Part 4. My life with Holmes
And again ^__^ used ideas of dear librarianmum for my plot's holes)) she is vert patient with me))
Title: My life with Holmes
Author: Lenap
Beta: librarianmum http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2774710/
Pairing: domSherlock\ subJohn
Rating: R for this chapter
Status: 4\9
Warnings: AU!, spoilers to 1 season
part 1
part 2
part 3
Very soon John found out Mycroft Holmes was a man to whom it was difficult to refuse anything. And this applied even to Sherlock, who, desperately resisting, still took up the cases offered by his brother. They had a strange complicated relationship. And the case for which they, as it seemed, had run around unsuccessfully for two days, was of interest not only to Lestrade, but also to Mycroft.
John was not a bit surprised to receive a new message from an unknown number with a time and place for a meeting. He also ignored two incoming calls. There was no place for any mysterious meeting in his plans. But when calls were heard from all sides - even from cafes and payphones - John was unable to ignore them anymore and he could not suppress his own curiosity. When a familiar voice calmly asked him to get into a black car he simply obeyed.
“Good afternoon. Is your name Anthea today?”
“If you like it, then yes.”
John smiled. To his surprise, instead of another abandoned warehouse the car stopped near a little restaurant with inconspicuous waiters and guards. Holmes senior was waiting for him at a table set for tea.
Impeccable suit, impeccable manners and the same umbrella leaning against the comfortable chair.
“Hello, Mycroft.”
“Hello, John.”
“An unusual way to invite someone for a cup of tea, don't you think?”
“But very effective.” Mycroft smiled benignly and pushed a steaming cup of fragrant tea in Watson’s direction.
“So… When you say, you are concern about his wellbeing you actually are concerned?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Is it actually just a childish feud?”
“He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.”
“Yes…. No, God no. So what do you want to talk to me about?”
“I have something for you, and I wanted to present it in person. Unfortunately, I have not much time to enjoy the moment and your company.”
Mycroft Holmes, with one smooth movement, took out his organizer from his jacket pocket, opened it and handed John a plastic card.
John repeatedly ran his eyes over the lines printed on it and involuntarily straightened in his chair.
“I have no words… Thank you?”
“You have been given a lot of trust, my dear John. But I'm sure you'll not disappoint us.” Mycroft paused significantly. “And now, to my great regret, I have to leave you. But do try the tea and dessert. They are excellent here. Goodbye, John.”
Tea was indeed very good, and again he was kindly given a lift to Baker Street. Upstairs John was met by an angry Sherlock. He grabbed his shoulders and lightly shook him:
“You have met Mycroft. What has he done?”
“Nothing. We just had a small talk, that's all.” John frowned puzzled. He had stopped reporting his actions at seventeen, and that was to his parents. And now at the age of thirty-eight, he was damned if he was going to start doing that again.
“Did he touch you?”
“What? No!” John was really confused now.
“Good.” Holmes immediately lost any interest in him, returning to some kind of experiment.
“I guess I can’t expect any explanation for that.” John briefly hesitated at the door. The Holmes’ brothers’ behaviour in his humble opinion defied any logical explanation, or at least, logical explanation available to ordinary people.
So he just sent a short text in the hope it would reach its recipient.
Thanks for tea. JW
Much to his surprise, John decided that he liked Mycroft. Unlike his younger brother, who was profoundly indifferent to any rules and social norms, the senior Holmes had a nice ability to seem ordinary. In addition, he was in every sense a prudent man, and now John could without any consequences not only bear gun, but even shoot in busy London streets. And he could only dream that Sherlock could possess the tact and foresight of Mycroft in any kind of measure.
Any attempt to start a conversation about his duties, the need for his nightly absences and his inability to be in Holmes' presence every spare moment was met with disinterest. It was annoying. And now, while watching the detective bent over some flasks, John tried to cope with his frustration. Realizing that he was not coping he went in his bedroom and with a quiet click shut the door behind him.
Sitting down heavily on the neatly made bed, he waited for several minutes to calm down. Frustration and helplessness forced him to hide his face in his hands. He realized that he could at any time return to his former rented apartment, could just get up, gather his belongings and leave. And he didn’t care about the money or how much had changed in his life since both Holmes’ brothers had appeared in his life.
The phone rang suddenly, unexpectedly. John involuntarily glanced at his watch. He did not want to move or to do anything, and he seriously thought about not picking it up at all. Strongly suspecting that the screen would display Bill's name, he still pulled the phone out of his pocket, frowned at the name and, with a sinking heart, accepted the call.
“Clara?” All of a sudden, his voice sounded hoarse.
“John…” There was a sudden silence at the other end. She didn’t even say hello.
“What’s happened?” John asked quietly, suspecting the worst. But he could pull himself together in instant.
Clara was in a hurry to speak as if afraid that Watson would not listen to her:
“Did Harry ring you?”
“Yes, but I couldn't pick up the call. There were no messages from her.”
“She just called me…. Her voice was so shaky….”
“What did she tell you?”
“That she needs to leave home for a couple of weeks. And now she is not answering at all…”
Saying goodbye to Clara, John immediately rang his sister. After eight rings all he got was her voicemail.
Then John, not paying any attention to Holmes’ displeased shouts, ran outside and jumped into the first cab. At first he hoped to find her at home heavily drunk. But she was absent. He did not notice anything unusual, except her sports bag was missing. All the disarray in her rooms could indicate a chaotic hasty packing and departure but then maybe not.
Going around all the nearby pubs with Harry's photograph also didn’t give any results. She wasn’t with any friends or acquaintances. All this time he simply ignored all Sherlock’s messages, which demanded his immediate presence. He had neither the strength nor desire to explain why he had no time for the detective right now.
The night air chilled his cheeks, it climbed under his unbuttoned jacket and gently but firmly blew the warmth from under his beige sweater. John hated this sweater, but dressed in it regularly and could not bring himself to ruin it so he could throw it away and forget it. It was a gift, a gift from Harry on his return. It was presented with a silly joking tone and the assumption that after the scorching sun of Afghanistan he would be cold in the damp of London. And it was indeed freezing, and he did not think he would ever miss the feeling of gritty sand between his teeth, but he did anyway. And now it was easier for him to think of knitted clothes than of what he would have to pass through if his fears were true.
Finally he forced himself to stop and look around. John ran his hands with force down his face and turned; he didn’t even notice that all this time he had been walking in the wrong direction. Torn between his desire to take a cab and get to Lestrade as quickly as possible or go on foot and delay the moment when he would have to fill out the standard unremarkable form, John chose the latter. He needed all the time he could get to pull himself together.
He had described the situation and the actions he had taken briefly on the phone, so Lestrade was already waiting for him and took him by the elbow to escort him to a chair, his warm brown eyes full of sympathy.
“How are you?”
John had no answer to this question.
“Sorry, John, this is standard procedure. I can take the official statement from you in a day or so. But I'll try to help through unofficial channels.”
“Ok. And thank you, Greg.”
“What does Sherlock think about it?”
“Sherlock? What has he to do with this?”
The thought that suddenly came to his mind seemed painfully relevant and credible. John Watson had never before regarded himself as such an idiot.
“I thought… John, wait! What is it?”
John almost fell out of Lestrade’s office and froze in the middle of the hallway. He was suddenly pushed and he apologized automatically. A pretty girl gave him flirty once-over and hurried on her way.
He felt lightheaded; his temples were aching. He was saying something, it seemed, was even answering Lestrades's questions. Then he stopped to talk to someone - maybe Sally - but he was not sure.
“Is everything ok?”
“Yes… No…. Everything is ok.”
“I thought….” Greg paused. “Your lips are grey. Are you sure you are ok?”
“Yes, yes. Good… Thanks, I'll go.”
“Call a taxi? Or I can give you a lift.”
“No. Thank you again, Greg. And forget I asked for help with Harry. I know where she is. Sorry for any trouble.”
With a sense of relief, John wearily leaned back against the cold wall outside New Scotland Yard and slowly slid down. He knew that never, not under any circumstances would he want to relive this again.
John fished out his mobile from his pocket with trembling hands.
“John?” A female voice replied hesitantly after a few rings.
“Hello, Clara.”
“Any news?”
“Nope - nothing new. But I called in a few favours, so we should soon know about her location at least.”
He saw no point in telling her what he had guessed. He did not want to see her either. John did not blame Harry's ex wife for his sister's alcoholism, much less her disappearance, but the treacherous thoughts came to his mind from time to time. Maybe he just wanted to blame someone besides himself. And now he needed time to think.
His sister's flat greeted him with the same mess and scattered things. John turned on the light in every room and now was standing aimlessly in the hallway looking at a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
No matter what was happening with him, he had promised himself he would never look for escape in liquor. But now his hands were shaking not with his regular tremor but rather mild hysteria. The desire to get drunk was so overwhelming and frightening it made him shiver. John ran to the bathroom and put his head under the cold water. A freezing shower helped to distract him and get his thoughts in order.
After tidying up the bedroom and changing the bed sheets, he threw himself on the bed. If his guess was correct, and he was sure it was, there would be no need for any statement from him. And it didn’t matter that right now he was messing up the evidence at a possible crime scene.
Burying his face in a pillow that smelled of lavender, John just lay there and listened to the darkness until he fell into a deep sleep without dreams.
Waking suddenly, he breathed in a strange smell, bitter and fresh, the intoxicating smell of another male which forced him to alertness. Too close for his comfort. But he was woken not by it, but because of another person's eyes on him. He felt its weight on his lips, his forehead, eyelids, nose, temples. Then came persistent fingers which traced the path of that gaze.
“Sherlock….” Of course, it could only be Holmes. “Sherlock! What do you think you are doing?”
“Isn't it obvious?”
The last thing John expected was to be woken up in the middle of the night by someone else's insistent gaze. If it had been someone else and not Holmes, he might even believe that the person was somewhat concerned for him, but that didn’t meet with the detective’s usual behaviour.
“If you don't take your hands off me, I'll hit you,” he snapped, turning away from the hot breath fanning his face. A painful bite to his neck caused him to roll abruptly off the edge of the bed. He fell to the floor, hitting his knees and elbows.
“What the fuck?”
Holmes returned to staring at him in the dark; John felt that evaluating sight on him again.
“You didn’t come back,” the detective explained, reluctantly. “And you turned your phone off.”
“Did it even occur to you that I didn't want to? That I wanted to be alone? Or that I didn't want to see you?”
John rolled his bare shoulders. His clothes were lying somewhere near Holmes on the floor, and he was torn between his desire to dress and a reluctance to go any closer to the detective. The absence of any clothes except his underwear was not normally a problem for him - in the army, one quickly learned to forget about any modesty with everyone around flashing bare asses - but just at that very moment, he saw it as an unfortunate tactical disadvantage. It was hard to look convincing when you were standing in only your boxer shorts.
“You look too skinny.”
“No kidding.”
“Your usual wardrobe choice hides it rather well…”
“Stop it! I don't care what you think of my choice in clothes. Do you know what I’m really interested in?”
Suddenly John felt reassured. He slowly approached the bed and fumbled for the cord of the bedside lamp; shutting his eyes, he slowly pulled it. Blinking from the dim light, John moved closer and began examine Sherlock's face. Now John could distinctly smell a faint spicy urban scent permeating the detective’s hair and clothes.
All this time Holmes clearly wanted him to come to a certain conclusion on his own without any help and hints. It took a frustratingly long time to find the right answer. He was slow but he got there in the end.
The detective's breathing even did not even speed up, staying the same, steady and strong. John's heart, on the other hand, was ready to jump out if his chest with all the adrenaline throbbing.
“You are not a functioning sociopath, you are narcissistic egoist. I can only guess why you do it. Most likely, you are just bored. But I don't care. I just can't understand why? Why all the trouble?”
“I… If you don't see the obvious, I won't enlighten you.”
“And if you want us to get somewhere in this conversation, you’d better explain.” John began to lose patience. “Where’s my sister? And more precisely what have you done to her?”
“She is alive and well. Your sister has started a course of treatment for alcoholism in a private clinic under a false name.”
“Without her consent, of course?” he muttered.
“Does it matter?” Holmes looked at him challengingly.
“Probably not.” John laughed grimly.
Deep inside, he had known that sooner or later something like this might happen. After meeting Mycroft Holmes for the first time, he had had a vague suspicion, but over time it had become clearer that nothing would stop the Holmes' brothers. He had had an intuition, but he had always thought too well of people to suspect the worst. Especially about the person for whom he had shot a man. He should have known better. He himself had witnessed more than once the amazing acting ability of the detective. If necessary he was able to portray apparently sincere tears or smiles.
Also, deep inside he was grateful to the Holmes’, both of them. And if they could manage to achieve what neither he nor his family had been able to, John would forgive such brusque interference in their private lives. Not that he would tell Sherlock that now, but maybe someday. He was still very angry.
“This is nonsense… You don't need me, you just need a live person to experiment on,” he summed up.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you are … idiot.
After a long silence, Holmes began to dart around the room in his usual impatient manner. And John wasn’t sure what to make of that. After the confirmation of his guess, it was no longer enough for him to know that Harry was alive and well. But he did not dare to hope for more, especially after his outburst.
“Get dressed. We’re leaving.”
“Where?” John did not budge.
“To visit your sister, of course. You want that, right?”
“Yes…. So… You'll just going to take me to her, after what I’ve just said?” asked John, with some suspicion.
“Do I need to repeat myself?” Holmes picked John's jeans from the floor and threw them in his direction.
“And you are not bothered that it’s now…” John checked the clock, “four in the morning?”
“No, and it shouldn't bother you either.”
John was not even surprised to see the familiar black car. Anthea wasn't there, but given the early hour he shouldn’t really have been surprised. So now only Holmes' presence was there to entertain him.
“So?” John finally decided to break the silence. “Why?”
There was more silence.
“Ok, you don't want to talk. But I'm not that stupid.”
“You are not stupid, just unobservant.”
That was the first comment even close to compliment that he had heard from Holmes.
“And it didn't even occur to someone as clever as you to simply ask me. Because if you want my help with Sebastian Moran you should just bloody ask!”
His outburst led him nowhere, as again Holmes chose to remain silent.
John had only read about this kind of private clinic. Fenced guarded areas, well-trained staff and the best doctors. He would never have been able to afford this level of service even with his savings and with the money he received from Holmes.
They were obviously being waited for. On reception, they were met by a man with tired face who gave them a key card.
Behind the door with the relevant number was a spacious living room with a TV and comfortable sofa. There were more doors leading, as he guessed, to a bedroom and bathroom. Everything looked expensive and comfortable. John opened the bedroom door and stepped in.
He did not turn on the light, just felt his way to the bad in the darkness and sat on the edge.
“Harry…. Harry, wake up,” he gently shook his sister's shoulder.
“John…” Harry's voice was a little sleepy and oh so dear.
John Watson swept his sister into his arms. Burying his nose in the tangle of blond hair and smelling unfamiliar shampoo, he tried to force himself to believe that what had happened was not a dream.
“How are you?”
“Good,” she replied hesitantly.
They just looked at each other. They had never needed words to understand what was going in each other’s minds. And even now all they needed were a slight nod and barely noticeable movement of the eyes.
“Do this, if not for me or Clara, then for yourself,” whispered John and forced himself to release his sister from his own tight grip.
“Ok.”
He saw her frightened glance in the direction of Sherlock, standing in the doorway, then in the corner of the room, where John strongly suspected there was a security camera installed. Even in the scant light from the barred window he saw everything he was supposed to see.
John stood up and walked out. Only once in the corridor and making sure the door was locked, did he allow himself to look at Holmes. The detective looked paler than usual. Gray eyes with dilated pupils followed his every move, so John was sure that he would dodge if he wanted.
He didn’t put all the anger he felt in his blows. He never hit with full force if it was not necessary. Holmes only once allowed his fist to reach the desired goal, and if John had any doubts of his fighting abilities, they were quickly dispelled. Holmes could clearly hold his own.
When they were separated by hospital staff, he saw, not without satisfaction, the split lip and huge bruise spreading on Sherlock's cheekbone. Despite his bleeding knuckles that would need bandaging, he couldn’t help feeling it was worth it. And when John was led away he could not stop turning around and looking at the frozen figure in the damaged expensive suit.
++**++
“You did the right thing deciding to contact me. I owe you some explanations.”
By now, John had realised that the younger Holmes was not the only brother who had a peculiar sense of humour, so he was not even surprised to be having a meeting with Mycroft in the familiar abandoned warehouse. The table laid for tea was a pleasant exception.
“I suppose Sherlock is being difficult and not sharing his motives with you. He is always like that.”
“But, Mycroft, why? I don't see any logic. Why was it necessary to play such a game with me? Why go to all the trouble of kidnapping Harry; setting up the clinic? Ok, why have go to the trouble of paying me? Living with me?”
“You can already see that Sherlock can't always take care of himself. Who knows how much supervision he needs? You have surprised him. Imagine how rare it can be. I can even see what might attract him. As you equally have the potential to be his undoing… or salvation.”
“You’re implying…. No, it can't be. This is ridiculous.”
“Is it so hard to believe?”
“Well, yes. Any relationship - friendship even - built on deception and mistrust can't be healthy.
“… Friendship you say….” Mycroft put his umbrella aside and propped his elbows on the table. “Probably, at the start, he thought that you would be just like all the others before you. But now he has come to like you. And Sherlock as a rule doesn't like people.”
They were quiet for a long time until the soft voice of Mycroft Holmes broke the silence again.
“You must understand one thing. For Sherlock, such behaviour is the only possible form of communication with the outside world. And what may seem to you absurd or even cruel -, Mycroft was caressing the handle of his favourite umbrella with a familiar gesture, “- is a simple expression of feelings on his part.”
“With all due respect to you, Mycroft, I think it's only half of the story.”
“I suppose the name of Moriarty means nothing to you?”
“You are quite correct.” John was prepared for a long conversation and poured himself more tea. But Sherlock was not the only Holmes who loved to astonish.
“All notorious crimes committed over the course of several years are associated with this name. And we are not speaking about those that have remained hidden from prying eyes and not become publicly known.”
“Criminal mastermind?”
“Indeed, my dear John. A man that you can turn to if legitimate means of solving a problem are no longer possible or convenient. And, unlike Moriarty, the name of Sebastian Moran is familiar to you.”
John shuddered involuntarily.
“Yes.”
“And you have had the dubious pleasure of crossing his path. One of the most dangerous man in England, and there is reason to believe that he is closely linked to Moriarty.”
“Wait a minute. You want me to believe that this man, Moriarty, has never made a mistake?”
“Alas.”
“Mycroft, can I ask not very tactful question?” Receiving an affirmative nod, John continued, “Do you…are you telling me that with all your recourses you have never tried to stop him?
Holmes sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.
“You are only partly right, my dear John. Until Moriarty crosses certain limits, he is untouchable. And Sherlock is rarely bored now, thanks to Moriaty, which I very much appreciate. And you will understand what I mean…sooner or later.”
“That is… That is questionable and cruel.”
“Consider it a necessary evil. If not him, then there will be someone else on his place. But I must admit this man is a genius.”
“So why stop him now? After all these years?”
John had long since left his tea to turn cold. Now he could not bring himself to take even a sip. He had no doubt that there would be some more unpleasant news and was not disappointed.
“And now he has crossed the line…. I understand that we have given you no choice in the matter, but my gratitude would know no end, if you would be willing to help us. And when I say we, I mean not only myself and Sherlock…” Mycroft paused significantly.
“My brother was hoping that he could save you from being distracted by your sister, so your attention will be on him and him alone. You have to forgive us for such offhand interference in your life, but if we had another opportunity, without any doubt we would use it.”
A meeting with Mycroft was enlightening in every sense. John did not remember tasting his tea or climbing into the black car; he remembered only the pleasant face of Holmes senior, while he gave him general details of the upcoming events.
The stairs at 221B Baker Street seemed endless. And he was sure that, on the other side of the door, the world's only consulting detective would be waiting for him in his usual position on the couch. And Sherlock would know about his conversation with Mycroft as soon as he stepped into the room. The one undeniable plus to that was this: it would save him time on explanations.
Of course, he was right.
“Was your conversation entertaining?”
“I would say very instructive.” John sat in his favourite chair. The slight tingling in his leg was an indicator of future pain. He was dying for a cup of tea, but he had no strength to get up and make one. All the remaining energy he had, he had spent on getting back.
“You can't leave,” Holmes stated.
“And have I ever had a choice?” He had no strength even to be sarcastic, so the question came out weak and forced.
“No.”
John dropped his face in his hands and went still. It was nice to see nothing while covered from the rest of the world with the heat of his hands in white hospital bandages. Maybe he had allowed himself to be manipulated, but he had had no option. From the very start he had had no other options.
“Forget what Mycroft told you, it has nothing to do with him.” John heard Holmes get up and begin to pace nervously around the room, then heard the steps stopping in front of his chair.
“Why?” John finally forced himself to take his hands from his face and look at Holmes. There was hidden surprise mixed with hope in the grey eyes.
“I like having you in my life.” It sounded like a declaration. And maybe for Holmes it was.
“You know what?” John whispered, not even trying to shake the grip of the detective’s insistent hands off his shoulders. “Now you will never know how it might have been if I had made a choice … How it could be.”
part 5
Title: My life with Holmes
Author: Lenap
Beta: librarianmum http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2774710/
Pairing: domSherlock\ subJohn
Rating: R for this chapter
Status: 4\9
Warnings: AU!, spoilers to 1 season
part 1
part 2
part 3
Very soon John found out Mycroft Holmes was a man to whom it was difficult to refuse anything. And this applied even to Sherlock, who, desperately resisting, still took up the cases offered by his brother. They had a strange complicated relationship. And the case for which they, as it seemed, had run around unsuccessfully for two days, was of interest not only to Lestrade, but also to Mycroft.
John was not a bit surprised to receive a new message from an unknown number with a time and place for a meeting. He also ignored two incoming calls. There was no place for any mysterious meeting in his plans. But when calls were heard from all sides - even from cafes and payphones - John was unable to ignore them anymore and he could not suppress his own curiosity. When a familiar voice calmly asked him to get into a black car he simply obeyed.
“Good afternoon. Is your name Anthea today?”
“If you like it, then yes.”
John smiled. To his surprise, instead of another abandoned warehouse the car stopped near a little restaurant with inconspicuous waiters and guards. Holmes senior was waiting for him at a table set for tea.
Impeccable suit, impeccable manners and the same umbrella leaning against the comfortable chair.
“Hello, Mycroft.”
“Hello, John.”
“An unusual way to invite someone for a cup of tea, don't you think?”
“But very effective.” Mycroft smiled benignly and pushed a steaming cup of fragrant tea in Watson’s direction.
“So… When you say, you are concern about his wellbeing you actually are concerned?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Is it actually just a childish feud?”
“He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.”
“Yes…. No, God no. So what do you want to talk to me about?”
“I have something for you, and I wanted to present it in person. Unfortunately, I have not much time to enjoy the moment and your company.”
Mycroft Holmes, with one smooth movement, took out his organizer from his jacket pocket, opened it and handed John a plastic card.
John repeatedly ran his eyes over the lines printed on it and involuntarily straightened in his chair.
“I have no words… Thank you?”
“You have been given a lot of trust, my dear John. But I'm sure you'll not disappoint us.” Mycroft paused significantly. “And now, to my great regret, I have to leave you. But do try the tea and dessert. They are excellent here. Goodbye, John.”
Tea was indeed very good, and again he was kindly given a lift to Baker Street. Upstairs John was met by an angry Sherlock. He grabbed his shoulders and lightly shook him:
“You have met Mycroft. What has he done?”
“Nothing. We just had a small talk, that's all.” John frowned puzzled. He had stopped reporting his actions at seventeen, and that was to his parents. And now at the age of thirty-eight, he was damned if he was going to start doing that again.
“Did he touch you?”
“What? No!” John was really confused now.
“Good.” Holmes immediately lost any interest in him, returning to some kind of experiment.
“I guess I can’t expect any explanation for that.” John briefly hesitated at the door. The Holmes’ brothers’ behaviour in his humble opinion defied any logical explanation, or at least, logical explanation available to ordinary people.
So he just sent a short text in the hope it would reach its recipient.
Thanks for tea. JW
Much to his surprise, John decided that he liked Mycroft. Unlike his younger brother, who was profoundly indifferent to any rules and social norms, the senior Holmes had a nice ability to seem ordinary. In addition, he was in every sense a prudent man, and now John could without any consequences not only bear gun, but even shoot in busy London streets. And he could only dream that Sherlock could possess the tact and foresight of Mycroft in any kind of measure.
Any attempt to start a conversation about his duties, the need for his nightly absences and his inability to be in Holmes' presence every spare moment was met with disinterest. It was annoying. And now, while watching the detective bent over some flasks, John tried to cope with his frustration. Realizing that he was not coping he went in his bedroom and with a quiet click shut the door behind him.
Sitting down heavily on the neatly made bed, he waited for several minutes to calm down. Frustration and helplessness forced him to hide his face in his hands. He realized that he could at any time return to his former rented apartment, could just get up, gather his belongings and leave. And he didn’t care about the money or how much had changed in his life since both Holmes’ brothers had appeared in his life.
The phone rang suddenly, unexpectedly. John involuntarily glanced at his watch. He did not want to move or to do anything, and he seriously thought about not picking it up at all. Strongly suspecting that the screen would display Bill's name, he still pulled the phone out of his pocket, frowned at the name and, with a sinking heart, accepted the call.
“Clara?” All of a sudden, his voice sounded hoarse.
“John…” There was a sudden silence at the other end. She didn’t even say hello.
“What’s happened?” John asked quietly, suspecting the worst. But he could pull himself together in instant.
Clara was in a hurry to speak as if afraid that Watson would not listen to her:
“Did Harry ring you?”
“Yes, but I couldn't pick up the call. There were no messages from her.”
“She just called me…. Her voice was so shaky….”
“What did she tell you?”
“That she needs to leave home for a couple of weeks. And now she is not answering at all…”
Saying goodbye to Clara, John immediately rang his sister. After eight rings all he got was her voicemail.
Then John, not paying any attention to Holmes’ displeased shouts, ran outside and jumped into the first cab. At first he hoped to find her at home heavily drunk. But she was absent. He did not notice anything unusual, except her sports bag was missing. All the disarray in her rooms could indicate a chaotic hasty packing and departure but then maybe not.
Going around all the nearby pubs with Harry's photograph also didn’t give any results. She wasn’t with any friends or acquaintances. All this time he simply ignored all Sherlock’s messages, which demanded his immediate presence. He had neither the strength nor desire to explain why he had no time for the detective right now.
The night air chilled his cheeks, it climbed under his unbuttoned jacket and gently but firmly blew the warmth from under his beige sweater. John hated this sweater, but dressed in it regularly and could not bring himself to ruin it so he could throw it away and forget it. It was a gift, a gift from Harry on his return. It was presented with a silly joking tone and the assumption that after the scorching sun of Afghanistan he would be cold in the damp of London. And it was indeed freezing, and he did not think he would ever miss the feeling of gritty sand between his teeth, but he did anyway. And now it was easier for him to think of knitted clothes than of what he would have to pass through if his fears were true.
Finally he forced himself to stop and look around. John ran his hands with force down his face and turned; he didn’t even notice that all this time he had been walking in the wrong direction. Torn between his desire to take a cab and get to Lestrade as quickly as possible or go on foot and delay the moment when he would have to fill out the standard unremarkable form, John chose the latter. He needed all the time he could get to pull himself together.
He had described the situation and the actions he had taken briefly on the phone, so Lestrade was already waiting for him and took him by the elbow to escort him to a chair, his warm brown eyes full of sympathy.
“How are you?”
John had no answer to this question.
“Sorry, John, this is standard procedure. I can take the official statement from you in a day or so. But I'll try to help through unofficial channels.”
“Ok. And thank you, Greg.”
“What does Sherlock think about it?”
“Sherlock? What has he to do with this?”
The thought that suddenly came to his mind seemed painfully relevant and credible. John Watson had never before regarded himself as such an idiot.
“I thought… John, wait! What is it?”
John almost fell out of Lestrade’s office and froze in the middle of the hallway. He was suddenly pushed and he apologized automatically. A pretty girl gave him flirty once-over and hurried on her way.
He felt lightheaded; his temples were aching. He was saying something, it seemed, was even answering Lestrades's questions. Then he stopped to talk to someone - maybe Sally - but he was not sure.
“Is everything ok?”
“Yes… No…. Everything is ok.”
“I thought….” Greg paused. “Your lips are grey. Are you sure you are ok?”
“Yes, yes. Good… Thanks, I'll go.”
“Call a taxi? Or I can give you a lift.”
“No. Thank you again, Greg. And forget I asked for help with Harry. I know where she is. Sorry for any trouble.”
With a sense of relief, John wearily leaned back against the cold wall outside New Scotland Yard and slowly slid down. He knew that never, not under any circumstances would he want to relive this again.
John fished out his mobile from his pocket with trembling hands.
“John?” A female voice replied hesitantly after a few rings.
“Hello, Clara.”
“Any news?”
“Nope - nothing new. But I called in a few favours, so we should soon know about her location at least.”
He saw no point in telling her what he had guessed. He did not want to see her either. John did not blame Harry's ex wife for his sister's alcoholism, much less her disappearance, but the treacherous thoughts came to his mind from time to time. Maybe he just wanted to blame someone besides himself. And now he needed time to think.
His sister's flat greeted him with the same mess and scattered things. John turned on the light in every room and now was standing aimlessly in the hallway looking at a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
No matter what was happening with him, he had promised himself he would never look for escape in liquor. But now his hands were shaking not with his regular tremor but rather mild hysteria. The desire to get drunk was so overwhelming and frightening it made him shiver. John ran to the bathroom and put his head under the cold water. A freezing shower helped to distract him and get his thoughts in order.
After tidying up the bedroom and changing the bed sheets, he threw himself on the bed. If his guess was correct, and he was sure it was, there would be no need for any statement from him. And it didn’t matter that right now he was messing up the evidence at a possible crime scene.
Burying his face in a pillow that smelled of lavender, John just lay there and listened to the darkness until he fell into a deep sleep without dreams.
Waking suddenly, he breathed in a strange smell, bitter and fresh, the intoxicating smell of another male which forced him to alertness. Too close for his comfort. But he was woken not by it, but because of another person's eyes on him. He felt its weight on his lips, his forehead, eyelids, nose, temples. Then came persistent fingers which traced the path of that gaze.
“Sherlock….” Of course, it could only be Holmes. “Sherlock! What do you think you are doing?”
“Isn't it obvious?”
The last thing John expected was to be woken up in the middle of the night by someone else's insistent gaze. If it had been someone else and not Holmes, he might even believe that the person was somewhat concerned for him, but that didn’t meet with the detective’s usual behaviour.
“If you don't take your hands off me, I'll hit you,” he snapped, turning away from the hot breath fanning his face. A painful bite to his neck caused him to roll abruptly off the edge of the bed. He fell to the floor, hitting his knees and elbows.
“What the fuck?”
Holmes returned to staring at him in the dark; John felt that evaluating sight on him again.
“You didn’t come back,” the detective explained, reluctantly. “And you turned your phone off.”
“Did it even occur to you that I didn't want to? That I wanted to be alone? Or that I didn't want to see you?”
John rolled his bare shoulders. His clothes were lying somewhere near Holmes on the floor, and he was torn between his desire to dress and a reluctance to go any closer to the detective. The absence of any clothes except his underwear was not normally a problem for him - in the army, one quickly learned to forget about any modesty with everyone around flashing bare asses - but just at that very moment, he saw it as an unfortunate tactical disadvantage. It was hard to look convincing when you were standing in only your boxer shorts.
“You look too skinny.”
“No kidding.”
“Your usual wardrobe choice hides it rather well…”
“Stop it! I don't care what you think of my choice in clothes. Do you know what I’m really interested in?”
Suddenly John felt reassured. He slowly approached the bed and fumbled for the cord of the bedside lamp; shutting his eyes, he slowly pulled it. Blinking from the dim light, John moved closer and began examine Sherlock's face. Now John could distinctly smell a faint spicy urban scent permeating the detective’s hair and clothes.
All this time Holmes clearly wanted him to come to a certain conclusion on his own without any help and hints. It took a frustratingly long time to find the right answer. He was slow but he got there in the end.
The detective's breathing even did not even speed up, staying the same, steady and strong. John's heart, on the other hand, was ready to jump out if his chest with all the adrenaline throbbing.
“You are not a functioning sociopath, you are narcissistic egoist. I can only guess why you do it. Most likely, you are just bored. But I don't care. I just can't understand why? Why all the trouble?”
“I… If you don't see the obvious, I won't enlighten you.”
“And if you want us to get somewhere in this conversation, you’d better explain.” John began to lose patience. “Where’s my sister? And more precisely what have you done to her?”
“She is alive and well. Your sister has started a course of treatment for alcoholism in a private clinic under a false name.”
“Without her consent, of course?” he muttered.
“Does it matter?” Holmes looked at him challengingly.
“Probably not.” John laughed grimly.
Deep inside, he had known that sooner or later something like this might happen. After meeting Mycroft Holmes for the first time, he had had a vague suspicion, but over time it had become clearer that nothing would stop the Holmes' brothers. He had had an intuition, but he had always thought too well of people to suspect the worst. Especially about the person for whom he had shot a man. He should have known better. He himself had witnessed more than once the amazing acting ability of the detective. If necessary he was able to portray apparently sincere tears or smiles.
Also, deep inside he was grateful to the Holmes’, both of them. And if they could manage to achieve what neither he nor his family had been able to, John would forgive such brusque interference in their private lives. Not that he would tell Sherlock that now, but maybe someday. He was still very angry.
“This is nonsense… You don't need me, you just need a live person to experiment on,” he summed up.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you are … idiot.
After a long silence, Holmes began to dart around the room in his usual impatient manner. And John wasn’t sure what to make of that. After the confirmation of his guess, it was no longer enough for him to know that Harry was alive and well. But he did not dare to hope for more, especially after his outburst.
“Get dressed. We’re leaving.”
“Where?” John did not budge.
“To visit your sister, of course. You want that, right?”
“Yes…. So… You'll just going to take me to her, after what I’ve just said?” asked John, with some suspicion.
“Do I need to repeat myself?” Holmes picked John's jeans from the floor and threw them in his direction.
“And you are not bothered that it’s now…” John checked the clock, “four in the morning?”
“No, and it shouldn't bother you either.”
John was not even surprised to see the familiar black car. Anthea wasn't there, but given the early hour he shouldn’t really have been surprised. So now only Holmes' presence was there to entertain him.
“So?” John finally decided to break the silence. “Why?”
There was more silence.
“Ok, you don't want to talk. But I'm not that stupid.”
“You are not stupid, just unobservant.”
That was the first comment even close to compliment that he had heard from Holmes.
“And it didn't even occur to someone as clever as you to simply ask me. Because if you want my help with Sebastian Moran you should just bloody ask!”
His outburst led him nowhere, as again Holmes chose to remain silent.
John had only read about this kind of private clinic. Fenced guarded areas, well-trained staff and the best doctors. He would never have been able to afford this level of service even with his savings and with the money he received from Holmes.
They were obviously being waited for. On reception, they were met by a man with tired face who gave them a key card.
Behind the door with the relevant number was a spacious living room with a TV and comfortable sofa. There were more doors leading, as he guessed, to a bedroom and bathroom. Everything looked expensive and comfortable. John opened the bedroom door and stepped in.
He did not turn on the light, just felt his way to the bad in the darkness and sat on the edge.
“Harry…. Harry, wake up,” he gently shook his sister's shoulder.
“John…” Harry's voice was a little sleepy and oh so dear.
John Watson swept his sister into his arms. Burying his nose in the tangle of blond hair and smelling unfamiliar shampoo, he tried to force himself to believe that what had happened was not a dream.
“How are you?”
“Good,” she replied hesitantly.
They just looked at each other. They had never needed words to understand what was going in each other’s minds. And even now all they needed were a slight nod and barely noticeable movement of the eyes.
“Do this, if not for me or Clara, then for yourself,” whispered John and forced himself to release his sister from his own tight grip.
“Ok.”
He saw her frightened glance in the direction of Sherlock, standing in the doorway, then in the corner of the room, where John strongly suspected there was a security camera installed. Even in the scant light from the barred window he saw everything he was supposed to see.
John stood up and walked out. Only once in the corridor and making sure the door was locked, did he allow himself to look at Holmes. The detective looked paler than usual. Gray eyes with dilated pupils followed his every move, so John was sure that he would dodge if he wanted.
He didn’t put all the anger he felt in his blows. He never hit with full force if it was not necessary. Holmes only once allowed his fist to reach the desired goal, and if John had any doubts of his fighting abilities, they were quickly dispelled. Holmes could clearly hold his own.
When they were separated by hospital staff, he saw, not without satisfaction, the split lip and huge bruise spreading on Sherlock's cheekbone. Despite his bleeding knuckles that would need bandaging, he couldn’t help feeling it was worth it. And when John was led away he could not stop turning around and looking at the frozen figure in the damaged expensive suit.
++**++
“You did the right thing deciding to contact me. I owe you some explanations.”
By now, John had realised that the younger Holmes was not the only brother who had a peculiar sense of humour, so he was not even surprised to be having a meeting with Mycroft in the familiar abandoned warehouse. The table laid for tea was a pleasant exception.
“I suppose Sherlock is being difficult and not sharing his motives with you. He is always like that.”
“But, Mycroft, why? I don't see any logic. Why was it necessary to play such a game with me? Why go to all the trouble of kidnapping Harry; setting up the clinic? Ok, why have go to the trouble of paying me? Living with me?”
“You can already see that Sherlock can't always take care of himself. Who knows how much supervision he needs? You have surprised him. Imagine how rare it can be. I can even see what might attract him. As you equally have the potential to be his undoing… or salvation.”
“You’re implying…. No, it can't be. This is ridiculous.”
“Is it so hard to believe?”
“Well, yes. Any relationship - friendship even - built on deception and mistrust can't be healthy.
“… Friendship you say….” Mycroft put his umbrella aside and propped his elbows on the table. “Probably, at the start, he thought that you would be just like all the others before you. But now he has come to like you. And Sherlock as a rule doesn't like people.”
They were quiet for a long time until the soft voice of Mycroft Holmes broke the silence again.
“You must understand one thing. For Sherlock, such behaviour is the only possible form of communication with the outside world. And what may seem to you absurd or even cruel -, Mycroft was caressing the handle of his favourite umbrella with a familiar gesture, “- is a simple expression of feelings on his part.”
“With all due respect to you, Mycroft, I think it's only half of the story.”
“I suppose the name of Moriarty means nothing to you?”
“You are quite correct.” John was prepared for a long conversation and poured himself more tea. But Sherlock was not the only Holmes who loved to astonish.
“All notorious crimes committed over the course of several years are associated with this name. And we are not speaking about those that have remained hidden from prying eyes and not become publicly known.”
“Criminal mastermind?”
“Indeed, my dear John. A man that you can turn to if legitimate means of solving a problem are no longer possible or convenient. And, unlike Moriarty, the name of Sebastian Moran is familiar to you.”
John shuddered involuntarily.
“Yes.”
“And you have had the dubious pleasure of crossing his path. One of the most dangerous man in England, and there is reason to believe that he is closely linked to Moriarty.”
“Wait a minute. You want me to believe that this man, Moriarty, has never made a mistake?”
“Alas.”
“Mycroft, can I ask not very tactful question?” Receiving an affirmative nod, John continued, “Do you…are you telling me that with all your recourses you have never tried to stop him?
Holmes sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.
“You are only partly right, my dear John. Until Moriarty crosses certain limits, he is untouchable. And Sherlock is rarely bored now, thanks to Moriaty, which I very much appreciate. And you will understand what I mean…sooner or later.”
“That is… That is questionable and cruel.”
“Consider it a necessary evil. If not him, then there will be someone else on his place. But I must admit this man is a genius.”
“So why stop him now? After all these years?”
John had long since left his tea to turn cold. Now he could not bring himself to take even a sip. He had no doubt that there would be some more unpleasant news and was not disappointed.
“And now he has crossed the line…. I understand that we have given you no choice in the matter, but my gratitude would know no end, if you would be willing to help us. And when I say we, I mean not only myself and Sherlock…” Mycroft paused significantly.
“My brother was hoping that he could save you from being distracted by your sister, so your attention will be on him and him alone. You have to forgive us for such offhand interference in your life, but if we had another opportunity, without any doubt we would use it.”
A meeting with Mycroft was enlightening in every sense. John did not remember tasting his tea or climbing into the black car; he remembered only the pleasant face of Holmes senior, while he gave him general details of the upcoming events.
The stairs at 221B Baker Street seemed endless. And he was sure that, on the other side of the door, the world's only consulting detective would be waiting for him in his usual position on the couch. And Sherlock would know about his conversation with Mycroft as soon as he stepped into the room. The one undeniable plus to that was this: it would save him time on explanations.
Of course, he was right.
“Was your conversation entertaining?”
“I would say very instructive.” John sat in his favourite chair. The slight tingling in his leg was an indicator of future pain. He was dying for a cup of tea, but he had no strength to get up and make one. All the remaining energy he had, he had spent on getting back.
“You can't leave,” Holmes stated.
“And have I ever had a choice?” He had no strength even to be sarcastic, so the question came out weak and forced.
“No.”
John dropped his face in his hands and went still. It was nice to see nothing while covered from the rest of the world with the heat of his hands in white hospital bandages. Maybe he had allowed himself to be manipulated, but he had had no option. From the very start he had had no other options.
“Forget what Mycroft told you, it has nothing to do with him.” John heard Holmes get up and begin to pace nervously around the room, then heard the steps stopping in front of his chair.
“Why?” John finally forced himself to take his hands from his face and look at Holmes. There was hidden surprise mixed with hope in the grey eyes.
“I like having you in my life.” It sounded like a declaration. And maybe for Holmes it was.
“You know what?” John whispered, not even trying to shake the grip of the detective’s insistent hands off his shoulders. “Now you will never know how it might have been if I had made a choice … How it could be.”
part 5