Means to an End (Not a Love Affair)

by Jolie_Black

based on the BBC "Sherlock" series

Summary:

Sometimes a small stone is enough to set off an avalanche. John has plans. Sherlock minds. Mycroft isn't helping- or is he? A danger night. - Set in the aftermath of "The Great Game". Rated M for a graphic depiction of drug abuse.

Author's Note:

Imagine this to take place three days after the Pool confrontation with Moriarty at the end of "The Great Game".

PLEASE NOTE: There are two versions of this story. Nine tenths of them are identical (such as the entire first half). But while this one stays firmly on the rails of canonical gen fic, the other one goes a whole step further and derails into slash (Johnlock, and not of the tender and loving sort, either). I couldn't make up my mind which version was the one that really happened, so I'm posting both. If you're not into slash and particularly not into the dysfunctional sort, PLEASE stick with this version, don't read the other, and don't think worse of me.

JOHN: Are you sure tonight's a danger night?
MYCROFT: No, but then I never am. You have to stay with him, John.
JOHN: I've got plans.
MYCROFT: No.

("A Scandal in Belgravia")

221b Baker Street. The Living room. Evening. It is dark outside, and the lights are on. Sherlock Holmes, in a white shirt and his camel-coloured dressing-gown, is sitting at his computer at the dining table. Footsteps can be heard coming up the stairs in a hurry, and John Watson strides in purposefully through the open door, his phone in his hand, comes to a halt in the middle of the room and looks around.

JOHN (without preamble): Have you seen my black bag?

SHERLOCK (looking up from the computer, distractedly):Oh, hello. How was work?

John deflates. A pained look passes across his face.

SHERLOCK: Sorry, I forgot.

JOHN: Never mind. (He does mind.) And don't you dare ask after her next.

SHERLOCK (his eyes returning to the computer, in a bored voice): No, I've just remembered that bit.

John stands still for a moment. Then he exhales sharply, braces himself and walks over to his side of the dining table.

JOHN: Sherlock, I'm going away for a bit. Have you seen my black bag? The big one?

SHERLOCK (without looking up): No.

JOHN (his attention arrested by a couple of official-looking letters lying open on the table): And what are these? (He picks them up. They are clearly bills.) Pressing cases?

SHERLOCK: Nope. They're all for you.

JOHN (annoyed): Oh, thank you. (He looks around the room again.) Anything else? Apart from the very pressing case of the overcrowded kitchen sink?

SHERLOCK (unruffled): There was a call for you on the landline. A Mr Thomas, solicitor from Carlisle. Said it was urgent.

Without looking at John, he holds out a piece of paper with a phone number scribbled onto it. Instead of taking it, John holds up his phone.

JOHN. Yeah, I know. He found me, through Harry. That's why I'm going.

SHERLOCK (looking up from the computer, surprised): Going?

JOHN: To Carlisle. I just told you I had to go away for a couple of days.

SHERLOCK: Did you? (John sighs in annoyance.) Why?

JOHN (sarcastically): Oh, why? Just some pathetic, boring, everyday little family tragedy.

Sherlock frowns.

JOHN: Just in case you really want to know, I had an aunt, my dad's unmarried half-sister, lived in a posh nursing home in the Lake District, turned eighty-four the day before yesterday, went to bed, never woke up again. Died without leaving a will, apparently, which makes me and Harry not only her next of kin but also her heirs, responsible for her funeral and everything else that comes with passing from this world into the next. Harry lives close, of course, and has been to visit once or twice, so they got in touch with her first, but she's not at her best at the moment and sounds a bit overwhelmed by it all, so I'm going up to sort things out.

SHERLOCK: What, tonight?

JOHN: Yeah, I said so. Last train to Carlisle leaves at 8:35 from Euston. I'll catch it if I run.

Sherlock looks at his watch, grimaces, pushes his chair back from the table and gets up.

SHERLOCK: You said she's dead, John. Why the hurry?

JOHN (exasperated): Because common decency requires -

Sherlock snorts. John breaks off, annoyed.

SHERLOCK (disdainfully): Common decency requires a corpse to be refrigerated after death until the lucky heirs take a long enough break from dividing the spoils to dispose of it. I'm sure that's how they do it in Carlisle, too. Why don't you just admit that you're rushing up there head over heels just to stop Harry getting her hands on that inheritance and spending it on her booze rather than on your bills?

John gasps, at a loss for words. Sherlock smirks in a humourless way and starts walking across the room towards the kitchen. John grits his teeth.

JOHN:You listen to me.

Sherlock stops dead and turns around, eyebrows raised.

JOHN (fighting hard to keep his temper in check): I got myself dumped, fired and nearly blown up all in a single week but (exploding, very loudly) I don't see how that gives you the right to be three times as obnoxious as usual!

SHERLOCK (hotly): Well, don't blame it all on me, will you?

JOHN: And which part exactly wasn't your fault?

SHERLOCK: John, sixty-eight percent of all war invalids have trouble holding down a regular job in the first year after discharge, what's it to do with me?

JOHN (almost shouting): Well, that's a comfort!

SHERLOCK (scathingly): And if you're worried about getting the bills paid, I remember my brother once offered you money to spy on me. Maybe you should get in touch and see if the offer still stands?

JOHN (after a moment's pause, deeply hurt): Sherlock, less than three days ago, we were ready to die together in a good cause. I can't believe we're quibbling over money now.

SHERLOCK (sulkily): I'm not quibbling. You are.

JOHN (flaring up again): Well, you don't even know what I'm talking about, do you? I suppose if you ever get into really dire straits you could always run back to Mycroft, but I've got nothing and no-one to fall back on, nothing at all. I think I'm entitled to worry about making ends meet, every now and again, just a little!

SHERLOCK (coldly): And while you're busy worrying, you might as well consider not making the same mistake again.

JOHN: Mistake? What mistake?

SHERLOCK (losing his patience): Well, there's a simple rule, isn't there?

JOHN (deliberately pig-headed): What rule?

SHERLOCK (loudly, as if talking to an idiot): It's called "Don't go shagging your boss, it leads to endless complications." (John opens his mouth, then closes it again.) Sally Donovan sticks to it, Anthea Portman-Jones sticks to it, how come John Watson hasn't even heard of it?

JOHN (momentarily distracted): Sorry, who?

SHERLOCK (acidly): Captain John Hamish Watson, MD, the unemployed ex-army doctor with the famously short fuse. He lives upstairs of me, maybe you'll meet him when you go up.

JOHN (too distracted to rise to the bait): Anthea - someone?

SHERLOCK:Anthea Portman-Jones. (Impatiently) Anthea? Mycroft's PA? You've met her.

JOHN (a little sheepishly): Oh. I didn't think that was her real name.

SHERLOCK (rolling his eyes): And incongruous though it may seem, Mycroft is really Mycroft, too, in case you were wondering.

There is a loud, energetic knock on the jamb of the open door. Sherlock and John simultaneously turn to see who it is. In the doorway stands Mycroft Holmes, three-piece suit, umbrella, briefcase and all, with a singularly insincere smile on his face.

MYCROFT: Good evening. I believe I heard my name mentioned?

SHERLOCK:Just in passing. Nothing personal. (He pops out the "p" aggressively.)

MYCROFT (looking quickly from Sherlock to John and back): I apologise for intruding at an inopportune moment, but you did say that 7:30 would suit you.

SHERLOCK: It suits me admirably. (He walks away towards the fireplace, inviting his brother to follow him with a rudely careless gesture of his hand.) Alright, sit down, say what you've got to say. (He flops down in his own armchair and crosses his legs.)

MYCROFT (unfazed): Thank you. (To John) Won't you join us?

John looks back and forth between Mycroft and Sherlock, somewhat overwhelmed, and doesn't answer.

SHERLOCK (studiously avoiding John's eyes): I wouldn't bother, John. He just wants to know how his precious state secret came to be fished out of the pool at the Atwill-Porter Baths by an unsuspecting janitor yesterday morning, when it was supposed to be safe here. (To Mycroft, raising his eyebrows) Am I right?

MYCROFT (pleasantly): Well, I'm listening.

JOHN (making up his mind, squaring his shoulders): And I've got a train to catch. Sorry.

Mycroft gives him a politely inquiring look.

JOHN: Urgent family matters. I'm off to Carlisle tonight.

MYCROFT: On the 8:25 from Euston?

SHERLOCK (smugly, looking pointedly up at the ceiling): 8:35 on Fridays, Mycroft.

MYCROFT (generously): Oh yes, of course.

John glances at Sherlock, but Sherlock is still not looking at him. By silent consent, the brothers are obviously both waiting for him to leave. John braces himself and stalks out of the room, leaving the door open behind him. A moment later, he can be heard going up the stairs to his bedroom. Mycroft walks over to John's armchair, sits down in it, puts his briefcase and umbrella onto the floor beside it and looks across at his brother with an expectant smile, folding his hands.

MYCROFT: As I said. I'm listening.

We cut to a view of the staircase, some fifteen minutes later. John is walking back down from his bedroom, now wearing his jacket, carrying a black sports bag in one hand and holding his phone in the other. He walks slowly, his eyes on the screen, typing on it with his thumb. Mycroft's voice floats towards him out of the living room. John looks up, distracted. The door is still open, but Sherlock and Mycroft are both outside John's field of vision. All he can see is part of the carpet and the cluttered dining table beyond.

MYCROFT (off-screen): … but should you be planning to go rogue again, I must urge you to reconsider. This whole matter is far too big to be handled by one man alone.

SHERLOCK (off-screen): I'm not alone.

John stops dead on the second last step and grimaces, clearly touched.

MYCROFT (off-screen): Well, even all the genius of Sherlock Holmes and all the bravery of Doctor Watson combined will not suffice to bring this man down, not to mention all those he controls. We've barely scratched the surface, but what we've unearthed so far is unprecedented both in scale and in quality. To reduce this to a petty feud between two clever men trying to outsmart each other for the sake of it would be a dangerous and probably fatal mistake.

Mycroft falls silent, and Sherlock doesn't reply. John realises he's been standing still far too long if he doesn't want them to notice that he's eavesdropping. He clears his throat audibly, walks down the last two steps, opens the side door into the kitchen and passes through it without any pretence at secrecy. He heaves his overnight bag up onto the kitchen table.

JOHN (ostentatiously not looking in the direction of the living-room): Just grabbing a bite and some coffee. Don't mind me.

He switches the kettle on, takes a thermos flask and a Nescafé jar from one of the overhead cupboards, then walks over to the fridge, opens it, glances at the contents, shakes his head and closes it again. Mycroft and Sherlock are still silent. When the kettle begins to boil, Sherlock finally speaks up, barely audible over the steamy hiss.

SHERLOCK: Why would you care?

John, spooning Nescafé into the thermos flask, glances at his friend, looking unhappy. Then he realises that Sherlock was talking to Mycroft.

MYCROFT: I wasn't talking about you. I was talking about this.

A rustle of paper. John gives up pretending not to be listening and straightens up, watching the two men in the living room. Mycroft is holding up a newspaper for Sherlock to see the headline. Standing behind Mycroft, John can't see what it is about.

MYCROFT: And I care because we can't afford headlines of this sort on a weekly basis, Sherlock. Neither you, nor I. You two got away by sheer goddamn luck. These twelve others were not as favoured by fortune.

Sherlock looks at the newspaper with a frown, then up at John in the kitchen beyond, his expression unreadable. The moment their eyes meet, John looks down. Mycroft drops the newspaper on the coffee table between the two armchairs, picks up his briefcase and umbrella, and stands up.

MYCROFT (to Sherlock): Think it over. (He turns towards John, politely) And you have a good journey, John. (With no hint of censure) Shouldn't you be on your way soon? Would you like me to give you a lift to the station?

JOHN: Erm, no thanks. I'll be alright, it's not far.

MYCROFT: As you wish.

He nods curtly to Sherlock and exits the room. A moment later, he can be heard going downstairs. Sherlock exhales audibly, his head tilted back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. John, in the kitchen, fills his thermos flask with boiling water, screws the lid on, puts the flask into his bag and zips it up.

JOHN: Right. Gotta go now.

Sherlock only nods.

JOHN (hesitating): Well. (He clears his throat.) I'll be back the day after tomorrow, I think. Monday at the latest.

SHERLOCK (indifferently): Fine. (He turns sideways in his chair, stretching out an arm towards the bookshelf, fingering the spines of a row of books as if he's looking for something specific.) Bye.

JOHN: Bye, then.

With an obvious effort, he turns away, picks up his bag and exits through the kitchen door.