Title: A Matter of Professional Integrity
Author: sorion_writes on DW; sorion on LJ
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Gen, Friendship
Warning: POST-REICHENBACH; SPOILERS
Word count: ~22,000 in total
Rating: PG (this chapter), M later
Note: Based on a quote from Guy Ritchie's first Sherlock Holmes film.
I wrote this first part last Thursday in preparation for The Fall, and all I had to do was add the details. (First posted on the 15th on DW/LJ/AO3.)

A Matter of Professional Integrity

John strides along the long corridor, purposefully, his steps echoing off the walls. With every step, he becomes surer of himself. After all, if Mycroft hadn't been in this office where John expected him to be, John would have been stopped at the front door at the latest (quite possibly the moment he had left his flat, because the Holmeses had the tendency to foresee his steps before he took them).

So, Mycroft knows that John is on his way, he must have… some idea what John would want from him. And, again, John is sure that he would have been stopped by now, if Mycroft a) didn't want to face the upcoming demands or b) the demands were unfounded.

Another step; more certainty. John's jaw sets. Another corner. More steps.

When John approaches the secretary's desk in front of Mycroft's office, she merely looks up and nods towards the door.

"You are being expected, Doctor Watson."

John nods. "I am aware of that." He doesn't stop, even though Mycroft's assistants are all ridiculously attractive. He doesn't let himself hesitate before he opens the door, either, just pushes through it.

He takes three more steps and waits facing Mycroft who is sitting behind his desk until can hear the door fall closed behind himself.

"John," Mycroft greets him sombrely, but strangely warmly (for Mycroft).

"Is he safe?" is all John asks.

Mycroft blinks. "Beg your pardon?"

"Let's…" John shakes his head, smiling bitterly, "… not do this." He fixes his eyes on Mycroft's, not backing down.

Mycroft studies him in return, not exactly appearing uncomfortable, but not sure how to reply, either.

John refuses to look away, but he licks his lips and takes a deep breath. "Once I was over the shock, and the…" he clears his throat, "… the grief-stricken stupor lessened, I realised a few things. And while my mind might not be a palace, I did pick up a few memory tricks." He stops. Swallows. "And I got banged up, didn't I? Can hardly remember a thing. Except for the blood and the unseeing…" he chokes, "… eyes. He knew he would fall, didn't he? The bloody ball! Always playing with the bloody ball! And he…" The words are gone, again. "He sent me away because he knew! Mycroft! He sent me back. Home."

Mycroft sighs. "John. You don't…"

"Yes! I bloody well do, Mycroft Holmes! Because, just like him, you knew! You're a bloody Holmes. You knew. Don't try to tell me you didn't!"

Mycroft averts his eyes and signs John to continue.

"And if Sherlock knew he had to fall…" His face twists into a painful smile. "And, of course, Molly. Must not forget dear Molly. His… insider in the morgue. Keep your eyes on me, he said. Please, can you do this for me, he said." He shakes his head. "Sherlock was brought in so fast. So, so fast." He takes a deep breath. "But you know what, Mycroft Holmes?"

Mycroft obliges him. "What?

"I'm a doctor. I can tell if a man's dead or not," he concludes, firmly, daring Mycroft to deny it, praying with every fibre of his being that he won't.

Mycroft smiles a tiny, sad smile. He takes out his mobile phone, types a short message, sends it and lays the device on the desk. "He is… as safe as he can be, at the moment."

John can feel a huge wave of relief rush through his system like a cool tide, engulfing him, nearly drowning him, and yet it is the first time in two weeks he can truly breathe. Equally, Mycroft's voice sounds as if it's coming through metres of water.

"Please, have a seat."

This time, John doesn't protest. He merely lets himself fall into the (ridiculously comfortable) chair and rubs his face with a shaking hand. It comes away wet.

Mycroft folds his hands on the desk and looks like he is John's brother as well. "It was for his safety as well as yours. I apologise."

John nods, then shakes his head, then nods again, choking back a sob. "Yes, no. I know." He takes a shuddering breath. "I know."

Mycroft waits patiently.

"I want to help," John forces out between harsh breaths.

Now Mycroft looks uncomfortable. "At this point in time, it would be extremely dangerous if anyone were to realise that... things are as they are."

John bites his lips and rubs at his eyes that refuse to stop spilling tears. "Later, then."

Mycroft hesitates for only a short moment, then nods. "There certainly will be a time for that, John."

A more than slightly hysterical laugh escapes John's throat. He feels like this would be a good time to simply pass out. The carpet looks as comfortable as the chairs...
Instead, he just looks at Mycroft, fully aware that he returns the honest and soft smile with quite a wobbly one of himself.

When Mycroft's phone buzzes on the desk, Mycroft pulls it closer to read the message, huffs a tiny laugh and then turns it to push it towards John.

John's heart beats in his throat when he reaches for it. There is no question who the message is from.

Sentiment. Such a terrible weakness. But this moment... this moment is worth every weakness. John would suffer everything life can throw at him, if in return he can feel the rush of love in this very moment when he can see Mycroft's message and the answer he received.

He knows.
- M

Told you so.

The End?