Chapter Text
Mycroft had been extraordinarily smug about the “rescue” from Serbia. On the plane trip back to London, every time Sherlock shifted, he recalled how Mycroft sat and watched as he was beaten. The six weeks between his capture and his release had been a constant struggle to survive. He had long since trained himself to go extended periods without food or sleep, but, in the past, he had the ability to break those fasts or collapse on the sofa. He had no such luxury in an off-the-grid prison.
He survived by releasing enough information to tempt his captors into giving him another day to break. And he was about to break when his newly Serbian-speaking brother calmly waltzed into the facility and walked out with him. He made it look easy. Arsehole. The questionably diverted resources from MI-6, six weeks of infiltration, learning another language, and a half dozen operatives pulled from other projects did not give him sufficient reasons to forgive his brother for the very close call.
Now he had two years to make up for in his knowledge of London, his homeless network, his relations with the Yard, and…John. He hardly knew how to categorise that last bit. During his years abroad, he was able to stay abreast of general London news, but there was only so much to discern from the Guardian. He avoided more targeted internet searches out of concern for security, particularly given that Moriarity’s network specialised in monitoring — and intercepting — electronic communications.
In any event, John’s blog had stopped before Sherlock’s “death,” and Mycroft rarely shared anything with him about John or the others in his life. He also did not ask. He wanted to stay safe and focused on his Work, Moriarty's network, and the task at hand. Gossip about John’s latest date or yet another unsolved murder did little to advance his mission or his return to London.
Thankfully, Sherlock’s name had been cleared by some fairly decent investigatory work into Richard Brook, which greatly improved his ability to return.
He shifted again in his seat to try to reduce the increasingly complaining open wounds on his back. He had been treated by a medic before boarding a military plane in Kosovo out of Camp Bondsteel, one of the largest jointly operated bases in the area by US and NATO forces. There were enough UK forces that they could arrange for a quick exit with a minimum of paperwork. He had been given a mild pain medication, but with his history, neither Mycroft nor any sensible medic would allow anything stronger. He also recognized that an opioid pain medication was probably the last thing he needed now. But that didn’t ease his discomfort sitting for hours on a plane when the wounds on his back oozed. He assumed a dressing change would be in order upon landing. He had been fed during transport to the airport, and was willing to eat a respectable sandwich during the flight. Although military transports didn’t usually come with a decent selection of Scotch, apparently the one transporting Mycroft made an exception to this rule. He did not object and between the food, pain medication, alcohol, and his extraordinary state of exhaustion, managed to doze for much of the flight.
Upon return, after another evaluation and a dressing change by some anonymous medical personnel, he was transported directly to Mycroft’s private office in Whitehall. He was glad for the professional shave because he could not quite control the trembling in his hands. Although Mycroft professed to have set up the whole operation and air evacuation for him because of a terrorist threat, he was largely unconcerned by that possibility. There was always a terrorist threat. He needed to catch up with the rhythms of the city before he would be useful. Mycroft did not seem to appreciate his lack of urgency. He first needed to regroup with John and find his bearings in the city, and he admitted to himself that those two items were closely related. He teased Mycroft a bit by suggesting that he would just surprise John at Baker Street and perhaps pop out of a cake. Mycroft’s next words shocked him: “Baker Street? He isn’t there anymore. Why would he be? It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life.”
He was dumbfounded by the idea that John had left Baker Street. He had lived for most of the last two years with a very firm image fixed in his head about an easy return to his work as a consulting detective with John at his side. If he was honest with himself, which he usually tried to be where he had access to objective data, the idea of John carrying on ready to resume their lives helped ease him through the most difficult time in his life. In his imagination, Mrs Hudson also continued to make tea and cleaned their flat while loudly complaining about it. Lestrade had actually managed to clear Sherlock’s name. Mycroft had continued on as usual with his ridiculous sleeve garters, black cars, pocket watches, and lack of actual human relationships, while maintaining a small off-the-books budget to support some not-remotely-legal espionage by his brother.
But the information from Mycroft about John led to a disturbing series of deductions regarding the likelihood of John’s future commitment to their chosen way of life. At least, to Sherlock’s chosen way of life before he…well, before he abandoned John with his fake suicide. He started to think that he had underestimated how his death changed the important individuals in his life. John’s moustache was certainly an announcement of a John Watson looking for a new direction. Sherlock did not care for what that signified at all, and the moustache itself was unappealing. The evening reservations at an expensive restaurant with a woman he had been seeing for months was also not a good sign. He needed to take action. He climbed up the backstairs to a London rooftop and watched the city go by as he formulated his plan for the evening. It would not involve cake. It would certainly involve a surprise.
~~~~
John had spent that day much like the days before it. His old therapist had told him that she had a rule of threes for trauma - three hours, three days, three weeks, three months, three years… At each juncture, the trauma survivor has processed the event and the grief a little more and is often actively aware of taking the next step to adjust. He tended to agree with that. There should probably be some line of demarcation between three months and three years, but he wasn’t going to put too fine a point on it. He had been a basket case for three months, hardly able to get out of bed or function. It took him through about the year mark to feel like the weight of anxiety, grief and depression had lightened enough for him to breathe. He tried to date before then, but they had been catastrophic failures. He apparently came with a neon sign flashing about his head that said “run, don’t walk.” But after the year mark, he was mostly a functioning human again, and the co-worker he actually quite liked had been agreeable to something more. She was one of the most sarcastic people he had ever met and could likely have given Sherlock a run for his money. They quickly slipped into almost living together and then into living together. He didn’t know how much of his interest in her was just running away from his old life or cautious steps towards his new life, but at some point it didn’t really matter anymore. He and Mary had agreed to meet at the restaurant tonight because he had to run an important errand on his way there without her — he absently checked for the new box in his pocket. Because the ring had been ready and the jeweller was only a few blocks away from the restaurant, John had almost 30 minutes to kill before his reservation. He eyed a pub across the street, wondering if coming to an important date at a classy restaurant smelling of beer would be a bad sign.
Someone cleared his throat rather pointedly behind him. Being a denizen of London for most of his life, John refused to look. Then he heard a quiet whisper, “John.” He froze. He’d heard that voice repeatedly over the last two years but mostly in unpleasant dreams. Not even nightmares — the depressing part was usually waking up from a dream involving the two of them talking, or eating takeaway, or looking at a dead body in an alley.
His heart rate spiralling, he took in a couple of deep breaths and slowly turned, seeing the dead man himself standing behind him. John slumped forward, resting his hands on his thighs and dropping his head to close his eyes. He probably looked like he was about to faint. He heard a quiet step towards him and then another. A pair of expensive shoes appeared in his peripheral vision. “No,” he said. “Don’t come any closer. I’m not doing this here.” He looked around at the after work crowd, carrying briefcases, walking with children, talking on their phone, and generally going about their lives not realising that an extraordinary, miraculous, heartbreaking, rage-inducing spectacle was opening up in front of them.
“Where?”
John wanted someplace private and someplace very much not private for this at the same time. There was a pub down the street that overflowed with young, loud, singles looking to binge-drink and take someone home. That was perfect. He could yell and no one would care. Or hear. John stomped off towards the pub, not looking back to see if Sherlock followed.
He stepped up to the bar and ordered two double whiskeys, paid, and handed one to Sherlock. He was tempted for a moment to clink glasses, purely out of habit. Fuck that. He caught a young couple leaving from a corner table which would be perfect for this conversation and then looked at his watch. He now had twenty minutes until his dinner reservations. There was no way he was going to be in a mental place to have a civilised dinner and propose to Mary tonight. As Sherlock sat next to him, he held up a finger and grabbed his phone. He texted Mary: “I am so sorry but I can’t meet you tonight. You will never believe what happened. I’m fine. I am unlikely to kill anyone tonight. I’ll text you later. Trust me.” Knowing Mary she would be intrigued more than angry with that, but she would also completely understand when he had a chance to share whatever was about to happen to change his life — again.
John realized that Sherlock had spoken only two words to him since they had seen each other again and hoped that something more would come of this evening, other than him getting very drunk and very angry. He downed some of his drink and gestured for Sherlock to do the same. The other man was not a big drinker, especially of cheap whiskey, but he followed suit. John leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, waiting.
Sherlock did not meet John’s eyes, staring at his glass, as his thumb drew nervous patterns on it. He finally said, so quietly he was hardly audible over the din of the pub, “I had to make a number of decisions. There was no right answer and no easy answer. It wasn’t my life or my survival that was most important to me at that time.”
John’s brow furrowed and he inhaled shakily. “What decisions?”
Sherlock explained Moriarty’s snipers and his international terrorist web. He skirted over virtually all the details of the last two years but conveyed the constant running, new identities, and danger. He hinted at Serbia—that he had been captured and injured and his brother had to rescue him. Which he would likely never hear the end of.
John’s mouth quirked a bit at that. “Finally, Mycroft uses his kidnapping abilities for something good.”
Sherlock huffed and smiled momentarily, meeting John’s eyes, and then looking away just as quickly.
John’s slight smile faded, and his expression turned severe. He said quietly, “So saving the world is great. Thanks for that. But…what about me? Tell me why you let me spend two years grieving you…” John’s breath hitched, and he couldn’t get out any more words. He sipped his drink, hoping to calm the constriction in his throat.
“I thought it would be two months, perhaps three. By the time I understood what I was dealing with, I was so far undercover in their web, even Mycroft didn’t hear from me for months.”
“Even Mycroft?” John didn’t hesitate to let his bitterness seep out. Of course, Mycroft was at the heart of the lies.
“Yes. I did have to have somewhat of a base for operations and logistical support, and Mycroft had to be the contact for that. But any other contact endangered you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. And probably London as a whole.”
John finished his drink and considered round two or walking out of the pub. He decided that a drink for every year Sherlock had abandoned him had a nice symmetry to it. He got up, grabbed their glasses, and had them refilled at the bar. He half expected Sherlock to be gone by the time he got back.
Sherlock was still at the table. He slid Sherlock’s drink over to him, slopping it a bit and not caring.
“I honestly don’t know what to think right now Sherlock. This sounds incredibly stupid to even have to say, but I’m glad you aren’t dead. I also think you are the most miserable excuse for a friend someone could ever have. How can I ever trust you again? Why would I ever trust you again? If you could pull some shit like this — make me watch you kill yourself — what else are you capable of doing? What kind of illegal crap have you justified in the last two years? Do I even want to know?” John’s voice had started off angrily quiet but the last question was shouted at a volume that caused a few heads to turn their way.
Sherlock did not have a good answer to any of that. He knew the world was better off without Moriarty’s network, but there were arguments to be made against vigilante justice, making friends suffer, and creating a two-year-long web of lies. “I can’t give you any answer that is satisfactory. But I can tell you that I’m sorry I couldn't handle this in a way that caused you less pain.”
John rubbed his eyes and looked away from Sherlock for at least a minute. He looked back down at his drink, downed it, and stood. He nodded a few times at Sherlock, turned, and walked out of the pub.
~~~~
Greg had spent more time in the last two years dealing with the fallout from Sherlock’s suicide than he ever expected. He was put on administrative leave for weeks while his superiors considered his decision to bring in a consultant to multiple crime scenes. He was removed from leave only because he was not actually prohibited from using consultants as a DI. Several other DIs had used other forensics consultants over the years, so his work with Sherlock was only a few steps removed from the accepted course of dealings. He could not really explain John’s presence on crime scenes, but his status as a decorated war veteran seemed to remove most of the shadow as to his involvement. When the investigation cleared Sherlock, it largely cleared him too. He was not demoted, but he knew he would never be promoted. He would never be considered entirely clean again.
He had tried to keep in contact with John, but John seemed to want to cut himself entirely off from his years at Baker Street. He had never been that close to Mrs Hudson. He rang Mycroft occasionally and had even had a few cases that Mycroft took off his hands, just like old times. Mycroft was good for a stiff drink and sometimes dinner when he made Greg look like an idiot, so that seemed fair in the long run.
But he had not expected the voice in the car park. He wasn’t even sure what he croaked out to Sherlock, but he was quite sure it involved “arsehole” or “bastard.” He was. A complete bastard. But Sherlock was a live bastard and he had not seen that coming. He wasn’t consciously aware of reaching out to wrap the other man in a bear hug until he released him.
After Sherlock left and Greg had a moment to process the revelation, he realised was not exactly angry at Sherlock — he was surprised and relieved. He, however, was livid at Mycroft. Apoplectic. Infuriated. Highly pissed off. Greg decided to stop thinking of synonyms because he was only winding himself up. His text to Mycroft was terse but he knew Mycroft would understand immediately.
- You are a complete tosser.
It only took a minute for him to receive a response.
- I cannot argue the point. MH
- Why didn’t you tell me?
There was a longer delay, with flashing dots for more than a minute, signaling uncharacteristically that the other man was reconsidering his response.
- May I tell you in person? MH
- I am unlikely to punch you. Not a zero chance. Where?
- I will alert my security detail to stand down. I am at my club. MH
Twenty minutes later, Greg stormed through the stupidly formal, silent, pretentious fucking private club Mycroft and other pretentious, stupid, Tory wankers were members of…Greg shut down that line of thought. It was not going to help him avoid punching Sherlock’s fucking liar of a brother…Stop, he told himself and breathe. Sherlock actually living was a good thing, it just seemed like he had spent two years watching a horrendous car wreck with little respite from the grief and the stress. Now he realized the car wreck had been an illusion, like a bad dream he had just woken up from. The butler, or waiter, or servant, or whatever he was, opened the door to Mycroft’s private office and Greg stormed in. He wasn’t entirely sure how to demonstrate his level of pissed-offness. Maybe throwing a tumbler full of expensive alcohol against the wall. He decided to put a pin in that instinct, crossed his arms, and stared at Mycroft.
Mycroft actually looked tense, his body rigid and his face impassive. “I have an explanation but I do not know if it will be enough,” he finally said.
Greg turned abruptly to the decanter and poured three fingers of, he hoped, very good scotch and downed a hearty portion of it before turning back to face the other man.
“Yeah?” He gestured with his glass to signal “carry on.”
Mycroft sighed and gestured for Greg to sit in the leather, high-back chair opposite the sofa. Mycroft walked back to the decanter and carried it and a glass to the coffee table between them, topping off Greg and pouring himself a drink. He sat, took his own respectable pull, and placed his glass on the coaster next to him.
Greg refused to be the first to speak, so he also took a drink, and put his glass down, crossed his arms and waited for the other man.
Mycroft looked away for a moment, inhaled and exhaled slowly, and said, “When this started, we all thought the secrecy would last for a few months. It was important for the world to think he was dead. Moriarty’s network had threatened to target you, John, and Mrs Hudson if he survived being on that roof at Bart’s. Faking his death allowed him to dismantle Moriarty’s network with a minimum of risk to all of your lives and gave him the cover to strike. Even I have rarely had contact with him, although I’ve been able to support him from time to time with resources. Six weeks ago, I got word he’d been captured and was being held in Serbia. We spent that time planning an extraction, which occurred less than 48 hours ago.”
Greg’s jaw dropped at the mention that he was targeted. He reached for his drink while Mycroft finished and to consider his response. His anger was slowly replaced by confusion.
“So…I’ve been a target for two years?”
“We’ve tried to keep you from being a target for two years. You, Mrs Hudson, and John have been under surveillance and we’ve monitored any reports of activity around you. If we had noted any imminent threat, you would have been notified. I have several safe houses on stand-by.”
“And I couldn’t have been told for what reason?”
“Would you have preferred I tell you but not John? John but not you? Mrs Hudson? Do you think all three of you could have gone two years without letting on that you were aware Sherlock was still alive?”
Greg swirled the golden liquid in his glass, inspecting it thoughtfully. Mycroft had a point. Greg would likely have had to commit perjury during the inquest into Sherlock’s investigations and involvement with the Yard. John would unquestionably have acted differently, although some of that was because the man had spent two years in shock and mourning. And Mrs Hudson was a loose cannon on her best days.
He took a deep breath, feeling his anger fade as he watched a worried Mycroft attempt to return his gaze calmly.
“He surprised me in a parking garage. I hope he has a better plan for John.” Greg sipped his drink.
“He said something about jumping out of a cake.”
Greg choked and spit scotch down his shirt. Mycroft stood and offered him a handkerchief.
“Shit,” Greg said as he set his glass aside and dabbed at his shirt, mouth and hand. He looked up wordlessly at Mycroft, as the younger man hovered over him, uncertainly. “Tell me you’re kidding. I mean, obviously he’s not going to jump out of a cake, but please God, tell me he’s going to take this seriously.”
“I have never been able to predict Sherlock. I have no idea yet what the last two years have done to him.” Mycroft looked worried, and Greg realised he had never seen him look quite so…lost. He looked at the damp handkerchief in his hand and wasn’t sure the etiquette of returning it.
“Keep it.” Mycroft shrugged. “Or return it. I have a feeling we may need to see each other again soon for Sherlock’s and John’s sake. I see this getting worse before it gets better.”
Greg downed the rest of his drink and set it aside. He looked distractedly at the expensive scrap of cloth in his hand. He wasn’t sure what he would do with a handkerchief monogrammed with “MH” but at this point that was the least of his worries. He stood, tucking it into his pocket. “Yeah. I wish I disagreed with you but I don’t. Call me the minute you hear something about the two of them and I’ll do the same. I think I’ll head over to Baker Street in the morning. I can make some excuse about catching up with him on how we cleared his name.”
Mycroft looked pale but resigned. He nodded and held out his hand to shake Greg’s. Greg looked at the outstretched hand for a moment and then stepped forward into Mycroft’s space, wrapping him in a brief, manly hug. When he released Mycroft, he couldn’t help a smirk at the other man’s stunned expression. He wondered if he was the first person other than a parent to hug both Holmes brothers in a day.
“Night, Mycroft. Thanks for the scotch. You’re still a tosser.”
Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment as his shoulders shook with silent laughter. When he looked back at Greg, he had a little more colour in his face. “I still can’t argue the point. Good night, Detective Inspector.”