Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Timeset and spoilers: Post-Reichenbach, post-hiatus
Warnings: Spoilers, mentions of drugs, swearing, angst, some violence

In my dream I was drowning my sorrows
But my sorrows, they learned to swim
Surrounding me, going down on me
Spilling over the brim
Waves of regret and waves of joy
I reached out for the one I tried to destroy.

(U2, The end of the World)

Swarming

It´s a code, a matter of life and death. It must be for its frantic rhythm, a drumming symphony to the theme of pain, a pain clawing at his chest, receding and swelling in a steady pattern. He chokes for air but gets none. Only the beating persists. Strange how unaffected his mind still is, conjuring up images of London, of John, of bees in an orchard, an old, friendly gentleman explaining to him why they dance.

The warmth of this cherished memory is blacked out by the unearthly cold of space, of the barren void outside the Milky Way, and finally there is nothing.

Sherlock is talking about his latest case – something about a swimmer who went after one of his fellow competitors – and John is listening, posing a question now and again, voicing his opinion when asked.

They are sitting in the lawn, next to a traditional Sussex cottage, the sea an endless field of sparkling silver, rays of sunlight pointing out the way to the otherworld. In a nearby tree, bees are humming, a swarm settling into its branches. The mass of moving insects following their queen is a reassuring sight and the humming a calm and steady accompaniment to the low rumbling of Sherlock´s voice.

Just as the detective resumes his speech after a moment of consideration, the swarm engulfs his features, swallowing him up, adding a million tiny movements to his own. John gapes, awestruck by the transformation of his friend into a mythical being formed by a million tiny bodies and strains his ears to comprehend what the bee man wants to tell him.

The deep, humming noise is asking an urgent question, and finally John finds a pattern in the sounds and himself confronted by the man´s inquiry. "How to survive the fall, John?" he demands and draws nearer, but as John swats the first bee away, the humming gets louder and angrier and a finger of the bee-human lashes out towards the doctor, nearly touching him.

With a start, John wakes. The television is still on and the first thing he hears are the words: "How he jumps." Definitely not a sentence John needs to fire his imagination with images of the day at St. Bart´s, and he grabs for the remote to end this silly display of god-knows-what-stupidity, when the camera changes its angle to a man on a rooftop who cheerfully greets a large group of bystanders.

"David Copperfield is all set for his deadly jump," the presenter announces. "How will he survive?" John is wide awake now, the taxing night shift in the hospital completely erased from his conscious mind. He watches, transfixed, as the magician jumps, as he falls, and as he finally shakes hands with the commentator, who has met him on the pavement for a statement.

"Now, please explain to our viewers how this trick works," the TV-man says, but all John hears are Sherlock´s last words: "It´s a trick, it´s a magic trick." For the life of him, John can´t tell why he is happy and sad at once, and for the first time in twenty-two months, he buries his face in his hands and cries.

In the center of Great Britain´s capital city, a bee is a rare sight. That this specific insect has chosen to land on a file about the promising economic contacts between England and Dubai is even more of a miracle. The man who was just about to reach out for this particular file has stopped in mid-movement, and ponders the worker bee, fingers steepled under his chin, thinking of his brother. The younger one has maintained a keen interest in these insects ever since their French great-grandfather took him to the hives to show him why they dance.

The man with an insignificant position in the government sighs. He is worried. In fact, he worries constantly. Not about his professional deeds or political affairs. No, he is pretty sure that everything is safe and sound there. What ails him is the only and most important factor of disturbance he has ever known: his younger brother.

Mycroft Holmes would never have thought his brother would ever be able to give him more cause to worry than he has with his bygone addiction. But the last twenty-two months have taught him a different lesson since Sherlock was forced to stage his suicide to save his friends from Moriarty´s snipers and fled the country. He has taken on a fake identity to destroy Moriarty´s financial network. He went into hiding. And, on return to London, he vanished. Mycroft has lost track of him for four months by now, and the elder Holmes finds himself beginning to wonder whether he will ever see him alive again.

His mobile beeps. Anthea. He couldn´t think of a more reliable assistant. She would not intrude if she hadn´t important news to impart. With a sigh, he picks up.

"Sir? Detective Inspector Lestrade called. He needs you – for a case of identification."

Her voice is unusually careful, as if she fears he might break into one of his very rare fits when he learns more.

"Yes, dear?" he invites.

Anthea takes a long breath. "The police has found an overdosed junkie in Hyde Park. The man had no identification on him. As he bears a striking resemblance to your brother, the Detective Inspector would appreciate if you could prove that it is not him. It´s merely a formality, he says. And he sends his apologies." She takes another breath. "Sir? It sounds ridiculous enough, but it´s standard procedure, Lestrade said."

"Very well, Anthea," Mycroft says. "Where is he now?"

He hardly listens as she tells him the name of the hospital and he is hardly aware of ordering his car to be ready within the next five minutes. His gaze trails the bee crawling down the spine of the file and flying out of the window into the February fog. Odd, anyway, a bee in winter.

He shakes himself out of his reverie and retrieves his coat from one of the wardrobes. Four months of worrying might be ended. More months of worrying might be yet to come.