John went almost immediately after that, ordering Sherlock to remain at the flat, keep his mobile on, and keep his gun handy. He used the tone of voice he rarely had to employ, the one that told Sherlock he would accept no arguments. John could tell Sherlock was considering pressing the point, but a hard look from the doctor silenced him, resulting only in a curt nod. John took his Browning, pulling it out as soon as the cab dropped him at one of Mycroft's preferred meeting places. Mycroft was waiting for him, having received an angry call from John, and the older Holmes look weary and resigned.

"No Sherlock," Mycroft noted. "I'm surprised, to be honest."

"I ought to shoot you," John said, his voice tight. "And I'm not sure I could have stopped him from doing it. More trouble than it's worth for either of us, although it really doesn't feel that way right now."

"To be sure," Mycroft said. His calm tone raised John's hackles.

"Five people, Mycroft!" he shouted, aiming the gun without really thinking about it. He kept it steady, finger off the trigger, but ready. "A seven-year-old girl!"

He clung hard to that anger, keeping it at the forefront of his mind, so it was what Mycroft would read in his face and eyes, and not the more recent memory.

Sherlock had burned the postcard Sam had sent before John could stop him, over the kitchen sink.

"Better there be no evidence," he had said. "He's safer that way. I can't trust what Mycroft would do with this information."

It wasn't so much the act, which in and of itself had shocked John, but the expression on Sherlock's face as he did so.

Anguish.

Betrayal.

"You're turning me into a normal person. I have a husband and friends."

Friends he now felt could not be kept safe knowing him. John felt as if all the progress he'd seen Sherlock make in the time he'd known him had been stripped down in that moment, burnt along with the postcard.

When the ashes had settled, Sherlock had leaned over the sink, gripping the counter so hard his knuckles had turned white. John had held his hair out of his face but Sherlock did nothing more than breath hard through gritted teeth, the muscles in his jaw clenching.

"This may surprise you, John, but I do not make all of the decisions," Mycroft said, his voice tired.

"Shooting a seven-year-old is not a decision," John replied, a hard edge to his words. Mycroft regarded him for a long moment, tapping his umbrella absently, unthinkingly, against the hard concrete floor.

"I don't approve of the methods, either," he said. "This has nothing to do with you or Sherlock."

"You had your hit woman threaten Tricia. She. Is. Our. Friend."

"And she was not my hit woman. If she were mine, Sherlock would have found her when he checked the records of those who report to me. Yes, I do know about that – he is my brother, after all," Mycroft replied. The gun didn't waver, and nor did John. He did not believe that, not a whit. "I do have to report to people higher up than me. They do make decisions that I must implement, even if I don't agree with them. And, strange as it may seem to you, my brother's safety is not my sole responsibility. There are choices that must be made for the good of England, John. That is my responsibility."

"There is no good that can come from murdering two children," John hissed.

"Yes, tell that to your generals, won't you?" Mycroft said and John suppressed an internal wince. "Do you think that we protect ourselves simply by being in countries that are unstable and trying to stabilize them? It's working magnificently, isn't it? There are dangers here on par with what you faced. Perhaps worse. These are the choices I need to make every day. I don't excuse it, John. But nor will I change it. Sometimes, the ends do justify the means."

"Nothing justifies this," John said, encompassing the five people the woman had killed, Tricia being held at gunpoint, and Sherlock destroying the card Sam had sent, the only communication they'd had from him since Veronique had appeared then disappeared again in early December.

Somewhere, five families would never see their loved ones again. Moriarty had arranged similar matters a year ago with the crash. It made John feel nauseous.

"I hope you enjoy reaping what you've sown, then," John said tightly, lowering the gun. Mycroft truly didn't seem concerned about having had the weapon aimed at him, which was infuriating. "I can't stop you from keeping tabs on us, but I can stop you seeing us. This isn't sibling rivalry, Mycroft. You've no idea what you've done."

"I've done my job, John."

"Maybe you should have thought about your priorities before doing so," John replied. "Whatever it is that you think you're doing to keep England safe, I sincerely hope it was worth losing your brother. If I ever see you near our flat, I will shoot you. And I'll enjoy it."

He put the gun's safety back on and slipped it back into his belt against the small of his back. John turned and walked out, leaving Mycroft behind him, without a backward glance.

(End)

A/N: Oh, my, that ended much darker than I was expecting!

I miss Sam. Should he come back for a visit?