fic: truths you never thought were real
Title: truths you never thought were real
Rating: pg
Pairing: references to some form of John/Sherlock
Word Count: ~1,000
Spoilers: 3x01 The Empty Hearse
Summary: "Kidnapped," Mycroft laughs, airy and indulgent. "Sherlock's propensity for dramatics has worn off on you."
John touches the back of the chair facing Mycroft's desk, lightly. "I guess I should be glad you're not trying to burn me alive."
"Yes," Mycroft says, absently, "it has been a busy week for you."
John pushes open the office door without knocking.
"John," Mycroft says, glancing up from his work, like he's surprised to see him, "Lovely to see you."
"You kidnapped me," John replies, shortly, "Again."
"Kidnapped," Mycroft laughs, airy and indulgent. "Sherlock's propensity for dramatics has worn off on you."
John touches the back of the chair facing Mycroft's desk, lightly. "I guess I should be glad you're not trying to burn me alive."
"Yes," Mycroft says, absently, "it has been a busy week for you."
John ignores him. "What do you want, Mycroft?"
Mycroft's gaze is amused. "You're not one for small talk, are you, Doctor Watson?" and John stares at him, resolute in his silence, until Mycroft adds, "How is Sherlock's back?"
"His back?" John repeats, tersely, and Mycroft ignores him.
"Is he sleeping well?"
John's smile is tight. "Does he ever?"
Mycroft smiles slightly, unamused. "He spent two years on the run, constantly looking over his shoulder. Never able to relax. In dismantling Moriarty's web, he did what the combined forces of Scotland Yard and MI6 could not. I should imagine he's exhausted."
"I'm not spying on your brother for you."
Mycroft's eyes widen in mock incredulity. "I would never ask you to."
"Yeah, you would," John mutters, jamming his hands in his coat pockets.
Mycroft shuffles the papers in front of him. "I'm simply concerned." There's a pause. "But you don't know," Mycroft realizes, putting down the papers. "You don't know how he is." He folds his hands together on the desk. "Fascinating."
"He's fine," John protests, a little defensively, "He's Sherlock."
A muscle in Mycroft's cheek tenses, briefly (such a small tell on anyone else). "Mmnn, yes. And far more prone to human frailties than he'd like to admit," another short pause, "or you'd care to imagine."
John clenches his jaw, refuses to give Mycroft the satisfaction of asking, but Mycroft's always been able to read him, so easily.
"He misses you," Mycroft says (a familiar inflection; slightly mocking, more than a little perplexed by such a useless emotion; "You miss it," he'd said, the first time they met, shadows and half-truths and beginnings).
"Two years," John says, tightly. "I thought he was dead."
"Is that why you attacked him?" Mycroft asks, "At The Landmark Hotel?" he lifts the top sheet of his pile, but John knows it's just for show, "And at," his lip curls slightly, "The Crypt and Goose Cafe?" He lifts another page. "And, again, at City Kebabs?" and John's jaw sets. "You never struck me as a particularly violent man, Doctor Watson."
"Yeah, well. Been a while since we've talked," John says, sharply.
"Are you going to tackle me, too?" Mycroft asks, and he's unimpressed.
"Not ruling it out," John mutters, before adding, normally, "Don't think I'm not bloody pissed at you, too."
"I'll be sure to make a note of it," Mycroft replies, mildly, in a way that's deliberately antagonizing, and John's fist clenches, just briefly, unintentionally.
"If it makes you feel better," Mycroft says, "Go ahead." His eyes are darker, dangerous. "But then," he adds, leaning back in his seat, "I haven't been beaten to within an inch of my life, and I'm not desperately seeking your forgiveness, so - unlike my brother - I can assure you that I will most certainly fight back." He gives John a once-over. "I don't imagine we're at all evenly matched," he gestures at his suit, almost absently, as if every move he makes isn't calculated, "but even this would be less one-sided than assaulting a man who could barely stand."
"Assaulting," John scoffs, quietly, and Mycroft stares him down. John shakes his head slightly in disbelief. "Two years," he says, instead, again, "Just - a word. From either of you."
"I apologize," Mycroft says, insincerely, picking up his pen, "But your well-being was never my primary concern."
"You don't say," John snorts.
"It was Sherlock's, however."
"Oh, don't even-"
"Two years," Mycroft echoes, just as heatedly, and the emotion's gone as quickly as it appeared. "You think he wasn't happy with your," he waves his hand, dismissively, "little blog," and John bristles, like he knows Mycroft intended, "and your flat and playing detective with you? You're the only friend he's ever had, John, and you think he gave that up for - what, some sort of holiday?"
"This was a game. Between him. And Moriarty," John says, lowly, and Mycroft's gaze isn't impressed.
"I can't tell if you're being intentionally obtuse."
John gives him a tight, humorless smile. "Let's assume I'm not."
Mycroft raises his eyebrows, briefly, before leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk, fingers lacing together. "We had the sniper fixed on you ... dealt with," he says, delicately, "but Moriarty's web spanned continents, and it's no secret that my brother's Achilles heel is you," he lets the word hang for a moment. Then, as if he barely understands it himself, almost gently, "He was protecting you, John. The only way he knew how."
("I would've gone with him," he doesn't say, and he's not going to examine the thought too closely; not here, in this office, not the day of his engagement party, but Mycroft, Mycroft bloody Holmes reads it on his face, he's sure, because he blinks, as close to startled as he'll show; a variable that never occurred to him or Sherlock, and for a pair of geniuses, they can be so stupid sometimes).
"He certainly didn't do it for Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft adds, "I mean, you've met her," it's deadpan, but definitely a joke; an offer of an uneasy truce, just for this afternoon, and John half-smiles before he can catch it, and Mycroft nods, once.
"Right," is all John can say. "OK."
Mycroft checks his watch. "Now, I have," he grimaces, "an - appointment. Unless," his eyes narrow, thoughtfully, "How do you feel about Le Mis, John?"
"No," John says, firmly. "Absolutely not."
"Pity," Mycroft murmurs, finger hovering over a button on his phone. "Where shall I tell Anthea to take you?"
John hesitates, then licks his lips; tries on for size words (a life) he thought he'd left behind. "Baker Street," he says, and even though they both know what he means, he adds, with a small smile, "221B Baker Street."
Author's Notes: There really is a Crypt and Goose Cafe not too far from where John, Sherlock and Mary were that night. I doubt that's where they ended up, but I liked the name.
Rating: pg
Pairing: references to some form of John/Sherlock
Word Count: ~1,000
Spoilers: 3x01 The Empty Hearse
Summary: "Kidnapped," Mycroft laughs, airy and indulgent. "Sherlock's propensity for dramatics has worn off on you."
John touches the back of the chair facing Mycroft's desk, lightly. "I guess I should be glad you're not trying to burn me alive."
"Yes," Mycroft says, absently, "it has been a busy week for you."
John pushes open the office door without knocking.
"John," Mycroft says, glancing up from his work, like he's surprised to see him, "Lovely to see you."
"You kidnapped me," John replies, shortly, "Again."
"Kidnapped," Mycroft laughs, airy and indulgent. "Sherlock's propensity for dramatics has worn off on you."
John touches the back of the chair facing Mycroft's desk, lightly. "I guess I should be glad you're not trying to burn me alive."
"Yes," Mycroft says, absently, "it has been a busy week for you."
John ignores him. "What do you want, Mycroft?"
Mycroft's gaze is amused. "You're not one for small talk, are you, Doctor Watson?" and John stares at him, resolute in his silence, until Mycroft adds, "How is Sherlock's back?"
"His back?" John repeats, tersely, and Mycroft ignores him.
"Is he sleeping well?"
John's smile is tight. "Does he ever?"
Mycroft smiles slightly, unamused. "He spent two years on the run, constantly looking over his shoulder. Never able to relax. In dismantling Moriarty's web, he did what the combined forces of Scotland Yard and MI6 could not. I should imagine he's exhausted."
"I'm not spying on your brother for you."
Mycroft's eyes widen in mock incredulity. "I would never ask you to."
"Yeah, you would," John mutters, jamming his hands in his coat pockets.
Mycroft shuffles the papers in front of him. "I'm simply concerned." There's a pause. "But you don't know," Mycroft realizes, putting down the papers. "You don't know how he is." He folds his hands together on the desk. "Fascinating."
"He's fine," John protests, a little defensively, "He's Sherlock."
A muscle in Mycroft's cheek tenses, briefly (such a small tell on anyone else). "Mmnn, yes. And far more prone to human frailties than he'd like to admit," another short pause, "or you'd care to imagine."
John clenches his jaw, refuses to give Mycroft the satisfaction of asking, but Mycroft's always been able to read him, so easily.
"He misses you," Mycroft says (a familiar inflection; slightly mocking, more than a little perplexed by such a useless emotion; "You miss it," he'd said, the first time they met, shadows and half-truths and beginnings).
"Two years," John says, tightly. "I thought he was dead."
"Is that why you attacked him?" Mycroft asks, "At The Landmark Hotel?" he lifts the top sheet of his pile, but John knows it's just for show, "And at," his lip curls slightly, "The Crypt and Goose Cafe?" He lifts another page. "And, again, at City Kebabs?" and John's jaw sets. "You never struck me as a particularly violent man, Doctor Watson."
"Yeah, well. Been a while since we've talked," John says, sharply.
"Are you going to tackle me, too?" Mycroft asks, and he's unimpressed.
"Not ruling it out," John mutters, before adding, normally, "Don't think I'm not bloody pissed at you, too."
"I'll be sure to make a note of it," Mycroft replies, mildly, in a way that's deliberately antagonizing, and John's fist clenches, just briefly, unintentionally.
"If it makes you feel better," Mycroft says, "Go ahead." His eyes are darker, dangerous. "But then," he adds, leaning back in his seat, "I haven't been beaten to within an inch of my life, and I'm not desperately seeking your forgiveness, so - unlike my brother - I can assure you that I will most certainly fight back." He gives John a once-over. "I don't imagine we're at all evenly matched," he gestures at his suit, almost absently, as if every move he makes isn't calculated, "but even this would be less one-sided than assaulting a man who could barely stand."
"Assaulting," John scoffs, quietly, and Mycroft stares him down. John shakes his head slightly in disbelief. "Two years," he says, instead, again, "Just - a word. From either of you."
"I apologize," Mycroft says, insincerely, picking up his pen, "But your well-being was never my primary concern."
"You don't say," John snorts.
"It was Sherlock's, however."
"Oh, don't even-"
"Two years," Mycroft echoes, just as heatedly, and the emotion's gone as quickly as it appeared. "You think he wasn't happy with your," he waves his hand, dismissively, "little blog," and John bristles, like he knows Mycroft intended, "and your flat and playing detective with you? You're the only friend he's ever had, John, and you think he gave that up for - what, some sort of holiday?"
"This was a game. Between him. And Moriarty," John says, lowly, and Mycroft's gaze isn't impressed.
"I can't tell if you're being intentionally obtuse."
John gives him a tight, humorless smile. "Let's assume I'm not."
Mycroft raises his eyebrows, briefly, before leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk, fingers lacing together. "We had the sniper fixed on you ... dealt with," he says, delicately, "but Moriarty's web spanned continents, and it's no secret that my brother's Achilles heel is you," he lets the word hang for a moment. Then, as if he barely understands it himself, almost gently, "He was protecting you, John. The only way he knew how."
("I would've gone with him," he doesn't say, and he's not going to examine the thought too closely; not here, in this office, not the day of his engagement party, but Mycroft, Mycroft bloody Holmes reads it on his face, he's sure, because he blinks, as close to startled as he'll show; a variable that never occurred to him or Sherlock, and for a pair of geniuses, they can be so stupid sometimes).
"He certainly didn't do it for Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft adds, "I mean, you've met her," it's deadpan, but definitely a joke; an offer of an uneasy truce, just for this afternoon, and John half-smiles before he can catch it, and Mycroft nods, once.
"Right," is all John can say. "OK."
Mycroft checks his watch. "Now, I have," he grimaces, "an - appointment. Unless," his eyes narrow, thoughtfully, "How do you feel about Le Mis, John?"
"No," John says, firmly. "Absolutely not."
"Pity," Mycroft murmurs, finger hovering over a button on his phone. "Where shall I tell Anthea to take you?"
John hesitates, then licks his lips; tries on for size words (a life) he thought he'd left behind. "Baker Street," he says, and even though they both know what he means, he adds, with a small smile, "221B Baker Street."
Author's Notes: There really is a Crypt and Goose Cafe not too far from where John, Sherlock and Mary were that night. I doubt that's where they ended up, but I liked the name.