Our Dearly Departed

Carpool Karaoke With Mycroft Holmes

    "So, are you going back to school?" John wondered. Sherlock shrugged, as if he hadn't given much thought to that.
"I'm not sure." He admitted. "I think I probably might, I want to continue on with my education while I can."
"While you can?" John asked, and Sherlock didn't say anything, didn't elaborate. So John just ignored it, deciding that he was just being dramatic.
"I think my mom will make me go tomorrow, thankfully though, it'll be a Friday." John said with a smile. "So we have the whole weekend to spend together." Sherlock agreed.
"Ya, we will. Although you should probably do something with your mom, I think she'll start crying if you don't." John pointed out. Sherlock just laughed, shaking his head and plucking a string.
"She cries at everything, she's a very emotional woman." Sherlock assured, as if that was a good enough excuse to ignore her.
"Still, have you even talked to your family?" John insisted, starting to feel a bit guilty for stealing Sherlock away from his parents.
"I never talked to them before my death, so why should I now?" Sherlock wondered, glancing at John with a look of genuine confusion.
"Well, I mean, shouldn't this be a sort of, I don't know, a clean slate? Has something inside of you suddenly started caring more about people; was your death just a wakeup call?" John wondered. Sherlock thought for a moment, but shook his head.
"I began to care more for you." He decided. John just laughed, looking down and feeling his cheeks start to get hot for some reason, even though that wasn't even a compliment.
"I've noticed." He agreed. "I mean, you were always kind of...possessive, but this is a whole new level entirely."
"Do you not like it?" Sherlock muttered hesitantly, looking at John with a sort of sad puppy dog look in his eyes. Maybe Sherlock had caught on, maybe he did it on purpose, but whenever his eyes got sad, John melted like butter, and he suddenly wanted to give Sherlock a hug and a warm blanket and make him a cup of tea. He was just so precious, and to even consider the fact that such a beautiful, fragile creature had ever gotten so sad that he thought there was no way to go on, well, that deserved another hug.
"I'm fine with it, I love it." John assured, and Sherlock smiled shyly, going back to tuning. "I just think that you should spend a little bit of time with your mother, just so that she feels better."
"Alright, maybe." Sherlock decided. "But if you want me to spend time with Mycroft I'm out." John just laughed, shaking his head.
"I wouldn't submit you to such cruel and unusual punishment." He assured, and Sherlock laughed that little laugh, just a cute little chuckle that was enough to make John smile even more. They were silent for a little while, and finally Sherlock got done tuning the violin and began to clean it, pulling a little cloth through the strings to wipe off any dirt or woodchips from the grave.
"There's a bloody worm in my violin." He muttered, plucking another small green worm off of the string and sending it flying to the other end of the room.
"Ya well, that's what'll happen when it's in a coffin." John agreed, and Sherlock just sighed in annoyance.
"Why my mother would ever put such a delicate instrument in my coffin is beyond me, i hate the idea of this beautiful wood starting to rot." Sherlock insisted.
"She was distraught Sherlock, she wasn't thinking clearly. Violins are what you enjoy, so she put one in with you, she was just trying to make you happy." John assured.
"I was dead, John, how could I enjoy playing the violin when I'm dead?" Sherlock snapped, and John took a low, deep breath, biting his lower lip and staring at the bedspread awkwardly. It was like he had almost forgotten, and coming from Sherlock's mouth, it sounded so undeniably true. This was no ordinary boy sitting on the bed beside him.
"I'm sorry; I didn't mean it to come out so harshly." Sherlock muttered, seeing John's discomfort.
"No, it's fine, it's just..." John sighed, not even knowing what to ask, there were just so many questions and he didn't have one jumping to the top of his mind. "It's fine." He said finally, and Sherlock just nodded.
"How have things been without me?" he wondered, and John just shrugged.
"Sad, but normal. School had been hellish, Anderson's a jerk, Mycroft's a jerk, Harry's a jerk, it's all the same." John shrugged.
"Did Mycroft bother you?" Sherlock muttered.
"Well, ya, kind of. At the funeral, he was saying some horrible things when I was saying goodbye." John admitted, feeling kind of childish for letting Mycroft's pathetic accusations get into his head.
"What did he say?" Sherlock wondered, and John wondered whether or not he should actually tell him. He didn't want to bring up the suicide, the causes, the breakup. He didn't want to think of that.
"Just, you know, stuff. I don't really think this is the time to get into all of that." John decided, and Sherlock hummed his agreement.
"He's taken up smoking." Sherlock pointed out. "He never used to smoke."
"I think that's his way of coping. I saw him with several bottles of alcohol as well, has he always been a drinker?" John wondered.
"He'll have a glass some of the time, but no, not really." Sherlock shrugged. "It's rather odd, to think of Mycroft being rebellious."
"It's rather odd thinking of Mycroft with feelings so horrible that he needs to dull them with alcohol and cigarettes." John agreed.
"He doesn't have feelings, he's the tin man, he doesn't have a heart." Sherlock pointed out, as if that should be obvious.
"I think that's what he wants us to think. But I think your death really affected him, in a way he didn't anticipate." John decided.
"Mycroft actually cares about me?" Sherlock muttered with a little laugh. "He really has gotten weak."
"Oh stop it, having emotions doesn't make you weak, I think it makes you powerful." John insisted.
"You have a weakness, you have leverage." Sherlock defended.
"You have a drive, something to protect." John pointed out. Sherlock just shrugged in agreement, but he still didn't sound convinced.
"Loving you was the biggest weakness I ever possessed." He muttered, and John looked at him with worry. He couldn't help but notice that Sherlock said that in the past tense, as if he didn't love him anymore.
"But you don't regret it, do you?" John muttered.
"No." Sherlock said quietly. "No, I don't." John stared at him quizzically, but obviously that was the end of their conversation because Mrs. Holmes knocked on the door, announcing that lunch was ready. Sherlock put his violin back in the case and the two of them scrambled down the stairs to where Mrs. Holmes was placing several grilled cheese sandwiches on a plate. There was a large bowl of tomato soup in the middle of the table as well, and there were four place settings.
"Is dad home?" Sherlock wondered, wondering why the extra plate, when Mycroft came down the stairs, wearing a cream colored suit even though he was only at home. Sherlock glared at him and he glared back, taking a seat and folding his napkin over his lap.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock wondered.
"I live here, brother mine." Mycroft reminded him with a smile. John just rolled his eyes, sitting down between Sherlock and Mycroft so there weren't any fights at the table. He still didn't know why Mycroft didn't move out, he was old enough and plenty rich, having a good paying job and enough three piece suits to last a life time. Maybe he just liked being home, except he always just hid up in his room all day.
"Now no quarreling you two." Mrs. Holmes insisted, coming over with the grilled cheese and pouring everyone lemonade into their empty glasses. She gave Sherlock the tallest glass and ruffled his curls as she walked by, making Sherlock groan and duck away from her hand. John just elbowed him in the side, trying to remind him that he should give her more credit. Sherlock just rolled his eyes and started ladling himself a large bowl of tomato soup, and Mycroft cut his grilled cheese into two little triangles. Lunch was silent dispute Mrs. Holmes' best attempts at starting up a conversation, but John seemed to be the only who wanted to talk and they had virtually nothing to talk about. Mycroft and Sherlock only answered in one word, so they just focused on eating and trying their best to ignore each other. When lunch was over John helped Mrs. Holmes with the dishes (Sherlock sat on the counter and ran his finger through the icing on some cake Mrs. Holmes had baked, leaving long lines traced across the top), and they talked briefly about school and sports and grades. When finally everything was washed, dried, and put away, John and Sherlock scurried back up to his bedroom and closed the door again, longing on the bed together and watching some stupid game show on TV. Of course Sherlock seemed to know all of the answers to every question, from calculous to geometry. The only things he didn't know was pop culture, TV and movie trivia facts that stumped him. John always found this funny, because whenever Sherlock didn't know the answer he would start yelling at the TV to put actual questions on the game and then sulk the rest of the show, spitting out answers like venom and then writing an angry email to the producers. This time though, there were only 'logical' questions, and Sherlock ended up yelling at the contestants for being such idiots when they didn't know the name of Jupiter's largest moon. After a while they began to get bored of the game shows and Sherlock lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and talking all about some weird scientist guy that did something or other, John was only half listening, half flipping through channels to find something intriguing on TV. He had missed days like this, days when they could just lounge around and enjoy each other's presence in silence, not doing anything but appreciate that the other one was so close, especially after such an emotional roller coaster Sherlock had put them through four days ago. Finally Mrs. Holmes knocked on their door and told John his mother had called, insisting that he come home for dinner, so he said goodbye to Sherlock rather awkwardly and slipped his shoes back on, thanking Mrs. Holmes for lunch and starting his way back home. As John walked he noticed there was a black car coming down the road, turning when he turned, following him at a safe distance as if waiting for the right time to pounce. Of course John didn't panic, he didn't think that he needed to start calling the police or tripping the amber alert, this car had followed him before, and he was still alive. John stopped on the sidewalk and let it approach, crossing his arms and frowning in annoyance as it pulled over to the curb and rolled down one of the tinted windows.
"What do you want Mycroft?" John sighed, and Mycroft's scowl deepened.
"To talk, of course." Mycroft said lightly, unlocking the doors.
"I need to go to dinner, my mother's expecting me." John insisted, not really wanting to talk with Mycroft at the moment, they were always very deep, thoughtful, and extremely humiliating conversations about John's relationship with Sherlock. John thought that Mycroft enjoyed other people's humiliation because he never censored their conversations; he never thought that maybe John was just a high school kid in his first relationship, not willing to talk about such things with some very official older brother in a three piece suit. Mycroft probably preyed off other people's inferiority, and that was why he insisted on having these talks in his car, so that he could say whatever he pleased. It was like your parents sitting you down for 'the talk' except it wasn't your parents, it was someone who scowled and sat as stiff as a board, staring down into your soul and waiting for you to crack, someone who you barely knew.
"I called your mother; she said she would expect you late." Mycroft insisted. "This is a conversation we all agree is...necessary." John sighed heavily, looking around at the manicured lawns and polished houses, hoping that one of their occupants would come out to start yelling to them, to insist that John come inside and not talk to the scary man anymore. But no one did, and John decided that it's best he just got this over with, if the whole family sent Mycroft to do the dirty work. It probably wouldn't be too bad, considering that John had gone through the worst conversations with Mycroft already, and this would focus more on Sherlock's death and resurrection. So John walked around the front of the car, pulling open the door and sinking into the leather seat, crossing his arms and waiting as Mycroft slowly rolled his window back up. There was no music on, of course, no air conditioning, no background noise. It was so quiet that John was sure Mycroft could hear his breathing rate and his heart beat, pounding a bit faster with nerves.
"So, what's so necessary that you need to talk to me about?" John wondered, tapping his fingers against the car door and glaring at Mycroft to show his disinterest. Mycroft just sighed, starting to ease the car down the road and waiting a little bit to start talking, as if wanting John to simmer in suspense for a moment before he went on.
"I wanted to talk to you about my brother." he decided, how he started most all of their conversations.
"Yes, shocker there, now, what about him?" John wondered.
"Please don't interrupt me Mr. Watson, and most certainly don't give me attitude." Mycroft snapped, and John silently mocked the way he said 'Mr. Watson'. Trying to sound so official, you lived with your mother, stop trying to act like you're the queen. Mycroft waited a moment to go on, of course, and John just leaned heavily against the door, not bothering to put on his seatbelt in the hopes that Mycroft might crash his stupid fancy car and John would get to fly out the windshield and avoid this whole conversation.
"I don't think that Sherlock is the same, after his death. I don't think he's entirely...human." Mycroft decided.
"Not human? What else could he be?" John wondered, suddenly interested in whatever Mycroft had to say.
"I assume you're aware with the concept of zombies, right? The living dead?" Mycroft asked.
"Well, ya, but Sherlock's not a zombie." John insisted quickly.
"He was dead, and now he walks, what makes him so different?" Mycroft wondered, looking over at John dramatically, his eyebrows fused together with that stupid look he wore whenever he pretended to take other people's opinions seriously.
"Well, I mean, he's not rotting, he doesn't try to eat people's brains, he's just Sherlock." John insisted, and Mycroft chuckled a little bit, as if John's obliviousness was somewhat pleasing.
"He's paler than Sherlock was, he's moodier, and, I think you can agree, a lot clingier. He yearns for you in a way I have never seen; when you're not around I would believe he had been raised as a demon. It's unhealthy, and twice as bad as it was before." Mycroft pointed out.
"Well, I mean, he was dead, we were separated, he missed me." John insisted, the only excuse he could come up with at the moment.
"There's something, off, about his brain, I think, that makes him dependent on you, like a parasite feeding off of his victim, and I think in the end he plans to drain you." Mycroft decided.
"You think he's going to kill me?" John wondered with a laugh, trying to imagine Sherlock trying.
"I think that he's not human, and he's here to avenge his death." Mycroft decided.
"I didn't kill him! He killed himself!" John defended; even know they both knew that wasn't true.
"You drove him to suicide, to madness, maybe it wasn't you who dragged the blades across his wrists, but it was more your fault than his!" Mycroft snapped. John growled loudly, repositioning himself in the seat in anger. Of course, he knew this would come to this.
"Well, if that's all..." John muttered, pulling on the door handle even though he knew it was locked.
"I'm not finished, and you will hear me out." Mycroft snapped, and John sunk back into the leather seat, staring out the windshield and wishing it would all just end.
"Be careful with him John, because he might be unstable, emotionally. Don't you dare break his heart again, don't yell at him, his new form is constructed entirely of glass, and one wrong move and you might shatter him." Mycroft warned.
"I know, I wouldn't dream of breaking up with him again. It was a horrible decision, and thankfully I have a chance to correct it." John agreed. Mycroft sighed heavily, turning the wheel slowly to start down John's road. Finally, they were headed home.
"And John, no one knows what this disease is, what raised him from the dead, if he's toxic, if he's dangerous, so I encourage no...physical contact." Mycroft muttered.
"What, I can't touch him now? Do you want me to wear a hazard suit?" John laughed.
"I don't want you to kiss him, or engage in any..."
"Alright, can I get out of the car now?" John said quickly, cutting of Mycroft's sentence right on time.
"John listen to me, this might be a disease, we don't know, and if so we don't know how it's spread. So don't catch it." Mycroft insisted. John nodded quickly, finally seeing his house coming up down the street, so close...
"I won't, alright, we're only in high school, alright, we keep it PG." John assured. Mycroft just sighed, as if that pleased him, but as if there was still so much John didn't know. The car pulled up on the curb, right outside John's house, and he was so tempted to jump out and run for his life, but Mycroft hadn't unlocked the doors so he could only assume he had more to say.