Sherlock Short Stories

Mycroft asks for help

Mycroft was desperate.
His brother needed help.
His brother was too prideful to get this help.
"Oh brother dear... what are you like," he sighed to himself.

The government was sat lazily in a black swivel chair, swirling a glass of some form of strong alcohol with an emotionless facial expression. The soldier sat opposite, slightly tense and alert and seeing right through the other man's calm facade.
"My brother needs help," Mycroft began, "and he is too stubborn to ask for it." John simply sipped his tea, not yet understanding why Mycroft had requested his presence.
"I don't understand."
"His two years away weren't kind to him, John. Taking down Moriarty's web was not a fun game for him. For starters it was dangerous. Trained soldiers. Snipers at every corner. Spies. And he had to navigate this world alone. More importantly, he had to navigate the world without you. " John frowned, not entirely sure but beginning to understand. "This took its toll. Both mentally and physically. He won't accept any help from me. He's too prideful for that. And he certainly won't go to your dear Mrs Hudson. And he won't go to you either. But he needs us all."
John sat back, worry for his curious detective consuming him. John remained in this state of worry for the entirety of the journey back to 221B, through dinner, into his dreams and well into the following morning. One thought circled his mind.
What had happened to Sherlock?

The two years can't have been easy, he admitted. He himself had struggled...
"What is troubling you John?" Asked Sherlock matter of factly from his chair.
"Hm? Oh nothing," dismissed John. They had no cases the following morning and Sherlock had been in his mind palace since breakfast. John continued his train of thought: it was true, indeed, he had noticed Sherlock was acting unusual. Cases didn't seem to captivate his attention like they used to. He ate less - and he already ate very little - and slept even less than that.
"Something is troubling you, John." Sherlock prodded.
"Nothing, Sherlock."
"You visited my brother yesterday afternoon." John chided himself yet again, "Did I?" He tried to feign ignorance. Sherlock never seemed to show much interest in his brother before... why now?
"What did my brother say to you that has you so..." Sherlock struggled to exactly pinpoint his flatmate's emotion: sadness, anger, disappointment?
"He didn't do or say anything Sherly," John dismissed, rising from his chair to brew tea. Sherlock, however did not drop the subject so easily. All morning, through lunchtime and into the afternoon, Sherlock prodded and poked John for answers.
"Jesus Sherlock!" John Cried, "you really hate not knowing something I do!" He angrily began to grab his coat, desperate to get away from his friend. However, he didn't fail to hear Sherlock's weak reply, "I hate not knowing why my friend is hurting,".

John stopped on his tracks and turned to his flat mate. Sherlock, now oblivious to John's presence, retreated into his mind palace in an attempt to solve the puzzle. John stood watching him, frozen in shock.
Friend.
But Sherlock said...
Friend.
Smiling gleefully, John left the flat and took the long route to a park.
Friend.
He noticed I was hurting.
Sherlock Holmes noticed my emotions.
Sherlock Holmes called me his friend.

Meanwhile, Sherlock navigated his mind palace for answers.
"What did my brother say to you John?"
He finally decided that there was only one way to find out. Springing from his chair like a cat, the great Sherlock Holmes dashed out of the flat.
Time to get answers.

"Sir," phoned in the receptionist, "there is a man here desperate to see you... he says it can't wait," he heard someone else talking to her from the phone.
"Let him in," Mycroft agreed, folding the file of boring documents closed and sliding it back into its space amongst the other identical papers.
Sherlock strutted boldly into his office, sitting in one of the sofas to the edge of the room. If Mycroft didn't know his brother better, he would have said that Sherlock was angry.
"What have you done to my John?" Mycroft didn't miss his slip up, "your John?"
"What did you do?" Sherlock ignored his brothers own inquiries.
"I simply spoke to him."
"And now he is..." Sherlock yet again tried to pinpoint the exact emotion that had clouded John's expression all morning and all of yesterday. He flailed his hands as if reaching for the answer, "hurting." Mycroft raised his eyebrow quizzically, "And why, dear brother, does that concern you?"
"It concerns me. That's all. Now answer: what did you say? Why is he so..." Sherlock was losing patience in his own inability to read emotions and his brother's stubbornness.
"I asked him for help."
"For help?"
"I asked him to..." Mycroft had to choose his next words carefully, "keep an eye on you... I'm worried Sherlock."
"Why ever are you so worried, dear brother?" Sherlock sarcastically bit back.
"You are scarred, both metaphorically and literally, by Moriarty. I worry that-" Mycroft winced as Sherlock rose angrily from his chair and stormed out of the room. Mycroft turned back to his desk but found he was now unable to concentrate on the boring task of signing and shredding documents.
"My dear brother," he muttered, frowning into the silence.

John had just returned from his calming walk when Sherlock stormed into the flat, angrily. It was very rare for Sherlock to display emotion - excluding, of course, morbid excitement over a murder - least of all something as human as anger. John frowned as Sherlock turned on him, turning red in the face.
"What did Mycroft tell you John?"
"I ah I don't think tha-"
"What did he say?"
"Sherlock I really don't think tha-"
"Did he tell you?"
There was a brief pause. Sherlock was panting heavily, as if he had just been running and there was a slightly crazed look in his eyes.
"Did he tell me what?" John replies cautiously, "he simply asked me to look after you. He said... he said something happened in the two years and that you had suffered."
"Did he tell you how?" Sherlock's voice, contrasting his facial expressions, no longer sounded angry but vulnerable. Sherlock was afraid. He didn't want to appear weak. He especially did not want to appear weak to his blogger. He could barely admit that he felt emotion to himself, and didn't think he could face explaining that to his brave blogger.
"He said-. Sherlock what happened while you were away? I know you took down Moriarty's web but... how? Where? You never told me." John felt a sudden twang of sadness.
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me." John slowly approached Sherlock and, making his intentions clear so as not to shock Sherlock, slowly brought his detective into a gentle hug. Sherlock remained frozen for a few seconds before relaxing into the embrace. Each man relished in the feeling of the other; breathing in their distinctive smell; noticing how their chest rose with each breathe; feeling how their hands held the other.
"Sherlock," John encouraged.
"I-" Sherlock attempted. He stepped away from John suddenly and turned his back. John didn't missed the lone tear that had escaped onto Sherlock's cheek.
"Sherly, please," John resorted to begging.
"I had to infiltrate each base. Find each sniper and soldier. Take down their online systems." Robotic and rehearsed.
"You've told me that already."
"I would sneak into a base, be it by disguise or stealth. And I would put a virus in their systems. And, if necessary, stop any human threats."
"You mean kill them."
"Yes. "
"And, What? That has upset you."
"Don't be daft John. I leap at the chance of a dead body you know that. "
"Then What is it?"
"Well. One time... someone saw through the disguise. I think it was the curls," he chuckled bitterly, "and I wasn't quick enough. And-" Sherlock was unable to finish his sentence. His voice broke and a second tear escaped from his eyes.
"Gah! Sentiment John!" Sherlock wailed, turning further away from his flatmate, so as not to be seen so weak. John, however, was now crying: to see a normally such emotionless man break before him.
"What happened Sherlock?"
"It should have only taken half a year," Sherlock chuckled without humour, "partly why I didn't hint I was alive. I thought I would be back in six months and all would be well."
John felt sick.
"And you see, they knew they couldn't get to you, they knew you were protected!"
"What do you mean?"
Sherlock whirled slightly back around to look more properly at his flat mate, "You don't think I left you for two years unprotected? My brother runs the government John, it wasn't hard."
"You mean-"
"Who do you think called an ambulance?"
"You stopped me-"
"You tried to kill yourself John!" Sherlock was now facing John again. Tears streamed down his face as John retaliated.
"I thought you were dead!" John screamed back, "but we aren't talking about that now Sherlock. We're talking about what happened to you. " He wasn't going to let Sherlock slither out of this conversation by twisting blame.
"I think you have deduced it by now John." Robotic yet again. John had to tread carefully otherwise Sherlock would kick him back out and, John feared, would never let him see this side of himself again.
"I want to hear you say it. I want to know for sure"
"They knew you were protected so they couldn't threaten me with you again. They knew they couldn't outsmart me so," he faltered yet again. By now, sobs were wracking his body. Turning his back away from his flat mate again, Sherlock did the unexpected.
"Hold me, John,"
And John did just that. He approached hesitantly before curling his small arms around the waist of his companion. He gently turned Sherlock around so they could hug properly. The taller man towered over John yet somehow the hug worked. Somehow they fit perfectly and somehow John managed to sneak through Sherlock's walls just enough to hear the truth.
"They knew they couldn't outsmart me so-" he clung to John and curled his face against John's neck, fanning his breathe over the other's skin as he did, "so they resorted to torture."

John had not foreseen these facts.
Sherlock has not foreseen these emotions.
The two men held each other: they comforted each other, they whispered encouragement in the others ear, they laughed and cried and sometimes even insulted, all the while holding onto each other.
"Thank you,"
"For What?"
"For making me be able to-" Sherlock paused, "for making me be able to hold you. There was a time where any human emotion repulsed me. It still does a lot of the time. But with you... with you it feels okay. Everything feels okay. Maybe... maybe it will all be alright in the end,"
"I think so too,"
"Thank you,"
"Your welcome."