The Long Week

EPILOGUE

It's a week later when the elder Holmes finally shows up at 221B. John is cleaning mugs in the kitchen and Sherlock is changing the chords of his violin, sitting at the little dining table. The instrument remained silent all week because of his still mending shoulder and he is itching to play. He takes care of it instead. Every morning, John thanks all the deities he can think of, for another night of uninterrupted quality sleep.

The comfortable silence that had descended on the flat is interrupted by the creaking of steps and a polite knock on the door. John goes to answer and Sherlock sets the instrument down.

"Evening, Mycroft," the doctor greets him with a warm smile as he lets him in.

"And to you," Sherlock's brother replies with a slight curve of the lips as they both cross the living to the kitchen. Mycroft drops a rectangular package on the coffee table without the shorter man noticing. It's a new Belstaff coat, as promised.

"Tea?" John offers.

"No, thank you," Mycroft answers from the threshold. "I won't be staying long."

"You're not here with another case, I hope," Sherlock quickly enquires. "If another foreigner got killed, kindly ask someone else."

"Nothing of the sort," his sibling replies with his patented politician smile. "This is merely a social call." Sherlock scoffs and John feels like they're back on familiar grounds.

"I wanted to inform you Astonbury told us everything," the elder Holmes starts again. "He was stationed in Iran fifteen years ago, that's when they turned him. He's been playing double agent ever since."

"You should really vet your people more carefully," Sherlock disdainfully interjects. Mycroft ignores him and continues his report.

"He was later recruited by a new terrorist group who want to see the power of Middle-Eastern civilizations restored. With good reason, they thought bringing down the European Union was going to help them. According to Astonbury, they've been tearing it apart brick by brick for some time now. He gave us the names of his contacts abroad and MI6 are slowly tracking them down and destroying the terrorist cell."

"So, it's over?" John asks hopeful.

"Not quite, it's a really large cell. There are a lot of members in a lot of countries; it will take time," he says, somewhat ruefully. "But now, at least we know they exist and we're onto them. They won't be able to do our Nation any more harm and we've notified the other countries." He pauses then finally adds, "The French delegates are coming back next week to continue the negotiations."

"Well, that's a good thing," the doctor comments; happy to know World War III was not going to start tomorrow and he could continue to play detective with Sherlock.

"Politics," said detective abjectly says and once again all John hears is 'boring'.

"It's what makes the world go round, Sherlock," his elder sibling chastises him and somehow Watson feels like this must be a conversation the Holmes brothers have already had countless times.

"Your world, maybe," the young man scoffs. "Mine goes round because of the conservation of angular momentum. Science: you should look into it some time 'Croft. Might learn something," he adds with a smirk and a wave of his hand.

"Ah, Johann Kepler's equations." Mycroft recalls the theory easily, smirking at his little brother. "I'm well aware of it, thank you brother. Do not forget who thought it to you in the first place, Sherly," he taunts and Sherlock scowls.

John looks at the banter with a smile of his own. The interaction between the two brothers seems kinder and less tense than usual to him. He couldn't exactly say why: maybe it's something in the way Sherlock looks at the table with a ridiculously endearing childlike pout of his lips, or maybe it's the way Mycroft's voice softened over the last syllables. Either way, John gets the feeling he should give them a moment of privacy and he makes a great show of shaking the nearby empty milk bottle.

"We're out of milk," he says aloud as if it wasn't obvious enough. "I'll just go down to the shop and buy some," he adds.

There's no reply from either Holmes, not that he was expecting one. Mycroft is still looking smug and Sherlock has returned to his violin, clearly sulking.

"You'll keep an eye on him right, Mycroft?" John asks him as he moves out of the kitchen. "Make sure he doesn't kill himself or blow up the place while I'm gone?"

"Of course," the elder replies dutifully.

Sherlock gives him a smirk at that, feeling like it has been a while since he last tried to prepare Trinitrotoluene or any other kind of explosives.

The sandy-haired man has unhooked his jacket when Mycroft walks into the living. He halts his movements and turns back to him, wondering if he was leaving already.

"I just wanted to thank you John," he says simply, as if he'd guessed at the shorter man's thoughts.

"No need Mycroft, really," the doctor shrugs his jacket on.

"My brother's plan was-" he isn't completely sure how to finish that sentence, he wishes he could find something better than 'stupid' but really there was no other accurate words to describe the foolish plan.

"Yeah I know," John cuts him off understandingly. "His plans often are like that."

"Nevertheless," the man continues. "You could have been killed. It was a big risk you took, for me."

"S'alright, Mycroft," the doctor tries to downplay it again.

"I will not forget it John," Sherlock's brother says honestly. "I'm in your debt. Thank you."

"It's what friends do," Watson replies with a simple smile and he sees himself out with a goodbye wave of his hand.

Mycroft stays poised looking at the spot where the shorter man had been. Friends. It's such a foreign concept; it takes the breath out of him. He doesn't have many of those; he doesn't have any actually. Employees, colleagues, people he can manipulate at will to do his beadings whether they're aware of it or not; preferably if they're not aware of it. All are merely little pawns in that grand scheme of his. But friends, no, he never really had one of those. But now, apparently he does and the thought is oddly comforting, he finds. Now he truly understands what his brother sees in his flatmate.

He tries to collect himself and knows there's one more set of thank you that is due. He lets a small sigh pass his lips: this is going to be another awkward conversation for him. Emotions are not his forte. He has been playing the iceman for so long; it's hard to revert to the person he was before. He turns back to the kitchen and notes Sherlock's also in the living room now. The younger man is leaning against the wall, near the threshold, looking pointedly at the floor. Ah, Mycroft understands, he also knows why I'm here.

"I believe I owe you a thank you as well, Sherlock," the elder says immediately. He wasn't one to beat around the bush. He saw the situation as a plaster that needed to be removed. There was no point tucking around the edges for hours, might as well get it done in one go.

His brother hums distractedly in response, keeping his eyes on the floor as if he'd just discovered some intriguing pattern he'd never noticed before.

"Sherlock," Mycroft repeats the name, but his tone is totally different. It's the I'm-being-honest-this-is-important tone and his brother looks up at that. Their eyes automatically seek each other out and they lock gaze. Both pairs of blues are unusually open and for the first time in a long time there's love shining in them. It was an emotion both thought they'd destroyed ages ago but apparently it wasn't completely gone; it had just fallen at the bottom of a very deep well and now it was slowly clawing its way back up. How strange.

Suddenly Mycroft is at a loss for what to say; he is also afraid to break the moment. He feels like he's walking on a very fine line and any wrong move could send him spiralling down. And he knows the fall would hurt the both of them.

"Thank you for the nougat," he says in the end, honestly, his voice thick with repressed emotions. The words mean a lot more of course, but it's the best he can do. Sherlock smiles at that: a warm smile his brother hasn't seen in a long time and Mycroft knows he's done the right thing and he gives him a small but sincere smile of his own.

"I'm always happy to help with the diet," the youngest replies at lengths and there's once again more to read in his words than what's been said. His brother chuckles lightly at that, his smile widening.

He should go now, he knows. But somehow he cannot bring himself to say 'goodbye'. Not when they've come so far and he feels like for the first time they have a chance: a chance to be brothers again; a chance to be friends. The thought is overwhelming and a little too much for him and he clears his throat awkwardly; feeling more vulnerable than he has in years. He acts on impulse and quickly turns to leave. He opens the door without a word and walks outside.

Sherlock almost stops him, almost. He takes two steps forward and reaches out his hand, but he remains silent in the end and the door closes after his brother. He'd had no idea what to say. What a strange concept for him. He always knew, was always ahead of everyone else. Sentiments: the only area where he was well and truly lacking and so much behind the rest of the world. What would normal people do? he had wondered. What would John have done?

'Do you want some tea?' he was going to ask, his mouth opening to form the words. But then an echo of a former conversation had interrupted his thoughts - 'Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us? Caring is not an advantage' - and the words had died on his lips and he had let his brother walk out on him. The flat feels empty and cold to him now and he lets out a long painful sigh as he lowers his still outstretched hand.

Behind the closed door, Mycroft is still standing on the first step. He hasn't moved: he can't. He is lost in a memory; a long forgotten memory. The first time he'd seen Sherlock, when his mother had come back from the hospital. The little baby was in his crib and Mycroft peered atop of it to gaze inside, unsure of what he'd find. His eyes had settled on a chubby form: a very pink little boy with a tuft of black hair and bright blue eyes. 'Hello,' he'd said bending down to poke at him with curiosity. Sherlock had made a strange gurgling sound and reached for the offending index. He'd grabbed it tightly, his so little hand curling around his brother's finger and not letting go. Mycroft hadn't moved. He'd let the boy hold on to him until he fell asleep an hour later. Even then, neither had let go.

Mycroft turns back on his heels; the same irrational impulse that forced him out of the room, now pulling him back in. As he re-enters the flat, he sees Sherlock is now standing in the middle of the living room, facing the entrance. He quickly takes the four steps that separate them and he has his arms around his brother's neck before either of them as the time to really think about what is going on. He holds on tightly, and for once he stops thinking entirely.

He stops asking himself what he should or shouldn't do; what is appropriate and what isn't. He banishes all thoughts from his mind and he simply appreciates the moment. He lets himself bask in the warmth of his sibling and holds on strongly, and love is clawing its way up faster. That long forgotten sentiment is finally allowed to see the light of day and it explodes in Mycroft's chest and it feels so good he could cry. Sherlock returns the embrace hesitantly after awhile, his right arm moves to his brother's lower back: it's the best he can do with his still throbbing wound. His left grabs tightly around Mycroft's shoulders and he holds on too, with all the strength he has. He lets his head rest on his brother's shoulder and he too marvels at the foreign sensations of warmth and security.

Mycroft pulls back after a moment and collects himself. Sherlock doesn't know how long the embrace - or was it a hug? - lasted. His mind draws a blank; apparently all of him had been too engrossed in enjoying the moment to keep track of time. All this display of emotions, it's very un-like him and the thought is puzzling. He opens his eyes - when had he closed them? - and stares at his brother, noting he is hastily brushing at one of his moist cheek. They lock gaze again and Mycroft smiles fondly, in that big brotherly way of his: like he used to when they were little. He then gives him the briefest of nod and walks out of the flat, closing the door behind him with less haze than the first time. They don't say 'thank you' or 'I love you': they don't need to, they already know.

Sherlock walks back to the window, stops along the way to look at the smiley face made out of yellow paint that adorns the wallpaper. He smiles right back.

THE END

And here we are my lovelies...

This was my biggest story to date. I've always enjoyed writing shorter pieces - like vignettes and coda - but this time, I've truly outdone myself. This was a labour of love and I hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

I just wanted to take the opportunity to thank you all for following this story. Thank you for the kind reviews, words of praise, favourites and alerts.

Also HUGE thank you to my lovely beta: Kate, who did a wonderful job at correcting my French-influenced grammar and sometimes ludicrous spelling.

Be on the lookout for my next fic: "Behind Closed Doors". A new, darker BBC: Sherlock long-story coming very soon...

Love you all!
-K.

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