Archive of Our Own

Experience: That most brutal of teachers.
But you learn, my God do you learn.

C.S. Lewis

"How would you phrase it? Ah, I remember: I am so disappointed with you."

"Sherlock…"

"Ah, ah! Let me continue. If you had a good day at the office you would say: I am so very, very disappointed with you."

Earplugs. Why didn't I think of earplugs?

It was certainly not the first time John had to listen to the Holmes brothers squabbling, but usually he could just leave, maybe even bang a door if he was in the mood for it. But he couldn't exactly open the door of a car driving far too fast on the M4. Well, he could. But it would definitely put a damper on this nice, sophisticated family outing. And on Sherlock's mood. John wasn't so sure about Mycroft's.

"You can't possibly believe…"

"This has not anything to do with believing. I am just stating the obvious."

Christ.

John wouldn't even mind if they would fight about something worthwhile, for example about the whereabouts of Dr Richard Holmes. Or about the very important, but for some reason not yet mentioned topic of what they would tell Mrs Holmes when she asked why John was accompanying Sherlock to her birthday party. But no, no. They were fighting because Mycroft had apparently chosen the wrong birthday present. No, that wasn't fair, he had chosen the right present… it just had the wrong colour.

"John, what do you think about…?"

"God, Sherlock, leave me out of this, will you?"

Immediately, Sherlock looked affronted, and John drew his shoulders up, pressed himself even further into his corner and stared out of the window at the landscape flying by, not seeing anything. He found it hard to cope with the way Sherlock was behaving, with the mask so firmly put in place. Rationally, John knew what was going on and hell, he even approved of it, but nonetheless, his emotions were clashing badly with his rationale.

Two days, it had been only two days and still, John had already gotten used to a gentler side of Sherlock, a softer… Gentle, soft, my arse! John huffed silently. He was the biggest sap running around freely in England. When he tried to think dispassionately of the last days, he would have to describe them as awkward, exhausting, and stressful. Sherlock and he, they had had a rocky start into a rocky relationship; moving from being friends to being lovers might sound easy, but it was not, especially not with the baggage they had to carry with them. They had to readjust boundaries and, of course, they had tried to do that without talking about it, so they had bumped into each other constantly, both physically and metaphorically. The whole time, John had been afraid of making a wrong move, and Sherlock had noticed it every time and had begun a fight with him. There had been lots of yelling. There had also been some tenderness. And that had usually started the next round of becoming afraid and fighting and yelling.

John could have sorted all this out if he managed to think about it objectively. He did not. He was flying high on endorphins. The last two mornings, he had woken up and spent, at least, one hour staring at the man who was miraculously sleeping beside him. Or on top of him. It had been no surprise; Sherlock Holmes was a cuddler. He had never really had any idea of keeping his distance, and now Sherlock was incredibly affectionate… whenever they were in a room with a bed in it. Or a fridge, John thought and frowned. One part of him wished it hadn't happened, at least, not the way it had. And he fervently wished Mycroft hadn't come by. John closed his eyes; he still could see Sherlock on the floor, head thrown back, utterly gone…

Mycroft cleared his throat, loudly. "John, you should… think of something else. We'll be at the house shortly."

Eyes snapping open, John looked at Mycroft for a moment, then nodded. "You're still on top of things. Would you be so kind to lay out the rules for me, how you want me to behave?"

Sherlock beside him started to frown, but John didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on Mycroft who had flushed slightly.

"Well, there is no reason for either of you to… alert everyone about your…"

"Our what?" Sherlock asked.

"The status of your relationship. I told Mummy that you are… friends, flatmates. You know how she is."

"Your mother is a homophobe?"

Mycroft's head turned back to John. "No, she is not," he said angrily, "not at all. Mother would be delighted; she would all but adopt you. But your relationship is very new and…I just do not want her to get used…" he trailed off again; suddenly he seemed more nervous than angry.

Sherlock sat back. John threw a quick look at him and winced; Sherlock's eyes were cold.

"Thank you so much for the confidence, Mycroft."

John looked down at his hands and sighed. He always had thought that Harry and he had a bad relationship, but their fights, they were nothing like what these two could do to each other with a few words. The real tragedy was that Mycroft was trying hard to get along with his brother and was still failing every time; while Sherlock was always assuming the worst from Mycroft.

The silence that followed was so loud and went on for so long it became almost unbearable for John. Careful what you wish for. You should have enjoyed the bickering. Already doubting the wisdom of his actions and doing it anyway, John reached out for Sherlock's hand with his own and was surprised when it got snatched immediately. He glanced at Sherlock again and found him staring out of the window. Following his gaze, John felt his eyes going wide. Sherlock's grip on his hand got tighter.

"That is… 'The House'?"

"Yes."

John tried not to gape, but could not stop. He had known -of course he had, from the first moment on- that Sherlock came from old money. But he hadn't expected something so… dramatic, there was no other word for it. It would still take them some time to reach it, but despite the distance, despite the ugly weather, it was beautiful. Pearly-white, situated on a hill, surrounded by firs, it looked like something out of a fairy tale. John shook his head. "Wow," he said softly. Sherlock cocked his head to the side and leaned forward, whispering into John's ear, "Mother calls it Manderley."

 

***

 

They had just gotten out of the car when the door to the house burst open and an extremely tiny and plump woman shot out, ran over to Sherlock and literally pounced on him. Laughing, Sherlock caught and hugged her, and she was talking even more quickly than John had ever heard Sherlock talking, out of breath and giggling and tousling her son's hair. John was rooted on the spot; this morning, Sherlock had told him -well, maybe 'warned' was the better word- that his mother was very sentimental, but still, John had imagined Mrs Holmes to be the exact opposite of what he could see now. He had expected a tall, lean, distinguished lady. After all, even the Queen herself would appear overly emotional between Mycroft and Sherlock.

Watching Mrs Holmes bouncing toward a laughing Mycroft -Jesus, Mycroft is laughing!- John retreated slowly to the boot where Mycroft's driver was just unloading their overnight bags, but before he could offer to lend a hand, John's arm got grabbed by Sherlock who drew him back to the others.

"Mummy, allow me to introduce Dr John Watson. John, this is my moth…"

Mrs Holmes interrupted him. "Oh, I am very happy to finally meet you, Dr Watson!" she beamed, enveloping John's hand between hers. "Mycroft told me so much about you!"

John heard a muffled sound coming from Mycroft, but he could not take his eyes off Sherlock's mother. She had a beautiful round face like a china doll with huge, slightly slanted blue eyes, long, long lashes, a shock of unruly salt-and-pepper locks pinned up into an enormous bun -her hair had to be very long- and a radiant smile that was all… Sherlock.

John swallowed. "Happy Birthday, Mrs Holmes. Thank you for the invitation."

"Oh, thank you! And Sherlock's friends are always welcome here," she laughed and glanced up at her son, open adoration in her eyes. John winced a bit at her words, but Sherlock didn't react to them at all, just leaned down again to kiss his mother's cheek. He looked incredibly young.

"Now, let us go inside! The weather's so nasty today; can you believe that they said it will snow tonight? Snow! Today of all days! I cannot imagine… No, please, Dr Watson, let Charles handle the bags!"

All of a sudden, the atmosphere changed. Sherlock froze, Mycroft frowned, and John had no idea what was going on; he looked back and forth between the brothers, Mrs Holmes, and a young man standing in front of him, reaching for the bag in John's hand.

"You're the young Charles Adams?" Mycroft asked in a cold tone, stalking over.

"Yes, sir," the guy answered, apparently intimidated. John could see why… Mycroft had lost his smile.

Mrs Holmes shook her head and tapped on Mycroft's arm. "I forgot to tell you; I employed Charles a week ago. We're so glad to have him!" Turning to John, who still didn't understand a word, she explained, "Charles' late grandfather was our butler for many years. His name was also Charles… it's all a bit confusing!" She laughed again and John forced a smile on his lips, while he watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes.

Standing very upright, Sherlock looked at the house, expression blank.

The last item in the boot was Sherlock's violin case; John got hold of it, ignored Mycroft's prolonged, "I see," as well as Mrs Holmes' on-going chattiness and went over to his lover. "You okay?"

"I am fine," Sherlock answered calmly.

Right.

"Come on now, boys. You are late anyway!" Mrs Holmes hurried toward the front door, a miffed looking Mycroft on her heels. John and Sherlock followed them at a more leisurely pace -John worried and Sherlock seemingly unfazed again.

The moment they entered the hall, they were at once separated by several servants who descended on them like shepherd dogs parting their flock. The sudden heat and the babel of voices of God knew how many people felt like a physical attack to John. Dazed, he opened the white parka he was wearing over his best suit; one of the servants helped him out of it. Yet another one reached for the violin case, but John shook his head. "I'll keep that, thank you." He looked around for Sherlock to ask him where he wanted the violin. It took some time to find him. He and Mycroft were surrounded by people who all looked extremely posh; there was much shoulder-clapping going on. Every now and again, John caught glimpses of Mrs Holmes who seemed beside herself with joy.

John sighed; he had known beforehand that he would stick out like a sore thumb amidst those people and still, he felt a bit stupid, standing there alone, clutching a violin case. He let his eyes wander around, from the living room -Room? Hall!- filled with people and maids, who were juggling salvers with various drinks, to the impressive double staircase leading to the upper rooms and, to John's right, the dining hall where other servants hastened around an enormous dining table that was already decked out with blindingly shining crystal glasses and bowls, not to mention the gigantic chandelier that hung above it. Well, it may be a bit creepy but Manderley is definitely the right name for this place.

Wondering where the bathrooms were, John turned his head back to the cluster of people, when he suddenly noticed someone standing at the head of the previously empty staircase. And even before he raised his eyes, he knew, he knew whom he would see.

Impeccably groomed from head to toe, Sir Richard Holmes looked down at John, an amused smile on his face.

 

***

 

From one second to the other, John was flooded with hate; hate so intense he got dizzy from it. He took two quick steps forward, then, just as suddenly, he stopped again.

Sherlock!

Turning his head, he saw Sherlock standing with his back to him, one arm around his mother's shoulders. John looked back at Holmes who hadn't moved; only his smile had become taunting, and one eyebrow was raised mockingly.

Feeling completely impotent, John didn't know what to do. A sound escaped him, but instead of the expected growl or yell it was only a whimper. Torn between the need to fight and the need to protect, John threw another desperate, vain look in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock didn't notice a thing, but for some reason, Mycroft did. He turned slightly and looked at John questioningly… and then he saw his father. Immediately, his face became scarlet with a streak of white around the eyes.

Suddenly, the choice was easy. John decided to let Mycroft deal with his father. John's duty was to get Sherlock out of this house as soon as possible. He was almost right next to Sherlock when he realised his mistake. Mycroft did not move, did not take any action whatsoever; in fact, he didn't do anything besides getting his expression under control again. John, stunned, waved his hands around, but now Mycroft ignored him completely; his suddenly composed gaze was fixed on his father, who was already slowly going downstairs… and would reach the bottom any second now.

John gave up on Mycroft, gave up on attacking, gave up on anything, really, and closed the distance to his still unsuspecting lover. Without hesitating or paying any attention to decorum, he laid his arm around Sherlock's waist and ripped him away from the animated conversation with whomever and from Galiena Holmes, who almost overbalanced because her son had to let go of her all of a sudden. Sherlock made a startled noise and looked at him; whatever he saw on John's face made his eyes narrow.

"John? What…"

"We have to go. Now!" John whispered urgently.

"What happened? What…?" Sherlock leaned forward as if to get a closer look at John's face, then his gaze wandered over to Mycroft and he froze. John turned to also take a look and saw Mycroft striding towards his father, still with this weirdly unperturbed facial expression. John's grip on Sherlock's waist tightened. "Let's go."

"No." Sherlock stood very straight again.

"Sherlock…"

"Let go of me." Clipped, cold tone. "Stay out of this."

John, unable to let go, stared up at Sherlock. He felt at once sick to the stomach by what he saw. There was no trace of emotion, Sherlock's face and eyes were as cold as his voice. His gaze had left his brother and father; he was now looking at his mother who was on her way to husband and son.

"Stay out of what exactly?" John asked hoarsely.

Sherlock made a very pointed step away from him, and this time, John let him. "Control your temper, John."

Control my… "Dr Watson! Come and meet my husband, Richard!" Mrs Holmes beamed at her husband while Mycroft circled the couple and, instead of standing close to Sherlock, stopped beside John, a definite warning in his eyes.

"Dr Watson. Pleasure to meet you. Again." Richard Holmes' smile was broad, showing off pearly-white teeth.

John had always thought 'seeing red' was just an expression; now he knew better. He was filled with adrenaline; his mouth was bone-dry and at the back of his throat he could taste something metallic, like blood. Somehow, he managed a jerky nod. He couldn't have spoken a word if his life had depended on it.

Silence for a moment; then, unexpectedly, Mycroft began to speak. "Father has already met Dr Watson at the congress, Mother. John accompanied Sherlock."

"What? You already met up with Sherlock? But then… why did you want me to keep this a secret?"

Richard Holmes didn't answer for a few moments; he was looking at John, appraisingly. Finally, he turned to his wife. "I met Sherlock and Mycroft, Galiena. Since I wanted this to be a surprise, I told them I had to leave again."

"And they believed you?" Mrs Holmes laughed. "How silly!"

"Yes," John heard Mycroft's toneless voice next to him, "silly."

John willed himself to look away from Holmes and at Sherlock who stood beside him, still ramrod straight. He didn't notice John, but neither did he look at his parents anymore or at his brother; he stared straight ahead at the staircase, eyes dark. Worried to death and not at least willing anymore to think about what he should or should not do, John clutched Sherlock's hand. Fuck them. Fuck each and every one of them. The hand in his twitched nervously, but John held on tight.

Silence again; John heard Mrs Holmes taking a deep breath.

"Oh. OH! Why didn't you tell me?" she cried, and before John could blink he found himself engulfed in a tight hug, then Sherlock's mother whirled around to face her husband again. "Another surprise! How wonderful!"

Holmes' stance was mirroring Sherlock's earlier pose perfectly. He did not move, he just stared at the entwined hands in front of him. The look in his eyes was strangely amused; for some reason, it chilled John to the bone.

"Indeed," Holmes said eventually, "another surprise. And the night is still young."

 

***

 

The doorbell rang, and John seized the opportunity of the arrival of new guests and pulled Sherlock into a corner of the hall, almost knocking over a floor vase with the violin case he still had in his hand. Sherlock followed him slowly -John was sure that if he stopped dragging him Sherlock would simply stand still. "Sherlock? We really have to lea… "

"John? Oh, may I call you John?"

Turning his head, John found himself face-to-face with Mrs Holmes again.

Please, go away. "Ah, yes, of course you may, Mrs Holmes."

"Stop that! Call me Galiena, please?"

"… Thank you so much. It's an honour. Galiena." Go away!

Sherlock's mother smiled at him. "Please, give me the violin; I'll put it on the piano, shall I?" She beamed at Sherlock, who nodded and then she scurried off again.

"Can we go somewhere more private to talk? I'm sure your mother will be back the moment she…"

"No, she won't." Sherlock looked over to the entrance. "She has other things on her mind now. My father's best friend has just arrived."

The first thing John saw was Mycroft who stood aside and downed his drink like a sailor would and immediately filled his brandy glass again. Then he noticed a couple of men in dark suits with earpieces and grim faces. And then…

"Oh, Jesus Christ!"

"John…"

"Is that…?"

"Indeed. The reason Mycroft will be drunk in no time." Sherlock looked at John. "Do not worry, no one, not even my mother will introduce you. Just ignore him."

"I won't have to ignore him. We will leave."

"No."

"Sherlock…"

"No," Sherlock repeated, voice cold again. "I won't go anywhere. But…" he hesitated for a moment, then continued, "…you should leave." John snorted, but Sherlock shook his head. "It's the best solution for everyone. Leave. I want you to leave."

"You do not really think I would abandon you, leave you alone here with this bastard? Please tell me you don't think that."

"Don't be dramatic. It has nothing to do with you abandoning me, it is just…"

Suddenly angry, John interrupted him. "It has everything to do with abandonment!" Noticing how loud his voice had become, John swallowed and tried for calmness. "I won't leave without you. I want to stay with you."

There was a loud GONG.

Dinner bell. Wonderful. While he was watching Sherlock's cold expression, John wondered if he would be able to eat and actually swallow anything.

 

***

 

As it turned out, John could eat. As long as the bastard at the head of the table was able to gorge himself John would do the same. On and on, through soup and fish, he kept up with Holmes, bite for bite.

The seating arrangements were interesting, John thought. He was sure they had been changed for him, and him alone. I probably should feel honoured. At the head of the table, Sherlock's parents sat; right next to the bastard, John was sitting… in stabbing distance, which suited John fine. Opposite to him, Sherlock was sitting, eating slowly, his mother to his left, Mycroft to his right side.

Mycroft. Jesus. He was drinking the wine quickly as if he was scared it would be outlawed tomorrow. As far as John had seen, he hadn't eaten a thing yet.

To Mycroft's right side… John tried to not look at the man sitting there. He was a bit too… royal for him to stomach. John also did his best to ignore the bodyguards standing close to the wall, two behind Sherlock, the other two no doubt directly behind him.

The servants appeared again to clear away the second course. Richard Holmes sat back, kind of lounging on his chair. John looked away for a moment; it was hard for him to see how familiar the pose was. His gaze flitted back immediately, though, because Holmes started to speak. Until now, he had kept silent, letting his wife chatter like a bird throughout the whole meal; it had gotten on John's nerves badly, but now he wished she would keep going.

"Mycroft. You haven't eaten much. What is going on?"

Mycroft looked up, but before he could answer, his mother chopped in. "Are you still on a diet?" She laughed. "The poor boy has inherited my metabolism, I'm afraid." The conversation on the table started to ebb off and so her next words appeared to be even louder than they were. "Sherlock has been dealt better cards, haven't you, sweetie?" She laid a hand on Sherlock's forearm; he smiled at his mother.

"Yes, he is still a pretty thing, isn't he?"

To see Sherlock's reaction to his father's words was frightening; at least for John. He blushed and looked at his father, eyes very bright. For a glorious moment, John thought, Here we go. Finally. He was so ready to beat the shit out of Holmes that it took him a second to realise that Sherlock wasn't gearing himself up for a fight… not at all. He smiled at his father, a fleeting smile, there for a minute and gone again, with Sherlock looking down at his plate, but…

Taken aback and with no idea what was going on, John turned his face toward Holmes. And there it was, that look in his eyes, that perversely longing, owning, satisfied look John had already seen once, a few days ago at the hotel.

Very slowly, John took hold of the sharp silver knife that had been laid out for whatever meat would arrive with the next course. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Mycroft sitting up, tensing all over. Strange indeed, what Mycroft thought important and what not. With one short motion, John let the knife handle rap on the table, once. Immediate success; Holmes' eyes left his son and fixated John. Of course, they were mocking, looking back and forth between John's face and the knife in his hand. Letting himself imagine for a moment how easy it would be to slit the bastard's throat even through the silken scarf he no doubt had to wear tonight, John also smiled, broadly. Holmes watched him for another minute, then, suddenly, leaned forward quickly, elbows on the table, fingers interlaced, chin resting on the hands. He was very close. John felt his adrenaline levels skyrocketing. He carefully laid the knife down at the table again; he would not need a knife.

"Tell me, Dr Watson, do you take good care of my son? He is very dear to me."

"Very good care. Do not trouble yourself."

The ensuing silence was broken by Mrs Holmes. "Oh, I meant to ask you, how did you and Sherlock meet?"

John let his gaze leave Holmes as if he meant nothing. "A mutual friend introduced us and…"

"A mutual friend?" Holmes tossed in.

Mycroft coughed, but John did not need the warning. "Yes, a mutual friend," he repeated, sounding as if he was talking to a child, which was no mean feat, considering the mood he was in. Turning back to Sherlock's mother, he continued, "I just came back from Afghanistan and was looking for a flatmate. We…"

"Oh, so you are an army doctor?" the one person on the table John didn't even know how to address asked. He floundered for a moment, but for some reason, Holmes helped him out.

"Yes, he is. Fascinating, isn't it?"

"It is!" Mrs Holmes cut in again, eyes big. "Sweet Lord, what you must have seen!"

"Indeed!" Holmes' eyes became wide, too; he was now openly mocking his wife. "So you're… what? An expert at treating… bomb victims?"

John nodded slowly. "Yes. That and… treating gun shots."

This time, Mycroft's cough was for real. He was apparently choking on the wine. His mother shook her head wildly; a few more locks were escaping the bun on her head. For the first time, John felt uncomfortable looking at her. She was a bit beside herself, with hectic red blotches on her face and a strange gleam in her eyes. Her other guests seemed to share John's opinion. The table had fallen silent, only Holmes appeared unfazed.

"Terrible! Terrible! But back to you and Sherlock! So you shared a flat?"

John nodded again. He tried to catch Sherlock's eyes inconspicuously, to no avail; Sherlock stared down at the table top.

"And then you fell in love? How romantic! Oh tell me, why did you fall in love with Sherlock?"

By now, Holmes looked ready to burst out laughing, Mycroft looked like he wanted to vanish under the table, and the rest of their company seemed to hold their collected breath due to this unbelievable breach of protocol. Only Sherlock did not appear embarrassed, he did not flinch, in fact, he did not move at all.

What's not to love? But the words died on John's lips when Sherlock suddenly spoke up. "Mummy, please… a change of topic would be welcome. You're making John uncomfortable."

His mother blushed and stammered, "Oh, I'm sorry, John!" and Holmes leaned back on his chair, taking a sip of wine. John tried -again- to get Sherlock to look at him but his lover didn't play along; instead, he leaned over to Mycroft and murmured something that made his brother grunt.

The third course arrived.

 

***

 

Clutching the glass with water in one hand, John shifted around to find a somewhat comfortable position on the most uncomfortable chair he had ever sat on. Mycroft beside him sat ramrod straight, of course, maybe the alcohol helped blurring the edges of the carved wood.

The party had moved on to the living room after dinner was over. John bitterly regretted the two slices of Beef Wellington he had somehow managed to gobble down; they had turned to lead the moment he had entered the huge room and seen the gleaming black Schimmel grand piano standing centrally arranged in there. The violin case on it had already been opened, the violin waiting for Sherlock.

John looked past Mycroft at Sherlock, who stood engrossed in conversation with his mother and two elder women at the table where the presents were heaped up, then his gaze flitted over to the large fireplace behind the grand piano; there, Holmes leaned at the mantelpiece, laughing about something his apparent best friend just said to him. As if he could sense John's stare, Holmes raised his head and looked directly into John's eyes. For a minute, his expression was completely impassive, almost bored. He straightened up, put his tumbler on the mantel and took hold of the poker resting in the fire next to him. Drawing it out, Holmes moved it slightly from one side to the other, as if admiring the red-hot steel. His eyes never left John, though, not even for a second.

John didn't need to see the slow smile blooming on the bastard's face to know that he had gotten exactly what he had wanted from one John Watson; an infuriated, helpless, indubitably murderous and at the same time powerless looking man. It didn't matter. If Richard Holmes wanted to play head games with him for the rest of this fucked up visit… that was fine with John. The important matter was to keep Sherlock out of the line of fire. John could see from the corner of his eyes that Sherlock was still busy with the ladies; his mother was just hugging her youngest son close to her.

"John?"

Wondering how Mycroft still managed to appear completely sober, John murmured, "What?"

"What is going on right now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Between you and my father."

An angry answer already on the tip of his tongue, John reconsidered. Not sober. Dead drunk. "Shall I draw you a picture?" he finally hissed, trying for something between lack of comprehension and sarcasm, failing spectacularly.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

John almost growled. "The poker?"

"What about it?"

Mycroft looked bewildered, and John took a deep breath. How can he not know? How can he…?

"John?"

"Nothing. It's not… important." John swallowed. "Your father likes to play games, that's all."

Mycroft's expression hardened. "Don't let him get to you. He is not someone…"

Mycroft continued to talk, but John tuned him out; he was distracted by the bastard moving through the room, coming to a halt between his wife and Sherlock. And then… Holmes laid an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and John did not realise he had stood up until he felt Mycroft's hand circling his wrist like an iron shackle.

"John!" Mycroft hissed at him, but John wasn't moving anyway. He was watching Sherlock's parents and his lover, and what he saw did not make sense. Holmes said something that made the ladies laugh, his wife clapped her hands once and Sherlock… nodded, seemingly amicable. John shook his head slightly. He knew Sherlock had an incredible talent for self-control and a thousand masks at hand, but… they were so close, standing so close together and…

"John! I know this must be hard for you, but please, look at them. Follow Sherlock's example, would you? If he can do it you should be able, too!"

Looking down at Mycroft, John felt the overwhelming need to start screaming, at Mycroft, at Sherlock, at Sherlock's mother, at everyone present. In a barely constrained voice, he asked, "And why is that? Huh? Can you tell me why we have to go through this charade and…?"

"Ah, Dr Watson, I know these chairs are extremely uncomfortable. Do you want me to find something to bolster… you up?"

Mycroft's hand on his wrist fell away, and John turned around slowly. Holmes was directly in front of him, as close as he had been at the hotel, a soft smile playing on his lips. Behind him, Sherlock stood at the piano, tuning the violin and ignoring John completely.

"Dr Watson? Are you all right?"

It would be so easy to beat the bastard into a bloody pulp. It was also easy to see that this was exactly what Holmes wanted… he wanted John to attack him. And then what would happen? The guards would be over me before I'll get the first real punch thrown… and I would be dragged to the next police station to spend the night there. That is what he wants. John blinked once. "I am fine. But if you'd find me a cushion, it would be most appreciated."

 

***

 

The audience was delighted; everyone was clapping enthusiastically. John did not. He felt sick to the stomach and was worried that any movement he made would end with him throwing up all over the expensive afghan carpet. His gaze flitted to the wall clock; father and son had played for over an hour.

Usually, John loved the times Sherlock was playing the violin. Over the last years, he had discovered and enjoyed myriad emotions displayed on Sherlock's face while watching him -playfulness, solemnity, humour, fury, sadness. All these and more, and John knew that Sherlock would be horrified knowing how predictable he became whenever he was holding his violin, so John had not commented on it. But John had never before seen this Sherlock, a Sherlock who seemed to have lost all emotions. Oh, he was excellent, of course, brilliant. On and on, they had played, beginning with the obligatory 'Happy Birthday', moving to Beethoven, Bach, Rachmaninoff, and on with composers John had never heard about before. Sometimes Holmes had announced the new pieces, other times Mycroft had grunted a name. And Sherlock had excelled himself… in perfection. But there had been none of his usual variations, his eyes had been open the whole time, seemingly fixed on nothing, and there had been no smile on his face. Sherlock also did not show any sign of distress or fear, though, and that worried John the most. As good as Sherlock might be, John still had always thought he would be able to detect the true emotions under those masks and now he found he could not. All he could see was calmness and that damned perfection and it drove him nuts.

The applause didn't die down until Holmes finally raised a hand.

"All right, one more piece then."

John heard an impatient sigh coming from Mycroft; in the last hour, he had started inconspicuously rubbing his lower back.

"Something a bit more contemporary, perhaps?" He looked at his son for a moment. "What about Christian Jost? From his opera 'Vipern'? I love his work." Sherlock stared at his father, then, nodding sharply, he raised the violin. Holmes sat back, fingers on the keys, but before he started he threw a short glance at John, smiling serenely. Then they were off again, playing a piece of music that sounded incredibly difficult to master.

John just sat there. Horror was dawning and he didn't know… He looked at Mycroft, but found only annoyance on his face; he didn't seem to like the music. John's gaze switched to Sherlock, and -for the first time- he had closed his eyes, face pale, and John could see little drops of sweat at his hairline. And John knew why.

 

The bow flies into a corner, barely missing John on the sofa.

"Hey! Watch it!"

Sherlock tears on his hair. "This guy is driving me mad!"

"What guy?"

"Jost!" Sherlock flings the sheets of music in John's direction. "I wonder why the new ones always try to reinvent music! He's impossible!"

John looks down at the booklet. 'Vipern' "I never heard about it."

"Hardly surprising! It's barely six years old. And if you ask me, no one should ever hear about it!"

"Sherlock… if you can't stand it, why play it then?"

Sherlock pauses for a moment, and then takes up his bow. "Because."

 

John startled at the loud applause, thrown back into the here and now. Horrified, he turned to Mycroft, but found him already on his way to the bar. Everyone seemed to be back on their feet again. Holmes was shaking hands, Sherlock was locking the violin case, his mother at his side. The only one still sitting was John. Try as he might, he couldn't help arriving at the conclusion that… Dear Lord. He was… he had…

"Did you like it? I know it's not to everyone's… taste."

Feeling blood rush to his face, John slowly stood up. The bastard certainly had a knack to get to him… and to find him when he was alone. "Do you really think you will get away with this?" John tried to growl, but even he could hear how close his voice was to breaking.

"This?" Holmes smiled. He always smiled. "What do you mean?"

Between clenched teeth, John spat out, "There is no statute of limitations on that, and you know it."

"Did your father teach you that?"

John was taken aback for a moment, but he recovered quickly and huffed. "My father's specializing in labour law, as you no doubt know."

"Indeed." Holmes' smile became broader. "Ah, Dr Watson. You are far too… how should I call it? Far too common to understand the relationship between Sherlock and me. But by all means," he chuckled, "go ahead and report me. I'm looking forward to the results."

Furious now, John hissed, "He's not a child anymore and I…" he broke off when Holmes threw his head back and started to roar with laughter. John was very aware that many people, including Sherlock and Mycroft, were staring at them.

Soon enough, Holmes calmed down again; he wiped away a tear from the corner of his eye and nodded. "You are sparkling with wit. Well, well. Dr Watson, you can take it or leave it, but here is my advice: If I were you, I would have a long conversation with Sherlock. You know, to get his true opinion on the subject. You might even learn a thing or two." With that, Holmes took a mocking little bow, turned and walked over to Sherlock, who was still watching them. He leaned close to his son and whispered something in his ear that made Sherlock look at him for a minute; then Sherlock nodded shortly, averting his eyes. Before John could take one step towards them, father and son parted; Holmes sauntered over to the fireplace, and Sherlock vanished amongst a group of ladies.

John sat down again.

 

***

 

Almost at the end of his tether, John followed Sherlock and his parents upstairs. Most of the party had left during the last hour due to the heavy snow fall, only an old lady friend with her son and royalty plus bodyguards would stay overnight… well, and Mycroft, Sherlock and John. He could not wait to speak to Sherlock in private. He was under no illusion that it would be easy, though. No matter what the bastard had said, John was sure Holmes would do anything in his power to keep Sherlock and John apart tonight. He's in for a shock then, John thought, teeth already clenched.

"We put you in your old room. I hope that's alright with you, Sherlock?" Mrs Holmes said, opening a double door to her right. Sherlock nodded and went straight in, and before anyone could say anything to John, he followed Sherlock so quickly that he almost crashed against the doorframe. Sherlock's eyes had narrowed, and -as John had thought- the bastard spoke up.

"I told Galiena it would be outdated to offer you a guestroom, Dr Watson. That's why I had your bag already brought up here. I guess this is to your liking?"

Surprised, John turned around. Mrs Holmes had blushed all over and smiled uncertainly at him. Holmes also smiled, but not at him. John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock and for the first time this night, he saw what he had expected to see far earlier -Sherlock's face was ashen, his eyes dark… he was horrified. Totally confused, John looked back at Holmes just to watch him retreating, his arm around his wife's shoulders.

"Good night," Richard Holmes said mildly before closing the door.

The following silence was awful. After another quick glance at Sherlock, who was still staring at the door, John swallowed and decided to give Sherlock some time to compose himself from whatever just had happened between him and his father. He took hold of his bag and sat it down on the four-poster bed, then -after looking around uncomfortably for a moment- John went over to the large bookcases that almost completely covered the walls surrounding him. His eyebrows went up immediately when he read some of the titles. John hadn't been sure what kind of books he would find in Sherlock's childhood room, but… all these books were medical books. In fact, they were books that John had had to read while studying. Again, John looked at Sherlock, and then he sighed. It didn't really matter with what topic he started the conversation –he just knew that he would be the one to start it if he wanted to have one.

"You wanted to become a doctor?"

For a second, Sherlock didn't respond, but then his shoulders started to shake. John didn't have time to worry, though. Sherlock was laughing, firstly a bit suppressed, but soon enough he was laughing out loud, head thrown back.

John stared, hairs all over his body standing on end.

When Sherlock turned around to face him he laughed even louder, then calmed down a bit. "Ah, John. Yes. Yes, I wanted to become a doctor. Mycroft found it unsavoury, so I let it go. What do you think… was he right or wrong?"

He's mocking me. He is... What the hell? "Would you mind telling me what you find so funny right now?" John didn't completely manage to keep the anger he had to keep at bay all night out of his voice.

"No, no, not funny. I'm impressed."

"By what?"

Sherlock looked at him and shook his head slightly, still laughing under his breath. He spread his arms wide. "I haven't the faintest idea how to explain it to you."

"Then maybe you could explain to me what the hell you were doing down there, playing a piece of music that's about seven years old perfectly well with your father?"

John had Sherlock's full attention all of a sudden. He straightened up, his grey eyes were watching John carefully, the laughter was fading, only a sardonic smile remained. "Now I'm impressed by you, John. I thought you would catch that… but you even remembered the timeline correctly. Very impressive."

John swallowed hard. He wasn't sure how to address this, but quickly decided to plough ahead; he had to get to the true Sherlock, who no doubt was hidden somewhere under this stranger's mask. "Your father didn't stop, did he?" he asked softly. "He came back for you. He continued to… harass you. How the hell could Mycroft…"

Sherlock interrupted him. "Ah… no. I'm afraid we're back to your usual self again."

"What?"

"He did not come back to England. I went to New York."

John shook his head. He found it hard to breathe. "Wait… what?"

Sherlock watched him appraisingly; he looked very much like his father in that moment. "I visited my father in New York. Quite a few times, actually. Mycroft was never good at keeping me under surveillance… as you should know."

Somehow, John managed to gulp in some air. "What? Why would… oh, Jesus. What does he have on you? What? Did he threaten your mother?"

Sherlock made a disparagingly gesture. "No, no. He did not threaten anyone. I told you before, John, stop being dramatic. I contacted him, not the other way around."

"Why?"

Cocking his head to the side, Sherlock answered, "Because I wanted to, of course."

John backed off a step, and Sherlock began to smile. No. Nonono… stay put! Coming to a halt, John crossed his arms. "Stop that… that nonsense, Sherlock. I saw you, remember? I was there that night!" His voice became louder. "I found you and that bastard! And you, you phoned me, remember? You…"

"I did not phone you."

"Excuse me?"

"My father phoned you." Sherlock left his place at the end of the bed and went to the nightstand and his bag on it, rummaging around in it and putting the bed's width between them. "As I told you, he wanted to make a point." Huffing, he started to unpack. "Although I'll admit, you were there far quicker than he had thought."

John's heartbeat was thundering in his ears. "Bullshit! You… you said… you almost threw up! You said he kissed you and…"

"Yes. I wasn't keen on him kissing me, I give you that. But then, John," Sherlock looked up, straight into his eyes, "truly, I never am," he finished, smiling almost apologetically.

John felt sucker-punched, felt like he would go down any second now and stay down, so he took another step backwards, and that strange smile deepened. Nodding slightly, Sherlock got his mobile out of the pocket of his jacket and started typing. "Grab your bag and go downstairs. I'll make sure Mycroft's driver will be there in a minute to pick you up and get you back to London. Goodbye, John." He turned around and entered the adjoining bathroom, closing the door behind him silently.

 

***

 

John just stood there for a moment, totally numb, staring at the bathroom door. Then he shook his head, once, twice, to clear his mind, but it didn't work. His thoughts raced back to that night -God, only three days ago- trying to remember everything that had happened, everything he had seen, everything Sherlock had said, to find something to hold on to, something that proved that this wasn't true; couldn't be true. There was nothing to be found.

Feeling disturbed on a visceral level by the thought of an adult Sherlock… visiting his father, John took another step backwards and collided with one of the bookshelves. His gaze fell on his bag. Shoulders set, John went forwards, grabbed the handle and…

"No one stays. No one."

John closed his eyes for a few seconds. Then, he shook his head again; this time for other reasons. He was disgusted by his own stupidity. The whole evening, every one of his buttons had been pushed… by Mycroft, by Holmes, by Sherlock. And in the last few minutes, Sherlock hadn't pushed, no, he had swung a hammer at these buttons. Why? Undoubtedly, he was missing a giant piece of this puzzle and there was only one way to find out what it was. Shoving away any thoughts about what Sherlock had just told him, John grabbed his bag, walked over to the door noisily, opened the door without going through, turned off the lights and shut the door loudly. Then he tiptoed over to a dark corner, set his bag down silently and waited, arms crossed, for Sherlock to come out of the bathroom.

He didn't have to wait long.

First, John saw the sweeping lights of an arriving car moving over the ceiling, and in the next second, the bathroom door was opened. The lights in there were on, and John could see Sherlock's face perfectly well. John swallowed hard, his throat made a clicking noise, but Sherlock didn't notice him. He went straight to the window and looked down, apparently waiting for John leaving the house, getting into the car and driving back to London.

John took a deep, but silent breath and prepared himself to move quickly. Clearing his throat, he said, "I'm staying."

 

***

 

For as long as John had known him, Sherlock had never looked as shocked as he did in the second he saw him, and John couldn't even enjoy it. He had been right about Sherlock's reaction, though, and as he sprinted after Sherlock to reach him before he could lock himself into the bathroom, John was strangely relieved about getting at least that right.

He reached the door in the last moment and threw his whole weight against it, making Sherlock stumble back against the opposite wall covered with pristine white tiles, almost losing his footing between toilet and tub. John closed the door behind him and took stock of his surroundings. White. Everywhere he looked, it was pearly-white. Floor, tub, toilet, shower stall, basin, walls, shelves… John paused and looked back at the basin. There was a package with razor blades, only noticeable because there was nothing else in the whole room that showed signs of habitation.

John's world came to a screeching halt. For a second, he could see all that white splattered with blood; he blinked a few times. He remembered Sherlock rummaging around in his bag and… Oh God. Jesus, Sherlock… John took two shaky steps toward Sherlock, who was still pressed against the wall and who looked at him as if he had never seen John before in his life; his pupils dilated despite the blinding bright light.

"Sherlock?"

"What time is it?"

"Sherlock…"

"The time?"

John could see the watch on Sherlock's left wrist, but Sherlock made no attempt to look at it so John glanced at his, trying to keep his eyes on Sherlock while doing so. "Just past eleven."

Sherlock nodded jerkily. "Thank you."

An inconceivable thought crossed John's mind; his stomach cramped immediately. "You've got plans for tonight?" he asked cautiously.

Sherlock just stood there, eyes half closed now, as if he hadn't heard John's question. But then, his gaze flitted to the basin. "I'm not going anywhere."

Right. With one quick motion, John grabbed the box and threw it into the open toilet. His hand reached for the flush button, but Sherlock tried to hinder him. In the end, he had to clasp both of Sherlock's wrists in one hand and shove him back against the wall to be able to flush that goddamned thing out of Sherlock's reach. The moment the toilet gurgled, all fight seemed to leave Sherlock; he slowly slid down until he sat on the marble floor, looking to John as if he was fifteen years old. Again, John blinked rapidly. The situation was bad enough, he had to try and keep a clear head. Yeah, sure. This is a nightmare, a fucking nightmare.

"I have to get ready now."

Icy fingers slithered down John's back. As it had happened three nights ago, Sherlock's voice sounded an octave higher than usual, but this time, it was worse. John was absolutely sure that Sherlock didn't even know John was there, standing right in front of him, let alone know who John was. From a doctor's perspective, John recognised what was happening; Sherlock was showing signs of a beginning dissociation. He had to think quickly because Sherlock was already trying to get back on his feet. A bit panicky, John did the one thing he could think of -far from professional, but whatever!- and took hold of Sherlock's shoulders while Sherlock was still crouching and started to shake him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, look at me. Look at me!"

No response. Sherlock just tried to get away from him, acting as if John were some kind of rosebush on which Sherlock's clothes got stuck on. He might be in the mind-set of a child, but he was as strong as a man. John didn't want to restrain him more than he already had so he let him get back on his feet. Plan B. Quickly, John went to the door, locked it and pulled out the key, letting it vanish inside his trouser pockets. When he turned around, Sherlock was right behind him; John flinched and expected some sort of assault, but Sherlock just rattled at the door, looking confused. John watched him, feeling utterly helpless. This is worse than… anything.

"Sherlock," he repeated quietly. "Hey…"

Again, Sherlock didn't acknowledge him. He pulled once more at the door handle, shrugged, and then he returned to the point where he had come from, opened the tap and started to draw a bath. John followed him. There was a seemingly endless repetition of turning the tap off and on, then Sherlock went back to the door, John again on his heels. By now, John regretted not having his doctor's bag with him. He had smelling salts in there and that was the one thing he remembered that could be of any use in this situation besides heavy sedation.

John let Sherlock rattle at the door and slipped his hand in Sherlock's jacket to get the phone out. He looked at it for a few seconds then put it in his inner jacket pocket; he didn't want to phone Mycroft. Yet. While he trotted after Sherlock once again in the direction of the tub, John wondered how long he could delay contacting Mycroft; a dissociative state could last for hours.

After a few more rounds, though, Sherlock came to a halt in the middle of the bathroom. In the last minutes, he had become increasingly agitated by John acting as an obstacle no matter what Sherlock tried to do. His eyes met John's briefly; they still looked confused, but also a bit annoyed, and John risked it. "Sherlock!" he said loudly, "Snap out of it, would you?"

Sherlock blinked a few times, and John took a deep breath and tried to prepare himself for whatever would happen next, but then Sherlock turned around and went back to the bathtub. John closed his eyes. Please, god. After another breath, he squared his shoulders and turned, too, only to stop when he saw Sherlock sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, head down, hands ripping on his hair; the posture was familiar. John was beside him in a heartbeat, hands circling Sherlock's wrists carefully. "Don't."

"Go away, John. Lord, just leave. Please, leave." John could barely understand him.

"No. I'm not going anywhere." Firm voice, good. "Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock's body tensed up even more, but at least John got a good hold on his hands; he pulled them close and started to rub his thumbs slowly over the white knuckles. "Sherlock."

"Didn't you lis… you don't understand."

John swallowed. "I listened. And it's true; I don't understand quite a few things. But then, I don't have to. I don't have to understand to stay." The hands John were holding trembled, no, Sherlock's whole body trembled, badly, and Sherlock murmured something in such a low voice that John had no chance of understanding. He knew, though, that every word counted now, so he moved closer, so close his nose touched the dark curls. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

A muffled sound, then, "I don't… I've done so many… you can't stay. After… you… why?"

Jesus. "None of this is your fault. You don't…" John broke off when Sherlock raised his head all of a sudden. His face was pale and there were traces of tears on both cheeks; while John was watching, another tear fell. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, and John's chest started to feel impossibly tight.

"It is my fault! He came here because I…" He tried to bow his head again but John didn't let him. He let go of the hands and enfolded Sherlock's face, his fingers wiping away tears.

"Because you stopped going to see him." Sherlock closed his eyes, and John felt his own beginning to burn. He wanted to ask why and when but didn't. He knew the answers anyway. "Come here."

Sherlock opened his eyes again; he looked shell-shocked, and John shook his head. "You don't understand either, do you?" He paused for a moment before continuing, reassessing his next words, finding them truthful. "It does not change anything, Sherlock. Not between us. It's not… ah, god." He reached out and gathered Sherlock close, rearranging them until his back leaned against the tub and he could embrace Sherlock properly; then John held on tight, waiting for the storm to pass.

 

***

 

Left cheek resting on the dark hair, John felt dead tired. Sherlock's body had become heavier in the last minutes. John would have thought him asleep, but he could feel Sherlock's eyelashes moving against his shirt.

"You were right before. I don't understand you. I thought I… I don't." Calm voice, but Sherlock didn't make any attempt of moving away; his head was still resting against John's chest.

"I'm not that difficult to understand. I'm just…"

"Stop it. It's not true. I… how can you…?" Sherlock tampered off, body tensing.

"Hm?"

"You know."

John blinked a few times, trying to shake off exhaustion. "I'm not sure that I know. That's the thing, Sherlock. You… we have to learn to talk to each other. Somehow. Lies aren't…"

"I did not lie."

John sighed. "If you tell me something that you know I will misunderstand, if you lead me on, that's pretty close to lying in my book. I'm not you, Sherlock. I can't deduce everything, and, to be honest, with this, with what happened to you, I wouldn't even try if I could." Sherlock's body had turned to lead in his arms, so John sighed again. "I'm not saying you have to tell me everything. But I'd prefer an 'I don't want to talk about it' over the way you… well, you know."

Silence for a moment, then, "I did lie."

"Yes, I know."

After that, Sherlock sat up to stare at him, and John tried not to wince when he saw Sherlock's face. "You know? What do you…?"

"I doubt you can fake to like kissing me." John said and then held his breath. He didn't have to worry for long because a decidedly weird smile appeared on Sherlock's face, in stark contrast to his puffy eyes. Shaking his head, Sherlock huffed. "I can't believe it. You…" he huffed again.

John smiled back at him and let his head thump against the rim of the tub. With his eyes closed, he thought of razor blades and Richard Holmes, who was no doubt somewhere in this fucking house waiting for his son, and then looked up again at Sherlock. He's dead on his feet, and so are you. Let it go… for now. "Let's get some sleep, huh? And then we'll get the hell out of here, before dawn tomorrow. You can tell your mother later I became ill or something." John saw Sherlock's eyes flicker and put his foot down at once. "She is a grown woman, Sherlock. I won't stand aside and watch you sacrifice yourself over…"

"I won't…"

"Let Mycroft handle this!"

"You saw tonight why Mycroft has a bit of a problem right now."

"Special friend, hm? Your father saved his father's life, didn't he?"

"Twice."

"Right. I'll bet you, though, the moment Mycroft is sober and back in London, he will regroup. And so will we." John scrambled to his feet, stretched and reached out for Sherlock's hand. "Come on."

Sherlock didn't move. He averted his eyes, swallowed, then looked up at John. "I can't sleep in that bed."

Sheer hate sizzled up on John's spine; he stomped on it. "How about the floor? Thick rug, we can throw pillows and… You know what? We can leave now. I swear I'll get Mycroft out of bed, even if I have to…" John broke off when he noticed that Sherlock's face became white again. "What is it?" He saw Sherlock glancing at his watch and snarled immediately, "Where is he? Tell me where he is and I…"

"I don't… want to talk about it." Uneasy glance, but stubborn jaw-line.

Stalemate.

"All right. We'll just leave then, and I won't look for…"

"No! Mycroft doesn't know a thing about… I can't. I can't."

"I won't tell him! And I really doubt your father would…"

"I can't!" Sherlock sounded desperate, and John finally came out of his haze of hate. Before he could say anything, though, Sherlock continued, spitting out every word between clenched teeth. "Things have changed, John. For the worse. He is back for good. He told me. And that means… it means there is something happening I don't know about. I know him. I know how he acts when he's…" Sherlock sighed, "… when he has an advantage over me, over Mycroft. And I haven't the faintest idea what he's planning. I know him, but I can't read him. I never could." He sounded defeated.

Since Sherlock made no attempt to stand up, John crouched down again in front of him, taking his hands. "And still, he is in for a disappointment right now, isn't he?"

Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed twice. "That makes him even more dangerous. John, you… I think right now he can't read you. But… I watched him tonight. His eyes barely left you. He's learning, and he's learning quickly. He will find a way to get to you and…"

John interrupted him, not able to stand the increasingly frantic sounding voice or the painting of Richard Holmes as scarier as the devil himself. "Oh, he already managed that. He gets to me, all right. But this doesn't mean the same to me as it means to you, do you understand that? I am not afraid of him, Sherlock. I never will be. I'm afraid for you."

"I wouldn't have…"

"No more lies, remember?"

Silence again. John could see that he still hadn't got through to Sherlock, not completely, but then, he hadn't thought he would. Time. It will take time. He stroked over Sherlock's hair and cheek once, and then stood up again. "Do you want to stay in here? I'm sure we can manage to get comfortable."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "No. It's too cold… the rug outside is… you know you should sleep in the bed. It's…"

"Yes, because I want to sleep in that bed. Jesus. We'll manage." This time, Sherlock took John's hand and stood up and promptly wobbled a bit. John laid his arm around Sherlock's waist to steady him, unlocking the door and leading him into the bedroom. There, after a quick glance out of the window, he made Sherlock sit in one of the chairs and handed him his phone. "The driver's still down there. Please text him to get some sleep and be ready at six o'clock in the morning, would you?"

While Sherlock was typing, John took hold of the blankets, pillows and the duvet and threw all of it into the corner furthest from the bed. He arranged some kind of improvised camp -thankfully, the rug was very thick, it would feel like sleeping on a futon- then threw a look at Sherlock and found him staring at the door. John bared his teeth. God, he wanted out of that house, away from here, he wanted them to be at home, preferably in his bed, gun on the nightstand. "Is there a key for that door?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just shook his head.

Of course there isn't. Although John knew the bastard wouldn't show up, he still heaved the other chair in front of the door to make sure Sherlock got at least some peace tonight.

The second they were lying down, Sherlock was out like a light. John wasn't even sure if he had been aware of the settling down process the way he had allowed himself to be led by John, until he could finally clamp his arms around John's waist; that had been the last moment Sherlock had moved at all. John rearranged the pillow behind his head. His eyes were wide open. He knew he wouldn't get any sleep. Gaze fixed on the wall clock he watched the seconds tick by, thoughts chasing themselves in his mind. Snatches of words and half-sentences, not only of this night, but also of the last two years, the day they first met, Sherlock's face, Sherlock's habits. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. So many things made sense now.

John blinked, shuffled down and nosed through the dark curls a bit. Then he started waiting for the morning to arrive.

 

***

 

Keeping a tight hold on Sherlock's hand, John opened the door to Mycroft's room silently, turned on the lights, made Sherlock sit on a nearby chair, bags at his feet, and went over to the lump visibly under the bedspread. Without hesitation, he pulled off the blankets and hissed, "Wake up, Mycroft! Get up! Now!" Mycroft just grunted something unintelligibly and buried his face even deeper into the pillow. Under normal circumstances John would have been amused to see the undeniable similarity to Sherlock's behaviour, but he was so far from being amused that he couldn't even muster a tiny smile. "Mycroft! WAKE UP!"

All of a sudden, Mycroft jumped up so quickly that John took a step backwards to avoid colliding with him. No doubt, Mycroft wasn't amused, either. He should have looked ridiculous in his pyjamas, hair going in all directions and with his bloodshot eyes, but he did not. The look in those eyes were terrifying for a second, but the moment Mycroft recognised who was standing before him his expression became confused. "John? What…?"

"Start packing," John growled. "We're leaving, the car's waiting."

Mycroft's mouth opened, but then he stared over John's shoulder at his brother. John turned and saw what he had seen since they had woken up this morning; Sherlock's head was bowed, but he couldn't hide either the puffy eyes or the swollen face. He hadn't looked John in the eyes once in the last hour.

"What happened?"

"What… WHAT HAPPENED?" John yelled, then lowered his voice when he saw Sherlock flinching. "What happened? This night happened, Mycroft! Your father happened!"

"What has he…?"

"We don't have time for this now. Start packing!" With that, John turned on his heels and entered the bathroom, throwing all the things he could find there in Mycroft's wash bag. Within minutes, they were ready to go. While Mycroft looked one last time around, John was -for the first time- glad the brothers weren't prone to talk… John doubted Sherlock was able to answer any questions for the next hours, especially not questions his brother was asking.

When John opened the door to the hallway, Mycroft said quietly, "Did you talk to our mother? Is she…?"

Again, John interrupted. "You can say your good-byes on the phone. We're leaving now."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed and he came to a halt just outside his room. Although John knew it was completely against Mycroft's nature to accept any orders at all, he was all the same too close to losing his patience with him. He wanted out, wanted to make sure Sherlock was safe, and if he had to go through Mycroft to make this happen, he would. He didn't have to. Mycroft looked again at Sherlock, who had followed John unsolicited, moving like a puppet, and John could see that under Mycroft's bluster the man wasn't only confused, he had also become scared. Mycroft nodded shortly and, finally, they started moving.

They wandered through the dimly lit hallway, then downstairs, but before they reached the bottom, Sherlock froze. A second later, John knew why. There was light coming from the living room and a voice talking quietly. Holmes.

John laid his free hand on the small of Sherlock's back, feeling tremors, and then he slid his hand into Sherlock's cold hand, pulling slightly. "Come on," John said, far calmer than he felt, swallowing all reassurances he would have liked to add due to Mycroft's presence. Sherlock followed him. The absent expression in his eyes was gone, though; he looked terrified. Thankfully, Mycroft seemed to have caught up with the situation; he moved quickly forwards, putting himself between the open door to the living room and his brother. They passed the door without incident, but John had to look, he had to. And he looked straight into Richard Holmes' eyes, saw him putting down the receiver of the phone. Then they were past the door, and John stood still, making the other men turn towards him, one with narrowed, one with wide eyes. John handed Mycroft his bag.

"Take Sherlock to the car and wait for me. Oh, while you're at it, grab my parka, please?"

Sherlock's hand shot out, quick as a snake, and clutched John's arm. "No! No, don't…"

"Don't worry, all right? I won't do anything rash, believe me. I will just… get your violin. That's all."

"John…"

"Mycroft, please."

Mycroft nodded and started pulling on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock moved with him, slowly, dragging his feet; his eyes flickered strangely.

John smiled reassuringly at him, and then he swallowed. He could hear an echo of Mycroft's voice in his ears.

'… I looked around for Sherlock and found him in a corner, staring at our father. I grabbed him and dragged him downstairs...'

It would be different this time. John turned on his heels and entered the living room.

 

***

 

Richard Holmes sat on an armchair beside an ornate davenport. Only his eyes moved and followed John striding through the large room to the piano. John made sure the case was locked before taking hold of the handle and lifting it off the shining black wood. His neck prickled slightly; he could feel the bastard's stare. John turned. Holmes' face had been in the shadows before, but now John had a clear view of his face.

The masks had fallen.

"You are losing."

John looked at the ceiling for a minute; when he lowered his head again, he smiled. Acknowledging Holmes' words with a nod, John went to the door and turned one last time on the threshold. "I will put you down."

He left then, through the hall and the entrance door, taking a seat in the car and taking hold of Sherlock's hand simultaneously. When the car started moving, John threw a last glance at The House.

Manderley.