These Skies Are Breaking 2/2
Part 1
For every evil under the sun
There is a remedy or there is none.
If there be one, seek till you find it;
If there be none, never mind it.
For Every Evil
- Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes
* * *
It was pointless. It has been more than a year since that fateful night when he broke into Martin's place and literally dragged his brother out of bed and into a plane with him. Everything that happened since then was for nothing.
Sherlock had managed to destroy a handful of Moriarty's operations around the world, but the criminal mastermind himself was as elusive as ever. With his various disguises, there was no indication that anyone suspected Sherlock was still alive, but he couldn't be sure. He can never be sure.
He'd hit a dead end in Columbia. The local authorities may be grateful that the local drug cartel was no longer as big a threat as it was, but that meant nothing to Sherlock. The trail to Moriarty ran cold in Columbia, and no matter how deep Sherlock dug, there was absolutely nothing for him to go on.
It can't end this way! His mind screamed at him as he paced back and forth in the hotel room. There must be something he was missing. All the clues had lead to La Palma, it couldn't just disappear.
Sherlock's fingers twitched and he wished he had his violin with him. The music and the familiar motions of bow against string had always helped him think. It's been over a year since he played. Like most of his things, the violin had been left behind at Baker Street when he 'died'. He hadn't thought of Baker Street much since walking out of the hospital, leaving John behind. He couldn't afford to think of Baker Street, John, and the life - the man, he left behind. The mad chases across London, the quiet nights in, bickering over trivial things like milk and what was on the telly, playing his violin until John went back to sleep after one of his nightmares.
Did Mycroft pack up all of his belongings? Did John? Or had everything been left exactly as it was on the night Sherlock's world turned into fire, blood and water, like some macabre memorial?
He couldn't go back to that. Not now. Not when Moriarty was still out there. As long as he believed Sherlock to be dead, his home would be safe; John would be safe.
John.
If Sherlock concentrated, he could recall perfectly the first time they met at the lab in Bart's. Sherlock's last memory of John's still form lying on the hospital bed, struggling towards consciousness, was equally sharp. He could still smell the scent of anapestic in the air, feel John's callused hand in his, the unique scent that was purely 'John' when Sherlock leaned in to kiss him goodbye, the skin under his lips warm and so, so very much alive.
"Sherlock?"
It had been so long since Victor that Sherlock didn't even realise he had gone and fallen head over heels for John. He had thought it impossible to love someone else again after Victor. It was what made it so shocking, and he cursed himself for not realising until it was almost too late.
John had slipped pass all of Sherlock's barriers, and somehow managed to heal a part of Sherlock he long thought dead. He is a doctor after all.
Sherlock had literally fallen to pieces after Victor's death. He dropped out of university, and eventually found solace in cocaine and various other substances; his mind whirling so fast that he was finally distracted from the pain and the grief. If something happened to John, Sherlock didn't think he could live through that a second time.
"Sherlock, you're scaring me, snap out of it, please."
Martin's hands on his shoulders finally caught Sherlock's attention and he looked at his brother. Martin, so selfless and determined, and always by his side when he needed it the most. Sherlock didn't deserve to have a brother like Martin.
Without a word, Martin enveloped him in a hug. Sherlock closed his eyes and sagged against his brother, just breathing and needing the contact.
"Did you know," Sherlock murmured against Martin's neck, eyes still closed. "It wasn't an accident."
"What wasn't an accident?"
"The O.D. seven years ago."
Sherlock felt Martin tense at his words, and then hug him even tighter, not saying a word. He didn't need to.
Sherlock couldn't risk losing John, because losing John meant losing himself. And if that meant Sherlock had to stay dead, then so be it.
* * *
Sherlock had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, leaving Martin wide-awake for a change. He had been terrified when he looked up from writing his diary to find Sherlock standing perfectly still in front of the window. When Martin went and stood in front of him, there had been no sign that Sherlock even registered his presence, so lost he was in his mind.
This latest set back in Columbia had hit Sherlock hard, harder than all others they'd encountered this past year. Martin wasn't sure why, but Sherlock seemed absolutely certain that the trail had ran cold and after more than a year spent chasing Moriarty, that was not an acceptable outcome.
Sherlock had chased down clues, destroyed a handful of Moriarty's operations and scattered his minions in order to flush Moriarty out of hiding, all with no obvious effect. It seemed like the more Sherlock uncovered about Moriarty's operations, the more was hidden from them.
Martin had tried his best to take care of his brother. Food, clothes, a place to sleep, and all of the day-to-day essentials that fell by the wayside when Sherlock was on the chase. But the constant travel, never staying in one place for more than a week; it was taking a toll on Sherlock.
Martin was used to the travel, it was his job as a pilot after all. However with the constant danger and fear of discovery hanging over their head, he found himself becoming more and more paranoid. He had even taken to trying to disguising himself to look less like Sherlock, just in case.
The confession Sherlock let slip a few hours ago was still fresh in Martin's mind. He was shocked, yet at the same time, not very surprised. Martin couldn't help wondering whether Mycroft had always suspected that the O.D. was actually a suicide attempt, which was why the monitoring on Sherlock doubled right after the incident.
One thing Martin could be sure of was that Sherlock had never told anyone about it. It was what worried Martin the most, that Sherlock's defenses were so far down that he'd revealed this secret.
Other than the run-in with MJN's crew in what seemed to Martin like a half a lifetime ago, neither he nor Sherlock had been in touch with anyone from their previous lives, including Mycroft. Neither of them was under the impression that Mycroft wasn't monitoring their every move, but there had been no direct contact thus far. Looking at his brother's sleeping form on the bed, pale and almost as thin as when he was still an addict, Martin made up his mind.
The secure satellite phone was buried in the depths of Martin's suitcase. Martin hadn't touched it since Mycroft gave it to him over a year ago, other than to check that the batteries were charged.
Martin closed the door to the small en-suite bathroom, not wanting to risk waking Sherlock up from his much needed rest, and dialed a long ago memorised number. The phone on the other side was picked up at the first ring.
"Martin," Mycroft's voice over the small speaker reassured Martin more than he thought was possible. "What do you need?"
"Sherlock's convinced that the trail's run cold. He's... he's... uh... not taking it well."
"I'll see what I can do." There was a pause before Mycroft continued. "How are you?"
"I'm fine. Just... worried about Sherlock. He passed out a few hours ago, but he hadn't slept at all in the last three days. I'm not sure how long he can keep going on like that. I... I tried. I try my best to get him to eat and sleep, but most of the time, he just won't listen. He won't let me near the cases, and I... don't know what else to do to help him. I just... don't know." Martin felt relief at finally able to tell someone about his uncertainties. He wasn't sure what Mycroft could do about it all the way from London, but to just be able to voice his thoughts was cathartic.
"You know Sherlock has always been difficult. You are doing as well as anyone could in the circumstances. Just make sure you take care of yourself, too. I dread to think what would become of Sherlock otherwise. Do you need anything else?"
Martin shook his head even though Mycroft couldn't see him, "No. Just some indication of the next likely place Moriarty could be hiding. Information is what Sherlock needs right now."
"Very well. I will contact you when I have it. In the mean time, get some rest yourself. I'll make sure you're undisturbed."
"Mycroft, thank you."
"It's what big brothers are for."
* * *
Sherlock had been apoplectic when he found out that Martin had called Mycroft, but when Mycroft's information came through three days later, he had no choice but to shut up about it.
It didn't stop him from grumbling about Martin going behind his back. But Martin could live with that, especially when he saw Sherlock becoming more animated as he read through the package Mycroft sent.
The information Mycroft unearthed lead them back across the Atlantic to Qatar, Mumbai, and now towards Singapore. Martin was alone on the flight deck; Sherlock had pretty much turned the passenger cabin into some sort of war room with paper stuck all over the interior of the plane. It was only the threat of being grounded that prevented Sherlock from sticking his various maps , transcripts of telephone conversations, photographs and god knows what else to the windows and a few essential safety equipments.
Martin was in the middle of wondering what on earth Sherlock was doing to the interior of the plane when he noticed the approaching storm clouds on the weather radar.
"Bangkok Tower, this is Papa Tango Oscar Mike," Martin said into the radio.
"Papa Tango Oscar Mike, this is Bangkok Tower."
"I'm reading approaching storm from north-east, please confirm."
There was a pause, and then Bangkok ATC came back on. "Confirm tropical storm Wutip in your vector. 18 knots crosswind and 6 knots tailwind. Recommend diversion."
"Confirm diversion."
Martin plotted the new course that would take them around the storm. He then hit the button for the PA system. "Sherlock, we're going to be flying through some pretty rough weather. You'll want to pack up anything important and strap yourself down."
A few minutes later, just as they were skirting the edge of the storm clouds, Sherlock appeared on the flight deck and strapped himself into the co-pilot's seat.
"Don't touch anything," Martin said, his concentration focusing completely on the instruments before him. Now really wasn't the time to be teaching Sherlock about the finer points of flying.
With their limited fuel, Martin wasn't able to plot too far out of the storm's radius and it was likely that they might catch the edge of the storm as they fly past it. Two years ago, he probably would have fumbled through everything, getting flustered and eventually Douglas would have to take over. Now, there wasn't anyone but him who was able to get them through this.
The storm wasn't big, and the situation was nowhere near as critical as it was at St. Petersburg where he had to land with only one engine and 21 knots crosswind. If Martin could deal with that, then he could deal with a little turbulence without freaking out.
Just like dealing with any genuine flight emergencies he had encountered in his career, Martin felt a sense of calm settling over him as he expertly maneuvered Phantom around Tropical Storm Wutip.
* * *
"What do you mean you can't make it to Dad's 60th?" Simon Crieff's tone was cutting. Despite being a year younger, Simon had always been the one who took charge of things at home. It was mostly because Martin was usually too busy with schoolwork. Naturally, Simon took it upon himself to organise dad's 60th birthday party.
"I've told you months ago I've got my CPL test booked on that day. I'll be home on Dad's actual birthday on Sunday, I just can't make it to the party on Friday." Martin explained, trying not to lose his patience. "Why did you arrange the party for Friday anyway?"
"Because Uncle Steven and Aunt Karen are attending a play on Sunday and mum has to work over the weekend."
"So you're telling me that my test is less important than Uncle Steven and Aunt Karen's play?" Martin gritted his teeth. He knew his mum was only working on Sunday morning and would be home by lunch. There really was no reason for them to have the party on Friday night instead of Sunday afternoon.
"I don't even know why you're taking that test again. How many times have you failed already? Half a dozen times? You might just as well be flushin' the money down the loo for all the good it's done."
"Four times, but it wasn't my fault for two of those times," Martin protested.
"That's what you always say. That no use posh half-brother of yours, every time he calls, you jump, but you can't even be bothered coming home for Dad's 60th."
Martin had to resist the urge to hang up on Simon. It would probably just infuriate his brother even more if he did so. "They're completely different situations! Sherlock almost died! I couldn't just leave him alone."
"Yeah, from a drug overdose that he brought on himself." Martin could hear the bitterness in Simon's voice over the phone. "I guess I know where your family loyalty lies. Should've known, with that posh accent you put on. Wouldn't want to be seen hangin' out with us commoners."
There really was no arguing with Simon. They had gotten along well as children, but as they got older, Simon grew to resent Martin's relationship with the Holmes. Things only got worse when Martin finally went off to aviation school, with his exorbitant school fees being paid for by his biological father.
"Simon, I told everyone months ago that I'll be taking my CPL test on the Friday. Yet you and Caitlyn went ahead and organised everything on that day after I told you I couldn't make it. Don't blame me for not being able to be there."
Simon snorted. "The world doesn't revolve around you and your other family, Martin. Come home or not, I don't care. I'm doing this for Dad, not you. You flunked the test before all on your own, without your freak brother's help, what makes you think this time's going to be any different?" And with that, Simon hung up.
Martin looked at the phone in his hand, not believing what just happened. Martin was tempted to go home right this moment just to strangle Simon for what he said about Sherlock. How could Simon be so completely unreasonable?
Martin felt the tears of frustration running down his cheeks despite his best efforts to hold them back. Angrily, he wiped them away, determined to prove Simon wrong about his abilities as a pilot.
"I'm going to pass this time," Martin said to himself. "Just watch me."
* * *
No matter how many times Martin has been to Hong Kong, it never lost any of its magic. The food, the people, the energy of the place had captivated Martin since the first time he set foot on the former British colony.
Though, to be perfectly honest, never in a million years would Martin have imagined he would be one day running away from local triad members after helping to blow up their main base of operation in the docks of Tsing Yi Island.
A bullet hit the wooden pier right next to where Martin's head was a second ago, splintering the wood. Martin had gotten tired of being left behind a few months ago and had been accompanying Sherlock on some of his investigations, but he now wished he hadn't talked Sherlock into letting him on this case.
Martin jumped onto the small speedboat docked at the pier and quickly untied it. Neither of them had expected to be discovered, and they surely had not planned to blow up anything or get into a shootout. Sherlock would have never let Martin come along otherwise.
"Come on!" he yelled at his brother, who was busy shooting back at their pursuers, not really hitting anyone but still slowing them down.
Martin started the engine of the boat, hoping that it would be fast enough to get them away from the triad members who seemed determined to kill them.
"Go!" Sherlock yelled at Martin as he ran down the pier towards the boat.
Martin started steering the boat so that it was facing outwards yet not moving too far away from the pier. Ten seconds later, he felt the boat shake as Sherlock jumped into it. "Go! Go!" Sherlock cried.
Martin cranked the engine to its top speed and steered them towards Chek Lap Kok Island and the airport.
Once they were in open waters with no sign of being pursued, Martin felt his legs giving up on him. If Sherlock hadn't been standing right behind him, Martin would've fallen over.
"You," he poked Sherlock in the shoulder. "Almost scared me to death! I thought you weren't going to make it!"
Sherlock didn't reply. Instead he took over steering the speedboat towards their destination.
"At least tell me you got something useful out of the whole thing. Tell me I didn't just get shot at for nothing." Martin sank down into one of the two passenger seats on the boat, feeling as though he was either going to throw up or pass out from the adrenaline crash. Or quite possibly throw up and then pass out.
"I've got what we need."
"Great. Good. And now that you've ruined Hong Kong for me, we can go."
* * *
New York was as much of a hustle and bustle as Hong Kong, though with less things blowing up in Sherlock's immediate surrounding. This trip was simply to confirm the information he had obtained in Hong Kong. Sherlock could no longer afford to be impatient, there was too much to lose if he wasn't careful and he had been through too much, come too close to losing it all.
The cafe was modern, located in the middle of downtown Manhattan, with a distinct European feel about it. Sherlock, with his smartly cut blonde hair, wire rimmed glasses, and dressed in stylish jeans with a simple gray blazer, fit right in.
He was sitting in a quiet spot against the wall near the middle of the cafe. It afforded him a view of the entire establishment without calling attention to himself. Though at 10:30am on a Wednesday, the cafe wasn't really that busy. But that suited Sherlock's purpose. He had a cappuccino and the New York Times crosswords before him. The crossword was ridiculously easy of course, but it helped him pass the time and made him looked innocuous.
Heads turned when she walked through the doors. She took off her sunglasses and scanned the room, spotting Sherlock when he gave her a small wave with the pen he was holding.
"Long time no see, darling." Irene Adler greeted him with a kiss to his cheek.
"Good to see you too, my dear." Sherlock replied with a flawless East Coast accent.
Despite her relaxed demure, the tension around Irene's eyes gave away her nervousness. She smiled at the waiter as she ordered her soy latte, sending the young man scampering off with her order.
"I hope he actually remembers your order." Sherlock quipped.
"He'll live." Irene waved her hand dismissively.
"I'm sure."
They chatted about nothing in particular until the waiter returned with Irene's drink. Sherlock smirked at the heart shaped foam art decorating the coffee. Irene merely scoped up a teaspoon of the milky foam and ate it.
"You're heading into dangerous territory, Sherlock."
"Since when did I ever let that stop me?" Sherlock took a sip from his now lukewarm cup of coffee. He preferred tea, but he had long ago learned that the Americans had somehow managed to mangle up the simple act of tea bag to hot water.
"True," Irene agreed. "But this is beyond even you."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question.
"He has an extensive network and many connections, bigger than you can possibly imagine."
"I can imagine quite a lot, thank you. And I have connections of my own. I didn't come here for your advice, Irene. I came for confirmation that the information I possess is accurate."
Irene was silent as she took another sip of coffee. "You're going to get yourself killed," she finally said.
"You can't kill a dead man."
"Sherlock, this is dangerous. He is insane. There's no telling what he'll do if he finds out."
It was all the confirmation Sherlock needed.
"That's the whole point," Sherlock felt a smile threatening to appear. "I want him to find out."
* * *
It took them two days to get from New York to Zurich. Sherlock had to tell himself to be patient and that it wasn't Martin's fault that Phantom only had a limited range and could not make the trip in one go.
Martin had booked them into a semi-decent hotel in Zurich, and Sherlock had let Martin fuss over him without complaint. They ordered an early lunch from room service and Sherlock even ate half of the club sandwich without much protest. Martin let out a large yawn not long after they cleared away the food, and Sherlock had taken over all the available surfaces with this maps and case notes.
"Plans?" Martin asked, lying down on the bed closer to the window.
"I need to confirm the authenticity of this information," Sherlock replied.
"I thought that's what you did in New York?"
"That was only a partial confirmation." It was true. It wouldn't be confirmed until Sherlock saw Moriarty with his own eyes.
"Right then. You'll probably take a while." Martin dug out his diary and searched around for a pen. The sight of Martin writing reminded Sherlock so much of John that he had to look away.
Not long after, Martin had fallen asleep, the flights of the last two days catching up with him.
Sherlock didn't have time for sleep.
Turning on his laptop, he logged on to 'The Science of Deduction' for the first time in two years.
Sunset, Reichenbach Falls. Base power station.
Sherlock looked at his brother's sleeping form. "I'm sorry, Martin. I have to do this alone."
Sherlock hit the post button.
* * *
The room was completely silent when Martin woke up. The sun was shining through the window and papers were scattered all over the table, just like it had been when Martin fell asleep. Sherlock's laptop was on the desk, sitting on a pile of paper. Sherlock himself was nowhere to be found.
"Sherlock?" Martin called out, but there was no reply. Martin was immediately alert. Sherlock had been strangely complacent over lunch. He didn't even protest when Martin made him eat his sandwich.
Martin checked the bathroom just to be sure, but it was empty. Fishing his mobile out from his jacket pocket, Martin dialed Sherlock's number. A familiar ring tone sounded from underneath a stack of paper on the table. Martin hung up, feeling a sense of dread creep up his spine.
Looking at the chaos on the desk, Martin realised that the laptop was only in sleep mode. He clicked on the mouse and Sherlock's website blinked into existence.
When he saw the message posted on the forum over two and a half hours ago, Martin felt as though the earth had fallen from underneath him.
"Sherlock, what have you done." Martin took a deep breath, trying desperately to claim his racing heart. He checked the time. "Sunset's another two hours away. Reichenbach Falls is about an hour and a half by car, I still have time."
Rushing out of the hotel, Martin flagged down a cab, and in his broken GCSE German, instructed the driver to go to Reichenbach Falls. Martin didn't have time to sort out the necessary paperwork to rent a car and this was exactly the type of situation when the unlimited credit card came in handy.
The cab ride was the longest 90 minutes of Martin's life. Once he arrived at Reichenbach Falls, Martin immediately headed towards the power station.
Fifteen minutes. How was he supposed to find Sherlock among all the tourists in that time?
"Think, Martin, think!" Martin murmured to himself. "Where would Sherlock go to meet a criminal mastermind he'd been chasing all over the globe for two years? Somewhere where no one's watching. Somewhere without all the tourists."
Martin grabbed a tourist map of the area from the information counter and started looking for the most likely location.
"Has to be somewhere dramatic, because this is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about."
The map did not provide Martin with any answers, but when he looked up, he noticed a sign next to the path towards one of the main viewing platform, informing visitors of repairs being carried out on some of the other platforms.
Comparing the information on the notice with the map in his hands, Martin picked the most likely location: the viewing platform closest to the edge of the largest waterfall.
It took Martin more than ten minutes to make it all the way to the top. The roar of the waterfall got louder as he approached the platform. As he got closer, he could make out two figures struggling at the top.
A gunshot went off.
Martin started running.
* * *
Sherlock couldn't believe Moriarty was actually arrogant enough to have turned up alone. He looked completely out of place, dressed in his expensive tailor made suit. Half of the wooden platform was missing, the repair still in its early stages. The constant splashes of water form the waterfall made Sherlock felt as though he was standing in a light drizzle.
"The rumours of your demise have been greatly aggregated it seemed," Moriarty greeted Sherlock. "I was beginning to wonder who was responsible for all the mishaps over the last two years. I should've known it was you."
"Now you do," Sherlock had to shout in order to be heard above the sound of the waterfall.
"My, my. All this effort for little old me? I'm flattered." Moriarty smiled, as though genuinely flattered by Sherlock's attention. It made Sherlock feel sick. "I cried you know, when I heard that you died. Well, when I said cried, I meant shed a tear. It had been most fun, playing with you."
"Can't say I felt the same," Sherlock replied.
"Stop fooling yourself Sherlock and admit it. You had fun, too. It's not too late to join me."
Sherlock couldn't believe Moriarty was still going on about it. He wondered what he had done to make Moriarty think that Sherlock would ever join him. Was the man really that deluded or was there something about Sherlock that made him think that?
"But I'm afraid it is," Sherlock replied, pointing his gun at Moriarty. It all ends here, today.
"Can you pull the trigger, Sherlock?" Moriarty took a step forwards towards Sherlock. "Look me in the eyes and pull the trigger?" He took another step, bringing his own forehead merely inches from the barrel of the gun.
Sherlock released the safety on the gun, but in one swift move, Moriarty pushed Sherlock's arms upwards and the shot went wide. Sherlock attempted to wrestle back control of the gun, pushing against Moriarty in order to get some distance between them.
They wrestled for possession of the gun. Sherlock had a slight height advantage, but the rocky surface underneath his foot was muddy and slippery, making it hard to balance properly. A hard shove from Sherlock sent Moriarty tumbling backwards, but he reached out with his left hand and grabbed Sherlock's jacket, yanking Sherlock down with him.
Moriarty's back connected with the wooden safety barrier and he flung out his free hand to catch his balance. Sherlock's foot slipped and he lost his balance, landing on top of Moriarty. Their combined weight was too much for the barrier; Sherlock heard the wood snap and felt himself going over the edge.
But something, someone had grabbed his left arm and he slammed painfully against the stone cliff face of the ledge. Moriarty lost his grip on Sherlock's jacket and Sherlock saw him reaching out to clutch desperately at something, anything before he disappeared from view.
Sherlock looked up to see Martin staring anxiously down at him.
* * *
Martin felt as though his right shoulder was about to dislocate from its socket, and Sherlock's arm was already starting to slip from his grip. Martin was holding onto a rock right next to the ledge with his left hand. He didn't dare let it go, for fear of losing his balance on the slippery surface, and Sherlock's weight would then send them both over the edge.
"Grab something!" Martin yelled, desperately trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder. He can't let go. He just can't.
Sherlock was looking around frantically for anything on the surface of the rock he could get a hold of. He must have spotted something because Martin felt Sherlock shifting his weight and suddenly the pressure on his shoulder lightened slightly. Sherlock then shifted his grip on Martin's arm, securing their hold on each other.
"Pull me up!" Sherlock yelled. Martin could barely hear him through the roar of the waterfall around them.
Using the rock as leverage, Martin slowly moved backwards, pulling Sherlock up inch by inch. Once most of Sherlock's left arm cleared the edge, he managed to pull himself up and flopped down on the ground next to Martin.
"Is it over?" Martin asked, after finally calming his heart rate down to something resembling normal.
"Yes." Sherlock said.
Turning to look at each other, Martin heard a laugh of pure relief bubble from his lips. Soon, both brothers were laughing so hard that they could barely hear the sound of the waterfall around them.
* * *
Epilogue
The ear-piercing screech of the doorbell almost made Martin spill his tea.
"Oh, for god's sake, I thought they said they got it fixed!" Martin muttered to himself, quickly making his way to the intercom to stop whoever it was from pressing the doorbell again. "Hello?"
"It's Sherlock," came his brother's rather distorted voice from the small speaker.
"Sherlock? What are you doing here? Come on up!"
It had been almost four months since they came home, and except for a text saying 'Thank you' a week after their return, Martin had not seen or heard from Sherlock since. Mycroft had given him random updates through the months, so he knew Sherlock was all right and was actually working on rebuilding his relationships with the people in his life before he faked his own death. One of them being Doctor Watson.
Martin had been busy as well. He had stayed with Mycroft for a few weeks while he tried to sort out what he wanted to do. After being on the run with Sherlock for two years, everything had felt rather surreal.
Martin had been dumbfounded when Mycroft presented him with a deposit receipt for £130,000 two days after their return from Switzerland.
"Your pay for the last two years," Mycroft explained.
"What?"
"Market salary rate for an airline captain ranges from £60,000 per annum to £110,000 per annum depending on the airline and the seniority of the officer. This is your after tax pay for the last two years based on fair market rate."
"Mycroft, I can't take this. You've already said I can keep the plane, I just can't - "
"Martin, the plane, while in your name, isn't technically yours. You're holding it in trust for Her Majesty so that I may call on your service on her behalf whenever the need arise. You may use her as you see fit while she's not in Her Majesty's services, but that's it. This is legitimate pay for services rendered over the last two years. They are completely separate issues."
Three weeks after their return, Martin finally got his head together and made a trip back to Fitton. There was a cheerful reunion with Arthur, Carolyn and Douglas, and he finally met the infamous Doogie Howard, First Officer. Then came various meetings and telephone calls with Mycroft, and MJN Air and Pegasus Air went through a merger to become MJN Pegasus Air.
With the back pay, Martin was finally able to afford a decent flat of his own and things had more or less settled down.
"Martin," Sherlock greeted him with a grin when Martin opened the door to his flat.
"Sherlock, come in!" Martin smiled at his brother. "You look much better than the last time I saw you."
"Yeah, funny what regular meals and sleep can accomplish," came a voice from behind Sherlock.
"Oh," Sherlock stepped aside to let a shorter blonde haired man through the doorway. "Martin, this is Doctor John Watson. John, my half-brother, Martin."
Martin noticed that the grin had not left Sherlock's face even after the introductions were over and refreshments offered.
Stupidly in love, Martin thought as he observed from the kitchen the way Sherlock and John interacted, looking at the various model aeroplanes Martin had put in a display cabinet. Sherlock leaned in to say something to John, and Martin didn't fail to notice the protective hand resting on Sherlock's waist.
Two hours and three mugs of tea later, Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Martin and John alone.
"I still can't get over the fact that you're his half brother. You could be twins!"
Martin shrugged. "We both take after father. Sherlock's got Aunt Ana's dark hair, and since both father and my mum are ginger, I was pretty much doomed from the start."
John laughed. He was pleasant, and not quite what Martin was expecting. On the surface, John was the complete opposite of Victor, but after two hours in his company, Martin could see why Sherlock had done what he did to protect this man.
A small part of Martin's brain chided him for comparing John to Victor, but he couldn't help himself. John was fiercely protective of Sherlock; like Victor, he could put up with all of Sherlock's eccentricities yet didn't hesitate to put his foot down when things got out of hand. That John and Sherlock adored each other, well, that was obvious to anyone with eyes.
It was clear that John had questions about the two years they'd been away. Knowing Sherlock, he probably hadn't really told John anything except the bare minimum, all laid out in rational facts and logical conclusions. Emotionally idiotic, that was Sherlock, and the intervening years hadn't really changed him much. It was the reason why he didn't even knew he was in love with John until a mad man strapped a bomb to his chest.
"Excuse me a moment," Martin said, suddenly coming to a decision over a dilemma he hadn't even known he was contemplating.
A couple minutes later, Martin emerged from his bedroom and handed over his diary to John.
"I kept a record, a diary really, from our time away," Martin explained. "I want you to have it."
"Martin - "
"John, take it. I know you've been wanting to ask me what happened during that time we were away. Most of it is in there. It's mostly where we've been, the things Sherlock deduced, which country I should try to avoid flying to in the future because we blew something up or caused a major uprising or something equally crazy. Just some of my notes and observations. I didn't write down anything that would betray Sherlock's confidence in me, so don't worry about reading something you shouldn't."
John looked down at the black leather diary in his hands, then up at Martin again. "Thank you."
"You and I both know Sherlock has a serious case of emotional idiocy. This is my way of helping him."
The noise of the flushing toilet alerted them to Sherlock's imminent return.
"You know, he probably did that on purpose." John said. "Going to the loo and letting us have a moment."
"I wouldn't put it past him." Martin smiled. "And yet, he's always accusing Mycroft of being manipulative."
John grinned. "I have to remember to bring that up the next time he's ranting about Mycroft."
"What about Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.
"Nothing." Martin and John chorused, sharing a conspiratory glance.
"If the both of you are done, I just got a text from Lestrade."
"Murder?" Martin saw the way John's eyes lit up at the prospect of a case.
"Of course," Sherlock replied with a pleased smile.
Yep, definitely a match for Sherlock, he thought, glad that his brother had finally found happiness.
* * *
From the diary of Captain Martin Aldrich Holmes-Crieff:
...I've never been to Washington DC before. Would love to be able to come back one day and do a proper visit since all I've been doing for the last three days was worrying about Sherlock. That's not a good way to enjoy the sights. He's disappeared with a promise to text every few hours, saying that this was something he had to do alone. I'm getting sick of that excuse. When he comes back, and I mean when, not if, he will be filling me in even if I have to pull out the big guns and ring Mycroft....
The End