| "You shouldn't
always believe the evidence of your own eyes, John,"
Mycroft tells him in the quiet of the club's private
lounge, and John stares at him. "My brother is not a
liar, he's not a fraud and he's no magician but he is
adept in the art of illusion." Is. Present tense. "He's alive?" The words are expelled from John's mouth on a breath before his throat closes up. Mycroft looks at him steadily for a long, long minute, the longest of John's life then sits back and crosses his legs. "Of course he is. Didn't you once say that he would out-live God just to have the last word? He's alive but as far as the public is concerned he needs to remain dead for some time to come. For anyone to know is dangerous, for them and particularly for him." John blinks tears of relief, of happiness, from his eyes. "So why are you telling me?" He doesn't for a moment think it has anything to do with compassion. "He saw you, unfortunately, crying in front of his grave stone and only my hand clamped over his mouth and a threat to kill him myself stopped him from calling out to you. But he pleaded with me and my brother doesn't plead with anyone for anything. His life is in danger and despite all the trouble we went to to save yours, he chose this and put you in danger again." John could barely hear over the rushing of blood in his ears. He doesn't care about what danger he may or may not be in. He just cares about his best friend not being dead. "Please... can I see him?" Mycroft sighs. "If I take you to him, John, there is no going back. You're with him then for the duration, to death do you part - so to speak - yours or those of the men sent to kill you. You'll need to lie low together, to accept the things that we have to do to make it safe for you both to return to life." "I don't care." "You'll be giving up everything, at least for a little while, as he has." "I don't care." John shakes his head. "I've nothing to give up. He was - is - everything I have, everything I need." His heart's beating so fast. All he cares about is seeing Sherlock again because he doesn't believe, still doesn't believe that the man he's been mourning isn't lost to him. "Please, Mycroft." With a slight rise of his eyebrows and roll of his eyes, Mycroft gracefully gets to his feet and opens a door disguised dramatically as a bookcase. With a wave of his hand he invites John through, along a short, well-lit passage which ends up in an underground garage where a black car awaits. The back door is opened by a waiting man in an expensive suit, and Mycroft gives him a little wave as he gets inside and the door is closed. "John?" It's worth the risk, the danger, whatever is coming next, to hug his best friend and be hugged back, to put his arms around Sherlock's neck and feel Sherlock's hands on his back, his warm breath on his throat, tears on his neck. "I'm sorry." "Don't... apologise," his breath hitches, voice catches, "don't ever apologise for risking your own life to save mine." "Lestrade found my phone." "Yeah." He lifts his head just enough to see Sherlock's face, to look into his eyes and reassure himself once and for all that he's alive. "He's treating your death as murder, holding Moriarty responsible. Eventually the newspapers will clear your name but he's looking for the three assassins. The same three Mycroft's after I suppose." "Telling him would put his life in the same danger I've put yours in and Mycroft can't protect everyone." He looks too pale, too thin, too tired. "Knowing you're alive, being at your side, is worth the risk." The car engine starts and quietly, efficiently, they pull away, out of the garage. John and Sherlock reluctantly part, settling into their own seats and buckling up. Sherlock puts his hand on John's knee, which makes John smile, and he pushes his fingers between Sherlock's leg and the car seat. Blacked out windows hide them from London as they pass through the centre smoothly, heading out of the city. "Where are we going?" he asks, more out of curiosity than any real need to know. He's along for the ride, wherever that takes them. "The family estate in Hampshire, for now." As far as hiding out went, that didn't sound too odious or painful. "Perhaps abroad later, depending on how Mycroft's investigations go. We'll go home eventually," Sherlock promises, and John shrugs. Home, he's surprised to discover, is right here, right now, with Sherlock alive and well at his side. It could be anywhere. Baker Street's a nice flat, but in recent weeks it's been an empty shell he's barely been able to bring himself to pass by. He folds the fingers of his other hand around Sherlock's and holds on. "Wherever this takes us," he promises in return. "I'm with you." Sherlock squeezes his leg and says, "Thank you." |