Fill: Find a Way to You - Chapter Thirteen
Story Type: Prompt Fill
Fandom(s): Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, Harry, Ann Watson, Vienne Holmes, Mike Stamford
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, suggested Moriarty/Moran, very twisted semi-Moriarty/Sherlock
Warnings: Violence, torture, abduction, coersion, Jim Moriarty with access to magic.
Summary: The final part of The Swan Triad, following Till Now I Never Knew and Interlude. Sherlock struggles to escape Moriarty's prison with the help of two fellow prisoners. Meanwhile, John devotes every waking moment to a search and rescue of the man he loves.
Chapter Thirteen
The hard was back again, but it was different. He still felt armoured, shielded off from anything vulnerable or soft, but now it was like tempered steel instead of heavy iron. Lighter, more flexible. He could feel the delicate precision of Sherlock's fingertips stroking along his skin, and however cold he made his blood he felt the heat of Sherlock's body curled up in his chest, keeping him from freezing over.
He felt complete again.
At the edge of the hidden forest, he'd made a token effort to have Lestrade accompany him back to Sussex, but he didn't put up a fight when the copper opted instead to make sure Sherlock was okay after Moriarty's visit.
John didn't even try to deny the white-hot jealousy he felt knowing it was Lestrade who would be soothing Sherlock's sore and injured body instead of him. It was all fuel, anyway. It just served to make him sharper. Each stab of misery was more reason to take Moriarty and Moran down. He wasn't even sure anymore why smiling at that thought was supposed to be a bad thing. He wanted those miserable cunts to suffer, and he wanted to be the one to do it.
The idea made him smile all through London, until he passed the tiny flat on Montague Street, then he was hit with sense memories of Sherlock's warm, eager body writhing beneath him, so strong it was like a physical blow.
There was a bed in that flat. A bed they would share. Every night, wrapped around each other. Every night. They would sleep in that bed, together. They would fuck in that bed, they would make love and shag and snog and tumble and even just laze about. He would bring Sherlock breakfast on a tray for his birthday while Sherlock lounged in that bed. They would stay up until morning just talking in the dark, whispering secrets and desires and confessions until they could no longer keep their eyes open. All of it, on that bed just two floors up.
He thought of quiet afternoons on the sofa in front of the telly. He thought of blearily stumbling into the kitchen in the morning to make coffee and/or tea, depending on Sherlock's preference that week. He thought of massive rows and dishes thrown against walls, he thought of whispered apologies and tentative kisses and mind-blowing make-up sex. He imagined a life lived in tandem, all of it condensed into that tiny, damn near pathetic flat with its one bedroom and tiny bath and its lounge/kitchen combination spilling over with Sherlock's ever-expanding chemistry equipment.
He thought of anniversaries, Christmases, reunions. He thought of a whole future lived with Sherlock beside him and he couldn't drive any longer. He pulled over and got off the bike, leaning against the nearest wall before his knees gave out. He slid to the ground, buried his face in his arms, and cried.
He couldn't say if they were tears of joy or tears of misery, but there were a lot of them, and they kept coming, hot and stinging, until he had no more strength to produce them. When they were finished with him, he stood, got back on the motorbike, and drove back to Sussex, to their family, and to the next step.
~~
'How's that?' Molly asked, the last drops of water falling from her fingertips to land on Sherlock's neck. 'Feel better?'
*No.* Sherlock grumbled. *I can still feel it.* He sighed and spread his wings out to skim along the surface of the water, adjusting his head on Molly's lap to a more comfortable position.
'Worth it though, eh?' Greg grinned. 'I mean, all the bits leading up to it. The cause. Worth it in the end, right?' He winced and rotated his arm, shifting uncomfortably with his sore shoulders.
Sherlock closed his eyes, remembered John panting above him, laughing into his mouth, gasping his name into his ear. *Definitely.* He said, putting the smile he couldn't form with his face into his voice.
Greg shifted and cleared his throat, eyes flitting from side to side without really settling. 'So…John. He's, uh. He's…'
'I like him!' Molly piped up, almost squeaking her enthusiasm. 'He's sweet, and so handsome!'
'Man knows how to hold a gun, that's certain.'
Sherlock turned his head to better look at Greg. *There are so many things I want to ask you.* He said quietly.
Greg shifted his weight and slouched forward, his shoulder blades standing sharply against the worn fabric of his shirt. 'I know.' He said.
*Would you tell me?*
Greg closed his eyes, breathed deeply for a moment. 'Two years ago, I loved this girl. She was…' He blew an appreciative puff of air through his lips. 'I was mad on her. We were gonna be married. I saved up for almost a year to get that damn ring. Then I find myself here, like this. And now, if and when…I've got no one. She's gone off and found herself some other bloke, my family…' He shook his head. 'But you? Kid, you've got people who love you so hard it's breaking them. When John gets you out of here, and he will get you out of here, you've got a home waiting for you. That's more than most people can say.'
Sherlock tucked his wings close to his body. *John says that.* He said.
'Says what?'
*About love. How it's hard. Most people say "so much" or "so deeply". But John calls it loving hard, he says it's like anything else worth doing, there's no point unless you're going to give it everything you have.*
Molly laughed a gentle, breathy laugh. 'No wonder you fell for him. If he puts that kind of dedication behind everything.'
*Quite. He'll make a very good doctor.*
'I'm sure. If his performance tonight is any indication.' She snorted.
*Hm?*
'I mean,' Molly went on. 'By the end of it I wasn't even sure I had knees anymore! You haven't given off a signal that strong since your first day here!'
Sherlock lifted his head and blinked at her. Then the ideas slotted into place and, oh God. His eyes went wide and with a startled trumpet he flapped his wings and tumbled away from her, his feathers ruffling in agitation. *You-- I-- we-- oh God!*
Molly giggled, then chortled, then she was laughing so hard no sound was coming out and she clutched at her stomach.
Greg shifted uncomfortably and looked down at his knees. 'Jesus, Moll.'
'Sorry!' Molly gasped around her laughter. 'But…the look…on your faces!'
*Oh Christ.* Sherlock moaned. *And I thought Jim's tongue was mortifying!*
Greg held up his hands. 'Hey, don't look at me! I was patrolling the perimeter. I felt absolutely nothing.'
'Well you missed out.' Molly told him, finally getting herself back under control, though she was a bit watery around the edges. 'It would seem our Mr Watson is quite talented. I highly doubt Sherlock would be that easy to please.'
Greg's face reddened and Sherlock tucked his face under his wing. 'Molly!'
'What?!' Molly asked. 'I only mean that Sherlock is a very lucky boy!' She paused. 'Although you did feel a bit surprised. All that time together growing up and you never snuck a peek? Ooh! Was it very big?'
Greg slapped a hand over his face and groaned. 'Molly, for the love of God stop talking!'
Sherlock, for his part, ducked his head under the water in a valient attempt to drown himself. But Molly went liquid and folded herself around him, pushing him up to the surface and reforming her body around his so he was once more in her lap.
'Oh, I'm sorry. You two just make it so easy!'
Sherlock shuddered. *You really felt it? All of it?*
Molly gave him a look. 'You know it doesn't work that way. I felt the strong bits, the sudden ones. It's not like I got pictures. Come now, I'm happy for you!'
'I'm not!' Greg grumbled. 'Little wanker got some before I did! He's only been here three months!'
*Mm, but I've gone considerably longer without than you have, Greg.* Sherlock pointed out.
Greg eyed him. 'How long?'
Sherlock tilted his head in mock consideration. *Oh…I'd say about…nineteen years?*
Molly spasmed underneath him and splashed into the water, leaving him to flap his wings frantically to regain equilibrium. Greg just stared at him, wide-eyed. 'No shit?'
Sherlock shook his head.
'So that was your…first?' Molly sputtered once she'd reformed.
*It's not that big a deal.* Sherlock said.
'I hate you so much.' Greg muttered. 'My first time I got elbowed in the ribs and damn near chipped a tooth! You get a fucking Mills and Boon experience.'
'I haven't even gotten my first time yet.' Molly pointed out. 'So shut it.'
Greg did, and the three of them were quiet for a moment. Then Greg said, 'So…how come you never told us about your dad?'
Sherlock sighed and hitched up his wings in something like a shrug. *There wasn't much to tell. He married my mother five months after Mycroft was concieved. He's the British ambassador to France when he's got the time. He favours Dickens, but he'll read Jules Verne if he's feeling whimsical. He's got over five hundred ties, and none of them are yellow. Beyond that…* He shrugged again. *I wasn't sure he even knew I was gone.*
Molly shifted atop the water. 'But John said…well, you heard.' She gestured helplessly into the empty air.
*Yes.' Said Sherlock. 'Yes, he did.*
Greg furrowed his brow and sort of puffed out his lips. 'So…'
*I believe him.* Sherlock said, perhaps a touch to quickly. *I mean, of course I do. It's just…unexpected. I'm…really not sure what to think.*
Greg shrugged. 'Well he's your dad, isn't he? At the end of the day, I mean.'
Sherlock nodded. *I'm…it's been a long morning. My head is killing me. I think it'd be best if I just went to sleep now.*
'Of course, Sherlock.' Molly soothed, she ran one gentle hand over his forehead and the tension eased a bit. 'Everything's different now. We need to be ready.'
'Yeah. I'll pop off to Sussex in a couple of days. See how things are going.' Greg added. 'You're almost free, kid.'
Sherlock smiled as best he could. It came off as a slight crinkling around the corners of his eyes, obscured by feathers but there just the same. *I will free you.* He promised.
He didn't say, I must. He didn't say, I don't think I know how to live without you anymore. They knew already, and he hated to state the obvious.
Greg smiled, and Molly pulled him close, tucking his feathery body against her firm torso so he could rest his head across her thighs. For the first time in a very long time, Sherlock allowed himself to imagine a bed just large enough for two, moonlight across rumpled sheets, and John's golden arm wrapped around him as he slept.
He closed his eyes, and willed himself to dream.
~~~
Basil Holmes was a disappointing father.
It was true. No matter how you justified or rationalised it, he just didn't measure up to any sort of standard. Even now, when his every waking moment seemed to be devoted to the recovery of his son, Basil's most apparent feature was his absence.
Mycroft wasn't sure when the office had stopped being his father's and had become, in his mind at least, his own. But it had happened somewhere along the way and Mycroft highly doubted his father would mind. After all, he was hardly ever in it himself.
Downstairs, a door slammed. Voices, raised and tense, rang through the corridors. Mycroft shook his head. Not another row. Why did John always have to bring such anger with him? He was like a tempest loosed from the teacup.
He walked around his desk to the chair and was about to pick up the stack of reports again when another sound made him pause. Was that…laughter? He'd almost forgotten the sound. Had Harry brought a girl over?
He shook his head. It didn't matter, not when there was work to be done. Maybe they could forget the gaping hole in their family, the emptiness and silence where Sherlock should be, but he couldn't. He wouldn't.
James Moriarty. He was the key to this. Somehow, this was all his doing. He settled back in his chair and began to leaf through the papers until he found where he had left off.
Naturally, John chose that moment to slam the door against the wall as though it had insulted his mother and start babbling at him. Mycroft gritted his teeth and tried to block him out. It was childish, yes, and stupid. But he didn't care. He had work to do and if John was going to drag him back into that mire of resentment and blame then he could bloody well wait a moment.
'…the most incredible thing I've ever seen…'
Why was he so breathless? Didn't he ride that infernal motorbike of his? Surely the exertion wasn't that great. No, focus. James Moriarty. Bendel's newest report showed promise, something about a shooting in the TA, a young man presumed to be a soldier called Moran.
'…so beautiful. So god damned beautiful…'
Swearing again. Honestly, did Her Majesty's armed forces forcibly remove any hint of civility after joining? John came home using the word 'fuck' as punctuation. Mycroft wished John would reach the end of his rant soon. It was difficult to concentrate with all that nattering. Couldn't he see? Didn't he realise what Mycroft was trying to do? Once it was done, once he'd located Sherlock and brought him home, John could forgive him and everything could go back to the way it was. The way it should be.
'Mycroft.'
John voice was softer now, and a steady hand appeared at the top of the paper Mycroft was holding and gently lowered it to the desk.
'Mycroft.'
'I'm working, John.' Mycroft sighed. 'We're close.'
John shifted his weight, and the hand relocated to Mycroft's shoulder. 'Mycroft.' He said again. 'Look at me.'
Mycroft raised his eyes, braced for the cold anger he always saw when he met John's.
It wasn't there.
Mycroft felt his mouth go slack, his jaw dropping. John was…smiling. His hair, short as it was, was mussed, though that could be from the helmet he'd worn. His lips were red, though, and bruised. Yes, possible someone had punched him in the mouth, but the pattern was all wrong, too localised, to specific.
But his neck. There was absolutely no way to mistake what was on his neck. It was just below his jaw, an angry red and purple blotch the precise size and shape of a human mouth. The placement was tricky, deliberate. It could only have formed that way if John had arched back his head, bared his throat, invited…
'Oh God.' Mycroft breathed, and John grinned wider.
John was a man wrapped in defenses. He kept his hands free and open at all times. He carried his gun as a matter of course. He had more concealed knives than Harry had shoes. John Watson would never bare his throat to another human being, never put himself in a position of such obvious vulnerability. Not for anyone.
Not for anyone but Sherlock.
And John was smiling.
'It worked.' Mycroft whispered. 'You found him.'
'I found him, Mye.' John beamed. 'I found him. I held him. He was so warm, so gorgeous. Perfect.'
'How?' Mycroft asked. 'I mean, how? And where is he? Why didn't you bring him back?'
John's face fell. 'I…couldn't.'
Mycroft glared at him. 'You couldn't. What, there wasn't time? You had time to shag him, but you couldn't find a spare second to bring my brother back?'
'Don't.' John said. He didn't raise his voice, and he didn't change his posture, but he put enough sharp, glittering steel into the word that Mycroft, grudgingly, fell silent.
'There are reasons. They're…fucking insane and ridiculous and you wouldn't believe me if I told you what they are, but there are reasons. Good ones. Undeniable ones. After all this, do you honestly believe I'd have left him if I had the choice? If there was any way to get him back, do you honestly think I'd hesitate to take it?'
Mycroft lowered his head. It was as close to a slump as he dared anymore. 'No. No of course not.'
They studiously avoided looking at each other. Then Mycroft asked, 'What happens next?'
John looked up. 'We need your dad. We need everyone. Two weeks from Saturday, we need to get as many of your dad's foreign contacts together as we possibly can.'
Mycroft furrowed his brow. 'But why?'
John's lips split into a grin again, and Mycroft almost didn't recognise the expression on John's face. He hadn't seen it in so very long. 'Because the story's almost over, Mye. And I, for one, want to make sure it has a happy ending.'
~~~
Chapter Fourteen
Fandom(s): Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, Harry, Ann Watson, Vienne Holmes, Mike Stamford
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, suggested Moriarty/Moran, very twisted semi-Moriarty/Sherlock
Warnings: Violence, torture, abduction, coersion, Jim Moriarty with access to magic.
Summary: The final part of The Swan Triad, following Till Now I Never Knew and Interlude. Sherlock struggles to escape Moriarty's prison with the help of two fellow prisoners. Meanwhile, John devotes every waking moment to a search and rescue of the man he loves.
Chapter Thirteen
The hard was back again, but it was different. He still felt armoured, shielded off from anything vulnerable or soft, but now it was like tempered steel instead of heavy iron. Lighter, more flexible. He could feel the delicate precision of Sherlock's fingertips stroking along his skin, and however cold he made his blood he felt the heat of Sherlock's body curled up in his chest, keeping him from freezing over.
He felt complete again.
At the edge of the hidden forest, he'd made a token effort to have Lestrade accompany him back to Sussex, but he didn't put up a fight when the copper opted instead to make sure Sherlock was okay after Moriarty's visit.
John didn't even try to deny the white-hot jealousy he felt knowing it was Lestrade who would be soothing Sherlock's sore and injured body instead of him. It was all fuel, anyway. It just served to make him sharper. Each stab of misery was more reason to take Moriarty and Moran down. He wasn't even sure anymore why smiling at that thought was supposed to be a bad thing. He wanted those miserable cunts to suffer, and he wanted to be the one to do it.
The idea made him smile all through London, until he passed the tiny flat on Montague Street, then he was hit with sense memories of Sherlock's warm, eager body writhing beneath him, so strong it was like a physical blow.
There was a bed in that flat. A bed they would share. Every night, wrapped around each other. Every night. They would sleep in that bed, together. They would fuck in that bed, they would make love and shag and snog and tumble and even just laze about. He would bring Sherlock breakfast on a tray for his birthday while Sherlock lounged in that bed. They would stay up until morning just talking in the dark, whispering secrets and desires and confessions until they could no longer keep their eyes open. All of it, on that bed just two floors up.
He thought of quiet afternoons on the sofa in front of the telly. He thought of blearily stumbling into the kitchen in the morning to make coffee and/or tea, depending on Sherlock's preference that week. He thought of massive rows and dishes thrown against walls, he thought of whispered apologies and tentative kisses and mind-blowing make-up sex. He imagined a life lived in tandem, all of it condensed into that tiny, damn near pathetic flat with its one bedroom and tiny bath and its lounge/kitchen combination spilling over with Sherlock's ever-expanding chemistry equipment.
He thought of anniversaries, Christmases, reunions. He thought of a whole future lived with Sherlock beside him and he couldn't drive any longer. He pulled over and got off the bike, leaning against the nearest wall before his knees gave out. He slid to the ground, buried his face in his arms, and cried.
He couldn't say if they were tears of joy or tears of misery, but there were a lot of them, and they kept coming, hot and stinging, until he had no more strength to produce them. When they were finished with him, he stood, got back on the motorbike, and drove back to Sussex, to their family, and to the next step.
~~
'How's that?' Molly asked, the last drops of water falling from her fingertips to land on Sherlock's neck. 'Feel better?'
*No.* Sherlock grumbled. *I can still feel it.* He sighed and spread his wings out to skim along the surface of the water, adjusting his head on Molly's lap to a more comfortable position.
'Worth it though, eh?' Greg grinned. 'I mean, all the bits leading up to it. The cause. Worth it in the end, right?' He winced and rotated his arm, shifting uncomfortably with his sore shoulders.
Sherlock closed his eyes, remembered John panting above him, laughing into his mouth, gasping his name into his ear. *Definitely.* He said, putting the smile he couldn't form with his face into his voice.
Greg shifted and cleared his throat, eyes flitting from side to side without really settling. 'So…John. He's, uh. He's…'
'I like him!' Molly piped up, almost squeaking her enthusiasm. 'He's sweet, and so handsome!'
'Man knows how to hold a gun, that's certain.'
Sherlock turned his head to better look at Greg. *There are so many things I want to ask you.* He said quietly.
Greg shifted his weight and slouched forward, his shoulder blades standing sharply against the worn fabric of his shirt. 'I know.' He said.
*Would you tell me?*
Greg closed his eyes, breathed deeply for a moment. 'Two years ago, I loved this girl. She was…' He blew an appreciative puff of air through his lips. 'I was mad on her. We were gonna be married. I saved up for almost a year to get that damn ring. Then I find myself here, like this. And now, if and when…I've got no one. She's gone off and found herself some other bloke, my family…' He shook his head. 'But you? Kid, you've got people who love you so hard it's breaking them. When John gets you out of here, and he will get you out of here, you've got a home waiting for you. That's more than most people can say.'
Sherlock tucked his wings close to his body. *John says that.* He said.
'Says what?'
*About love. How it's hard. Most people say "so much" or "so deeply". But John calls it loving hard, he says it's like anything else worth doing, there's no point unless you're going to give it everything you have.*
Molly laughed a gentle, breathy laugh. 'No wonder you fell for him. If he puts that kind of dedication behind everything.'
*Quite. He'll make a very good doctor.*
'I'm sure. If his performance tonight is any indication.' She snorted.
*Hm?*
'I mean,' Molly went on. 'By the end of it I wasn't even sure I had knees anymore! You haven't given off a signal that strong since your first day here!'
Sherlock lifted his head and blinked at her. Then the ideas slotted into place and, oh God. His eyes went wide and with a startled trumpet he flapped his wings and tumbled away from her, his feathers ruffling in agitation. *You-- I-- we-- oh God!*
Molly giggled, then chortled, then she was laughing so hard no sound was coming out and she clutched at her stomach.
Greg shifted uncomfortably and looked down at his knees. 'Jesus, Moll.'
'Sorry!' Molly gasped around her laughter. 'But…the look…on your faces!'
*Oh Christ.* Sherlock moaned. *And I thought Jim's tongue was mortifying!*
Greg held up his hands. 'Hey, don't look at me! I was patrolling the perimeter. I felt absolutely nothing.'
'Well you missed out.' Molly told him, finally getting herself back under control, though she was a bit watery around the edges. 'It would seem our Mr Watson is quite talented. I highly doubt Sherlock would be that easy to please.'
Greg's face reddened and Sherlock tucked his face under his wing. 'Molly!'
'What?!' Molly asked. 'I only mean that Sherlock is a very lucky boy!' She paused. 'Although you did feel a bit surprised. All that time together growing up and you never snuck a peek? Ooh! Was it very big?'
Greg slapped a hand over his face and groaned. 'Molly, for the love of God stop talking!'
Sherlock, for his part, ducked his head under the water in a valient attempt to drown himself. But Molly went liquid and folded herself around him, pushing him up to the surface and reforming her body around his so he was once more in her lap.
'Oh, I'm sorry. You two just make it so easy!'
Sherlock shuddered. *You really felt it? All of it?*
Molly gave him a look. 'You know it doesn't work that way. I felt the strong bits, the sudden ones. It's not like I got pictures. Come now, I'm happy for you!'
'I'm not!' Greg grumbled. 'Little wanker got some before I did! He's only been here three months!'
*Mm, but I've gone considerably longer without than you have, Greg.* Sherlock pointed out.
Greg eyed him. 'How long?'
Sherlock tilted his head in mock consideration. *Oh…I'd say about…nineteen years?*
Molly spasmed underneath him and splashed into the water, leaving him to flap his wings frantically to regain equilibrium. Greg just stared at him, wide-eyed. 'No shit?'
Sherlock shook his head.
'So that was your…first?' Molly sputtered once she'd reformed.
*It's not that big a deal.* Sherlock said.
'I hate you so much.' Greg muttered. 'My first time I got elbowed in the ribs and damn near chipped a tooth! You get a fucking Mills and Boon experience.'
'I haven't even gotten my first time yet.' Molly pointed out. 'So shut it.'
Greg did, and the three of them were quiet for a moment. Then Greg said, 'So…how come you never told us about your dad?'
Sherlock sighed and hitched up his wings in something like a shrug. *There wasn't much to tell. He married my mother five months after Mycroft was concieved. He's the British ambassador to France when he's got the time. He favours Dickens, but he'll read Jules Verne if he's feeling whimsical. He's got over five hundred ties, and none of them are yellow. Beyond that…* He shrugged again. *I wasn't sure he even knew I was gone.*
Molly shifted atop the water. 'But John said…well, you heard.' She gestured helplessly into the empty air.
*Yes.' Said Sherlock. 'Yes, he did.*
Greg furrowed his brow and sort of puffed out his lips. 'So…'
*I believe him.* Sherlock said, perhaps a touch to quickly. *I mean, of course I do. It's just…unexpected. I'm…really not sure what to think.*
Greg shrugged. 'Well he's your dad, isn't he? At the end of the day, I mean.'
Sherlock nodded. *I'm…it's been a long morning. My head is killing me. I think it'd be best if I just went to sleep now.*
'Of course, Sherlock.' Molly soothed, she ran one gentle hand over his forehead and the tension eased a bit. 'Everything's different now. We need to be ready.'
'Yeah. I'll pop off to Sussex in a couple of days. See how things are going.' Greg added. 'You're almost free, kid.'
Sherlock smiled as best he could. It came off as a slight crinkling around the corners of his eyes, obscured by feathers but there just the same. *I will free you.* He promised.
He didn't say, I must. He didn't say, I don't think I know how to live without you anymore. They knew already, and he hated to state the obvious.
Greg smiled, and Molly pulled him close, tucking his feathery body against her firm torso so he could rest his head across her thighs. For the first time in a very long time, Sherlock allowed himself to imagine a bed just large enough for two, moonlight across rumpled sheets, and John's golden arm wrapped around him as he slept.
He closed his eyes, and willed himself to dream.
~~~
Basil Holmes was a disappointing father.
It was true. No matter how you justified or rationalised it, he just didn't measure up to any sort of standard. Even now, when his every waking moment seemed to be devoted to the recovery of his son, Basil's most apparent feature was his absence.
Mycroft wasn't sure when the office had stopped being his father's and had become, in his mind at least, his own. But it had happened somewhere along the way and Mycroft highly doubted his father would mind. After all, he was hardly ever in it himself.
Downstairs, a door slammed. Voices, raised and tense, rang through the corridors. Mycroft shook his head. Not another row. Why did John always have to bring such anger with him? He was like a tempest loosed from the teacup.
He walked around his desk to the chair and was about to pick up the stack of reports again when another sound made him pause. Was that…laughter? He'd almost forgotten the sound. Had Harry brought a girl over?
He shook his head. It didn't matter, not when there was work to be done. Maybe they could forget the gaping hole in their family, the emptiness and silence where Sherlock should be, but he couldn't. He wouldn't.
James Moriarty. He was the key to this. Somehow, this was all his doing. He settled back in his chair and began to leaf through the papers until he found where he had left off.
Naturally, John chose that moment to slam the door against the wall as though it had insulted his mother and start babbling at him. Mycroft gritted his teeth and tried to block him out. It was childish, yes, and stupid. But he didn't care. He had work to do and if John was going to drag him back into that mire of resentment and blame then he could bloody well wait a moment.
'…the most incredible thing I've ever seen…'
Why was he so breathless? Didn't he ride that infernal motorbike of his? Surely the exertion wasn't that great. No, focus. James Moriarty. Bendel's newest report showed promise, something about a shooting in the TA, a young man presumed to be a soldier called Moran.
'…so beautiful. So god damned beautiful…'
Swearing again. Honestly, did Her Majesty's armed forces forcibly remove any hint of civility after joining? John came home using the word 'fuck' as punctuation. Mycroft wished John would reach the end of his rant soon. It was difficult to concentrate with all that nattering. Couldn't he see? Didn't he realise what Mycroft was trying to do? Once it was done, once he'd located Sherlock and brought him home, John could forgive him and everything could go back to the way it was. The way it should be.
'Mycroft.'
John voice was softer now, and a steady hand appeared at the top of the paper Mycroft was holding and gently lowered it to the desk.
'Mycroft.'
'I'm working, John.' Mycroft sighed. 'We're close.'
John shifted his weight, and the hand relocated to Mycroft's shoulder. 'Mycroft.' He said again. 'Look at me.'
Mycroft raised his eyes, braced for the cold anger he always saw when he met John's.
It wasn't there.
Mycroft felt his mouth go slack, his jaw dropping. John was…smiling. His hair, short as it was, was mussed, though that could be from the helmet he'd worn. His lips were red, though, and bruised. Yes, possible someone had punched him in the mouth, but the pattern was all wrong, too localised, to specific.
But his neck. There was absolutely no way to mistake what was on his neck. It was just below his jaw, an angry red and purple blotch the precise size and shape of a human mouth. The placement was tricky, deliberate. It could only have formed that way if John had arched back his head, bared his throat, invited…
'Oh God.' Mycroft breathed, and John grinned wider.
John was a man wrapped in defenses. He kept his hands free and open at all times. He carried his gun as a matter of course. He had more concealed knives than Harry had shoes. John Watson would never bare his throat to another human being, never put himself in a position of such obvious vulnerability. Not for anyone.
Not for anyone but Sherlock.
And John was smiling.
'It worked.' Mycroft whispered. 'You found him.'
'I found him, Mye.' John beamed. 'I found him. I held him. He was so warm, so gorgeous. Perfect.'
'How?' Mycroft asked. 'I mean, how? And where is he? Why didn't you bring him back?'
John's face fell. 'I…couldn't.'
Mycroft glared at him. 'You couldn't. What, there wasn't time? You had time to shag him, but you couldn't find a spare second to bring my brother back?'
'Don't.' John said. He didn't raise his voice, and he didn't change his posture, but he put enough sharp, glittering steel into the word that Mycroft, grudgingly, fell silent.
'There are reasons. They're…fucking insane and ridiculous and you wouldn't believe me if I told you what they are, but there are reasons. Good ones. Undeniable ones. After all this, do you honestly believe I'd have left him if I had the choice? If there was any way to get him back, do you honestly think I'd hesitate to take it?'
Mycroft lowered his head. It was as close to a slump as he dared anymore. 'No. No of course not.'
They studiously avoided looking at each other. Then Mycroft asked, 'What happens next?'
John looked up. 'We need your dad. We need everyone. Two weeks from Saturday, we need to get as many of your dad's foreign contacts together as we possibly can.'
Mycroft furrowed his brow. 'But why?'
John's lips split into a grin again, and Mycroft almost didn't recognise the expression on John's face. He hadn't seen it in so very long. 'Because the story's almost over, Mye. And I, for one, want to make sure it has a happy ending.'
~~~
Chapter Fourteen