Hello everyone I know that it has been a long time since I've updated this fic. Sorry, I'm so sorry, I know I'm just terrible. I just had a real difficult time trying to get Sherlock and his language right. Not to mention I went through the whole struggle of how much I should give away about the plot so early in the fic. Couldn't have the whole plot unraveling so quickly. Then I got distracted by my other fic's, next thing I know its Christmas I had to go home, and then managed to get a cold from one of my grubby cousins.

But yes here is the next part, and I hope that I haven't lost too many readers with my negligence. Hope you all enjoy!

Beta read by the lovely Kuro Maru!

Chapter 2: Mr. Holmes

John gasped awake, his breathing came out ragged and short, almost painful to the point that he couldn't breathe. He tried to calm himself down, shutting his eyes and hunching over in an attempt to calm his breathing. He slowly counted backwards from 10 to1, until his heart-rate slowed down and he could think normally. He realized almost instantly then that he wasn't in his own bed; his bed was a single while this was definitely a king. In fact he wasn't even in his own room.

The walls were stark white in colour, with lush red drapes that hug off the bed post canopy. While in his own bedroom he had a thick soft blanket that was plain powder blue, this bed had red satin sheets, to match the drapes, that felt strangely comfortable. Next to the bed was a small antique table where his phone, wallet and keys were. Quickly he scrambled towards it and picked his phone up, lifting it to check the time; 6 a.m., still early. Somehow having a possession that was his made him feel better, but he still needed to know where he was.

His head hurt; there was a pressure at the back of his eyes, all the signs telling him that he was going to have a killer migraine soon.

With some effort he got out of bed; a burning pain shot down his leg and he almost fell down, but caught himself by the dresser. He looked down on himself only to realize then that he was standing there in nothing but his red briefs. Where the hell were his clothes?! He looked around the room and found nothing. In fact except for the bed and the dresser the whole room was empty.

Just then the door opened up, and John jumped, grabbing the sheets off his bed to cover himself with. When he looked back up he saw a tall older man with dark brown hair that was effectively styled and slicked with a side parting. He was average looking with a distinguishing nose and rounded chin; but what surprised John most was how dark blue his eyes were, almost black.

The man simply gave him a disinterested look. "Good to see you awake Dr. Watson," the stranger simply said, his accent highly upper class. "We had been quite worried at for a while."

"Er… where…"

"You're in my home currently, I'm Mycroft Holmes," he said with a flourish before tipping his head forward in a slight bow.

"Mr. Holmes," he greeted, before shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I don't really… how did I get here?"

"My brother found you, it seems you were mugged and got hit pretty bad, but he got to you before they could actually do anything and scared them away. Then he brought you here."

"Oh," he said, running his hand through his short blonde hair, trying to think back to last night. John couldn't remember getting attacked, but with how worn his body felt, muscles aching with strain, as if he had run a marathon… it could be possible. He winced when he felt another painful throb going through the side of his skull.

Mycroft gave a slight frown. "Headache?"

"Yes."

"Then come, some food and an aspirin will make you feel better," he said and was about to turn around but stopped. "Although you will need something to wear, your clothes got dirty and we had to wash them," he finished and left the room.

Well that answered the question of where his clothes had disappeared too. The brunette soon came back with a fluffy white bathrobe and handed it to him. John quickly took it off him and after making sure that the man wasn't looking he dropped the sheets and put the robe on. The blonde made sure that the robe was secure before they both left the bedroom and went down hallway, which was lined with doors, towards the living room.

The room was big and a mix of modern and antique furniture. A large black couch dominated the front room, with a smaller more ornate brown patterned Victorian armchair next to it. The walls were a light beige green in colour with a white trim and wide windows that overlooked a small garden, underneath it a potted plant. There was a faded old globe in the corner of the room, next to a large bookshelf that dominated the whole wall. A Persian rug covered the wooden floor. John also saw right at the end of the room two large glass doors that probably led out to the balcony, and a well-stocked drinks cabinet. No TV, he noticed.

Actually looking around there weren't any personal items at all, even if the room was filled it didn't feel very intimate. Rather more like a showroom, as if everything was meticulously staged. It didn't feel lived in at all, but homely at the same time; John didn't know how that could even be managed.

"Please follow me Dr. Watson, the dining area is here. My attendant already has breakfast ready for you."

John didn't really know what to say to that; he followed the older man through a side door towards what he guessed was the kitchen. The room was empty, but on a plate was a full English breakfast: eggs sunny-side up, bacon, sausages, hash brown, with a side of fried tomato and baked beans, just waiting for him on the breakfast isle. A glass of water and an aspirin right next to the food. His mouth was watering. But he stopped himself from simply tackling the food and looked around the stylish kitchen, although someone had just cooked breakfast it didn't look like anyone had actually made the food here. Just the like the living room this area was clean and stylish with all modern conveniences, yet had this rustic feel to it.

Carved wooden panels, a supersize stainless steel fridge, a set of three hanging spotlights that hung from the middle of the ceiling, and were bright enough to illuminate the whole room. John looked towards Mycroft only just noticing how uncomfortable the man looked. He didn't look at all the type who would ever be seen in a kitchen but it was obvious that the man wanted to keep an eye on him. Maybe to make sure that he didn't collapse again.

"You can start now Dr. Watson, my brother should be back soon; he said that you would like to drink some tea."

That he would. John nodded and sat down, making sure that his gown was put on securely before picking up the knife and fork. Just then there was the loud sound of the front door banging open causing the blonde to jump in his seat. A set of footsteps came towards them; the blonde turned and suddenly the kitchen door was thrown open and a tall man with a long dark coat was standing there, with a Tesco's shopping bag in hand. Mycroft stared at the other man, arching an eyebrow before sighing out in exasperation.

"Really Sherlock, there's no need to bustle around like this," the brunette said. "If you break another door I won't let you off that easily."

The dark-haired man rolled his light blue eyes before his gaze dropped towards the stunned blonde. Something seemed to switch inside of John and he gasped out in recognition.

"You're the man from the coffee shop!" he said.

It was definitely him, with the same dark almost black wavy hair that crowned his pale handsome face. A straight thin nose and high cheekbones that looked sharp enough to cut. Then there were those eyes: a startling cold blue, almost like ice, with a light hue of greed surrounding it, and strangely emotionless.

"Coffee shop, Sherlock?" Mycroft said, startling him out of his musing.

The man named Sherlock turned to him with an equally pinched look. "Is there something wrong with that, Mycroft?" the brunette gave him a hard look before turning away to leave the room, and the two, alone.

John felt awkward sitting there in a bathrobe, not knowing what to do about this new person standing before him. He watched as the other man sighed, undoing the buttons of his long coat and putting the bag down on the counter taking its contents out; a bottle of milk, sugar, and tea bags.

"Right then, where does Mycroft keep the cups…" he muttered under his breath, opening shelves and rifling through them until he found what he was looking for.

The blonde watched as Sherlock went through the kitchen as if he had never been in this room before. Throwing things open in frustration, the way his eyes lit up as he finally found something as simple as a spoon. John could see that he was struggling; when he boiled the kettle he seemed unsure how to use it. Adding too much water, and too little milk, not giving the tea bags enough time to mix in with the hot liquid. Sherlock handed one of the cups to John who reluctantly took it, taking a sip.

He winced at the bitter taste; it tasted more like water than actual tea. Sherlock took a sip of his own and his face morphed into the most disgusted visage. He looked down at his cup as if someone pissed in it and John couldn't help but chuckle.

"Let me…" he said, taking the cup off him and then he threw his and Sherlock's horrible tea down the sink, and started remaking it.

He tried not to feel too self-conscious as he felt the other man's gaze trained on his back. Instead John tried to focus on his task, working meticulously, performing a task that he had done many times before. When he was done he turned around and handed the newly made tea and handed it to him, long fingers reached out, fingers brushing against his own that nearly caused John to drop the cup. He waited expectantly as Sherlock regarded the warm liquid and took a sip, and suddenly his features seemed to relax, and John could swear that he was smiling behind his cup.

He turned away and drank his own, hoping that the other had not noticed his blush.

"So… your brother said that you saved me?" John said, trying to make conversation.

"I was just there at the right time," he replied, turning away from him.

John felt that he should say something, anything before the man left the kitchen. "Thank you!" he finally said, although it came out more like a stutter, which left him feeling terribly embarrassed.

Sherlock paused at the threshold; he turned slightly to regard the blonde. They stared at each other for a while before he turned around again.

"You should eat before it gets cold," he said and then left.

John just watched the door close behind the man, a part of him feeling completely lost.

Not wanting to delve into it any further he sat down on the stool and started eating, but he really wasn't focusing on the food. Instead he tried to think back to the night before, which was a complete blur to him. John was sure that he hadn't hit his head that bad that he managed to actually lose his memory. He tried to track back to the day; it was late, cold, he wanted some tea, then he saw the man. This Sherlock Holmes as he had now found out, then his train of thought simply stopped, and his mind was simply filled with Sherlock.

John wasn't even sure why this was, it wasn't as if he knew the enigmatic man. It was just… that there was something familiar about him, as if knew him from a long time ago; but John simply could not place him. It wasn't as if Sherlock had an average face or anything like that, because John was sure he would never forget a face like that, much less such an unusual name.

The blonde shook his head and tried finishing his cold sausages, dipping them in baked beans, when a nagging thought made him frown. He gasped, letting the fork drop down with a clatter, his messenger bag! What had happened to his bag?! He was sure it wasn't in the room he had been sleeping. John pushed the half-eaten plate away from him and went towards the door and opened it only to be met by two men glaring at each other.

They turned towards him, their faces going instantly blank of all emotions.

"Is something wrong, John?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm sorry, it's just that when you found me, did you by any chance also see a brown messenger bag?" he asked frantically.

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. "I'm sorry, I didn't."

John cursed under his breath, he couldn't believe it! Maybe if he went back to the scene he might find the bag, then again the mugger might have taken it with him. He sighed out tiredly; now he would have to get into work early and redo them, the only good thing was that none of the paperwork was of a sensitive nature, but that only gave John a slight reprieve. He looked up to meet the worried gaze of Sherlock. He really hated asking people for more help, especially these men who had already done a lot for him.

"I'm sorry, I need to get into work; is there any chance you could call a taxi for me?"

"It isn't a problem, I'll drive you," Sherlock simply answered.

"Really? Thank you but-"

"It is fine, go get dressed."

John wanted to protest, but he didn't want to waste any more time arguing, and hey he could save a few quid on a taxi. So he hurried towards his room where he found his clothes were already laid out for him, cleaned and ironed. Quickly he dressed himself, putting on his coat and pocketing his wallet, keys and phone, before meeting a bundled-up Sherlock by the front door. The man nodded at him and they stepped out of the house. It was only when they stepped out of the building that John realized what an expensive part of London they were in. Central London, Belgravia to be exact. You'd have to be a millionaire to live here.

Suddenly a sleek black car pulled up and Sherlock opened a door to let him in. John was at first confused; he thought that the other man would drive him, and not get someone else to do it. So he was surprised when the dark-haired man also got inside the car with him, but Sherlock didn't say anything but instead turned to the driver.

"17 Harley street," he told him.

John turned to him in surprise. "How did you know where I worked?" he asked.

Sherlock glanced at him. "I checked your wallet when I first brought you in, your work ID was the first thing I saw," he explained himself.

"Oh…" that made sense, but there were only so many coincidences that John could take though.

They drove in silence, with the blonde occasionally throwing the other man furtive glances. Trying to find a way to fill the silence. "So Mr. Holmes-"

He seemed to wince as if he was suddenly burned. "Please call me Sherlock, my brother is Mr. Holmes… or just fat-arse also works fine."

John couldn't help but snort at the joke, which also put the other man at ease. "Alright then Sherlock, what do you do?"

"As an occupation?"

"Of course," he replied with a nod.

"I work as a consulting detective," Sherlock answered. "It is a title I gave to myself; I work mainly with the police."

The blonde was taken aback by that answer; he had never heard of such a job before in his life. What was a consulting detective anyway? Being a doctor John met all kinds of people with different jobs, but this was the first time he had met someone who called himself a consulting detective. It reminded John of those types of jobs children made up when they played games- like space-cowboy.

But he decided to humour the man. "I didn't think the police worked with amateurs?"

Sherlock snorted. "That's because I'm not an amateur," he answered, his voice full of confidence.

The blonde couldn't help but find his attitude oddly charming and familiar; he couldn't but help but feel comfortable around the other man's presence. He snuggled into the warm leather seat and gave the raven an inquisitive smile.

"So what do you do as a consulting detective?" he asked.

"The usual stuff y'know, helping out incompetent officers do their job, solve murders and the likes with the science of deduction," he said nonchalantly.

"'Science of Deduction'?" John couldn't help but ask, he had never heard a phrase like that before.

"Yes, I deduce things through basic observation."

The smaller man arched an eyebrow as he gave the dark-haired man a disbelieving look. "Like what?"

Sherlock gave him a penetrative look, his eyes shining oddly bright with intelligence as he raked over him. "I know for one that you're a doctor, a GP to be exact-"

"Well you could have gotten that from my work ID-"

"You have been working at the clinic as soon as you got out of university, although you did attend military school when you were younger but never continued. You have an older brother that you don't keep in touch with, well he tries but you make up excuses not to meet him, probably because of his alcoholism. There's a slight limp in your walk, hardly noticeable under normal circumstances but the cold exasperates the pain, you think it's a sports injury, you used to play rugby when you were younger. I however think it's something else. Currently you're single, not because you don't want a relationship but because you feel like you can't keep them, something psychological? Nightmares maybe?"

Then he leaned close, and John thought he had stopped breathing. His smile had long left him as Sherlock summarized his short life so quickly. There was an unexplainable unease growing in the pit of his stomach, but he still didn't move or voice any sort of protest. No, it was more like he couldn't voice it.

His voice was hypnotically low, and he slowly continued. "What do you dream of, John? What has you looking so haunted and tired? Screaming into the night so much that you're left breathless?"

John wanted to protest, but for some reason it was as if his brain wasn't reacting. He was just staring back, shocked, baffled, stunned… yet not scared. Even though that should be the main emotion running through him, he should be terrified of this man who had so easily read him; as if he was an open book. But he wasn't. Especially when he saw those blue-green eyes, so intelligent and bright, yet an underlying sadness that John felt should be significant.

Suddenly Sherlock looked away and whatever spell they were under was broken, and John felt like he could breathe again.

"We are here," he said.

John looked from Sherlock to the window and saw that they had actually arrived, how long had he been sitting there staring at the other man? With shaking fingers the blonde pulled the handle to open the door and stepped out; he paused and turned back to the dark-haired man. Not really knowing what to say to the other.

"Goodbye Sherlock… and thank you again."

Sherlock didn't reply; John closed the door, and then watched the car drive away, leaving the blonde feeling as if he had just missed something vital. He tried to shake that feeling off as he walked inside the clinic, and concentrate on work instead of the mystery surrounding Sherlock Holmes.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

When he got home Sherlock knew that his brother wasn't happy, it was easy enough to tell when he saw the man sitting on the couch with his back to him. It was very subtle, no one would probably have notice unless they were, well… him. He knew Mycroft after all. Sherlock also knew of the lecture he was going to get later for this, so instead of stalling he simply went towards his appointed armchair and fell into it uncaringly. His gaze still firmly trained onto his brother who was going over some random paperwork.

Time passed until his patience finally ran out; he didn't like waiting very much.

"Well?"

"Well what?" he said, turning the page he was reading over.

Sherlock couldn't help but arch an eyebrow. "No lecture this time?"

Mycroft sighed and finally looked up to meet his brother's gaze. "Oh I have plenty to say, but I know that you won't take any of that into account. So I see no point in wasting my breath." Then he went back to his paperwork.

The raven rolled his eyes; and Mycroft always said that he had a flair for the dramatics. "It's not as if I don't listen…"

"Really…" his brother said lowly, a hit of a growl in his voice. "Then what in god's name were you doing at a bloody coffee shop?!" he turned towards him, his dark blue eyes flashing a bloody red.

"Only because your so-called 'protection' wasn't up to the job."

"It would have been if you hadn't led them straight to him," he growled lowly.

This had Sherlock silent and Mycroft took a few minutes to relish the fact that he had once again gotten the better of his little brother. Although this was no laughing matter. It was very serious. He gathered up all of his papers, needing to think about this whole situation better. With a heavy sigh he stood up and went in the direction of his office.

Sherlock gave the back of his brother an angry look; he didn't want to move past this, he had gone through this many times over and wanted it to finally end. Finish the claim before he lost John again. Quickly he stood up from his own chair and followed Mycroft inside his office, slamming the door behind him.

"I can't let him go!" he shouted at the man sitting behind his desk.

"Sherlock we discussed this…"

"No!"

His brother slammed his hands against his large mahogany desk. "You know how badly you relapse when he leaves again."

"Then you also know how much better I am when he's with me," Sherlock replied seriously.

Mycroft went silent; he slowly walked around the desk, coming to a stop in front of his younger brother. His dark blue eyes filled with sadness as he looked the pale man over. He reached a hand out and rested it on Sherlock's shoulder, ignoring the wince of the other man. Sherlock never enjoyed the touch of another person.

"Sherlock, he will die…"

The raven shook his head, not wanting to hear any more but Mycroft was not letting him go.

"You have to listen, it happens every time… you meet, you fall in love, you bond, then he dies, and you're left with nothing, once again losing yourself to those opiates, starving yourself, and the senseless violence. It doesn't stop, the cycle never ends… at least this time if you don't meet him you might actually be spared the pain for once."

Sherlock growled and smacked the hand off his shoulder. "Maybe I don't want to be spared the pain…" he growled.

"Sherlock-"

"Stop Mycroft, I kept my distance for this long simply watching him through all these years, watching him die… I can't do that again."

"You tried everything, remember? It never ended well. I simply don't understand what your need is going through this fatalistic endeavor over and over again. 400 years Sherlock, you've been through this so many times, at least your precious 'John' is left with no memory, while you can never forget what happens-"

Sherlock knew exactly where his brother was going with this, when John was gone he wasn't at his best and Mycroft was the one who had to deal with him, stop him from going over the edge. But he didn't want to hear that. "Just stop it, I make my own decisions!" he shouted and stormed out of his office.

The brunette sighed, knowing that he was fighting a losing battle. He had after all tried for over 400 years, and knew that he could never change him. So he didn't follow after his brother; instead he turned around feeling disappointed, not that Sherlock cared. He needed to figure out a few things, first of all being how to finally take care of Moriarty. The man was the main reason it always ended in tragedy. That man's infatuation with his younger brother was manic, wild, with no real reason behind the obsession.

So Mycroft went back to his desk, knowing once again he would have to keep a vigilant watch from the shadows, and hope that this time it wouldn't all end up in tears again.

That's the second chapter done! Hope you all enjoyed!

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