Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 13
Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 36,184
Current Chapter Count: 13/?
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
-- -- -- --
Chapter 13
The service lift to the morgue was always deep and heavy sounding, but the hallway up to it was always silent. The sounds of the hospital were dulled the farther down the hall you walked until it was almost completely soundless by the lift except for the whirr of the air conditioner. John liked listening to the sound of his footsteps as he approached the end. There was something grounding in hearing your steps echo so resolutely. Plus, it was pretty much ingrained in John's head that if someone wanted to sneak up on him, it would be impossible to do in this hall - even if that person was undead or a zombie. Unless they could fly, he'd be able to tell.
John chuckled a little in his head. He could hear Sherlock in his head, telling him he was being silly. Vampires and zombies didn't exist, and humans couldn't fly. Oh, but it was still in John's mind, just like Sherlock's logic.
The lift opened with a soft beep and released him into the lowest layer of the morgue. He stepped out and through a set of doors to where Molly always worked with the bodies. She was examining one right then, checking a puncture wound on the neck. John smiled as he remembered his thoughts on the journey down here. Vampires. Silly.
"Afternoon, Molly," he greeted, slipping his doctor's coat off and hanging it up. He liked leaving that identity behind when he worked on Sherlock's case. It made him feel unbound somehow, not tied to medical thought processes.
"Oh! Doctor Watson," Molly greeted, her smile flickering. Odd.
"Is everything alright, Molly?" John asked, walking over to the filing cabinet. He almost reached down to open it as well, but that's when he noticed the other person in the room.
It would have been fine if the other person had been Lestrade, although John wasn't yet ready to share his copied files. But instead of the police officer, he saw a beautiful woman sitting on a stool in the far corner. Her hair was long, wavy, and dark. Her nails were decorated in a sculpted curve, and her dress went only to her knees. If she wasn't crossing her legs, John was certain he'd be able to see up her skirt. He may have even thought long and hard about her eye color, except he couldn't see them. Her eyes were glued to a phone in her hands, which she seemed to never stop typing on.
"Hello," John greeted. Molly nodded her head in the direction of the woman, and John nodded too. He walked over to the dark beauty and cleared his throat. "Hello," he tried again.
"This is for you," the woman said, not looking up. Instead she simply lifted an envelope from inside her short jacket somewhere and handed it to him.
"Uh? Thank you?" John tried, looking down at the white package. It was written on in a scribbled and yet refined hand, bearing the words 'To be delivered to Dr. John H. Watson on the 5th of May.'
The woman slipped off her stool, barely looking away from her screen. "My employer says to tell you that he will be seeing you shortly," she said and left the room, her heels clacking with every step.
John watched the door until he couldn't see her nor hear her footsteps. That was odd. He looked down at the envelope in his hands, trying to deduce what it was about. Who was that woman's employer? He glanced to Molly, but the mortician shook her head and shrugged her shoulders uselessly. John slowly opened the letter, worried a bit about its contents. He doubted it was anything serious, though. After all, the woman had kept it in her jacket.
Out of the envelope fell a mini flash drive. John held it up in front of him and frowned at it, frowned at the number 4 on the side. A 4GB usb? What could- John paused. Was this the next recording? John looked over to Molly, eyes wide, and then scanned the counters for a computer. There was one, but it appeared to be specifically for work purposes.
"Sorry, Molly. Can I reschedule our usual lunch meeting?" John asked, but it really wasn't a question. He grabbed his coat as he left, pulling it on and dropping the usb into the pocket. He heard Molly agree and say she'd see him around, and then John was in the lift and surrounded by the low rumble.
Recording six hadn't given any clues to the next one. Well, it had, but the only clue Sherlock had said was that the next recording was like an anonymous tip in a case. Anonymous indeed. John had no idea who that woman was and she hadn't given her name. Recordings five and six had been on CDs though. This was a flash drive. As John made his way into the computer lab, he wondered if he should be worried about the change.
The usb went into the computer and instantly loaded its contents - yay technology. John checked to make sure he was alone before he dared to let the sole file on the drive play. It was more than audio this time, and John felt his heart skip a little as he saw Sherlock sitting in front of a computer camera, checking the settings and quality. Finally he sat back and cleared his throat. He was wearing a purple collared shirt open at the top in a casual style. One look at Sherlock in that shirt made John's chest ache and his whole body grow warm.
"Recording seven. Video this time - like to keep it interesting. I actually put on clothes for this," Sherlock said, looking to the side a bit. John closed his eyes for a second, which Sherlock seemed to know he needed because he didn't speak. Sherlock hadn't been dressed before this? Maybe he just meant dressed up?
"Recording six was an introduction to my relationships, but I figure at this point I should expound a bit. Particularly on the point of my dear brother, Mycroft. As I said before, I lie to Mycroft on a semi-daily basis. He likes to keep tabs on me and checks in from time to time personally. He knows I dislike him, but he continues to intrude on my life. Some things I will never understand."
John frowned. Sherlock really didn't know why Mycroft kept coming around? Even John could figure some of these things out. Maybe Sherlock couldn't imagine Mycroft wanting to be around him, loving him? Maybe he couldn't imagine the same of Molly, and that's why he didn't understand her... either of them.
"Mycroft knows," Sherlock began again, lowering his voice bit. "He knows what he did, what he kept doing. It should be no surprise to him that I no longer put any stock in his confidence, in his opinions on any matter." He took a deep breath and continued at a normal volume.
"When I was a child, going to primary school like all normal children do, I quickly learned my brain moved at a rate that far exceeded my classmates. I skipped school several days, knowing I would easily pick up what I missed out on within the first few minutes of the next class, and I told only Mycroft. I thought he was paying off the instructors so they wouldn't tell mother, but then he went and told her himself. I was put into home school within the week and was never allowed to miss a class after that."
That's it? That was the big Sherlock family secret?
"A year later, I bought something for the first time with my own money. It was a doll with blonde hair. Unrealistic in features and mobility, with an apparent case of malnutrition and steroid use. The clothes were blue based and made of a tacky sort of plastic byproduct, rough to the touch and common only in children's toys and second hand Halloween costumes. The doll's expression was its only saving grace. While unmoving, it was... happy. I had that doll for all of two days before Mycroft told father and it was literally ripped from my hands," Sherlock continued, obviously still sore about it. "I was nine at the time."
John ran a hand over his face. Sherlock's mind was amazing. He remembered so much detail about a doll he owned for only two days twenty-six years ago. Nearly three decades of memories, and he remembered that one.
"There were several similar incidents of Mycroft looking out for my wellbeing; taking toys away, keeping me from meeting certain friends or going certain places, and telling mother whenever I didn't follow his ideas for my future like a good little brother. The last straw, though, came in the spring of my eleventh year. I was at a new school that year, beginning my third level of education, and made quick and easy friends with a boy a year my senior named Victor Trevor. Although I should have started skipping levels at that point, I stayed behind like normal students so that I could remain in classes with Victor. He was my very first true friend."
John watched Sherlock straighten up in his seat and check over his shoulder. That was when John noticed the recording was done in 221b. He recognized the entire back wall near the door that Sherlock kept glancing at as though someone was coming up the stairs. Who knew? Maybe someone was. Sherlock was keen like that.
"Anyway, my feelings for Victor were quite strong, and at my twelfth birthday party, I kissed him when no one was looking. I had never trusted feelings of that caliber before, so of course I was anxious. Victor, however friendly, did not reciprocate the emotions, but assured me we would still be friends. The next day, another boy at school told me Victor had explained the situation to him and he was going to tell the school counselor and anyone he ran into along the way. You may be happy, or unhappy, I don't know, to know I ended up breaking the boy's nose. His name was Richard Brooke. I went to the person I thought I could trust to help me keep the secret, both secrets. Mycroft assured me he would do what was best for me... so he told my mother and father. My mother suffered a heart attack, poor woman, and my father pulled me from school again. I was forbidden from visiting Victor in his Norfolk estate and never saw Richard Brooke again... although I did read that the entire Brooke family was in a car accident a few years later, so that would suggest he's dead. I never kept up with either of the boys. Mycroft made sure of that," Sherlock said, voice low and full of old spite. The anger surprised John. He'd never heard it before in Sherlock's voice.
"I never trusted Mycroft with the truth of matters after that. I had twelve years of experience working against him, and as of today he has done nothing to merit regaining that trust. Especially with that spy working for him - Anthea, who does nothing but text him constant updates on everything she sees or hears around her like his own personal robot," Sherlock complained.
"Oh. Is that her name?" John asked, almost forgetting this was a video and not a video call. When he spoke he noticed the quiet of the room and covered his mouth a bit, glad no one had been around to hear it.
"Yes. I'm sure Mycroft will have her deliver this instead of him. He's never been one to get his hands dirty with anything, even delivery work," Sherlock said and John really wanted to know how Sherlock became psychic.
This message was left with Mycroft? But Anthea had dropped it off. Did that mean Mycroft was here somewhere? Or had he sent her alone? John wondered if Mycroft listened to this message before giving it to him. If Mycroft hadn't heard this yet, John would probably give it to him. The man seemed desperate to know where he'd gone wrong.
"The truth about Mycroft that you must understand, John, is that he acts like an arrogant, government pencil shredder, but he actually cares a bit too much. He taught me how to deal with people as I grew up, and while the Holmes family may not be good in public, he definitely taught me to survive with the upper class idiots our family associates with. I know how to treat people to gain authority over them. He taught me a lot, and I respect his power.... but I do not trust him when he is right in front of me, much less when he is out of my sight."
Sherlock shifted again, glancing almost imperceptibly to the side and then sighed in annoyance.
"John, I envy you and your normal sibling relationships. It must be so boring but so.... safe. You don't talk much about your sister. I don't want you becoming a hermit. Call her. Have a nice.... chat or something. Don't talk to me again until you do," he said, looking seriously at the camera when he said that. Then he nodded curtly. "End of recording seven."
Sherlock's hand twitched near the bottom of the screen and the video ended. John found himself grinning to himself; not a huge smile but one that comes from remembering a fond memory. He ran his hand over his mouth and tried to wipe the smile off his face. In a strangely content state, he reached forward and closed the video player, ejected the usb, and pulled it out of the computer. John ran his thumb over the device and then slid it into his pocket as he pushed out of his seat.
Anthea had delivered the message, but John doubted Mycroft would ever stay far away if he knew about this message. Mycroft had definitely watched this. John wouldn't doubt Mycroft had been on the stairs listening to it being recorded. He also wouldn't doubt that Mycroft was in the building right now.
Turning the corner into the receiving bay for the E.R., John stopped walking and looked toward the double doors on his left. The hall beyond the doors looked bright but vacant, totally empty save for one tall figure. John shifted his coat and stepped through the doors, trying to seem taller than he was so he could compare to the man standing in the hall. The corridor was silent, and the rush of the hospital through the door threw that into stark contrast. John took only a few steps into the area before the door shut and he stopped where he was, halfway between the door and Mycroft.
"That's the one thing Sherlock never liked about London.... the rain," the older Holmes said, looking out the windows.
"He picked the wrong place to live," John replied, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. He waited a moment to see if Mycroft would reply and received only a frowning stare out the window. "Did you watch the video?"
"I did. He never told me not to; just said I was to deliver it at a specific time and date. Not that it mattered, of course," Mycroft said. "I knew everything it held regardless."
"You were on the stairs." It wasn't a question. John knew it was true. Sherlock wouldn't keep looking over his shoulder without a reason, and he wouldn't be so calm about it if it wasn't someone he knew. Mycroft made an affirmative sound in his throat and tapped his umbrella on the ground. "No cane?" John asked.
"The umbrella is less conspicuous and much more useful in British weather," the older man explained. "You understand."
"I understand that you loved your brother so much that his death caused you to have a twitch in your right knee that causes you pain and requires you to limp and use a cane," John explained.
"I limp because I've hit my leg one too many times on the metal coffee table in my office," Mycroft said, denying the claim.
"Maybe if you admit out loud that you have a psychosomatic limp due to the death of your brother and not because of blunt force trauma, it might go away." John cleared his throat then and held his hands behind his back.
Mycroft Holmes looked at John Watson then, a distant and disinterested glaze over his eyes, as though he wasn't seeing John as someone worthy to look at. John met his gaze with one he hoped conveyed determination and the idea that John knew he was right and wouldn't back down. After a moment, Mycroft looked back to the rain slipping down the glass in front of him.
"All lives end," he said.
"Yeah, but this was your brother. This wasn't just some random person on the street. He was family. You loved him," John pointed out.
"All hearts are broken," Mycroft said as an answer. He lowered his gaze to his hand on the handle of his umbrella. "Caring... is not an advantage."
"The hell it isn't," John grunted out. "You wouldn't be checking with me about Sherlock every other day if you didn't think knowing his days would give you an advantage.... over what or who, I don't know, but that doesn't matter. Caring brings people together."
"Caring causes irrational emotions," Mycroft almost snapped and the tension in his words made John hesitate. Mycroft took a silent, slow breath and continued in a calm tone and pace. "Caring causes normally logical people to act stupidly and selfishly. Caring tears people apart. Sherlock knew that, and it is something you should get used to."
"I would rather live on this side of the fence, thanks. It makes life much less miserable," John said, crossing his arms in front of him now.
"Do you love my brother?" Mycroft asked suddenly, finally turning to face John.
"What?" John asked, not expecting the question. Love Sherlock? Love the sound of his violin and his deep voice and his quick texts and his amazing brain? Love the way he's talking over a time jump? or love the way he died before John ever got to officially meet him?
"You see? You feel the tension build in your chest, and you cannot explain why. It causes you grief, Doctor Watson. Caring does not bring happiness or joy. Caring simply opens the heart to weapons that can injure it."
"You're a machine," John decided, awed by his own inner deduction. Mycroft looked at him curiously, and John shook his head. "You're not human at all. You're a bloody machine," John said again and turned his back on the older Holmes. With that, he left the hallway and the man in dark clothes watching the rain.
-- -- -- --
Preview, Chapter 14:
"Moriarty is killing off people around you, people you know." John said it with such clarity and assuredness that he was certain that if it had not been already true, he would have made it so with his words.
"That's what I'm afraid of. Can't you understand?"
"I don't play fair like Sherlock." She pulled a pack of cigarettes from the coat pocket and lit one up. "You play my game, Doctor, or you don't get the prize. It's as simple as that. Yes or no?"
"He gave up his bad habits because you told him to. He'd do anything you asked him to. He did everything for you," and she sounded a bit sour at John too. "See? You didn't really know him at all."
"You're going to be the death of me, Doctor," Sherlock said, a half laugh coming from his throat.
Click HERE for Chapter 14!
Click HERE for the Masterpost
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 36,184
Current Chapter Count: 13/?
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
-- -- -- --
Chapter 13
The service lift to the morgue was always deep and heavy sounding, but the hallway up to it was always silent. The sounds of the hospital were dulled the farther down the hall you walked until it was almost completely soundless by the lift except for the whirr of the air conditioner. John liked listening to the sound of his footsteps as he approached the end. There was something grounding in hearing your steps echo so resolutely. Plus, it was pretty much ingrained in John's head that if someone wanted to sneak up on him, it would be impossible to do in this hall - even if that person was undead or a zombie. Unless they could fly, he'd be able to tell.
John chuckled a little in his head. He could hear Sherlock in his head, telling him he was being silly. Vampires and zombies didn't exist, and humans couldn't fly. Oh, but it was still in John's mind, just like Sherlock's logic.
The lift opened with a soft beep and released him into the lowest layer of the morgue. He stepped out and through a set of doors to where Molly always worked with the bodies. She was examining one right then, checking a puncture wound on the neck. John smiled as he remembered his thoughts on the journey down here. Vampires. Silly.
"Afternoon, Molly," he greeted, slipping his doctor's coat off and hanging it up. He liked leaving that identity behind when he worked on Sherlock's case. It made him feel unbound somehow, not tied to medical thought processes.
"Oh! Doctor Watson," Molly greeted, her smile flickering. Odd.
"Is everything alright, Molly?" John asked, walking over to the filing cabinet. He almost reached down to open it as well, but that's when he noticed the other person in the room.
It would have been fine if the other person had been Lestrade, although John wasn't yet ready to share his copied files. But instead of the police officer, he saw a beautiful woman sitting on a stool in the far corner. Her hair was long, wavy, and dark. Her nails were decorated in a sculpted curve, and her dress went only to her knees. If she wasn't crossing her legs, John was certain he'd be able to see up her skirt. He may have even thought long and hard about her eye color, except he couldn't see them. Her eyes were glued to a phone in her hands, which she seemed to never stop typing on.
"Hello," John greeted. Molly nodded her head in the direction of the woman, and John nodded too. He walked over to the dark beauty and cleared his throat. "Hello," he tried again.
"This is for you," the woman said, not looking up. Instead she simply lifted an envelope from inside her short jacket somewhere and handed it to him.
"Uh? Thank you?" John tried, looking down at the white package. It was written on in a scribbled and yet refined hand, bearing the words 'To be delivered to Dr. John H. Watson on the 5th of May.'
The woman slipped off her stool, barely looking away from her screen. "My employer says to tell you that he will be seeing you shortly," she said and left the room, her heels clacking with every step.
John watched the door until he couldn't see her nor hear her footsteps. That was odd. He looked down at the envelope in his hands, trying to deduce what it was about. Who was that woman's employer? He glanced to Molly, but the mortician shook her head and shrugged her shoulders uselessly. John slowly opened the letter, worried a bit about its contents. He doubted it was anything serious, though. After all, the woman had kept it in her jacket.
Out of the envelope fell a mini flash drive. John held it up in front of him and frowned at it, frowned at the number 4 on the side. A 4GB usb? What could- John paused. Was this the next recording? John looked over to Molly, eyes wide, and then scanned the counters for a computer. There was one, but it appeared to be specifically for work purposes.
"Sorry, Molly. Can I reschedule our usual lunch meeting?" John asked, but it really wasn't a question. He grabbed his coat as he left, pulling it on and dropping the usb into the pocket. He heard Molly agree and say she'd see him around, and then John was in the lift and surrounded by the low rumble.
Recording six hadn't given any clues to the next one. Well, it had, but the only clue Sherlock had said was that the next recording was like an anonymous tip in a case. Anonymous indeed. John had no idea who that woman was and she hadn't given her name. Recordings five and six had been on CDs though. This was a flash drive. As John made his way into the computer lab, he wondered if he should be worried about the change.
The usb went into the computer and instantly loaded its contents - yay technology. John checked to make sure he was alone before he dared to let the sole file on the drive play. It was more than audio this time, and John felt his heart skip a little as he saw Sherlock sitting in front of a computer camera, checking the settings and quality. Finally he sat back and cleared his throat. He was wearing a purple collared shirt open at the top in a casual style. One look at Sherlock in that shirt made John's chest ache and his whole body grow warm.
"Recording seven. Video this time - like to keep it interesting. I actually put on clothes for this," Sherlock said, looking to the side a bit. John closed his eyes for a second, which Sherlock seemed to know he needed because he didn't speak. Sherlock hadn't been dressed before this? Maybe he just meant dressed up?
"Recording six was an introduction to my relationships, but I figure at this point I should expound a bit. Particularly on the point of my dear brother, Mycroft. As I said before, I lie to Mycroft on a semi-daily basis. He likes to keep tabs on me and checks in from time to time personally. He knows I dislike him, but he continues to intrude on my life. Some things I will never understand."
John frowned. Sherlock really didn't know why Mycroft kept coming around? Even John could figure some of these things out. Maybe Sherlock couldn't imagine Mycroft wanting to be around him, loving him? Maybe he couldn't imagine the same of Molly, and that's why he didn't understand her... either of them.
"Mycroft knows," Sherlock began again, lowering his voice bit. "He knows what he did, what he kept doing. It should be no surprise to him that I no longer put any stock in his confidence, in his opinions on any matter." He took a deep breath and continued at a normal volume.
"When I was a child, going to primary school like all normal children do, I quickly learned my brain moved at a rate that far exceeded my classmates. I skipped school several days, knowing I would easily pick up what I missed out on within the first few minutes of the next class, and I told only Mycroft. I thought he was paying off the instructors so they wouldn't tell mother, but then he went and told her himself. I was put into home school within the week and was never allowed to miss a class after that."
That's it? That was the big Sherlock family secret?
"A year later, I bought something for the first time with my own money. It was a doll with blonde hair. Unrealistic in features and mobility, with an apparent case of malnutrition and steroid use. The clothes were blue based and made of a tacky sort of plastic byproduct, rough to the touch and common only in children's toys and second hand Halloween costumes. The doll's expression was its only saving grace. While unmoving, it was... happy. I had that doll for all of two days before Mycroft told father and it was literally ripped from my hands," Sherlock continued, obviously still sore about it. "I was nine at the time."
John ran a hand over his face. Sherlock's mind was amazing. He remembered so much detail about a doll he owned for only two days twenty-six years ago. Nearly three decades of memories, and he remembered that one.
"There were several similar incidents of Mycroft looking out for my wellbeing; taking toys away, keeping me from meeting certain friends or going certain places, and telling mother whenever I didn't follow his ideas for my future like a good little brother. The last straw, though, came in the spring of my eleventh year. I was at a new school that year, beginning my third level of education, and made quick and easy friends with a boy a year my senior named Victor Trevor. Although I should have started skipping levels at that point, I stayed behind like normal students so that I could remain in classes with Victor. He was my very first true friend."
John watched Sherlock straighten up in his seat and check over his shoulder. That was when John noticed the recording was done in 221b. He recognized the entire back wall near the door that Sherlock kept glancing at as though someone was coming up the stairs. Who knew? Maybe someone was. Sherlock was keen like that.
"Anyway, my feelings for Victor were quite strong, and at my twelfth birthday party, I kissed him when no one was looking. I had never trusted feelings of that caliber before, so of course I was anxious. Victor, however friendly, did not reciprocate the emotions, but assured me we would still be friends. The next day, another boy at school told me Victor had explained the situation to him and he was going to tell the school counselor and anyone he ran into along the way. You may be happy, or unhappy, I don't know, to know I ended up breaking the boy's nose. His name was Richard Brooke. I went to the person I thought I could trust to help me keep the secret, both secrets. Mycroft assured me he would do what was best for me... so he told my mother and father. My mother suffered a heart attack, poor woman, and my father pulled me from school again. I was forbidden from visiting Victor in his Norfolk estate and never saw Richard Brooke again... although I did read that the entire Brooke family was in a car accident a few years later, so that would suggest he's dead. I never kept up with either of the boys. Mycroft made sure of that," Sherlock said, voice low and full of old spite. The anger surprised John. He'd never heard it before in Sherlock's voice.
"I never trusted Mycroft with the truth of matters after that. I had twelve years of experience working against him, and as of today he has done nothing to merit regaining that trust. Especially with that spy working for him - Anthea, who does nothing but text him constant updates on everything she sees or hears around her like his own personal robot," Sherlock complained.
"Oh. Is that her name?" John asked, almost forgetting this was a video and not a video call. When he spoke he noticed the quiet of the room and covered his mouth a bit, glad no one had been around to hear it.
"Yes. I'm sure Mycroft will have her deliver this instead of him. He's never been one to get his hands dirty with anything, even delivery work," Sherlock said and John really wanted to know how Sherlock became psychic.
This message was left with Mycroft? But Anthea had dropped it off. Did that mean Mycroft was here somewhere? Or had he sent her alone? John wondered if Mycroft listened to this message before giving it to him. If Mycroft hadn't heard this yet, John would probably give it to him. The man seemed desperate to know where he'd gone wrong.
"The truth about Mycroft that you must understand, John, is that he acts like an arrogant, government pencil shredder, but he actually cares a bit too much. He taught me how to deal with people as I grew up, and while the Holmes family may not be good in public, he definitely taught me to survive with the upper class idiots our family associates with. I know how to treat people to gain authority over them. He taught me a lot, and I respect his power.... but I do not trust him when he is right in front of me, much less when he is out of my sight."
Sherlock shifted again, glancing almost imperceptibly to the side and then sighed in annoyance.
"John, I envy you and your normal sibling relationships. It must be so boring but so.... safe. You don't talk much about your sister. I don't want you becoming a hermit. Call her. Have a nice.... chat or something. Don't talk to me again until you do," he said, looking seriously at the camera when he said that. Then he nodded curtly. "End of recording seven."
Sherlock's hand twitched near the bottom of the screen and the video ended. John found himself grinning to himself; not a huge smile but one that comes from remembering a fond memory. He ran his hand over his mouth and tried to wipe the smile off his face. In a strangely content state, he reached forward and closed the video player, ejected the usb, and pulled it out of the computer. John ran his thumb over the device and then slid it into his pocket as he pushed out of his seat.
Anthea had delivered the message, but John doubted Mycroft would ever stay far away if he knew about this message. Mycroft had definitely watched this. John wouldn't doubt Mycroft had been on the stairs listening to it being recorded. He also wouldn't doubt that Mycroft was in the building right now.
Turning the corner into the receiving bay for the E.R., John stopped walking and looked toward the double doors on his left. The hall beyond the doors looked bright but vacant, totally empty save for one tall figure. John shifted his coat and stepped through the doors, trying to seem taller than he was so he could compare to the man standing in the hall. The corridor was silent, and the rush of the hospital through the door threw that into stark contrast. John took only a few steps into the area before the door shut and he stopped where he was, halfway between the door and Mycroft.
"That's the one thing Sherlock never liked about London.... the rain," the older Holmes said, looking out the windows.
"He picked the wrong place to live," John replied, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. He waited a moment to see if Mycroft would reply and received only a frowning stare out the window. "Did you watch the video?"
"I did. He never told me not to; just said I was to deliver it at a specific time and date. Not that it mattered, of course," Mycroft said. "I knew everything it held regardless."
"You were on the stairs." It wasn't a question. John knew it was true. Sherlock wouldn't keep looking over his shoulder without a reason, and he wouldn't be so calm about it if it wasn't someone he knew. Mycroft made an affirmative sound in his throat and tapped his umbrella on the ground. "No cane?" John asked.
"The umbrella is less conspicuous and much more useful in British weather," the older man explained. "You understand."
"I understand that you loved your brother so much that his death caused you to have a twitch in your right knee that causes you pain and requires you to limp and use a cane," John explained.
"I limp because I've hit my leg one too many times on the metal coffee table in my office," Mycroft said, denying the claim.
"Maybe if you admit out loud that you have a psychosomatic limp due to the death of your brother and not because of blunt force trauma, it might go away." John cleared his throat then and held his hands behind his back.
Mycroft Holmes looked at John Watson then, a distant and disinterested glaze over his eyes, as though he wasn't seeing John as someone worthy to look at. John met his gaze with one he hoped conveyed determination and the idea that John knew he was right and wouldn't back down. After a moment, Mycroft looked back to the rain slipping down the glass in front of him.
"All lives end," he said.
"Yeah, but this was your brother. This wasn't just some random person on the street. He was family. You loved him," John pointed out.
"All hearts are broken," Mycroft said as an answer. He lowered his gaze to his hand on the handle of his umbrella. "Caring... is not an advantage."
"The hell it isn't," John grunted out. "You wouldn't be checking with me about Sherlock every other day if you didn't think knowing his days would give you an advantage.... over what or who, I don't know, but that doesn't matter. Caring brings people together."
"Caring causes irrational emotions," Mycroft almost snapped and the tension in his words made John hesitate. Mycroft took a silent, slow breath and continued in a calm tone and pace. "Caring causes normally logical people to act stupidly and selfishly. Caring tears people apart. Sherlock knew that, and it is something you should get used to."
"I would rather live on this side of the fence, thanks. It makes life much less miserable," John said, crossing his arms in front of him now.
"Do you love my brother?" Mycroft asked suddenly, finally turning to face John.
"What?" John asked, not expecting the question. Love Sherlock? Love the sound of his violin and his deep voice and his quick texts and his amazing brain? Love the way he's talking over a time jump? or love the way he died before John ever got to officially meet him?
"You see? You feel the tension build in your chest, and you cannot explain why. It causes you grief, Doctor Watson. Caring does not bring happiness or joy. Caring simply opens the heart to weapons that can injure it."
"You're a machine," John decided, awed by his own inner deduction. Mycroft looked at him curiously, and John shook his head. "You're not human at all. You're a bloody machine," John said again and turned his back on the older Holmes. With that, he left the hallway and the man in dark clothes watching the rain.
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Preview, Chapter 14:
"Moriarty is killing off people around you, people you know." John said it with such clarity and assuredness that he was certain that if it had not been already true, he would have made it so with his words.
"That's what I'm afraid of. Can't you understand?"
"I don't play fair like Sherlock." She pulled a pack of cigarettes from the coat pocket and lit one up. "You play my game, Doctor, or you don't get the prize. It's as simple as that. Yes or no?"
"He gave up his bad habits because you told him to. He'd do anything you asked him to. He did everything for you," and she sounded a bit sour at John too. "See? You didn't really know him at all."
"You're going to be the death of me, Doctor," Sherlock said, a half laugh coming from his throat.
Click HERE for Chapter 14!
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