InsaneJournal

Who: John Watson and Mycroft Holmes.
What: Meeting.
Where: Mycroft’s house.
When: Immediately after John arrives in Colligo.
Rating: PG for some slight violence and language.
Status: Complete.
Warnings: This thread will contain spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall. You have been warned.

John had been in a state of stagnation since Sherlock had...bloody hell, he couldn’t even think the word. Since Sherlock had died. Offed himself. Jumped off a damn building and made him watch because he hadn’t wanted to die alone or because he was just that bloody stupid for all his genius...John still wasn’t sure on that count. He’d been alive, but only that. He felt numb, apart from those all too frequent burst of bright, painful anger. It was like coming home from Afghanistan all over again, and he was consumed by that aching feeling of overwhelming loss. He couldn’t go back to the flat at Baker Street, not yet. Not with Sherlock’s spectre still heavy in the walls and in the floor, in the skull and that stupid gouge in the mantle from the knife he’d used to hold the mail. It was in the air and it made him ache inside like a solitary mournful note from the violin Sherlock would never play again. Instead he’d gone to Harry. It was awkward and they fought and she drank, but it was better than living with Sherlock’s ghost. Or, worse, without it. He wasn’t sure he could bear seeing all traces of Sherlock removed from the place.

He’d gone to bed early after another session with Ella, not bothering to eat dinner or even change out of his clothes. Talking about what had happened, about his feelings, always left him feeling drained. When he woke, he first thought he was still dreaming. He was in a strange library, and there were suits of armour walking toward him. Yes, definitely dreaming. He was sure of it the whole time they herded him out of the building and handed him a rather nice PDA. He stood there for a long moment, confused and bewildered, and then he saw the black car. Perhaps he wasn’t dreaming. Perhaps Mycroft had simply gone a bit mental in the wake of his brother’s death and had turned to more theatrical displays. John, who blamed him somewhat for what had come to pass, privately thought that he deserved no less. But he got in the car, barely sparing a glance at the redheaded woman who was not not-Anthea. New assistant then. Or, alternately, he had become so used to being kidnapped by Mycroft that he had just allowed himself to be kidnapped by someone else entirely.

"Mr. Holmes would have contacted you first, but he felt this was a conversation best had in person."

Well, that answered that. John sat quietly as the car drove to a rather official looking house. Better than a warehouse at least. He followed the woman in and she gestured to a room before leaving. He was sure she was still around, just in case he did something mental, but he didn’t care. He entered, looking at the other man with a sort of tired resignation. "Well then," he said quietly, struggling to keep his voice even, "what need could you possibly have to kidnap me now?" He hadn’t punched him, which he really thought showed rather a lot of restraint on his part. He knew, logically speaking, that it hadn’t been Mycroft’s fault. That the other man had lost his brother and was hurting as much as he was. That he was projecting his own guilt at being so very helpless in the face of Sherlock’s death on him. He knew all that, but it didn’t stop the stab of grief and anger at the sight of him.

"Tell me, John. When you first exited the library, did you bother to look toward the sky?"

Mycroft was standing at the window, staring outward and upward and kept his gaze there while speaking. Once upon a time, when Sherlock had been very young, he had taught his brother the names of the constellations. Astronomy had been a passing fancy back then. Simply another casual interest that he had conquered quickly and with ease, then endeavored just as quickly to pass along to his younger brother in the hopes that, perhaps, he might take something more from it than Mycroft had found. In return, still very young and quite idealistic, Sherlock had decided that having learned the constellations and knowing them all on sight clearly meant that he was destined to grow up to become a pirate.

Eventually that plan faded, of course, as stories of plank-walking and treasure hunting gave way to science and deduction, and all too soon Sherlock and he had drifted apart until he wasn't certain precisely what his brother wanted to be any longer, or even who he was really. Yet Mycroft had always known, as utterly emotionally-driven and therefore all but ignored as it was, that no matter what happened, and where Sherlock ended up, he would always be able to rely on the stars to steer him back on course again. As his older brother, and therefore self-designated protector, Mycroft had made sure of that much at least.

And then his brother had thrown himself off a rooftop and Mycroft... well, Mycroft hadn't so much as glanced toward the stars since.

He did so now, though. Had every night since Sherlock had arrived in Colligo. Yes, the stars weren't the same as they were on Earth. The constellations were foreign and the two moons didn't help matters any. But still, he looked. He let the stars serve as a reminder of just how lost Sherlock had become in their reality and how responsible he'd been for his younger brother's fall so as not to make the same mistake twice. It was, perhaps, an overly sentimental way for him to go about things but since Sherlock's... untimely demise, Mycroft had allowed himself at least that one, very small, luxury.

Of course, the arrival of John Watson meant that such reminders were no longer necessary. If anyone would remain steadfast in reminding him of his failures and shortcomings, it was the man who had been his brother's truest, and closest, friend. Which was, in part, why Mycroft had sent for the man the instant he'd learned of his arrival in Colligo. Because as much as he knew he deserved John's judgement, he felt just as strongly against Sherlock learning of any of it. Not because of the emotions involved, really, but rather because he did not want his brother to learn that, in the end, Moriarty had won.

Finally turning away from the window, Mycroft stared at John with an almost blank expression. "Had you looked," he said, as casually as though he was discussing the weather, "you might have realized that something was a bit amiss. Something that goes a long way toward proving to you that what I'm about to say is very much the truth."

Making his way to his seat, he eased himself into it, steepled his fingers below his chin, and met John's gaze directly. "You're in a city called Colligo. We can discuss the specifics in a moment, if you'd like, but first, there is something I need you to understand." He hesitated.

"You might want to have a seat, John," he suggested mildly, nodding at the chair across from him. "If ever there were a time to be seated, I can assure you. This would be it."

Had he looked at the sky? What sort of question was that? Was Mycroft about to regale him with a lecture on astronomy that he had neither the time nor the patience to endure? As far as he could see, it had nothing to do with their situation.

He wished, not for the first time since he had seen the car in front of the library, that he had ignored the impulse to see what Mycroft wanted. Seeing him, seeing so much of Sherlock in him, provoked a visceral ache in his chest. He couldn't bear the sight of him, and he found himself looking away, examining the walls and doing his best to keep his eyes off the man himself. It made it easier, but only by the smallest measure. For all the brothers argued, they were so very much alike. And they both would have scoffed at that very notion. Being in the same room as Mycroft was enough to reopen the still fresh wounds from Sherlock's death and leave them newly bloody and painful.

"I can't say that I did," he said dryly, still not looking at Mycroft. Why had he come? Why had he done this to himself? For not the first time in his acquaintance with Sherlock, he thought he absolutely had to be a masochist to keep putting himself in these positions. "I was somewhat more concerned with the fact that I was in a strange place and you had sent a car. I must say, this is a bit more involved than your usual kidnappings."

"Colligo?" he asked disinterestedly. "I've never heard of it. I think, all things considered, I rather prefer the disused warehouses to being...brought to another city in my sleep. I thought you might like to know. Just...in case you actually care at all for my preferences. I noticed you got a new assistant too. What happened to not-Anthea? Did you give a psychopath the means to utterly destroy her? Or do you just do that with the important people in your life?" It was harsh and petty, but he was so tired of all of this.

When Mycroft told him to sit, he finally looked at him full on and fixed him with a determined, bitter half smile. Though he wasn't as belligerently so as Sherlock, he had his fair share of stubbornness and he didn't like to be told what he ought to do. Particularly not by Mycroft, who seemed to have delusions of knowing what was best for everyone. "No thank you," he said, unconsciously standing that much straighter, military bearing apparent. "I would much prefer to stand if it's all the same to you, and to get this over with as quickly as possible. I have things to do and I would very much like to return home."

And there it was. The bitter anger that Mycroft knew he fully deserved, mixed with heartache and pain that he dared not express himself. Irene Adler had once said that Moriarty referred to him as the Iceman. It was a nickname that, although crude and somewhat insulting, had nevertheless been quite accurate. Not because Mycroft didn't have emotions, or was incapable of feeling things, but rather because he did his absolute best never to show them to anyone. Particularly someone who was so very close with the one person who might think less of him simply for having them in the first place.

Remaining as carefully impassive as always, Mycroft simply waited until John had made it quite clear that he would not be sitting any time soon. Once the statement was given, he tipped his head in silent acknowledgement. "Very well," he said evenly. "I do ask you to remember that was your decision, John." He drew in a breath.

"First and foremost, I'm not responsible for your being in this city," he stated, the comment eerily similar to the one he'd said to Sherlock not long after his arrival as well. His lips quirked upward ever so slightly in a faint grin that in no way reached his eyes or was at all sincere. "I realise you aren't likely to believe me, but that is still very much the truth of the matter. I've been brought here, just as you have and, I can assure you, if there was a means to returning home, I would have since discovered it."

Barely pausing, if only because he didn't want to give the other man a chance to interject and get them even further off topic than they were, he continued. "Insofar as my bringing you here, to my home within Colligo, I've only one thing to tell you and then you are free to leave." He shifted ever so slightly then, drawing his own PDA from his pocket and setting it on the desk in front of him. He inclined his head to indicate the device, keeping his eyes on his brother's best friend the entire time.

"The guards of the library no doubt gave you a device identical to that one upon your arrival. I brought you here before you'd the luxury of using it to post to the message board, because the instant you do you are going to receive quite the surprise." And here it was. The moment that Mycroft had been building toward and dreading all at the same time.

"Sherlock is here, John," he said evenly, his voice lacking any real emotion even if he certainly felt quite a number of conflicting ones beneath the surface. "He is going to respond to you, when you post your greeting to the masses and, I wager, he is going to be wholly unaware and entirely unprepared for whatever sort of reaction you may have to him. For all intents and purposes, he has no memory of what transpired on the rooftop of the hospital and, I dare say, for you to mention the... incident would be quite confusing to him indeed." Mycroft knew, of course, that it was entirely possible Sherlock was from after his leap off that rooftop and simply hadn't bothered to mention it to him for various reasons. He doubted that was the case, however, and was going about things as though he knew such a thing for absolute fact. If he was wrong, well, so be it. It wouldn't be the first time he'd misread a situation.

John hated the way Mycroft spoke to him, as though he knew better and was just humouring him while waiting for his superiority to be acknowledged it. He had chosen to stand and that wasn't going to change just because Mycroft bloody Holmes thought better of it. He had seen how much pain Mycroft's judgement brought with it. He was not inclined to give in to it now.

"You'll have to forgive me if I find that somewhat hard to believe," he said mildly, "considering just how much you are responsible for." He was referring to Mycroft's work and the sheer scope of his influence, but also to the hand he saw the man having in Sherlock's death. Besides, if this wasn't Mycroft's doing, then he didn't know what to make of it. Especially not if Mycroft had likewise been brought here against his will. He wasn't sure he could handle two Holmes brothers being brought down to a mortal level in so short a span of time. It was too much to fathom.

He wanted to tell Mycroft exactly where he could stick his 'one thing' he needed to tell him. He wanted to tell him that he didn't give a whit about the devices or whatever surprise he was likely to receive. He wanted to tell him to stay out of his life and leave him be. He wanted to tell him so many things. And then Mycroft spoke three little words and the world came crashing to a halt. Sherlock is here. It rang in his ears, the ambient sound of the room and anything else Mycroft said fading away in the ringing left by that one simple sentence. Sherlock is here. It played like a sickening chorus in his head, over and over again.

Sherlock is here. In that one sentence, it all came rushing back. Storming off with those bitter, angry words. Realising Sherlock's deception. Seeing him on the roof and realising what he meant to do. That final horrible conversation. Seeing Sherlock fall. Seeing his body and all that blood and feeling his wrist. No pulse. All those people. All that blood. Sherlock's blank eyes. The agony of having part of himself ripped out. Pleading with his friend's gravestone and knowing it was no use. It all came back in that instant, too much for anyone to bear. The colour drained from his face, his hand's sudden death grip on the chair next to him the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor. He felt torn between screaming, crying and being violently ill, and all he could do was close his eyes and shake his head.

No. No. It wasn't possible. It wasn't. He'd seen it. He'd seen Sherlock die. A month had passed and he hadn't come back. And now Mycroft was saying...what was he even saying? Why would he say Sherlock was here? Why would he do that? Was he really so massively damaged, so horrifically cruel, that he would lie like that? John felt anger, thick like bile, rising in his throat until it overwhelmed everything else. He was still for a long moment, too still, before he suddenly moved. It was shocking in it's abruptness, the way he leaned across the desk and brought his fist hard against Mycroft's jaw. He probably would have kept hitting him, over and over until the rage and grief lessened, but his hands were shaking too much, he was shaking too much. "You bastard," he said with a vehemence that would have surprised some. "You utter sick son of a bitch. How could you-"

He didn't even finish the sentiment, just stormed across the room. He sagged momentarily against the door frame as the adrenaline faded and the magnitude of what he had just done hit him. He'd just punched Mycroft Holmes. He'd just punched the most powerful, dangerous man he had ever met. Oh god. "I...I just...put some ice on that," he stammered, anger now warring with panic and a hint of concern. Because he was still a doctor underneath the rest of it. And then he fled before he could do something else remarkably stupid. He needed to figure this all out, preferably without the aid or interference of Mycroft Holmes.