The stiff leather armchair groaned under John's shifting weight, and the man thought that Mycroft had never – never – experienced an unposh thing in his life. His office was all dark wood and leather, smelling faintly of port wine and furniture wax. The combination did nothing for John's headache. The dim light from the lamp on the desk heightened the sensuality of the décor; the click of Anthea's heels moving away on the inlaid floor adding to the air of sophistication. John felt stifled, choked by the deep shadows.

Why can't Mycroft just talk on the phone like a normal person?John let his eyes slip closed. It was too much, this. The waiting game, the power play . . . We've been through this much, for God's sake . . .

A grandfather clock ticked steadily in a darkened corner as night pressed in on the windows. It had to be at least midnight. John's spine ached, his calves twitched, and a tightness gnawed the pit of his stomach.

The chaos at Bart's had exhausted him. Chasing down the gurney on quaking legs before strangers pulled him back, their cold fingers in his jacket sleeves and tugging on his shoulders, his waist; cheeks whipped by snow flurries as he tore out of their grips to open the back door by the mortuary, standing in the middle of the floor without realizing; screaming, screaming, until there was no more sound and the cement floor was freezing under his hands and the faces above him were obliterated in white noise and he couldn't remember where he was, why he was there, what had happened. He shivered, looking around at the heavy door in the hopes that Mycroft would show up and just get this all over with. Elbows on his knees, John placed his head into his palms, praying that the silence of the moment would drag on until he could fade away into sleep.

A warm hand clapped down on his shoulder and he jumped, panic flooding his throat before he caught sight of the flawlessly creased cuff. Mycroft moved to stand in front of him and held out a glass of water. The brim nearly reached John's lips before bile churned his gut; he placed it on the table beside him as Mycroft sank into the chair behind the desk, suit only slightly ruffled, eyes only the tiniest bit reddened.

When Mycroft spoke, his words were slow and soft, and he placed a quavering hand on his desk, smoothing it over the wood, as if to centre himself.

"I took the liberty of going to the mortuary on your behalf."

It all came back again in a crash. John felt hollow inside.

"You unbelievable bastard." It came in a shaky whisper, and Mycroft looked up to meet John's burning gaze. The man stood, trembling. A freezing grip wrenched at John's insides. The lamp illuminated the deep circles under his eyes and the strained, bulging veins in his wrists as he clenched his fists. John made sure to enunciate, eyes gluing Mycroft to his seat. "I was in Lestrade's office for five hours. I've been up for almost three days straight. And you bring me here, in the middle of the night after hours of . . . interrogation: to dismiss it all? To tell me that everything's done with, thank you, Doctor, we don't need you anymore?"

Mycroft cleared his throat, adjusted his tie. Business as usual. "You have been vital in this circumstance, Doctor. Your sacrifices—"

"Don't treat me like some pawn." John's jaw was set and his eyes were blazing. "You—you didn't even consider me, did you? You forgot all about me." He exhaled with a ragged breath and fisted his hands in his hair.

"How did he look, Mycroft? Was he even cold by the time you got there?"

"John, I—"

"How bad were his bruises? How many broken bones?" The scene flashed through his mind again in horrific clarity. "God . . . you knew I was there, for Christ's sake, why couldn't you—" John gulped air, quashing the waves of nausea. He wished his hands would stop shaking. "Was it Molly on call? Oh, you would, you would, you fucking—"

"John . . ." whether it was threat or emotion he detected in Mycroft's voice, he couldn't tell. John swallowed thickly, balling his fists tighter. It was an effort just to hold himself together. His head was swimming. Any second now, he would crash into a heap on the floor and never be able to get up again. Keep moving, he told himself. That's how you win the game. Keep moving, and don't say his name. You'll never win, then. He wouldn't let Mycroft bully him. Not over this.

The tightness in John's throat was unbearable, but he forced the words out. "You couldn't just give me that, could you? Not even one minute alone?" His hands fell to his sides, lips twitching in a bitter smirk. "Unbelievable."

Silence dragged out, torturous and suffocating. Mycroft stared through him, refusing to meet his eyes. His words were slow, too slow. There was too much thought behind them. "I am profoundly sorry."

How can he be so aloof? The idea of Mycroft standing placidly over that shattered body, no tears, no feeling at all, robbing John of his chance to . . .

The stomp of John's boot as he grounded his stance in front of the desk shook the room.

"No! You don't care, you never have! You only ever watched out for him because it would come back to you if you didn't. You never gave a shit, Mycroft. You couldn't be arsed to do a damn thing if there weren't something in it for you." His voice was cracking, his chest burning and his eyes watering but he didn't care. "Have you ever even hugged your brother? Made him laugh? Shook his bloody hand, for God's sake? Tell me!" he roared. John thought his skull would split open with the pressure.

"John, one thing that you should know about my life by now: our upbringing was not a sentimental one. My brother lived as selfishly as anyone ever could have. I looked after him because he never would have bothered to do so. And if you are willing—"

Uneasy laughter filled the room. "Sentiment? Sentiment? Are you out of your head? No, Mycroft. This isn't diplomacy, all right? This isn't . . . Jesus, for once, I want you to be straight with me."

"I'm afraid I don't understand." Mycroft looked up at him, his lips pressed together in a tight line. Fear flooded him for a fraction of a second as the doctor growled deep in his throat and threw his hands into the air.

"I saw you not ten hours ago and you couldn't muster up a proper crocodile tear then, either. Can you even grasp what you've done? Do you even feel a damn thing right now?" He was shouting. A gust of wind rattled the windows.

John thought he saw a tic in Mycroft's cheek. "Doctor Watson, compose yourself. You are a soldier. Act like it."

I will kill him. I will strangle him in his chair and that will be the end of it. John quickly banished the thought from his mind. Don't do anything rash. You need him. You need this.

"I'm not your soldier."

Mycroft's gaze didn't waver. "The reason I brought you here, was to say that anything I can do for you, it will be done without hesitation."

John stepped back. "I already told you, no. What, you think you're going to buy me? You've never done anything for anyone before, why me?"

Mycroft's sigh was tired. "When I first met you and deemed you a suitable companion for my brother, I intended to watch over both of you. And that is not a decision that I am going to withdraw. I understand that this is a poor form of apology, but I hope that you'll accept it." His words were clipped, breath ragged through his nostrils.

John fought against the heat brimming behind his eyes by digging his nails into his palms. You know what comes next. There's no avoiding it. Just say it. His mouth was dry, and the word came out more of a rasp than a question. "Cremation?"

Mycroft's breath hitched in his throat. "Yes."

There was a flash of dull metal, a trickle of blood running down the side of John's neck, and he was leaning over the desk again, a renewed resolution shining in his eyes. Mycroft swallowed thickly, refusing to break their stare.

"You want to help me, Mycroft? You make sure I'm reenlisted as soon as possible. You're going to drop me back in Kabul."

Mycroft shook his head, a faint smile pulling on his lips. "Do you have any idea just how much bribery and fake paperwork that would take? It's out of the question."

"You think I care? I'm done with you playing me, Mycroft. It's my turn. You said you'd do anything for me that I asked. This is it. You've got until July. And Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade – none of them are to know about it."

The smile disappeared, and Mycroft fixed John with a look he'd never seen before. He couldn't read it. It was infuriating. "You are asking me to erase you from the face of the earth. Have you thought about this at all?"

"Are we clear, Mycroft?"

"Oh, of course you've thought about it, haven't you? This has been in the back of your head for a while. Your mind's been made up for a long time."

John's fists on his lapels were dusty, his knuckles and palms calloused. His fingers left streaks of sweat on the silk, tiny dots of blood from whatever he was holding sitting hot on Mycroft's neck.

"Are we clear?"

Mycroft let out a shaky exhale. Their shared stare was electric. "Certainly."

John unfurled his fist and tossed the object onto the desk. It skidded across the surface and pooled in Mycroft's lap: a beaded chain with two ID discs. John wrapped his coat over his shoulders.

"Cremation's tomorrow, yeah? Melt those down, while you're at it." The groan of the door was deep, John's footsteps in the hall heavy and a little too fast. Mycroft sighed into the weighty solitude of the room.

He detached one of the discs from the chain and placed it in his desk drawer, and coiled the chain into his pocket beside his pocket-watch. The phone in his hand was cool against the flush of his cheek. The line on the other end didn't even ring before it connected.

"Trouble already, brother?"There was high wind in the background. Good. They'd made it safely.

"The plan's been compromised, I'm afraid."

"I need time, Mycroft. This is going to take planning."

"And you'll need my help, of course."

Silence. Despite the pounding in his chest, Mycroft smiled.

" . . . How long?"

"You have six months."

"How is—"

"I have eyes everywhere. If anything happens with John, we'll know."

"I'll be in touch, but I can't promise any regularity. And Mycroft . . ."

"Yes, Sherlock. Anthea is bringing him home now."

". . . Thank you."

The line cut out abruptly. Mycroft put down the phone and fingered the unfamiliar bulge in his pocket. Miss Hooper would cry, most surely, when he presented her with the chain. He would have to arrange a light week of work for her as recompense. He clicked the lamp off with trembling fingers, breathing in composure from the heavy shroud of the night.

Tomorrow. The tragedy could wait until tomorrow.