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Chapter Text

He never meant for this to turn out this way. He certainly didn’t plan for it; after all, who’s stupid enough to fall in love with their own brother-in-law? Certainly not Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes is in fact a genius, so of course he never meant to fall in love with John Watson-Holmes. If he had known exactly to whom Mike Stanford was introducing him to at the lab in St. Bart’s he wouldn’t-

But for all his impressive deductive skills, he had failed to notice that the man he was being introduced to was his brother’s husband. He had known of course that John was married and to another man, not unhappily, but not happily either. An arranged marriage, he had deduced and had assumed the husband was considerate enough for John not to mind him much. Never would he have  imagined that the husband in question happened to be his own brother.

He had told himself it didn’t matter. He certainly liked John, but it meant nothing. He enjoyed having John around and he was rather useful during cases, but that was about it. He hadn’t thought himself capable of developing feelings towards the doctor, of course not! He was above that, wasn’t he?

Apparently not. Apparently, John Watson-Holmes was exactly the kind of person Sherlock could grown to love. Apparently he has been stupid enough to go and fall in love with the least ideal person in the world.

Sherlock has seen countless crimes of passion, more often than not provoked by jealousy. He always thought it was quite ridiculous, but whenever he catches a glimpse of his brother with John he begins to see the merit of such crimes. Of course he wouldn’t be as crude as most assassins and of course he would cover his tracks well enough for no one to figure out he was the murderer, but that’s beside the point.

He and John spend a lot of time together. They’re best friends and while Sherlock tries to convince himself that that’s enough, he never quite manages. Maybe he could, if John was unattainable for other reasons; but considering…

In reality, the fact that John is his brother-in-law makes things even worse. It’s one thing to be in love with a married person, it’s another one to be in love with someone who’s technically family.

The whole thing is really messed up and if Sherlock could, he would avoid thinking about it completely.

But he can’t. The thought sneaks upon him at the most random moments, always making him feel quite anxious. It’s pointless to worry; there’s nothing he can do to change things. It’s not like he can fall out of love by just wishing it and it’s not like he can persuade Mycroft to divorce John just because.

Although if he could-

He has come up with a couple of plans to make that happen, actually. But the thing is thst John isn’t actually unhappy and his brother- well, Sherlock has the impression Mycroft won’t simply comply, no matter what Sherlock promises or threatens to do. It makes sense, he thinks, because if John was his, he wouldn’t give him up no matter what either.

And the worst part is that John could have been his. He was meant to be his, in fact. If Sherlock hadn’t been so stubborn and if he had listened to Mummy’s pleas…

But it’s too late for that, he supposes. No point in crying over spilled milk and all that.

“Well, I’ll better be heading home,” John announces and Sherlock looks up, wondering how long has he been lost in his own thoughts. “It’s late and I did promise Mycroft we’d have dinner together.”

Sherlock grunts in acknowledgment. He wonders if he could get away with his brother’s murder. Well, he knows he could; there’s no way anyone would be able to link him to it, but John would probably be suspicious. And he somehow doubts that ‘because I’m in love with you’ counts as a valid reason for murder in John’s book.

Then again, who knows what counts as valid reasons for murder for John? He has shooted people to protect Sherlock before, so maybe-

“Sherlock?”

The consulting detective looks at his friend once again, being pulled out of his dark musings. John sighs, shaking his head. “I asked if you wanted me to order you something for dinner?”

Stay is what Sherlock wants to say. What he actually says is, “I’m fine. I don’t need to eat.”

John sighs again and then studies Sherlock for a long while. Finally, he smiles briefly, “I’ll see you later, then. Call me if you need something.”

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock reminds him and John snorts, waving absentmindedly, already standing at the door. “Have a nice evening John.”

“Shall I give your brother your greetings?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. It’s an old joke between them; John will always try to fix the brothers’ strangled relationship and both Holmes will indulge him, even if deep down they both know things can’t be quite fixed between them.

‘His archenemy’ indeed.

John leaves, taking with him the feeling of warmthness that Sherlock has gotten used to. He misses his friend when he’s gone and he wishes John didn’t have to go back to Mycroft’s big and empty house. He desperately wishes John would call 221B Baker Street his home, but-

Well, no use on dwelling on that.

With a sigh, Sherlock gets up and gets ready for bed. He figures he ought to try to sleep, if only because John tells him so everytime they see each other.

With one last wistful sigh, Sherlock turns off the lights and closes his eyes.

Mycroft doesn’t even have to look at John to deduce where he’s been. His light steps and his happy whistling are tell tales enough and while he suspects he ought to feel even a little bit jealous, he doesn’t.

Theirs is an arranged marriage, after all. A marriage his mother had been insistent on; not because they really needed what the Watsons had to offer, but because Mummy couldn’t bear the thought of her children alone.

If Sherlock had scoffed at the idea, there are no words to describe what Mycroft had thought when his mother had told him about it. It had some merit though, at least on his brother’s case: Sherlock was quite difficult to handle, so it was quite possible he would never find someone who would put up with him on their own free will. It seemed logical then, to procure him with someone who couldn’t quite leave.

But of course Sherlock had vehemently refused and after seeing his mother so upset about calling off the whole affair, Mycroft had offered himself as a replacement. To this day he’s not quite sure why he offered, but he doesn’t regret it.

John is quite an exceptional man, there’s no denying that. While Mycroft had thought they would be just husbands in paper, with no real expectation of anything, John had been dead set on making it work. Of course John hadn’t wanted to get married and least of all to someone he didn’t even know, but he had agreed because his family desperately needed the money the Holmes could provide and once they were actually married, he tried to make the best out of the situation.

It had been a little unnerving, in the beginning. To have someone else living in his house, who insisted on having meals with him, who made a point of them having at least one actual conversation per day (polite greetings and goodbyes didn’t count), someone who made an effort to be interested in him and not only in his job.

Odd, unnerving, but eventually, very endearing.

So yes, John Watson-Holmes is a very exceptional man and Mycroft is not even a tiny bit surprised by the obsession his brother has developed on him.

Obsession is the wrong term, though. But the other word, the right one-

Mycroft would rather not think about that.

For all the petty fighting he gets into with his younger brother, he cares for Sherlock a great deal. It pains him to know that Sherlock is probably suffering through this whole situation, but he’s not sure if there’s anything he can do. When they were younger, everything that Sherlock wanted and Mycroft was in position to give him, he would, but-

John isn’t some toy he can hand over to his brother. John is a human being; an honorable and honest man. He might reciprocate Sherlock’s feelings to an extend, but Mycroft is his husband and he’ll honor that. If Mycroft was to simply step back to let them be… well, he knows John wouldn’t take it kindly.

Besides, he'd really rather not give up John. The doctor has become a steady and soothing presence in his life; someone he has come to care about and who he likes to have around. He can’t imagine coming back to an empty house, not anymore. John has made the place a home and without him-

Sentiment. So very distracting.

Bad enough is that he cares for his parents and his brother and now he has gone and added a husband to the mix. Of course John has earned it, even if it was by just being himself, but the thing is-

“Are you listening to me?”

Mycroft looks up from the paper he’s supposedly reading and stares at his husband. John shakes his head, a smile on his lips. “I do wonder about this whole Mind Palace thing. Seems terribly… interesting.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry. I was lost in my thoughts.”

He never apologises, not really, but John has an odd effect in him. “No harm done,” the doctor replies with a shrug and a smile. “So, chinese?”

Mycroft considers it for a minute. He doesn’t feel like going out at all, so take out does sound like a great idea. However he knows that John spends far too much time locked up either in the house or at the clinic and that his only outings are with Sherlock, so-

It’s not a competition, really. No matter what Sherlock does, John won’t leave Mycroft for him. Not because the doctor doesn’t care for the younger Holmes, but because he doesn’t have a single unloyal bone in his body and so his fidelity is guaranteed. Still, Mycroft would like to ensure that staying with him is not such a sacrifice so-

“Let’s go out,” he suggests, standing up. “There’s a place I’ve been meaning to take you to.” He stands in front of his husband, who is frowning a little, but doesn’t seem adverse to the idea of an outing.

“Alright. I’ll go change, then?”

A slight smile makes his way to his lips as he leans down for a very short and chaste kiss. “Don’t take long.”

John disappears upstairs and Mycroft sighs. This whole situation is ridiculously complicated and he wishes there was a way to simplified it.

But if such thing exists, he’s not aware of it.

Dinner is a pleasant affair and not for the first time, John wonders why he feels so guilty about it.

He enjoys spending time with Mycroft. It was a little odd in the beginning and to be completely honest, not the highest point of his day, but after 3 years of marriage (and a lot of effort on John’s part), they seem to have reached a point where they actually enjoy being together.

He had entered the marriage knowing he was up for a probably very unnerving existence. He had just seen Mycroft once before the wedding, at their engagement party, and he couldn’t say it had been pleasant. He had been more than a little worried about his future husband turning out to be a serial murderer or something along those lines, considering how cold and distant he had behaved during the whole affair, no matter what John tried. That Mycroft insisted he was just a minor government employee and then proceed to threaten someone on the phone hadn’t really helped John to construct a positive image of his fiancé.

But he had married and had decided he would make it work. He hadn’t fancied  the idea of being trapped not only in a loveless marriage, but in a miserable one. Loveless, he could handle. But miserable… he was miserable enough on his own, thank you very much. No need to add on that.

So he had come to enjoy his husband’s company. Why did he feel so guilty about it?

Of course he knows why. He just likes to pretend he doesn’t, because somehow admitting to himself he’s madly in love with his brother-in-law seems horribly wrong. Feels like the worse kind of betrayal, even if he knows that Mycroft probably doesn’t mind much.

If he did, he would have said something by now. Because he knows, he must know, how can he not? Mycroft is as observant as Sherlock, although he learned to hold back his tongue for the most part, unlike his younger brother. So of course he knows. But he hasn’t mentioned it and that’s- that’s-

That’s good?

Why hasn’t he? Is it because he doesn’t want to embarrass John? Or because he doesn’t want to bring attention to the fact that John would very much like to spend the nights tangled in Sherlock’s sheets, instead of on his very big but very empty bed back home? Is it a matter of pride?

Or maybe because he actually doesn’t care?

When they just married, Mycroft had been quite vocal about not expecting anything from him, including faithfulness. He had asked him to be discreet about his affairs, so not to upset Mrs. Holmes, but he had told him to feel free to sleep with whoever he wanted.

Of course John never saw fit to take advantage of that. Marriage was a compromise for him and if in this case it meant he would never ever again get sexual gratification… well, he assumed he could live with that.

So maybe Mycroft truly doesn’t mind.

But he must know that there’s nothing physical going on between him and Sherlock. They’re just friends, best friends even, but anyone can see that’s there much more beneath the surface. Anyone can tell that there’s a certain tension between them that regular friends don’t have. They have never crossed that line, though. Because John wouldn’t allow himself to be untrue and because Sherlock probably doesn’t know how to broach the subject (John is fairly certain that there’s no moral reason holding Sherlock back, although who knows what goes inside that brilliant brain of his?)

“You’re very quiet tonight,” Mycroft comments, taking a sip from his wine glass and John’s attention snaps back to his husband.

“Sorry about that,” the doctor says, with a small smile. “I was lost in my thoughts.”

Mycroft hums and John knows he knows exactly what he was thinking about. Mercifully, he doesn’t comment and just carries on eating, leaving John to his dark musings.

He’s more than a little loss about what to do. He knows that as long as he stays married nothing will ever change; he’ll be forever trapped in this- well, whatever this is. But it’s not like he just can ask for a divorce, not only because of the economic implications it could have on his family, but because-

Well, the truth is he has come to care about his husband. And it feels wrong to just leave him because he happened to meet someone else. Marriage is a lifetime commitment, isn’t it? You just don’t walk away from it; not without a good reason.

He sighs, taking a sip from his own glass. Mycroft smiles at him a little bit ruefully from the other side of the table, making something flutter in John’s stomach. That’s another confusing thing, he supposes, the way he sometimes reacts to his husband.

“Should we go?” Mycroft asks, his tone dropping down an octave and sending shivers down John’s spine.

There’s something seriously messed up with him, he thinks darkly.

“Of course.”

Mycroft pays for the dinner and John shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He still feels guilty, but he doesn’t know exactly about what. Does he feel guilty for having enjoyed dinner with his husband and then started to obsessively think about his brother-in-law? Or does he feel guilty for having been thinking about his brother-in-law while enjoying dinner with his husband?

Is this being unfaithful? To whom?

It’s all very confusing.

“Ready to go?”

John nods and follows.

Chapter Text

It goes like this: Sherlock needs to send a text from a mobile that isn’t his. Mike Stanford and a friend of his walk into the lab, Sherlock asks for a phone. Mike doesn’t have his, John offers his instead. Sherlock sends a text.

A few seconds later, a call comes in. Most people would be enraged (or worried) after finding out someone has texted a serial murderer from their phone, but not John Watson (Watson-Holmes although Sherlock doesn’t know that just yet). John Watson is curious.

Genuinely curious of Sherlock, of what he does, of how he does it. Sherlock’s own curiosity is sparked by that, so he decides he might as well drag John along with him, to show him exactly what he does.

A chase, an almost suicide (murder?) and a shooting later, Sherlock and John leave the crime scene, all bright smiles and silly laughter.

Until a black car pulls in front of them.

It goes like this: John runs into an old school friend and takes up his offer of a tour around their old school. He’s bored, his husband cancelled their lunch and he’s unemployed at that point, so it’s not like he has anything better to do.

He meets Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft has told him his little brother is brilliant, but John didn’t know how brilliant until now. Sherlock is up to something dangerous and John knows he’s lost. He knows that from now on he’ll follow dutifully after the madman that his brother-in-law is.

So much passion, such drive. Sherlock intrigues him beyond any reasoning.

He has never felt more alive than when they leave the crime scene. He jokes and he laughs and Sherlock smiles and laughs and everything is great.

Until a black car pull in front of them.

It goes like this: Anthea informs him his husband is running around with his brother, apparently chasing criminals. Mycroft scowls darkly at the news; he certainly had hoped John had better sense than that.

After he’s done with his job (because it’s not like he can drop everything off and rush to see what trouble have his husband and his brother gotten into), he instructs his driver to get him to a crime scene.

The car pulls in front of the merry couple. Mycroft steps outside, a pleasant smile on his face, determined to behave like an adult and not let Sherlock get a raise out of him.

It doesn’t work, of course. As usual, he and his brother end up fighting. But when Sherlock turns around to leave, Mycroft casually places his arm around his husband’s waist, effectively stopping his brother dead on his tracks.

Sherlock looks them over, murmurs a quiet ‘oh’, wishes them a nice evening and leaves.

John watches him go and Mycroft watches his husband’s forlorn expression.

He knows right then and there that this is going to end badly.

“Are you going to see him again?”

John looks up from his novel and fixes him with a curious look, like he genuinely doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about. Mycroft doesn’t elaborate; he waits patiently for his husband to catch up.

“Oh,”John says finally. “I don’t know. I mean-” he shrugs. “Would it bother you?” he asks, slightly wary.

“I’m your husband John, not your jailer. It’s not up to me who you see.”

The doctor hums, non committedly. “And yet you keep track of all my movements.”

Mycroft scowls at him. “We’ve discussed this. It’s for your own-”

“Protection. Yes, I know,” John interrupts him calmly, turning his attention back to his book, leaving his original question unanswered. Mycroft frowns, unused to people not complying to his requests right away.

“Are you then?”

John sighs. “I enjoyed myself today quite a bit, if you must know. So yes, if that’s an option… I think I would like to see your brother again.”

Mycroft nods tightly.

It’s going to end in tragedy.

“Good night then.”

Mycroft doesn’t look up from his phone, but grunts in acknowledgment, so John counts it as a win. He has gotten used to his husband’s prolonged silences, so nowadays he barely bats an eyelash when Mycroft communicates merely through grunts and hums.

He makes his way to his bedroom, thinking about the events of the day. It had certainly turned out quite unexpectedly, but he’s quite glad about it.

He lies in bed and considers Mycroft’s question. Is he seeing Sherlock again? Well… he certainly hopes so. If nothing else, the younger man certainly made him feel alive in ways he hadn’t thought possible after he was discharged from the army. Besides, the adrenalin high of running across London is quite… addictive.

With a smile on his face, John drifts to sleep.

Just a request, brother dear. Keep him safe- MH

Sherlock scowls darkly at his phone, before tossing it in a random direction, not worrying about where it might land. He paces around the living room nervously. Normally, after having closed a case he would be full of contentment but right now…

He spots his phone lying beneath the sofa and he frowns. Mycroft has nothing to worry about; it’s not like he’ll be seeing John ever again. Of course he had enjoyed the other’s man company, but he’s used to being alone. To working alone. He doesn’t need (or want) a companion.

Still…

He picks up the phone again and is a little relieved to see it suffered minimal damage. Turning it on again, he looks through his contacts. He hovers over John’s name, wondering if he should erase it.

In the end, he puts the phone back on his pocket and flops on the couch, a satisfied smirk on his lips.

Well, he could use the company. And there are certainly worse choice of companions than his brother-in-law.

Chapter Text

John paces in the small waiting room, wondering how has his life come down to this. A year ago he would have never imagined he would be discharged from the army, sent back home and got married. If someone had told him that was his future, he would have laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all.

And yet, here he is. Waiting for his wedding to begin.

He really doesn’t want to do this. He’s just met his fiancé once before today and he didn’t cause the most favorable impression on him. He’s well aware he’s entering what looks more and more like an unhappy marriage, but no matter how badly he wants to run away, he knows he won’t.

So he stands still and waits. In a few hours everything will be over.

Or it’ll just begin. He really doesn’t know anymore.

Mycroft doesn’t understand why Mummy insisted on the whole big white wedding, but he let her plan it. She made a supreme work, to be honest, but of course he won’t say that. He sits next to his now husband and tries to look at least not completely bored.

On his other side sits his best man. Mycroft had offered Sherlock that ‘honor’ out of sibling’s duty, but of course his brother had insisted he had far more important things to do. For his part, Gregory Lestrade agreed to the job with a quirked eyebrow and a small fond smile.

The truth is that he finds the DI presence more or less tolerable, but their connection was born out of pure necessity. He needed someone to keep Sherlock both entertained and watched over and Gregory Lestrade filled in quite magnificently.

As he watches his now-husband talk to the DI, he’s quite happy with his choice of best man.

He can’t imagine what would have happened if Sherlock had showed up.

John takes a shine on Gregory Lestrade right away. The man is gentle and funny and John figures that his husband can’t be that bad if he has friends like Greg. (He won’t find until much later that they’re not quite friends.)

Lestrade reassures him he’s not going to end up dead in a ditch (unless he upsets Mycroft very much) and John actually believes him. It’s funny, because until now, he was fairly certain that was going to turn out to be his fate.

He enjoys the party as much as he can, drinking and dancing and joking. He feels Mycroft’s eyes on his back the whole time, but whenever their eyes met, his husband hurries to look away.

He’s not sure what to think.

Mycroft watches his husband as he goes around the room, greeting old friends and family members. He can tell he’s not particularly close to any of them; John is a likeable man who has many people who fancy themselves his friends, but he doesn’t have an actual one.

He thinks they might make a good match, after all.

His mother glares at him until he relents and goes looking for his husband, so they can share their first dance. John looks a little surprised at his request, but a quick look at the table were their parents are sitting makes him comply immediately.

John tries making small talk during their dance and Mycroft tries to respond in kind. It wouldn’t do to upset his husband so early in their marriage.

All in all, the party is quite pleasant.

When the party is over and they get into Mycroft’s car, John’s nerves return. He’s not sure what to expect now; he’s not sure if Mycroft would like to consummate their marriage and he’s not sure what he would prefer.

It’s not like he’s repulsed by his husband. In fact, he finds him kind of attractive; maybe it’s the air of mystery and danger constantly surrounding him.

He smiles tentatively at his companion and Mycroft’s lips quirk upwards a little, making something flutter in his insides. He toys with the ring on his finger and he feels his husband’s eyes on him the whole time.

And then they pull in front of the hotel.

Mycroft would have prefered they went back to his own house right away, but Mummy had been insistent on that they had some semblance of honeymoon. A ridiculous notion, in his opinion, considering this isn’t a traditional marriage.

He exits the car and John follows closely. The hotel’s manager greets them at the entrance and escorts them to the honeymoon suite. Mycroft makes a face at the carefully decorated room and eyes the rose petals disdainfully.

Once they’re alone, Mycroft heads into the bathroom to change into his pajamas. When he comes back to the room, his husband is sitting on the corner of the bed, looking slightly nervous.

“I don’t expect anything from you," he tells him and John eyes him carefully, wary. Mycroft holds his stare and finally his husband seems to reach the conclusion he’s being honest, because he nods and then hurries to the bathroom, probably to change too.

Odd, his husband. Very very odd.

John comes back to the bedroom after changing into a comfortable pair of pajamas. Mycroft is already lying on the bed, watching the news on the TV with disinterest. Occasionally, he smiles very briefly and sometimes he frowns and John doesn’t know how to name the strange feeling in his stomach.

He comes to lie next to his husband, being careful to keep some distance between them. Since apparently nothing else is going to happen tonight, he supposes he ought to feel thankful that he’s not being pressured into a physical relationship, but to be honest, he feels a tad disappointed.

Funny, that.

With that thought in mind, he drifts off to sleep.

Mycroft observes his new husband for the greatest part of the night. He supposes he could get used to this; the whole marriage thing. John seems willing enough to make things as easy as possible and he’s genuinely nice and kind.

It could work.

He didn’t miss John’s slight disappointment at his assurance that nothing was going to happen between them. But to be honest, he doesn’t know what to do about that. He supposes that if sex is something John is interested in, they could give it a shot. He’s not particularly eager, though.

Not because he doesn’t find his husband attractive, but because he’s not sure how one goes about this. His experience with romantic relationships is null and while he does have some experience in relationships of sexual nature, he’s not sure of how that could work in the lines of a marriage.

Finally, at some point in the wee hours of the morning, Mycroft falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Drinks with Greg once a week became a tradition a few months into his marriage. He had gotten the DI’s number after the wedding, with the instruction to call whenever he needed. John had wondered what exactly was Greg expecting to happen, since he had assured him he wasn’t going to end up dead in a ditch, but he hadn’t questioned him and had chosen just to save the number. Just in case.

As it turns out, when he calls 3 weeks after the wedding, Greg has been expecting his call. John calls not because something is wrong, but because he’s lonely. His longer conversation with his husband remains the one they had on their wedding night (if that counts as a conversation) and so he’s craving a bit of human interaction.

“A bit unnerving, yes,” Greg agrees, when John complains about his husband coldness. “A really odd fellow, no doubt. Brilliant, of course, but- well, yes. I feel you.”

John laughs, because he sincerely doubts he does, but he doesn’t protest. “Wait till you met the brother, though,” the DI continues. “If you think Mycroft is unnerving, Sherlock is- He’s oddly better and worse at the same time.”

John is terribly curious about the younger Holmes brother, based on what he has heard about him from both Greg and his in-laws. However, it seems the relationship between him and Mycroft is a bit strained, so maybe he’ll never meet his brother-in-law.

“Bloody brilliant wankers, the both of them,” Greg informs him very seriously and John can’t help to smile at the way the words get slurred after the fourth drink of the night. “But to be honest, I’m quite glad I met them.”

John smiles and wonders.

-***-

Drinks with Gregory Lestrade once a month turned into a tradition shortly after their first encounter. It was result both of necessity and actual enjoyment of their time together. Mycroft couldn’t quite pinpoint what had endeared him to the young officer (although it might have something to do with how unbelievably patient and caring he was with Sherlock) but the point remained that he did look forward their monthly encounters.

Of course they had some common ground, so their conversations always flew nicely. He wouldn’t say they’re friends, not really, but there’s some sort of camaraderie here that Mycroft had never before felt.

“What did John say?”

Gregory doesn’t even look surprised at how he knew about his encounter with his husband. He simply shrugs. “You’re not using me to spy on your husband,” the DI replies calmly, nursing his beer.

“It’s not spying,” Mycroft protests. “I- I’m merely curious.”

Gregory hums non committedly. “He’s lonely. You should try to give actual replies to his questions.”

Mycroft frowns, but doesn’t comment. It’s true that John has tried several times to start conversation both in the morning before he leaves for work and at night, when he comes back, but Mycroft has never been particularly talkative. Still, he probably ought to try. “Alright,” he agrees, before switching topics. “How’s Sherlock?”

“Infuriating. Secretive. Bloody brilliant.”

“The usual, then.”

The DI makes a face. “The usual indeed”

“So you finally met him.”

John smiles wistfully as Greg slides in the booth in front of him. “I took the liberty of ordering your drink,” he says, gesturing towards the other beer on the table.

Greg tries to smile back, but he fails. After seeing John at the crime scene the first time, he had been a bit thrown aback and so he hadn’t said anything. Which made him sort of a traitor in  Sherlock’s eyes, who had been quite frustrated at the fact that he had failed to point out that the man he was hanging around with was his brother-in-law.

Greg isn’t sure why was he supposed to have said something, but he has learned not to argue with Sherlock’s logic.

“You were right,” John tells him after a couple of seconds of silence. “He’s both better and worse than Mycroft.”

Greg bites his lip nervously. It had taken a while, but Mycroft had eventually warmed up to John and Greg had been fairly certain their marriage was really going to work. However, after seeing John with Sherlock…

It’s going to end in bloody tragedy and he doesn’t know if he ought to say something.

He chooses not to. They all are grown up men and surely they can work this out on their own. Besides, as close as Greg is to all of them, he’s not sure that what he has with either of them counts really as friendship, so it’s probably not his place to say anything.

As time goes by, he’ll come to wonder if he did the right thing.

-***-

“It’s going to end badly.”

“Good evening to you too, Gregory,” Mycroft replies evenly, as the DI slides in the booth in front of him.

Greg eyes his companion throughly, looking for something. Mycroft arches an eyebrow and the DI sighs dramatically. “You really don’t mind?”

It’s Mycroft turn to examine him closely and the detective forces himself not to squirm much under the other’s close scrutiny. He really ought not to have say anything, but- “What are you going on about?” Mycroft asks quietly and Greg huffs.

“Your brother and your husband, of course.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes then, leaning against his seat. “Nothing is going to happen.” He takes a sip from his whisky glass as he seems to consider his next words carefully. “John is too loyal for that.”

“Which doesn’t mean-”

“How’s work?”

Greg knows when to stop pushing. Six (seven?) years of dealing with the Holmes brothers have taught him when it’s better to just let them switch topics, unless he wants to find out some unnerving fact about himself that either brother can deduce by the way he buttoned up his shirt. Better to leave things alone.

Still, he can’t help to wonder.

“You love him.”

John bites his lip until he makes it bleed. He shouldn’t have drunk quite so much, not when his inner turmoil is raging so loudly. He sighs and takes another long sip from his beer, steeling himself for the uncomfortable conversation that it’s about to happen.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“John-”

“I’m a married man, Greg. What I feel about Sherlock- It doesn’t matter.”

Greg shakes his head. “You know you could just ask for a divorce”

John laughs bitterly. “It’s not that easy.” He takes another sip, making a face. “It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is. You just-”

“Is it?” John asks, one eyebrow arched. “How’s your own divorce going, then?”

Greg bites his lip and lets the matter drop. John feels bad at using Greg’s own marriage troubles against him, but he figures he’s entitled, seeing the DI is so dead set on meddling in his affairs.

It really doesn’t matter.

-***-

“It’s not the same,” Greg whispers, after his fifth drink. He knows he’s going to regret drinking so much in the morning, but considering the turn his conversation with John took, it couldn’t be helped.

“What?”

“Me and my wife- We- We loved each other once,” he says, the words slurring a bit. “It’s not the same.”

John scrunches his nose a little. “The thing is-” he whispers softly, leaning in almost conspiratorially. “I think I could have grown to love Mycroft. Before- before I met Sherlock, I was quite convinced-” he shakes his head sadly. “Doesn’t matter.” He takes another long gulp from his drink. “Marriage is a lifetime commitment, isn’t it?”

Greg makes a face but nods.

-***-

“They’re in love.”

Mycroft fights hard to keep his face from expressing his feelings on the matter. He eyes Gregory carefully and finally shrugs. “It’s quite likely.”

Tense silence. And then, “you really don’t mind?”

Mycroft examines his drink as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. “What use would it be, to worry about something as fleeting as sentiment?”

The DI observes him carefully and finally sighs. “I suppose that’s one way to see it.”

Mycroft nods.

-***-

“But it’s not fleeting sentiment.”

He knows it’s a terrible idea to say such things and it’s very likely he’ll end up dead in a ditch if he continues pushing Mycroft, but he feels he needs to say something. This whole affair is going to drive everyone mad and it’s going to end in a terrible tragedy.

Mycroft doesn’t answer. Instead, he finishes his drink in one last gulp and stands up. “Have a nice evening, Detective Inspector.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Greg sighs. Too much for trying to help.

Chapter Text

The house has felt too empty ever since her sons left for London. Of course Violet Holmes had always known her boys weren’t going to settle for the quiet country life, but it doesn’t mean it was any easier letting them go.

But at least Mycroft visits every year during Christmas. She knows her eldest is perpetually busy, but he makes an effort to visit them and to tour them around the city when they go to London. Ever since he married John such duty has fallen onto him, but well… at least he tries.

She can’t say the same for Sherlock. Her youngest was always a bit more difficult, always a bit more stubborn. When he was younger and idolized his older brother, he would go with whatever Mycroft did, but as they grew older…

She worries about her son constantly. She thinks he must be lonely, without any friends or colleagues. Part of the curse of being so bloody brilliant, she supposes. Mycroft is just as brilliant, of course, but he learned early in life how to use his intelligence to manipulate people around him and get whatever he wanted. He was probably lonely too, before John that is, but at least he was slightly less socially challenged.

Which was why she had tried to find Sherlock a husband. When she had met John Watson, she had been quite convinced he was perfect for her baby boy. Caring, gentle, disciplined, patient. He would have put up with all of Sherlock’s odd moods and would have tried to make him happy.

But Sherlock had refused and yet she had ended up with John as her son-in-law. She’s glad, no use in denying it, because John is quite charming and she adores him. Besides, she can tell he’s trying his best to make things work with Mycroft and her eldest seems quite happy with him too.

It wasn’t what she had originally intended, but maybe it had worked out for the best.

She smiles as she watches Mycroft’s car stop in front of the house. The driver hurries to open the door for her son and Violet frowns a little, thinking it’s rather unkind to make the poor man work on Christmas Eve. Her son catches her expression and he smiles a bit bashfully.

John steps out shortly after, carrying his usual bunch of gifts with him. Violet had told him the year before it wasn’t necessary, but of course the boy wouldn’t listen.

She approaches them with a smile on her face and hugs her eldest. Mycroft freezes a little, as he always does and she pats his back gently. She pulls away and turns to hug her son-in-law, when she catches a glimpse of someone else exiting the car.

She turns to Mycroft, surprised, and the oldest male just shrugs. She then turns back to John, who isn’t looking at her, but instead smiling at the slowly approaching figure.

“Sherlock!” she exclaims, surprised, as her youngest comes to stand next to John.

“Hello Mummy,” he replies calmly and when John sends a glare in his direction, he adds. “Merry Christmas.”

She arches her eyebrows, turning to her son-in-law, who is beaming at the youngest Holmes. Sherlock looks quite pleased with John’s reaction and Violet is more than a little confused. She turns to Mycroft once more, but he has already entered the house, leaving them all behind.

“This is quite a surprise,” she tells her son, hugging him close and although he stiffens, he allows it. Next to them, she can hear John chuckle good naturedly.

“Yes, well, we have a case. It was close enough, so I figured I could come.”

“We?”

“John and I,” Sherlock replies, sounding oddly proud and sending an adoring glance on the other man’s direction. “He’s my new colleague.”

Violet nods, even if she’s feeling more and more confused with each passing second. “That’s- That’s nice. Come on in, then.”

She catches a glimpse of Mycroft standing at the window and she narrows her eyes. Her son has some explaining to do.

“Well, I’d better be leaving if I want to come back in time for dinner,” John announces shortly after lunch, putting on his coat once more.

“Don’t you worry about that, dear,” Violet tells him, a soft smile on her lips. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting long then,” he says, smiling too and leaning in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be back soon, Mrs. Holmes.”

“I told you, Violet is fine.”

“I-”

“Where are you going?” Sherlock demands, sounding a bit panicked. Violet arches her eyebrows questioningly, but her son ignores her.

“To visit my mother,” John replies. “I’ll be back soon.”

Sherlock frowns and proceeds to put on his own coat. “I’m going with you.”

“Sherlock-”

“I’m going with you,” the younger male insists and John sighs.

“We’ll be back soon,” he tells Violet, an apologetic smile on his lips and the Holmes matriarch smiles gently at him. A few seconds later, both males exit the house, bickering among them.

Mycroft chooses that moment to walk back into the room, carrying a cup of cocoa with him. Violet gestures for him to take a seat in front of her and the male sighs, but complies without protest.

“Care to explain what’s going on between your brother and your husband?” She asks, her tone a bit more harsh than she intended. She’s confused, really, and a little unnerved. What she has seen so far of the other two men's interactions doesn’t look particularly promising.

Or it would, under other circumstances. But given the current ones…

“They’ve become good friends,” Mycroft replies, shrugging. “An old friend from John introduced them and John decided to follow Sherlock as he was chasing a criminal around London. After that…” he shrugs once more, taking a sip from his drink.

Violet frowns lightly. Part of the reason she chose John was because he was loyal to the bone. She had assumed that no matter how difficult her son turned out to be, John wouldn’t cheat. And yet-

“Please Mummy, you are more observant than that,” Mycroft interrupts her thoughts and she narrows her eyes at him. “There’s nothing going on between them.”

“That depends of your definition of ‘nothing’,” she corrects him calmly and the male shrugs.

“I suppose.” He stares at his cup for the longest time, thinking about something very seriously. “What would you have me do, Mummy? Try to break them apart?”

Violet considers his words. She feels bad for her boy, of course, but she doesn’t know what she can do or say in this situation. “I’m sorry, Mycroft.”

He chuckles sadly, shaking his head. “Whatever for?” he observes her closely for a beat and finally smiles a bit ruefully. “If anything, I think Sherlock is the one who was dealt a bad hand.”

Violet can’t really argue with that.

“You didn’t have to come with me, Sherlock.”

His companion just hums and John rolls his eyes. They continue walking in silence for a while, until Sherlock asks, “doesn’t my brother accompany you to visit your family?”

John sighs once more. “He did last year. It- it didn’t go well. You know how… unnerving your brother can be.”

Sherlock observes him carefully and John forces himself to continue walking normally. “Your parents don’t approve,” he deduces, frowning a little. “Why did they agree to the marriage, if they didn’t approve of him?”

John pursues his lips. “They needed the money. My father was quite sick and… well, the medical bills kept coming. In the end, it didn’t change much, except for the fact that he didn’t leave my mother with a huge debt.”

Sherlock nods thoughtfully. “You resent them.”

John sends him a glare, but Sherlock doesn’t relent, so he sighs once again. “A little, I suppose. I- I never fancied myself the marrying type.”

Sherlock frown deepens. “Why?”

John shrugs. “Never thought I would find the right person.”

Sherlock grips him by the arm and John forces himself to keep breathing evenly. The taller man stares into his eyes for the longest time and John is hard pressed not to swoon like a tragic heroine from a romance novel. “Sherlock?”

The other man shakes his head and lets go of him. He resumes his walking and John frowns a little, before he hurries to follow. His heart is beating a little too quickly and he’s a little short of breath, but he tries not to name the feeling exploding inside his chest.

It’s no use. Nothing would come of it.

Mrs. Watson greets them at the door and narrows her eyes at seeing her son’s companion. She asks after Mycroft warily and John assures her he’s fine, but decided to stay at his parents’ home.

Sherlock can tell the woman is not convinced, but doesn’t press. It’s obvious she doesn’t like her son-in-law and although his relationship with his brother is far from ideal, Sherlock can’t help to dislike her a little bit for that. Besides, she threw her son into an arranged marriage with a man she clearly didn’t trust and that just seems… wrong.

Which is a lot to say, coming from Sherlock.

He sits quietly, watching his friend’s interaction with his mother. He can tell their relationship is strained, result of a very strict upbringing. He can also see John resents his parents not only for his unwilling marriage, but because he blames them for his sister’s addiction. A bit nonsensical, he feels, but he’s not about to tell John that.

He bores quickly and wonders why didn’t he stay at his childhood home. At least there he could have retreated to his own bedroom and reread some of his old books. Here…

He stands up and makes up an excuse to step outside. John eyes him worriedly, so he tries to smile reassuringly but judging by John’s narrowed eyes, he’s not quite sure he succeeded.

Still, he figures it doesn’t really matter. He’s bored and if he doesn’t go know, he’ll do something that most likely will get John angry at him.

“So,” his mother begins once Sherlock has stepped out of the room and John steals himself for a very likely uncomfortable conversation. “Your new friend. He seems… nice.”

That’s not the word most people would use to describe Sherlock, so John can’t help to smile. “He is.” He knows that his mother is after some answer, but he won’t give in easily. Besides, he’s not sure he got the question right.

A tense silence follows and finally his mother lets out a frustrated sigh. “So, what’s going on really?”

“What do you mean?” John asks, deciding to play dumb, schooling his features into the perfect picture of innocence.

His mother frowns. “You know what I mean.”

“I assure you I don’t.”

An exasperated sigh. “Are you having an affair, John?”

It’s not the first time John has heard the assumption, but as usual, he takes offense in that. He would like to say he was raised better than that, but that would be giving his parents too much credit. The thing is, he’s not a cheater, he has too many principles for that. “No,” he replies, aiming to sound as unaffected as possible.

His mother observes him closely for a while and John just holds her stare. He’s got nothing to hide, after all. Finally, his mother relents. “Just be careful, will you? You wouldn’t want to get caught.”

John bristles at the implication, but doesn’t argue. “You have nothing to worry about, mother. Your financial stability is quite secure.”

His mother scowls at him, but he doesn’t even flinch. It’s unfair, the way he’s been used to ensure his mother a better life, under the ruse of helping his dying father. He knew that even if his father passed away, his mother would be unwilling to let go of the comfortable life she could now afford and of course that would mean he would have to stay married, no matter what.

It’s not that he’s unhappy in his marriage. But what his parents (mother) did (does) isn’t right.

“I’ll be going,” he announces darkly. “I wouldn’t want to upset my husband by my late arrival.”

His mother doesn’t comment, just waves her hand in goodbye and so John hurries out of the room, before he says something he knows he’ll come to regret.

He finds Sherlock standing in the garden, supposedly looking at the perfect row of flowers just beneath the living room’s window. He knows right away that his friend has been observing him, but he doesn’t particularly care. He probably has deduced enough about his family life and for all his social awkwardness, Sherlock knows when not to press for something.

The walk back to the Holmes household is quiet, but John finds he doesn’t mind at all.

Later that day, John is closely pressed against his husband’s side and Mycroft tries to relax, although he’s not being very successful, considering his baby brother keeps glaring daggers at him.

The really tragic thing here is that nor his brother, nor his husband have noticed what’s growing between them. Sherlock fancies his feelings to be normal, considering he has never had a real friend before. John on the other hand is simply in deep denial.

Nothing to do about that, though. He’s in no hurry to get either of them to realize what’s really happening here, because that would mean they’ll have to make a decision. And to be honest, that’s not something Mycroft’s is looking forward to.

He puts his arm around John’s shoulders and his husband leans even closer, sending a quick smile on his way. Mycroft doesn’t fancy himself in love with his husband, no, but he’s fond of him. He really wouldn’t want to let him go.

As he watches Sherlock narrowing his eyes, he wonders if he’ll be able to, if (when) the time comes.

Sherlock knows how… tactile John can be. He happens to touch people quite a lot: a pat on the shoulder, a friendly slap on the back. At first it had surprised Sherlock how easily John touched him, but he soon realized it was just part of his personality.

John touched everyone.

But as he watches his friend curling next to his brother, a soft smile on his lips, he can’t help the sting of jealousy. It’s ridiculous, he knows, because John is just his friend while he’s Mycroft’s husband but-

He’s not entirely sure what to do about these feelings. John makes him feel things he didn’t think himself capable of feeling. For most of his life, he has found other people dull and unworthy of his attention. He barely puts up with Lestrade and that’s only because the DI helps him keep the boredom at bay. With John however-

John’s presence makes everything seem so much brighter. He enjoys being around the doctor; he doesn’t just tolerates him, he actually craves his presence. But what does that mean? Is it normal to feel this way about friends?

He’s almost certain that’s not the case. He’s pretty sure these aren’t normal feelings between friends. Still…

Well, it’s probably nothing he ought to worry about. Troubling as these feelings might be, he’s certain he can handle them.

It’ll take awhile for him to realize how wrong he was.

John knows he always get a little over affectionate when he has indulged in far too many drinks. Spiked eggnog shouldn’t count as such really, but well… maybe 6 cups were a little too many.

He’s not surprised at all when his husband announces it’s time for bed after he practically crawls into his lap. He says his goodbyes to his in-laws and gives Sherlock a friendly hug before following Mycroft back to their room.

He collapses on the bed giggling a little and his husband rolls his eyes, although he’s smiling gently at him. John pulls him into a kiss and at first Mycroft resists a little, but finally gives in and soon enough they’re kissing passionately.

Theirs isn’t an overly affectionate marriage; no matter how hard John tries, Mycroft isn’t prone to romantic displays. It’s natural, to a point, he supposes, considering this was neither of them’s choice. Still, after 2 years, he would think-

Things had gotten better shortly after their first anniversary. Although Mycroft refused any PDA, he didn’t mind as much when they were on their own. However, ever since he met Sherlock, John had pulled away a little. It wasn’t a conscious move, not in the beginning, but it had happened and when John realized it, he had been more than a little worried.

He tries very hard not to think about that. He knows he won’t like what he’ll find if he chooses to analyze his relationship with his brother-in-law too closely, so he doesn’t. Still, there are times-

Not tonight, he tells himself as he comes to straddle his husband's hips. Tonight he won’t think about his quickly rising inner turmoil. There’s no point to it.

The day will come when he’ll simply won’t be able to ignore it, but for tonight, he certainly can.

Chapter Text

After hearing about the bomb, John hurries to Baker Street. He’s more than a little worried since Sherlock isn’t answering his phone, but he’s hoping he’s just too distracted by an experiment and therefore hasn’t noticed his messages.

Once he arrives, he realizes he was more or less right. Sherlock is otherwise engaged, so it makes perfect sense he’s ignoring his phone. “I’ve been trying to contact you,” he informs his friend, not bothering to hide his annoyance, but the other male barely spares a glance in his direction.

“Ignore him, John,” his husband tells him, “he’s just being childish.”

John sighs and heads straight into the kitchen, deciding some tea is in order. “You should have woken me up before you came here; would have save me some time trying to get a cab.”

Mycroft hums non committedly. “I assumed you were tired after last night.”

Sherlock starts playing some awful melody on his violin and John turns to glare at him. His friend’s focus however remains on Mycroft, who simply rolls his eyes.

“As I was saying, this is a matter of national importance-”

Sherlock continues ignoring his brother and chooses to keep playing the shrilling melody. John takes a deep breath and tries to ignore his friend’s childish behavior, as he continues making tea. Suddenly, he realizes his husband has come to stand behind him and is handing him a file.

John sends a quick glance in Sherlock’s direction, but the younger male continues to ignore them. “What’s this?”

“Your new case,” Mycroft replies calmly. “Aren’t you in charge of picking the cases now?”

Not exactly, but John isn’t about to tell him that. Instead he smiles pleasantly, taking the documents. “I’ll make sure he looks into it.”

Mycroft turns back to his brother, “I need you to find the missing planes, Sherlock. Don’t make me order you.”

They both know there’s no way to order Sherlock to do anything he doesn’t want to, but John supposes one must at least try on ocassion.

“I’d like to see you try,” the younger Holmes replies, pausing his playing for a couple of seconds.

Mycroft sighs dramatically. “Think it over,” he tells him and it’s Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. John smiles briefly and his husband turns to him. “Goodbye John, see you soon.”

John's response gets lost, because Mycroft leans in for a kiss. John reacts instinctively, returning the kiss right away. He’s a little surprised, because his husband avoids PDA like the plague, but he doesn’t try to pull away, not even when Mycroft places a hand on the nape of his neck, deepening the kiss.

It’s a possessive kiss, nothing sweet or romantic about it and more for show than a sign of actual affection. John feels like protesting when Mycroft finally pulls away, but one quick look at his husband silences him immediately.

No use on arguing when he’s like that.

“Goodbye Sherlock,” Mycroft says as he calmly exits the room. John can see the tension on Sherlock’s shoulders and he forces himself to avert his gaze, trying very hard to pretend he didn’t notice what has just happened.

It’s no use of course.

But he has no other choice.

Sherlock continues ignoring the file Mycroft left and John is fairly certain he’s just doing it to spite his brother, but he chooses not to press. Instead he focuses on trying to get his treacherous feelings under control once more and finishes making tea.

Tea that goes undrunk, because Greg chooses that moment to send a text summoning the consulting detective. Next thing he knows they’re rushing into the Yard and Sherlock is looking quite happy, apparently having entirely forgotten what happened earlier in the morning.

But John can’t forget. His mind keeps going back to what happened barely an hour before. Even later, when he’s with Sherlock chasing clues, he can’t stop himself from remembering. It’s not until that the first call comes and the supposed game begins, that John finally manages to regain his focus.

For a while at least.

Sherlock knows John is disappointed on him, but he doesn’t know what the doctor expects him to do. He’s trying to solve the puzzle and that’ll save the woman, so why is John so mad at him? He’s doing what he can, he knows caring about the hostage would serve no purpose at all.

Sherlock is now in a bad mood and that doesn’t bode well for their hostage. He needs to focus; he can’t afford to be distracted by over sentimental doctors.

Nor can he afford to be distracted by overbearing brothers that insist on bothering him with a ridiculously easy case to solve. If Mycroft decided to just spend two minutes completely focusing on the case in his hands, he’ll be able to solve it on his own right away.

He watches John checking his own text messages and he frowns. Really, trying to use John against him, how immature. Besides, considering the other case they’re currently dealing with, Sherlock knows John will agree with him that there are more pressing matters to attend right now.

As the pieces of the puzzle start coming together, Sherlock is able to forget (at least momentarily) all about dissapointed best friends and annoying older brothers.

Molly walks in and a few seconds later, her apparent boyfriend walks in. As Sherlock explains his deductions to Molly about her boyfriend’s sexuality, John can’t help to feel a bit anguished. The poor girl looks near a breakdown and John is one step away from hitting Sherlock to make him shut up. He just doesn’t understand social niceties, does he?

Molly storms out and Sherlock looks genuinely surprised. John is hard pressed not to snap at him, but he can’t stop himself from sarcastically saying, “charming, well done.”

Sherlock turns to him, obviously confused and John forces himself to take deep breaths and try not to throttle his brother-in-law. “I was just saving her time, isn’t that kinder?”

John wonders what passes as kind in Sherlock’s book. Seriously, how are they even friends? (not to mention the feelings that John is working very hard on suppressing) “Kinder? No, no Sherlock. That wasn’t kind.”

He ought to know better than to expect Sherlock to feel guilty about the way he treats other people and it shouldn’t be a surprise that his friend goes back into talking about the case without another word concerning Molly. Still, it seems he’s always expecting too much.

With a sigh, he gives his whole attention to Sherlock’s question.

He tries to keep focused on the case, but even with the progress he has made so far, he knows it’s not going to be easy and he’s running out of time.

It’s a delightful puzzle, really. And if he wasn’t so worried about disappointing John further, he would be enjoying himself immensely. But John puts him in contact with his emotions and adds a sentimentalist component to the case that Sherlock just can’t shake off. It’s far from ideal and John probably knows it’s interfering with his reasoning, but it can’t be helped.

John’s nature is to be caring. That’s why he’s a doctor and that’s why he puts up with Sherlock (and Mycroft, to be honest). It’s part of who he is and Sherlock wouldn’t change it for the world.

But it’s distracting. Which is why he sends him off to his husband to find out more about the case Mycroft wants solved. Sherlock doesn’t need any extra input, to be honest, but it’ll keep John busy and it’ll get his brother off his back, so it’s a win-win situation.

If Mycroft is surprised to see him in his office, he doesn’t let it show. He’s all smiles as John explains the motive of his visit and the doctor must admit it’s a bit unnerving, but his husband wouldn’t be himself if he wasn’t unnerving half of the time.

As Mycroft starts explaining his case in more detail, John tries his best to make the connections that Sherlock apparently believes he can make. ‘His best man’ indeed. He’s having trouble keeping track of what his husband is saying, how is he supposed to-

Of course his husband notices. By the indulging way he’s smiling at him, John realizes he knows, so he just sighs and voices his thoughts. “Apparently, Sherlock is confident I could solve this. On my own. I think.”

Mycroft smirks at that and comes to stand right in front of him. “He expects you to do the legwork, John,” he explains, still smiling. “It doesn’t matter if he’s currently otherwise occupied. By sending you, he’s stating he’ll get to it. Sometime.”

It doesn’t reassure John much. “You said it was a matter of national security.”

Mycroft hums, pulling him onto his feet and John allows it, so they’re standing in front of each other. “Indeed. I’m quite confident you’ll be quite helpful to the investigation, so it doesn’t matter if Sherlock doesn’t start working on it right away. By the time he does, you’ll have some clues.”

“I’m not sure-”

“You’ll do wonderfully John,” Mycroft interrupts him earnestly, as he pulls him closer to his body and locks his arms around his waist. “You have all my trust. And Sherlock’s, apparently.”

John finds hard to respond when his husband starts nibbling his neck. Now this is odd, he thinks, because Mycroft is not usually this… attentive, but he can’t bring himself to complain or question it. As the nibbling becomes more insistent and they somehow manage to get pressed closer together, John finds his voice and tries to steer things back on track. “You’ll trust me with something of national security?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replies simply, sucking a bruise just beneath his jaw and making John’s knees go weak. “After all, I’ve trusted you with something far more precious to me.”

John can no longer hold back a moan and Mycroft turns him around, so his back is pressed against the desk. John wonders if his husband is about to have his way with him right here, over his desk and while that does sounds straight out of a porn movie, he can’t help the wave of arousal that washes over him at the thought. “What?” he asks, because although he’s overwhelmed with pleasure, his brain hasn’t shut off completely.

Mycroft just chuckles richely, biting down on his earlobe. “Are you amenable to me continuing with this?” he asks him softly, his breath warm on his neck.

“God yes,” John replies breathlessly and his husband chuckles again, before pulling him into an actual kiss that makes him see stars.

Everything is too odd and if John had enough presence of mind, he would find it suspicious.

But he doesn’t, so he just goes with it.

Chapter Text

John looks so soft and defenseless like this, sprawled on the couch of his office, eyes closed and breath even. He always falls asleep shortly after sex and Mycroft always allows himself a few moments of observing him like this. It’s probably a bit sentimental, but he’s not particularly bothered by it.

As Mycroft watches his husband take a nap, he ponders about their situation.

Mycroft is not good with emotions. He has never been, to be honest, and he’s not going to try getting better at them now, but he’s a bit better with the physical aspects that people usually associate with affection and so he tries that with John.

He keeps telling himself he’s not in love and he’s quite convinced he isn’t, but that doesn’t mean he’s willing to lose his husband. It’s probably petty and a bit cruel the little remainders he likes to drop to his brother, but he feels they’re necessary. He needs John with Sherlock during this whole case, but he can’t afford either of them forgetting what their relationship is supposed to be.

Sherlock will come around, he knows. Just not now, because he probably hasn’t noticed the relevance of his case and how it relates to what he’s currently working on. Doesn’t matter, he’ll figure it out at some point.

When John wakes up, he sends him off to spend the night at Sherlock’s, convincing him quite easily that his brother needs someone to look after him before he works himself to death. John goes without protest, because he’s actually worried and Mycroft is not sure how he feels about that.

He gets a text sometime around midnight, when Sherlock apparently solves the first puzzle and Gregory thinks it’s a good idea to berate him for sending John to spend the night with his brother. Mycroft rolls his eyes, more than a little amused at the DI’s reaction.

It’s funny how Gregory seems so interested in guarding ‘John’s virtue’, although he supposes he understands the reasoning behind it. Having been a cheated on husband himself, Gregory probably worries about Mycroft’s reaction to an eventual infidelity. Which he finds utterly ridiculous, because it’s never going to happen and even if it did, Mycroft is not the kind of man to suffer of a broken heart.

He reassures Gregory that everything is under control and goes back to sleep.

These next few days are going to be quite interesting.

With the first case solved and the second one on its way, John is starting to feel the effects of a poor night's sleep. He’s glad he took a nap back at Mycroft’s office the day before, because otherwise he knows he’ll be dead on his feet.

As Sherlock and Greg survey the scene, John stands back with Sally. When the Sergeant starts going on about how he really ought to run away from Sherlock, he finds himself more amused than angry. He knows that she probably has her best intentions at heart, but there’s really no way he’s running away from this.

Sherlock is bad for his own sanity and terrible for his marriage, but he simply can’t turn his back on what they have. It’s probably unhealthy in so many levels, but he knows he’s beyond salvation. He’s sticking to his brother-in-law’s side come hell or high water.

Which he really ought to find more troubling than he does.

The second puzzle seems easier and Sherlock is not sure what to think about it. As he gets the clues for the third one, he wonders once more what the bomber is playing at; he obviously thinks it’s a game between them and although Sherlock does enjoy himself while trying to put the pieces together, he’s getting more and more unnerved.

It doesn’t help that both John and Lestrade send each other despairing looks behind his back. He has always known he works differently from other people and that’s why he finds it hard to interact with others, but it hurts that 2 of the people he actually likes seem so-

No use in worrying about it right now. He has far more pressing matters to focus on. Still, he can’t help to feel a bit hurt.

He pushes past through it and focuses on the case.

John gets sent away once more, although to be fair, he’s supposedly helping with solving the case. He’s not entirely sure that Sherlock actually thinks he can pick up something, but well… he’ll try.

But when he thinks he’s onto something, he can’t help to feel ridiculously proud of himself so of course he calls Sherlock right away. He’s feeling quite smug when the consulting detective walks into the room and he can’t help to smile brightly at him.

Maybe he really has picked some things up about Sherlock’s methods.

It’s adorable, of course, the way John shines with pride at his supposed deduction. He’s wrong, of course, but Sherlock still smiles brightly at him and indulges in John’s ploy. He later explains him what really happened and John might be a little disappointed, but well, he’s getting better.

He’s nowhere near as observant as Sherlock, but who is really?

(His brother most definitely doesn’t count)

It seems that on this case, John is going to suffer disappointment after disappointment. Sherlock lacks empathy, he knows that. And for the most part, he doesn’t mind. It’s just part of who his friend is, of the way the world has made him. Still-

It’s all a game and he’ll do well to not forget. The stakes are high, but it’s just a game. For the terrorist and for Sherlock, the human lives at stake mean nothing. Other people are nothing but mere pawns in their twisted game.

His thoughts are dark and uncharitable, but what else is he supposed to think?

For the first time since he met Sherlock, he wishes he had stayed at home with Mycroft instead.

The third hostage is dead and Sherlock is ill equipped to deal with that, so he goes with his standard reaction to things he can’t process: total indifference.

It’s not his fault, he solved the puzzle. He couldn’t have helped the old lady, he tried to warn her, didn’t he? Still-

As he and John listen to the news, he can tell his friend is devastated by the events. He cares too much and caring is never an advantage, but he somehow knows that pointing it out would only lead to an argument. So he focuses on the ‘game’, on his move, on what he can do, on what it all means-

Oh. Oh, so that’s it. The terrorist arranges these things. He starts explaining it to John and his friend looks more and more horrified with each word that leaves his mouth, but Sherlock isn’t thinking about that. Although he takes in John’s reaction, he doesn’t really process it, too lost in his own thoughts. “Novel,” he whispers, a little awed.

That’s the breaking point. John can no longer look at him, so he turns away. He knows the world is a vicious, horrible place, but he tries so hard to see the good in everything…

A real marvel, his John.

He’s having a hard time, trying to process all this. It feels so unnatural; he can’t understand why would someone do this, so he asks Sherlock, hoping for some insight.

He really, really ought to stop expecting too much of his friend.

“I think he wants to be distracted.”

And that sounds too much like Sherlock. He can see the barely concealed excitement, the thrill of the chase. It’s not that John is above that, because God knows how he loves the adrenalin of chasing the bad guys, but that’s the thing: he does it because he also believes it’s the right thing. Sherlock does it because it keeps him entertained.

He really ought to be thankful his friend choose to use his abilities for a good cause.

“I hope you’ll be very happy together,” he says resentfully and he knows his anger is ill directed, but he can’t help it. The words leave his mouth without any conscious thought.

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock questions, sounding genuinely offended and that, John feels, should be redeeming enough, except that in his worked up state, he can’t stop himself from lashing out.

“There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual human lives. So just I know, do you care about that at all?”

It’s the wrong question. It’s so wrong in so many different levels that John regrets it right away. Still, he can’t exactly take it back so…

This isn’t going to end well.

“Would caring about them help saving them?” Sherlock asks, his tone perfectly cool, but on the inside, he’s burning with anger. John, of all people, should be able to understand-

“No.”

“Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake,” he utters, trying to end this conversation before it escalates beyond any sort of control.

“And you find that easy, don’t you?”

“Yes, very. Is that news to you?” he’s being deliberately cruel and he hates it, but he’s angry and hurt and he’s just lashing out.

“No. No.” The hesitancy is telling enough. As usual, John is trying to see him as a better man than he is.

“I’ve disappointed you.” He always comes short to John’s expectations. Maybe he should stop trying to meet them, but-

“It’s good, it’s a good deduction, yeah.” The fake smile, the tension on his shoulders, everything about John right now speaks of how wrong this whole interaction is and Sherlock wishes he knew how to make it better.

But he only knows how to make it worse. “Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”

The next clue arrives.

Excelente timing.

Sherlock goes back into case mode. John tries very hard not to throw up. He’s feeling sick and the anger still runs through his veins, but he mustn’t lose his head. A new clue has arrived, a new hostage needs them, he can’t let his feelings get the best of him right now.

He looks at Sherlock before he opens the papers. Sometimes he makes the whole not-loving-him so easy.

So very ridiculously easy.

Focus on the case. FOCUS ON THE CASE.

He tries. His mind keeps going back to their conversation, but he can’t afford to lose his concentration now. If he fails this test… He needs to win this game. He needs to show John he’s on his side, even if he doesn’t always go the right way about showing it.

Pointless. There’s no point. He should just-

He was better off alone.

John starts looking through the papers.

He doesn’t need him.

Except he does.

Having Greg around helps a lot to ease John’s still simmering anger. The DI politely chooses not to comment on the obvious tension between them and turns Sherlock’s focus towards the body. John is grateful and he keeps sending thankful smiles in the detective’s direction.

As usual, Sherlock is bloody brilliant. And just like that, all of John’s previous anger disappears, leaving instead his usual awe at his friend’s brilliance. Sherlock loves to show off and more importantly, he loves to show off to John, so he’s obviously on a better mood once he has figured out about the assassin and the fake painting.

Sherlock rushes off in his usual dramatic way and after sending an apologetic look in Greg’s direction, John follows.

That’s going to be forever the story of his life, isn’t it?

He can’t bring himself to regret it.

He needs time to think, time to focus without any distractions. If he’s going to find out why the painting is fake, he needs to be alone.

Sending John away after a fight (does it qualify as such?) feels like a terrible idea, but it needs to be done. He hates it, but he’s out of options.

Besides, John needs to be doing something useful otherwise he’ll end up feeling grumpy and that won’t help matters between them at all. So better to send him away now.

It’s just for a few hours after all.

John is no detective and he sincerely doubts he’s cut out for the job. Sherlock should have sent Greg for this; at least he would have some idea what they might be looking for (or not). Still, once he’s done interviewing Alex’s roommate, he’s satisfied with the answers he has so far.

Maybe they’re not much, but they’re a start.

They’re taking too long, Mycroft thinks. Maybe he ought to give his husband a nudge in the right direction (God knows trying it with Sherlock would lead nowhere). Besides, considering John and Sherlock seem to have gotten into a fight (and he doesn’t feel even slightly guilty on spying on them through his CCTV red), it’s probably the best time to intervene.

Why is he doing this again?

Oh, right. Moriarty. He can’t hope to catch him without Sherlock’s (unknowing) help. It’s far from ideal, but it’s what he has.

Have you spoken to West’s fiancée yet?

More waiting.

The devastated fiancée makes John ache for something. He’s not sure for what, because his husband happens to be very much alive, but something about the poor broken hearted girl…

Maybe that’s it. The broken hearted part. John can’t imagine loving someone so much and losing them. It must be hell.

There’s no progress on Mycroft’s case. Talking to Lucy proved to be a dead end.

He really wishes Sherlock was with him.

Another chase, another near death experience and they have nothing. Time is running out, Sherlock knows it, even if their bomber hasn’t called. He still doesn’t know why the painting is fake, he knows the answer must be hiding in plain sight, but what-?

He stands in front of the painting, desperately thinking and coming up blank. The woman in charge of the gallery is getting on his nerves and he’s about to say something very nasty to her when his phone rings.

No no no, not yet. He thinks desperately. He knows the painting is fake, just as he knows that that’s not enough for the terrorist. He needs the full answer, otherwise it won’t count.

He can’t lose again. He really can’t.

As the child’s voice starts counting, he curses internally. He finds easy to detach himself from the situation, from the empathy he’s supposed to feel for the innocent victim, but John and Lestrade standing behind him can’t. It’s not good, not good at all.

When he finally sees it, he wants to weep in joy. Instead, he paces, smiling like a maniac, before uttering the right answer. The puzzle is solved and he’s just got one more to go.

He’s rather looking forward it.

Solved just in time. John is dizzy with relief, he knows he couldn’t have handled it if they had failed yet another hostage. Especially a child.

Whoever this bomber is, he’s twisted. And he regrets his earlier words to Sherlock, because he knows that him and this man are intrinsically different. He supposes he ought to apologize and he will, just as soon as-

My patience is wearing thin.

Right. He’ll deal with his husband first.

Chapter Text

Moriarty. It’s really him. Sherlock doesn’t know if he’s excited or terrified. It’s all very intriguing, of course, but it’s obvious the man is a nutcase and any sane person would probably run away, however-

Is this really just a game, though? Or does it hide something bigger? What is Moriarty really after? Just Sherlock’s attention? It seems a little too much effort just to get someone’s attention, but what-?

Figure it out yet, brother dear?

Oh. Oh.

Bloody Mycroft.

There aren’t enough clues. And if there are, John is obviously not seeing them. He wants to call Mycroft and tell him he’s really not fit for the job, but he suspects that’s a bad idea. He supposes he ought to call Sherlock then and beg him to help, but-

He goes through what he knows so far and kneels to examine the rails.

Inspiration strikes him and he suddenly understands Sherlock’s happiness when he figures something out, but his excitement is cut short when his best friend shows up right behind him, apparently having appeared out of thin air.

So he has finally decided to help. Mycroft was right, after all, Sherlock did get to it eventually. Maybe he has figured out he has some time to kill before the last puzzle.

It’s not a particularly reassuring thought, but it works.

Mycroft has known all along that this was going to be the last puzzle. He choose to keep him in the shadows though, because he probably thought it would make it all more frustrating for Sherlock. The idea sits ill with him, but well… the excitement of the chase makes it more bearable.

As they corner their murderer and get the confession, along with the missing memory stick, Sherlock can’t help wondering (and worrying) about what happens now. They have the planes, which Moriarty obviously wants, but what else-?

Something is missing. But what?

Waiting for the final piece feels like too much.

Since now waiting is all they can do, John wonders if he ought to go back to his husband. Maybe take the memory stick to him himself, if only to make sure Sherlock hands it over and doesn't keep it just to spite his brother.

But once they’re at 221B Baker Street, John realizes he doesn’t want to leave. Not just yet, at least. So he offers to go and buy some groceries, as well as cooking dinner.

Mycroft said he ought to stay until the case was completely closed after all.

The fact that he wants to spend more time with Sherlock has absolutely nothing to do with his decision to stay.

Once John leaves the apartment, Sherlock decides he has had enough. It’s time to lure Moriarty out, so he can choose the place of their final confrontation. It’s time for this game to come to an end.

Sherlock can’t help to smile excitedly.

John isn’t sure how it happens. One minute he’s walking down the street, the next he’s knocked out unconscious. How they managed to sneak behind him is beyond him, but obviously these people are professionals.

He stays very still, waiting for the perfect opportunity to escape. His captors still think him unconscious so maybe-

“So nice to see you’re awake, Dr. Watson. Watson-Holmes, I suppose.” The voice is familiar, but pitched louder. He abandons his pretense of being knocked out; it’s obvious the man talking to him knows he isn’t.

“Who are you?” he asks, trying to get a look of his interlocutor in the darkened room. The man’s laughter sends an unpleasant shiver down his back and John forces himself not to get nervous.

A man comes to stand close to him and although he is surprised, he tries not to show it. “Nothing?” the man asks mockingly. “Come on, you do recognize me, don’t you? Didn’t I manage to make an impression on you?”

“Jim, was it?” He greets calmly, a fake smile on his lips. “Of course I remember.”

The man smirks darkly at him. “We’re gonna have so much fun, Johnny boy. Just you and me. Until either of your Holmeses decides to come out and play, that is.”

John gulps. This doesn’t look very promising.

Not at all.

“A pity, Sherlock called in so early,” Moriarty tells him shortly after, a slight pout on his lips. “Real pity. I was hoping we could have a little fun first,” he smirks darkly and an unpleasant shiver runs down John’s spine.

“I’m really glad he was the one to make the first move, though,” he continues cheerfully, as John gets strapped with explosives. “Your husband is so… dull. Well connected and useful, of course, but much more predictable.” He smirks cruelly, leaning closer to John, so their noses are practically touching. “No wonder you prefer the younger brother.”

John just stares evenly at him, hoping his face doesn’t betray the dread he’s feeling.

He’s not walking out of this alive, is he?

The pool is devoid of all movement when he enters. He knows Moriarty is hiding in the shadows, but he’s very good at it, since Sherlock can’t figure out his hiding place. He holds the memory stick high, hoping to lure him out, not sure what he’ll do if the other man doesn’t show himself.

He doesn’t think Moriarty is planning to kill him. Not like this, at least, without any sort of dramatics. But then again-

A door opens. John steps out. The world stops.

“Evening ” his friend greets calmly and Sherlock fights back a wave of nausea. It can’t be. John was honestly disgusted by this whole ‘game’, John is too good and too noble, he’ll never- he wouldn’t-

No, it can’t be. Mycroft would have noticed, wouldn’t he? If his husband was a crazy criminal mastermind, Mycroft would have known. Even if Sherlock had been blinded by John’s charisma and friendly personality, his brother would have-

Wouldn’t he? Had they both been fooled?

“This is a turnup, isn’t it Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s brain keeps coming up blank as he looks for explanations, his treacherous heart making it hard for his mind to remain calm and focused. John isn’t Moriarty, he can’t be, he honestly can’t-

“John, what the he-?”

“Figure you never see this coming.” The words hurt too much; there’s no way he can keep a clear mind to figure out what’s really going on here. He tries coming closer, as if being in John’s close proximity would make this less bizarre, but just then John opens his coat, showing the explosives strapped around him.

No. No no no. John is the last hostage. This is the last game. This is the one Sherlock can’t afford to lose, this is the one which really matters. He looks for Moriarty now, his heart beating loudly in his chest as he tries to come up with an escape plan.

He’s fairly certain this last game is rigged. He’s not winning tonight.

Moriarty’s words are taunting and Sherlock gulps nervously. John can’t die, he simply can’t. If he does- if he does-

Sherlock doesn’t want to even begin to contemplate a world without his John.

“What?!”

Anthea visibly recoils at his tone and he knows he must truly sound mad to get the female to flinch, but he can’t bring himself to care about that right now. There are more pressing matters to attend.

“I’m sorry sir, we’ve just noticed,” Anthea explains. “He was very careful about the abduction, it might have taken even longer to notice if-”

“Where are they?” Mycroft interrupts her, standing up and putting on his coat, figuring he’ll handle this himself.

“We-” Anthea gulps, her usually collected PA looking terribly scared. “We don’t know.”

Mycroft collapses back onto his chair. This can’t be happening. Moriarty has John and he’ll have to rely on Sherlock for the rescue.

In the worst case scenario, he’s losing his husband and his brother tonight.

He should have known better than to play with madmen.

The light bickering between Sherlock and Moriarty rattles on John’s nerves, even if he knows his friend is just trying to buy some time while he figures a way for them to get out of here alive. John has little doubt of Sherlock’s abilities, but he also knows Moriarty has been planning this for a long, long time. They’re not getting out easily. Or unharmed.

But hopefully they’ll live.

Sherlock hands Moriarty the planes and now he really wishes he had taken them straight to Mycroft himself. Still, it’s a little late for regrets, so no use on thinking about it much.

Moriarty tosses the planes away. Any other time, John would stop to wonder what does that mean, what is this all really about then, but right now, he only reacts on instinct. He needs to stop this man, he needs to get Sherlock to safety.

If at least one of them gets to make it- If at least Sherlock lives-

It would be enough.

John grabs Moriarty and yet the man remains unperturbed, a real testament of his madness. He’s enjoying this, he’s just toying with them. This is a predator, playing with its dinner, knowing there’s no escape left.

He won’t run. He won’t leave John. And really, John should know that by now.

John lets go of Moriarty as the snipper points his gun at Sherlock. Moriarty carries on with his smug speech and Sherlocks hates him with every inch of his heart, so he keeps his gun trained on the man, but he knows he can’t pull the trigger. Not when it would mean John’s death.

“No, no. I’ll burn you,” Moriarty corrects him, smiling like the madman he is. “I’ll burn the heart out of you.”

“I’ve been widely inform that I don’t have one,” he replies evenly and Moriarty throws his head back, laughing loudly.

“But we both know that’s not quite true.” Moriarty states once he calms down, turning his attention back to John. He places a hand over the doctor’s cheek very gently, smiling somewhat endearingly. “Not true at all.”

Sherlock tightens his grip on the gun. If he could, he would blow up Moriarty’s head, but of course he can’t. Moriarty keeps toying with him and although he hates it, there’s nothing he can do to stop him.

“Well, I’ll better be off,” the criminal consultant says, lightheartedly. “So nice to finally have a proper chat.”

He really, really ought to shot him now. If he doesn’t, there’s a good chance he’ll never catch up with him again and that would mean-

But he can’t. Moriarty knows it and he knows it. That’s why he chose John as a hostage. Because if this was between Sherlock and Moriarty, Sherlock would pull the trigger without any hesitation, but with John’s life on the line…

Caring is really not an advantage.

“No you won’t!”

Once Moriarty leaves, Sherlock hesitates a second, before rushing to John’s side and hurrying to take the jacket and the explosives off. John’s heart is beating loudly, his nerves are fried and he really, really needs to sit down before he collapses.

Sherlock’s movements are frenetic, uncoordinated. He might take longer because of that, but John is hardly in any state of mind to help much. He knows just how close they were to dying and now- now-

He crunches on the floor, trying to catch his breath. He hopes they’ll never ever have to go through this again, but seeing Moriarty is still alive, it’s very likely they will.

Sherlock looks on the verge of an anxiety attack and John knows it’s up to him to calm him down. It wouldn’t do to have his friend having a nervous breakdown after they somehow survived their encounter with Moriarty.

“Are you okay?”

“Me? Yeah, I’m fine,” Sherlock replies, but he doesn’t sound fine. John closes his eyes, trying to take deeper breaths and calm his erratic beating heart. “That- that thing that you did- that you offer to do- that was- good.”

No, it wasn’t. It was downright suicidal. However, it was also quite revealing: if that doesn’t tell Sherlock about the extend of his feelings for him, he doesn’t know what would do. Better to change topics now, before they end up discussing something neither is ready to discuss. “Glad no one saw that.”

“Huh?”

“You, ripping off my clothes in a dark swimming pool; people might talk.” It’s a joke and it’s probably quite inappropriate, considering- Still, better than actually discussing their feelings.

“People would do little else,” Sherlock replies, his tone lighter, but the tension still not leaving his shoulders. Still, he cracks a smile at him and for John, that’s quite enough.

For now, it’ll do.

After his brief moment of panic, Mycroft comes up with a probable solution. Checking his brother’s blog should have been his first thought after hearing what happened, since that was the way Sherlock had been giving Moriarty the answer to his puzzles, but of course, he hadn’t thought about it until the panic receded enough.

Very dangerous, to panic when dealing with madmen. A mistake he wouldn’t have made 3 years ago.

Maybe his feelings aren’t as under control as he thought.

“Sorry boys. I’m so changeable.” Moriarty walks back in, maniac smile on his face once more. “It’s a weakness of mine but to be fair to myself, it’s my only weakness. You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind”

He was probably planning this all along. He just lured them into a false sense of security, just let them think they were actually going to walk away from this.

He and John share a look of resignation. “Probably my answer crossed yours,” Sherlock replies, turning to aim the gum to the jacket with the explosives. If they’re dying tonight, they’ll be taking Moriarty with them.

Far from ideal and he really wishes there was some other way, but they’re out of options now.

Moriarty’s phone rings. A mysterious and frankly troubling conversation later, it seems that they’re actually walking away from this. John’s nerves can’t honestly take it anymore and he’s fairly certain he’s going to pass out any minute now.

“What happened there?”

“Someone changed his mind ” Sherlock replies, looking as tense as John feels. This night has been far too eventful for his tastes. ”The question is, who?”

Who indeed.

In retrospective, calling Gregory and informing him of the situation was probably a bad idea.

Of course the Yard did make it to pool before Mycroft did, but of course they failed to capture Moriarty. Not that Mycroft actually expected them to be able to capture him if they had arrived in time, but-

Anyway, Moriarty is gone and Gregory is just making things harder for him.

“You’re not taking them up for interrogation,” Mycroft informs the DI calmly, his tone hinting just what exactly will happen to him if he dares to defy him.

Gregory sighs, shaking his head. “Look Mycroft-”

“Not tonight, Gregory.”

The detective sighs again, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. I’d probably get nothing out of them right now either way.”

Mycroft nods and walks past him, heading towards where an ambulance is waiting.

Now that the whole ordeal is over, Sherlock tries to relax. He doesn’t succeed though, because his body is still convinced that John is in danger and that he needs to be ready to jump into action to protect him.

He had known for a while that his feelings for his brother-in-law might run a little deeper than those of normal friends do, but tonight he has just realized how deep they indeed run. If he had lost John-

The thought is too awful to even entertain it. He pulls John closer to him, deaf to his friend’s protestations. The embrace is awkward, but Sherlock just wants to have John near, to assure himself the other man is alive and safe.

For now, at least.

He sees his brother approaching and his grip on John tightens. The doctor huffs indignantly, but Sherlock barely notices, his eyes trained on the approaching figure.

Mycroft comes to stand right in front of them, a serious expression on his face, that reminds Sherlock of when they were children and he had done something particularly naughty. He glares at his brother and hugs John closer, refusing to let him go.

“So, Moriarty escaped,” Mycroft says, in lieu of a greeting and after hearing his husband’s voice, John starts trying to get free from Sherlock’s embrace, but the consulting detective just continues holding him.

“You knew,” Sherlock accuses darkly. “You knew all along what he wanted, or at least you thought you knew what he wanted and still-”

“Things took an unforeseen turn,” his brother agrees, his tone betraying nothing of the irritation he’s undoubtedly feeling at having gotten something wrong. “A miscalculation on my part; but I assure you, brother dear, it won’t happen again.”

“He took John,” Sherlock states, squeezing the doctor tighter. “John was in danger.”

Mycroft narrows his eyes. “As I said, it won’t happen again.”

“You-”

“Besides, my husband’s welfare should be my preoccupation, Sherlock. Not yours.”

The younger male glares. “He’s my best friend ” he argues, turning to look at John in the eye. “I won’t let anything happen to him.”

John looks away, biting down his lip. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to intervene in this conversation, probably sensing it would only make things even more tense between the brothers. Sherlock turns to glare at his brother again.

“Let him go now, brother dear.”

Sherlock eyes John and the doctor nods. The consulting detective lets go of him and takes a step back, “I’ll see you tomorrow, yes? To give our statements to Lestrade?”

John nods tightly, still avoiding looking directly at him. Mycroft grabs his elbow gently, pulling John closer to him. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” the doctor agrees, allowing his husband to guide him away from the crowd.

Sherlock stares at his friend’s retreating back and sighs.

What a night.

Greg watches as John and Mycroft climb into the car, leaving a more than forlorn looking Sherlock behind. He sighs, running a hand through his short hair, thinking about what he wants to do.

It’s late and he’s tired and he hasn’t had a decent night sleep since the first bomb, so he really, really wants to go back home and go straight to bed, not to be bothered at least until midday tomorrow. But Sherlock looks so sad and so lost and-

“Are you okay?” he asks the consulting detective and the taller man rolls his eyes, making Greg almost immediately regret his decision. Then again, he knows how Sherlock is, so he tries not to take it personally. “Come on, I’ll buy you dinner.”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock turns to him with an arched eyebrow, looking slightly amused.

“When was the last you’ve eaten? Two- three days ago? And I mean actual meals, Sherlock, not just toast and tea.”

The younger male rolls his eyes once more. “I don’t need your pity, Lestrade.”

The DI sighs, shaking his head sadly. “Come on, I know I nice place around here.”

Sherlock observes him closely for a beat and Greg is hard pressed not to take his invitation back. He’s probably going to regret this, but-

“Shouldn’t you inform your minions you’re leaving?”

it’s Greg’s turn to roll his eyes. “They’re not- You know what? Nevermind. Let’s just- just- Follow me.”

He can tell Sherlock is looking quite smug, even if he can no longer see him. Greg sighs, willing to count it as a win; after all, smug is better than heartbroken.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asks once they climb inside the car and John nods sharply.

To be honest, he’s more than a little concerned by his husband’s lack of response at the petty fight between him and his brother, so he carefully places his arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer to him on the seat.

John sighs and buries his face on his neck, breathing deeply. Mycroft runs a hand over his husband’s arm in what he hopes is a soothing manner, feeling terribly ill equipped to be dealing with this.

It has been a very physical and emotionally draining night and he probably should just take John home and wait for him to come around on his own, but-

His thoughts get interrupted when John climbs into his lap and kisses him. Now that’s an odd development. He most definitely didn’t see that one coming.

A night full of surprises, indeed. “John?”

His husband shakes his head and kisses him again, a bit forcefully. Mycroft would like to know what’s happening here, he really would, but he finds hard to concentrate when John starts rolling his hips.

Thinking is overrated, really.

(What?)

He’s married. He’s more or less happily married. And okay, that whole confrontation at the pool might have put a few things into perspective, but at the end of the day, the fact remains: he’s a married man.

And Mycroft cares about him. Maybe he doesn’t love him, but he likes him well enough and he worries about him. He tries to make him happy. So he really, really ought to focus on that. He ought not to entertain thoughts of loving another man, because that would be wrong. So terribly wrong.

Sherlock is his friend and he’ll always be his friend. No matter what.

But he’ll never ever be anything else.

Better keep that in mind. Better to focus on what he actually has.

It’s more than enough.

Chapter Text

“No boyfriend today, Freak?”

Lestrade sends her a dark look and Sally forces herself not to snap at him. He’s her boss after all and it wouldn’t do to irritate him, unless she wants to get send off to do some paperwork.

Holmes doesn’t bother to answer her and instead places his whole focus on the crime scene. The Sergeant makes a face, but refrains from saying anything more.

She looks around the room, feeling more than a little frustrated. She understands why Lestrade had to call Holmes, but she doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like the Freak at all, actually.

She wonders what Watson sees in him. The doctor is a nice fellow; not her type, really, but he’s sweet and attractive. Surely he can find someone else. Someone who’s more… normal.

Then again, the man seems to like weird, so-

She looks through the window and sees a cab stopping right outside the house they’re in. John Watson steps out and dashes into the crime scene, making the Sergeant scrunch her nose a little. “I stand corrected: the boyfriend has just arrived.”

“Donovan,” the DI warns and the female rolls her eyes. Always so protective of the Freak and his friend. It’s not like she said anything nasty, really.

Watson enters the room shortly after and comes to stand next to Lestrade. They all wait while Holmes continues examining the body, until he finally steps back and gestures for Watson to step forward.

The doctor kneels next to the cadaver and Lestrade pases him some plastic gloves. He puts one on and then Sally sees something that makes her breath catch.

The doctor is wearing a wedding ring.

He takes it off and places it gingerly in the pocket of his jeans. Sally’s certain her jaw has just hit the ground, so she tries to compose her expression into something neutral.

The DI seems to have noticed her staring, though. He gives her a tight lipped smile and turns his attention back to Watson, who has begun with his preliminary observation of the body.

Now that’s interesting.

“Did you know?” she asks her boss later, once the case is closed and the suspect is in custody.

“Huh?”

“Watson.”

“Ah.” Lestrade makes a face, before nodding. “Yes. I was at the wedding, actually.”

Sally stares at him suspiciously. The DI smiles ruefully.

“He’s not actually married to the Freak, is he?”

“Donovan.”

The Sergeant rolls her eyes and walks away. She’s not getting more information from her boss now.

Pity, she was terribly curious.

They stand too close, they share too many secret, intimate smiles; the kind only lovers share.

But maybe they’re not actually shagging. Watson doesn’t seem like the kind of fellow who would cheat on his wife (or is it husband?) but who knows? People are weird and it’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?

Sally knows she shouldn’t be focusing so much on those two, considering they’re at a crime scene and she’s supposed to be working, but she also knows it doesn’t particularly matter. Once the Freak gets called into the case, he’s the one who’ll solve it.

Watson is wearing an expensive tux, the one she has only seen people wear in the TV. He keeps sneaking glances at his watch every 5 minutes or so; obviously he’s supposed to be elsewhere. She wonders what the wife (husband?) does for a living.

A black limo parks just outside the police tapes and a woman steps out of it. She’s wearing an elegant dress, the one actresses wear to movies premiers. Sally arches an eyebrow as Watson says something to Holmes and then approaches the woman.

He gets into the car after a brief conversation with the female and she follows him shortly after. The limo drives off and Holmes is in a dark mood for the rest of the investigation.

Sally can’t help to feel a little bad for him.

After all, she knows what it’s like with married men.

There’s a man sitting at the boss' office.

He’s wearing an expensive suit and he looks terribly out of place in the cramped office, so Sally can’t help to stare a little. Lestrade sent her to retrieve some files, but now that she has them, she’s not sure if she should just walk into the office or wait.

She knocks on the door and her boss beckons her in. She smiles politely at the mysterious man and Sally feels an unpleasant shiver run down her spine as he smiles back. Lestrade glares at the files she has brought him, obviously frustrated because even with the Freak’s help, they haven’t made much progress.

She hears a commotion outside and she just knows Holmes has arrived. The man storms into the office, dramatic as ever, and Sally fights back her first impulse to yell at him.

Holmes has started babbling something about the case, but stops abruptly after seeing the mysterious man in the DI’s office. He narrows his eyes at the older man, before asking venomously what he’s doing here.

Sally turns to her boss, hoping for an explanation, but Lestrade’s focus is on the two men. The mysterious visitor just smirks calmly at Holmes. “John and I had a previous commitment for the evening,” he replies, holding Holmes’ stare.

“Oh, right!” Watson exclaims and that’s when Sally notices he has been standing behind Holmes the whole time. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot-”

The man shrugs, standing up very slowly. “No matter. Come on now, we wouldn’t want to be late.”

Watson bites his lip and looks quickly at Holmes. The taller man looks tense and upset, but he nods and the doctor smiles briefly, following the other man out of the office.

Tense silence descends upon the still remaining people inside the DI’s office. Lestrade clears his throat awkwardly, “you were saying Sherlock?”

But the younger man doesn’t answer. He turns on his heel and storms out, glaring murderously at whoever dares to step in front of him.

“That’s the husband, then?” Sally questions and Lestrade just sends an irritated glance in her direction.

Right. She ought to go too then.

Sally is sitting outside the office building, smoking a cigarette. Someone comes to stand next to her, offering her a paper tissue.

The Sergeant makes a distressed noise and hurries to dry her tears with the tissue. Her makeup is probably a mess now, but she doesn’t particularly care. She’ll just have to make a quick visit to the restroom before going back to her cubicle.

“You really ought to know better than to fall in love with a married man, Sergeant Donovan.”

Sally laughs bitterly. “You would know about that, huh?”

Holmes just hums.

She’s not sure how it happened. Too many things happening at the same time, she supposes, so she lost sight of their consulting detective and his doctor and next thing she knew-

They have the subject in custody now, but the man had managed to knock out Dr. Watson before they apprehended him. Sally feels guilty, because she was supposed to be covering both him and Holmes, but-

Holmes paces around the tiny waiting room at the hospital, his distress evident. She and the man aren’t exactly on friendly terms, but her heart aches for him; it’s obvious he’s quite worried about his friend (lover?)

Lestrade alternates between glancing worriedly at Holmes and glancing at his phone. Sally sits next to her boss and tries not to add to the tension in the room.

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes.” The consulting detective steps forward, crowding the poor nurse’s space. However, the woman manages to remain calm, even when being towered by an obviously upset man. “Is John okay?”

“Your husband is fine, just a minor concussion. The doctor will be with you in a minute.”

Holmes relaxes visibly and immediately collapses on one of the chairs. Sally frowns, wondering about the husband bit, but before she can ask something, Lestrade intervenes. “He’s the brother-in-law,” the DI informs the nurse. “The husband is on his way.”

The Sergeant stares at Holmes open mouthed. Fortunately, the man seems too lost in his own thoughts to notice and Sally manages to collect herself before long. “The brother-in-law?” she whispers, turning to her boss, once the nurse has left.

Lestrade pursues his lips and refuses to comment.

She looks at Holmes, who looks slightly less concerned, but still somewhat tense.

Her heart aches a little for him. Being in love with your own brother-in-law must be horrible.

Not a fate she'd wish upon anyone.

Chapter Text

One ought to never tamper with fate. Attempting to force destiny's hand will always end in tragedy. People always come into our lives exactly when they're meant to, even when we're not expecting them.

Two kindred souls, destined to something (whatever that might be), might fall apart before they even met. It all comes down to timing, really.

For a better example, look at John and Sherlock.

For another one, let’s look at Sherlock and one Ms. Irene Adler.

Sherlock sometimes wishes John didn’t write in his blog about every single case they have. In fact, he wishes the doctor didn’t even write at all; he just doesn’t see the point and the influx of boring cases is most definitely John’s fault. Maybe he can convince Mycroft to find John another hobby-

No, scratch that. He doesn’t want his brother involved in John’s life more than what it’s strictly necessary.

Strictly necessary. What does that mean, considering they’re married?

Case after case after case. Boring, more often than not, but at least John always sticks around during them. Half of the time Sherlock deliberately takes longer solving them just to get to spend more time with his brother-in-law.

Lestrade sends him disparaging looks whenever that happens and so Sherlock tries not to do it during cases with the DI, but the rest of the time, he thinks everything is fair game.

He knows he’ll end up hurting himself more in the long run. John is never going to be his, so why does he torture himself with these brief moments of pretending it could work? John will always be his friend, but nothing else.

It could be worse, couldn’t it?

“Buckingham Palace? Seriously?”

His husband hums non committedly as they make their way through the corridors. Mycroft moves with the ease of someone who has been here quite a few times before, but John feels quite self conscious and he only gets more nervous the deeper they go into the Palace.

“You could have at least warned me,” John complains, looking down at this plain clothing. “I could have changed.”

“No need for that,” the other argues calmly, finally stopping in front a giant door. “I’m just doing this as a favour to an old friend. Way beneath my usual dealings.”

John rolls his eyes. Trust his husband to be dismissive of some member of the royalty asking for a favour. Although maybe it’s just a high government official, it’s not like-

Mycroft opens the door and they walk into a sparsely decorated room. The furniture is elegant and comfortable looking, but impersonal. A waiting room of sorts.

There’s a small table holding tea and biscuits and 2 long couches surrounding it. A man is already sitting at one of them, looking slightly preoccupied, so he doesn’t notice them right away.

“Harry,” Mycroft greets pleasantly and the man’s head snaps up.

“Oh, Mycroft!” their apparent host smiles brightly and stands up to shake Mycroft’s hand. “What a pleasure to see you again. And you’re not on your own, I see.”

“My husband, Dr. John Watson-Holmes,” Mycroft introduces him and John shakes the man's hand, smiling politely. “This is Harry- Well. No last name. Better that way.”

John nods, knowing a warning when he hears it. Whoever this man is, he’s obviously well positioned; the least he knows, the better. But then, why did Mycroft bring him along at all?

Mycroft takes seat next to their host and John hurries to sit in front of him, feeling a little dejected. He tries not to show it and instead focuses on pouring his husband and himself a cup of tea as the other two males chat amicably among them. They discuss various unimportant topics and John can’t help to wonder what he’s doing here.

The door opens again, allowing 3 men to come in. Two stay at the door, guarding it and the third one- “Sherlock?!” John exclaims, more than a little scandalized, seeing his friend is apparently just wearing a sheet around himself.

“Hello John,” his friend greets calmly, before sending a murderous glare into his brother’s direction. “I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft.” John reaches for his phone at that, because Sherlock always texts him when there’s a case, but Sherlock turns back to him. “It was barely a six, John. No need for us to show up at all.”

“Wha-?” John shakes his head. There are more pressing matters to attend right now. “Are you wearing any pants?”

“No ” Sherlock says as if it was a perfectly reasonable response. John pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his amusement at bay. “Sherlock, put some clothes on.”

“No,” his friend replies evenly, before plopping on the couch next to him. John turns to his husband to asses his reaction, but Mycroft has stood up and is now retrieving what seems to be Sherlock’s clothes from the guards, who exit the room shortly after.

“Sherlock, do grow up.”

“What am I doing here?” the younger male inquires, leaning back on the seat. John takes a deep breath and tries to remain calm.

“It’s a rather… delicate matter, Mr. Holmes. We would appreciate your utter discretion,” Harry responds, before Mycroft can say anything.

John narrows his eyes at his husband. So this is why he’s here; to convince Sherlock to take a bloody case. Right. Alright then.

It’s not like he has something better to do.

By the time Harry is done explaining, Sherlock has come up with a reason not to take the case. Of course he has, that’s practically his modus operandi. And of course it’s up to John to make him change his mind.

But before he can, Sherlock stands up dramatically, announcing this is waste of his time and turns to leave. Mycroft steps on the sheet and they start with their petty bickering, getting on John’s nerves right away.

“Can you excuse us for a minute, Harry?” John interrupts smoothly over the two arguing brothers and the man raises an eyebrow at him, but agrees. He stands up and exits the room through the opposite door, looking entirely too amused the whole time.

“Okay you two, stop,” he says, turning his attention back to his husband and his brother-in-law, who haven’t moved an inch since he spoke. “Stop this ridiculous behavior.”

They both start to protest and John silences them with a glare. “I don’t care who started it! You’re not 3-years-old anymore! Mycroft, stop treating your brother like a toddler and Sherlock, we’re taking this case.”

“But John-!”

“No arguing!” John interrupts his friend darkly. “We’re taking this case.”

“Or what?” Sherlock asks petulantly, still fighting to keep his sheet covering him.

“Or I’ll go back to working at the clinic. See how much time I’ll have to follow you around after that.”

“You hate your job at the clinic.”

John sighs and takes out his phone. It’s true, he never particularly liked his work at the clinic, always making him feel like he was doing nothing at all, but well… if Sherlock insists on behaving like a kid, he’ll have to threaten him with ‘no playing with him’.

He dials his ex boss number and waits. The phone rings twice, before Sherlock snatches it from his hand. “Alright, alright, we’ll take the case.”

“Good. Now go and put on some pants.”

“But John-”

John just arches an eyebrow. Sherlock huffs and retrieves his clothes from his brother, who’s looking entirely too pleased with the whole exchange. John rolls his eyes and Mycroft chuckles, making Sherlock send a dark glare in their direction, before stomping out of the room, presumably to find somewhere to dress up.

John can’t help the fond smile.

It’s a terribly dull case, but it’s an excuse to spend time with John. But of course, he’s slightly pissed at his best friend for taking his brother’s side back in the Palace, so he makes sure to behave as crossedly as possible (but tolerable enough, so John will stay)

A cab ride and a punch later, they make it into The Woman’s apartment. Power play is something Sherlock can actually enjoy, although he’s not sure he’ll be particularly fond of the one offered by Ms. Adler.

But well… who knows?

Irene Adler walks into the room wearing nothing but a smirk. Sherlock is momentarily thrown aback by his inability to deduce anything about her, but internally, he’s full of glee.

It seems that, after all, Ms. Adler may offer the kind of power play he enjoys.

John is visibly uncomfortable with The Woman's brashness, but Sherlock can’t really understand why. Not that he has much time to focus on that, busy as he is trying to recover the photos, if only for the chance to show off in front of John.

It’s evident that not his brother, nor his client’s representant think him capable of achieving this so quickly. It doesn’t matter, John does believe they’ll walk out of here with the photographs and that’s the only person’s confidence he needs.

But Irene keeps throwing him off his game and she’s good, really good and under any other circumstances, he might enjoy this far too much, but not right now. Right now he’s just trying to get the Work done, so he and John can go home and enjoy dinner and just spend some time together.

And then people come in barreling them with guns and things take a turn for the worse.

He really, really needs to reconsider his career path. Somehow being a consulting detective’s colleague seems to be a very dangerous thing that will lead him to a premature death. Not that John would complain generally, but he really doesn’t like the idea of being shot while they’re working on a supposedly easy case.

He can hear the panic in Sherlock’s voice and he tries hard not to panic too. He looks quickly at the woman kneeling next to him and he can’t help to dislike her a little bit more.

That might also have to do with the fact that she has so obviously captivated Sherlock’s interest, but well… he’s going to pretend it’s all because he’s going to get shot because she won’t tell them the safe’s code.

What happens next might happen a little too quickly for his tastes, but then they’re rushing out of the room, away from the woman and that, John feels, is good enough.

Men are such funny creatures. So willing to believe an unarmed woman defenseless.

She honestly expected better from the famous Sherlock Holmes.

As Dr. Watson rushes into the room and hurries to the detective’s side, Irene can’t help to taunt him a little. It might be petty, but she does find it amusing: jealousy is such a curious thing; makes hard to think, hard to react. Makes her escape entirely too easy.

She’s disappointed, really.

Sherlock wakes up feeling disoriented and tries to stand up. He remembers hearing The Woman, something about bringing his coat back, but he can’t tell, for the life of him, how long has it been since she was here.

Apparently John hears him trashing around the room and he’s at his side in a second. Drugged as he is, he can’t properly enjoy the feeling of John basically carrying him back to bed, but he allows his friend to fret over him a little, before the doctor leaves the room once more, leaving him alone with his fuzzy memories, trying to make sense of what happened.

His phone rings. If you can call that a ring, he supposes. He can’t help to smile a little.

This Irene Adler might be more interesting than he originally thought.

“-a little warning would have been nice!”

Sherlock wakes up again to the sound of his friend yelling at someone. That someone murmurs something back, too quiet for Sherlock to make sense of it and he hears John huff indignantly. “We could have gotten killed, Mycroft. What is that this woman has that is so important?”

Another string of murmurs and Sherlock forces himself to walk out of the room. His brother is standing at the living room, looking slightly upset, while John paces around the room, looking murderous.

They both turn to see him as he exits his room. “Morning,” he greets with fake pleasantry and John offers him a small grin. Mycroft frowns slightly and nods in greeting, making Sherlock huff.

“Mrs. Hudson made you breakfast,” John informs him calmly. “Sorry if we woke you up.”

Sherlock shrugs and takes a seat at the table, examining the food. John and Mycroft seem to be having a silent argument and Sherlock wants no part in that, although he hopes it’s bad enough that John will feel inclined to stay in Baker Street for a few days.

It’s probably wrong to wish for his brother’s marriage to fail, but he can’t really help himself.

Besides, considering Mycroft almost got them shot the day before (and got him drugged), he feels like he’s allowed.

Since apparently Irene Adler is no longer a matter they should concern themselves with, John wonders if he ought to stay in Baker Street at all. It’s obvious Sherlock is feeling better now, but he’s not entirely sure leaving him alone is a good idea. Who knows into what dangerous things he might manage to get himself into, if left alone right now?

Besides, something sits ill with him as he hears yet another incoming text.

He thinks this isn’t going to end well.

But maybe that’s just the jealousy talking.

“What’s really going on here, Mycroft?”

Mycroft considers his husband’s question carefully. Telling John what Irene Adler really has is something close to treason, even if he’s certain his husband would never even dream of telling a soul about it (except maybe Sherlock). Still- “Are you coming home tonight? Or at some point in the week?”

Derailing the topic is probably a bad idea. Particularly because it’ll upset John enough to actually not show up at their house for a week at least. Of course he’ll say it’s on Sherlock’s best interests, but-

“I don’t think Sherlock should be alone right now.”

So predictable. Mycroft makes a face, considering his options. “Alright then. Do call before you come back, would you? So I can be there on time.”

John huffs indignantly and hangs up. Mycroft observes his phone for a couple of seconds, before pocketing it and heading into Buckingham Palace, to deliver his apologies once more.

Things might take yet another unexpected turn.

“Please tell me you didn’t send your brother into a dominatrix’s dungeon to get him away from John.”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow, obviously amused. Greg can see the humor in his statement, of course. It’s quite ridiculous, he knows, but it’s not something he’d put above Mycroft Holmes in one of his possessive fits.

“Good evening, Detective Inspector.”

Greg sighs, knowing he’s not going to get a straight answer. He takes a long sip from his beer before continuing. “I talked to John yesterday. He seems… concerned about this Adler woman.”

“I assure you Gregory, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Mycroft, your brother is- he doesn’t- well, neither do you, to be fair-” the other man arches his eyebrows questioningly and Greg forces himself to stop blabbering, “you don’t know how to do feelings. You avoid them like the plague and that’s all good and well, but I think that this- this crazy plan of yours of finding a substitute for your husband-”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gregory,” the older man interrupts him, narrowing his eyes at him. “I had no ulterior motives when I sent them to Irene Adler’s APARTMENT.” He looks away, like he’s thinking about something very carefully. “I’m not interested in getting a sister-in-law. Particularly not one with her… associations.”

Greg nods slowly. It did sound a bit crazy, to be honest, but he couldn’t help to think-

“Well, that’s- that’s good then. I suppose.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and changes topics swiftly, soon making Greg forget his previous concerns.

Or at least, push them to the back of his head.

Chapter Text

“Come on Mycroft, it’s Christmas!”

Mycroft doesn’t even look up from his book and John sighs, more than a little frustrated. Every year since they married they’ve spent Christmas with his in-laws, but this year the Holmes had some family thing to attend in France and Mycroft had flat out refused to go. John hadn’t minded much, imagining they would spent a quiet night at the house instead.

And then Sherlock (Sherlock, of all people!) had decided to have a little Christmas reunion. John had stared at his friend as if he had grown a second head, but the younger male had simply rolled his eyes and informed him he didn’t feel like being alone on the Holidays.

John had been more than a little concerned; no matter what his husband said, it just wasn’t normal Sherlockian behavior.

“I have work to do.”

“Sure. That’s why you’ve spent the last 2 hours sitting in front of the fire and reading a book.”

Mycroft smiles briefly. “I’m waiting for a call.”

John sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But-”

“You go,” his husband interrupts. “Go and give Sherlock my greetings.”

John hesitates. He does want to go, but leaving his husband on Christmas Eve…

“Go, John,” Mycroft insists, still not looking up from his book. “I’ll see you later.”

The doctor sighs, but nods. He presses a quick kiss against his husband’s forehead (earning a quirked eyebrow for his troubles) and hurries out of the house, deciding to enjoy the night and not worry much about his sulky husband.

With a smile, he hails a cab and heads towards Baker Street.

Sherlock finishes his playing, earning himself a round of applause from everyone in the room. The detective barely notices, his mind far away, puzzling over a fact that he has been quite surprised to find upsetting just a few hours ago.

Normally, by this time of the day, The Woman would have texted him at least twice. Since no message has been forthcoming, he doesn’t know what to think. Maybe she has finally gotten bored of her game, but he can’t help thinking it’s not that.

He’s not sure why he cares so much. Sure, he found her intriguing, but nothing beyond that. It would be silly to develop an infatuation on someone he knew for not even an hour; it took him far longer to develop one on John and that’s-

No. He’s most definitely not thinking about John.

John, who arrived an hour ago, no husband in tow. John, who ought to look silly in his holiday themed jumper, but who looks instead endearing. John, who is smiling brightly at him, making his heart beat madly inside his ribcage.

Yes, most definitely not thinking about John.

He’ll blame later his little slip with Molly on his effort of not thinking of John. He’s oblivious to most emotions, that much is true, but he does know how to identify an impossible crush and he knows not to be cruel with people in such situations (unless it’s strictly necessary or he’s provoked) He wouldn’t be as cruel as to expose the girl’s infatuation on him, particularly not in such manner, but-

He apologises. He hates apologizing, but watching John’s carefully disguised anger, he knows he really has no other options. Not only because it’s the right thing to do, but also because John will be upset with him otherwise and an upset John is far more eager to leave Baker Street and go back to his husband.

His phone sounds with an incoming text and he’s spared of continuing with that line of thought.

It seems the body really belongs to Irene Adler. Mycroft doesn’t really know what to think about his brother’s behavior: it seems ridiculous to him that the younger Holmes had actually developed feelings for the dominatrix, but-

What did Gregory say? Replacement? Well… perhaps. But they’re nothing alike. Not at all. That his brother would have decided to project his feelings for John towards Adler seems… crazy.

But the evidence does suggest a deep attachment and Mycroft doesn’t know what to think.

The following conversation proves to be quite intriguing and sheds no light on Sherlock’s thoughts.

“Look at them,” his brother says, staring at the family outside, crying and hugging each other. “They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”

There’s something wrong with you now, Mycroft thinks, but doesn’t say. It would only lead to an argument. Instead he replies calmly, “all lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not advantage, Sherlock.”

His brother’s eyes flicker very quickly to the ring on Mycroft’s finger and the older man is hard pressed not to start playing with it. Now is not the time to push the matter.

Sherlock makes a face and turns away. Staring at his back, Mycroft would have a harder time trying to figure out his brother’s thoughts, so he decides not to even try. “Well, you barely knew her.”

His brother says his goodbyes (or what passes as goodbye, he supposes) and Mycroft watches him go, feeling uneasy. They have a long night in front of them.

Time to call John and let him know.

“You’ve got to stay with him, John”

“But I- You-”

“Stay with him.”

Mycroft hangs up on him. John sighs; he doesn’t like the idea of staying the night with an overemotional Sherlock, especially when he’s feeling a little emotional himself.

He hates the fact that he feels relieved at the thought of a dead Irene Adler. It’s a horrible thought, selfish and cruel, but he can’t help it. He tries to fight it, to reason with himself that it’s not a good thing, but it’s not of much use.

He steels himself for when his friend finally shows up.

John’s still at Baker Street when he eventually makes his way back. Normally, the notion would make him happy, but right now he’s feeling distinctly hollow. It’s odd, really, and it’s somehow related to Irene Adler, but he doesn’t know how.

He liked her. Now she’s dead. Why should that affect him?

He goes to his room, leaving a probably puzzled and more than a little worried John behind.

John ends up spending the next week with Sherlock. In the past, it would have probably been a bad idea; long exposure to his mad but brilliant brother-in-law always made him think the craziest things (like how would it feel to kiss those wonderful lips and shut him up quite effectively) but not this week. This week Sherlock is melancholic, subdued. Nothing like the Sherlock Holmes he’s used to and John doesn’t like it. Not even a little bit.

He decides to take a stroll, if only to stop listening to the sad melody his friend has been apparently composing. He doesn’t think he can handle more of this moopy, brokenhearted, grieving man; not without going mad himself.

He’s not well equipped to deal with emotions. This is a failing he has struggled to make up for his whole life, but right now- right now he would do anything to be able to name this odd feeling filling him up, draining his energy out.

It’s like a puzzle he just can’t solve because he’s missing pieces and he hates it.

He sees a car pulling in front of the door. He sees John getting into it and curses. How can John not know that’s not one of Mycroft’s vehicles? They’ve been married for almost 4 years, surely he can recognize them by now, can’t he?

With a growl he puts his violin back into its case and hurries to get dress and go out.

He has some friend-tracking to do.

Mycroft does see his husband getting abducted. But he also knows where he’s going to get taken to, as well as who is waiting there. He doesn’t like it, not one bit, but he knows John is in no immediate danger.

So he carries on working, like nothing had happened at all.

The woman standing in front of him has no business standing at all. She’s supposed to be dead, Sherlock himself confirmed it; he’s been moping around the house because of that and yet- “Tell him you’re alive.”

His emotions are a mess. In part he’s relieved, because an alive Irene Adler means a no longer sulky Sherlock Holmes, but on the other hand a not dead Irene Adler means-

He doesn’t want to contemplate what it means.

He can feel anger and disappointment rushing through his veins, fighting a long lost war. He doesn’t want to acknowledge his feelings for Sherlock, but this woman makes him confront them; it’s jealousy what’s eating him alive and yet he has absolutely no right to feel it.

Sherlock is his friend, his brother-in-law and nothing more.

“What do I say?”

“What do you normally say? You’ve texted him a lot!” and how has he tortured himself with thoughts of what that messages may contain. No right, absolutely no right to feel this way and yet-

Irene Adler insists on playing dumb and John can feel his anger escalating. It’s no use, he knows it, but he’s angry at the woman: angry at her for faking her death and making his friend miserable, angry at her for capturing his friend’s attention in the first place.

And yet- “You’re jealous.”

Dear God, yes, he is. He’s mad with jealousy, he can barely contain it anymore. “I’m married.”

“Yes, so?” It’s like someone has stricken him. Still, he tries to keep his wits about him. “There: ‘I'm not dead. Let’s have dinner’. Happy?”

“Yes. Thank you.” There are a million things he’ll rather say right now, but that would be admitting too much and he’s not ready for that. If he ever, ever contemplates facing his feelings for his best friend, it will be in the presence of said best friend and not a woman that- a woman that-

“How noble of you,” Irene says, a smirk on her lips. “To just want him to stop being so… sad.”

“I just want him to be happy,” John confesses, not looking at her in the eye. Incapable of it, actually. “And if you can do that, I- I-” He shakes his head. “I just want him to be happy,” he repeats.

“As I said, how noble of you.”

But before he has a chance to reply, a sound breaks through their tense silence. John knows right away he’s been followed and he itches to run after his friend, but finds himself incapable of. Not right away, at least.

“Did you know?”

Mycroft sighs. Not a good sign, that John’s voice is shaking with barely suppressed anger. It’s not his fault that the woman isn’t dead, is it? Still, better not to point that out.

Neither should he question why does it bother John so much.

“I had my suspicions. They got confirmed earlier this morning.”

“Earlier this- Mycroft!”

The older male rolls his eyes, well aware his husband can’t see him but not particularly caring. “What did you want me to do, John? Call Sherlock right away? Just what do you think that would have accomplished?”

John sighs and Mycroft relaxes minusculely. “You’re right. You’re right of course, I just- I’m sorry.”

Mycroft hums non committedly. “Stay with him tonight too.”

“But I- We-”

“I’m fine, John. My brother needs you more right now,” he makes a pause, pondering his options. “He’s going to need you there. I- We’ll be fine.”

It’s not particularly reassuring, he knows, but it’s the best he can offer. And it’s the truth too; Sherlock is going to need John there to help him sort through his feelings.

What he told Gregory still stands: he doesn’t particularly care for the idea of Irene Adler becoming family. But it would be a nice solution, he supposes. His brother would have someone who challenged him mentally and kept him on his toes constantly and he and John-

Well, who knows what could happen?

Is it selfish, to push his brother into the arms of a woman of doubtful intentions, in the hopes of-?

Well, there’s his answer. Of course it is.

And yet, he knows he’s going to do it.

The minute Sherlock arrives to Baker Street, all his thoughts of not dead women flow his mind.

Someone is here. Someone has manhandled Mrs. Hudson.

Someone is in deep trouble.

That someone happens to be the man they faced back in Irene’s apartment. A short confrontation after leaves him with the same answers he already had: there’s something in that camera-phone that is invaluable. The question remains, what?

He doesn’t particularly care right now. He handles the situation at hand, enjoys John’s surprise at his show of defensive skills and waits for Lestrade to show up. The DI is obviously not happy with the developments, but he doesn’t argue (much) with him.

He’s still carefully avoiding thinking about The Woman.

“You’ve got plans for tonight?”

Greg stares at John for a beat, wondering what this is about. “On New Year's Eve? Well, I had plans. Until Sherlock decided to break the news to me that my wife was cheating on me. Again.”

“Sorry about that,” John apologises, almost absent mindedly, making Greg want to hit something.

Still, he reigns his dark impulses and smiles politely. “You had something in mind?” he asks and when John bites his lip, he knows right away what he’s about to be asked to do. “No. No way in hell.”

“Greg-”

“No. I’m not- I’m not spending the evening with your husband, John!” he exclaims, more than a little frustrated by his friends’ emotional constipation. “I don’t know what- that’s just- you do realize this isn’t how relationships normally work, right?”

John lets out a tired sigh and nods. “I know. I just- He wants me to stay and keep an eye on Sherlock and I don’t-”

Greg sighs, running a hand through his short hair, still frustrated, but already knowing he’s going to give in. “Just give the damn key.” John beams brightly at him and not for the first time Greg wonders how exactly did he get involved into this mess.

Not wanting to look into it too deep, he just takes John’s keys and leaves to process the supposed burglar, before heading home for a quick shower and a change of clothes.

He has a long night in front of him.

John goes back in to check on Mrs. Hudson while Sherlock watches the intruder being taken away. He knows by now that his friend is staying the night and that Lestrade has been somehow canoodled into looking after Mycroft tonight. Unnecessary, of course, but touching how much John worries.

Odd, how much John cares.

After a brief conversation with Mrs. Hudson, just to make sure she’s perfectly alright, he makes his way back upstairs and waits for John to finish fussing over his landlady.

He’s got a lot of things to think about, after all.

John pours himself a drink and watches Sherlock move around the apartment. The atmosphere is tense, charged between them. There’s always something hanging between them, unnamed, but very much present. Tonight, however, the air is charged with something else, just as unnamed; but in this case, because it’s impossible to.

Sherlock takes his violin and John tries to think of an opening. “Whatever is in that camera-phone, it’s more than pictures.”

“Yes it is,” Sherlock replies flippantly and John decides to stop beating around the bush.

“So she’s alive then. How are we feeling about that?”

The bells start ringing. A new year begins, but time seems still inside the apartment. John waits, holding his breath. He doesn’t know what he expects, but it’s certainly not Sherlock turning around to face him, something dark and haunted in his expression, before he quickly leans closer to him.

The kiss is barely that: a press of lips so fleeting that John isn’t sure if it happened at all. He does feel Sherlock’s breath as he softly whispers “happy new year John,” before pulling away.

John wants to grab him by the shoulders and press their lips together once more. He wants a proper kiss, lips and teeth and tongue; the kind of kiss that promises more to come. Instead, he forces himself to take a step back and try to breath normally.

“You think you’ll be seeing her again?” he can’t help to ask, even if that’s not what he really wants to ask right now (or ever really). It’s the wrong question, especially considering what has just happened, but the memory of Sherlock’s lips against his is still too fresh for him to properly process it.

Not that he particularly wants to.

In lieu of a response, Sherlock starts playing.

Chapter Text

Happy New Year- SH

Because of her line of work, Irene has come across a lot of people who just don’t know how to ask for what they want, being it sexually or romantically.

She sees that here: she sees a man who doesn’t know how to ask his best friend for more. Morale plays a role, of course, but the real trouble runs deeper than that. The real problem is that he’s afraid of rejection.

People usually are.

And to be fair, in most cases, that’s exactly what they'd get. People are more perceptive than they notice; they usually know when they ought not to ask for something because they will only be disappointed.

She could fix that, she thinks. She could give this marvelous, impossible man what he wants. What he might even need.

She stares at her phone regretfully.

Sadly, you just don’t change your mind when Jim Moriarty is involved.

“You realize this isn’t how relationships normally work.”

Mycroft nods absentmindedly, making Greg wonder if he actually heard him or if he’s just pretending he did. He frowns and takes another gulp of his drink, wondering if he ought to continue.

Well, no. He knows he should continue. He’s just not sure if he wants to.

He wants to help, he really does. He knows this little- whatever- the Holmes have between them and John Watson is going to end in bloody tragedy if someone doesn’t intervene, but he also knows that talking to any of them is a lot like talking to the wall.

Still-

“I can hear you thinking from here, Gregory. Out with it already,” the older man interrupts his thoughts, looking slightly amused by the DI’s inner turmoil. Greg’s frown deepens.

“What’s your big plan here? I just don’t- I mean- You know, don’t you? Everyone in the Yard knows, for crying it out loud! Surely you, the second most observant person I know, has noticed too.”

Mycroft frowns, although Greg doesn’t know if it’s because of the second most observant bit or because he’s actually thinking about his words. He waits as patiently as he can, wondering if he’ll get a straight answer.

“Most observant, Gregory. Just because I choose not to prattle about it like my little brother-”

Sure, of course that’s the part that troubled him. Greg finishes his drink, pours himself another and finishes it too in one gulp. Mycroft smiles condescendingly at him and the DI glares.

“I don’t have a ‘big plan’, Gregory. My brother needed someone to stay with him and we both know that John was the most appropriate person-”

“Your brother is emotionally vulnerable right now. He feels confused and lonely; do you honestly believe-?”

“Nothing- and mark my words Gregory, because I won’t repeat myself- nothing will ever happen between them.”

Greg sighs and pours himself yet another drink. “Mycroft, I know John isn’t- I know he wouldn’t. But sometimes people-”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” the older man interrupts him and suddenly he’s crowding Greg’s space, making the DI gulp audibly. “Yes, Sherlock is feeling lonely and hurt. Yes, John is confused and he cares deeply for Sherlock. Yes, they’re both alone right now and looking for comfort. But NOTHING is going to happen.”

“How do you-”

He interrupts himself abruptly, when he suddenly finds himself with a lapful of government officer. He stares at Mycroft more than a little confused and more than a little unnerved.

For a beat, none of them speak. Greg can feel his whole body tensing, like he’s expecting an attack, but he can’t deny he’s (even if it’s just the slightest bit) aroused. “Mycroft?”

“I’m proving a point, Gregory.”

“Your point being-?”

“Why aren’t you kissing me?”

Greg chokes on his own saliva. “What?!” he exclaims, trying to stand up, but Mycroft holds him in place easily. The DI gulps nervously, feeling most definitely out of his deep.

Mycroft rolls his eyes, like Greg is the one being deliberately dense. He stands up in a smooth movement and goes back to his own chair, leaving a baffled Greg trying to make sense of what has just happened. “Honestly, what?”

Mycroft rubs his temples tiredly, “you didn’t kiss me.”

“Did you want me to?” Greg asks, not liking the turn things have taken even in the slightest. “Because I- not that I- I mean- You’re married! So am I, for that matter, even if- even if-”

Mycroft’s sigh is long suffering and the DI can’t help to frown. “Aren’t you emotionally vulnerable, Gregory? Aren’t you lonely? Aren’t we on our own tonight?” Greg has started to see where he’s going with this, but he’s still a little confused. “You’re a man of high principles, Gregory. Just like John. My point was; opportunity isn’t everything.”

Greg tries to make sense of what has just happened once more. It still doesn’t make much sense, but then again, the things the Holmes say rarely do. “You realize it’s not the same, though. I mean- John and Sherlock are- they’re- you know-”

“In love,” Mycroft supplies and for the first time in their conversation something that looks like anguish crosses his expression, but it’s gone so quickly that Greg wonders if he imagined it. “The fact remains, though. To John, our vows to each other mean something. He’ll stand by that.”

Greg finishes his drink and ponders the other man’s words. They have some merit, of course, but-

He wonders if he’s right.

And what will happen if he isn’t.

He probably shouldn’t have kissed John. No, scratch the ‘probably’. He shouldn’t have.

But the thing is… he needed something to ground himself. He was feeling overly emotional and he needed something to ground him. But in retrospective, it was the wrong move.

Especially because just afterwards John choose to ask about Irene Adler. Again. Hadn’t he made it perfectly clear he didn’t want to discuss The Woman and the things she made him feel?

It’s different from what he feels for John. It’s not love, not even lust. It’s interest, yes, but what else? Why does it feel so different from everything he has experienced before?

He needs answers, even if he doesn’t have the questions.

So he leaves the apartment early, not bothering to wake up John and heads to Barts, trying to pour all his focus on a more palpable problem. Something that deals with solid facts, not emotional elements.

Namely, a camera phone.

John isn’t surprised in the slightest to wake up to an empty apartment. Probably for the best, considering the events of last night; he’s certainly in no rush to discuss what happened and what it might mean.

He calls his husband quickly, although he just gets Greg on the phone. Apparently Mycroft has decided to go to the office and is taking a shower, but Greg assures him everything is fine. John knows Mycroft is fine, yet he worries slightly about Greg. The DI sounds tense and upset and John can feel the storm brewing, but chooses not to acknowledge it just yet.

He decides to go shopping for some groceries. He knows he’s going to stay at least for a couple more days, so it’d be better if there’s actual food in the fridge.

When John comes back, he comes to the rather disturbing image of a napping Irene Adler in Sherlock’s bed. He observes his friend’s reaction carefully, trying to asses what the consulting detective is feeling, but Sherlock’s face remains blank of emotion, except for the usual thrill reserved to interesting cases.

They wait for the woman to wake up. John tries to get his treacherous heart under control again, firmly reminding himself that Sherlock is his friend and friends are happy when their friend’s crush (even if it’s a slightly creepy crush) seem to return their interest.

He just wants him to be happy. And if that means that Irene Adler will get incorporated into their lives…

Well, he’ll learn to live with that.

The Woman’s word games are frustrating. Sherlock hates it when he has a puzzle he can’t solve, especially because he knows he’s missing pieces but Irene isn’t being very forthcoming.

For someone who supposedly needs his help, she’s being quite stubborn.

She’s too calm. Too relaxed. Why? People want to kill her, but she behaves like someone who already knows she has won. But if she’s certain of her victory, then why-?

He hands the fake phone to her and he’d be more surprised she figured out the trick if he wasn’t so busy trying to keep the frustration at bay. It wouldn’t do to let his emotions get the best of him, would it?

John’s interruption would be rather cute, if Sherlock was thinking a bit more clearly. Jealousy is a funny thing and poor John is probably beating himself up with the fact he’s feeling it at all, considering he’s the one who’s married and therefore the one with a reason for them not to pursue another type of relationship. Still-

His eyes go back to The Woman. Irene’s smirk tells him that she knows what he’s thinking and he can’t help to scowl. His situation with John isn’t anybody’s business but theirs and it’s not amusing at all, yet she seems-

The Woman starts explaining the core of her problem and Sherlock’s focus goes straight to the new puzzle. Solvable, with clear, straight answers. He smiles as he utters the answer, even as he tries to put the final pieces together.

This, he can do. This, he loves to do.

Emotions? Not so much.

(Not at all)

“I would have you here right on this desk, until you beg for mercy twice.”

John fights to keep his breath even. No right at all; Sherlock isn’t his, Sherlock can’t be his. If he wants Irene, if Irene can make him happy, if they can have something that resembles a happy relationship-

He turns his attention to Sherlock’s request. He needs to focus. He can’t let his tangled emotions get the best of him.

He’s married. He’s somewhat happy with his husband. Sherlock is his friend.

Those are the facts.

Irene knows that with a single text, she’s dooming whatever future she might build here. She tells herself it doesn’t matter, because she likes Sherlock Holmes, that much is true, but she likes the promise of the life she could lead afterwards if she does this even more.

Love is weakness. Love is a disadvantage.

Love is fleeting.

Love is worthless.

The illusion of love: such a crippling feeling.

Jumbo Jet. Dear me, Mr. Holmes. Dear me.

Moriarty smirks.

A single text.

Months and months of planning gone to waste.

How could he miss this? How could he be so blind? How didn’t he notice? He should have! It was so glaring obvious, so textbook’s strategy! How could he miss it?

Mycroft’s eyes land on his wedding ring.

Sherlock gets distracted, loss on his own thoughts and John knows better than to try to get his attention now. He stares at Irene Adler for a beat and then he stands up, getting ready to leave. The woman stares back, a soft sad smile on her lips.

“Look after him, would you?”

Irene frowns lightly. “I told you I just want him to be happy,” John repeats softly, with a quick glance in his friend’s direction. “I just ask that of you.”

He puts on his jacket and leaves the apartment, heading to his own house, back to his husband.

He feels strangely hollow.

“Coventry.”

“I’ve never been,” Irene replies, her tone low and seductive. “Is it nice?”

Sherlock realizes he must have gotten lost in his Mind Palace once more. It’s late now, he can tell by the little light in the room; The Woman hasn’t bothered to turn on the lights. He stares at her for a couple of seconds, assessing his surroundings. “Where’s John?”

He knows where he is, of course. Back home, back to his brother. He feels a pang in his chest and tells himself to ignore it; he has always known this is how things are between them, how they’ll always be.

If he wants something else, it’ll have to be with someone else.

Irene asks questions. Irene follows his deductions. Irene engages him in a way nobody has ever before.

Can that be enough?

From the moment his mother placed his baby brother in his arms, Mycroft had vowed to himself to protect him. He liked to think he had done a fairly good job, considering Sherlock’s self destructive tendencies. He tries desperately to always be there for his brother, even if he sometimes does it in ways he knows will get Sherlock to resent him further.

His whole life, whatever Sherlock wanted and was Mycroft’s to give, his baby brother would get, except for one thing (person, rather).

And that’s why they’re in this mess. Because for once, Mycroft refused to give in. Because he wanted to keep this one thing (person) to himself. Because he was selfish and because he didn’t observe, his brother has walked himself into a trap.

Mycroft will carry the burden of his mistake. He won’t allow anyone to harm his brother further, even if what he has done could be considered high treason, even if lives are in danger now because of his brother’s slip.

Only it’s really Mycroft’s slip. Because he should have known, he should have seen. Sherlock is- he doesn’t- he wouldn’t have known. He couldn’t possibly have seen.

But Mycroft should have.

He ought to.

“The Coventry Conundrum. What do you think of my solution?”

Ingenious, to be honest. But of course he won’t say that. He stares at his brother evenly, sensing his anger, but incapable of figuring out why. He just solved a puzzle and it was probably something Mycroft had been working on for a long while but-

“Doesn’t fly. It will never fly. This entire project is cancelled,” Mycroft tells him, his tone carefully neutral, but Sherlock grew up with him. He can see a storm when it’s coming, even on the sunniest day.

Realization begins to settle at some point of Mycroft’s speech. But surely not. Surely Sherlock wouldn’t have fell for something so- so-

“It’s all it takes. One lonely and naive man, desperate to show off and a woman clever enough to make him feel special.”

“You should screen your defense people more carefully.” He knows that now he’s just provoking his brother, but what else can he do? What can he possibly say to make up for his lapse of judgement?

“I’m not talking about the MOD man Sherlock, I’m talking about you!” Mycroft’s tone is still controlled, but Sherlock can’t help to flinch. When they were little, he idolized his older brother. He would do anything Mycroft said; anything to make big brother proud.

What happened to them?

Mycroft’s words cut deep. Yes, he was foolish, he was naive, he was desperate. But it’s not really only his fault, is it? Mycroft knows it. Or maybe it is just his fault, but his brother blames himself.

As he has always done whenever Sherlock messes up.

“I think it was less than 5 seconds.”

Irene’s presence is the nail on the coffin. He needs to fix this, but he doesn’t know how and he knows his brother is too lost on his own guilt trip to try to help him to figure out something. They could, if they put their minds into it, but the time when they could actually work together is long gone.

“I drove you into her path. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Sherlock closes his eyes. He can’t let things end like this.

But then again, what can he actually do?

The drive towards the eldest Holmes’ house is quiet. Irene is vibrating with barely contained energy, something between nervousness, guilt and excitement.

She feels bad for the younger Holmes.

But she did what she needed to do.

John hears the door opening and hurries towards it. He arrived to an empty house and no husband in sight. Trying to reach Mycroft’s phone had been useless and by now he’s feeling more than a little worried.

He watches the somber procession walk into the house and freezes right away. His eyes lock with his husband’s and he knows something is wrong. He follows them into the study in silence, his heart beating erratically.

He can tell this isn’t going to end well.

It makes sense now, Irene’s earlier behavior. She had known she had won, only Sherlock had been too blinded to see her real game. She wanted protection, of course, she wanted to be safe. But she had gotten the means for it; everything else was a farce.

It hurts more than he cares to admit. He sits on a comfy chair, taking a violin with him. Why his brother keeps a violin at home, even though he absolutely hates the sound, isn’t puzzling at all and once more Sherlock wonders what happened to them.

He looks at John, sitting in front of him and looking somber. The rift was born way before either of them met John, but it certainly hasn’t helped matters.

He hears Mycroft trying to negotiate, but there’s nothing to negotiate. Irene knows what she wants and she won’t settle for less: she has come too far for that. They’ll have to give in or watch her walk away with delicate information that might end up in dangerous hands.

“Jim Moriarty sends his laugh.”

Both John and Sherlock tense at that. They exchange a look and Sherlock wants to punch something. To have fallen prey of The Woman’s scheme is bad enough, that Moriarty was involved…

It makes everything infinitely more dangerous.

Mycroft knows he’ll have to make sure Irene’s requests get fulfilled and he can already feel a headache coming. It’s going to be hell, arranging this all and he wishes there was a way around it, but sadly, there isn’t.

This is his mistake and he’ll pay dearly for it.

“-gave me lots of advise how to play the Holmes boys." Of course he did. If that night at the pool proved anything is that Moriarty knows exactly how to get to them. “Know what he calls you? The Iceman.” Mycroft is hardly impressed, but he glares darkly as the woman continues. “And the Virgin. He didn’t even ask for anything, he just likes to cause trouble. Now that’s my kind of man.”

Trouble indeed. Not only for the nation, but for the brothers. He’s playing a game, Mycroft knows, although he can’t tell what’s his final goal. He has to figure it out soon though; too much danger in continuing like this.

Moriarty is involved and that adds some unexpected variables. So far he has toyed with him, yes, but he has always given him clues of how to solve his puzzles. Jim Moriarty never plays fair, but he wouldn’t let anyone else beat Sherlock Holmes in their game.

He’s using Irene. He wants to unsettle Sherlock, but he knows she can’t win.

Why?

Because she likes Sherlock. She honestly likes him. She’s playing and she wants to win, but she’s honestly attracted to him. Moriarty knew her own emotions would get in the way, that she would make a mistake. A mistake that-

Oh.

“No.” He stands up, no happiness at having resolved this final puzzle, but relief at somehow managing to make up to his brother to an extent. “I said no. Very very close, but no. You played the Game and you played well, but you could have never won, Ms. Adler.” He smiles, enjoying how nervous she suddenly looks. “Jim Moriarty sent you to play with us and he helped you, but he knew you would never win. It all comes down to Sentiment.”

“Sentiment?” She asks, slightly smug, but still looking somewhat unnerved.

“Sentiment. A chemical defect find on the losing side,” Sherlock replies evenly, coming to stand right in front of her.

“What are you talking about?” she questions, unconsciously leaning back, away from him.

“You,” he whispers, his tone every inch as seductive as he can, considering the circumstances.

She stares at him for a beat, a hint of doubt in her eyes, but outwardly calm. “Oh dear God, look at the poor man. You don’t actually think I was interested in you?” she asks, smirking cruelly, but it’s all for show.

He smirks back and he can tell exactly when realization settles in. Irene gulps nervously, eying him pleadingly, silently begging for mercy.

There’ll be none, of course.

“This is your heart and you should never let it rule your head. You could have used just any random number and you would have walked out of here with everything you worked for but you just couldn’t resist, could you?” Mycroft observes his little brother as he types the phone’s code. He can read on the woman’s body language that she knows he’s finally got it right and he can’t help to feel a little pity for her.

He turns to look back at his brother and his cruel smile. He’s right, of course. One should never let the heart rule the head, but they both have learned that’s not always possible.

He sneaks a glance at his husband, who is looking quite pained himself.

It’s not wise, but sometimes it’s inevitable.

“I always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof.”

Sherlock’s words cut deep, deeper than they should. John watches him in silence, feeling his own heart breaking. He can’t honestly imagine what Irene is feeling, but he does feel slightly sorry for her. Not much, mind, because she brought this upon herself, still-

The female grabs Sherlock’s arm, pleading. “Everything I said, it’s not real. I was just playing the Game,” she says, desperate and vulnerable.

“I know.” Sherlock replies coldly. Detached. “And this is just losing.”

John has to look away. It’s too much, he feels too raw. It doesn’t make much sense, because the words aren’t directed at him and yet-

“There you are brother. May the contents make up for any inconvenience I might have cause you tonight.” Sherlock sounds contrite, even if no one else in the room might notice. Mycroft knows his brother is truly sorry, not only for the problems he might have caused but because he feels he ought to have noticed sooner.

“I’m sure they will,” he tells him and hopes Sherlock can read his own apology in his words. Maybe Sherlock should have known better, but Mycroft shouldn’t have let his own emotions blind him. His own foolishness played a great part in this fall out.

“Are you expecting me to beg?” Irene asks, desperate, as Sherlock heads towards the door. She knows that the Game is over, she knows she has lost, she knows that any chance of redemption (and a future) was lost the moment she sent that text to Moriarty, but maybe-

“Yes.”

She closes her eyes briefly. No turning back. She had known, hadn’t she? She made a choice and she has to live with the consequences. “Please. I won’t even last 6 months.” She tries still, even if she knows it’s pointless.

“Sorry about dinner.”

Irene takes a deep breath.

No hope now.

“Go with him, John,” Mycroft instructs him the second Sherlock exits the room. John hesitates, thinking maybe it would be better for his friend to be on his own for a while, but quickly dismisses the thought.

He’s Sherlock’s friend. He’ll help if he can.

Even if he’s not sure what he can do to make it better.

“So, Ms. Adler,” Mycroft says, once there’s just the two of them. “How do you feel about spending the rest of your life in a cell?”

She turns to him, her eyes red from crying, but no other sign of her distress evident. She’s a good actress, he’ll give her that. No wonder she fooled them all for so long.

“You already know my answer to that.”

Mycroft hums. “Technically, I don’t even have to give you an option. I could have you arrested and prosecuted for high treason in this very instant.”

She smiles. “But you won’t do that.”

He stares at her for a couple of seconds and then shakes his head. “No,” he admits, “as I said, you played well. I respect that.” He glances briefly at the door. “I also understand how sentiment might impair your judgement.”

She laughs shakily at that. “Would you care to know Jim Moriarty’s nickname for your husband?” Mycroft turns his full attention back to her and he’s deeply unnerved by the fact that she’s smirking triumphantly once more. “The Holmes’ Heel.” She pauses dramatically and Mycroft forces himself not to react. “I do wonder, which Holmes does he mean?”

Mycroft stands very still, weighing his options. “We’re done here, Ms. Adler.”

Irene just nods.

He finds Sherlock leaning against a pillar from the entrance, a cigarette in his hand. Normally John would tell him something about that, but for now, he figures there are more pressing concerns.

“Sherlock-”

“Do you love my brother John?”

John gulps guiltily. This is a conversation he never plans to have, his feelings are something that will always remain unspoken. “I’m very sorry of how things turned out with Irene.”

Sherlock chuckles without any mirth. “I didn’t- I know what you think, but I didn’t-” he takes a long drag of his cigarette and looks upwards, avoiding John’s eyes. “I didn’t love her.”

Something unclenches inside John and he hates himself. He ought not to feel so relieved, he has no right to feel relieved. Still… “I liked her. She intrigued me. She was- she was interesting.” Sherlock pauses and closes his eyes, looking so anguished that John just wants to pull him into his arms and never let go. “I thought I could grow to love her. And since I can’t have the one person I really want, I thought- I figured-”

John is panicking. They can’t have this conversation. They must never speak of this thing between them; he thought they had a mutual unspoken understanding. But now Sherlock seems to want to talk and he- he can’t-

“Nevermind,” Sherlock says, dropping his cigarette on the ground and stepping over it. “It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

But it isn’t.

And John doesn’t know how to make it better.

They stand in silence outside the house. Irene walks out shortly after, holding her head high and not even sparing a glance in their direction. Sherlock watches her go mournfully, thinking of the lost chance.

He meant what he told John. He could have learned to love her, just as John has learned to love Mycroft, but it would never be like what he feels for the doctor.

But he would have make do.

A car parks in front of the house shortly after. Sherlock realizes his brother has come to stand next to him, but he doesn’t turn to face him. He’s feeling too raw to even try to have a civil conversation with the older man. “My driver will take you two to Baker Street,” Mycroft informs him calmly.

“No” Sherlock replies, before John can even open his mouth. “I’ll leave on my own.”

“It’s been a… eventful night. I don’t think you should be alone.”

Sherlock turns to glare at his brother then. “I don’t need your pity.”

“I don’t-”

“I won’t have whatever scraps you deem to give me, Mycroft,” Sherlock says darkly, anger filling his every pore. It’s not the right time for this conversation; he’s hurting from other things and any attempt of discussing this like adults will only lead to an argument of epic proportions.

Mycroft stares at him evenly and then shares a look with John over Sherlock’s head. Finally he nods tightly. “Good night, brother.”

“Good night.” He turns on his heel and gets into the car, careful not to even glance at John, knowing he’ll break if he does.

It’s been a draining evening and he really can’t deal with anything right now.

Chapter Text

“I should have seen it, I should have known-”

“Well, to be fair, so should have I,” John interrupts his husband, his tone firm. “And so should have Sherlock, to be honest. So don’t you go blaming yourself-”

“This has gone too far,” Mycroft murmurs darkly. “I- These things didn’t happen to me, John.”

“What-?”

“Sherlock is right. Love is a serious disadvantage.”

That silences all of John’s posible replies. He looks away, biting his lip down hard. They stand in silence for a long while and finally Mycroft sighs. “I’m sorry John.”

John turns to stare at his husband once more. Mycroft looks honestly pained and the doctor has no idea how to make it better. He aches to do something, but he has no clue what he could possible do or say to make this situation better, so he stays quiet.

Mycroft sighs once more. “I can’t. Please, don’t ask me to-”

John frowns, confused. The older male pursues his lips, looking more than a little frustrated. “We overlooked things, John. So lost in a false hope of some sort of solution- imperfect, but a solution regardless- to our situation that we- I should have known better.”

And just what is he supposed to say to that? “I’m sorry,” John says, reaching hesitantly for his husband. “I- I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I know I should. I just- I can’t-”

And John understands. He does, and he knows it’s terribly messed up and that in the end, it’ll only lead to an even bigger heartache, but-

He made his choice long ago and he’s sticking to it.

Still, it’s not fair to Sherlock. “I’ll talk to him. We- we need to clarify some things.”

Mycroft pulls him into an embrace, clutching him so tightly that it’s almost painful but John bears with it. “I’m sorry John. So sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry of,” John whispers, pressing a quick kiss against his cheek.

This has gone on for too long. Things can’t carry on this way.

They just can’t.

If this experience has taught him anything, is that things can’t carry on like this. His tangled emotions are going to get in the way and sooner or later, it’s going to cost him greatly. The way he sees it, he has two options:

He either gets himself (and his emotions) under control or he stops seeing John.

The first one seems almost impossible. But it’s far more bearable than the second.

“Well, I did warn you,” Greg says, although he hardly sounds pleased about it. “I told you this was going to turn into a mess and yet you refused to listen to me. Have you considered you’re into it too deep for you to even considering getting out?”

“Then what do you suggest I do?” John demands, more than a little frustrated and the DI eyes him sadly.

“I don’t know mate. I honestly don’t know.”

“Sherlock I-”

“I understand John,” Sherlock interrupts him calmly, knowing he can’t bear to have this conversation. It’s not healthy and probably destructive in the long run, but for now- for now he’ll rather postpone it for a little longer.

“We need to talk. I-”

“No, we don’t,” the consulting detective interrupts again, trying to keep his tone from betraying his emotions. “Your situation hasn’t changed and therefore this discussion is pointless. I did know what I was getting into.”

“That’s not-”

“Don’t you worry about me, John. I’ve got this.”

“But Sherlock-”

He tries to convey with a look how desperately he needs John to stop protesting. The doctor seems to finally catch on, because he nods, even if he looks more than a little pained. “Okay. If you- if you’re sure.”

Sherlock nods tightly.

The desert is terribly cold at night. They need to make it back to civilization soon, because Sherlock is fairly certain they won’t survive another night like this.

Next to him, Irene is shaking. He ignores her, wondering if this was a wise decision. After what happened on their last encounter, he had thought he would simply push the thoughts of The Woman to the back of his head, but in the end, he had decided to help her.

He’s not sure why, but it felt like the right thing to do.

“You could have let me die,” she tells him suddenly. The moon is higher in the sky, so Sherlock assumes he had gotten lost in this thoughts once more. “After everything… I didn’t honestly expect you to forgive me.”

“I haven’t,” he replies. “But I...It didn’t seem right to leave you to your fate.” He leans back, staring at the night sky. “We both were using the other, so I can’t really blame you.”

Irene smiles sadly. “I do like you, you know?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I’m in love with someone else.”

They stay silent for a while. “He’s never going to be yours. You know this… and you don’t mind?”

The consulting detective remains quiet, thinking his answer carefully. “I mind, of course. But something is better than nothing. If his friendship is all I can have-” he sighs. “He’s happy enough with my brother. If he- I suppose I could convince either of them to get a divorce, if I tried hard enough, but- it wouldn’t be fair. They’re- they’re good together.”

Irene frowns, obviously unconvinced. “A marriage like that is destined to fail. Sooner or later, it’ll fall apart.”

“You underestimate the stubbornness of those two,” Sherlock says, his tone light even if his heart is breaking. “John believes in keeping his promises and Mycroft does care for him, in ways he hasn’t cared for someone else before. They’ll make do.”

“We could do that,” Irene suggests, although there’s no real conviction in her words. She slides closer to him though and Sherlock allows her to curl next to him, stealing some of his body heat.

“We could have done that,” he tells her mournfully. “I don’t trust you now and it would be wiser if you didn’t trust me either.”

Irene hums thoughtfully. “Fair enough.”

John wakes up to the feeling of another body wrapped around him, which is more than a little unusual.

They don’t sleep together. They have sex, John falls asleep, Mycroft goes back to his own room. John knows that’s the way it goes, he has never in their four years of marriage woken up with his husband still in bed with him.

So it’s fair that he’s feeling a little unnerved, right?

“Good morning?” he offers hesitantly, wondering what’s going on. It’s been a difficult couple of months; ever since the event with Irene Adler, his relationship with both Mycroft and Sherlock has been a little strained, the three of them knowing they’re treading on very thin ice and none of them completely certain of what to do about it.

This isn't how he imagined his marriage to go.

“Morning,” Mycroft whispers, pressing a quick kiss against the nape of his neck. John turns, thinking maybe he can make more sense of this if he gets a good look of his husband.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound as wary as he feels. Judging by Mycroft’s face though, he does sound defensive. “I just meant-”

“I know what you meant,” his husband interrupts him gently, looking a little pained. “I just- I appreciate what you’re doing, John. I wanted you to know that I- I really appreciate it.”

Appreciate it. Like staying married it’s a horrible chore that John somehow must force himself to endure. God, this is awful. “You know emotions aren’t really- they’re not my forte. But I-”

“Please stop,” John interrupts him this time, not really wanting to continue this conversation. “I don’t- I do love you Mycroft. This isn’t some sort of- of tremendous sacrifice-”

“Do you really?”

John has to think back on what he has just said. Oh. Oh, he said that, didn’t he? Well, that’s-

That’s true. He does love his husband.

He’s just not sure if he's in love with him.

Better not to think about that. “I do.”

Mycroft just observes him for a beat. Finally he nods, like he has convinced himself of something. “I’m heading to Baker Street later,” he tells him, all vulnerability from their previous conversation gone. “Do you want to come?”

“Why-?”

“I have some news about Irene Adler that I want to share with Sherlock.”

John can’t help to tense. “Oh. You think- you think that’s wise?”

Mycroft makes a face and stays silent for a while. “She’s in America. Got herself in some Witness Protection program.”

“Oh. That’s- that’s good?”

Mycroft nods. “That’s why I thought I would tell Sherlock that.”

“Instead of what?”

“She’s dead. Executed a month ago by a terrorist cell.”

John gulps. “I like your version better." He sighs. “I wish we didn’t have to lie to him, though. After everything I- I feel-”

His husband nods. “I know. Trust me, I know.”

John goes to Baker Street later, on his own. Of the both of them, Sherlock is less likely to take Mycroft’s presence kindly, especially when receiving these news, so they figure it’s for the best.

John still doesn’t particularly like this plan, but what else can they do? Sherlock deserves some closure on this matter. Of course, there’s another issue they should probably address while they’re at it but-

It’s not going to happen anytime soon.

“Clearly you’ve got news,” Sherlock starts explaining something about a case (a case John didn’t even know about and what does that say about their relationship nowadays?) and John forces himself to remain calm and not let his body language give away the lie he’s about to tell.

“It’s about Irene Adler,” John offers hesitantly and Sherlock’s head snaps up, his whole focus on him. Maybe they shouldn’t tell him anything at all, maybe it would be best to just let the matter be… forgotten.

“So? Did something happen, did she came back?” he doesn’t sound particularly interested. That must be a good sign, right? He did say he hadn’t loved her but- well-

“She’s in America. Got herself in a Witness Protection program, so… Well, that’s that. We won’t be seeing her again.”

“Why would I want to?” Sherlock questions, looking almost bored now and John bites his lip. Right. Better not to press.

In the end, Sherlock asks to keep the camera-phone. If he wants it as a memento or as a reminder, John can’t honestly tell. Before he leaves (because let’s face it, he still can be in the same room with his best friend for long periods of time without it getting awkward) he asks the question that has been bothering him for some time, even if he would never admit it. “Did she ever text you again, after all that?”

“Once, a few weeks ago.”

John gulps. “What did she say?”

“Goodbye Mr. Holmes.”

He can tell by John’s body language that he’s uncomfortable with the lie. Why did Mycroft even think it was a good idea sending John (honest, heart-on-his-sleeve John) to tell him such thing is beyond him, although he imagines it’s his brother’s way of breaking the news to him without being obvious about it. Some sort of… consideration for his feelings.

Ridiculous, really.

He thinks back on the day he helped The Woman disappear, for real this time. In the end, he’s thankful to have meet her; she put things in perspective, showed him just how low someone can be brought by their emotions. Showed him a glimpse of what Moriarty has in store for him.

This was warm up. Jim Moriarty promised to burn his heart out and this was just a rehearsal.

He needs to get ready for the real one.

Chapter Text

Ever since the incident with the dominatrix, it’s quite obvious something has changed between John and Sherlock. Greg (and most of his officers) can’t help to notice how obviously uncomfortable they are during cases: when once they moved in perfect synchrony with the other, almost like one mind in two bodies, now they move awkwardly around the other, careful not to touch, not to smile much, not to share private jokes.

It’s frankly painful to watch.

“They were making me sick with how adorable they sometimes were” Donovan tells him, as they watch the pair discuss something. “But this is just- It just- It’s wrong, don’t you think?”

Greg just sighs.

Things get better with time. Eight months later, things have gotten back to their semblance of normal, even if there are still moments when the pair obviously gets uncomfortable with the intimacy they share without even noticing.

Sometimes Greg wonders how Mycroft copes. It can’t be easy to watch this (and he knows Mycroft is watching, as he always is); heck, sometimes it’s not easy on Greg and he’s just their sort of friend!

He also wonders how Sherlock copes. Because he’s obviously trying to keep his emotions under control so he can stay friends with John, but it can’t be easy for him. Greg can see the raw pain in his eyes whenever a case finishes and John goes back to his husband; he can see the open longing and desperation.

It’s a time bomb, really. It’s going to blow up in their faces one of these days.

Sadly, there’s nothing he can do.

Sherlock shows up to a case alone and although Greg worries, he supposes it’s not completely abnormal. Sure, John usually drops whatever he’s doing in favor of chasing after Sherlock, but maybe this time he had some compromise he couldn’t shake off.

The case is solved in 20 minutes, but Sherlock doesn’t look even remotely pleased.

A week later, Sherlock shows up alone once more. Greg considers texting John to ask him what gives, but the case quickly turns more complicated and all his concern for his friends becomes secondary.

The case is solved in 2 days, but Sherlock still looks miserable.

A week and a half later, Sherlock shows up alone yet again.

“What happened to Watson? Finally got tired of you?”

Greg glares at Donovan, who just shrugs. The female is going through yet another rough patch in her own messed up relationship, so he understands she’s in a bit of a dark mood, but there’s no reason to take it out on Sherlock.

When he turns to apologize to the consulting detective, the words die on his lips, concern quickly overtaking him. Sherlock looks devastated, barely holding himself together. Greg turns to glare to Donovan once more (who, in her defense, looks guilty now) and hurries to take the younger man by the arm away from the scene.

“What happened?” he asks once they’re out of earshot. Sherlock sighs, sagging against him and Greg is hard pressed not to take out his phone and call Mycroft, demanding an explanation (because talking to John would be pointless at this point)

“Nothing, I just-” the younger male sighs once more, shaking his head. “Nothing. Donovan’s words stuck a chord, just- But nothing happened.”

“Where’s John?” the DI asks, deciding he’s done with being subtle and figuring out it would be better to have the whole story now.

“Prague, I think?” Sherlock replies with a shrug. “Mycroft found the one romantic bone in his body and decided to take him on a tour around Europe. Anniversary gift or something.”

Five years. Now Greg remembers and he can’t help to look at the other man with some pity. He knows Sherlock hates it, but he can’t help it. He can imagine what he’s going through and he wishes he could do something to help, but-

“Do you- Maybe we could go for a drink after- once we’re done here?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I don’t need you to look after me, Lestrade. I’m fine. Maybe a little… sensible, but perfectly alright.”

Greg pats his shoulder awkwardly. “Just a drink. It’s all I ask.”

The other rolls his eyes again, but offers him a small smile. “Fine. Now let’s go back to the crime scene before your team mucks it all up.”

Smug, with superiority complex Sherlock.

Better than heartbroken Sherlock, he supposes.

Greg isn’t sure if drunk Sherlock is better than heartbroken Sherlock.

Both are probably as moppy. And both make his heart ache. But drunk Sherlock is even louder than regular Sherlock, throwing deductions around (some of them pretty offensive), so he gets them kicked out of two pubs (Greg should have known that they ought to call it a night after the first one) and almost gets them into a fight with a group of men twice their size and presumably armed.

Good thing Greg had his badge with him or things might have turned out pretty nasty.

He somehow manages to drag an almost dead on his feet Sherlock back to Baker Street, hearing some pretty disturbing things about himself during the whole trip. It has always unnerved him the amount of things that Sherlock can deduce that Greg wasn’t even aware of but once the other has mentioned them he can’t stop thinking about them.

All in all, it was a pretty hellish night.

Once he has wrestled Sherlock into bed, he sits at the living room, trying to catch his breath. He rubs his temples tiredly, knowing he’s going to regret indulging in drinking, but it just didn’t seem right to let Sherlock drink on his own.

The poor man is brokenhearted. He wouldn’t talk about it, of course, but you don’t have to be a genius detective to notice.

He had known from the moment he had seen John and Sherlock together that things would come to this. John is a good man, with strong principles. He cares for Mycroft, he has tried to be a good husband. He is supportive and caring and understanding. And he’s still desperately trying to do right by the man he married, but-

And then there’s Mycroft, who always seemed so above everything. Detached and cold, nothing ever seemed to bother him. Greg had seen how he had slowly warmed up to his husband, eventually coming to care for him deeply.

Greg had been so certain they would be happy together. And then-

It’s not fair on anyone, but it’s particularly unfair on Sherlock. Sherlock doesn’t trust people, Sherlock doesn’t talk to people unless it’s strictly necessary. Sherlock doesn’t do feelings. And the two people that Sherlock could possibly consider turning to in his time of need…

Greg itches to do something. He doesn’t have a clue what, but he really wants to help.

So far talking to Mycroft and John has proven to be fruitless. He somehow doubts talking to Sherlock will be any better, but maybe at least he can lean an understanding ear. God knows sometimes it’s just nice to have someone listen to you.

With that thought in mind, he allows himself to pass out on the couch.

“Why are you still here?”

Greg wakes up reluctantly, since someone is shaking him with a little too much energy. He peers at the person shaking him, trying to glare but fairly certain he doesn’t quite succeed.

“What?” he says, barely holding back a yawn. “What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock” Sherlock replies calmly. “Why are you still here?”

The DI shrugs. “Fell asleep, I guess.”

The younger man studies him closely and Greg allows himself to close his eyes once more, almost falling asleep again when Sherlock finally speaks again. “I don’t need you to babysit me.”

Greg snorts. “I’m not-”

“I’m perfectly fine on my own,” the consulting detective argues, something strained in his tone. “I don’t need anyone.”

Ah, so that’s it. Greg sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s far too early for this conversation and he’s slightly hungover, but well… he’ll have to make do. “It’s okay to need someone, Sherlock. Friends are-”

“We aren’t friends Lestrade,” the other argues calmly, quickly retreating to the kitchen. “I don’t have friends.”

Greg sighs. That’s what he gets for being friends with the Holmes, he supposes. “Then what is John to you?”

Sherlock makes a sound between a groan and a pained whimper. Greg waits patiently, rubbing his temples and praying for his headache to abate. A few seconds later Sherlock comes back, holding out a glass of water and some pills to him. The DI takes both gratefully, a small smile on his lips.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Sherlock tells him, as he sits down on his usual chair. “John isn’t my friend. Not just my friend, in any case.” He places his hands beneath his chin, as he usually does when he’s thinking hard about something. “I’ve tried- I don’t- I don’t get this close to people. It was a mistake to let John get so close.”

Greg hums. “He does have that effect on people.”

Sherlock’s lips twitch in something resembling a smile and Greg’s heart breaks all over again for him. John has gotten under the Holmes skin a little too deep and there’s no turning back from that. All they can do now is try to move forward, but Greg can’t think of a way of doing that that won’t end with someone brokenhearted.

Or several someones, maybe.

“Would you mind terribly if I stay for a few days?”

Sherlock doesn’t look at him. He’s lying on the couch, apparently lost in his own thoughts. Greg sighs, figuring he’s not going to get an answer anytime soon and so he decides to take the silence as a ‘no’.

Sherlock could use some company and to be completely honest, so could he.

If Sherlock is bothered or surprised by Greg’s continued presence in Baker Street, he certainly doesn’t say. The DI takes it as a good sign and is perfectly happy with their arrangement: he feels more comfortable knowing Sherlock isn’t on his own and Sherlock’s apartment is far nicer than his own.

“There’s a bedroom upstairs,” Sherlock tells him one day, when Greg comes back from a tiring day at work. Greg stares dumbly at the other male for a few moments and Sherlock sighs. “It would be more comfortable than the couch.”

Greg wonders if that’s true. An spare bedroom in Sherlock’s apartment is probably filled with all sort of unpleasant things that Greg really doesn’t want to think about. The consulting detective snorts. “It’s John’s. Well- it’s where John stays when he spends the night over. I assume it’s… habitable.”

Oh, that makes sense. Greg glaces at the stairs and ponders his options; on one hand, sleeping on the couch can’t be good for his spine, but on the other hand- it’s John’s room.

Only that it isn’t, because John doesn’t live here. John lives at Mycroft’s big house, where he also has his own room (as far as Greg knows) so…

“I’m going to lie down for a while, if you don’t mind,” he tells Sherlock. “Could you order some food?”

Sherlock grunts and Greg decides to take that as a ‘yes’.

Days go by and it’s almost been a month. Greg is seriously wondering if he should ask Sherlock if he can move in indeterminately because he really, really likes the apartment, but he’s not sure if he could put up with Sherlock for long periods of time.

He knows for sure that he doesn’t appreciate body parts in the fridge (or in any other part of the flat, really) or the lack of privacy, because Sherlock seems to have no concept whatsoever of it.

So yeah, probably for the best if he goes back to his own place once John finally comes back.

It’s been two months. Mycroft must have really found his romantic bone.

He doesn’t know what to think about that.

So he’s more than a little relieved when one day he comes downstairs to a sulky Sherlock, an exasperated Mycroft and a resigned John. “Morning?” he offers hesitantly and three pairs of eyes are suddenly fixed on him, making him feel quite self conscious on the fact that he’s just wearing some ratty pajamas pants and an old t-shirt.

Mycroft arches an eyebrow curiously and John narrows his eyes. Sherlock goes back to sulking and soon enough John turns his attention back to the consulting detective, much to Greg’s relief.

Mycroft’s focus however, remains on him.

Greg gulps nervously. “I’m just- I’ll- I’m gonna take a shower,” he informs them and quickly hurries into the bathroom. He locks himself in and takes a deep breath, trying to convince himself that the other 2 men’s presence in the apartment is a good thing and that he has nothing to worry about.

Somehow, he’s not entirely convinced.

Once he finishes showering and dressing, he exits the bathroom, half expecting to see the Holmes brothers having one of their passive-agressive fights that always get him feeling on edge.

That however, isn’t the case. Mycroft is sitting at what Greg has always thought of as John’s chair, John perched on the armrest. The doctor looks more than a little uncomfortable, but most of his attention remains on Sherlock, who is glaring at nothing in particular.

John offers him a pleasant smile once he notices his presence, while Sherlock continues ignoring him. Mycroft observes him closely, but doesn’t say anything. “So… how was your trip?” he asks hesitantly, more than a little unnerved by the dense silence.

“It was cut a bit short," Mycroft replies, placing a hand on John’s knee.

“That’s why we’re here, actually,” John adds, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. “We’ve got a new case.”

Sherlock snorts. John glares and the younger male sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll take the case.”

John beams and Sherlock relaxes visibly. Mycroft stands up and his husband looks up at him, but the older male just shakes his head. “I’m going to get some coffee. Want something?”

John shakes his head and Mycroft takes Greg by the arm, dragging him along. The DI is more than a little surprised, but he follows obediently, knowing there’s no use on trying to say no.

“So, how long was your trip supposed to last?” he asks Mycroft while they wait for their coffees. They’ve taken a seat in the small cafe and Greg is fairly certain that the coffee was just an excuse to leave the apartment, but he doesn’t know why did Mycroft bring him along.

“Four months, more or less.”

“Four-?” Greg interrupts himself. He really, really shouldn’t say anything, but- “A bit ill timed, don’t you think?”

Mycroft glares. “It’s been 10 months, Gregory. Whatever residual feelings my brother may have-” he presses his lips in a very thin line, obviously frustrated. “I can hardly put my whole life on hold for my brother’s sake.”

Greg wonders which residual feelings he means. Residual feelings for Irene Adler or-?

Well, better not to ask. “I’m not saying- It’s just that- Sherlock has been… difficult. He was driving all my officers insane.”

The older male nods tightly. “He’s having a hard time coping. But then, all of us are.”

The DI sighs. “I know it’s none of my business, but don’t you think-?”

“How long have you been staying with him?”

Greg sighs, knowing he’s meant to drop the subject. “Month and half, give or take,” he shrugs. “It’s been- nice enough.”

Mycroft is watching him closely, calculating. Greg doesn’t like that look, not one bit. “Don’t go thinking crazy things,” he warns darkly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I’m not throwing myself at your brother so you and your husband can stop feeling guilty.”

Mycroft narrows his eyes. “It’d be a nice solution. I wouldn’t mind you as a brother-in-law.”

Greg snorts. “That’s not how these things get solved.” He informs the other man, feeling a little crossed on Sherlock’s behalf. “You need to sit down and talk this through like the adults you are.”

“We really can’t,” Mycroft says, leaning back on his seat. “It wouldn’t end pleasantly.”

Greg wonders what does that mean.

As soon as they start climbing the stairs towards the apartment, they can hear John laughing. Mycroft tenses briefly and then shakes his head sadly, making Greg wonder if John ever laughs like that when he’s with his husband.

By Mycroft’s sagging shoulders, he guesses the answer is no.

They come to stand outside the apartment and Mycroft straightens himself. The transformation is incredible; whoever saw him now would never even begin to imagine this is a man troubled by heart’s matters.

But Greg knows the truth and so he worries.

Mycroft opens the door and they walk in. John is sitting on his chair, head thrown back, laughing heartily. Sherlock is smiling brightly at him, looking at him with open adoration.

Mycroft’s hold on his umbrella tightens and Greg’s heart clenches painfully.

John turns to greet his husband back, all bright smiles. Mycroft smiles too, but if one was inclined to look closely, it’s easy to see he’s in pain.

He sits on the armrest this time, placing an arm around John’s shoulders to stabilize himself and leans in for a quick kiss. John’s smile turns a bit sad and Sherlock closes his eyes, looking lost and vulnerable for a second.

But the whole exchange doesn’t last more than a couple of seconds and soon enough it’s like nothing happened at all.

Greg is more than a little surprised (not to mention horrified) by their capacity of denial.

It’s all going to crash and burn.

Chapter Text

It’s a special type of hell, this ‘in between’ they live in. Things have changed, obviously, but they both make a conscious effort to pretend they haven’t. It’s hellish and totally insane, but somehow they make it work.

Sherlock is fairly certain they can carry on like this forever.

He enjoys the brief stolen moments of domesticity. He treasures every second they spend together, even when they’re just sitting in the same room, no talking or even looking at each other. He doesn’t wish for more.

Well, no, he does. Just not what people would normally assume a pining man would long for: he doesn’t care for kisses and caresses, although he supposes he wouldn’t mind them. He doesn’t long for moments of passion between the sheets; he doesn’t care for that type of intimacy.

He longs for secret smiles and silent conversations. He longs for a sense of belonging, for a type of intimacy that involves sharing one’s soul and not only a body.

So, for now, this’ll do.

It has to.

The case in Baskerville is strangely interesting. It’s also a perfect opportunity to leave the apartment; as much as he loves London, he sometimes can’t help to feel a bit trapped.

It’s also the perfect excuse for a short vacation.

Not that he’ll ever tell John that, of course. Friends don’t do that (or at least Sherlock doesn’t think so), but he knows John will come: he would never miss a case, particularly one that sounds like it could be dangerous.

Brave John, always ready to protect him.

Not that Sherlock needs (or wants) protection, but he doesn’t mind when John is the one providing it. John has a way of being caring without being overwhelming and Sherlock reacts well to that.

So he informs John they’re leaving in the morning and goes to pack.

“Baskerville?”

John hums, as he continues packing. “Sherlock seems to think it could be interesting.”

There’s no response to that and John turns to face his husband, a little worried. Mycroft is frowning, glaring at nothing in particular and the doctor wonders if maybe he should let Sherlock go on his own.

Things have finally started to settle down; he wouldn’t want to upset their newly regained balance. “Mycroft, do you want me to-?”

“No,” his husband interrupts smoothly. “Be careful, though.” And with that he turns around and leaves the room. John frowns lightly but then he shrugs, figuring he ought not worry much.

Everything will be fine.

It’s nice, driving through the country, nothing but greenery surrounding them. It’s also a bit boring, after a while, but John knows better than to protest.

He simply leans against the back of his seat, enjoying the peace and the quiet. Sherlock is strangely taciturn, although he supposes he’s thinking about something case-related. Knowing his friend, he wouldn’t be surprised if he had the case already figured out by the time they make it to Henry’s house.

All as well; it might be for the best to have the case wrapped up as soon as possible.

The inn is small and cozy, not unexpected considering how small the village is. John gets the keys for the room and he wishes he could feel more upset at the idea of having to share a room (and a bed) with Sherlock, but he can’t bring himself to even pretend to. It’s not like it matters though, since there’s only the two of them.

And that’s the type of thoughts that could land him in a world of trouble.

If he was to sleep with Sherlock, that would be quite bad and against all his principles. But the worst part would be what would come after; he knows he couldn’t content himself with just a few hours of pleasure, he would want more. And that- that he must definitely can’t do.

Sex is one thing.

A relationship is another.

And love is an entirely different one.

As John tries to gather some info with the innkeepers, Sherlock decides to talk to the tourist guide. He thinks it all will prove to be somewhat fruitless, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t at least try it.

In the end, it’s not entirely fruitless.

“You’ve got an ID for Baskerville? How?” John asks, sounding honestly curious. Sherlock smiles to himself, thinking how interesting it is that John trust him so implicitly that he didn’t question before now how exactly did he expect them to get into the military compound.

John always follows him and Sherlock would be lying if he said he didn’t find the thought reassuring.

“It’s not exclusively for Baskerville” he replies flippantly. “It’s Mycroft’s.”

“Oh God, Sherlock-”

“John, you were the one who got it for me.”

“I- what? When?”

Sherlock smirks. “Well, mostly you helped by keeping Mycroft entertained while I went through his stuff.”

John sighs, pretending to be frustrated but clearly amused. “We’re going to get caught,” he informs him very seriously, but he’s smiling and Sherlock knows he doesn’t really mind the idea.

That’s John for you, always ready to face danger.

Mycroft rolls his eyes after getting the message. He should have known that Sherlock would walk into some sort of trouble in Baskerville, but he had trusted John to keep him from doing something particularly stupid.

He should know by now that his brother just has to say ‘jump’ and John will.

Well, if needed, he can go and rescue them himself, stop them from getting thrown into some nasty secret prison. Although maybe it would be a good idea to let them suffer a little bit.

With that in mind, he goes back to his work-related problems.

That was a close one and once they’re back at the inn, John will make sure to mention it. Right now though their highest priority is to leave the military base without dragging more attention onto them.

It’s a lucky escape, all in all. John has little doubt Mycroft would have found a way to get them out of whatever problem they might have landed into, but he also knows it wouldn’t have ended nicely.

Better this way. Safer.

They say their goodbyes to the ‘helpful’ Dr. Frankland, who might just be a little overly helpful for his words to sound entirely truthful and he follows Sherlock out. He knows his friend is keeping something from him, but for now he supposes he can let him be all mysterious and enigmatic.

Soon enough he’ll tell John whatever he needs to know.

Henry’s house is big and expensive looking, but slightly abandoned. It’s obvious the man doesn’t care much about it and John wonders why is that. Maybe it’s the result of living so many years on his own, no close friends or family who might visit, making the keeping of the house slightly unnecessary.

It must have been hard for him when his father died. John is still not completely convinced the Hound is real, but he’s willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, if there’s a mystery to uncover here, he has complete faith in Sherlock’s abilities.

He’ll solve the case, if there’s a case indeed.

Sherlock is fairly certain they won’t encounter a monster tonight, but it makes sense to go to the Hollow and see what’s there. It’s important to replicate the conditions of Henry’s last sighting, to see if Sherlock can figure out what might really be going on out there.

He expects a rather simple, straight answer.

What he gets, it’s something entirely different.

They’re really not a nice place, these woods. John regrets getting behind, because he has the feeling Sherlock might need him. Maybe it’s just paranoia, feeded by his unnerving surroundings, the creepy sounds of the night and how oppressive the atmosphere feels but-

He thinks there’s more than that.

An animal howls and John speeds up his steps. He sees the light from Sherlock’s flashlight, but it’s almost too far away and his heart is beating madly, urging him forward. He has a very bad feeling about all this.

“Did you hear it?” he asks, once he finally manages to catch up with them.

“We saw it,” Henry assures him and John’s heart clenches painfully. He can tell by the way Sherlock moves that he’s lying when he says he didn’t see anything, but he knows better than to contradict him.

He’ll have to wait for him to come around on his own.

He suspects he’s in for a very unpleasant night.

John comes back from taking Henry home and his flippant tone puts Sherlock on edge. He’s having a hard time trying to figure out what he saw in the Hollow, because it doesn’t make sense, not really, and still-

He’s shaking and he’s having trouble breathing and he doesn’t know how John hasn’t noticed. He’s going to snap at his friend any minute now, angry at how little observant he can be, even after 5 years of dealing with Holmeses, but forces himself to take deep breaths and keep the worst of his dark mood to himself.

“Henry is right,” he finally says, since John’s seems so dead set on ignoring all of Sherlock’s bodily cues.

“What?”

“I saw it too,” he confesses, his voice shaking a little, but mostly keeping himself together, for which he’s quite proud.

And John doesn’t believe him and that’s alright, because he saw it himself, with his own two eyes and he finds hard to believe it too but-

He picks up his drink, hoping the alcohol will help him soothe his nerves. He longs for a cigarette, but he knows he can’t convince John to let him have one and while he could go out and hide, he doesn’t particularly like lying to John so- “Look at me, I’m afraid John,” he whispers, his hand visibly shaking. “I’ve always been able to keep myself distant.” He takes a gulp of his drink, thinking that’s not quite true, is is? Not lately at least. “Divorce myself from feelings, but you see? My body is betraying me.”

Feelings are a dangerous topic. A topic that should be avoided at all costs, especially in John’s presence but- “It’s interesting, emotions,” he says, with as much disgust as he can manage and he catches John’s pained look, but he presses forward. John looks worried too and Sherlock wishes he could stop, but he feels wired, tense, incapable of any real reasoning and he absolutely hates it.

“Take it easy,” John says, his tone placating, gentle, caring. His hand hovers over Sherlock’s arm, but of course he doesn’t touch him and Sherlock wants nothing more than to be cradled into John’s lap, to be held and comforted, but he knows he won’t get that, not even if he asks. “You’ve been pretty wired lately, you know you have.” And that’s true, of course, because he’s not used to generally deal with emotions and lately- lately he has- “I think you went out there, saw something and got yourself a little worked up.”

“Worked up?” how can he-? Doesn’t he see-?

Well, no. That’s the thing with John, he sees but he doesn’t observe and he sometimes pays much attention to the bigger picture, losing sight of all the little details.

“It was dark and scary-”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Sherlock says, his tone a tiny bit frustrated. He proceeds to prove just that, deducing everything he can from the tourist sitting close by. He can tell John isn’t exactly impressed and he’s more than a little frustrated with him, but Sherlock doesn’t see how can that be, when John is the one being deliberately dense. “-As you can see I’m perfectly fine, in fact I’ve never been better, so please, LEAVE ME ALONE”

John looks stricken for a second, before he composes his features to the perfect picture of neutrality. “Yeah, ok. Ok. No reason for you to listen to me, I’m  just your friend.”

“I don’t have friends,” he practically growls and he remembers having this same argument with Lestrade a few weeks (months?) ago and wonders why all his ‘friends’ insist on coddling him like he is a child that needs to be protected from the horrors of the world.

Still, he never meant to say that to John, because John IS his friend and- “No. I wonder why?” Sherlock closes his eyes, hating John’s resigned tone and he wants to take it back, he wants to take it back desperately but-

John stands up and leaves and so Sherlock is left alone with only his dark thoughts for company.

John stands outside the inn, taking long deep breaths and forcing himself to calm down. Sherlock’s words sting more than he’s willing to admit but he realizes the other male is probably under a lot of stress and he shouldn’t take it personal.

He can’t help to feel hurt, though.

So he decides to do something useful. He decides to go investigate a little on his own; he has learned a little from Sherlock after all and even if he probably can’t figure out all the answers…

Well, at least he’ll have something to do.

His efforts prove fruitless, though. The ‘morse code’ it’s a fluke and his attempt at talking to Henry’s therapist falls flat thanks to Dr. Frankland’s intervention, so he drags himself back to the room, feeling completely dejected.

It’s only after he opens the door that he remembers he’s sharing room with Sherlock.

The consulting detective is already in bed, his back facing him. John hesitates, wondering if it would be better to simply leave and rent another room. It’s not like they can’t afford it, although he’s not sure there are any rooms left, considering the amount of tourists he has seen around the town. With a weary sigh he enters the room and closes the door after him.

He undresses quietly and quickly and puts on his pajamas efficiently. Sherlock hasn’t moved at all, but it’s hard to tell if he’s asleep or if he’s just pretending to be. John slides into bed, keeping his own back at Sherlock and tries to calm his wildly beating heart. He’s still angry, of course, but it’s hard to lie next to the man he’s in love with and not feel anything at all.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispers very quietly, so quietly that John isn’t sure if he imagined it. He hums and places a hand on his friend’s bony hip, still not turning around.

Sherlock places his own hand on top of his and squeezes lightly.

Neither of them say anything more and they fall asleep like that.

Or at least, John does.

Chapter Text

Greg knows it can’t be good news when Mycroft Holmes shows up at your apartment at 11 o’clock in the night, looking gloomy and he’s tempted to close the door on the other’s man face. He manages to smile politely and offer some tea instead, which Mycroft accepts gratefully.

He knows he’s in for a world of trouble that he really doesn’t want anything to do with but he knows he’s going to accept, no matter what.

“So, what happened?” he asks, taking a seat in his ratty couch while Mycroft looks around, looking way out of place in Greg’s small cheap and barely furnished apartment. The DI smiles a little self deprecatingly when the older man finally takes a seat on the other end of the couch.

“I need a favour” he tells hims, sitting right on the edge of the couch, his back completely straight showing how uncomfortable he is and Greg rolls his eyes.

“I gathered as much” he replies calmly. “What do you need?”

“My brother- he has gotten himself a case in Baskerville.” Greg arches his eyebrows and Mycroft shrugs non committedly. “I suppose he found it interesting enough. He and John left this morning-”

“John went- What- What the hell Mycroft?!” Greg exclaims, rubbing his temples tiredly, wondering when his life became this. His wife (ex wife, he supposes) always accused him of caring more about his friend’s marriage than his own, and maybe she was right, but he feels he needs to, because God knows what would happen if he didn’t.

“It’s-”

“No, no, don’t-!” The DI sighs dramatically. “Okay, forget that. Let’s pretend for a second that’s perfectly normal to- yes. Normal. Nothing weird going on here. What happened then?”

Mycroft is eying him funnily, but Greg returns his stare evenly. Eventually, the other continues his tale. “They infiltrated a military base.”

“Jesus Christ” Greg murmurs, wondering why they can’t be like normal lovers who go on romantic escapades to shag the brains out of each other. A second later he feels bad about his previous thought, but Mycroft is looking more amused than upset and so Greg supposes it’s not as bad. “Okay, and so you want me to- what, exactly?”

“I need you to go to Baskerville.”

Greg’s jaw hits the floor. “Wha-?! I can’t! I’ve got work to do!”

“It’s already been handled” Mycroft tells him calmly, waving his hand dismissively.

“I’ve just taken vacations! How did you-?” Mycroft arches an eyebrow and Greg realizes how stupid his question is. British Government and all that. “Right. Why don’t you go, then?”

“I’m busy” the older man replies with a shrug. “Thank you Gregory, I appreciate your assistance.”

The DI sighs, weary, but knowing there’s no point in arguing with Mycroft. The older Holmes always gets what he wants, no matter what.

Greg has learned to live with that.

Sherlock has a theory and he’s going to prove it. He spent the whole night going over and over again through the events in the Hollow and the ones which lead them there and he thinks he’s onto something. He needs to test his hypothesis, of course, but that’s manageable.

He has mostly forgotten about his little spat with John, although he wishes they had been in better terms the night before. Still, the pressure of John’s hand on his hip had been a soothing contact during the night and it had actually helped him think.

He leaves the room early, deciding he needs to get to Henry’s house as soon as possible and also figuring he’d rather avoid having any sort of conversation with John for the time being.

When he leaves Henry’s, John is already waiting. Things are tense between them, even after Sherlock’s apology the night before and he was expecting that, but he hates it. John is, above all, his best friend and he’ll do anything to keep him in his life as long as he can.

So he tries to explain. John is a bit dismissive, but Sherlock knows he’s listening and he counts that as a win. Thing aren’t exactly solved between them, but then again, there are plenty of issues hanging unresolved, so it’s not really that bad, is it?

But then John is leaving and Sherlock can’t have that. He really can’t. “Listen John, what I said before- I meant it.” John turns around, expecting an explanation and Sherlock forces himself to continue, even if he’s deeply uncomfortable with the nature of their talk. “I don’t have friends. I’ve just got you.”

John’s intake of breath is telling enough. He gave his phrasing a lot of thought, because the truth is that John isn’t just his friend. But they have a silent agreement to keep things platonic between them and Sherlock is sticking to that, even if it kills him inside.

It’s all worth it, just for the chance of having John in his life.

Things aren’t solved, not really; they’re actually pretty far from it. But for now, they’ll have to make do. Sherlock is his friend and they have a case, so he needs to focus on that.

They quickly make their way back to the inn and it seems this day is going to be full of surprises.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demands and Greg offers them a playful smirk. John is tempted to text his husband and tell him they don’t need a babysitter, but then remembers the trouble they almost run into at the military compound and figures it’d be better not to upset Mycroft.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to share his views though and carries on arguing with the DI, first by accusing him of lying about his name (and how can Sherlock not know Greg’s name? He’s a constant presence in their lives, after all!) and then basically accusing him of being at Mycroft’s beck and call (which he kind of is, John thinks, but then again, the whole England is at Mycroft’s disposal. Except Sherlock, of course)

He knows Sherlock resents his brother getting involved in their cases, but now that John thinks about it, Greg’s presence might prove useful.

He explains his plan to Sherlock and the younger man still looks a bit unconvinced, but at least he stops protesting at the DI’s presence.

John counts it as a win.

Greg leaves them to go talk to the local police and John is feeling more than a little unease. The case just doesn’t make sense; every time they seem to be onto something it simply turns to be another dead end and he’s beginning to worry.

Heading back to the military base seems like a terrible idea and John just knows they’re going to end up in a world of trouble, but then Sherlock does the reasonable thing and decides to ask for Mycroft’s help.

Sherlock must really believe it’s crucial, because he doesn’t even seem bothered to have to ask for his brother’s help.

His phone beeps with an incoming text. Be careful, John.

John sighs.

The rest of the day passes in a blur, between being scared out of his wits and chasing clues and suspects, a string of events that happen too fast to keep any sort of real track. But the horrifying case is thankfully closed by the end of the night and John has never been more grateful about it.

He really doesn’t want to go through any of this ever again.

They leave Henry at his house. The man is badly shaken, but seems confident that he’ll be fine. At least he has gotten a bit of closure, so yes, John thinks he’ll be fine enough in no time.

They drag themselves back to the inn, practically falling asleep on their feet. He and Sherlock head straight into their room, bidding goodbye to Greg at the lobby.

Except that Greg knocks on the door a few minutes later and proceeds to drag John into another room. The doctor tries to protest, but Greg locks him inside the room without letting him even say a word.

John stares at the closed door for a long while, uncomprehending. The lock is an old fashioned one, which means that it can be locked from outside and he assumes Greg has the key, so he supposes he’s meant to spend the night here, unless he feels like picking the lock.

He sighs and rubs his temples tiredly. He really doesn’t have energy for this, so he figures it’s for the best if he simply goes to sleep and deals with all of this (his ridiculous infatuation on his brilliant but mad brother-in-law, his overbearing but well intending friend and his probably justified jealous husband) in the morning.

Yeah, everything will make more sense in the morning.

Sherlock doesn’t bother to ask what Greg thinks he’s doing, locking John into another bedroom. The DI is thankful for that, because he really doesn’t have the energy to argue with the younger Holmes.

“Why are you so worried about John’s virtue, anyway?” Sherlock says petulantly and Greg sighs, mentally preparing himself for what promises to be a very long night. He should have known better than to expect Sherlock to just let him go to sleep.

That’s what he gets for trying to be a good friend.

“He’s your brother’s husband,” Greg replies tiredly, settling down on the bed and trying to get in a comfortable position. It’s unlikely he’ll get any decent sleep, but he’ll try to be as comfortable as possible.

“I’m well aware,” Sherlock counters sharply. “But why does that matter?”

Greg sighs again. He’s really not sure how to explain this. “Well, it’s-”

“What does being married even mean?” The consulting detective continues, not bothering to wait for him to answer. “They just signed a bunch of papers-”

“They made vows to each other,” Greg interrupts him exasperatedly. “That means something to some people; John included.”

Sherlock frowns, his expression thunderous. “They didn’t mean much to your ex wife.”

Greg takes a deep breath and forces himself not to snap at the younger man. That’s an exceptionally low blow, but he refuses to engage in that discussion. “Yes, that’s-”

“But they meant something to you,” Sherlock continues, as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “Even after you found out about the infidelities, they still meant something to you.”

The DI nods, not sure if he’s expected to say something. “Why?”

Greg considers this. In all truthness, he had never actually stopped to think about it. “I don’t know,” he confesses. “I guess that for some people promises are important. Unbreakable.”

Sherlock looks far from satisfied with his answer, but doesn’t start arguing back right away. Finally, just when Greg thinks he isn’t going to say anything more, the younger Holmes whispers. “But it was an arranged marriage.” He looks at Greg and he looks so young and vulnerable that something aches inside the DI, making him want to pull the other into a hug, even though he knows that would be a very bad idea. “Mycroft doesn’t love John.”

That’s not quite true, at least Greg doesn’t think so. Still, better not to point it out. “And you do?”

Greg didn’t mean to ask, honestly, but the words leave his lips before he can think better of it. Sherlock presses his lips together in a very thin line and Greg looks away guiltily. “Look Sherlock- you need to talk about this. You, your brother and John need to sit down and discuss this like the adults you’re all supposed to be. Until that happens-” he shrugs helplessly.

He’s tired of this. He’s overly involved and he knows it, but he can’t help himself. He sees these three men suffering and he just can’t keep quiet. He feels the need to say something, to do something. And he knows it’s futile; he knows he can keep pushing and pushing and he’ll get nowhere but-

“Go to sleep, Detective Inspector. You look tired.” Sherlock is standing by the window, carefully avoiding looking at him. He also looks tired and infinitely sad.

Greg sighs. He knows that tone and he knows he must drop the topic now. He doesn’t want to, not really, because uncomfortable as it is, he knows they all need a push in the right direction, but-

“Goodnight Sherlock.”

“Goodnight Graham.”

Greg chuckles sadly and closes his eyes.

Morning comes and John finds nothing has changed. His head is clearer now though, so at least he can try to make sense of what happened at the laboratory and later in the Hollow.

John isn’t sure how he feels about the drugging part (even if there was no actual drug in the sugar). He understands Sherlock’s reasons, of course, but he sometimes wishes he would share his plans beforehand with him. Of course he trusts Sherlock’s judgement but sometimes…

Well, it doesn’t really matter, he supposes. Things are fine now and he’d better not upset the delicate balance their relationship has by making any crazy demands.

Sherlock goes to talk to one of the innkeepers, leaving John to eat his breakfast alone, at least until Greg appears and drops in the seat in front of him. “What was last night about?” John asks, his tone flippant, but his eyes are hard.

The DI sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I know you don’t want to hear this John. Not you, not Mycroft and certainly not Sherlock, but I really, really think you need to talk this out.”

John nods tightly, knowing he’s right. “It’s not the right time, though.”

“When will it be then?”

John wants to say never, but he knows that’s not it. “Soon, I think.”

Greg just sighs again.

Chapter Text

John is washing the dishes and Mycroft comes to stand behind him. He places his arms loosely around his waist and John leans back, looking up at his husband and offering him a soft smile. Mycroft smiles back, before pressing a chaste kiss against the other’s cheek.

Those little displays of easy affection are what really get through Sherlock.

He finds easier to ignore the passionate kisses and embraces. He knows that’s all for show, that those things don’t matter. But these little sweet moments aren’t conscious, they’re just the result of actual affection between two people.

He looks away. It’s torture, to watch those two together in such a domestic setting. He knew he shouldn’t have come, but his mother had been insistent on him not spending the holidays alone. Of course it wouldn’t have mattered in the past; his mother’s pleas haven’t made him change his mind in years but then-

Then John had asked. And Sherlock just can’t refuse him anything.

Besides, being here does mean he gets to spend some time with John and that’s normally more than enough to make up for whatever unpleasant situation they might find themselves into. Like the recent influx of ridiculous cases, courtesy of all the press attention they gathered after the Reichenbach Falls one. Which was, of course, John’s fault, because he hadn’t wanted to take it but-

“Are you alright mate?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “What are you doing here, Gavin?”

Lestrade rolls his eyes too, a soft fond smile on his lips. “Your brother invited me, remember?”

“Yes, but why? He’s here too, so he doesn’t need you to defend John’s honour.”

The DI snorts noisily, making John and Mycroft turn their attention to them. John sends a questioning glance in Sherlock’s direction and the younger male shrugs innocently, which just makes John shake his head and chuckle.

Mycroft arches his eyebrows and then shrugs, going back to whatever he was telling John before they got interrupted. “You shouldn’t torture yourself like that,” Lestrade tells him softly, all trace of humor gone.

“I can’t help it,” Sherlock confesses with a small shrug. “It must be my masochistic streak showing.”

Lestrade smiles sadly at him, his gaze pitying and Sherlock sighs.

It’s going to be a long week.

It’s late at night, Mrs. and Mr. Holmes have retired to their rooms hours ago, leaving the 4 males on their own at the living room. Mycroft is reading by the fire, although John suspects he’s really doing something work related, judging by his frown. Greg is sitting on the small sofa right in front of him and he’s arguing with Sherlock over some case that John can’t be bothered to remember.

He’s warm and comfortable and he might have had too many drinks, so he doesn’t particularly care about anything right now.

Sherlock’s head is laying on his lap and John has been running his hands through his short curls for what feels like hours. He wonders if this can be considered as something strictly platonic and he thinks that no, not really, but then again, Mycroft is sitting close enough and he hasn’t said anything (or sent murderous glares in their direction) so he supposes it’s not that bad.

John supposes Greg doesn’t really share his opinion, judging by the despairing glances he keeps sending him, but he hasn’t said anything either. Although, John guesses, he probably has figured out it’s not really his place to intervene.

The doctor knows that Greg has a fair point and that he has been warning them for ages that this thing (whatever it is) is going to blow up into their faces any day now but well…

It’s so easy to pretend that nothing is wrong. And so much more comfortable.

Jim Moriarty observes the people sitting at the table next to his with a small smirk on his lips.

It’s not like he expected the doctor or the DI to notice him, but the Holmes brothers are being terribly disappointing.

They’re arguing between them, something about manners. Sherlock has been progressively getting louder and louder, but one firm glare from good Dr. Watson silences him immediately and he turns to glare at the ceiling, pouting like a child denied a candy.

Jim smirks at the thought.

Mycroft Holmes has his arm around his husband’s shoulders, an obvious display of possessiveness that Jim can’t help to find amusing. The doctor doesn’t seem to mind (or maybe he hasn’t noticed, he can’t be bothered to look close enough to figure it out) and continues to eat peacefully. In front of him, Detective Inspector Lestrade looks ready to murder someone, although it's hard to tell who.

Jim asks for the bill and exits the restaurant without a hitch, which is more than a little upsetting.

He’s so glad he has never bothered with love.

It makes people so… stupid.

Cases keep coming in and Sherlock wonders if he’ll ever face another challenge. He doesn’t know how has everyone in the Yard managed to keep their job, considering how little observant they all are. Still, those cases are slightly better than the ones he gets from private clients, because those are more than obvious most of the time.

He doesn’t particularly care for his reputation with the press. He finds the articles on the serious papers quite amusing, but the ones on the tabloids always make him cringe. Especially when he reads a couple of them speculating on the nature of his relationship with John; he knows it’s just a matter of time before John finds out and that… that won’t end well.

They have so carefully avoided discussing feelings so far and it would be awful for some stupid article to ruin that.

“We need to be more careful.”

Sherlock interrupts his angry monologue about the deerstalker and turns his full attention back to John, his heart beating madly at his choice of words. “What do you mean more careful?”

“I mean, this is not a deerstalker now, it’s a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean that you’re not exactly a private detective anymore. You’re this far from famous.”

Oh, that. “Oh, it’ll pass.”

“It’ll better pass. The press will turn Sherlock. They always turn and they’ll turn on you.”

Sherlock considers that. It’s true, he thinks, but he can’t help to feel a little upset; all these cases are, after all, John’s fault.

Still, probably better not to point that out.

Jim figures it’s time to make his move. He has a wonderful plan he has worked on for years, yet he always worried about just how exactly he was going to get all the information he needed. But then, John Watson walked into the Holmes lives and things turned laughably easy.

Really, the good doctor is god sent.

All the pieces are in place.

Time to start the show.

“Sherlock.”

John sounds a bit breathless from climbing the stairs two at the time and Sherlock does wonder what could be so important for his friend to show up like this. Still, he tries to keep his focus on his microscope, figuring that whatever John wants can wait for a little while.

“Sherlock,” John repeats, managing to catch his breath.

“Not now, I’m busy,” the consulting detective protests.

“He’s back.”

Sherlock’s heart skips a beat; he doesn’t need to ask who is John referring to. He takes a deep breath and stands up, grabs his coat and exits the apartment in a rush. John follows closely, probably feeling as worried as Sherlock does.

They get into the car already waiting for them and head towards the crime scene.

Greg stands back while Sherlock examines the security footage. John stands next to him, staring apprehensively at the small screen and Greg turns his attention to the man standing next to him.

“Any idea what he might want this time?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Really?” Greg presses, “doesn’t the british government have someone keeping track of him?”

Mycroft frowns. “Technically yes, but I’m not allowed to know any details.” Sherlock looks over his shoulder at his brother’s declaration, arching an eyebrow. “Apparently, I’ve been emotionally compromised, so I’m out of that particular investigation.”

“Are you really?” Sherlock questions and Mycroft holds his stare evenly.

“Yes.”

Sherlock scoffs and goes back to observing the footage. Greg runs a hand through his hair, knowing that doesn’t bode well for the future.

Just what mess have they gotten themselves into?

John and Sherlock head back to the later's apartment, leaving Greg to deal with the paperwork that Moriarty’s case is bound to cause. Mycroft goes back to his own office and John isn’t sure what to think of his husband's previous statement rewarding the investigation pertaining Moriarty.

It’s quite troublesome, to be perfectly honest.

“So, what now?” he asks Sherlock, who has already grabbed his violin and is taking his frustration out on it. For a long while, his friend doesn’t answer and continues playing an admittedly nerve wracking melody.

John sighs and goes to make tea, as he always does when he’s feeling anxious. “Now we wait,” Sherlock tells him, making a quick pause in his playing and resuming it almost frantically, obviously quite deep in thought.

John sighs; he really doesn’t like their prospects for the future.

Greg stares at the men in black standing in front of his desk. He holds Moriarty’s file to his chest, almost protectively, still refusing to hand over his case. It’s not that he wants to deal with the madman, not really, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Just give them the friggin papers,” Mycroft tells him over the phone, when he calls asking for backup (which he normally hates, but he figures that it is needed in this particular case. It’s not like he has the authority to deny the Secret Service anything) “And the prisoner, I suppose.”

“But-”

“It doesn’t matter, Gregory. You’ll put together a case, but he’s going to walk out. He wanted to get caught, but he doesn’t plan to go to jail, so I suggest you let those gentlemen do their job and at least try to get something out from Moriarty’s short imprisonment.”

“You really think so?” the DI asks dejectedly, feeling more than a little frustrated.

A pause. “I know so. Hand things over Gregory.”

With a sigh, Greg hangs up, rescinds his file and makes arrangements for the transferring of the prisoner.

Jim smiles brightly when the men from the Secret Service show up to take his away.

The game is on.

Chapter Text

Luckily for Jim, he has always been a very patient man, otherwise he would probably have already tried (and succeeded) to escape his current prison. His interrogators are terribly dull and predictable; he hasn’t been this bored in a long while.

But he must endure. It won’t be long now; they need to get him to talk before they have to send him back to NSY to face the trial so they can’t really afford to waste anymore time.

Finally his patience is rewarded when one morning the door opens and Mycroft Holmes steps in.

Jim smirks, tampering down his desire to jump around and laugh maniacally. He needs to be careful now: whatever he says, whatever he does can doom his plan and he won’t tolerate any mistakes at this point.

He turns around slowly, pleasant smile firmly in place. “Mr. Holmes,” he greets and the other man scowls at him, making Jim fight his urge to laugh. “How nice to finally meet you.”

Mycroft Holmes walks closer to him, the perfect picture of calm and collected. Jim continues smirking, knowing it’s all an act: the other man is actually quite nervous and would prefer not to have gotten involved at all.

Understandable, considering their sort of history. Quite wise, in fact.

He has got it all wrong, though; Jim’s interest lies completely on the younger Holmes, even if the older has more resources and connections at his disposal. But Jim is interested in the way Sherlock thinks, the way he acts. Mycroft Holmes is brilliant of course, but he plays by the rules (even if he bends them a little); he’s not a challenge at all. Sherlock Holmes on the other hand-

Jim forces himself to focus on the matter at hand. No use in getting distracted now.

“You know why I’m here,” the older man tells him as he comes to stand right in front of him. He looks completely unperturbed and Jim can barely wait to break through his calm exterior.

Mycroft Holmes might not be the object of his attention, but this promises to be fun.

An excellent warm up if nothing else.

Mycroft is deeply uncomfortable with being assigned this particular interrogation. He was removed from Moriarty’s investigation for a reason: after the criminal kidnapped his husband and Mycroft failed to react in a timely manner, he was deemed too emotionally compromised to continue working on it.

All for the best, really.

But now he’s back because his superiors (few as they are) believe that if someone can get James Moriarty to talk, it’s him.

He won’t disappoint, but he worries where it will lead.

Mycroft Holmes doesn’t resort to physical violence. Neither to empty threats or even emptier promises, he simply talks his way around the issue. He plays elaborate word games and he’s quite good at it.

Jim is pleasantly impressed.

But he’s a master of word games himself and he knows exactly how to deflect the issue; he knows he needs to be very careful otherwise all will have been for nothing. If Mycroft Holmes figures out his real motives for being caught, everything will be ruined.

So he bides his time. It all comes down to patience really, and he’s good at it.

Better than the Holmes brothers, at any rate.

“Are you okay?” John asks and by the look on his face Mycroft knows his husband has been trying to talk to him for a while. He frowns, more than a little preoccupied by how quickly his mind drifts to the subject of Jim Moriarty whenever he’s not working.

“Fine,” he responds a little harshly, but as usual, John doesn’t even bat an eyelash. Mycroft supposes it comes with the territory: one can’t spend a ridiculous amount of time in the Holmes brothers' presence and be easily intimidated.

“Do you want to talk about it?” John questions gently, placing a hand over his arm in a placating manner. “Can you talk about it?”

Mycroft supposes that technically yes, he can. That he wants to… that’s an altogether different issue.

It’s not that he wants to keep it a secret from John, particularly because he knows how that will work out when the truth comes out. But he also doesn’t want to worry him unnecessarily and that’s exactly what John will do if he finds out about his most recent assignment.

So for now, better to keep quiet. “Don’t you have some case to work on?”

John sighs, pulling away. “I might have gotten into a fight with Sherlock.”

“About what?”

The other male shrugs. “Nothing in particular. It’s just- it’s the stress, I suppose. There’s still no news about Moriarty’s trial so...” He sighs once more, leaning for a quick kiss before he heads out of the room. “I’ll bring you some tea, huh?”

Mycroft doesn’t answer, knowing it’s not necessary. John has already gotten lost into his own thoughts, whatever he says won’t make a difference.

All for the best, probably.

“I could help you,” Jim says as soon as the door opens. Holmes freezes at the door and Jim smirks, happy to finally get his plan into motion.

“And on what matter do you think I could use your assistance?” his interrogator asks calmly, firmly shutting the door behind him. His shoulders are tensed, but for the most part he looks perfectly unmoved.

“Did you ever considered an acting career?” he asks in mock curiosity. “You’d make a very good actor.”

Holmes presses his lips into a very thin line and Jim supposes it’s time to get down to business. “I meant your husband, naturally,” he says, smile friendly and pleasant. The other tenses further and so Jim carries on. “Wouldn’t you want to keep him all for yourself?”

There’s a brief silence that tells Jim all he needs to know: he’s on the right path. “Whatever you mean?”

Jim keeps his gaze fixed on the other man. “Exactly that. Get rid permanently of that torn on your side; dear Johnny would never need to know. A tragic accident, a fatal confrontation-”

“Stop.”

Jim smirks. Love is such an evident weakness, he really doesn’t know why people bother with it. “You’ve thought about it.”

“That… ‘torn on my side’ also happens to be my brother,” Holmes says very slowly, hesitant to speak but incapable of holding himself back. “I would never let anything happen to him.”

Jim tilts his head, his expression mocking. “Not dead then. Maybe just- otherwise engaged? I could find him a nice lady friend, like dear sweet Irene. Or do you think he would prefer a man this time?”

Holmes’ control is slipping, but Jim knows he needs to stop pressing for now or risk discovery. He mustn’t alert the other man of his plans, he mustn’t let him know why he’s taunting him like this.

So when the older man quickly switches topics, he lets him. For now, he has what he wants.

Patience is key.

If John is surprised by the turn of events, he doesn’t let it show. He accepts Mycroft’s invitation for dinner gracefully and gets into the car without a protest, even though it’s evident his plans for the evening included take out at Baker Street.

Mycroft hopes his brother wasn’t actually waiting for John, but he can’t bring himself to feel too guilty about it if he was.

His latest conversation with Moriarty is troubling him. Of course he has considered a few unsavory course of actions to solve the situation between his brother and his husband once and for all, but-

He would never ever purposely harm Sherlock.

Although he supposes he has, in many and varied ways. Never on purpose, no, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has. Still, he doesn’t know what he can possibly do, given their current circumstances.

John looks worriedly at him, probably sensing his distress and he can’t bring himself to offer a reassuring smile. This whole situation is quickly slipping out of his control and he can tell he’s not going to like the fall out.

He pulls John closer to him and the doctor lets him. He doesn’t protest when he starts kissing him, probably a little too harshly, instead John allows himself to be manhandled as Mycroft pleases. Soon they forget altogether about dinner and head towards their home instead.

His doubts and fears get pushed to the back of his mind, at least for the time being.

But they’ll be back soon enough.

“I think we could come to an agreement.”

“Oh?”

Jim smirks, not buying for a second Holmes aloofness. “You want to know about my little code. I want to know about your brother.”

The older male narrows his eyes, weightening his options. They’re running out of time and he knows it; he also knows that Jim won’t break. Jim isn’t worried, he has enough for his plan to work, but a few more details couldn’t possibly hurt.

Besides, he’s honestly curious.

“What do you want to know?”

Jim smiles.

The night before Jim Moriarty is scheduled to go back to the Yard’s custody, Mycroft comes home early. John is sitting at the living room, supposedly reading, but his husband can tell most of his attention is really on the conversation he’s having via texts. His small and pleased smile tells Mycroft exactly who’s on the other end of it.

John looks up when he hears him come in and offers him a bright smile. Mycroft hesitates for a beat, knowing he should probably let his husband carry on with his conversation that’s obviously making him happy, but-

He pulls John up, kissing him softly. The other male hums, opening his mouth the moment he feels Mycroft’s tongue asking for entrance. John kisses him throughly, not a hint of hesitance in his movements.

In moments like this, it's entirely too easy to pretend that he’s the one John is in love with.

They somehow stumble into John’s room. Despite their five years of marriage they still sleep on separate beds, something that Mycroft feels is necessary considering their circumstances. John doesn’t seem to mind and Mycroft is happy with the illusion of detachment that waking up alone gives him.

“You’re thinking too much,” John whispers against his ear and Mycroft hums; he can’t help it. It’s very rare for his mind to go completely quiet, despite John’s best efforts.

“I have many things on my mind,” he whispers back between kisses and his husband stops his ministrations to observe him for a beat. The way John’s attention focuses so completely on him always makes him feel a bit unnerved, but he hides it well.

After all, Mycroft Holmes unnerves people, not the other way around.

John doesn’t add anything else and proceeds to undress him, taking his time. It’s not Mycroft’s preferred approach, always having prefered things to go straight to the point. But John would much rather take things slowly, much more kisses and caresses being involved and although Mycroft rarely allows his husband to take the reign of their encounters, today is one of those days when he needs to get utterly lost in the pleasure.

Still, this sort of intimacy always manages to make him feel terribly vulnerable. It feels like it’s much more than sex; he imagines it’s almost like what people call ‘making love’. Which of course just creates a set of false expectations that Mycroft generally knows better than to indulge in but-

Tonight he thinks he would like to pretend that love is what they do. It probably will make things worse in the morning, when he gets John to Baker Street and he has to watch his husband fretting over his brother, yet-

Tonight, he refuses to think about that. Tonight, he’ll allow himself to dwell in the illusion of love.

Just for tonight.

“It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Holmes,” Jim says, as he examines his reflection on the mirror. He’s dressed back on an expensive suit and he feels quite accomplished. “I’ve enjoyed myself immensely.”

Holmes glares, but doesn’t comment. Jim smirks, glancing briefly at his watch as if he had somewhere to be. Well, he supposes he technically does, seeing he’s going back to the Yard’s custody to face down his trial.

A trial. What a lovely farse.

The door opens and two armed men walk in. Jim smiles brightly at them. “Well, my ride is here,” he says, allowing the men to escort him out, just pausing very briefly at the door to look at the older Holmes once more. “I did enjoy myself, Mr. Holmes. In fact, I’ve enjoyed myself so much that I’ve decided to give you a little help with your little problem. No charge. Just this once.”

Holmes tenses and stares at him from the corner of his eye, trying very hard not to break his cold persona. Jim's smirk widens, knowing the older man knows exactly what he means. “Say hi to Johnny for me, huh?”

He laughs as Holmes glares.

Everything is in position.

It’s show time!

Chapter Text

Sherlock can hear John pacing around the living room while he finishes getting dressed. He can read in his friend’s heavy steps his worry, echoing his own inner turmoil. He wants Jim Moriarty behind bars as much as anyone else, but he also knows that’s unlikely to happen. Whatever Moriarty is planning it certainly doesn’t involve a long stay in jail.

“Ready?” John asks when he finally steps out of his room. The doctor is dressed in a nice suit and Sherlock’s heart skips a beat as it usually does whenever his friend is looking particularly handsome. With practiced ease the consulting detective ignores his traitorous heart and nods.

He turns to his brother who’s staring at nothing in particular, looking grim. He wonders if Mycroft is still uninvolved in Moriarty’s case; it seems unlikely, considering the relevance of it but well… if he was deemed too emotionally compromised, it would make sense to keep him away from the madman.

Still-

“Be careful Sherlock,” his brother tells him, staring at him in the eye. There’s something there, some hidden emotion that Sherlock can’t read in his tone, no matter how hard he tries, but he nods tightly.

With that he and John exit the apartment and head towards the court.

Jim walks into the courtroom with the air of a man that already knows he’s going to walk out free. Which is, of course, what’s going to happen, even if nobody else knows it yet (although some might strongly suspect it)

He looks around the room with a smirk and spots Sherlock right away. He offers him a winning smile that the man promptly ignores and that makes Jim almost laugh out loud. Next to the detective he can see good Dr. Watson tensing and his smirk widens.

He’s in for a world of fun.

John should have known that Sherlock wasn’t going to hold himself back. It was obvious he wasn’t, when he had such a large audience to impress; so he really ought not to be so surprised that he ends up needing to bail him out.

He makes his way to the cells, mentally preparing the speech he’s going to deliver to his friend about being a little more humble. It’ll fall on deaf ears, he knows, but he feels he ought to at least try.

He wasn’t expecting to run into Jim Moriarty on his way to his own cell, though.

“Dr. Watson, what a pleasure.”

John isn’t certain if the official protocol says something about not taking the same lift where a dangerous criminal is traveling, but since when has he cared about the official protocol? The officers escorting Moriarty don’t seem to mind, so he doesn’t either.

Still, he refuses to engage with the criminal mastermind.

“You know, I was wrong about your husband,” Moriarty carries on, undeterred by John’s lack of response. The doctor refuses to even make eye contact, but he can’t deny the criminal’s words put him on edge right away. “He can be quite interesting when he wants to.”

John turns to face him then. For a beat, neither say anything, just stare down at each other.

Then the elevator’s doors open. Moriarty smirks at him, amusement oozing out of him. “Tell him to give me a call, would you?”

With that, the man exits the elevator along with the police officers. John stays where he is for a few seconds before he manages to get his conflicting emotions under control and he steps out too. Moriarty’s words haunt him, but he pushes them to the back of his mind, at least for the time being.

He won’t tell Sherlock about his little conversation with the consulting criminal. It’s no use, it’ll only worry him.

But John worries.

Sherlock can tell there’s something bothering John (besides the trial of course), but doesn’t press for answers.

John will tell him when the time is right.

Only that time never comes.

John taps his fingers against his knee restlessly, something obviously bothering him. Mycroft tries to ignore it to the best of his ability, having a nagging suspicion what is it about, but holding unto the slimmest chance that it’s not what he’s thinking.

“I ran into Moriarty when I was bailing Sherlock out,” John informs him after a while and the older male closes his eyes briefly, steeling himself for what it’s to come. “He said- he asked me to tell you to give him a call.”

Years of practice help Mycroft not to react outwardly. He holds his husband’s suspicious stare evenly, raising an eyebrow challengingly. “What are you asking, John?”

John just observes him for a long while and Mycroft forces himself not to start squirming. He hates how vulnerable John can make him feel; he hates that his husband’s disapproval has so much power over him. “You said you had been pulled out of that particular investigation.”

“Yes,” he replies simply, refusing to elaborate. John narrows his eyes.

“What did he mean, then?”

“I don’t have the faintest idea,” Mycroft replies calmly and he knows that John knows he’s lying, but the doctor doesn’t press. He just looks away and sighs tiredly, making Mycroft feel strangely hollow.

He can see the storm coming.

And he knows it’ll leave nothing but wreckage behind.

John knows he shouldn’t be surprised when the jury declares Moriarty not guilty, even after not presenting any sort of defense. It’s obvious something fishy is going on, but the judge is powerless to change the sentence.

He joins Greg outside the courtroom. The DI looks as tired as John feels, although he probably has had it worse. This was supposed to be his case and yet, despite all the evidence-

Greg offers him a quick despairing smile that John returns. He’s itching to call Sherlock to let him know what happened, but knows he ought to wait until they’re out of the building. They make their way to the door, both knowing it’s likely they’ll get surrounded by reporters and John wonders if Sherlock’s little display from the day before wasn’t in fact a ploy to get away from this.

When they step out, the press is already there. Moriarty’s lawyer is dealing with them, so John is hopeful they’ll get away easily.

He should have known better.

“Dr. Watson.”

He turns around quickly, cold dread filling his veins. Moriarty smirks, as usual, and John narrows his eyes at the criminal. The doctor notices from the corner of his eye that they’re being surrounded by the press, but ignores them in favour of the dangerous man in front of him.

“You should call Sherlock,” Moriarty tells him, still smiling infuriatingly. “Let him know the good news.” The press is surprisingly quiet, hanging to each word leaving the consulting criminal’s mouth. “I’d suggest calling your husband, but he probably knows already.”

There’s a collective gasp from the people surrounding them and John rolls his eyes. Hard to believe that people would be more interested in potential petty gossip than on the fact that a really dangerous man has just walked out of prision.

“I’ll see you around, Dr. Watson-Holmes.”

From the corner of his eye he catches Greg’s flinch and he does notice the chatter picking up from the press around them, but he ignores them. He pushes his way through the throng of people, carefully ignoring their questions and sees Moriarty doing the same, until he climbs into a car.

Greg pulls him towards his own car, fighting off the press who’s probably going to have a field day with the gossip that Moriarty has just dropped for them. A silly distraction, but it’ll serve the criminal’s purpose.

Whichever it is.

Sherlock can tell something else happened at the trial, judging by John’s tense tone. Still, he has no time to focus on that; he has a guest coming.

With an unamused smile, he readies himself for his visitor.

Jim knows he needs to be quick. It’s unlikely the good doctor won’t come to Baker Street right away, so he has a few minutes at best to be alone with Sherlock.

He has a little distraction planned for John and his companion, of course, a bit of traffic to slow them down but well… it’s still not quite as much time as he would like.

Sherlock is, of course, waiting for him.

He’s predictable in some ways, but he has his moments. Jim finds this game of theirs enjoyable, but what’s the point of playing if you’re not planning on winning? And maybe he’s cheating a little but…

He has never claimed to play fair.

“How are you going to do it?” Sherlock asks calmly, sipping from his tea cup. Jim considers him for beat; outwardly, he looks perfectly collected. But unlike his brother, Jim can’t tell for sure if he really is. “Burn me?”

He thinks he isn’t, but he can’t tell for sure. “That’s the final problem,” Jim responds just as calmly. He really wishes they had more time because he would like to drag this out for hours, but sadly…

Well, the good Dr. Watson won’t take his presence kindly.

“It’s gonna start very soon, Sherlock. The fall. But don’t be scared; falling is just like flying only with a more permanent destination.”

As proof of how unnerved he is now, Sherlock doesn’t bother to hide it. Jim smiles to himself, pleased with the way things are coming along. He knew they would, of course, but there’s always something… “I never liked riddles,” Sherlock tells him, standing up and Jim knows that’s his cue to leave. He stands up too, “learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I owe you.”

With that, he leaves, knowing he has gotten his message across.

More waiting.

Nevermind that, his patience will pay off.

“A storm is coming.”

John sighs, closing the door behind him. Sherlock stands by the window, holding his violin but not playing. John sees the two teacups and knows that Moriarty was here, just as he expected.

“Are you okay?” he knows it’s a stupid question, but he can’t think of something else to ask. Sherlock continues staring through the window, lost in his own thoughts.

“I don’t think I’m meant to walk out of this,” he tells John slowly, measuring his words carefully. The doctor closes his eyes, knowing he’s right but not wanting to say it aloud. “But I’m okay, for now.”

John rubs his temples tiredly. “Do you want me to stay tonight?”

Sherlock turns around and observes him in silence. He shrugs non committedly. “If you want to.”

John nods tightly and goes to call Mycroft, leaving Sherlock to his own musings.

It’s going to be a long week (or month. Maybe even a year)

As predicted, the newspapers from the next day are full with articles about what has been called “the trial of the century”. The tabloids however- well, they’re an altogether different matter.

Sherlock eyes the small pile disdainfully. Funny, how the masses can be so easily distracted by silly gossip. He has never understood the human need to take joy on someone else’s misery. However, tabloids feed on that and he finds the whole thing disgusting.

He hears John exiting the bathroom and steels himself for the uncomfortable conversation that is about to take place. He had hoped they could avoid talking about their relationship, but of course the press had to go and make that impossible.

John walks into the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a jumper, a sharp contrast from his suit of the day before. Sherlock avoids his eyes, staring instead at his half empty mug. John pours himself some tea and then grabs the first tabloid. His eyes scan the title and his lips curve in a disgusted expression, but he doesn’t say anything. He puts it down and picks up another, repeating the same process.

“I thought it would take them longer. I didn’t expect Mycroft to be too keen on people invading his privacy,” John comments flippantly, but his whole body has tensed. Sherlock doesn’t reply. “Then again, Moriarty might have found amusing to help them with the search.”

Sherlock sighs. “It doesn’t have to change anything.”

John observes him in silence for awhile and Sherlock squirms a little on his seat. If his worst fears come to life and John decides that this means they ought not to see each other quite as often (or at all), he’s not sure he could take it.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” John asks, his tone carefully neutral and Sherlock hurries to shake his head.

“Not at all. I know the truth and you know the truth. That’s all that matters.”

But of course ‘the truth’ is a rather subjective matter. They’re not lovers, as the tabloids like to imply, but-

Nevermind that. “So. We’re good?” Sherlock asks, his mouth feeling too dry and so his voice might break a little. He can’t help it though, he’s just nervous.

John’s lips curve upwards very briefly, but enough to get Sherlock to relax. “Yeah, we’re good.”

Sherlock happily picks up the rest of the tabloids and cheerfully throws them into the waste bin, making John laugh. He smiles brightly at his friend, happy that things hadn’t escalated.

His heart aches a little (as it always does) but well… it could be worse.

Far worse.

Chapter Text

But of course it just gets worse as the time passes. Sherlock knows he shouldn’t be surprised or hurt, but he is. John pulls away, exactly as he imagined he would the minute the tabloids started speculating about their relationship. It’s the only thing they seem to focus nowadays: whenever they solve a case, the tabloids start talking about their ‘forbidden love’.

Which probably wouldn’t be as bad if it didn’t hit too close to the truth.

Mycroft remains completely unaffected; every time he shows up at Baker Street he looks completely unmoved by the various rumours of his husband’s and brother’s affair. At first it had given Sherlock hope: if Mycroft didn’t appear to care, John wouldn’t feel guilty and they would eventually get the whole thing behind them. But sadly, it didn’t work out that way.

John avoids the apartment as much as possible and whenever they’re in public he ends up dragging Lestrade along. The DI is somewhere between mortified and annoyed with the whole ordeal, but he endures admirably.

Things have changed. Sherlock wonders how it exactly fits on Moriarty’s plan, but it doesn’t particularly matter to him; regardless of Moriarty’s intentions, the end result is the same:

He’s losing his best friend.

John sits quietly as he watches Mycroft reviewing some papers. The silence is uncomfortable, not at all as it once was. Nowadays it’s like they constantly need to be talking, otherwise the tension it’s too much.

And of course they don’t talk about anything remotely important. The relaxed air they had managed to achieve has disappeared completely, making things even worse than they were just after they married. At least back then they had the excuse of not really knowing each other but now-

John looks around the room, trying to find something to entertain himself with before he blurts out whatever nonsense he can think of; Mycroft is busy and he shouldn’t bother him which of course raises the question of what's he doing here in the first place.

His eyes catch sight of a tabloid on Mycroft’s desk. He arches an eyebrow, picking it up. “You read this?” he asks, his tone unfriendly and his husband looks up from the papers he’s reading.

“It caught my attention,” Mycroft tells him and when he opens his mouth to argue, he points to the header, effectively silencing John.

“What- where- What do you think this is about?”

Mycroft shrugs, but he looks tense now. John narrows his eyes, but doesn’t press. The other looks at him for a beat, before passing the papers he was reading to him. “What’s this?”

“In the last 2 months, 4 professional assassins have moved into my brother’s neighborhood.”

John looks at him sharply, “if Moriarty wanted Sherlock dead-” he gulps, the thought too horrible to even consider it, “he would already be.”

Mycroft seems to consider that. “If it isn’t Moriarty, who then?”

John sighs. He honestly doesn’t know. “What do we do?”

“I’m thinking you should go and spend a few days with him.”

“No,” John utters darkly. “The press would have a field day if-”

“I don’t care what the press says, John. My brother’s safety comes first.”

“And just what exactly do you think I would be able to accomplish staying with him? If Moriarty wants to- if he-”

“He’s going to need you John,” Mycroft interrupts him smoothly. “Sherlock is going to need you.”

There’s something in his tone that gives John pause. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What do you know?”

Mycroft holds his stare evenly and finally just stands up, turning around to pretend to be looking for something in his bookcase and John knows he has been dismissed. Something in him rebels at the idea of being so easily dismissed, but at the same time-

“Alright. I’ll be at Sherlock’s, if you need me.”

He makes sure to slam the door on his way out.

“What’s going on?”

Sherlock looks up from his computer to find John standing at the door. His heart starts beating faster and he forces himself not to grin madly at him. It’s been a long while since the last time John came to see him at the apartment and he can’t help to feel ridiculous pleased at his appearance.

As Lestrade and Donovan explain the motives for their visit, Sherlock finishes gathering the information he needs and prepares to begin the chase.

His day has certainly improved in the last few hours.

Jim stares at the computer’s screen for a long while, even when the footage is just showing an empty apartment. He leans back on his seat, a small smile curving his lips: the final act has begun, but he supposes there’s still room for mistakes.

However, he’s starting to get his usual sense of smugness after a work well done. If things go according to plan, it won’t take longer than a couple of days. By this time come tomorrow morning,  Sherlock should already be falling apart.

“I’m going to do some shopping. Do you need anything, Richard?”

He smiles. Eager, hungry reporters are a gift from above. Not the first time he has manipulated one, but Kitty Riley is, by far, the quickest one to succumb to his lies. He rather hopes he won’t have to get rid of her; she could prove useful later(more useful, that is).

“No darling. I’m fine.”

The woman leaves and he laughs quietly to himself, pleased that his plan is working without a hitch. He glances at the time and considers the merits of starting to get ready for his encounter with Sherlock later at night.

Nah. Too early.

But he can barely wait.

With enough clues to go by, Sherlock and John hurry to the lab at Bart’s. As expected, Molly caves in right away and although Sherlock supposes he ought to be feel a little more guilty than he does about using the girl’s crush on him for his benefit, he can’t quite bring himself to.

It’s for the greater good, after all.

But then Molly starts talking and Sherlock wonders if that’s divine retribution coming his way.

“You look sad when you think he isn’t looking.”

Sherlock closes his eyes for a beat, forcing the tide of emotions that’s threatening to drown him back. Now is not the time for this, so he simply turns to glare quickly at Molly, but the girl just stands straighter and carries on. “I know it’s none of my business, but-”

“No, it isn’t,” Sherlock cuts her, glaring darkly at her, and although she seems to hesitate for a second, shortly after she continues.

“-but I do think you deserve better.”

“Molly-”

“John made his choice long ago,” she tells him firmly, ignoring his narrowed eyes. “And you need to accept that.” Sherlock looks back to his microscope, refusing to comment, but Molly is determined to make him listen, apparently. “I know- I know what it’s like not to be chosen. And I know what it’s like to hang onto even the slimmest chance that-”

“Don’t you dare,” he warns with a growl and although Molly looks intimidated, she bites her lip and soldiers on.

“He didn’t chose you, Sherlock. You deserve someone who does. You deserve more than scraps of affection, you deserve-”

“That’s enough!” Sherlock interrupts, raising his voice. John looks their way, startled by his sudden outburst, his eyes filled with worry. The younger male tears his eyes away from his friend and glares at Molly once more. “That’s enough,” he repeats, his voice a broken murmur.

The forensic doctor bites her lip, looking pained. She’s trying to help and he knows it, but it doesn’t mean-

“Let’s just- let’s focus on the case,” he begs and Molly nods tightly, for which Sherlock is thankful.

He really can’t deal with this right now.

Jim taps his fingers against the wheel, lost in thought. He wonders if Sherlock has already figured it was all a trap. He must have, to a point, but maybe not completely. Doesn’t matter; what Sherlock thinks or not won’t affect his plans. What matters is planting the doubt: the DI will be the trickiest one, but he’ll be forced to admit the possibility by his subordinates.

After that… after that it’s just waiting.

He sees Sherlock exiting the building and starts the car, hurrying to pick him up. He’s quite pleased when he leaves the doctor behind; dear Johnny would be nothing but a complication at this point. Their strained relationship is part of the reason why Sherlock should be easiest to break now, but of course they still have some time to work things out and that wouldn’t do: an stable Sherlock is a tougher to break Sherlock.

Sherlock might be willing to die for John, but he might be harder to convince of the need of it if the doctor gets around talking about his feelings.

Ugh. Feelings. What a disgusting human thing.

And yet they make such an unpredictable variable.

Once they get settled back at the apartment, John can tell Sherlock is on the verge of having a nervous breakdown. When Greg shows up to ask Sherlock to go back to the station he knows they’re practically doomed.

“You can’t- you can’t honestly believe he’s involved,” he hisses, following the DI downstairs. Sally is waiting by the entrance, her face grim but she holds John’s glare evenly.

“I don’t know what to think,” Greg confesses tiredly. “I- I’ve known him for a long time. I’ve seen what he’s capable of. But John-”

“Just- just go,” the doctor interrupts him, suddenly feeling too tired to deal with this. He turns on his heel and hurries back to his friend, who needs him now more than ever.

Just how did they get themselves in this situation?

Sherlock listens to the mostly shouted conversation between John and Lestrade and tries hard not to react. By now he’s filled with worry, not as much about Moriarty’s plan as he is about what John might be thinking. He can handle the whole world doubting him but John-

Not John.

“You’re worried they’re right,” he leans back on his seat, his heart plummeting. Not John, not his John. The world at large may think whatever the fuck they want, but John-

Just not him. Please.

John assures him that’s not the case, but Sherlock can’t hold his fear back anymore. He lashes out, scared and vulnerable and next thing he knows John has stepped close and is holding his face between his hands so he’s forced to look at him in the eye.

“I know you’re not a fraud. I know it, alright?” he whispers softly, his finger tracing soft circles over Sherlock’s temple. “I know you for real. I would never, ever, doubt you.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, a small whimper escaping him. He needs reassurance desperately, but he knows this is the most he can get, the most he can ask. He longs desperately for getting John closer, for pulling more than their foreheads together but it’s wrong, so wrong.

And yet-

John pulls away and goes back to his place by the window. Sherlock takes a deep breath, trying to get back his footing. Everything is fine, John still trusts him.

That’s all that matters.

“Could your brother be a criminal mastermind?”

“Good evening to you too, Gregory.”

“Spare me the bullshit, Mycroft. Could your brother be a criminal mastermind?”

Mycroft scoffs and the DI regrets having called him at all. “Of course he could, Gregory,” he replies boredly, like they’re discussing the weather and not Sherlock’s- “But he isn’t. Don’t doubt your own instincts, they’re usually right.” A long pause and Greg wonders if he should hang up. “Don’t let Moriarty fool you.” And with that the call gets cut, leaving Greg in the middle of a moral dilemma.

He stares at Donovan and Anderson and figures he really doesn’t have a choice. It doesn’t matter what he believes; if he doesn’t go to his boss about this, they will and the fallout will be far worse for everyone involved.

So, against his better judgement, he goes to the Chief Constable.

John ends the call with Greg and he takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. This is it, then. “Sherlock, we need to go.”

His friend remains seated, staring at nothing in particular. “Sherlock-”

The arrival of the package seems to tell Sherlock something by how defeated he suddenly looks. It also tells John something, but he refuses to acknowledge it just yet. He has more pressing matters to worry about, like getting the hell out of here.

Too late, apparently, since he can hear the banging on the door.

The other man stands very calmly and puts on his coat and scarf. His movements are slow and deliberate and John knows they’re not running away. He closes his eyes and forces himself not to start panicking, knowing it won’t help at all.

When he opens his eyes again, Sherlock is standing right in front of him. There is barely an inch between their chests and John finds himself out of breath. He stares at his best friend’s eyes and waits.

“John, I-” Sherlock shakes his head, apparently unsure of what to say. He places his hands over John’s shoulders and the doctor gulps.

“Not now,” he whispers softly. “Please.”

Sherlock either doesn’t hear him or pretends he doesn’t, and suddenly they’re pressed close together, breathing the same air. If John just tilted his head upwards a little-

“Sherlock, please step back,” he pleads, even though he could be the one to step back. However, since Sherlock made the first move-

“John-”

“Not now,” he repeats. “It’s not the right time.”

“When, then?”

Sherlock sounds so breathless that John can feel his resolve crumbling. The right answer is ‘never’, but he can’t bring himself to say it. Particularly not now. “Later. Now we have-”

“Moriarty plans to kill me. Well, ruin me and then kill me,” Sherlock whispers, his fingers digging on John's shoulders, “there might not be a later.”

And it’s true. John knows this, John knows this might be the very last chance they have- “We’ll figure something out.”

Sherlock smiles brokenly, leaning in to press a soft kiss against his forehead. “Oh, John. You’re always so full of hope.”

John wants both to cry and laugh, but he forces himself to stay calm. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, allowing himself to enjoy the closeness of their bodies. “So, so sorry.”

Sherlock hums and the door of the apartment opens brusquely. Greg steps in and after taking in the position they’re in, hurries to look away. John can feel Sherlock’s exhale against his cheek and he closes his eyes, holding back tears.

Sherlock allows Greg to arrest him without any resistance, his eyes never leaving John’s, willing him to remain calm. John protests, tries to do something, but Greg warns him he’ll also get arrested if he tries to help.

However, when the Chief Constable walks in and starts badmouthing his best friend, John can no longer stay calm and punches the man in the nose.

As he ends up arrested and pressed against the police car, he figures it doesn’t really matter. His husband will get him out of jail in the blink of an eye.

But of course, not even Mycroft, with all his influences, will get Sherlock out now.

The thought makes him want to scream.

“He escaped.”

“Of course he did. Did you honestly expected him to just come in quietly? Please, Gregory. You’re smarter than that.”

“You know something. You know exactly what’s up and you’re not telling me.”

“No. I have a suspicion of what’s going on and I’ll rather not talk about it until I have further information.”

“Dammit Mycroft, I’m going to get fired over this!”

“Don’t be dramatic, Detective Inspector. This isn’t the first time I have to clean my brother’s mess.” There’s a long pause after that and Greg focuses on driving, knowing there’s no way they’ll catch Sherlock if he doesn’t want to be caught.

Dragging John along. What the hell was he thinking?

“I worry though that this time I’m the one who made a mess.”

Mycroft hangs up and Greg wants to call back right away. What is that supposed to mean? Why must the Holmes always speak so cryptically; don’t they see how frustrating it is for the rest of the world?

Nothing for it. He should focus on chasing Sherlock for now.

He’ll worry about Mycroft later.

Nothing is making much sense now. Moriarty’s plan is brilliant: now that it has started there’s no way to stop it. Like dominos pieces set up, they’ll just continue to fall into their rightful place.

Nothing left to do. Nowhere to go. He’s completely out of possibilities.

Isn’t he?

When Mycroft walks into his private room at the Diogenes Club and finds John waiting for him he knows the time for the truth has come. He forces himself to remain as calm as possible, but it’s hard to do in the face of not only John’s anger, but also his misery.

He’s angry, yes, but he’s also scared and worried and that’s a very deadly combination.

“Your own brother, Mycroft. Your own brother and you went and babbled to Moriarty-”

He made some very stupid mistakes at that cell. He has berated himself over it for the last two months and he really doesn’t need John telling him what he already knows: he feels guilty enough as it is.

“Why, Mycroft? Just tell me why. You said you were out of that particular investigation-”

“I was-”

“Then what happened?”

Mycroft knows this is his only chance to explain. But how can he, when what he did is inexcusable? He let Moriarty get under his skin and he ended up telling him more than he meant to. He let his feelings get the best of him.

There’s nothing he can say that will make him less to blame for the current events.

John sighs. “Just please tell me this isn’t about me.”

“No,” Mycroft whispers. “Not really. I never- I never imagined-” he glances at his husband desperately, begging him to understand, but knowing he really can’t. “I didn’t know it would come to this.”

“Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed and you-” John pauses, his own emotions getting the best of him “And you gave him the perfect ammunition.”

Mycroft gulps and watches his husband getting ready to leave, knowing this is going to cost him greatly, but his own guilt at having failed to protect his brother making him not particularly care about that right now. “John, I- I’m sorry.”

“Oh, please,” John says disdainfully before turning to leave.

“Tell him, would you?”

There’s no answer but the door being thrown open.

Chapter Text

The phone rings, breaking through the fog of Mycroft’s dark thoughts. He peers at the screen confusedly, reading his brother’s name but unsure of why would Sherlock call him. Has John told him already about their conversation? Sherlock wouldn’t confront him, he doesn’t think, but then, what else could it be?

“Sherlock?”

There’s a brief pause on the other side of the line. Mycroft hears his brother’s deep intake of breath and then- “I need your help.”

“Of course,” Mycroft says, perhaps a little bit too earnest, his tone betraying his guilt.

Sherlock sighs. “What happened to us, Mycroft? We could be a force to be reckoned with and yet-” a long pause and Mycroft doesn’t know what he can say. “Nevermind. I need your help.”

“Yes, whatever you need.”

Sherlock starts explaining his plan. Mycroft doesn’t like it, not one bit, but he knows that Sherlock is probably right: they need to stop Moriarty and this might be the only way to do it. It won’t be easy and the slightest mistake will cost them dearly, but- “I’ll make sure everything is in position,” he tells his brother, making a list of the people he can trust with the plan. “I’ll call John. I’m sure that if it all comes down to it, we’ll find a way to justify him filling in your forensic report-”

“No,” Sherlock interrupts him firmly. “John can’t be involved.”

“Sherlock-”

“For his own safety Mycroft. He can’t know.”

Mycroft bites his lip, hesitating. “Sherlock if we- if we do this and we don’t tell John- If- No, when you come back- he might never forgive us.”

There’s a long silence and Mycroft continues chewing on his lip viciously. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Sherlock tells him finally and Mycroft closes his eyes, his heart clenching viciously. This is his brother reaching for help, yes, but also his brother demanding retribution.

Considering what he did, he knows what he must do now. “Alright. Who, then?”

“I’ve already talked to Molly Hooper. Don’t worry, I’ll handle the things at the hospital,” Mycroft nods, even if his brother can’t see. “Thank you, brother.”

The line goes dead after that and Mycroft allows himself a couple of seconds to break down.

There’s no turning back now.

This is his penance and he’ll have to accept it.

Jim reads Sherlock’s message and smiles to himself. It took a little less time than he originally envisioned, but that’s probably for the best.

“I’m going out, love,” he tells Kitty, pressing a quick kiss against her temple and the girl just grunts in acknowledgment, still too sleepy to care. Jim smirks, thinking that she has proven to be useful enough, so for now, he’ll let her live.

Besides, today’s list of murders only include the one of Sherlock Holmes.

It physically pains Sherlock to know that he won’t be able to be with John in his very probable last minutes. Well, technically last minutes if things do go according to plan but well-

The sentiment remains.

He watches in silence as John gets the call that will take him away from Bart’s long enough for Sherlock to pull off his plan. Arguing, lying; it feels awful, but he forces himself not to change his mind. It’s vital that John leaves now. It’s vital that John isn’t around if things come down to the most negative outcome.

Alone with his own dark thoughts, Sherlock waits for Moriarty’s text.

He hopes one day John might be able to forgive him.

But if he doesn’t, at least he’d be alive to hate him.

Jim watches Sherlock step into the roof, looking surprisingly collected for someone who has come to face his death. Then again, maybe Sherlock hasn’t realized he’s a dead man walking. Quite probable, considering the size of his ego.

He thinks he has been clever. He thinks he can outwit Jim.

Jim is about to prove him wrong.

After realizing he has been fooled, John wonders what he ought to do, besides hurrying to Sherlock’s side. He’s about to do something ridiculously stupid, he just knows it and he’s afraid he won’t make it back on time.

He decides to call Greg and hope he’ll find a way to put an end to this folly.

Unfortunately, Greg doesn’t even pick up the phone and John supposes he’s too busy dealing with the fallout of their last night escape. With a frustrated growl he urges the cabbie to speed up, silently praying he’ll make it on time.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he doesn’t.

Moriarty shot himself.

Moriarty shot himself.

What is Sherlock supposed to do with that? How was he supposed to imagine that the madman would be crazy enough to do something like that? He had planned for many distincts possibilities, but this…

His phone rings and he picks up as he paces around the rooftop, staring at Moriarty’s body from the corner of his eye, expecting him to stand up at any given minute and laugh as the maniac he is.

That would make sense. This, however, doesn’t.

“Everything is in position,” Mycroft’s voice on the other side of the call tells him. Sherlock sighs, running a hand through his messy hair, panic still getting the best of him. “Are you ready?”

He supposes he is, as ready as he’ll ever be. It’s far from ideal really, because Moriarty wasn’t supposed to be dead after all, but well… it’s manageable. Probably. Hopefully. “Yes. Let’s do this.”

His brother hangs up and Sherlock gets in position.

Mycroft observes his brother getting on the edge of the rooftop and his breath catches. He knows he’s not going to actually die, but his heart still clenches painfully. This is all his fault, the result of his failures. Helping Sherlock to pull this off is the very least he can do, but-

He sees John getting out of a cab. He curses internally, because his husband’s presence might put at risk the whole operation but then he sees the look that crosses Sherlock’s face at the sight of John and wonders if maybe it’s for the best.

He sees Sherlock dialing and he closes his eyes. This wasn’t what they had agreed on, but he can’t deny his brother this. It might be the last conversation he has with John in a long time (maybe a whole lifetime). They can afford to wait a little while, at least until they’ve both say their goodbyes.

Anthea turns to him, silently asking if he wants to listen to the conversation. He does want to, but he knows it’s a bad idea; not only for the sake of his own sanity, but also because he owes his brother a little privacy.

So he shakes his head and Anthea goes back to supervising the rest of the operation, waiting for Sherlock’s signal.

“Sherlock? Where are you?”

He can hear the fear and the concern in John’s voice and Sherlock almost regrets calling. He hadn’t planned on saying goodbye to John, not knowing if he would be strong enough to do what was needed if he did. Now however he realizes he just can’t leave without at least trying to explain.

He wonders if John hears his apologies in every word he says. If he can hear him apologizing for all the things he was never brave enough to say, to do. For all those things that he pretended he didn’t feel for the sake of their friendship.

Sherlock pours all his love and longing in his tone. His words are vague, empty, meaningless. But the tone-

He hopes John hears his tone and understands. He can’t talk to him about love, about how much he means to him just before he faces his death. It wouldn't’ be right, it wouldn’t be fair. They had time before and they never spoke of it, so no sense on doing it now.

Things shall forever remain unspoken between them, exactly as John wanted.

It’s all for the best, really.

“Sherlock, please don’t do this,” John begs, his voice raw with emotion. He can hear in Sherlock’s tone all the things that he’s not saying and he’s dying to speak of his own heart before it’s late. He doesn’t know if it’ll accomplish anything now, but- “please don’t do this to me.”

“Goodbye John.”

“No, Sherlock, please!” he exclaims, his mind screaming for him to run to his friend’s side, but unable to move, fearing that if he does Sherlock will jump without any more preamble. “Please, I- I love you. I’m in love with you. Don’t do this me.”

He hears Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath and closes his eyes. This is his deepest secret (although it wasn’t a secret at all), the one he promised himself he would take to the grave. This is him, showing his last card and hoping it’s enough to defeat the terrible odds against them. This is him, praying that love is enough.

“Goodbye John.”

It’s not.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s resolve wavers after hearing John’s confession. Those five words- he has been longing to hear them for so long. To hear them and to say them back. Five words that almost make him forget all about criminal masterminds and their dangerous network, about deathly treats, about the greater good. Five words that give him hope.

And they also take it away.

Because he can’t back down now. He needs to do this. Now, more than ever, he can’t afford any harm to come to John. Now, more than ever, it's necessary for logic to overcome emotion and for him to do what’s right, despite of what he might want.

“Goodbye John,” he whispers, disconnecting the call. He tosses his phone away and spares one last glance at the man he loves, the man he’s doing this for. Tears run freely down his cheeks and Sherlock steps off the roof.

It’s over. No time for regrets now.

“Sherlock!”

Chapter Text

Numb.

That’s the only word he can think of to describe the way he feels. It’s like the world has been sucked out of color, like everything is covered with a thick fog of nothingness; like nothing matters or will ever matter again.

It’s awful, to be honest.

John sits in the empty warehouse, away from prying eyes and especially, away from his husband’s CCTV network. He thinks he’ll stay here forever, although maybe hunger or thirst will force him to go to the outworld once more.

But maybe not. Hopefully not. With a little luck he’ll sit here forever, until his heart stops aching because it has stopped beating. He knows that’s the only way he’ll ever stop hurting.

At least it’s over, he thinks sadly to himself.

At least he’s at peace.

Mycroft sits outside the autopsy room, hands linked beneath his chin, his mind far away. Timing is everything; Ms. Hooper must make the pertinent arrangements so his brother’s death is official and she must do it quickly, before unexpected complications arise.

He thinks of John’s desperate cry as Sherlock fell and of the text he received shortly after. He’s worried about his husband, of course, but for now he decides to keep his focus on his brother. This is a delicate operation and it needs all his focus, at least for the time being.

“Is he really-?” Gregory sounds breathless, obviously having rushed to the hospital as soon as heard from the incident. He looks tired beyond words, dark circles under his eyes, clear sign of a sleepless night.

Mycroft sighs. “Yes.”

“Jesus,” Gregory whispers, collapsing on the chair next to him. The DI puts his head between his hands, pulling his hair. “Dammit!”

Mycroft watches the other man in silence, unsure of what to do. He has never been too good at offering comfort and the last time he did it… Well. He’s just no good at it.

Funny how emotional he's feeling, even though he knows his brother is not really lying dead in the next room.

“Don’t go blaming yourself,” he tells the DI calmly, as the other male continues to have a meltdown next to him. “There was nothing you could have done to help.”

“I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have let Donovan and Anderson persuade me-”

“They would have gone to the Chief Constable behind your back and you would have been fired.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered! This- this is-”

“It’s not your fault,” Mycroft assures him once more. “If you’re looking for someone to blame, that would be me.” He pauses, thinking back to his last conversation with his husband. “I was the one who handed Moriarty the perfect ammunition.”

Gregory doesn’t comment on that. “Is John inside?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “He’s missing.”

“What?!” the DI exclaims, sounding troubled. “How can you be so calm?! Moriarty-”

“Moriarty is dead,” Mycroft tells him evenly. “And John asked me to leave him alone.” He passes his friend his phone, John’s last text still open.

Need to be alone. Don’t look for me.

Gregory sighs. “He’s safe, though?”

Mycroft considers the question. He’s not certain, to be honest. It’s not like he thinks John would do something stupid and put himself in deliberate danger, but considering…

Love makes us do crazy things. “I hope so.”

Neither of them speak anymore for a long while.

Making the arrangements for Sherlock’s funeral is a quite depressing affair. Mycroft rubs his temples tiredly, wondering how people normally deal with this. He’s in no state of emotional distress (well, maybe a little) and he’s finding it hard to do it.

“I sure hope you outlive me,” he tells Sherlock, who is lying on the couch and staring at nothing in particular. “I don’t think I can do this a second time.”

Sherlock doesn’t comment and Mycroft sighs. He takes a sip from the coffee Ms. Hooper made them before she left for work this morning and makes a face: it’s a little too bitter for his taste. “Are you sure you’re okay staying here?” he asks his brother, his attention back to the funeral arrangements.

“It’s the safest place,” Sherlock replies calmly. “No one would think of looking for me here.”

“You realize you’re being rather unfair on Ms. Hooper,” Mycroft says, his tone light. Sherlock frowns, but doesn’t comment. He does feel guilty about dragging her into this, then.

“I had a rather- insightful conversation with Molly before this all began,” Sherlock tells him, sitting up. “About John.”

“Oh?”

“Tell me the truth, did you sell me out to Moriarty because of my feelings for your husband?”

Mycroft closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “No,” he replies honestly, even if that’s not the whole truth. Sherlock arches an eyebrow and so he elaborates. “But he certainly used my jealousy to get to me.”

Sherlock considers this for a moment and then shrugs. “Molly told me that John had already chosen. And that I had to learn to accept that.”

Mycroft wonders about that. He and John have never discussed this, of course, except for their brief heart-to-heart after the incident with Irene Adler. Still, he’s not sure he would call what they’ve been doing having made a choice.

It fact, it feels like very carefully avoiding making one.

“I guess that now there’s really not a matter of choice though,” Sherlock continues, his tone wistful. “You’ll look after him, yes?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replies, his tone betraying nothing of his internal conflict.

“Good,” Sherlock states and goes back to lying on the couch, getting lost in his own thoughts and leaving Mycroft to continue sorting through the arrangements needed for a believable funeral.

In the end, his body chooses to remind him that he does need food and water and that, suicidal as he might be, he can’t just simply give up. He has a life to get back to and as much as he wishes he didn’t have to, it’s the right thing to do.

He’s not ready to face Mycroft just yet though. He’s not sure what his reaction will be, when they see each other next time: a part of him is still terribly angry and of course, he partially blames him for Sherlock’s decision, but on the other hand-

He supposes they both have their fair share of blame.

Anger won’t solve anything. But forgiveness isn’t easy, particularly considering- considering-

Sherlock is dead and John wishes he was to. But he isn’t and he can’t just give up; he doesn’t think Sherlock would have approved. Then again, it’s not like John approves of his decision so…

He sighs and looks at his now cold takeout. The future looks pretty gloom.

But he’ll endure.

He has done it before, how much harder can it be?

It’s a cold morning when the funeral takes place.

The press hasn’t been allowed anywhere near the tomb, but a few of them have managed to sneak in to take some pictures. Mycroft knows he could get them effectively kicked out, but he shares his brother’s opinion that the press might be their biggest ally to make this lie believable.

He stands by his own, face appropriately grim. Gregory delivers a touching speech that makes half of the people present cry. There aren’t many mourners, Sherlock’s abrass personality never failed to irk people rather than endeared them to him. Still, a small crowd has gathered and Mycroft thinks his brother would have been pleased, if a little baffled.

Mycroft watches as the empty coffin is lowered into earth. His eyes meet Ms. Hooper’s and they share a grim smile. The girl starts crying in earnest and Gregory gathers her into his arms, whispering empty promises of how everything is going to be alright.

These last few days have been hard on the Holmes brothers. He can safely assume they have been even harder on the forensic doctor turned conspirator. Some people are just not meant to be dragged into these things.

People start leaving, until it’s just him standing by his brother’s empty tomb. He hears Gregory coming back after putting Ms. Hooper into a cab and he offers the DI a tight smile. Gregory sighs, running a hand through his short hair. “No word from John?”

He’s hiding and he certainly learned plenty from Sherlock. Mycroft knows his husband will remain missing until he wishes to come back.

He hopes it won’t take long, though. “No,” he replies simply and both men turn their attention back to the tomb. The silence is oppressive, but Mycroft doesn’t know what he could possibly say in this situation.

The sound of footsteps breaks through the haze of his guilty thoughts. He turns around just as John comes to stand behind him. “John,” he says, his voice barely a pained whisper and the doctor nods his head in greeting. Then he continues walking, only stopping once he’s right in front of the lapid.

There are dark rings beneath the doctor’s eyes, but besides that he looks perfectly well put together. Mycroft and Gregory share a worried look, but the other man ignores them, lost in his own thoughts.

Mycroft gestures for the DI to step away with him for a little while. The younger man hesitates, but finally agrees and they walk away in order to give John some privacy.

With a heavy heart, Mycroft wonders about the real fall out of this whole deception.

John stands in front of his best friend’s grave, his heart heavy with regret. “So this is my penance,” John whispers, his voice breaking a little. “I suppose I deserve it, don’t I?”

The tomb, of course, doesn’t answer.

John sighs. “I’m sorry Sherlock. For everything I didn’t say and for everything I did say. For all the ways I wronged you. I wish-” he bites his lip viciously, dragging blood and then laughs brokenly. “God, I still- why can’t I tell you-?” he shakes his head, despairingly. “It doesn’t matter anymore. The time is up anyway.”

He turns around, ready to leave and then comes back, placing a hand over the cold lapid. “But if you can hear me- if you somehow- please Sherlock. Do this one thing for me: don’t be dead.”

Nothing but the sound of the wind. With a sigh, John turns around once more and walks away.

“What do you think?”

Mycroft’s eyes remain glued to his husband, analyzing him but coming to no conclusion. John looks tired, but that’s about it; it’s certainly not what he was expecting and he doesn’t know how to interpret that. “I don’t know,” he replies slowly. Gregory frowns lightly.

“He looks- calm. I- I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t this,” the DI whispers, confusion and concern lacing his tone in equal measure. “It’s- odd, isn’t it?”

“It might be the calm before the storm,” Mycroft says with a shrug. He suspects he might be dealing with John falling apart later, but for now he looks collected enough. “I- I don’t know what you tell you, Gregory.”

The other man sighs and pats Mycroft’s arm in what it’s supposed to be a comforting gesture. It isn’t, but Mycroft doesn’t comment. “Take care of him, will you?”

Mycroft only can nod.

By the time John makes his way back to his husband, Greg is already on his way out of the cemetery. John watches his friend walk away and a wry smile makes its way to his face. “Is he okay?” he asks and Mycroft arches an eyebrow, obviously not expecting the question. John shrugs; he really doesn’t want to talk about his own feelings.

And he really, really doesn’t want to discuss where are they standing right now.

“He’s okay. Saddened. Feeling guilty.” Mycroft shrugs non committedly. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

John hums. “And you?”

Mycroft sighs and looks away. For a long while, neither says anything and then John slips his hand into his husband’s, startling the older man. He offers him a brief smile and then starts pulling him towards the exit.

He doesn’t want to think and he certainly doesn’t want to talk.

It’s pointless, in any case.

Nothing he can do or say would change a thing.

Sherlock stands very still, watching his best friend sleep. He’s well aware it could be considered quite creepy and should John wake up and see him, things would get nasty very quickly. But he can’t help himself; this might be the very last time he lays his eyes on John Watson and he’s determined to commit every small detail to his memory.

“You shouldn’t be here,” his brother’s voice is barely a whisper, but Sherlock can hear the annoyance in it.

“Am I no longer welcome in your house, brother mine?” he asks innocently, turning to glare at the older male. Mycroft’s eyes are hard, but Sherlock holds his gaze evenly, his own anger reflecting in his eyes. Finally, his brother sighs and looks away.

“If he woke up and saw you-”

“I know,” Sherlock replies, closing his eyes for a beat. “But it’s the last time I might see him.”

“You’re coming back, Sherlock,” his brother utters with a conviction that the younger Holmes can’t help to envy. “You’ll see him again.”

Sherlock considers this and turns to look at John again. “And what will happen when I return, brother dear?”

Mycroft doesn’t answer, but Sherlock can see from the corner of his eye how pained he looks. Is it awful, that he takes joy in his brother’s misery? Probably yes. But hasn’t his brother done the same before? Hasn’t he rubbed his marriage into Sherlock’s face more than once?

Does this make them even?

Does it matter at all?

“The jet leaves in 2 hours,” Sherlock says, turning around to exit the room. “I’d better be going.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft calls him before he goes and the younger male turns to face his brother once more. “Be careful. Please.”

Sherlock nods tightly, his heart constricting at the concern in his brother’s tone. “Goodbye, Mycroft.”

“Goodbye, brother.”

Mycroft stands by John’s bed, contemplating his short conversation with his brother. He knows now that his marriage has an expiration date, but some part of him refuses to dwell on the thought much, as if ignoring the truth would somehow make it change.

He crawls into bed with his husband and John rolls closer, allowing Mycroft to spoon him. The doctor’s breath is even, signaling he’s still deeply asleep and Mycroft closes his eyes, breathing in his husband’s scent and feeling scared and vulnerable.

Penance. This is what this is.

But will his sins be forgiven?

Chapter Text

It’s unnerving, how collected John is.

Greg worries, probably more than he should, but he can’t help it. Whenever he runs into the doctor he just looks so collected that it’s scary. This is a man who lost someone he loved (because one could argue whatever they wanted, but in the end, the fact remained: John did love Sherlock, in his own, arguably wrong, way) and yet-

But John keeps himself together admirably. Even Mycroft looks more shaken and that’s most definitely saying something; Jim Moriarty’s nickname of the Iceman did have a point. So Greg worries.

He wonders when will John break down.

And what will happen when he does.

John is asleep on the couch, music blasting through the headphones and Mycroft cringes. He understands, of course, that his husband is trying to keep himself distracted, to stop himself from feeling, but surely there are better ways of coping?

Odd hours, long walks, skipped meals. John is mourning, but he’s carefully masquerading it. He has yet to sit down and really accept what has happened; he’s just forcing himself to carry on and not think about anything.

Mycroft wonders what he can do to make it better.

The answer seems to remain the same: nothing at all.

John stares at Ella, who’s smiling at him encouragingly. It’s like the last 6 years haven’t passed at all: it’s like he has just gotten deployed and is being forced to endure therapy twice a week.

But Mycroft insisted and John didn’t want to upset his husband.

“So John, I was quite surprised to hear you married.”

John shrugs, not really wanting to be here, but also not wanting to be rude. “Five years, last october,” he replies. “We went on a sort of ‘second honeymoon’. Although it was arguably the first one, considering we didn’t do anything after the wedding.”

He keeps his tone light, detached. He has always wondered if Ella can see through his facade; he certainly hopes so, because she gets paid to do so but- well-

John is a good actor.

The therapist smiles some more and continues asking light hearted questions. John answers, absent minded for the most part, glancing at his watch occasionally and praying for the time to pass quickly.

He doesn’t want to be here.

Although he doesn’t know where he would rather be.

“How is he?” Gregory asks and Mycroft sighs. It’s hell, really, the situation they’re in. It’s even worse than when they first married; this time around John does feel like a stranger. A stranger who doesn’t want him in his life, a stranger who wants to run away.

An stranger that sadly Mycroft is very much in love with.

How did this happen?

“Well enough.”

They drink in silence after that.

“A job?”

Mycroft nods hesitantly and John considers the offer. It’s not a bad idea, but- “You know I can no longer operate. And considering how things didn’t work out at the clinic-”

“I was thinking something a little different,” Mycroft interrupts him, still looking nervous and John wonders why is that. “I- There might be an open position for Chief of Forensics.”

Ah, so that’s it. He’s worried that John- what? Won’t accept because he’ll be constantly reminded of Sherlock? Well, it’s not like everything else doesn’t remind him of the genius. And working at the morgue might not be a bad idea- it’s not like the dead would mind if his hand shakes a little when he makes an incision. “I’ll take it.”

Mycroft relaxes visibly and John wonders if he really looks so broken. He thinks he has done a pretty decent job keeping his emotions and regrets under control, but of course it would make sense if his husband could see through the facade.

It doesn’t matter. A job is a good idea.

It should keep him busy, if nothing else.

The thing is that you can’t actually hate John Watson.

And Molly has tried. Oh god, she has tried with every fiber of her being. But she can’t even dislike him; the man is nice and sweet even if he has a bit of a sarcastic vein. But even that can come across as endearing under the right circumstances.

So it’s no wonder that Sherlock fell so hard for him.

Still, Molly tries very hard not to like him. He’s her boss now, but she somehow always manages to avoid working with him. It obeys to two reasons, actually: because she’s still a bit jealous and because she feels guilty more often than not.

And she’s also mad, because she can’t understand how could John watch Sherlock so obviously pining and still be so selfish as to-

Well, better not to think about that.

There are days when John looks downright miserable and although guilt eats her alive, she can’t help viciously thinking he choose me. In the end, he came to me for help. I know the truth and you don’t.

It’s petty and it’s wrong, but she also thinks it’s human nature.

So she keeps her distance. She’s polite and helpful and does as she’s asked, but she avoids any further contact.

It’s for the best, really.

“It sounds quite interesting.”

John shrugs and Ella makes a face, but doesn’t press for more. Instead she watches him in silence, which she must know by now is what works the best to get him to talk: John just can’t stand the uncomfortable silence.

“I don’t have the proper training for forensic, really. So I’m still learning many things, which in turn keeps my mind busy so I won’t think about… other things.”

Ella nods, thoughtful. “John, I- You know I believe in letting my patients set their own pace, but it’s been two months and I was wondering if- If you’re ready to talk about the real reason you’re here.”

John sighs. “There’s nothing to-” he begins, feeling frustrated and wishing he could run. He supposes he could, but he would end up having to explain that to Mycroft and that idea has very little appeal. “I’m here because my husband insists I need help to process… everything.”

“And you don’t think so?”

John glares. “He can’t even say his brother’s name. I think that he might need the help more than I.”

Ella watches him in silence for a long while. “Were you really having an affair?”

“Oh, for Christ's sake, how did you-?!”

“I did a little research,” she interrupts him. “I- I needed some honest answers John and you weren’t providing them. I’m sorry about that; it might not have been very professional of me-”

“It wasn’t professional at all!”

“But it was necessary,” Ella insists, her tone firm. “Please John, I want to help. But you have to let me-”

“We’re done here,” John announces, standing up. “I can’t- I can’t.”

He leaves and makes sure to slam the door on his way out.

“Your therapist says you stormed out of your session.”

John continues glaring at the TV and Mycroft sighs, taking a seat next to him, careful to keep some distance between them for which John is thankful. “I’m sorry John. I just- I thought-”

“You should keep your nose out my business,” John tells him darkly. “Haven’t you learned something about not being so damn controlling?”

Mycroft takes a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm. The words hurt, but he must endure. “I worry about you John.”

“And you worried about Sherlock. Look how that worked out.”

Mycroft forces himself not to react. That’s unfair and unnecessarily cruel, but he sees where John is coming from. Still-

He stands up, deciding he ought to wait for a better time to try to reason with his husband. Tonight all his efforts will be for nothing. “Mycroft-” John calls for him, grabbing him by the wrist, but the older male avoids eye contact. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“It’s the truth,” Mycroft says, shrugging, trying to keep his emotions at bay. John sighs and stands up too, wrapping his arms around his husband’s waist, making the taller man freeze.

For a long while, neither of them speak. “I’m sorry still.”

Mycroft nods tightly and returns the embrace awkwardly. He wants to pull John closer, but he’s afraid of being rejected so he doesn’t try. “It’s alright. I- I understand.”

John sighs. “I should probably apologize to Ella. I’ll book another session tomorrow.”

Once more, Mycroft nods. John lets go of him and he suddenly feels cold, making him want to hug his husband again, but he resists the urge. They stand in uncomfortable silence for a beat and then Mycroft hurries to retreat to the safety of his room.

This is going to be more complicated than he originally thought.

Greg thinks that the job suits John. He’s not sure if the doctor looks better or not, because for the most part, he looks perfectly collected. It’s like nothing had happened at all, it’s like there was never Sherlock and John.

It’s a farce and he knows it. He knows that John has carefully erected a wall around his heart so that nobody might see the pain he’s going through. It can’t be healthy, but it seems to be working for him and Greg’s not sure if he should say something.

Isn’t that the story of his life?

“I loved Sherlock. I was in love with him. But we weren’t having an affair.”

Ella nods, writing something down and John soldiers on, deciding to get everything out in one go before he loses his courage. “I was- I was torn. I loved him, but I can’t say I didn’t- don’t?- love my husband. And it was wrong, and I knew it, but I couldn’t- I couldn’t help it.”

There’s a long pause after that, John refusing to look at Ella and the female probably thinking about what he has just said. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why was it wrong?” his therapist asks and John opens his mouth to answer, but realizes he really doesn’t have an answer to that. Ella smiles sadly at him. “We’re told that we can only love one person at the time and that loving someone else is wrong. But it isn’t, John. What’s wrong is being untrue. Deceitful.”

John chuckles mirthlessly. “So you’re telling me I was tearing myself apart for nothing?”

Ella frowns. “It’s a little more complicated than that. I understand that you were conflicted, but I think it’s important you realize you’re not to blame-”

“But I am!”

“You aren’t!”

“I- I never-” John can feel tears pricking the back of his eyes, but forces himself to continue. “I could never face the truth. And I knew I was hurting Sherlock, but I kept quiet because it was more comfortable; I did nothing because I was scared! And I told myself it was because of my principles, but I-” he bites down his lip, physically forcing himself to shut up. Ella stares at him pitifully and John wants to lash out, but forces himself to take deep breaths instead. “I can’t do this,” he whispers, standing up and leaving the room once more.

It’s too much.

Just too much.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

John arches an eyebrow, his amusement clear. He’s a bit drunk, so Mycroft is willing not to take it personally. He waits for a beat and when John doesn’t say anything, he sits next to him.

For a long while, neither says anything else.

“You know I love you, right?”

Mycroft’s breath catches, but other than that he doesn’t react. John rolls his eyes and turns to glare at him. “Seriously Mycroft, what do you think I’m doing here if not?” the older man doesn’t answer and John carries on, obviously undeterred by the lack of response. “And I loved your brother. And Ella seems to think there’s nothing quite wrong with that, except for the fact that I refused to acknowledge it! Can you believe it?”

He’s drunk and so he’s just ranting, but- “What do you think?”

John stares at nothing in particular, lost in thought. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

Mycroft closes his eyes, fighting back the urge to tell John the truth. He should, he really should, but- He can’t. He promised Sherlock as much and he owes him that at the very least.

Besides, if Sherlock doesn’t come back-

John lays his head on his shoulder and Mycroft stays very still, afraid to even breath. He thinks about what he could possibly say to make things better and comes up blank; emotions have never been his forte.

Finally he realizes John is snoring softly. He smiles sadly and allows himself to relax, enjoying his husband’s closeness, even if he feels it’s wrong taking comfort like this.

But what John doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

John brings her coffee and cupcakes when she’s having a bad day.

He makes the whole disliking him thing quite difficult.

Molly watches him carefully, seeing the sadness in every small gesture. She worries a little for him, because even if she feels he wronged Sherlock, the truth is that Sherlock loved him and he wouldn’t have wanted John to be miserable.

But she worries more for Mycroft, whenever she happens to catch a glimpse of him picking up or dropping John. It’s easy to see that the man walks around like he has a death sentence hanging over him.

In a way, she supposes he does.

It’s all really unfair, to be honest.

“You want to know which is the worst part?”

Ella waits for him to finish his thought and John forces himself to voice his deepest, darkest thought. “Sometimes- sometimes I feel glad that-” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “At least it’s over, you know?”

Ella nods slowly and John lets out a dry chuckle. “God, I’m a horrible person.”

“No John,” his therapist tries to reassure him. “You’re human. You were in hard position and now you’ve been spared of having to make a choice.” She smiles at him and John hurries to look away, unable to handle her pity. “It’s natural to be relieved.”

Natural as it might be… it’s still wrong.

But he doesn’t say that outloud.

Chapter Text

Greg does a double take, wondering if there’s something wrong with his eyes. His head screams that there must be, but-

Mycroft stands by his brother’s grave, eyes downcast, a string of words leaving his lips so quietly that it’s impossible to hear what he’s whispering. Greg’s heart clenches and he looks away, torn between leaving and staying.

It clashes so badly with the image of Mycroft Holmes that he has. Mycroft Holmes is always calm and collected, detached and calculating. And yet-

It’s been a year since Sherlock’s death. Life has moved on.

But Greg thinks that maybe they haven’t moved with it.

He turns around and heads out of the cemetery, deciding to come back later or maybe never.

Now is most definitely not the right time.

Mycroft stands by his brother’s tomb on the anniversary his ‘death’. He knows Sherlock isn’t dead, not really, but he also knows that it’s his fault Sherlock had to leave. The guilt eats him alive and some days…

Some days it feels like it’s too much.

So he comes here and ‘talks’ to his brother. After all, it’s far easier to talk to an empty grave than to pick up a phone and make an uncomfortable call. Besides, there are things that he’ll never ever be able to admit to Sherlock, so it’s better this way.

It has become an outlet to his real feelings.

From the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Gregory leaving and he sighs. He can already tell his next encounter with the DI is going to be uncomfortable; the other man will be feeling at odds due having caught him at such ‘vulnerable’ moment.

Nothing to do about that. He turns around and heads out, not bothering to say goodbye.

It’s just an empty grave after all.

John avoids thinking about Sherlock on regular basis. It has gotten easier as time goes by, but he still needs to make a conscious effort, otherwise he ends up lost in his memories and his regrets.

The last year has passed in a bit of a blur, with him going through the motions but not really paying attention to anything. His job makes things more bearable; having to be around people and putting his skills to use always make him cheerful, even if sometimes having to work with Greg’s team make him want to punch someone.

In their defense, they’ve seen the error of their ways: Sally is slightly more sympathetic now, so it’s easier to work with her. Anderson is a nightmare, because he seems to have gone from one extreme (hating Sherlock) to the other (idolatrying him)

Still… things are getting better.

Except for his marriage, that is. He no longer knows where he stands with Mycroft, seeing they carefully avoid each other whenever they happen to be at the house at the same time.

After the whole ‘incident’ regarding John’s therapy Mycroft has kept to himself and John wonders just what he said after the last session, when he got spectacularly drunk. He has considered confronting Mycroft about it, but has changed his mind more than once.

It seems like too much of an effort.

What he told Ella still stands, after all. At least it’s over. At least now they don’t have to talk about- about-

They don’t need to talk.

All the intimacy they ever shared seems to have evaporated. Somedays John seems to forget what has happened and slips into his old behaviors for a little while but suddenly he seems to remember and he pulls away once more.

It’s killing Mycroft inside.

There’s a set of divorce papers in the top drawer of his desk. More than once he has considered signing them and then leaving them for John to find so this whole charade might be over. He just can’t keep going on like this; it hurts too much.

But then John smiles or laughs or says something clever and all his resolve evaporates. Pathetic as it might be, he just can’t let go. And he knows he should, because he knows how this is going to end and he should let go now before- before it’s too late.

Then again, it’s already too late, isn’t it?

John waits for Mycroft at the kitchen, a pot of tea and two cups ready. Neither of them is particularly good at this communication business, but he’s starting to suspect things can’t carry on like this.

He still doesn’t want to talk, though.

Mycroft comes home late and heads straight into the kitchen. When he catches sight of his husband he sighs tiredly and collapses on the chair in front of him, already looking defeated and making John frown.

This won’t do.

He pours them both tea and waits for a while, trying to get his thoughts sorted. “I don’t think we can carry on like this,” he starts, not looking at his husband just yet. “I would suggest couple’s counseling, but neither of us is really willing to talk about feelings.” Mycroft flinches but remains quiet, so John continues. “So all I’m asking is, can we move forward?”

Mycroft stares at him for a long while. “I don’t know if- I-”

“Let me rephrase it: do you want to?”

His husband observes him long and hard and John endures, hoping Mycroft can read in him the sincerity of his words. Finally the older male seems to reach a decision. “I’ll do anything you want John. Anything for you.”

Not exactly what he was asking but it works too, he supposes. “Good.” He stands up and grabs his husband by the wrist, a soft tired smile on his lips. “Let’s go to bed then.”

Mycroft hesitates. “Are you sure-?”

“We need to start somewhere,” John says with a shrug, aiming to sound unaffected but he doesn’t think he succeeds. “It’s more or less where we started last time, isn’t it?”

Things are different this time around and they’re bound to be more complicated.

But John is willing to try.

Mycroft remembers their first time perfectly, although he’s not sure that John shares his view on when was their first time.

Six months into their marriage John had kissed him after a night of drinks with Gregory. Mycroft had rebuked his advances, not wanting to make a move when John was clearly drunk, but they had revisted things the next day, which lead to them having sex for the first time.

Only that’s not what Mycroft counts as first time.

Because that was sex and Mycroft wasn’t a stranger to the pleasures of the flesh. It had been quick and messy and quite satisfying, but nothing earth shattering. The next few times had been the same, hurried encounters that involved little foreplay and even less posorgasmic cuddling.

And then one day… One day he had come home tense and frustrated and John had sat him at the couch him and proceed to massage his tense shoulders. Shortly after they had kissed and soon things had escalated; they had took their time with each other, just kissing and caressing the other, slowly undressing, in no hurry to finish.

Now that- that had been earth shattering.

This time is no different. John is a careful lover as ever, but the amount of dedication he puts on every kiss and every caress makes Mycroft shiver. If it’s from pleasure or fear is hard to tell; all he knows is that he doesn’t want it to ever end. And he certainly doesn’t want to think about what the future might hold.

Because now, with John sated and sleepy laying next to him, he can’t conceive a future where he doesn’t have this.

And yet he knows it’s very likely what the future holds for him.

“Do you have any news on your brother?”

Mycroft sighs and Violet regrets her question right away. Bad timing, she knows, but then again, when is she supposed to ask if Mycroft and John are rarely apart nowadays?

She looks out the window, watching her son-in-law talking to their friend from the Yard. She likes DI Lestrade; he’s a nice man who has been good to her children, so it just felt like the right thing to do to invite him to spend the holidays with them, seeing he has no family of his own to be with.

Pity last year they hadn't celebrated Christmas or New Year at all, really.

She doesn’t like her children’s plan. She doesn’t like that Sherlock is out there, on his own, trying to bring down a criminal’s network but well… she supposes it’s for the greater good. However the way they chose to do it-

It’s only going to bring a lot of heartbreak to anyone involved.

“He’s doing alright,” Mycroft replies, a slight frown on his face. “He seems to have found some… unexpected help in Spain and things have been running more smoothly since then.”

“That’s- good?”

Mycroft nods tightly. “It has certainly speed things up. He might come home in less than six months, if everything goes according to plan.” His grip on the glass he’s drinking from tightens and Violet sighs. She understands her son’s worry and to be honest, she’s quite worried to.

She looks at John again, who’s laughing at something Lestrade said. He seems to be doing better these days, not that he ever looked much affected, but that was obviously just pretending. Now however he does seem to be moving on.

She also has noticed how much closer her son and his husband have grown. She has known for a long while that Mycroft had fallen in love with John, just as Sherlock had done. She’s not sure of where John stands, but she does know he cares for both of her children. Now, however…

When Sherlock comes back, things are bound to get complicated once more. There’s nothing either Sherlock or Mycroft can say that will get John to understand why they did what they did. He’s bound to get angry and that might turn nasty pretty quickly.

The fall out is sure to be hurtful, no matter what.

She turns to look at Mycroft once again, who is looking at his husband as if he has already lost him (although in some way maybe he has) She wishes there was something she could do or say to ease her son’s pain, but sadly, there’s nothing to be done.

Choices were made and consequences must be faced.

That’s the way of life.

“You’re very quiet tonight,” John says and he can see he has startled his husband. Odd, that, because Mycroft is so observant that it’s quite hard to catch him by surprise. John frowns and places a hand over his arm in what he hopes it’s a comforting manner. “Is there something wrong?”

Mycroft is quiet for a long while and John has started to believe that he won’t get an answer when he says, “I don’t want to lose you.”

The younger male’s frown deepens, troubled by his husband’s words. “Why would you?” he asks quietly, stepping closer. Mycroft doesn’t answer, he just shakes his head and continues staring through the window.

It’s quiet outside. Night has fallen long ago and although it’s dark, the moon offers enough light for John to catch sight of his husband’s grim look. He can tell Mycroft is worried, but even worse, he can see he’s scared.

Of what?

It just seems out of character. Mycroft is always in perfect control of his emotions, keeping his face and body from betraying what he’s thinking about but lately… He just seems so sad lately.

John is worried. “Mycroft?” he questions softly, taking his hand into his, feeling unnerved. The other stays quiet though, still deep in thought. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ve made a mistake. Several, in fact,” Mycroft replies slowly, clearly thinking very carefully about what he’s saying. “And I’ve tried to make up for them. To you. To Sherlock. But I think- I think I might have just made it worse.”

John’s breath has catched ever since the mention of his dead friend. He can feel tears pricking the back of his eyes and he wonders why he suddenly feels so emotional. He tries to concentrate on what his husband is saying, because there’s something- something just wrong with it, but what-?

“Mycroft?”

His companion shakes his head, still not looking at him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I can’t tell you anything more.”

John nods, even if he’s suddenly feeling at odds by the conversation. Mycroft hasn’t said anything really and yet, it feels like he has confessed some deep horrible secret.

What’s going on?

“Let’s go to sleep,” he suggests, wanting to escape this conversation and go back to ‘normal’. It feels like there’s much being left unsaid, but John doesn’t have the right questions and even if he did, he’s not sure that he wants the answers.

Mycroft just nods.

Mycroft wonders why he chooses to torture himself like this.

He knows it’s all an illusion; a dream that won’t come true. In less than six months his little brother will be back and then… then…

He doesn’t know what he hopes for any longer. A part of him worries about Sherlock of course, and wishes he’ll succeed and come home quickly but another part of him (a part he hates, a part he feels terribly guilty about) hopes that he’ll take longer (forever)

Sherlock must succeed and come back. There’s just no other acceptable outcome, regardless of the consequences his return might have for Mycroft. So the smart thing to do- what he should have done from the very beginning-

He can’t. He just can’t. He knows there’s really no hope left for him, but he still can’t bring himself to push John away just yet. He prefers to cling to this farce than to do the sensible thing and start readying himself for the goodbye. He supposes that in the end he’ll be hurting no one but himself, so what’s the harm?

“I can hear you thinking and not sleeping,” John says playfully, turning around so he’s facing him and Mycroft tightens his grip around him. The blond frowns, “I know there are things you can’t tell me about but I- I’m worried about you. What’s going on?”

If he tells the truth now, the situation might still be salvageable. He doubts it, but maybe…

But he can’t do that. It’s risky and at this point, they really can’t afford any risks. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be over soon anyway.”

John’s frown deepens, but he doesn’t press. Instead he slides closer to him, pressing their bodies together and places a quick kiss over his cheek. “Alright. But know I’m here for you, okay?”

Mycroft knows.

The problem is that it won’t be the case for long.

Chapter Text

For the most part, he thinks he’s doing okay.

It’s odd, being on his own all the time, watchful of his own shadow. There was a time when such things wouldn’t have bothered him; there was a time when this was normal. But that seems to have been a lifetime ago; a lifetime in which he didn’t know John.

Before John he knew to rely on no one but himself and he didn’t mind. Now however, after meeting John, he’s not sure what do with this constant craving for human interaction (for John, actually).

On nights like this, when he has had far too many close calls and his body aches all over, he lies in bed and tries to remember why he is doing all this. It’s important to keep in mind that his efforts aren’t pointless; it’s vital to remind himself that he has a reason to finish this.

And more importantly, that he has someone to come back to.

Only maybe not. Who knows what John will say when he finds out that his death was a lie? Will he be relieved, will he be angry? Will he forgive Sherlock? What will happen if he does?

What will happen if he doesn’t?

Three memories sustain him at his darkest points: John’s hand in his as they run across London, escaping both the police and Moriarty’s assassins. John’s lips barely pressed against his on a cold night, hidden from prying eyes. And John saying those 5 words that both give him hope and break him: I’m in love with you.

He needs to come back. He needs to let John know that he feels the same. Of course he knows, but they’ve never acknowledge it before and so…

He must come  back.

There’s no other acceptable outcome.

Time blends together, so Sherlock isn’t sure how long has it been. It feels like he’s been forever running, forever escaping, forever fighting. His progress feels like it’s minimal: with Moriarty dead his associates know to keep their heads down. It’s tricky and under other circumstances he might even find enjoyable working on all these mysteries, but now-

Now it’s just tiring.

He’s pressed against a wall in a dark alley, trying to catch his breath and hoping his persecutors will run past him. It’s late, but the sun still shines bright and the heat it’s almost unbearable; he feels exhausted and he just wants to go back to his small rented room and lie down.

Two of his persecutors run past him and Sherlock smiles to himself, thinking he’s safe, but then the third one pauses exactly outside the alley and Sherlock curses inwardly. He supposes he can fight one, but if the others hear them…

The man collapses suddenly, having been hit by some blunt object. Sherlock blinks, surprised and stares at his savoir. The woman standing in front of him offers him an amused smirk. “Come with me,” she says and turns, running down the street. Sherlock considers his options, but in the end his curiosity gets the best of him and he turns to run after the unknown woman.

There’s something familiar about her, although he doesn’t know what.

He catches up with his rescuer just outside a small restaurant. She offers him a bright smile and drags him in, pulling him towards a dark corner. She asks for two beers in perfectly unaccented spanish and then turns to him expectantly.

The man observes her closely. Her short blond hair has been mussed by all the running and her cheeks are bright pink. Her green eyes shine amusedly as he continues observing her, trying to determine where has he seen her before and why would she be helping him.

The woman opens her mouth and lets out a breathless moan and Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. She laughs merrily, throwing her head back, “surprised?”

Sherlock frowns. “What happened to your nose?”

Irene snorts. “Of course you would focus on that,” she comments, pretending to be put off. “These are also new,” she says, pushing her breasts forward “and yet you focus on my nose.”

Sherlock shrugs, non committedly. “Never really saw the appeal of those.”

The Woman laughs once more. “I figured that if I was going to keep my head over my shoulders, I needed a whole new identity. Fortunately, I had more than a couple of plastic surgeons on my little black book.”

The consulting detective nods. “May I ask your name, then?”

The waiter comes by and deposits the two beers in front of them, glancing appreciatively at the female. She smiles and winks coquettishly, making the waiter blush and hurry away while Sherlock rolls his eyes. She turns to look at him once more. “Irina Gomez,” she says, “pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Irina. Seriously?”

She shrugs. “I happen to like my name. It suits me.”

Well, Sherlock can’t really argue with that. “Thank you for your help,” he tells her, taking one sip from his drink and making a face. He stands up and nods his head, “goodbye, Irina.”

He hasn’t taken two steps when Irene grabs him by the arm and links it with hers, so they walk out of the restaurant together. “None of that,” she tells him, a playful smile on her lips. “I’ve just saved your life, so you’re stuck with me now.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

Irene owns a little apartment in the center of the city. The view is quite lovely and all in all, she seems to be doing well on her own. He spies a bunch of magazines lying around the apartment and picks up one, curious. He snorts after skimming through it. “A magazine specialized in erotic fiction. Figures.”

Irene laughs again and Sherlock can’t help to think that she looks more relaxed now, happier. He suspects she’s not the same woman he knew and can’t help to think this new life suits her better.

“So, what brings you to Sevilla?” she asks calmly, sitting on a lounge chair, her gaze fixed on him. Sherlock looks around the room and finally decides to sit on a loveseat in front of her.

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Oh?” she says, honestly curious. “I thought you weren’t a detective anymore.”

“What?”

“Well, you’re dead, are you not?” she questions, sitting up. “I thought-”

“It’s- complicated,” he says and refuses to elaborate. Irene observes him in silence, a slight frown on her face.

“Who are you looking for?”

“A man named Marcos Corzo. He-”

“He worked for Moriarty,” Irene’s good mood has evaporated and she stands up, going to stand next to the window. “You’re hunting Moriarty’s men.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, knowing it’s not necessary. Irene stares out the window for a long time, tapping her fingers against the crystal. She seems to be thinking about something and Sherlock wonders just how much exactly she knows about the man he’s looking for.

Finally she turns to face him, her expression blank. “You can stay here tonight. By now the men chasing you must know where were you staying so…” she trails off, looking conflicted. “Stay the night.”

With that she turns around and heads into presumably her bedroom, closing the door after her and leaving Sherlock alone in the cramped living room. He considers leaving, knowing that by staying here he’s probably risking Irene’s facade but-

The truth is that he’s tired. It might not be a good idea, but he really doesn’t feel like running around tonight. So he decides to stay and leave early the next morning.

It sounds like a perfectly good plan.

Only he ends up not leaving for 3 days and when he does it’s because Irene has given him news of Corzo’s whereabouts. It takes him a day to track the man and finish him and he’s back to the former dominatrix’s house shortly after.

Irene is waiting with a file on a Maria Volkov from Belarus. Sherlock looks through it and although Irene doesn’t say a word (refuses to speak, actually), the consulting detective knows what he’s being offered:

Help.

“You knew him well, then,” Sherlock says one night, when they’re sitting together on the loveseat, drinking wine. Irene is reading a book and he’s revising a file and it all feels terribly domestic and he doesn’t know what to think (or feel) about that so he choses to interrogate her instead.

For a long while, Irene doesn’t react. Her eyes stay fixed on her novel, her body perfectly relaxed next to his. This is nice; being with someone that knows him from ‘before’. Before he was a runway, trying to stay incognito, risking his life in many and varied ways everyday.

Although maybe some things haven’t changed after all.

Sherlock turns back his attention to his file, figuring he’s not getting anything out of the woman and that’s when she finally replies. “As well as one can know a man like Jim Moriarty,” she sounds almost wistful and Sherlock turns his whole attention back to her. Irene continues, not looking at him. “I met him while he was doing some ‘consultation’ for an american ambassador. I had access to some information he needed and the rest, as they say, is history.” She shrugs, non committedly. “I told him things, he told him things. It worked.”

“And then?”

Irene seems to consider that for a long while. “You know what happened.” She shrugs once more. “I suppose I wasn’t useful anymore” She doesn’t sound particularly bothered, but Sherlock can tell she is, although he can’t really say why. Does she regrets the end of her association with Moriarty?

Why?

“It doesn’t matter anymore, I suppose,” she continues, her tone light. “I’m glad I can help you now, though.”

Sherlock nods, but he feels a little unnerved now. He has accepted Irene’s help and he’s grateful for it, but he can’t help wondering… “Why, though?”

“You saved me,” she replies simply, not a hint of hesitation in her tone. “And I like you,” she adds, winking flirtily and Sherlock smiles sadly.

She goes back to her book and he goes back to his file.

His “work” gets easier with the information that Irene willingly provides. Where she has kept it all this years (or why) doesn’t really matter: it gets the job done and that’s all Sherlock cares about. The sooner he gets done with it, the sooner he can go back to London and to the man he loves.

Of course his brother doesn’t approve. But Sherlock doesn’t care about Mycroft’s opinion, particularly because he knows that his objections aren’t necessarily born out of sibling’s concern. It might be wrong, to think so lowly of his brother, but it’s not like-

Well, that is how they got into this mess in the first place, isn’t it?

It’s an uncharitable thought and Sherlock knows it. He can’t bring himself to feel bad about it, though.

People say that time heals all wounds.

He doubts a lifetime will be enough to heal this one.

He’s lying on a dirty alley, his face bruised and with his nose probably broken, but at least he managed to knock out his adversary. Getting into fight with his target’s bodyguards is quickly becoming a nasty habit of his and his body doesn’t appreciate it.

He might have been drugged too. The dose was a little low, though.

He looks up at the night sky and sighs. It’s a beautiful night and he can’t help to remember the few times he observed the stars with John. He has never understood people’s fascination with the night sky or why it’s considered romantic, but now, looking back at such happy, easier times…

He’ll later blame his little slip on the drugs and the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, but the truth is he’s just feeling sentimental.

After the fall he had had to get a new phone, but he programed John’s number into it out of habit and then he couldn’t bring himself to delete it. So he dials it and waits for his friend to pick up, his mind pleasantly buzzed, not caring about anything at all.

“Hello?” John’s voice comes through the other side of the line and Sherlock’s breath catches. Just like that, he immediately sobers up, realizing his mistake. He knows he has to hang up, he knows he’ll put John in danger if he doesn’t, but- “Hello? Is someone there?”

He has missed John’s voice so much. All of him, really: his face, his gestures, his smiles and his laughter. Everything about him. He misses him so so much and he just wishes he could go back to London right now. If only-

But he must finish this. For everyone’s sake, really, but especially for John’s. As long as Moriarty’s network stands, he might be in danger and he can’t afford- he can’t risk-

He closes his eyes and disconnects the call, his heart clenching painfully. A sob escapes his lips and Sherlock allows himself to cry. For the first time since this mess started, he allows himself to feel all his pain, all his grief.

In the end, he knows it’s worth it.

It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

“Don’t go.”

Sherlock doesn’t stop packing but spares a quick glance in Irene’s direction. The Woman stands by the door, with clenched fists and a pained expression. Sherlock frowns, wondering what this is about. “I have to. You said it yourself; if Moran is really in Serbia-”

“If he is, everything will be over,” Irene agrees, stepping closer to him. “Because you’ll be dead.” She hesitates, biting down her lip. “You might end up dead even if he isn’t.”

Sherlock’s frown deepens, but keeps on packing. “It’s a risk I’ll have to take. My job won’t be done unless-”

“Stay,” Irene repeats, pleading. “Please.”

Sherlock stops then, turning to stare at her, feeling confused. The female is staring at him with worry, looking terribly pained. He knows there’s a risk he won’t make it out alive of this particular endeavor, but- “I can’t.” He repeats, his tone serious. “I must do this.”

Irene closes her eyes briefly and nods tightly. “Alright. You’ll come back afterwards? If you- if you succeed?”

Sherlock frowns once more. What is this about?

“No” he replies evenly. “If I succeed, Moriarty’s web will finally have been dismantled. Which means-”

“You’ll go back to London,” she finishes for him, looking even more pained now. Sherlock doesn’t know what to do about that, so he turns his attention back to packing. “Why?!” she demands, suddenly angry. “There’s nothing waiting there for you.”

It’s like someone has punched him on the gut. Sherlock closes his eyes, his whole body aching with the implication and then turns to face her, glaring. “John is in London.”

Irene stands tall and defiantly in front of him, her face dark. “There’s no one waiting for you.”

Sherlock growls, knowing she’s right. Even if he comes back, there’s no guarantee John will forgive him. It’s been two years; his friend has probably moved on. He might still miss him, in a way, but he must be happier now and Mycroft-

Well, he’d rather not think about that.

The right, unselfish thing to do would be to stay away. Let John and his brother make their life without him around, let them move past their hurts and anger and maybe find some degree of happiness…

But he can’t. It doesn’t matter if it’s not the right thing to do, if it’s unfair, if they’re better off without him: he just can’t let go.

“Come back to me,” Irene pleads once more. “Start anew. We could-”

“I can’t.”

Irene’s eyes harden. “He won’t forgive you.”

Sherlock bites his lip and turns his attention back to his half packed things. He closes his eyes, fighting his sudden urge to cry. “I know.”

They don’t say anything more after that.

Irene drives him to the airport, still not talking to him. Sherlock is unsure what exactly has happened between them; it’s not like he ever gave her any indication he was interested in anything other than the information she had to offer. And considering how things had ended between them the last time, he had thought-

Well, he supposes it doesn’t matter anymore.

“Thank you,” he tells her, leaning to press a quick kiss against her cheek. “Thank you for everything.”

She nods tightly, before hugging him very quickly. “Good luck.”

Sherlock turns around and heads towards the boarding gate, knowing he’s very probably heading towards his death. Still, if it helps ending Moriarty’s legacy…

He’s willing to pay that price.

Chapter Text

It is said that when you are about to die, your whole life flashes in front of your eyes.

It must be a lie though, because it’s not Sherlock’s life what’s flashing in front of him as he lies almost dying on a ditch in the middle of nowhere. No, what he sees are flashes of the man he still loves: John smiling, John laughing, even John looking angry.

And finally, John’s voice saying I’m in love with you.

Everything turns dark after that.

When Mycroft gets the call, he spends the next hour trying to sort through his conflicted feelings.

He’s worried for Sherlock, of course. The fact that he’s probably been captured is quite troubling, although he’s happy to hear that he managed to take his last target down before disappearing. He knows he needs to send a team to find and retrieve his brother; he also knows it won’t be easy, but-

Bu what has him really conflicted is that he can no longer avoid the ugly truth that has been staring at him these last two years: Sherlock’s returns means- it means-

He closes his eyes, trying to keep his emotions under control. He should be happy that his brother is coming back. He shouldn’t be thinking- It’s not right. After everything, he has no right to-

He sighs. He can’t help the way he feels, even if he’s aware it’s wrong.

It doesn’t matter, really. He might be apprehensive of what Sherlock’s return will mean for him and John, but it’s not like he would leave Sherlock to die in exile just to- just because-

Oh god, I’m actually thinking about it.

The revelation helps him to get himself together once more. These kind of thoughts are exactly the ones which got them into this situation in the first place. Had he not let his jealousy get the best of him while dealing with Moriarty…

Sherlock is his brother. And despite it all, he still loves him the most.

Well…

No, he can’t doubt that. Sherlock’s well being is still his foremost concern.

He’ll do well to remember it; that’s the only way this is going to work.

Sherlock wakes up feeling sore and dizzy. Not dead, then.

That’s not necessarily a good thing.

He stands up on unsteady legs and tries to walk. He needs to get to an open space, somewhere where he can contact his brother’s minions so they can come and pick him up. A small smile spreads across his lips, feeling hopeful for the first time in a very long time.

It’s been a week and he still has no more news on his brother’s whereabouts. Mycroft listens to Anthea’s reports feeling more and more frustrated with each day that passes, knowing the chances of finding Sherlock are quickly becoming slimmer. He really doesn’t like the prospects.

“Find him,” he orders darkly and his assistant nods nervously, hurrying out of the room, probably sensing his anger. He sighs, collapsing on his chair and trying desperately to come up with a plan.

It’s useless. Unless they have Sherlock’s location, there’s nothing he can actually do.

Nothing but wait.

Sherlock knows there’s no escape, but he still forces himself to keep running. His persecutors however are too many and not all of them are on feet. Besides, Sherlock is injured, hungry, thirsty and sleep deprived: he’s no match for them at all.

Moran might be dead, but he knows that this terrorist cell is not something to scoff at. The boss isn’t one of Moriarty’s men, but the criminal consultant had helped him more than once and he probably isn’t very happy with the man responsible for Moriarty’s death.

Nothing to do but surrender.

He’ll have to come up with another plan later.

Mycroft taps his fingers against his desk, thinking about his options here. Now that his worst fears have been confirmed, he knows what needs to be done, but-

“Should I send someone, sir?” Anthea asks, when he fails to say something in a long while. “Or would you rather choose the agent to be sent yourself?”

“No,” Mycroft replies, having come to a decision. He stands up and offers his assistant a tight smile. “I’ll be going myself. Make sure everything is ready; I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

“Sir, I must insist-” the female tries to make him change his mind, looking both horrified and worried.

“I’m doing this, Anthea,” he interrupts her smoothly. “I owe Sherlock that much.”

She looks ready to protest, but something in his expression makes her think better of it. The female nods and exits the room, already typing on her phone, making arrangements for his mission.

Mycroft nods to himself and decides to call it a day. He’ll surprise John at the lab and he’ll take him out for dinner.

This might be the last night he can enjoy with his husband, after all.

John lies in bed, watching his husband putting on his pajamas. There are days when he still finds the whole bed sharing a little odd, but not in a bad way. It’s practical, it’s nice and it also helps to keep the nightmares at bay. Before they decided to do this, John woke up more than once crying out for a dead man not to jump.

So yes, it’s better this way.

All in all, he thinks they’re doing pretty well. They have bad days, of course, and there are times when the anger still gets the best of him, but Mycroft takes it all in a stride, succeeding in making the doctor feel quite guilty: it’s obvious his husband still blames himself for his brother’s death.

These last two years have been difficult. But they’re making do.

Mycroft slides next to him on the bed, immediately placing an arm around his waist. John smiles and snuggles closer, resting his head beneath his husband’s chin. “Are you sure you have to go?” he asks, feeling childish immediately after: he knows how important Mycroft’s work is and he wouldn’t be going out of England if it wasn’t strictly necessary.

“I’m afraid so,” Mycroft whispers, kissing the crown on his head and squeezing him tighter. “I’m sorry, John.”

The doctor frowns, wondering what he’s apologizing for, but decides to let it go. Instead he presses a kiss against his husband’s neck, that quickly turns into sucking love bites all over the pale surface.

Mycroft sighs, sounding a little pained, but doesn’t protest. John hesitates, wondering if his advances aren’t wanted, but quickly shakes off the notion when Mycroft pulls him closer, throwing a leg over his waist.

Well then, if they’re going to be apart for a (presumably) long while…  

Better to take advantage of the time they have.

It’s been a long while since Mycroft was required to do actual leg work, but he remembers the basics. He’s careful to keep his head down, at least until the right time comes. He bides his time, knowing the slightest mistake will doom the entire mission.

He finds himself missing John more often than not, but he forces himself not to dwell too much on that. After all, if he’s successful and leaves Serbia with his brother in tow, he doubts he’ll stay married for much longer.

Good thing I have the divorce papers ready, he thinks grimly.

It’s not completely awful; he’ll admit he does enjoy the rush of adrenaline whenever he comes too close to being caught. Still, his nerves can’t take this for long and he sometimes wishes he had let Anthea find a competent agent to take care of it.

He doesn’t catch sight of Sherlock until a month and a half later and even then it’s just a brief glimpse. His brother looks far too thin for him to be healthy and it’s easy to see he’s being beaten and tortured daily. Mycroft knows he needs to speed things up a little, but he also knows that if he rushes, he might doom them both.

So he waits. He takes his time.

And he comes up with a plan.

The days start getting mixed up all together; night and day become indifferent. All that Sherlock knows is pain and more pain, with brief moments of nothingness. They feed him (on occasion) and let him sleep (also on occasion), probably having decided to let the new recruits use him as torture practice.

The thing about novices it’s that they’re quite enthusiastic and have yet to learn to control their darkest impulses.

The day will come when things get out of control and Sherlock will be dead before one of the higher ups notices they’re being a little too rough. He sort of hopes that day will come soon, because he fears he’s slowly losing his mind and that, to Sherlock, is a fate worse than death.

He wakes up to people yelling and immediately wishes he could go back to being unconscious. His whole body aches and when he tries to find a more comfortable position to be in, he quickly realizes there’s no such thing.

The door opens and a man steps in, placing his tray of food close to him. New, then, because the others know by now not to get too close, unless they want to get deducted and have all their darkest secrets revealed.

Sherlock looks up, ready to start with his deductions and what he sees takes his breath away. He closes his eyes, pinching himself, certain he has finally gone insane. There’s not way-

But when he opens his eyes again Mycroft is still standing in front of him. He has disguised himself carefully, of course, but he has no doubt that the man standing in his cell is his own brother.

Sherlock closes his eyes, feeling tears threatening to escape. If Mycroft is here- if his brother is here-

There’s hope then.

For now, that’s enough.

On the anniversary of Sherlock’s death, John goes to visit the grave. He didn’t go the year before, fearing he would break down and go back to square one with his grief. He has managed to push it to the back of his head, but that’s not to say that he’s getting better: if anything, it probably means he’s getting worse.

He wonders what Ella would have to say to that.

He has considered going back to therapy more than once, but has quickly dismissed the idea. He’s not ready to deal with his feelings for Sherlock and if he’s honest with himself, he might never be, so what’s the point-?

Sometimes he wonders what would have happened if Sherlock hadn’t jumped after his confession. At the moment, it seemed like the easiest, most logical thing to do, but had Sherlock not died-

He’d rather not think about that.

And he knows that makes him a coward of the worst kind and, on occasion, it makes him feel terribly guilty, however-

His life is easier, more comfortable.

But there’s something missing.

It still feels wrong.

The day to put his plan into motion finally comes and Mycroft knows there’s no room for mistakes: this is their only chance.

It’s funny, how despite everything that has happened between them, they can still understand each other with just one look. It brings back memories of easier times, when he and his brother had been actual allies, instead of this not-quite-enemies.

Those days are long over, he supposes, but at least his brother seems to catch his bodily cues and reacts accordingly. If things go according to the plan, they’ll be out of his hellhole by the end of the night.

They’ll be on their way back to London.

And God knows what will happen afterwards.

John can barely put up with this outings with the Yarders. He likes Greg well enough and Molly mostly ignores him, but some of the people he works with-

Most of them were entirely too happy to believe in Moriarty’s lies and John doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to look past that. He’s forced to endure working with them, but after work hours-

He still comes most of the time, because Greg insists it’s not healthy for him to be all holeed up at home. And lately, considering Mycroft is God-knows-where, doing God-knows-what, John doesn’t have a perfectly sound reason for not joining his coworkers on a night of drinking and well…

Greg refuses to take no for an answer.

So here he is, trying not to kill someone. It’s a particularly bad night, because just as they did a little over two years ago, the press is going on about Sherlock and his brilliance; this time reivindicating him after it has been proved Moriarty was real. A little too late, of course, but that doesn’t seem to matter to people.

(Except John)

Anderson has been blabbing the whole night crazy theories of how Sherlock isn’t dead really and John is hard pressed not to just punch the insufferable man.

Next to him, Sally Donovan seems to share his thoughts.

The female has never openly admitted she was wrong about Sherlock, but John can read in her overall demeanor how sorry she is. He thinks that that is enough and definitely better than Anderson’s borderline creepy obsession.

Finally, he decides he has had enough and prepares to leave. Greg notices and of course the DI decides to follow him home, probably worried John will do something stupid if left alone.

He appreciates the concern, but it’s really unnecessary.

He’s fine. He’s perfectly fine. Of course he still misses Sherlock on occasion, but he’s fine.

Everything is fine.

Nothing to worry about.

Sherlock sags against him, his legs obviously incapable of keeping him up. Mycroft bites his lip worriedly, thinking that time is a precious commodity and they need to be quick if they’re going to make it out of the complex. It would be far better if Sherlock could walk (run), but they’ll have to make do.

His brother is worrisomely thin; he barely weighs anything. When Mycroft decides to pick him up and manages to do it without any strain, he worries, but forces himself to focus on the matter at hand: once they’re out of this particular level of hell, he’ll worry about his brother’s health.

His timing is perfect and he’s ridiculously proud of himself: it seems that regardless of all the time that has passed, he still knows how to do this.

Sherlock passes out at some point during their escape, but Mycroft has no time to stop and make sure he’s alright. He just keeps going, praying to a god he doesn’t believe in, to keep them safe. If they can make it to the meeting point-

Everything will be fine.

John wakes up with a splitting headache and wonders how that happened. He’s fairly certain that he didn’t drink that much the night before, but well, maybe-

“Ah, you’re up!” Greg exclaims enthusiastically, making the doctor cringe. The DI laughs, making much more noise than necessary just to torment his friend further.

Seriously, what kind of friend he is?

“Someone called,” Greg informs him, ignoring John’s attempt to ignore him by hiding under the covers. “Apparently, your husband will be back in a few days. A week at most.”

John perks up at the news, throwing the covers away. It’s probably silly, but he feels quite relieved at the news. Odd as it might seem, he has missed Mycroft a great deal.

Although maybe it’s not that odd. After… everything, they have certainly grown closer, so it just seems natural than he would feel his absence more keenly. Besides, unlike other times when his husband disappeared, John had no one else to keep him busy.

He frowns. That was an incredibly selfish thought.

He shakes his head, suddenly angry with himself. Two years have passed, but thoughts of Sherlock and what they had (and what they didn’t have) sneak upon him, reviving the guilt and the pain. It’s no way of living; it’s as far from healthy as it can be.

And yet-

“Hey mate, are you okay?” Greg looks worried and John forces himself to smile pleasantly.

“Yes, everything is perfect,” he says, trying to mean it.

But the truth is that nothing will ever again be perfect.

Not with Sherlock dead.

The doctors think Sherlock will make a swift recovery, at least physically. Mycroft is fairly certain that suggesting therapy will get him a scoff in the best of cases, some honest yelling (maybe even punches) more likely. Still, he supposes he will, if only to tell John he did.

No. He’s not thinking of John. Not now.

Not now when he still has a chance to leave his brother behind. He won’t. He just won’t.

But-

His phone rings and he picks up immediately. It’s nice to be back in touch with civilization; he really hates this whole field work business. He hopes Sherlock appreciates it.

(He won’t. But it was never about Sherlock, was it? It was about his guilty conscience)

“Hello?”

“Anthea tells me you’ll be back in a week. Well, she told Greg and he told me, but- you get the gist.”

Mycroft closes his eyes. He wishes he had checked the caller ID before picking up, but it’s too late for that. “Hello John. Yes, you’ve been correctly informed of my return.”

“How formal,” John jokes and Mycroft smiles, forlorn. He’ll miss him. He’ll miss him so much. “You’ll back for our anniversary, then.”

He hadn’t thought about that. He’s half tempted to postpone their travel, but figures it really doesn’t matter. Either way, he won’t stay married for long, so… “It seems so.”

“Are you okay?” John asks, sounding honestly worried and Mycroft’s heart clenches as his eyes flick towards the door of the bedroom where his brother is sleeping. It would be so easy-

“Yes. Just- tired.”

John hums thoughtfully. “Sorry, I just- I’ve missed you. I didn’t think-”

“Don’t,” Mycroft interrupts him, closing his eyes once more. “I’ve missed you too.” And I’ll miss you more.

“I’ll call you later,” John offers. “Once you’ve rested a little.”

Mycroft hums and he hears the call being disconnected shortly after. He leans back on his seat and tries to remind himself that his brother must be his top priority.

It used to be easy. Once Mycroft wouldn’t have hesitated to get Sherlock whatever he wanted to be happy. But then- then-

Things have changed.

He doesn’t think that they did for the best.

Sherlock wakes up feeling dizzy. His body aches vaguely, which makes him think he’s been drugged. He wonders why his captors would do that and then he remembers.

A slow smile spread across his lips. He’s safe now, isn’t he? Mycroft is here and his brother-

Oh. Oh. Right.

When they were children, Sherlock knew he could always count on his big brother to get him out of trouble. Mycroft would protect him, Mycroft would take care of everything. Mycroft had his back.

Funny, how things have changed.

He wonders if that’s an uncharitable thought and promptly decides it doesn’t matter. He has never claimed to be a very good person and he’s certainly not about to develop a conscience on the matter of his relationship with his brother. Sure, Mycroft helped him but he had also put him into quite a mess before, hadn’t he?

Then again- he supposes he can understand why he did it. Things haven’t been easy for them and they continued refusal to talk about- well, about everything that was going on, is what really caused this situation.

And Moriarty, of course. Let’s not forget the criminal mastermind.

He closes his eyes once more and allows himself to fall asleep once more, feeling relatively sure he’s safe now.

He can trust his brother for that much at least.

Sherlock eats dinner in silence, chewing thoughtfully. Mycroft considers it a good sign; a healthy appetite will certainly help his younger brother to make a quick recovery.

They’re supposed to start their journey back to London the following morning. Flying would be easier and quicker, but even now they must be careful: you never know who might be watching.

So they’ll travel by car and train as much as possible. Sherlock’s numerous injuries have been checked and bandaged, the doctors deming him well enough to travel. Still, it’s quite possible the journey won’t be kind on him and by the time they arrive to London he’ll need to go to the hospital for a little while.

Although Mycroft doubts Sherlock will comply.

But maybe- maybe he can get John to persuade him.

If John is still talking to either of them after this.

No. No, he’s not thinking about his husband right now. (He won’t be his husband for much longer, will he?)

His phone chimes with a text and Mycroft pulls it out to check it. A smile comes unbidden after reading John’s short text wishing him a good night (at least Anthea says it’s night where you are) and he quickly tries to smooth his face into his usual indifference, but when he looks up he can tell Sherlock knows what has just happened.

“John?” his brother asks flippantly, like he doesn’t care at all, but his whole body has tensed. Mycroft sighs and nods tightly. “How is he?”

“Well enough,” Mycroft replies tersely and Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, but doesn’t comment. Instead, he turns his attention back to his food, although now he looks lost in thought.

With a sigh, Mycroft goes back to his own meal, forcing his dark thoughts away.

No use in worrying, after all.

John sits by himself at his husband’s study, lost in thought, a glass of whisky at hand. It’s been a tiring day, although his tiredness has nothing to do with his actual work. No, the thing is that since Moriarty’s case has gained popularity once more (along with Sherlock, of course), he’s having trouble focusing on anything other than the still sharp pain in his chest.

Things had gotten better with time. Or maybe he just got better at pretending they were. It’s hard to say, really, particularly on days like today. He misses Sherlock, not use in denying that. And despite the time that has passed, he still has feelings for him. But he’s doing fine; he and Mycroft are happy, so why-?

He closes his eyes, fighting back tears. Some things just never change, apparently. Ridiculous, really, that he still feels so torn about his feelings, regardless of the fact that Sherlock is dead so it doesn’t matter anymore, but-

It does. In a way, it does. Because it all comes down to honesty or, in this case, lack of it. He doesn’t want to think he stayed with Mycroft because it was convenient but- He’s almost certain that’s not the case, because he knows he does feel something for his husband but-

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t allow himself to dwell on the thought too much. Still-

He takes a long sip from his whisky and sighs. His thoughts are running in circles; he knows he won’t reach any conclusion. The guilt will never stop eating him alive, but there’s nothing to be done about that. He should focus on what lies in front of him and stop worrying about the past.

He finishes his drink and stands up, heading towards the bedroom to try to get some sleep. He’s tired and he doesn’t want to be cranky tomorrow.

After all, his husband is coming home.

Chapter Text

Sherlock sleeps for most of the trip, but he doesn’t miss his brother’s concerned glances. He knows he’s actually worried about him, but he knows that’s not the only reason Mycroft looks so upset. He knows that regardless of John’s reaction to Sherlock’s return, Mycroft will be left dealing with the worst of the backslash.

He’ll probably never say it, but he’s thankful of his brother’s decision to help him, no matter the cost. He’s trying to make up for what he perceives as his mistakes, of course, but Sherlock’s still thankful.

He could have left him at Serbia to be killed. It would have make things far easier for him and since Sherlock had managed to disentangle Moriarty’s web- well, there really was no need for Mycroft to save him.

But he did. Out of guilt or brotherly love, he doesn’t really know, but it doesn’t matter. The end result is the same: Sherlock is alive.

So Sherlock does feel indebted and a tiny bit guilty. But it’s not enough to keep him away from London and the man he still loves. Even if the fall out isn’t positive- He has to take the chance.

But he does feel bad for what all this could mean for his brother.

As expected, the journey was hard on Sherlock, his injuries bothering him the whole time. But of course the stubborn man refuses to go to the hospital after they arrive at London and so they end up at Mycroft’s office, where a doctor looks him over and is promptly bullied by Sherlock to declare him perfectly healthy.

Mycroft frowns the whole time, but doesn’t argue.

Instead of paying actual attention to his injuries and the cares they’ll need, Sherlock focuses on getting all dressed up. It would be endearing, somewhat, if Mycroft’s heart wasn’t breaking. He knows what Sherlock wants to do now and he can’t bring himself to say no.

He wants to. He probably should. The right thing to do would be to break down the news gently to John first and then have Sherlock show up at somewhere John chooses so they can talk. However-

Sherlock stands in front of the mirror, surveying his appearance, a smile on his lips. Mycroft closes his eyes and readies himself for what it’s bound to be an awful night. Maybe he should let Sherlock do this on his own.

But that wouldn’t be right, would it?

“Ready?” he asks, his voice coming a little broken and Sherlock turns to him, a slight frown on his face that he quickly smooths and then nods. Mycroft sighs. “Keep in mind that this might- you might not be welcome.”

Sherlock smiles, but there’s no mirth in it. “We’ll see.”

He supposes they will.

John takes the day off to prepare something special. It’s their anniversary after all, and John is a bit of a romantic when the mood strikes him. And considering they’ve been apart for a little under six months-

Yes, he thinks a little romance is in order.

He glances at the clock on the wall and smiles. Anthea informed him Mycroft would arrive close to seven o’clock; it’s six thirty so he leaves the chicken in the oven and hurries to take a shower and get a change of clothes.

Everything will be ready in time.

By the time they make it to Mycroft’s house, Sherlock is a bundle of nerves.

He has been dreaming of and dreading this day since the moment he stepped off the roof at Bart’s. He knows John will be angry and hurt, but he hopes they can move past that. For now, that’s all he can focus on, because if he allows himself to think of what this might mean for his brother-

No. No time for that.

He takes a deep breath and walks into the house as if it was his own, his nose quickly picking up the smell of something being cooked. For a second, he hesitates. John undoubtedly prepared something special for Mycroft’s return and now- He shouldn’t- He shouldn’t ruin this for them. And yet-

Mycroft places a hand on his back, pushing him towards the dinning room. His brother looks grim, like a man walking towards his execution. In a way, Sherlock supposes he is, but he quickly forces himself to ignore the guilt the thought makes him feel.

“Dinner's almost ready!” John yells from the kitchen and Sherlock’s heart clenches. “In the meantime-” the door opens and John steps into the dinning room, looking quite handsome and Sherlock’s breath gets stolen away. His friend stops mid sentence, his eyes going wide.

“Hello John,” he says, his voice a barely audible murmur and John takes a step back, leaning against the kitchen’s door and closing his eyes briefly. When he opens them again he immediately turns to Mycroft, who is standing behind Sherlock.

“Wha-” the doctor begins, but interrupts himself, closing his eyes once more. He looks like he’s about to faint and so Sherlock takes a tentative step towards him but John quickly extends his hand, gesturing him to stay away.

Sherlock gulps and waits, barely daring to breath.

Finally, John takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, a look of determination on his face. “Has either of you eaten something?”

That’s certainly not what Sherlock was expecting. “John-”

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” John says firmly, his eyes never meeting his. “I’m going to bring dinner out, you’re going to sit down and you’re going to actually eat it or I’ll get very very mad. Madder, that is.” He sends one last glare in Mycroft’s direction and then walks back into the kitchen, leaving the Holmes brothers to share a grim look.

Mycroft gestures for him to take a seat and Sherlock obeys, at lost of what else he can do. His brother offers him a sad smile and they sit in silence, waiting for John.

The doctor brings dinner out, as promised. Some soup and a chicken that looks quite tasty, but Sherlock isn’t hungry. His eyes search his friend’s, but John refuses to make eye contact, instead busying himself with serving them dinner.

Sherlock quickly notices he’s not serving anything for himself.

Finally John seems satisfied and nods to himself. He heads towards the exit and Sherlock panics. “John-!” he exclaims, standing up but John’s glare makes him sit down right away.

“I need some time alone,” the blond male says, his tone firm. “So I’m going to go now and neither of you is going to come looking for me, alright?”

From the corner of his eye he can see Mycroft nodding and so he nods too, even if it physically pains him. It’s probably for the best; forcing John to stay right now might actually be a very bad idea.

So, with a heavy heart, he watches his friend go.

“I told you he might never forgive us.”

Sherlock can only pray he will.

Greg has barely opened the door when John blurts out “Sherlock is alive.” He hears a sharp intake of breath from inside the apartment and the sound of glass shattering, but mostly he observes Greg’s reaction to the news.

For a beat the DI’s face remains blank. Then he looks honestly surprised and John is glad to know he wasn’t the only one left in the dark. “What? What do you mean?”

“Exactly that,” John says, sounding more than a bit hysterical. “Sherlock is alive. He has just- I’ve just-”

Greg is still looking surprised, but he moves away to allow John in. Once inside he notices Greg has company. “Oh, I’m sorry. I should- ah, that’s- umm-”

“Nevermind me,” Molly interrupts him, waving her hand dismissively. “I’ll just- I’ll leave.”

“No, no, wait.” John feels quite mortified to have interrupted Greg’s date, but the DI doesn’t look particularly concerned. For the most part, it seems he’s trying to process John’s revelation and that makes the doctor feel marginally better about his own reaction to the news.

Molly is biting her lip gently, looking nervous. “I just- it’s probably better-”

“No, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have- I’m sorry I interrupted.”

Molly shrugs, a soft blush spreading across her cheeks. For a couple of seconds, nobody moves and suddenly a thought comes unbidden to John. “Didn’t you fill Sherlock’s forensic report?”

Molly flinches. She looks away, looking guilty and quite conflicted. “Oh my God. You knew?!”

“You knew?” Greg parrots, turning to the female and the poor forensic now looks actually pained, but she nods minusclely. John feels like he’s going to be sick and he has the sudden urge to go back home and strangle Sherlock (probably Mycroft too, for good measure)

“I can’t believe this,” John murmurs, collapsing on the couch. “I- I really can’t.”

“Sherlock specifically asked me not to tell you,” Molly tries to explain, even if John isn’t really paying attention. “He said it was safer that way.”

John puts his head between his hands, fairly certain he’s about to start yelling at the poor girl and she most certainly doesn’t deserve it. Sure, he’s angry, but it’s not Molly’s fault; she only did as she was told and honestly, how could he expect her to say no to Sherlock?

“God, I can’t believe- how could- how could he do this to me?” he whispers brokenly, his hurt finally catching up with him and quickly overcoming his anger.

“Well, to be honest, what you did was also a bit of a dick move,” Molly tells him very seriously and John stares at her confusedly. “Confessing your love before he jumped, I mean.”

“What?!” Greg exclaims, turning to glare at the doctor and John flinches.

“I was trying to keep him from jumping!”

“Still a dick move,” Molly informs him. “You had all this time to-”

“I couldn’t-! It wasn’t-” John sighs, defeated. “You know why I couldn’t.”

“You think that what you were doing was right? Or fair? Fair on Sherlock, fair on your husband? But they both decided to settle for what they could get because you were too much of a coward to choose!” the female almost yells and John can’t help to feel unnerved by her sudden anger. “If you had left Mycroft, he would have been hurt, but he would have eventually moved on. But you choose to stay, feeding them both scraps and now you’re the one feeling betrayed?”

Greg looks like he wants to intervene, but contains himself. Molly does have a point, even if John hates to admit it (and it’s probably ill-timed). Still... What they were doing before was obviously wrong, but does that make the lie of Sherlock’s death fair?

“So what’s this? Revenge? Getting us even? And I hadn’t- I- Before he jumped- Why didn’t he trust me enough to tell me?”

Molly bites her lip. “I think he knew you would oppose. And he couldn’t say no to you.”

John laughs mirthlessly and Molly flinches. He sighs, leaning back on the couch and closing his eyes. “God, what a mess.”

He sees Greg and Molly exchanging a dark look and the female nods, turning to pick her discarded coat and putting it on, getting ready to leave. Once more, John feels guilty about interrupting Greg’s date, but he can’t bring himself to say anything.

“I’ll just say this,” Molly tells him, before exiting the apartment. “You should let him explain.” And with that she’s gone, leaving a quite troubled John (and a slightly worried Greg) behind.

Greg goes to make tea, if only to have something to do instead of standing at the living room, staring at John. He’s still not over his own initial surprise of Sherlock’s not-death and now, finding out Molly had known all along…

Well, it’s certainly unexpected.

“How are you doing?” he asks, passing a cup to John who takes it absent mindedly and Greg wishes he hadn’t handed him the good china. “Must be quite- a lot to take in, I imagine.”

John sighs, carefully placing the cup on the table, not even taking a sip. “I don’t even know,” John whispers, running a hand through his hair. “Seeing Sherlock was- I- Deep down I always hoped- and now that he’s here-” he sighs once more, closing his eyes. “I’m angry, of course. Hurt. Upset. Troubled.” He chuckles, no amusement in his tone. “What do I do now Greg?”

The DI sighs, standing in front of his friend and surveying him with a critical eye. “I don’t know, mate. But I think you should get some sleep first; everything will hopefully make more sense in the morning.”

He can tell John doubts it, but he’s in no mood for talking so for now, he won’t argue with him. “Can I stay here tonight?” John asks softly. “I just- I can’t go back to the house.”

Greg nods understandingly. “You can stay here as long as you need,” he offers with a sad smile. “And seeing what you’ve been through today, you can take the bed. But just for tonight!”

John chuckles without humor and nods, thankful. Greg smiles briefly, wishing there was something more he could do for his friend (for all of them, really). But right now all he can do is give John a place to be in while he sorts through his feelings.

He hopes this time around they’ll actually talk about their feelings and expectations.

It’s a long overdue talk.

Is John with you?

Mycroft lays down on bed and stares at the ceiling, feeling more than a little worried. He imagined many outcomes for tonight, but he hadn’t honestly expected John to leave right away. He was ready to deal with an angry John. He was ready for the yelling and the demand of explanations, but this-

He didn’t think John would react so calmly. In the long run, he knows that’s far worse.

He picks up his phone, feeling a little desperate. He considers calling Gregory, but considering the hour, he figured a text would be more polite. Besides, if John is with him, he wouldn’t want to upset him too greatly.

The incoming text startles him, but he recovers quickly and opens it.

Yes. He’s asleep.

Mycroft sighs, relieved. At least he’s safe.

His phone pings once more. You two have a lot of explaining to do.

A rueful smile makes its way to his face.

They certainly do.

Chapter Text

Sherlock lies in bed wide awake for a long while. He considers going back to Baker Street more than once, but he doesn’t want to startle Mrs. Hudson with his sudden appearance, particularly in the middle of the night. Besides, he suspects he would get no sleep either way.

To say his encounter with John didn’t go as he expected would be an understatement. He had visualized two possible scenarios; on the worst (and the most likely) one, he expected John to be angry and hurt and to lash out. He had been prepared to deal with that; to soothe his friend with explanations and kind words.

On the other hand, when he allowed himself to be ridiculously positive, he imagined John would be happy to see him alive and everything else would be meaningless. But things didn’t turn out either way and now-

Now he doesn’t know what to think.

There’s no one waiting for you. He closes his eyes as Irene’s words ring in his ears. He had known they were the truth back then, but he had hoped-

Hope. What an useless thing.

Nothing for it. He’s here now and he’ll have to deal with things as they come.

It’s all that he can do.

***

Next morning finds the Holmes brothers sitting at the living room, facing each other, but actually miles apart, each lost in their own thoughts. There’s coffee and cake for breakfast (John certainly had plans for the night before) and it would be a pity to let it go to waste, but…

Neither is particularly hungry (although they did finish dinner the night before, neither wanting to upset John further)

The front door opens and both men stand up, an apology ready in their lips. However, the person that walks in is not who they’re expecting. “Morning,” Greg greets politely, aiming to sound cheerful even if it’s far from how he feels.

“Lestrade, what-?” Sherlock begins and the older man interrupts him smoothly.

“I’m just here to pick up some stuff for John. I’m not interested on being your messenger boy, so save your words for when John is ready to hear them.”

Sherlock bites down his lip, forcing himself to stay quiet. Greg nods and after smiling at Mycroft in greeting, he heads into John’s old room (that happens to be where Sherlock slept the night before)

The Holmes brothers stay where they are, staring at each other, both quite worried about John. Finally Greg comes back and he comes to stand in front of the youngest male. “I just wanted to say- It’s good to have you back. Even if I do think you were an ass for making us think you were dead.”

“I needed to,” Sherlock says, pleadingly. “Moriarty was going to kill you if I didn’t jump.” Greg arches an eyebrow and Sherlock sighs, looking away. “He said he would kill all my friends. And that he would save John for the last and-” he bites his lip hard, dragging blood. “I had to.”

The DI stares at him for a beat and then he suddenly pulls him up and into a hug. “I’ve missed you, you crazy bastard.”

Sherlock can feel tears threatening to escape his eyes and forces himself to keep it together. “Can’t say I return the sentiment.”

Greg laughs, letting go of him and shaking his head good naturedly. “Give him some time.” He turns to Mycroft then. “You both give him some space. He’ll come to you when he’s ready.”

And with that he leaves, leaving them alone once more with their respective dark thoughts.

Although Sherlock feels slightly more hopeful now.

Silly, isn’t it?

***

John goes through his morning routine, careful to avoid thinking about either Holmes. Greg shows up at some point with his clothes and other things and John smiles at him thankfully.

“So… you’ve got any plans for today?” Greg asks hesitantly. Whatever Sherlock or Mycroft told him this morning is obviously making him feel like he should try to convince John to go back and listen to them, but-

He’s not ready for that. “Go to work. Try to forget.”

Greg nods, not entirely convinced but knowing better than to try to change his mind. “Well, if you- if you need anything-”

“Thanks Greg,” he says, interrupting the DI. “Thanks for everything.”

The other man smiles a bit ruefully. “Just- talk to them, will you? I’m not saying you need to do it today or even this week, but- eventually.”

John nods tightly. “You should get ready for work too.”

Greg looks like he is going to say something more, but thinks better of it and instead goes to his room to finish getting ready for the office.

John sighs.

It’s going to be a complicated day (or week or month or year)

***

“I think you need a distraction.”

“I think you should keep your thoughts to yourself.”

Mycroft sighs. He expected his brother to behave like this, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Doesn’t he see that Mycroft is hurting too?

He does. But Sherlock has always find hard to pay attention to others needs when he himself is hurting and Mycroft knows not to hold it against him. He takes a deep breath and soldiers on, “there’s been a threat of a terrorist attack-”

“There’s always a threat somewhere sometime,” Sherlock interrupts smoothly, curling into the sofa, as if making himself smaller would stop Mycroft from talking. To be honest, this isn’t the sort of case he would ask Sherlock’s assistance for, but he does need the distraction and he’ll get the job done sooner than any of his agents.

“One of my men was killed while trying to retrieve some information. We think-”

“I’m not-”

“Sherlock, you can’t stay here and wallow in self pity. You need to do something useful to take your mind off things. You heard Gregory: John needs time.”

Sherlock seems to consider his words for a long while and Mycroft waits for him to make his decision. Finally the younger male seems to come to a decision and nods. “Okay. I’ll do it. But you’ll leave me alone afterwards.”

Mycroft nods; he’ll get the terrorist caught and Sherlock will be distracted from his dark musings.

Everybody wins.

In a sense.

***

Going back to working on cases helps to keep him distracted. The press getting on his back once more is not quite as pleasant, but it’s still a welcome distraction. If he allows himself to dwell too much on what has happened with John-

Well, that wouldn’t end nicely.

So he works. He takes even the simplest cases, desperately looking for a sense of purpose. Lestrade brings cases even if half of the time he could have solved them on his own. Sherlock knows it’s all a desperate attempt to keep him entertained, but he does appreciate the thought.

Mycroft’s case is barely more interesting, but not much. The downside of it is that Mycroft visits often on the pretense of checking his progress, but he’s obviously just checking on Sherlock.

Doesn’t he has his own issues to deal with?

But knowing Mycroft, he’s carefully avoiding thinking about that; after all it’s easier to focus on others people pain.

Two can play that game, though.

“Can’t handle a broken heart. How telling.” Mycroft stands up abruptly and turns around, so he’s not facing Sherlock. He takes long calming breaths and Sherlock feels a bit guilty, but doesn’t apologize.

For a long while, neither says anything, the silence tense between them. Mrs. Hudson comes in and leaves shortly after, probably sensing the uncomfortable tension between the brothers and deciding they’re better left on their own.

“I’m well aware I’ve failed you, Sherlock” Mycroft begins, still not facing him. “In many and varied ways through the course of your life. I’ve tried to- I’ve always tried to-” he takes another breath and turns around. “And yet, in your eyes, I always come up short. I never minded your resentment, because I always felt I deserved some of it, mostly for reasons that you can probably not even fathom. But on this particular matter- On this particular matter I believe we both are to blame for the fall out.”

“You sold me out to Moriarty,” Sherlock says, his tone cold and detached, but for the trained ear it’s easy to hear the anger simmering beneath. “I could have died, Mycroft.”

“I know. And I’m sorry Sherlock. So, so sorry. I don’t- I don’t know how to make it up to you. I don’t know if I can make it up to you,” he sighs, collapsing on the chair once more, cradling his head between his hands. “What do you want from me?”

And that’s a good question. What does Sherlock wants? “I don’t know. I’m just- I’m so angry at you. I think- I think I can understand why you did it, even if you didn’t mean it like that, but still- I’m angry.”

Mycroft nods, closing his eyes and leaning back on his seat. “Where do we go from here?” he asks timidly and Sherlock shrugs, making him sigh once more. “I want to fix this, Sherlock. You- you are my brother and I lo- I care for you.”

Sherlock can’t help smirking at his brother's almost slip. His next thought sobers him up right away. “What about John?”

Mycroft bites his lip, his eyes fixed on him on a rather unsettling manner. “You know how I feel about him; I can’t lie to you about that. But I also know how you feel about him and I know the feeling is reciprocal so-” he shrugs helplessly. “I would want- I would want to stay with him regardless. But that’s not really my choice to make.”

Sherlock frowns. “We can’t do this again, Mycroft. This… weird thing we had going on where we all knew there was so much more beneath the surface-”

“I know,” Mycroft interrupts him. “I know.” He rubs his temples tiredly, suddenly looking so much older than he is. “In any case, I’ve got the divorce papers ready. It’s just- it’s just a matter of signing them.”

The younger male bites his lip, the guilt almost overwhelming, but he doesn’t say anything else.

There’s nothing to say, really.

***

John immerses himself in his work, taking whatever comes his way and taking over his subordinates’ cases easily. Most forensics don’t mind, some glad for some time off and some knowing there’s really no point in arguing with him.

“I’m going to take a couple of days off,” Molly informs him one morning, looking deadly serious. John arches an eyebrow, confused by her tone and so she elaborates. “Sherlock asked me to help with… something.”

At the mention of his not-dead friend, John flinches. Still, he forces himself to nod and not comment, even though it’s evident Molly is waiting for him to say something. “Alright. I’ll cover you," John says placidly, his tone suggesting there’s nothing left to say.

Molly seems to think differently. “You haven’t talked to him.”

“No,” he replies simply, glaring at her. “I’m not ready.”

“You never are,” she tells him challengingly and John is hard pressed not to snap at her in anger. “It’s high time you do right by both of them, Dr. Watson.”

She leaves then, having said her part. John sighs, knowing she’s right and resenting her for it. He closes his eyes and takes deep breath, trying to sort through the mess his feelings are.

Molly is right. The time has come for him to face his feelings.

It’s not going to be easy.

But it’s necessary.

***

“I never thanked you.”

“Huh?”

“For helping. For keeping the secret. For being there in general.”

Molly sighs, running a hand through her hair and messing up her ponytail. There’s really nothing to say to that, save- “You’re welcome.” She smiles softly, patting his back, feeling awkward.

She’s not good at giving comfort, in any case. “He’ll come around.”

Sherlock smiles wistfully. “I don’t think so,” he sighs, looking lost and vulnerable. “You were wrong, you know. He hadn’t made a choice. None of us had. And that was exactly the problem.”

Molly hums. “You deserve better,” she tells him, her tone firm and Sherlock smiles. “But the heart wants what it wants, I suppose.”

That it certainly does.

***

John stands outside Baker Street, observing the door for a long while, trying to gather his courage. He still has the key Sherlock gave him ages ago, but he wonders if maybe knocking would be more polite. Then again, it’s not like Sherlock bothers with general politeness so…

Maybe he should talk to Mycroft first. He can trust his husband to give him the explanations he needs with clinical detachment and considering-

But no, he’s not ready to talk to Mycroft just yet. He might be ready to listen to Sherlock’s explanation, but not for Mycroft’s.

There are different types of betrayal and some are easier to deal with than others.

So he takes out his key and is about to open the door when he’s approached by two men. Next thing he knows everything is quickly becoming very dark.

He’s being kidnapped.

Just what he needed to end this horrid week.

***

The text comes in a middle of a meeting. Normally, Mycroft wouldn’t bother with his phone when he’s doing something important, but considering all that has happened this week, he decides to take a quick peek.

He’s glad he did.

He’s out of his office in a second and is already calling for Sherlock. His brother picks up and starts arguing, but Mycroft silences him quickly by telling him that John is in danger.

After that everything becomes a bit of a blur as he hurries into his car and starts driving towards his husband’s location; he’s in the serious need to have a conversation with the people in charge of keeping an eye on John. He tries very hard not to think of what would happen if he doesn’t make it in time.

Sherlock is closer, so he thinks at least he will make it in time.

Or at least he hopes so.

***

He manages to pull John out of the fire barely in time. The doctor coughs, unfortunately having inhaled too much smoke. He needs to be taken to the hospital, but Sherlock’s is too stressed out to think clearly.

Fortunately, it seems Mycroft had the good sense to inform Lestrade of what had happened and the DI shows up shortly after, paramedics on tow. He pries John away from Sherlock’s deadly grip and takes the consulting detective away, trying to get him calm down while John is getting look over.

Sherlock is barely aware of his surroundings, his thoughts running in circles. Who would do this and why? Is it because of the case he’s working on, the one about the terrorist attack? It’s the only thing that would make sense, unless-

No. No, Moriarty is dead and all his network has been brought down. This has nothing to do with Moriarty.

Right?

***

“This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Sherlock-”

“No, this wasn’t supposed to happen. The whole point of going after Moriarty’s network-”

“There are other evils in the world, Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupts with fake calm and the younger male growls, making the older one roll his eyes.

He’s just as worried as his brother, but he has a better handle of himself than Sherlock.

“He’s going to be fine.”

Sherlock shakes his head and continues pacing through the small waiting room. The doctor has come to assure them that John is doing well, but that they wish to keep him under observation for the night. And since visit hours are over-

“I want to see him.”

“Sherlock-”

“I WANT TO SEE HIM!” he exclaims at the top of his lungs, earning an irritated glare from the staff. Mycroft offers them an apologetic smile and grabs his brother by the back of his neck, dragging him towards the door. “NO! MYCROFT, YOU LET ME GO-”

They make it out of the hospital without causing much of an scene. Gregory is waiting outside, having apparently just ended the call he was making. “Take him home,” Mycroft orders, pushing his brother towards the DI.

“I’m not-!”

“You are going home,” Mycroft deadpans, glaring darkly. “John needs to relax and that’s not going to happen with you causing scenes outside his room”

“But I-”

Another glare and Sherlock does keep quiet, even if he continues glaring. Mycroft sighs. “Go home Sherlock. I’ll make sure you see him first thing in the morning.”

The younger Holmes looks slightly mollified by the promise and nods, turning around sharply and heading towards Gregory’s car, parked a few meters away. The DI rolls his eyes but goes after him, just sending one quick glare in the other man’s direction.

Mycroft watches them go and sighs. He’s tired and aching to see John himself, but knows he shouldn’t use his influence to overstep the hospital’s rules.

Then again-

No, better to wait for the morning. John wouldn’t appreciate seeing him right now, anyway.

With a resigned sigh he makes his way back to the waiting room and proceeds to do just that.

***

“What happened?” Lestrade asks, once they’re back to Baker Street. Sherlock ignores him and instead proceeds to flung himself onto the couch, a slight pout on his lips. Lestrade sighs and take a seat in front of him, frowning.

For a while, neither man says anything. Finally, Sherlock breaks the silence. “Someone texted Mycroft with a threat and John’s location. He called me, because I was closer.” He rubs a hand over his face, feeling frustrated. “This wasn’t supposed to happen anymore.”

Lestrade snorts, amused. “Sorry to break the news to you, Sherlock, but if he continues associating with you this is going to keep on happening.” Sherlock scowls darkly and Lestrade carries on. “Comes with the territory, really.”

“So I should stay away from him?”

The DI sighs. “That’s not what I meant. I meant- John is a grown up man, Sherlock. He knows what he’s getting into and he can take care of himself.”

Sherlock stays quiet,already feeling his emotions getting the better of him. “But I don’t want him to get hurt,” he whispers brokenly and his companion shakes his head sadly.

“You can’t always protect him.”

No, he supposes he can’t.

***

“I doubt visit hours begin at three in the morning.”

Mycroft’s lips curve upwards briefly and John smiles back. He’s tired and his throat feels sore, but all in all, he thinks he’s doing really well, considering-

Well, it could have been worse.

“You’re right. They start at 9,” Mycroft replies, coming to sit on the corner of the bed. “But being the British Government does have certain advantages.” He offers him a timid smile and John reaches out to hold his hand, startling him, but Mycroft doesn’t retreat his hand.

“I thought you held a minor position in the government,” he jokes and Mycroft’s smile widens, amused. John squeezes his hand gently, a sad smile on his own lips. “Thanks for- getting me on time, I suppose.”

“Sherlock-”

“I know. But you also helped.”

Mycroft doesn’t argue, instead pursuing his lips and John knows he shouldn’t press the issue. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.” His husband nods tightly, avoiding looking at him. “Mycroft?”

“I think you should go to see Sherlock. Talk to him. Sort things out.”

John frowns, finding his husband’s suggestion a little odd. “I was going to do that. I was outside the flat when I was abducted.” Mycroft tenses almost unperceivable and John sighs. “I’m still- I’m still upset, you know? But I- I do believe we need to talk” He pauses for a beat, gathering his courage. “You and me too.”

Mycroft nods. “Not yet, though.”

“No,” John agrees, leaning back on the bed. “But do tell me this, because I really can’t figure it out; why would you do that to yourself?”

“What do you mean?” Mycroft asks, deciding to play dumb. He knows John won’t be fooled, but he hopes he’ll let the matter drop. However, when John sits up once more he knows he’s going to have to answer. “I couldn’t- I didn’t want to lose you. I knew I would, that it was only a matter of time but I-” he smiles, self depreciating. “I just wanted to hold on to you as long as I could.”

It’s terribly sentimental and he hates the way his voice cracks at the end, but it’s also the truth. He doesn’t look at John, knowing he won’t be able to stomach his pitying look, so he decides it’s time to go, before he says something else.

“Mycroft, wait,” John pleads, trying to grab him by the wrist but Mycroft manages to escape. He can’t really do this, not now (not ever)

“I’ll send Anthea to pick you up. I promised Sherlock you would see him tomorrow, so she’ll drive you there.”

“Mycroft-”

“Sleep John. I’ll see you- I’ll see you around.”

He hurries to leave, knowing he won’t be able to keep his calm facade for long. He had known this was the way things would end and that by postponing the separation he would only hurt himself, however-

He was still hoping. How foolish of him.

***

His conversation with Mycroft in the wee hours of the morning leaves him more troubled than ever. He considers not going to Sherlock’s at all, but it doesn’t really feel like a good idea: he needs to start talking things through and this would be a step in the right direction.

Still, the conversation with his husband-

One thing at the time. There’s only so much emotional baggage he can handle and he needs time. He’ll work it out; it’s time to start clearing things up between the three of them and come up with solutions instead of avoiding their problems and pretending everything is dandy.

Easier said than done.

Chapter Text

When the door of the apartment opens and John gingerly walks in, Sherlock holds his breath. His friend looks around, probably looking for any changes, seeing he hasn’t been here in the last two years, so Sherlock has a few seconds to gather his wits and observe him unabashedly, which is something he hasn’t quite managed yet since whenever they’ve been together there were other things going on.

His lips curve into a bright smile, his joy shining through. Things are far from perfect, of course, but John is finally here and that’s what matters.

“John,” he whispers almost reverently and the doctor finally looks at him, returning his smile even if a little bit hesitantly. It doesn’t matter, because at least he’s here and that’s- that’s-

That’s all he needs, really.

“Hello,” John says, once again looking around and avoiding his eye. “I- I just-” he clears his throat, uncomfortable and Sherlock frowns lightly, his happiness quickly being eclipsed by sudden wariness. What if John has come just to say he can’t see him ever again?

Panic threatens to overwhelm him. Of course he had always known that there was the possibility that John would be so angry with him (them) that he wouldn’t be able to look past it, severing their connection right away. Still, in his heart he had always believed-

“You’re working on something?” John asks, obviously avoiding the real reason of his visit and coming to stand in front of Sherlock’s board on the wall. He examines the pictures curiously, interested, but mostly just looking for a distraction.

Sherlock considers broaching the subject of his ‘death’ and the two years that followed but-

This is easier. Simpler. And less risky.

Or so he thinks.

***

The sudden epiphany doesn’t really surprise him; John’s presence has always helped him to concentrate better. His conductor of light he once called him and that still holds true, despite the breach that has opened between them.

Following leads and jumping into action; that they can do with such naturality that it seems like time hasn’t passed at all. Once again it’s the two of them against whatever criminal they’re facing.

That’s good, that works well.

For now, it’s enough.

***

Following Sherlock to face some unknown danger feels natural; it feels right. He falls into step easily, as if they had never stopped doing this. John smiles, despite himself, feeling at peace for the first time in a very very long while.

And it’s crazy, because they’re heading head first into the unknown, looking for a bomb of all things. He should be more nervous, more worried, even scared but all he feels is elation. Because finally, finally things are right.

That’s what matters, isn’t it?

***

But things go downwards pretty quickly. Suddenly they’re standing in an empty wagon, filled with explosives, that is about to go off in less than two minutes. John stares at Sherlock helplessly, urging him to find a solution, but his friend comes up with nothing and so John resigns himself to his death.

However… there are things still left unsaid and maybe it’s time to voice them.

Funny, how death always makes him want to confess. “You let me mourn you.”

Sherlock looks away guiltily. “It needed to be done.” He turns to him, tears shining in his eyes, but he’s holding them back. “I’m so sorry, John. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

And John has to laugh at that, because it figures Sherlock would apologize for that, when he’s the one- “I’ve hurt you worst.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply right away, instead nibbling his lip non too gently. “I understand why you did it.” He takes a step towards him and then seems to change his mind. John closes his eyes, all his regrets threatening to drown him.

They’ve wasted so much time. “I find it hard to… talk about these things.” Sherlock snorts and John smiles sadly. “I just- I wanted you not to be dead so badly…”

“Careful what you wish for,” Sherlock says, an unamused smile curling his lips. “If I was… you wouldn’t be here. You could have- you and Mycroft-”

“I know,” John interrupts him, tears pricking the back of his eyes. “But I’m glad you’re not.”

Sherlock looks up sharply, looking at him like he’s reading into his very soul. John stands the scrutiny stoically, willing himself not to close off. “Did you mean it?” Sherlock asks quietly, almost like he doesn’t want to ask.

John frowns. “What?”

“That you loved me. That you were in love with me.”

John takes a deep breath, looking away. “I did.” Sherlock whimpers and John looks at him once more, soldering on. “I do.”

It’s like the whole world has stopped spinning. They stare at each other, the silence deafening. “I thought about that constantly,” Sherlock confesses, his voice a strained whisper. “Whenever things got too rough I- I thought about you. About your hand in mine, your lips under mine, your voice when you said-” he takes a step closer, but he seems still unwilling to finish closing the distance between their bodies. “I love you John. I love you so much.”

John feels tears escaping his eyes and doesn’t bother to hide them. He nods solemnly, knowing the bomb will go off any second now and bracing himself for the explosion. If they’re going to die, he’s happy they managed to have this conversation.

John closes his eyes and waits.

The seconds tick by and nothing happens. John opens his eyes again and stares at a sheepish looking Sherlock, who is biting his lip nervously. “Sherlock?”

The consulting detective moves away so John can look down at the bomb’s timer. It has stopped. He looks up at Sherlock once more and glares. “You deactivated it.”

“I’m sorry John,” Sherlock whispers urgently, finally closing the distance between them. “But you have always reacted better under pressure.”

That much is true. Still, John glares and Sherlock smiles bashfully at him, which makes the doctor smile too. He has never been able to resist Sherlock’s smile after all. “You’re an absolute git.”

Sherlock laughs.

***

Greg watches as Sherlock and John walk out of the abandoned tunnel and something inside him clenches. One look and he can tell they’re doing better now; their issues are far from resolved of course, but they’re willing to try.

He’s happy for them. He really is.

He’s worried about Mycroft though.

So, while the pair heads towards Baker Street, already discussing dinner options, Greg tries to wrap things up as quickly as possible to go and pay a visit to the older Holmes.

He doubts he’s up for a pleasant evening.

***

As John sheds off his jacket, obviously in a good mood, Sherlock can’t help to smile brightly at him. It’s so easy to fall into their old patterns and they could go on like this forever, once more pretending-

But no. After what they both have confessed, they can’t go back to what they were. It wouldn’t be right. Things must change now, but Sherlock must admit, at least to himself, that he doesn’t know what happens now.

To be completely honest, he’s dreading a bit finding out.

***

“Gregory, what a pleasant surprise.”

It’s not pleasant, nor a surprise and both know it. Greg holds Mycroft’s irritated stare and the older male finally sighs, gesturing him to take a seat. The DI complies, looking around and feeling out of place. He has never liked going to Mycroft’s club, but he figured it was a good place as any to have this talk.

“You already know what happened.”

Mycroft hums. “Yes. My people have already arrested the culprit, although-”

“That’s not what I meant,” Greg interrupts and he can see the other man clenching his jaw, so he knows he must tread carefully now: one wrong word and Mycroft will have him kicked out of the place.

“I know what you meant,” Mycroft says, staring at nothing in particular. He stands up abruptly and goes to pour himself a glass of whisky. He serves Greg one too and retakes his seat, looking collected once more. “It was inevitable, really.”

“Was it?”

Mycroft nods tightly. “I always knew John would forgive Sherlock.” He takes a large gulp of his drink, almost finishing it in one go. “Just as I knew he wouldn’t forgive me.”

Greg isn’t certain that’s the case, but it certainly looks like John has finally made a decision. “Are you-?”

“I’ve already signed the divorce papers,” the other man interrupts him, grimacing when he notices he has finished his drink. Greg passes his own silently and Mycroft finishes it too shortly after. “I’ll have them delivered tomorrow morning.”

“Mycroft-”

“Things can’t be as they once were. Now that they both have acknowledged their feelings, something must change.” He closes his eyes, looking vulnerable (broken) for a second, but he recovers quickly. “I have to let him go.”

Greg bites his lip, wondering what he can do or say to make things easier on his friend. The Holmes have always been tricky to deal with, because you never know how they’re going to react when a emotional component is involved.

“I’m sorry,” Greg says futility, knowing there’s really nothing for him to say. The other man smiles ironically at him before standing up once again.

“I have a lot of work to finish, Detective Inspector. I bid you a good night.”

Greg still finds it a bit unsettling how quickly Mycroft can slip into his cold persona; the one that doesn’t care about anything or anyone one bit. The DI nods to himself and stands up too, getting ready to leave.

“Maybe you should talk to him before making any decisions, though,” he suggests, once he’s standing by the door. “If nothing else, John would appreciate having that conversation in person.”

For a beat, Mycroft seems to think about it. “Good evening, Inspector.”

Greg sighs and leaves.

Chapter Text

John wakes up feeling well rested for the first time in what feels like forever. Without opening his eyes, he stretches his back, a smile on his lips, feeling in a very good mood.

“Morning.”

He opens his eyes to find Sherlock watching him from the entrance of the room. The younger male looks like he has just gotten out of bed himself, his hair falling messily around his face, eyes still puffy with sleep but smiling as brightly as John.

“Morning,” he replies, his smile somehow widening. His friend steps in carefully, like he’s unsure and that’s so unlike Sherlock that John can’t help to frown a little.

“I brought you coffe,” Sherlock says, offering him a mug. “I- I really don’t know the proper protocol for morning afters, but Mrs. Hudson said-”

Morning afters. Does he realize how inappropriate that might sound? It’s not- they didn’t sleep together last night. They didn’t even kiss, even if it was obvious they both wanted to. But before anything can happen, they still have things to figure out and last night, with the adrenalin high due a solved case, the moment wasn’t quite right.

Now however-

John opens his mouth to say something (he doesn’t know what) when the doorbell rings. They exchange a look and then Sherlock bites his lip and hurries downstairs to deal with their unexpected visitor.

John sighs, placing his coffee mug on the night table and rubbing a hand over his face. He knows their conversation is long overdue and while they have already (finally) confessed their feelings for each other, there are still things left unsaid.

He wishes he wasn’t so bad with this.

The sound of people arguing drags him out of his own troubled thoughts and he listens closely, quickly recognizing Sherlock’s interlocutor.

He suddenly wants to run. Run far far away and never come back. That would be selfish and cruel, but at this point, it sounds better than actually talking to the man waiting for him downstairs.

He sighs once more and gets ready to leave the room.

After all, his husband is waiting for him .

***

Mycroft manages to keep himself perfectly collected, even if his insides are twisted with hurt. He smiles pleasantly at Sherlock, who of course doesn’t offer him the same courtesy and instead chooses to glare at him. Mycroft forces himself to keep his eyes fixed on the other male’s, not wanting to be confronted with any physical evidence of what might have happened last night.

He can’t begrudge either of them what might have happened last night. If he’s honest with himself, it was probably long overdue. Emotions and talking about them doesn’t come easily to either Holmes, but Mycroft knows how easy it can be to overlook such things and get down to business, so to speak.

John finally appears and stares at Mycroft as if it is actually physically painful to be in the same room as him. He expected as much and had therefore prepared himself for it, so his face remains neutral, nothing betraying the hurt he’s feeling.

“Mycroft, I-” John begins and the older male knows that if he doesn’t interrupt him now, they’ll get stuck in an uncomfortable conversation that will do nothing but hurt him further. Whatever explanations John might have are useless; he had always known things will come down to this and so there’s no one to blame but himself for being a sentimental fool.

“I was just dropping this by,” he says, passing John the divorce papers. His husband (ex husband?) takes them gingerly, opening the folder and peering at them curiously. For a beat, nobody seems to even breath and so Mycroft soldiers on. “As you can see, I’ve already signed them. You’ll also find another Civil Partnership solicitude; the conditions of the original arrangement can be maintained as long as you are married to a Holmes, so-”

He hears Sherlock’s intake of breath and he smiles ironically at himself. It’s a logical solution, really, no reason for his brother to be so surprised.

That’s when he notices the icy silence coming from John, the air between them suddenly painfully tense. He looks at his (ex) husband and frowns, but the doctor doesn’t acknowledge him, his eyes still trained on the documents.

He turns back to Sherlock, who also looks wary, but seems to be as much at loss as Mycroft himself is. He looks at John once more and the blond takes a deep breath, a clear sign he’s trying to get himself under control and not just start yelling like a maniac.

Quite odd, really.

“So this is it,” John utters darkly, now openly glaring at him. “You’re just going to- what? Sign me off to your brother, like a fancy piece of furniture? A pretty object you owned but now you’re done with it, so-”

“Don’t you dare,” Mycroft whispers, his own tone going icy. “This isn’t about me, John. If it was up to me, I would never, ever let you leave.” He holds John’s glare steadily. “But you’re not an object. You’re a person and you’ve made your decision and I-”

“Have I? Because it seems to me that you’re the one making decisions here, Mycroft.”

The older male stands in silence, pondering the other’s words, feeling confused. “Isn’t that what you want?” He asks, hurt lacing his tone. “You can’t honestly tell me you want- we can’t- you don’t love me-”

John rubs his temples tiredly, glaring daggers at him. “I don’t- I’ve just- I do love you, dammit!”

The words shouldn’t make his heart soar, but they do. Then he looks in Sherlock’s direction and the pain in his brother’s face is so evident that all elation he might have felt quickly evaporates. “You can’t do this to us, John,” he murmurs, deadly serious. “We can’t- You can’t keep feeding us scraps and-”

“That’s not it!” John exclaims, frustrated with him and with himself. “I don’t- Listen, I don’t find easy talking about this things, but that you- you went and- Why do you always make decisions behind my back?” he demands, his own hurt showing. “I know I’ve failed to- But you could at least-” He bites his lip viciously, looking away. “Don’t I get at to give my input at least?”

Mycroft shares a look with his brother. This is about Sherlock’s “death” and they both know it. It’s unlikely John will let go of his (probably rightful) anger any time soon, but if he doesn’t, there’s just not moving forward and-

“What do you want, John?” Mycroft asks, non exactly gently and John sighs, looking tired and defeated.

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “I wanted- I was planning on talking to Sherlock, get some explanations, figure things out. And then I was planning on talking to you and doing the same but this- this-” he tosses the papers to the floor, shaking his head. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

And with that, he heads back to the room upstairs, stomping his feet. Mycroft frowns, unsure what any of this means and turns to look at his brother, who looks just as confused as he is.

“We should probably-” Sherlock waves his hand vaguely “Give him time?”

Mycroft frowns. He doesn’t like waiting, he has never been a patient man. Then again there are certain things that just can’t be rushed. “I should be heading to work. Let me know when he wants to talk to me.”

Sherlock nods, unsure. “Have a nice day, brother.”

Mycroft smiles sadly and turns to leave.

This morning didn’t quite turn out as he expected.

***

Sherlock stares at the stairs leading to John’s bedroom for a long while, trying to gather his courage. He knows he wants to climb them and demand an explanation from his friend, but he finds himself afraid of just doing that. It’s illogical, he knows, but-

Although maybe it’s not that illogical. Last night, he had been so convinced that- and now this morning-

That’s the problem with John. He always sends mixed signals.

But Mycroft is right, neither of them will now settle for scraps of affection. John needs to decide what he wants, who he wants to be with it. And if that person isn’t Sherlock, well… he’ll just… he’ll accept it. It’ll hurt, of course, and he’s unsure of how he’ll move from that but well…

He’ll accept it.

So he climbs the stairs, making unnecessary pauses and almost talking himself out of it at least thrice, but he finally makes it into the room. John is sitting on the bed, his head between his hands, looking quite confused.

“What was that?” Sherlock asks bluntly, knowing subtlety is overrated. His friend looks up, apparently startled by his sudden presence. Sherlock gulps audibly, remembering his previous hesitation and wishing he could go back in time and don’t do this.

“I just- It just angered me so-” John sighs, pulling at his own hair in frustration. “I meant what I said last night, Sherlock. I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. But Mycroft is- he’s-” he sighs once more, leaning back. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Try,” Sherlock demands, his tone going cold and detached. He’s tired of this; these half truths and half lies that lead them nowhere. If there’s no hope for his love he wants to know and he wants to know it now.

He deserves as much.

John stares at him for a beat, his expression serious. “When I met you- I just knew you were going to be important. I just- I felt it, you know? You were so- so much bigger than life and I- I was immediately pulled towards to you”

He makes a pause and Sherlock steps closer, suddenly wanting to be held but knowing better than to ask for it, at least not until this conversation is over. “With Mycroft- it wasn’t like that. Heck, I was pretty scared of him at first.” He smiles without humor, running a hand through his hair. “But I- I grew to love him. Because he was- he is-” He shakes his head, chuckling sadly. “I liked him. And so familiarity and companionship turned into something bigger, something more than that. So I- I love you both. In different ways, but I do and that’s why I felt so… betrayed by what you did, because the two people that I-” He’s almost crying now and Sherlock has the irrational urge to hug him, even if he’s hurting too. “I realize I haven’t been fair to either of you. Trust me, I know I’ve done my fair share of shitty things, but that doesn’t make me any less angry. Still… I’m sorry Sherlock. So sorry.”

So is he, to be honest.

But of course he doesn’t say so.

***

Greg stays in silence after listening to John’s tale. To be completely honest, he isn’t sure he understands either and he supposes that both Holmes must be even more baffled at John’s words. “I really- I don’t- I mean, I-” he takes one look at John’s tormented look and he sighs, trying to gather his wits. “I’m not saying it’s impossible to love two people at the same time. It’s not- not conventional, but then again, nothing about you or the Holmes is.” He shrugs. “I’m not saying you must choose just one. But I do believe you should be sure of what you want, what you expect and what you’re willing to commit to before you- if you decide to-” he shrugs once more, helplessly. “It won’t be easy, John. A lot of actual talking is going to be needed and you three suck at that and God knows how terribly possessive both are of what they consider theirs, but…” he waves his hand vaguely, unsure of his next words. “Maybe you can pull it off.”

“I wasn’t- you realize I wasn’t asking-”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know. But I’m telling you what I think. Maybe you could make it work, but not right now.” He narrows his eyes at him. “They hurt you, John. And it’s natural you’re angry at them and you’re probably going to be angry for a long while and that’s perfectly normal. But you’ve also hurt them and it’s only fair that before you pursue anything with either or both of them, you sort through your own feelings and expectations.”

John bites his lip, lost in thought. “I’m- I’m scared, Greg. I don’t- I can’t lose them.”

The DI sighs. “Sadly, my friend, that’s a risk you’ll have to take.”

Relationships are about trust and love and willingness to compromise. They’re about not being selfish and thinking of the other before you think of yourself. Greg knows how self absorbed his friends can be and how easy they find to overlook the needs (and rights) of others.

But if he must be honest, he does believe they can make it.

They’re not ready for it just yet, though. Rushing will lead to nothing but more heartbreak and he hopes that can be avoided.

Only time will tell how this story will end.

***

“So, I’ve made a decision.”

John stands at the entrance of their house, his clothes rain soaked and the whole scene feels like it’s from some corny Hollywood movie, but Mycroft tries not to think of that. Instead he nods serenely, “and what is it?”

“I’m going to sign the divorce papers.” He expected it, he really did, but after this morning… he can’t help to feel his heart breaking a little. “But I’m not marrying your brother. Heck, I’m not even going to date your brother. We need- we need time. All of us. We need time to heal, time to figure out what we want.” He takes a deep breath. “If possible, I would like us to stay friends, Mycroft.”

He frowns, not entirely having expected such outcome. Still- “I don’t think- I don’t think I’ll find that particularly easy.”

John nods. “I know. And that’s okay, neither will I and maybe we can’t right away, but eventually, I- I care for you. I care for you a great deal and I do love you, but I-” he chuckles, self depreciating, shaking his head. “God, we should have done this ages ago. Before things got so out of control that-” he interrupts himself, shaking his head once more. “Nevermind. What’s done is done and wishing it was different won’t change a thing. So. Do you agree?”

Mycroft nods hesitantly. “It’s not like I can refuse, anyway. I won’t- I won’t keep you against your will.”

“No, of course not.” John sighs, looking more tired now. “That’s not- I didn’t- God, I’m really bad at this.”

Mycroft scoffs. “I’ve noticed. That kind of how we got into this mess in the first place.”

John can’t help to smile at that.

***

“Would you- do you think I could move in here?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer right away, instead choosing to stare at the ceiling for a few seconds. Finally, he shrugs. “In which capacity?”

“Flatmate,” John replies. “Colleague.” He’s coming to stand closer, but Sherlock still doesn’t look at him. “Friend.”

Sherlock continues staring at the ceiling, thinking. “I love you, John. If you can’t-”

“Sherlock, after everything we’ve been through- Even though your brother and I are getting divorced, I don’t think it would be a good time to start a relationship. We both- we need time to heal.”

The consulting detective frowns. “I’m done waiting. I’ve waited for too long.”

John sighs, sitting at the feet of the couch, staring at Sherlock sadly. “I know. And I’m sorry. But it wouldn’t be right.” He carefully places a hand over his tight, hesitantly. “I want to do right by you, Sherlock. I want to actually get things right this time.”

The younger male considers that, still not very convinced, but not feeling like arguing. “Alright. I suppose- I suppose that could work.”

John smiles.

Chapter Text

John isn’t sure how it happens. One minute he’s arguing with Sherlock over the contents of the refrigerator, the next Sherlock has stepped into his personal space and the next they’re falling into Sherlock’s bed, kissing frantically and rutting against each other like a couple of horny teenagers.

Only he does know how it happens. It was inevitable, really, after so many years of dancing around each other, it was obvious they would end up colliding; it was just a matter of when.

If he’s honest with himself (and he rarely is, but in this particular case it makes no sense not being) when he thought about kissing Sherlock, he always expected their first kiss to be hesitant. Turns out that it’s anything but. Sherlock kisses like he does everything else: without an ounce of doubt, throwing himself headfirst, not sparing a second to think about consequences.

It’s rather exhilarating, truth to be told.

But when it ends… god, when it ends it’s exactly as John always thought it would be: guilt eats him up alive and he’s tempted to bolt out of bed as soon as the post orgasmic haze banishes. However, he squashes his urge to flee and instead smiles at Sherlock, who is watching him closely, obviously having already figured out the thoughts running through his head.

When it becomes evident he’s not going to leave, Sherlock’s stance relaxes and the taller man curls closer, a soft smile on his lips. They don’t quite cuddle, but they lay together in companionable silence, both quietly contemplating what has just happened.

As beginnings go, this isn’t so bad.

Not perfect. But definitely not bad.

***

They don’t really talk about it. They both seem to have acknowledged their relationship has shifted, but neither is quite willing to address the matter. They carry on like they’ve had in the last 10 months of cohabitation, with the sole difference that nowadays they just use a bedroom.

It’s far from ideal, to be honest. Both know how much their silences have costed them in the past, but their skills at communication haven’t improved at all and so they don’t try. They just hope that this time around, things will somehow work better.

And they do. For a while.

And then the date of the ‘Anniversary’ comes.

***

John doesn’t notice the date until he’s back at the apartment. It’s pretty early, not even 4 o’clock and the place is deserted. Sherlock left the day before, having found a case in Hampshire that required his immediate attention and since John was dealing with an influx of work because a ridiculous number of his subordinates had called in ill, he couldn’t follow.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It’s not, after all, the first case Sherlock has taken solo since John moved in, but when the doctor looks at the calendar hanging on the wall, he immediately freezes.

Today, exactly a year ago, Sherlock came back for the dead.

Today, 8 years ago, he married Mycroft Holmes.

He goes to make some tea, his body going on autopilot, his mind far far away. He supposes he shouldn’t get so emotional about a date; there’s no use on torturing himself with memories of what happened a year, or eight, or five, or whenever ago. Today is just another day like the one before.

Except it isn’t. Not really.

His phone rings and he picks it up in automatic. It’s a text, so he assumes it’s from Sherlock, updating him with news of his case. He finishes making his tea and goes to sit at the living room, determined to act like today holds no especial significance.

As it turns out, the text it’s from Mycroft.

They haven’t really talked since the night John announced he was signing the divorce papers. They haven’t seen each other since they had to go to courthouse to finish the divorce procedure. They have called each other in a couple of occasions; brief, informative conversations that felt a bit too stiff and that seemed to show that the whole ‘being friends’ thing wasn’t going to work.

And now this.

Dinner?

John’s fingers hover over the keypad, wondering should he answer. He should say no. It would be for the best, really; he’s technically with Sherlock now and he shouldn’t- tempting fate is-

Pick me up?

It seems some people never learn from their mistakes.

(But was it a mistake?)

***

Dinner is nice. More than nice, actually. The ride to the restaurant is a bit unnerving, but the actual dinner is quite pleasant: the food is delicious and Mycroft behaves charmingly. Conversation flows easily between them, the comfortable companionship they once shared is back without any sort of real effort on John’s part and all in all, he finds himself enjoying the evening immensely.

In the back of his mind there’s a voice nagging him about how wrong it is, but he keeps telling himself he’s not actually doing anything wrong. After all, what’s wrong with dinner between friends (even if said friend used to be your husband and today would have been your eighth anniversary)?

He can't entirely shake off the sense of wrongness, but he can ignore it quite nicely.

Mycroft drives him back home and when they say their goodbyes John’s eyes keep dropping to Mycroft’s lips. But that’s a line he’s most definitely not crossing, no matter what, so he exits the car hastily, almost tripping in his attempt to leave quickly. Mycroft notices, of course, but the car drives away without the older man attempting anything.

John stumbles back to the apartment shaking. He shouldn’t have gone out for dinner with his ex husband on their bloody anniversary, but he guesses that goes showing how incredibly unbelievable stupid he can be.

To be fair, Mycroft shouldn’t have asked either. But John agreed, so they both are to blame, he supposes.

When he catches his breath, he notices Sherlock has returned. He’s sitting at the kitchen counter, supposedly examining something in his microscope, but John can tell he’s just pretending to be occupied. His heart stops, but he quickly forces himself to act normal.

Nothing happened. He did nothing wrong.

There’s no reason for him to be feeling so damn guilty.

“Had a nice dinner?” Sherlock asks casually, not looking up. He must know who was John out with; even if he wasn’t a genius detective, John’s clothes are telling enough. Suits are, after all, as far from his usual clothes as they come.

“Yes,” he replies calmly and is proud of how collected he sounds. He steps closer, aiming to look nonchalant and goes to put on the kettle. “Have you eaten something?”

Sherlock grunts and that could be a yes or a no, but John knows better than to press for an actual answer. Instead he focuses on making tea, determined to keep acting normal. “How was the case?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at his- flatmate? who is still pretending to be terribly entertained with the microscope.

Sherlock looks up then, a vague look of disgust on his face. “Dull,” he replies and launches himself on an explication of a rather simple case of embezzlement that does, in fact, sound quite dull.

“Why did you take it then?” John asks, honestly curious, placing a cup of tea in front of the other male. “You must have known it was going to be a boring one.”

For a beat, Sherlock doesn’t answer. Then he shrugs non committedly. “It sounded more promising on paper.”

John realizes his friend is lying right away. And he realizes why he took the case a second later: Sherlock knows exactly what day is today.

Embarrassment and anger fight a battle inside of him, both demanding him to do something about the deception. It’s not fair to be this irrationally angry, he doesn’t think, but what was Sherlock thinking? Was this- what? a test? Of his- loyalty? Of his- feelings?

What was Sherlock trying to prove?

The consulting detective has noticed he has been discovered and although he looks sheepish, he doesn’t seem regretful. For a second, John’s anger flares at the observation, but he quickly forces himself to remain calm. Snapping at Sherlock will get them nowhere and-

“I’m going to bed,” he announces as calmly as he can and Sherlock nods. For a second, John considers heading back to his old room upstairs, but one quick look over his shoulder at Sherlock makes him realize that would be a terrible, terrible idea.

So with a deep breath, he heads into their bedroom, changes into his pajamas and lies down, careful to keep his mind blank so his temper may not rise again. A few minutes (or hours, he really can’t tell) later, Sherlock comes in too and curls next to him, not really touching him, but comfortably close.

John falls asleep shortly after.

***

Sherlock had planned to come back at least 2 days later. He’s not sure anymore what he had wanted to prove, what he was expecting to come home to, but he does know this: John is angry.

John wasn’t supposed to know he had done it on purpose. It hadn’t- it hadn’t really been a test. Or at least, he doesn’t think so. He was meant to be gone for 3-4 days and so when he came back, whatever evidence of whatever might had happened between his brother and John would have faded enough for Sherlock to easy overlook it.

But he had found himself incapable of going through with his plan. The mere idea of what could be happening… he had packed quickly and took the earliest train, but had managed to miss John for a few minutes. He had sat at the living room for the longest time, torturing himself with different scenarios and wondering what would he do if John didn’t come back tonight.

His fears had turned out to be for nothing; it seems John will be as loyal to him as he once was to Mycroft.

But the knowledge doesn’t make him feel any better.

***

They don’t talk about that night. They carry on like nothing has happened and John knows that it’s a terrible mistake, but he doesn’t know how to broach the subject and so he doesn’t.

And then Christmas comes.

The year before he spent the holidays by himself, while Sherlock went to visit his parents. Considering Sherlock had been back from the dead for a very short while, his attendance had been practically mandatory even if he didn’t want to go. John, on the other hand, had been sure it wasn’t a good idea for him to go.

This year however, Mrs. Holmes herself called to invite him and how could he say no?

He expects things to be a little tense, but his ex in laws treat him as if nothing has changed at all. He visits his own mother shortly and she does treat him with barely concealed anger, but Mrs. Holmes is as lovely as ever before.

It’s… unnerving, to be completely honest.

Mycroft arrives on Christmas Eve, just in time for dinner. Afterwards they chat politely, even if the conversation is a little tense. Sherlock sits next to him on the couch and contributes to the conversation on occasion, much to John’s surprise.

If Mycroft is surprised at all it’s impossible to tell.

Sherlock ends up retiring early and although John considers following him, decides against it in the last second. He’s not sure about his sleeping arrangements for the night, to be honest. He’s not entirely certain that staying in Sherlock’s bedroom would be appropriate, but-

“There’s a guest’s bedroom downstairs,” Mycroft informs him, his eyes fixed on the staircase where his brother disappeared a few minutes ago. “But my parents would hardly be scandalized if you decided to stay with Sherlock.”

He’s not sure what to say to that. How do you go about talking to your ex husband about your current love and sex life?

He finds himself thinking of their last Christmas together and of the enigmatic conversation they had on that night. In retrospective, he should have known something was terribly off, but he had preferred to ignore all the signs. Now-

“I really can’t- how could you-” he bites his lip, not really wanting to finish that thought. Mycroft sighs, leaning back on his seat and staring at the ceiling. For a while, neither speaks and John wonders if he should leave now, before he does or says something that could only make things (more) awkward between them.

“I can be a very selfish man, John,” Mycroft tells him suddenly, still not looking at him. “Feelings are not my forte, but I’m used to getting my way. If you- if you were anyone else, make no mistake, I wouldn’t have let you go.”

There’s something- dark and intriguing in the way he says it that makes John shiver. “Is that a good thing?” he asks, unsure of what exactly does that mean and wondering why he wants to know.

Mycroft observes him for a beat, his eyes dark and John gulps. “I want you, John. You have no idea how much I do.” He’s leaning closer and the doctor finds himself leaning in too, his heart beating erratically. “But I also love you. You, John Watson, made me fall in love with you. And because of that, I had to let you go.” He leans back once again and John feels like he has woken up from a trance. “I couldn’t keep you against your will.”

John forces himself not to say what he’s thinking. He forces himself to stop thinking about it, because really, that road will lead him nowhere but to another heartbreak.

But god, he wants-

He stands up abruptly, his whole body shaking. He wants to throw himself at his ex husband and he knows that if he doesn’t leave right now he'll do exactly that. And he can’t do that. It wouldn’t- he couldn’t-

God, he loves Sherlock. He loves him so much. And yet-

“Good night, Mycroft.”

The older man must know what he’s thinking and so he just nods in acquaintance, a sad smile playing on his lips.

He’s not sure how he’s going to survive this.

He suspects he won’t.

***

Mycroft thinks he’s coping admirably. Save for his little slip on what would have been their eighth anniversary, he has kept himself away, despite how much he longed to see John again. That dinner had been the biggest mistake of his life (even worse than those 2 years of damned marriage) because it had made him go back to stage one of his grief.

He had always known there would be no moving on for him, but he hadn’t been quite prepared to see that John seemed to be having the same trouble.

Of course John is happy with Sherlock. After so many years of wanting it just made sense for them to be together and to enjoy the sole pleasure of having each other without any guilt. Still-

He dares not to hope for- No, he shouldn’t even begin to contemplate-

But he does. And now he understands the hell Sherlock went through all those years ago and wonders how could he be so cruel to let him go through it in the first place. It’s awful and it just hurts…

Nothing for it, though. Maybe he should just… leave the country for a while. Distance is supposed to make things easier, isn’t it? He guesses he could try, because god knows that trying to work endlessly hasn’t really helped.

In fact, he doubts anything will help.

But at least he could spare Sherlock and John the sight of how profoundly affected he is.

***

It just won’t do.

Sherlock knows this with the same certainty he knows the sky is blue, Moriarty was insane and John will nag him until he eats something for dinner. He knows that in the long run what they’re currently doing will destroy them.

John is happy with him. And he does love him, that’s easy to see. But it’s also easy to see that he’s torn inside and that sooner or later things will start falling apart and then Sherlock will lose him and he can’t- he can’t-

Also, there’s Mycroft to consider. If what Lestrade says is true, his brother will be leaving very soon. But Sherlock knows that’s a short term solution, because he also knows how physically impossible is to keep oneself away from the man you love. Permanent imprisonment or death are the only things that could work in this case and he’s not particularly eager to see his brother in either situation.

So, what to do?

He’s a genius, surely he can work out a solution.

He just hopes he’ll do it in time.

***

On a cold February evening, John comes home to the Holmes brothers sitting in front of each other in perfect silence, like they’re evaluating each other and trying to figure out all of their weakness.

Which, to be fair, might be the case.

“Is there something-?”

“Sit John,” Sherlock commands, his tone breaking no argument and so John obeys, even if he does it a little hesitantly.

“Now that John is here,” Mycroft begins calmly, his tone betraying nothing, “care to enlighten me on the motive of this meeting?”

John arches an eyebrow, surprised that Sherlock was the one who organized this. He turns to his friend (lover?) and the younger male narrows his eyes at his brother, not responding right away. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of silence, Sherlock sighs. “This isn’t going to work.”

John tenses immediately, his heart constricting painfully in his chest. However, he forces himself not to say anything, sensing Sherlock isn’t done just yet. “It doesn’t- Words don’t come easily to me. Not on this matter, at least. And as you know, as you both know, my experience with relationships is… non existent. But it’s to my understanding that if one of the parts isn’t completely satisfied, said relationship is bound to fail.”

“Sherlock-” John tries to interrupt, because he is happy, how can Sherlock think-?

“Oh, I know you’re happy,” Sherlock interrupts him smoothly. “But you’re not satisfied. You want- well, to be honest, I’m not sure what you want.” He turns to his brother then, frowning. “I don’t think it’s just sex; I don’t think it’s just physical.”

Mycroft sighs, leaning back on his seat. “We were married for 7 years, Sherlock. And maybe we weren’t- maybe there weren’t actual feelings involved for the whole duration of our marriage, but these things just don’t- they don’t simply disappear overnight.”

Sherlock nods, looking thoughtful and John suspects he ought to say something, but he has no idea what. He sends a desperate look in Mycroft’s direction, but he seems to be as at loss as himself.

Not a good thing, really.

“I don’t like sharing,” Sherlock states, his voice abruptly cutting through the tense silence. “Never have. Not even- not even when we’re working; I don’t like you paying attention to Lestrade, or Donovan or anyone,” he hisses, looking at John and the blond nods slowly, unsure of where this is going. Mycroft looks interested now though, leaning closer. “But losing you- That’s not an acceptable scenario. Under no circumstances.” Sherlock takes a deep breath, obviously uncomfortable. “So I’m willing to compromise.”

John just stares at him for a beat, trying to figure out what he means. He thinks he understands, after a while, but- “Sherlock, that’s not- that’s not how compromising works. You don’t- I can’t- This is ridiculous!”

Sherlock shakes his head vehemently. “No, not really. I don’t- Well, no, I do mind sharing. But I could do it. If it meant- if it meant you'd be happier, more satisfied with our relationship-”

“Sherlock!” John exclaims, feeling more than a little scandalized and standing up. “That’s not- that’s not how relationships work!”

He turns to Mycroft, expecting some support (although he doesn’t know why), but the older Holmes gaze is fixed on the younger one, a look of utter puzzlement in his features. Sherlock just stares at him patiently, as if he was expecting such reaction.

“It’s a perfectly sound idea, John. And if you look past your moral convictions for a while-”

John takes a deep breath and turns to Mycroft once again. “What do you think?”

Mycroft frowns, looking troubled now. “That’s an unfair question, John,” he replies evenly, lacing his fingers beneath his chin in Sherlock’s usual thinking pose. “At this point, I would agree with whatever idea Sherlock had that implied I could have you, even if not completely.”

John opens his mouth to say something and then closes it, realizing he doesn’t know what. He runs his hand through his hair, feeling mostly frustrated and unsure of what he’s supposed to do now.

“You might want to- think about it,” Sherlock says, sounding perfectly reasonable and therefore making John more frustrated than ever. He’s not the one being deliberately unreasonable, dammit! “I’ve already phoned Lestrade. He’s expecting you.”

This- they always do this. They make plans for him, anticipating his reactions and although yes, going to Greg’s is exactly what he was thinking, John isn’t happy with it. Still, he decides to choose his fights carefully and so he just stands up, nods to himself and exits the apartment once more, leaving the Holmes brothers behind, sharing a tense silence.

This isn’t going very well, is it?

***

“Do you really think it’s a good idea?” Mycroft can’t help to ask, wondering why would his brother do this. It just seems so- out of character.

“It’ll make John happier,” he replies evenly. “And- I do know what you’re going through. It’s a special kind of hell that I- that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.”

How much has his brother grown. “It doesn’t feel very fair on you.”

Sherlock stays quiet for the longest time. “What we’ve done before wasn’t fair on anyone. I think- I think it’s time we change that. Being selfish will lead us nowhere.”

Well… would you look at that?

How things have changed.

***

Greg listens in silence to John’s emotional breakdown, nodding thoughtfully every now and then and humming in sympathy at the right times. John feels a little guilty by burdening the man with all his emotional baggage, but he’s really better at this whole listening and helping him sort through his feelings than his therapist.

Which tells us an awful lot about John, doesn’t it?

“Why do you dislike the idea so much?” Greg asks once he has finished his tale and John groans, frustrated.

“That’s not how relationships work!”

Greg hums, “that’s not how most relationships work, I’ll give you that. But what about your whole situation is remotely normal?”

“Greg, you can’t honestly be suggesting-”

“But I did before, didn’t I?” he says, a soft tired smile on his lips. “I do believe you could make this work, John. If you wanted. If you’re willing.”

“I don’t- that’s not-” he starts pacing around the room, incapable of keep on sitting still. “They deserve better. Someone who- someone who would actually choose-”

“But John, it’s not exactly like that. I mean- you know them. Neither is particularly skillful at the whole relationships business, but they both care deeply about you. They’re not- they’re not going to move on any time soon, maybe never at all. And if they both agree-”

“That’s not the way things work!”

Greg rolls his eyes. “So what, you’ll stay with one and feel eternally guilty about still harboring feelings for the other, hoping one day they’ll fade away? How is that fair on anyone?”

“How is being with both fair?!”

Greg shrugs. “They’d agree to it.” John opens his mouth to protest and so the DI carries on, “I’m not saying- look, I know where you’re coming from. And it might sound- it might sound crazy, but I do think it could work. I mean, you have to talk this through. Really, really talk it through. And it’s not going to be pleasant or easy, but it does sound like a logical-”

“How is it logical?!”

“They both love you, you love them both. How is it not logical?”

“I don’t- it’s not-” John sighs, defeated. “Relationships aren’t meant to be like this.”

“What you’re doing right now it’s pretty messed up,” Greg agrees calmly. “Because you’re not being honest with yourself. But if you were-”

“Sharing, honestly? You think either of them can really do that?”

The DI seems to think long and hard about that. “They’re both pretty… possessive. So I expect it’ll be odd at first, but they both know-”

“Greg, they would be- they would be settling for less than what they deserve. They both- they both deserve someone who can love them fully-”

“And you could, John. It’s like- parents, you know? They don’t love one child more than the other, they just-”

“Oh god, you did not just make that comparison!”

Greg bites his lip. “Well… maybe it’s not entirely adequate, but the point still stands. Loving them both doesn’t mean loving either any less. And being with both is fairer than- whatever that you think you’re doing.”

“It’s not what they want. If they could choose-”

Greg hums. “Not necessarily. I mean- yes, ideally, none of this would have ever happened, but given the circumstances… it’s not as bad as you’re making it look, John. I think that what Sherlock is trying to do- to make you happy and stop his brother from being hurt- I think it’s quite sweet.”

God, how did it all come to this? When did Sherlock become the more emotionally mature of them all? “But is it right?”

“If he wasn’t sure, he wouldn’t have approached you with the idea. If he really didn’t want to, he wouldn’t have ever brought the matter up.” Greg bites his lip gently. “I shouldn’t probably tell you this… but Mycroft was considering moving out of the country. I think this is Sherlock’s desperate attempt to- do something for his brother.”

That’s- that’s not- oh god, this keeps getting more and more complicated. “He could have just let him go. Distance would have- would have make things more manageable.” Greg insists and something twists inside John. It’s just so- so-

John sighs once more. “I don’t know. I really don’t know what to think.”

The DI offers him a tight smile. “It’s not- socially conventional, but it’s not morally wrong, I don’t think. As long as you’re being honest- there’s nothing wrong with it. Not everyone would be supportive or understanding but- that shouldn’t matter to you, John. And you know Sherlock and Mycroft: social conventions are for dull people.”

That gets a laugh out of John. “I can stay here tonight, right?”

Greg smiles. “Take as long as you need.”

John nods. This might take a very long while indeed.

***

The weird thing is that it works. It’s weird as hell and for the first few months John feels vaguely disgusted with himself, but Sherlock and Mycroft take it all in a stride and put up magnificently with his bad moods and his guilty rants and his self hate. Trying to convince either of them that this is bad idea that will end in nothing but tears is absolutely pointless and so eventually, John forces himself to stop thinking about what he has believed his whole life to be right and start seeing things from a different angle.

It’s not easy, not at all. And he suspects that neither of the Holmes brothers is taking this as easily or as calmly as they both pretend they are, but Greg is right: neither really believes in social conventions and so they don’t particularly care of what others might think of their methods of solving things.

It’s not perfect, not by far.

But somehow it works.

***

When Violet Holmes met John Watson, she had thought he was perfect for her son.

So while she had expected Sherlock to become completely enamored with the doctor, she hadn’t expected her elder son to find himself in love with John too. Neither did she expected all the trouble that the arranged marriage would cause, nor the surprising ending of the whole affair.

Still, she believes the outcome was most positive.

It wasn’t an easy road and it was filled with more bumps and heartbreaks than she (or her children) would have prefered, but in the end, she thinks (and her boys would agree) it was all worth it.

“It didn’t quite work out as you expected, did it?” her husband asks, as they watch their sons talking animatedly among them, none of their usual hostility in their stances or tones, while John stands by with an amused smile on his lips.

Her husband never liked the idea of the arranged marriage, even if he never said it in so many words. Violet knew, of course, but she was convinced it was for the best and so she never let her husband’s displeasure affect her. Now, though...

“No, not really,” Violet agrees, as she watches Sherlock wrapping himself around John and Mycroft leaning in to kiss the doctor chastely. “I think it worked even better than I originally anticipated.”

Singer Holmes doesn’t comment.

He thinks that to.