Promise to the Living- Part Eighteen
Promise to the Living
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Depression, suicide idealtion
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes
Summary: After the Reichenbach Fall, John doesn't want to go on without his best friend. Mycroft Holmes acts on his promise to keep John safe.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven Part Twelve Part Thirteen Part Fourteen Part Fifteen Part Sixteen Part Seventeen
The Lanesborough was foremost among London's premiere hotels, but Mycroft treated it like a mere home away from home, and the staff bent over backwards to accommodate him. Despite his exhaustion, John perked up when he realized that the elder Holmes had reserved the Royal Suite, which was normally occupied only by visiting dignitaries and celebrities.
The massive suite had floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto Buckingham Palace and Constitutional Arch. The three bedrooms, sitting room, and study were richly furnished in vintage style, and the kitchen and dining room were sleek with amenities that looked like they could self-operate. A basket full of ripe apples sat on a small entryway table, their crisp scent sweetening the air.
Mycroft looked pleased. "They always remember that I eat Adanac apples every morning."
"A whole basket of them?" Sherlock asked dryly. "And all this time I thought it was cake making you fat."
At one time John would have laughed at the Mycroft weight jokes. Now he frowned, but Sherlock didn't notice. Mycroft sighed. "At least I can stop eating too much. You can't stop being a silly child."
Lestrade stared about, lips parted in amazement. "Unbelievable. I've heard so much about this suite, but never thought I'd see the inside unless someone was murdered here. I feel like stealing something," he said. He was only half-joking.
"Go ahead," Mycroft yawned. He took off his coat and hung it in the huge hall closet, but kept his umbrella. John remembered the sleek sword it contained, and how Mycroft always had to be ready to fight for his life at any moment. "Just let me know whatever it is, so I can replace it in the morning."
Sherlock, as usual, was not sleepy. His bright eyes were fixed on John, and he shifted restlessly about. When Mycroft whispered something to him and nodded toward the hallway, the younger man hesitated. "All right, I suppose we should," he finally said. "John, please, you'll be here in the morning, won't you?"
So that was it. He was afraid something would change during the night, and John would leave. John remembered the Baskerville case, when fear had nearly undone the normally composed detective, and hastened to reassure him.
"Yes, Sherlock. I'll be here. I promise."
After the brothers retired, John turned to Lestrade and said, "I don't even know what to say, Greg. This night…." He gestured, and then let his hands fall.
"I know," Lestrade said.
"Maybe it will all make sense in the morning."
"I wouldn't count on it, John. But at least we'll all have the energy to deal with it properly."
John's bed was perfect, as if it had been built to specifically accommodate his physical idiosyncrasies. But after sleeping fitfully for a few hours, he woke up and could not get back to sleep. He'd been dreaming about Sherlock and Mycroft, and the dilemma that involved them both.
He finally got up, put on the spongy-soft robe, and walked to the window. As he watched early-morning commuters begin their journey to the tube stations and bus stops, he thought of how unpredictable and chaotic his own life was compared to their regimented existences. When he worked cases with Sherlock or missions for Mycroft, he never knew each morning where he would be by nightfall, or what he would have accomplished or failed at. And he loved it that way.
Last night had been overwhelming, even for someone who thrived on uncertainty. But now that the shock of finding Sherlock alive had lessened, joy surged through him. As he smiled and wiped his eyes, John was tempted to search for Sherlock and Mycroft's room and peer through the keyhole (presuming there was one) to satisfy himself that it wasn't all a dream.
But something was different now too. A year ago, Sherlock had left him without warning and set him on the path to self-destruction. He understood that Sherlock had only wanted to protect him. But the fear that it could happen again made him hesitant about picking up where they had left off in their friendship. He never wanted to suffer that way again.
He also had feelings for Mycroft that Sherlock's unexpected return forced him to confront and examine now.
No sexual element was involved; of that he was fairly certain. Gorgeous women still turned his head, and he didn't fancy men. But whenever he met the elder Holmes for dinner or a mission assignment, his heartbeat would increase the closer he got to the rendezvous site. He liked -no, make that loved- the other man's company.
Frowning, John crossed his arms and made some comparisons. With Sherlock it had been thrills and danger all the way, which cured him of his psychosomatic limp and gave his life much-needed excitement. He loved the younger man, but also felt like a babysitter cum bodyguard. John accepted that they would never be equals emotionally, that Sherlock wouldn't understand half of the feelings that motivated John and, for that matter, the rest of the human race. Mycroft did understand, because he felt them too, despite the occasional claim to the contrary.
He sighed as he recalled last month's mission to retrieve a government agent being held hostage by Black Cell terrorists. John's team had liberated the hostage but the teenaged daughter of one of the rogue group's leaders was accidentally killed during the crossfire. Mycroft had held him when he wept bitterly over that senseless death afterward. Even if he didn't share John's grief, he understood it. Sherlock could never offer that occasional nurturance. He might go through the motions because of his affection for John, but the sincerity and sense of commiseration would be absent.
There was also the stark fact that Sherlock had left him, and Mycroft had stayed. That would always matter.
Would Sherlock accept John's closeness to his brother? And if he didn't, what would happen? The thought of being forced to choose chilled him.
As he turned away from the window, he smelled something burning. Then he realized what it was: cigarette smoke. Someone was up.
John opened his door and saw light spilling from the sitting room into the hall. He also smelled freshly brewed coffee. Intrigued, he padded quietly out of his room to investigate. He was half-expecting to see Sherlock enjoying an illicit cigarette while brooding, but to his surprise Mycroft lounged in one of the massive armchairs, gazing out the window and absently flicking ashes into a crystal tray.
"Hello, John," he said without turning around. "I heard you in your room. Glad to have you join me."
John gazed about, but they were alone. "Where's Sherlock?'
"Sleeping."
"Really?" John sat on the brocaded sofa. "How'd you manage that? Rohypnol? Blow to the head?"
Mycroft chuckled. "Drugged his tea before bedtime. I needed rest."
Now John laughed. He felt himself relax. "Is that coffee I smell?"
"Yes. The hotel staff set the coffee machine to automatically brew at five-thirty. I never sleep later than that." Mycroft ground out his cigarette, tightened his robe sash, and stood. "I'll get you one."
John started to protest that he could get it himself, but Mycroft gestured for him to stay put and disappeared into the kitchen. He was back momentarily with two steaming mugs, one of which he held out to John.
"I'm glad you're up," he said as he resumed his seat. "We have important things to discuss."
"I agree." John took a sip. The coffee was perfect: Mycroft had remembered how he liked it.
"I've been thinking about the dilemma of how to keep my brother busy enough for all of us to remain sane, and believe I have a solution."
"Yeah? Let's hear it."
"I've decided to purchase a business, and I want you to run it."
That was unexpected. "A business?"
"Yes." Mycroft regarded him thoughtfully. "A detective agency. You'll have your private investigator's license by the end of the week."
"And Sherlock?"
"He'll get one too. Maybe with some kind of credentials he'll no longer need to steal my ID or Mr. Lestrade's badge. Unless he's bored."
"You're serious."
"Absolutely." Mycroft sipped his coffee. "When I need investigation work done -and I will, frequently- I'll go to you directly. After you accept the cases, Sherlock will join in after throwing an obligatory strop or two. He'll love being the investigative lead on some of the scenarios that are being brought to my attention. He just won't accept anything from me personally."
"Wow." John shook his head. "It's genius, actually, and will be just the thing to keep him -us- busy and challenged."
"I concur. I take it you accept?"
"Oh God, yes." John paused. "Mycroft, I've never said this before, but thank you for everything. For saving me. And keeping Sherlock alive all these months. I'm so grateful to you. I just need to know that this isn't the end of our close… association." When he met Mycroft's eyes, his expression was pleading.
The elder Holmes smiled. "On the contrary. You'll be seeing me more than ever. Protecting my investment, you see."
Relief flooded John. "Oh, naturally."
A third voice joined the discussion. "Got room for another investigator?"
Lestrade appeared in the sitting room entrance, dark eyes darting from Mycroft to John and back. He smothered a yawn as he came into the room and sat down.
"What do you mean?" John asked. "Do you know someone?"
"Yeah. Me."
Even Mycroft looked surprised. "Your position at Scotland Yard wouldn't permit private investigations, Mr. Lestrade."
"So I leave the Yard. I've already qualified for a pension, and I've had enough of the red tape that the upper echelon is wrapping me in. I got into police work because I wanted to solve crimes, not worry about breaking the rule of the week." He grimaced. "I mean it, gents. I want in."
Mycroft nodded his understanding. "We'd be glad to have you aboard. John?"
"Oh, Christ, it would be fantastic." John wanted to exclaim with joy. Everything was coming together better than he'd dared to hope. Before he could say anything further, a door opened in the hallway.
"Here's my brother now," Mycroft murmured. "Shall you tell him, John, or would you like to see a fraternal spat first thing in the morning?"
John was about to say that he'd do it, but Sherlock stalked into the room, glaring daggers at Mycroft.
"Count me out," he snarled.
Part Nineteen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Depression, suicide idealtion
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes
Summary: After the Reichenbach Fall, John doesn't want to go on without his best friend. Mycroft Holmes acts on his promise to keep John safe.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven Part Twelve Part Thirteen Part Fourteen Part Fifteen Part Sixteen Part Seventeen
The Lanesborough was foremost among London's premiere hotels, but Mycroft treated it like a mere home away from home, and the staff bent over backwards to accommodate him. Despite his exhaustion, John perked up when he realized that the elder Holmes had reserved the Royal Suite, which was normally occupied only by visiting dignitaries and celebrities.
The massive suite had floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto Buckingham Palace and Constitutional Arch. The three bedrooms, sitting room, and study were richly furnished in vintage style, and the kitchen and dining room were sleek with amenities that looked like they could self-operate. A basket full of ripe apples sat on a small entryway table, their crisp scent sweetening the air.
Mycroft looked pleased. "They always remember that I eat Adanac apples every morning."
"A whole basket of them?" Sherlock asked dryly. "And all this time I thought it was cake making you fat."
At one time John would have laughed at the Mycroft weight jokes. Now he frowned, but Sherlock didn't notice. Mycroft sighed. "At least I can stop eating too much. You can't stop being a silly child."
Lestrade stared about, lips parted in amazement. "Unbelievable. I've heard so much about this suite, but never thought I'd see the inside unless someone was murdered here. I feel like stealing something," he said. He was only half-joking.
"Go ahead," Mycroft yawned. He took off his coat and hung it in the huge hall closet, but kept his umbrella. John remembered the sleek sword it contained, and how Mycroft always had to be ready to fight for his life at any moment. "Just let me know whatever it is, so I can replace it in the morning."
Sherlock, as usual, was not sleepy. His bright eyes were fixed on John, and he shifted restlessly about. When Mycroft whispered something to him and nodded toward the hallway, the younger man hesitated. "All right, I suppose we should," he finally said. "John, please, you'll be here in the morning, won't you?"
So that was it. He was afraid something would change during the night, and John would leave. John remembered the Baskerville case, when fear had nearly undone the normally composed detective, and hastened to reassure him.
"Yes, Sherlock. I'll be here. I promise."
After the brothers retired, John turned to Lestrade and said, "I don't even know what to say, Greg. This night…." He gestured, and then let his hands fall.
"I know," Lestrade said.
"Maybe it will all make sense in the morning."
"I wouldn't count on it, John. But at least we'll all have the energy to deal with it properly."
John's bed was perfect, as if it had been built to specifically accommodate his physical idiosyncrasies. But after sleeping fitfully for a few hours, he woke up and could not get back to sleep. He'd been dreaming about Sherlock and Mycroft, and the dilemma that involved them both.
He finally got up, put on the spongy-soft robe, and walked to the window. As he watched early-morning commuters begin their journey to the tube stations and bus stops, he thought of how unpredictable and chaotic his own life was compared to their regimented existences. When he worked cases with Sherlock or missions for Mycroft, he never knew each morning where he would be by nightfall, or what he would have accomplished or failed at. And he loved it that way.
Last night had been overwhelming, even for someone who thrived on uncertainty. But now that the shock of finding Sherlock alive had lessened, joy surged through him. As he smiled and wiped his eyes, John was tempted to search for Sherlock and Mycroft's room and peer through the keyhole (presuming there was one) to satisfy himself that it wasn't all a dream.
But something was different now too. A year ago, Sherlock had left him without warning and set him on the path to self-destruction. He understood that Sherlock had only wanted to protect him. But the fear that it could happen again made him hesitant about picking up where they had left off in their friendship. He never wanted to suffer that way again.
He also had feelings for Mycroft that Sherlock's unexpected return forced him to confront and examine now.
No sexual element was involved; of that he was fairly certain. Gorgeous women still turned his head, and he didn't fancy men. But whenever he met the elder Holmes for dinner or a mission assignment, his heartbeat would increase the closer he got to the rendezvous site. He liked -no, make that loved- the other man's company.
Frowning, John crossed his arms and made some comparisons. With Sherlock it had been thrills and danger all the way, which cured him of his psychosomatic limp and gave his life much-needed excitement. He loved the younger man, but also felt like a babysitter cum bodyguard. John accepted that they would never be equals emotionally, that Sherlock wouldn't understand half of the feelings that motivated John and, for that matter, the rest of the human race. Mycroft did understand, because he felt them too, despite the occasional claim to the contrary.
He sighed as he recalled last month's mission to retrieve a government agent being held hostage by Black Cell terrorists. John's team had liberated the hostage but the teenaged daughter of one of the rogue group's leaders was accidentally killed during the crossfire. Mycroft had held him when he wept bitterly over that senseless death afterward. Even if he didn't share John's grief, he understood it. Sherlock could never offer that occasional nurturance. He might go through the motions because of his affection for John, but the sincerity and sense of commiseration would be absent.
There was also the stark fact that Sherlock had left him, and Mycroft had stayed. That would always matter.
Would Sherlock accept John's closeness to his brother? And if he didn't, what would happen? The thought of being forced to choose chilled him.
As he turned away from the window, he smelled something burning. Then he realized what it was: cigarette smoke. Someone was up.
John opened his door and saw light spilling from the sitting room into the hall. He also smelled freshly brewed coffee. Intrigued, he padded quietly out of his room to investigate. He was half-expecting to see Sherlock enjoying an illicit cigarette while brooding, but to his surprise Mycroft lounged in one of the massive armchairs, gazing out the window and absently flicking ashes into a crystal tray.
"Hello, John," he said without turning around. "I heard you in your room. Glad to have you join me."
John gazed about, but they were alone. "Where's Sherlock?'
"Sleeping."
"Really?" John sat on the brocaded sofa. "How'd you manage that? Rohypnol? Blow to the head?"
Mycroft chuckled. "Drugged his tea before bedtime. I needed rest."
Now John laughed. He felt himself relax. "Is that coffee I smell?"
"Yes. The hotel staff set the coffee machine to automatically brew at five-thirty. I never sleep later than that." Mycroft ground out his cigarette, tightened his robe sash, and stood. "I'll get you one."
John started to protest that he could get it himself, but Mycroft gestured for him to stay put and disappeared into the kitchen. He was back momentarily with two steaming mugs, one of which he held out to John.
"I'm glad you're up," he said as he resumed his seat. "We have important things to discuss."
"I agree." John took a sip. The coffee was perfect: Mycroft had remembered how he liked it.
"I've been thinking about the dilemma of how to keep my brother busy enough for all of us to remain sane, and believe I have a solution."
"Yeah? Let's hear it."
"I've decided to purchase a business, and I want you to run it."
That was unexpected. "A business?"
"Yes." Mycroft regarded him thoughtfully. "A detective agency. You'll have your private investigator's license by the end of the week."
"And Sherlock?"
"He'll get one too. Maybe with some kind of credentials he'll no longer need to steal my ID or Mr. Lestrade's badge. Unless he's bored."
"You're serious."
"Absolutely." Mycroft sipped his coffee. "When I need investigation work done -and I will, frequently- I'll go to you directly. After you accept the cases, Sherlock will join in after throwing an obligatory strop or two. He'll love being the investigative lead on some of the scenarios that are being brought to my attention. He just won't accept anything from me personally."
"Wow." John shook his head. "It's genius, actually, and will be just the thing to keep him -us- busy and challenged."
"I concur. I take it you accept?"
"Oh God, yes." John paused. "Mycroft, I've never said this before, but thank you for everything. For saving me. And keeping Sherlock alive all these months. I'm so grateful to you. I just need to know that this isn't the end of our close… association." When he met Mycroft's eyes, his expression was pleading.
The elder Holmes smiled. "On the contrary. You'll be seeing me more than ever. Protecting my investment, you see."
Relief flooded John. "Oh, naturally."
A third voice joined the discussion. "Got room for another investigator?"
Lestrade appeared in the sitting room entrance, dark eyes darting from Mycroft to John and back. He smothered a yawn as he came into the room and sat down.
"What do you mean?" John asked. "Do you know someone?"
"Yeah. Me."
Even Mycroft looked surprised. "Your position at Scotland Yard wouldn't permit private investigations, Mr. Lestrade."
"So I leave the Yard. I've already qualified for a pension, and I've had enough of the red tape that the upper echelon is wrapping me in. I got into police work because I wanted to solve crimes, not worry about breaking the rule of the week." He grimaced. "I mean it, gents. I want in."
Mycroft nodded his understanding. "We'd be glad to have you aboard. John?"
"Oh, Christ, it would be fantastic." John wanted to exclaim with joy. Everything was coming together better than he'd dared to hope. Before he could say anything further, a door opened in the hallway.
"Here's my brother now," Mycroft murmured. "Shall you tell him, John, or would you like to see a fraternal spat first thing in the morning?"
John was about to say that he'd do it, but Sherlock stalked into the room, glaring daggers at Mycroft.
"Count me out," he snarled.
Part Nineteen