Sherlock, either. "Where is Sherlock?"
When no answer was forthcoming, John turned back to face Mycroft again, and this time, Mycroft was staring at him. "What do you mean, 'Where is Sherlock'? Wasn't he upstairs with…"
John didn't wait until Mycroft finished his sentence. He shoved away one of Mycroft's cronies who was, for whatever reason, crawling around in front of the fireplace to get to the phone. He dialled Sherlock's number. Voicemail. Fuck! "Sherlock, where the hell are you? Phone me the moment you get this!" John put the receiver down; the next moment, Mycroft seized his arm and turned him around. "He was not with you? The whole time?"
Shaking off Mycroft's hand, John hissed, "What do you mean, the whole time? When did you arrive? What is going on? What are they doing here?"
Mycroft didn't deign to answer him, though. He stormed out of the living room, downstairs, with John, who felt ready for murder, on his heels.
Mycroft hammered his fist against Mrs Hudson's door. The moment she opened it, Mycroft was in her face, growling questions, and suddenly, John had enough. He stepped between them, pushing Mycroft back, ignoring the swinging umbrella and shouted in his face, "Shut the hell up!" John turned around to Mrs Hudson and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Have you seen Sherlock this morning?"
Wide-eyed, she nodded. "Yes. He got a letter, around seven o'clock, I think," John heard Mycroft making a choked sound behind his back, "and I brought it up. He was just coming downstairs and…"
"A letter? This early?"
Mrs Hudson nodded again. "An errand boy brought it. I heard him ring your bell twice, and when no one answered, I went out to get it. Did something happen?"
Mycroft turned around, mobile to his ear, and hastened upstairs again. John swallowed. "Did you notice Sherlock leaving the house, later on?"
She shook her head. "What is going on, John?"
"I don't know yet. Try not to worry, all right?"
John left her behind; she was wringing her hands and didn't look as she would be able to heed his advice.
***
"Mycroft? A word, please. Now."
Mycroft snapped his phone closed. "One second, John." He turned to the apparent leader of his cronies. "Are you finished down here? Good. Upstairs is another room. Hurry." He beckoned John over, leading the way to Sherlock's bedroom. "Let's go and talk in here."
Not saying a word, John followed, wondering if he would make it through this conversation without punching Mycroft in the nose. If he doesn't change his attitude soon, I doubt it.
John closed the door behind them. "So. What is going on? What are your minions doing here? What do you know about that letter? And don't even start to try and tell me that you don't know what I'm talking…" Mycroft raised his hand, and John tampered off.
"I will explain everything to you, John. Actually, that's one of the reasons why I'm here. I wanted to talk to you."
"And you couldn't have phoned? You have to come here with an army of…"
"John. They are here to search your flat for cameras and microphones. They have found quite a lot, in every room so far. I'm very sure they will find more in your bedroom as well."
John felt the need to sit down, but resisted. "What? Who…" He broke off. Stupid question. He tried again. "How did you know? How long…?"
Mycroft went over to the window and leaned on the sill. "I'm not sure when they were installed. By what I've seen, though, longer than a year. They were hidden very well. He obviously hired professionals."
Sitting down on Sherlock's bed, John shook his head. A year?"How…?"
"I received a letter this morning, too." Mycroft looked at John for a moment, then sighed and got a sheet of paper out of his inner jacket pocket. "Here."
He really, really didn't want to read it, but John took it anyway. Before he looked down at it, though, he asked, "Have you found out yet where Sherlock is?"
"No."
Nodding, John bit on his lips and unfolded the letter.
Mycroft,
I am sure you are not stupid. So stop planning stupid things; it is childish and unbecoming. I could not care less, but think about what it will do to your mother. Perhaps to your brother as well, although I am not sure whether Sherlock will care or not. Take a look at the DVD I've sent, then you will understand. Maybe.
R H
P.S. About your plan to throw your money at Watson? You are stupid after all.
John read it three times, and still, he didn't understand. Oh, he understood the words and sentences, but the bigger picture -and there was a bigger picture, he was sure- remained hidden. John drew his shoulders up. He had the feeling that some kind of predator was lurking in a corner John couldn't see, waiting to attack. He read the letter for the fourth time, not looking at Mycroft; he didn't want to hear what Mycroft had to say… and would say the moment John looked up.
Eventually, John sighed and raised his head, but instead of being confronted with an impatient Mycroft, he saw a man with a bowed head, not even glancing in John's direction, and that scared him more than the letter had done.
"Mycroft? What… what's on the DVD?" John asked, shoving away the pictures in his head.
Mycroft looked up, straight into John's eyes. "They haven't left the country yet, and now I made sure they won't be able to."
Shaking his head slightly, John tried to get the meaning of Mycroft's non sequitur. "What? Who? Your parents?"
Again, Mycroft reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a jewel case, then beckoned with his head towards the door. "Come on, I will show you." He left the bedroom, still talking, but John didn't follow. He tried, but could not get up. Fear held him in place, with what felt like thousands of hooks that had sunken into his bathrobe, his skin. The sudden realisation of where Sherlock was and with whom Sherlock was, literally took his breath away; he could hear himself wheezing.
"John?"
He didn't want to see it. He didn't want to see Sherlock with… John swallowed convulsively.
"John." Mycroft stood on the threshold, his eyes searching John's face. Finally, his eyebrows went up. "John, my father isn't on that DVD. He taped you. A conversation between Sherlock and you."
That snapped John out of his frozen state and he stood up; shakily, but nonetheless, he was upright. "What conversation?"
"At the house."
John shook his head. "There is no way he could have hidden a cam in that bathroom."
One of Mycroft's eyebrows tried to climb even higher. "Not the bathroom, Sherlock's old bedroom. I am relieved to hear there was more to this conversation than what was to see and hear on the disc. Hm. I wonder if he knows…"
"Why? Why would he…?"
"Why would he tape you? Well…"
"No! Why would he send you the DVD?"
"Yes, that is one of the interesting questions, isn't it? The more worrying question, though, is: Why did he add the postscript?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Think, John. Why mention my offering money to you? I did that here, in the living room, and only here. Why did he give up this advantage?"
"He could just have had a bug on you," John offered, weakly.
"That's no answer to my question. But yes, I hoped so, too. But I didn't believe it. Sadly, I was right. Anyway… why? It's a strategic blunder. There is no obvious reason. So, why?"
John stared at Mycroft for a few seconds, then, gritting his teeth, he snapped, "Well? Why? Tell me!"
"I don't know."
***
"Grab your bag and go downstairs. I'll make sure Mycroft's driver will be there in a minute to pick you up and get you back to London. Goodbye, John."
John watched Sherlock closing the bathroom behind him and watched his own, horrified face. He watched himself taking a step backwards, colliding with the bookshelf, and then the screen went black.
He could taste bile on the back of his throat and although he had put on his warmest sweater, he felt cold.
"Did he hurt himself with the razor blades?"
Looking over to the sofa where Mycroft was sitting, John shook his head slowly. "No." The angle of the camera had been perfect, sitting somewhere at the head of the bed. In a strangely absent way, John wondered what other, far older movies the bastard had in store somewhere.
"John!"
"I'm sorry?"
"I asked you, what happened in the bathroom?"
John stood up and went over to the window, leaning his forehead against the glass. "That's very private." Sherlock. Sherlock, where are you? Why didn't you wake me?
"John!"
Turning around, John crossed his arms and sighed. "I told him that I wouldn't leave him." Since he could see Mycroft's mouth opening, he continued quickly, "Did you phone your mother?"
Mycroft frowned and shook his head. "No, of course not. I do not want her to become involved…"
"But she is, Mycroft! She is! Phone her and ask her where her husband is or what he's doing."
"I doubt that she knows." Mycroft glanced at his phone. A minute later, he dialled. "Mummy? Mycroft here. Mummy, do you know - I am very glad you like it. Mummy -" John could hear her chattering from where he was standing and he swore he could feel his eyeteeth growing longer by the minute. "- I already told you, Mother. Sherlock and I had to leave - No! Please, let me finish! I wanted to talk to Father - I see. Too bad. Do you know where he is and when he will be back? - I see. - No, I will contact him later. - Yes, he knows what this is about. Goodbye, Mother." The phone clattered on the table, and Mycroft closed his eyes, looking as if he was in pain.
"What?"
"She said he was out to go riding."
John realised how good he had become at cutting his thoughts off. There had been times when he had wished he would be able to do that so easily, but apparently, the need hadn't been urgent enough, then. He turned back to the window and looked down at the street again. It was snowing; it had to be bitter cold out there.
"Sherlock is with him, isn't he?"
Without looking back at Mycroft, John answered with a counter question. "Why did you think Sherlock would leave the country?"
"You don't think so?"
About to shake his head, John reconsidered. Would he? Would he leave everything behind? Would he leave me behind? He remembered the haunted look in Sherlock's eyes while they had been in the bathroom, but he also remembered the… You should be able to admit it to yourself, you know?… the shyness and the undeniable… desire John had seen on Sherlock's face at the dining table. Absentmindedly, John pondered how he could avoid throwing up while Mycroft was watching.
He managed to reach the kitchen sink, just in time.
***
"What are these 'stupid plans' your father was writing about?" When no answer was coming, John turned around from his place at the window, abandoning his staring at the darkening street, only to find Mycroft looking, for the first time, like his father. There wasn't a trace of emotion in his blue eyes. He didn't seem to be willing to answer, either. "Sherlock said something about 'twee files' you had on 'this mess'. What's in them?"
"That is no concern of yours."
John's field of vision narrowed; he was clenching his fists and tried very hard to stay where he was. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me."
"What, Mycroft? Some dirt to fling at him? Something substantial?"
"Tar and feathers, John. Tar and feathers."
"Tell me."
"No."
Straightening up, John went slowly over to the sofa where Mycroft was sitting and watching him attentively. There wasn't a flicker in these cold eyes, but nevertheless, John could see the other man tensing up. "Is that really the way you want to handle things, Mycroft? Shut me out? What about Sherlock? You want to shut him out, too? Are you really so naïve to believe that your father won't tell him what you're about to…"
Mycroft stood up abruptly. "I handle things the way they have to be handled, be sure of that. You are the only one who's naïve here. You have no idea how to deal with a situation like this, how to deal with someone like my father! And apparently, neither does Sherlock. So let me…"
Suddenly furious, John raised one hand and shoved Mycroft back a bit. He heard blood pounding in his ears. "Careful, Mycroft. Be very careful how you talk about your brother while I'm present."
Cocking his head to the side, Mycroft got straight back into John's face. "Oh, did I offend your feelings? Don't lose your grasp on reality, John. We both know with whom my brother is spending the day. It's absolutely clear that Sherlock is not able to handle anything, either the situation or my father. And you, John, don't even know what is going on here. This," he pointed at the table with the letter and jewel case on it, "is my father's first move, his opening move. And as far as I see it, if you like it or not, right now, Sherlock is my father's Queen. If you refuse to accept this you will have to stay far away from this game."
"Do you know how closely you resemble your father right now?" Mycroft's eyes narrowed and John took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Sherlock isn't some piece of chess, Mycroft; he has a will of his own. No matter what…" He broke off when Mycroft laughed; it sounded like a bark.
"You really believe that, don't you? I'll tell you what will happen the moment Sherlock comes home. He will…" Mycroft's mobile started to ring; he glanced at it and immediately took the call. "Yes? - Where? - I see. - No! No, let him. Keep me informed about my father." Mycroft flipped his phone shut and turned to John. "He's here."
***
John had barely the time to blink when he heard the door downstairs open, footsteps on the stairs and then Sherlock entered, slowly, snow still melting on the dark hair. He surveyed the room; his gaze lingered for a moment on the table. He never made eye contact with John, though. When Sherlock raised his head, he looked straight at his brother. While taking off his gloves, he said in an almost gentle tone, "Forget about it, Mycroft." His voice sounded hoarse.
With a completely impassionate expression, Mycroft answered, "I don't think so." He bent forward to get the DVD out of the player, scooped up the letter and his briefcase, then turned to John. "That's what I wanted to tell you. I'm sorry, very sorry."
John didn't answer; his eyes never left Sherlock. He monitored every movement, the way Sherlock took off his coat and laid it upon the sofa, the way he straightened up again. John's chest became tighter and tighter.
"I won't back you on this, Mycroft. You haven't got anything."
"Don't I?" Mycroft glanced at the DVD in his hand. "I wouldn't say so."
Sherlock huffed. "The DVD? Fairy tales."
Mycroft smiled an awful smile. "Oh, no. Sorry, I mixed them up." He reached into his suit coat. "I was thinking about that one," he remarked slowly, brandishing another jewel case. Sherlock wavered a bit; Mycroft's smile became broader. "You know, I thought he would not tell you about this one. No doubt, he was under the delusion that I wouldn't show you. He is making mistake after mistake."
"You tried my whole life, Mycroft. I never fell for your bluffs."
"You think I'm bluffing?" Now Mycroft sounded almost delightful. He took the remote and turned on the player. "Let's take a look, shall we?"
John saw Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbing once, saw him taking a tiny step towards Mycroft and suddenly, he had enough. He reached behind the DVD player and pulled the plugs, both from the player and the TV. "It's enough." He hurt all over, was tired and angry at Mycroft… and at himself for letting this charade go on for so long. "Go home, Mycroft."
"I most certainly will not…"
"You most certainly will," John interrupted. He grabbed Mycroft's coat and phone, and then, pushing and shoving, John forced the taller man out of the door and, with even stronger force, downstairs. Arriving at the outside door, Mycroft snarled something John didn't understand. He didn't care about it, anyway. "Shut up! What's wrong with you? You didn't even ask him if he's hurt, do you realise that?"
"Why should my father hurt him? It would be counterproductive."
Somehow holding on to his temper, John hissed, "You're not the greatest observer then, are you? Oh well, you are just making mistake after mistake." He shoved Mycroft out of the door, banged it closed and leaned against it for a short moment. After taking a deep breath, John ran upstairs again.
***
Steeling himself for whatever, John entered the living room. Sherlock sat in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers, looking incredibly tired. John hesitated, but only for a second. Not above pressing immediately for advantage, he asked, "Why didn't you wake me?"
Sherlock lowered his hand slowly; he didn't answer, just looked at John. His eyes were empty.
"Sherlock? Why… "
"Left coat pocket."
His eyes not leaving Sherlock, John rummaged around, first in the outer pocket, then he pulled an envelope and another jewel case out of the inner pocket. He was scared. Again -far too often in the last days- John was not able to guess the mood Sherlock was in, let alone to know what had happened to him. "You want me to read it?"
"Go ahead."
Swallowing, John unfolded the single sheet of paper. After reading it once, he shook his head slightly. Quite the different tone. Bastard. Glancing up at Sherlock again, the angry demand -why?- died on John's lips. Brittle. That's the word, that's how he looks. Brittle. "All the more, you should have woken me. I don't understand…"
"Watch the DVD," Sherlock said quietly.
For a moment, they looked at each other in silence, then Sherlock averted his eyes and John pulled out the DVD. He waited until Sherlock raised his head again and then, John snapped the disc in two, throwing the pieces into the cold fireplace. "No."
Obviously startled, Sherlock made a futile attempt to catch the destroyed disc; he then turned back to John. He didn't look angry, though, but in a disquieting way… dismayed. "Why did you do that?"
"You wanted to keep it?" John asked calmly. Inwardly, he was trembling; not only with rage, although there was a lot of that, but mostly because the feeling from earlier was back, the feeling that in an unseen corner something was waiting for John, was waiting to pounce.
There was no answer to his question. John breathed in and was on his way over to the sofa, to his doctor's bag that was sitting at its right side -he hoped to get a head start on an important matter- when Sherlock decided to speak up after all.
"I'm leaving for New York, tomorrow morning." He looked down on his hands, his rubbing thumb. "I have to pack. I have to talk to Mrs Hudson. I will continue to pay the rent. Of course."
John froze where he was, almost in touching distance to Sherlock. For a split second, his mind was blank, but then there were myriad thoughts and feelings; he almost felt trampled down by them. All of them seemed to lead him to the same course of action. Yelling. Don't, don't, don't! Don't do this, don't don't don't don't… He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and clenched his fists. "What did you say?" he choked out somehow.
"You heard me." Sherlock still did not look at John; he kept staring at his lap, his hands, his thumb. "I won't give him up. This is my decision. He asked. I said yes."
"When did he ask you, Sherlock? While he was ripping out your hair?"
Slowly, Sherlock turned his head, and John looked straight into scared eyes. "There is blood on the back of your head." Sherlock's face seemed to blur; John blinked rapidly. "Quite a bit of blood." He stumbled forward and took hold of his bag. "Take off your scarf." Sherlock did not move. "I'm not stupid. Take it off." With his shin, John shoved the low table closer to Sherlock's chair and put his bag on it, opening it, then he turned on the brightest desk light, pulling it in the right position. John swallowed hard; the dark curls were a mess, flat and rumpled at the same time due to snow and blood. John reached for the bottle with hydrogen peroxide, but reconsidered.
"I'll get some water. Please, stay where you are."
Sherlock didn't move, didn't talk; his eyes were closed.
In the kitchen, John grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and a still packed kitchen roll. He wanted to hasten back, but had to hold onto the sink all of a sudden; his head was spinning and his stomach rolled once, in a most unfriendly way. Breathe. Hold it together. He gulped down some air, to no avail. Cold sweat was breaking out all over his body, his stomach turned over again, and John tightened his hold on the sink, knuckles white. Get a grip! With difficulty, he raised his head and lowered his shoulders while continuing to breathe as slowly as possible. Finally, the vertigo and the nausea seemed to wane; John straightened up again. When he came back into the living room he saw that Sherlock's eyes were still closed. His fingers weren't interlaced anymore, though; they were now gripping the armrests. He isn't running. He isn't running. Careful, now.
"Let me take a look, alright?" John placed his hands tentatively on Sherlock's shoulders; when there was no immediate reaction, he slowly started to loosen the scarf that was still slung tightly around Sherlock's neck. The back of his fingers were sliding over the skin of Sherlock's throat, and as gently as he was moving them, he still felt Sherlock flinch. Finally, the scarf fell away and… John closed his eyes for a second, nausea coming back with a vengeance. "Jesus." The pale skin was bruised all over, all around the neck, but the bruising wasn't the worst by far; the bite marks were. There were at least two marks where the bastard had broken the skin. John's hands enfolded Sherlock's face, raising it a bit to get a better look; under his fingertips he could feel the rapid pulse. In silent reassurance, John stroked his thumbs over Sherlock's cheekbones. Keeping his left palm nestled close to Sherlock's cheek, John reached with his right hand for the hydrogen peroxide and a sterile bandage.
"This will sting a bit."
Carefully, John cleaned the wounds. They started to bleed, so John put court plasters on them. While trying to find the right angle for the second one, his knuckles grazed Sherlock's throat above his Adam's apple and again, Sherlock flinched -hard, this time. Frowning, John leaned closer, but the skin so high up on the throat wasn't marred. What…? Awareness came, like another punch to the stomach. He tensed, and felt Sherlock freezing almost simultaneously. John looked up at Sherlock's face, but his eyes were shut tightly.
There were a thousand words John wanted to say, shout, cry… so many they choked him up; he wasn't able to utter one. Sherlock. Cameras. The fridge, oh God, the damn fridge! A sound escaped him, a helpless and needless sound - and god help him, he didn't even manage to sound angry no matter what he wanted and why the hell was that? He reached blindly for his bag and the damn thing slipped right out of his grip and landed on the floor, rattling. Crouching down quickly, John searched around and finally got out his pen torch and a spray bottle with Lignocaine.
While he was getting back on his feet, John saw that Sherlock had turned his head and seemed to stare at the fireplace where the broken disc was lying, reflecting yellow and red lights merrily. John cleared his throat. "Sherlock?" When Sherlock was looking over his shoulder at him, he raised the hand with the pen light in it. "May I?" Sherlock nodded, and then opened his mouth almost too obediently. As expected, his pharynx was bright red. Clinging desperately to a doctor's perspective, John said quietly, "That must hurt like hell. I'd like to give you a few puffs with Lignocaine, if that's alright with you?" Another nod. "Hold your breath for a moment - okay, that should do it." John removed bottle and pen light. Sherlock swallowed, breathed in and promptly coughed a few times, wincing again.
John straightened up slowly. "It will take effect in a minute." Turning halfway, he reached for the bottle of water and the kitchen roll, when Sherlock suddenly spoke up. "Why are you doing this?" His voice sounded even hoarser than before.
John bit on his lower lip. He knew what he wanted to answer, had rehearsed an answer to something like this the whole afternoon, but he was afraid to. He still could hear the bastard's voice. You are losing, he had said, and John had shrugged it off, thought of it as something the actual loser would be saying. But now… it felt as if exactly this was happening. There is nothing for it, though. You have to try. Or give him up right away.
"Because I love you," John said. Sherlock blinked twice, and John continued. "I do know that two years can't measure up to a whole lifetime, I'm aware of that. But…" he bit down on his lip again, "… well. I guess it's for you to decide, Sherlock. What kind of…"
Sherlock interrupted him. "There is no choice."
Swallowing, John nodded. "I guess that is what he wants you to think. That is what he told you your whole life. I can only tell you what I think. This," he skimmed his fingertips over Sherlock's throat, "for me, this is not love. Hurting you, punishing you… has nothing to do with love. At least for me. And you do have a choice; the same you had for the last two years. You decided to stay here with me. I know, things have changed now, he is kind of standing on our threshold, but," John pried Sherlock's hand loose from the death grip he still had on the armrest and gave it a gentle squeeze, "I'm still here. And no matter what you think and no matter what he told you, I will not leave."
Silence.
"I never thought I would have to do this, but our schedule is a bit tight." John's stomach did another slow roll. "Even if you think you don't have a choice, you still have to decide… if you want to leave with him or if you want to stay here with me."
Deafening silence.
John looked down at the hand he held in his and slowly, let it go. The speech he had prepared in his head, it hadn't come out the way he had planned. He knew that he had messed up things, badly. Congratulations. Hold a gun to his head, why don't you?
"Well, I…" oh God, shut the hell up! "I'll take care of your head now."
***
John put the bottle of water on the kitchen table and threw the bloody paper towels into the rubbish bin. He looked at Sherlock out there in the living room; Sherlock, who still hadn't said a word and was again staring at the fireplace. John couldn't make out the expression on his face; the bright desk light was casting shadows over it. To John, it seemed as if he was looking at a silhouette, at some image of Sherlock, a Sherlock who already wasn't there anymore.
Sudden grief swamped him; grief and self-disgust. Pressure mixed with armchair psychology. Well done, you stupid, selfish idiot. Shoving the table out of his way, John rushed into the bathroom; he wasn't able to stand one more glance at Sherlock. He sat down on the toilet and buried his face in his hands. Tears came easily. He'll leave. There isn't a thing you can do about it. There isn't a thing anyone can do about it. John knew that -no matter under what delusion Mycroft was- no one could stop Sherlock leaving when he really wanted to. Mycroft… he had it all wrong anyway. This isn't an opening move. This is checkmate. The bastard wanted him back… and now he is succeeding. Game over. A new wave of tears shook John and he barely managed to choke back the sobs. You'll lose him. You will lose him. Hands fisted in his hair, John doubled over, eyes and mouth tightly closed.
"John?"
John's head flew up; through a blur of tears he could just make out Sherlock standing in the doorway. Ashamed, John wiped his hands over his cheeks. "Let me be, Sherlock. Just let me…" He broke off when he felt strong hands gripping his arms and pulling on them. "No, go away. I…"
"We will not do this in a bathroom again." The pulling increased and John had no chance; he let Sherlock drag him forwards. In a minute, he found himself sitting on Sherlock's bed, Sherlock right beside him. Fine. I don't have to look at him, though. John kept his head down.
The hands had never left John's arms, and now they were fluttering over John's shoulders and back, as if unsure where to settle down. It seemed out of character for Sherlock, but John still smelt pity; before he could throw off the hands, Sherlock finally decided what to do with them. He pulled John into his arms; John's nose and left cheek was pressed into the silken shirt Sherlock was wearing.
John tried not to, he really did, but there was nothing for it; he started crying again. The arms around John tightened and his own slowly crept around Sherlock's waist and held on just as tight.
They sat like that for some time; after a while, Sherlock laid his cheek on John's head. Soon afterwards, the tears stopped coming and treacherous hope started to crawl around in John's mind; it was hard not to hope given the fact how closely John held onto Sherlock and how closely Sherlock held onto John.
Eventually, John tried to gear up for something, anything, to say, but had to admit he couldn't find the courage to. As it turned out, he didn't have to.
"I hate my father," Sherlock said.
***
"It's not as easy as it sounds, though, I'm afraid."
They had parted, but only a bit; John still held both of Sherlock's hands in his.
"What you said before, about having a choice, is…"
"I had no right to say that. I don't know enough to…"
"No," Sherlock interrupted harshly. "You were right; astonishingly right, to be honest." He paused for a moment, then smirked humourlessly. "It is quite strange; I am aware that there are many choices, an uncountable number of choices for me to make, but…"
"It still feels like you don't have one?"
Sherlock looked at him and tilted his head. "You are a very odd man, John. Do you know that?"
John shrugged.
Letting his head fall back, Sherlock glanced at the ceiling. "As I said, I hate him." He looked up again and watched John closely. "But I also love him. Admire him." He shuddered, and John wondered if he was even aware of it. "If I wanted to add a touch of the dramatic, I'd say I worship him." He tried to draw back his hands, but John didn't let them go. Sherlock rested his gaze on their hands for a moment; then he started to rub his left thumb over the back of John's right hand. John pulled back and interlaced their fingers, stopping the motion. "Tell me what's on your mind right now."
Slowly, Sherlock slid his fingers through John's, then freed his hands and laid his fingertips on John's, a curious expression on his face. "I hate when he is touching me." Suddenly, Sherlock leaned back and crossed his arms, but in the next second, he was crawling over the bed and ripping open a drawer of the nightstand. "I need a cigarette."
Fingertips tingling, John swallowed. When Sherlock was back at his side, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands, John said quietly, "I promise you, he won't touch you again." He waited for the expected grimace and continued. "I assure you, I'm able to promise you that; all I need is some help from you."
"What do you mean?"
"Stay with me. Close to me. Let Mycroft deal with your father. Let Mycroft finish him off for you."
Sherlock barked out a mixture of smoke and laughter. "Mycroft? God, John, please don't tell me you think that whatever Mycroft has planned has anything to do with me. You do not believe that, do you?"
"Sherlock…"
"I will tell you what I am to my brother: An embarrassment, that's what I am." Sherlock huffed. "Although, I think even he didn't know how big an embarrassment I turned out to be today."
"Mycroft loves you."
A bark of laughter again. "Yes! And my father loves me, too! Strangest thing ever, don't you think?"
Worried about how agitated Sherlock had become, John paused for a long moment. "Not for me."
Startled, Sherlock looked at him, and then his expression softened. "I know."
John took a deep breath. Let it go. Let it go. He could not. "Sherlock, I can't believe I'm defending your brother, but you are wrong about him, about his intentions. He told me that…"
"John. Mycroft has files about my father. And my father… he has files about Mycroft." Rolling his eyes at John's no doubt stunned facial expression, Sherlock sighed. "This is fun for them! Oh, I know they are growling and jangling with their armour, but don't ever mistake…"
"SHERLOCK, STOP IT!" John yelled, then, with a calmer voice, "Stop it. I… I don't doubt that you are right about your father. But you are dead wrong about Mycroft. He loves you, he loves your mother. The good kind of love. Think, Sherlock. Think about how Mycroft was behaving the last days. You're calling that 'fun'? I'd call it irrational. Yes, he shoves you out of the way whenever he's able to, but not because you're unimportant, not because you're an embarrassment - because he wants to protect you. And because he wants to make amends."
Sherlock looked distraught. "Make amends?"
"For not slitting a throat properly twenty years ago."
***
"Are you hurt somewhere else?"
"Hm?"
"Sherlock."
While shaking his head, Sherlock lit another cigarette with the stub of the last one. "Just some bruises."
"'Just'?"
"Yes. He shoved me around a bit." Unexpectedly, Sherlock started smiling. "He is getting old. Not as much stamina as he used to have."
Do not dare to… Horrified by himself, John tried to stifle his laughter, but he couldn't. He let out a guffaw and almost simultaneously, he heard Sherlock's cackle. Spell broken, they laughed their heads off, John sliding down on the floor while Sherlock simply fell back on the bed.
"Jesus." For the third time in about an hour, John had to wipe away tears. "That's not funny at all."
"Actually, it is."
Before John could answer, Sherlock's mobile rang - an incoming message.
Perfect.
Sherlock, appearing stone-cold sober again, got it out of his jacket, took one look at it and sighed.
"What is it?"
Without a word, Sherlock gave it to him.
Schedule changed. We're meeting at five o'clock tomorrow morning, Victoria Station, air terminal Gatwick. R H
Without looking up, John remarked lightly, "Well, I guess Mycroft got in his way already."
"Hm. Anyway, he's waiting for an answer." Sherlock grasped at the phone, but John kept it out of reach.
"Let me answer, please?"
"John…"
"Please. Just three words, Sherlock. Straight from my heart."
"No. I have to answer, John. He's with my mother by now." When Sherlock reached again for the phone, John handed it over. While he was watching Sherlock typing quickly, he said, "Really? That would be very fast, don't you think?"
Sherlock put the phone back into his jacket. "He threw me out of the car in Swindon; I would bet that he was halfway home before I even managed to find a cabbie willing to drive me back here."
"You stayed in Swindon?"
"No. As I said, he threw me out of his car in Swindon, literally."
Not willing to be distracted, John insisted. "Where were you staying, then?"
Sherlock didn't answer, and John waited. Sherlock's thumb started moving, though, so John got up from the floor and sat down on the bed again, laying his hand over Sherlock's. "Tell me?"
"Why is that so important? Why?" Sherlock grabbed the cigarette pack again, and the moment he opened it, John spoke up. "Yes, that's one of the things I would like to know, why that is so important - to you." The cigarettes went flying, Sherlock cursed viciously and crouched down on the floor, gathering them up. "Sherlock…"
"I don't want to hear one word about smoking. Right now, I…"
"I wasn't going to say anything about smoking. I want to know where you stayed with your father today."
Lighting the next cigarette, Sherlock stood up and went over to the window to stare into the night. "We stayed in Reading."
"In a hotel?"
"No. Father has friends at the university; there are guest houses. He's always welcome there."
No wonder no one was able to find them. "You were there before?"
"Yes."
Now John, too, got back on his feet. "You told me he never came back for a visit from New York."
Silence for a minute, then the sound of huffing. "He didn't. I was there with him before… before my mother was sent to the sanatorium."
John blinked a few times; his pulse rate doubled. "What… wait a moment. Your mother, she left when you were eight, didn't she?"
"Almost eight, yes." Sherlock turned around, his expression impassive, but the second he saw John coming closer, he swerved to the right.
John stood still. "When did it start?" He heard an echo of that question ringing in his mind; a few days ago, an eternity ago, he had asked the same question and now he knew he had been lucky for not getting an answer then.
Sherlock raised his head, stuck out his chin and John could not only see, but also hear the walls going up. "I was five years old. Exactly five years. He likes handing out birthday presents."
"Sherlock… if I asked you a question, would you give me an honest answer?"
"You may ask."
"Did your mother know?" And just like that, the walls crumbled again.
Aloofness went away and left open anger behind. "What are you…?" Sherlock broke off; he seemed to catch himself. A weird expression crossed his face and he blinked twice. "I've already answered that question."
"No, you didn't."
"Of course I did." Sherlock crossed the room, grabbed a bag and a suitcase and threw both on the bed.
"You… what are you doing?"
"What does it look like? I'm packing because I'm leaving tomorrow morning."
John felt like he didn't have many emotions left; only one, to be exact. Fury. Sadly, he had also lost any ounce of self-control he had possessed before the ride on the rollercoaster had started in the morning. Snarling, John stalked over to where Sherlock was emptying drawers. "So, you're leaving after all? Why? Because I asked a certain question, neither you, nor your brother wants to really give an answer to? And don't you start on me with your shit about having already answered it. You did not! You did what you do best, you dodged me. You start telling tales, with enough personal and embarrassing shit thrown in so you know I won’t ask further or even notice that you haven't answered. That's what you do, Sherlock. That's what you've always done." A sound escaped John that didn't sound even close to a laugh. "Well, except for the times when you're losing it completely, when you've stopped knowing who, where, or even when you are! The moment you came back to, in that goddamned bathroom, you started lying to me again!"
Sherlock looked at him as he would look at a not especially interesting insect that had crawled out from under the rug. One eyebrow was raised, and the only sign that seemed to indicate that Sherlock was not quite as calm as he wanted to look were two red blotches high on his cheekbones. "Count yourself lucky, then." He threw an armful of socks into the case.
"Oh, I do!" With that, John turned around and ripped the doors of Sherlock's old wardrobe open, grabbed as many of the ridiculously expensive shirts as he could get a grip on. He threw all of them, including the hangers, in the vague direction of the bed with the result that almost every space, no matter if bed, floor or Sherlock, was covered in silk and Egyptian cotton.
Sherlock stared at the mess out of unbelieving eyes, and John sat down where he was, in front of the half-empty wardrobe. Right beside him a familiar white shirt was lying, and John's right hand gripped it hard; he heard the ripping of silk. The fury, the fit of violent temper, whatever it had been, was gone; everything was gone, really. "I thought we had an agreement." His voice sounded toneless. "Didn't we agree that, if I asked an unwelcome question, you would just tell me that you didn't want to answer? And now you run away because of a wrong question?"
"You think I'm leaving because you asked a silly question?"
Sherlock was ice, black ice, and John let his head fall back. God, he was tired. "So you are saying you would have left anyway? Right. Then I'm sure you won't mind another question." He closed his eyes. "What will you do in New York? I mean… I'm having a hard time imagining things. Picking up where you left off? You two living together, your father retired, and you… what will you do?" When no answer was coming, John opened his eyes again and saw that Sherlock was folding shirts; he didn't look like he had even listened to John.
All right, that's it, then.
With difficulty, John got on his feet again. He let the torn shirt fell to the floor and without looking at Sherlock, he left the room and went through the kitchen to the living room to get his phone. Before he entered the staircase to go to his own bedroom, he said loud enough to be heard, "Goodbye, Sherlock." There was no answer, but then, he hadn't expected one.
***
John sat up on his bed.
For the last two hours, he had listened to Sherlock moving around downstairs, had listened to him opening and closing drawers and boards, preparing tea, taking a shower and then, as weird as it had been, doing the dishes. The whole time while he had consciously catalogued everything Sherlock had been doing, his subconscious had catalogued everything that John had done since Sherlock had reappeared. On this list, there were also the things he hadn't done, as well as everything he'd done wrong; there weren't many things he'd done right so far.
He had also stared at his phone for quite some time; he had debated phoning Mycroft, but eventually concluded that this would have been the worst thing he could do. If he wants to leave, he will leave. And there isn't anything in this world to stop him. John was sure that Mycroft would not agree with him, but then, John knew Sherlock in ways his brother didn't. You're really sure about that? Mycroft had seemed to know what was going on earlier, you did not. Anyway, he hadn't phoned him.
The hardest part, the one that had made him lying motionless on his back on the bed for two hours, had been the realisation that he wasn't enough. Simply not enough. John wasn't stupid. He knew he was special to Sherlock; someone who had been able to get under Sherlock's skin, someone Sherlock let in. And when Holmes had shown up, John had been… I've been jealous. Furious, yes, but… mostly jealous. How fucked up is that? And I've never thought I'd lose him. Not really. Couldn't happen, right? He couldn't choose the abusing monster over me. And I thought we would have time… time to talk, to be with each other, but there wasn't time for anything at all. John's throat had gotten tight when he had thought about the life Sherlock would have to live… and that had been the moment when he had realised that it had become deadly quiet downstairs.
After he had sat up, John listened hard, then stood up, went to the door and laid his ear against it. Nothing. Before his inner eye, John could see perfectly well an empty flat, but that wasn't the worst thing to see, by far. He ripped the door open and then almost took a fall when his forward motion was stopped by long legs dressed in black trousers. John got a hold on the doorframe and stared down at Sherlock, who was sitting perfectly still in front of John's threshold, his back leaning against the corridor wall.
Sherlock looked up at him, face impassive.
"Why didn't you come in?"
Grey eyes roamed about John. "Would you do me a favour, John?"
"Yes."
"Why are you never bargaining?"
John frowned. "I'm sorry?"
"Never mind. Would you phone Mycroft and tell him we need a… well, a safe house? A hiding place, I think."
John stared on, questions popping up in his mind. He swallowed them down. He said we. Maybe we're getting the time we didn't have since the utter madness started.
John turned around, grabbed his phone and dialled. Mycroft answered immediately, so quickly, John was a bit thrown by it.
"Yes?"
"Mycroft. Er, John here."
"Yes?"
"Er, we need your… help. We have to get away, quickly. Your father…" John turned around to look questioningly at Sherlock, who was just entering the room. Sherlock shrugged. "Your father will be at Victoria Station tomorrow morning at…"
Mycroft interrupted him. "I know."
"Right. So… can you help us?"
Silence for a moment.
"Start packing. I'll send someone over in about three hours to get you."
"Where are we…"
"Morocco." Mycroft hung up.
John threw the phone on the bed. "Thank you and goodbye to you, too."
Sherlock stood at John's nightstand and stroked his right forefinger slowly over the old wood. "What did he say?"
John huffed. "We should start packing, someone will come to get us in three hours and we'll leave for Morocco. Morocco? Do you know what…?"
"It means we're going anywhere but Morocco." Sherlock raised his head to look at John. "I'm ready," he said quietly. "You should start to pack."
John looked him over; Sherlock appeared to be perfectly well, calm, and even peaceful. John didn't buy it. "You look tired. Why don't you try to get some sleep? I'll wake you when I'm finished."
Sherlock's expression wavered a bit. "I think I know why you're not bargaining."
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" Sherlock looked down at John's bed. "Would you mind?"
"Not at all."
While Sherlock sat down on the bed, appearing oddly timid, John opened his suitcase on the floor and started to throw underwear and socks into it. Then he paused. And now what? T-shirts? Jumpers? He thought about it for a moment, then grabbed his other case. Best to be prepared for a tropical island as well as Russia. As he stood up to reach for the wardrobe door, his gaze fell on Sherlock. He was lying on the bed like a body would lie in a coffin; straight on his back, hands folded over his waist. His eyes were open, though. They were staring at the ceiling, without blinking once.
"Are you all right?"
"No."
John stepped over one of the cases and sat down beside Sherlock. "What's going on in your head?"
Sherlock just raised an eyebrow.
"Not the best of times for questions, I know." John combed his fingers through Sherlock's fringe. "Things will be all right, Sherlock. Just close your eyes and sleep." He continued to pet the dark curls for a long time, even after Sherlock had fallen asleep.
***
Mycroft stared at his fireplace; he hadn't been sure that John would manage to do what he had to do. Not at all.
The relief was short-lived, though. He took another phone and dialled. "Get the plane ready in three hours. Details later. Cancel all the other plans for now."
Mycroft stood up, but before he went over to his desk, he stopped at the mantelpiece to look at one of the pictures of his mother. He closed his eyes, then shook his head and continued on his way.
Later.