The Doctor And The Detective (Johnlock)

Six

Sherlock ignored his phone buzzing once again. He was lying sprawled in the back of his brother's car, his head resting on Mycroft's lap. "When're we gonna be there?" He moaned for the fifth time that hour. Mycroft stroked his brother's black curls, a slight smile showing on his face. 

"Patience, brother dear. We're close." 

Sherlock sighed. His phone buzzed again. "Alright, alright!" Sherlock exclaimed, taking it out. Four missed calls and a bunch of texts from 'Mini Blogger Man'. 

John. 

Sherlock sat up, almost falling off the seat as the car bumped over a pothole in the road. He swung his legs down to sit properly. Mycroft watched him silently. "John?" He asked after a bit. Sherlock groaned, nodding, and put his head in his hands.

"He was crying when I left." Sherlock looked up. "I guess it doesn't matter." He tried to smile, failing. The corners of Mycroft's mouth twitched upwards slightly. 

"You care about him, don't you?" he asked quietly. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"Pfffft, no! Me, care? About John? Ha! You gotta be kidding me, brother! Ha! Ha...." He trailed off, letting his shoulders slump. "Is it a bad thing that I do?"

Mycroft was silent. Sherlock looked up frantically. "Does it matter that much?" He was shocked to see tears running down Mycroft's cheeks, and automatically reached out to wipe them away. He'd never seen Mycroft cry before, never. Not even as children. Mycroft took a deep breath. 

"Sometimes it's a bad thing to care. Because you're always going to lose them. Whether it's by break-up or them moving away, or by death, there'll always be something to tear you apart. When you're choosing whether to care, just remember that there's no 'happily ever after' in real life. I had to learn that the hard way, and I don't want you to go through the same thing I did."

Sherlock didn't know what he was most shocked about, seeing his brother cry for the first time or learning that Mycroft had given his heart out to someone before and got it back cracked and broken. Sherlock dropped his hand from his brother's cheek and leaned back into the seat, closing his eyes.  The car was silent, save from the gentle purr of the engine and the buzz of the wheels on the road. It slowed and turned into a gravel driveway. "Where are we, anyway?" Sherlock asked.

"Somewhere." Mycroft replied. The car halted outside a large wooden house that loomed above them, casting its shadow over the trees decking the outsides of the overgrown lawn. Mycroft opened his door and got out, Sherlock following a second later. Mycroft patted his back. "Bring John here if you like, but you have to accept that this action might put you in danger." He hesitated for a second, then pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. Sherlock was frozen for a few seconds - Mycroft had never hugged him either - but hugged back just as tight, bending his head down into Mycroft's shoulder. "Take care," Mycroft whispered to him, then stepped back. "Everything you need - food, water, clothing, etc. - will already be in there, I made sure of that. If anything seems... 'weird', tell me right away and we'll get you out of here. The key's under the hydrangeas near the door."

Sherlock watched his brother's car motor off. He had work to do, calculations and research to fill his time. He made his way to the entrance, reaching under the blue hydrangeas and finding the key, as Mycroft said, before opening the door to the house. A ploom of dust rose from where his foot met the wooden floor, and Sherlock sneezed. The house was gloomy and silent, and Sherlock fumbled around the room looking for a light switch. He found it and clicked it on, squinting as the lights came on at full brightness and fumbling to turn them down. He surveyed the room.

He climbed the stairs, the dust tickling his nose and making him sneeze more than a few times, and emerged in a long corridor punctuated by the occasional door. Opening the first one, Sherlock found a surprisingly clean bedroom, the bed made with a white quilt. He fingered the edge of the quilt, where the words 'no place like home' were embroidered in deep blue thread. The cupboards had clothes in them, although Sherlock turned up his nose at most of the styles. A door near the dresser opened to a bathroom with a spa bath complete with a detachable shower head. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

His phone buzzed and rang again, and Sherlock pulled it from his pocket. John's number filled the screen. Sherlock paused, his finger hovering over 'answer'. On the fourth ring, he shook his head and tossed the phone onto the bedside table, taking off his scarf and coat to go exploring. The day was pleasantly warm, and Sherlock felt an unusual surge of happiness as he kicked off his shoes and stepped out of the house, wading though the long grass to the line of trees. There was a little stream running behind them, and Sherlock kicked his feet in the cold water, forgetting about John.