Promise to the Living

Chapter Seventeen

Sherlock responded to the news with a dismissive wave of his uninjured hand. "Of course they can't. No one at the Yard except you knows that I'm alive yet."

"Sherlock," Lestrade said patiently, "that's got nothing to do with it. Your name was cleared after you died- I mean, while you were away. The kids remembered what really happened. But the whole debacle resulted in a direct order from the Commissioner himself: no more civilian investigators. I can't involve you in future investigations without the brass interfering." He looked genuinely stricken. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Sherlock faced his brother. "I'm sure you can fix it."

Mycroft turned to his bodyguards. "Please wait for me outside." When they left the flat, he said, "I can influence institutions, but not the public. Granted, it would be a simple matter to persuade the Commissioner to reconsider, but the dailies and their readers would be all over any case you work on, Sherlock. You'd be shadowed constantly, and evidence might be corrupted or even planted by unscrupulous reporters. Lives could be jeopardized as a result."

"He's right." Lestrade's expression darkened. "Fleet Street makes a sport out of showing up or embarrassing the Yard. I wouldn't put it past Kitty Reilly and her ilk to interfere for the sake of a scoop."

John watched his former flatmate with concern. "But you supplied me with cases to look at, Greg. And Mycroft helped me with them."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at his brother and looked displeased.

"Yes, I did. And the upper echelon never had to find out, because you only gave your opinion on the evidence my people collected. You never actually went to a crime scene or became actively involved in the investigation."

Sherlock got off the sofa, cradling his bandaged wrist, and paced in front of the mantel, his movements nervous and quick. "There must be a solution," he muttered. "No problem exists without one."

"There's always the public," John offered. "We took cases from private citizens all the time."

A snort. "For every interesting case brought by the common citizen, there were dozens of requests to check up on cheating spouses and find lost pets. Sitting through their tales of woe made me crave nicotine. Or something stronger."

The threat was implicit. John, Mycroft, and Lestrade exchanged glances. Boredom was anathema to Sherlock. It had driven him to cocaine, gun play, and other dangerous pursuits.

"You could always be a government investigator," Mycroft said.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "No. I appreciate all you did for John and I, Mycroft, make no mistake about it. But I will never work for anyone but myself."

"Nor should you." The elder Holmes stood too. "I'm proposing that you accept contracts from my office. You've done it before: the Bruce Partington plans, for example."

John spoke up. "What kind of contracts? You mean the type of work I've been doing for you?"

"No, he means REAL cases," Sherlock said. "No offense, John, but you've just been another one of his well-paid errand-runners."

Mycroft bristled. "John was, and is, much more valuable to me than that. Don't let your childish resentment diminish him like this."

"The only one who's been diminishing him is-"

Lestrade shook his head and sighed. John raised both hands.

"All right, please stop. Both of you. You're squabbling like… like you used to."

"We've been squabbling all along," Sherlock corrected him. "You just didn't hear it."

"And I don't want to hear it now." John's head spun. The night had taken such a heavy toll on his stamina and nerves –beaten by Romanian thugs, finding Sherlock alive and all the accompanying hysteria- that he was dangerously close to collapsing. "Look- can we all just discuss this in the morning?"

"I think that would be wise." Mycroft checked his watch. "Do you need to pack an overnight bag, John?"

"Yeah." He rubbed his reddened eyes. "Let me grab a change of clothes."

As he headed to his room, John heard Sherlock grumble, "I'm not working for you, Mycroft. And don't waste your breath trying to order me either."

He waited until he was alone, with the door shut, before sinking to the floor and yielding to the emotions storming within him: shock and ecstasy at Sherlock's return, delayed horror at the wrist-cutting, and fear for his old friend's future. He tried not to panic: Sherlock had refused Mycroft's offer, but he would deteriorate without cases. John predicted that without diversions of the magnitude Scotland Yard had always offered, Sherlock would have to be institutionalized before the year was out. To protect the public and himself from boredom-induced rampages. Even the thought was unbearable.

His ruminations were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. "John?"

Mycroft.

John's eyes flew open. "Sorry," he muttered. "Just needed to have a bit of a meltdown. I'm sorry, this is so much."

"Yes, I'm sure this evening would be enough to traumatize anyone who-" Mycroft hesitated. "Anyone who's not Sherlock or I."

"I'm worried. I really am. You know what'll happen if he doesn't have cases." John thought of something. "In fact, how have you kept him from self-destructing all these months?"

"He's been too focused on watching you."

John didn't know what to say to that. Mycroft gasped his elbow gently and helped him to his feet. "Come on. I told them I'd see what was keeping you, but if we don't hurry, Sherlock will investigate."

"Yeah, of course." John retrieved a sports bag from his closet and grabbed a change of clothes and some toiletries. Mycroft sat on the edge of his bed while he packed.

"I wanted to speak to you alone anyway, John," he said. "Sherlock will accept my offer, you know."

John paused. "How can you be sure?"

"Because you will. And where you go, he will follow. Surely you see that."

Before John could reply, footsteps sounded in the hall outside. Then Sherlock opened the door. "John?" His eyes canvassed the room before darting back and forth between the two men. "What's the delay?"

"Mycroft came looking for me." John zipped the bag. "Sorry, I'm a bit out of it. Overwhelmed, actually."

"I can imagine." Sherlock's mouth tightened. "John, I am sorry for this too." He held up his wrist. "You didn't deserve that."

"Thanks." John knew he meant it, and wanted to offer stronger words of reassurance, of forgiveness, but fatigue left him ineloquent. "Let's go now. We'll talk in the morning, or whenever the hell we get up."

Sherlock took his arm as they left the flat, the grip anxious and clingy and affectionate. "It'll be alright," John murmured wearily when they stepped into the chilly night. He stumbled on the doorstep and would have fallen, but a strong hand gripped his other arm and kept him upright.

It was Mycroft. Preventing him from hurting himself yet again.

Keeping him safe.

While one of the bodyguards drove Lestrade to his flat to collect some overnight items, John rode in Mycroft's Audi, temple resting against Sherlock's shoulder. Traveling through London by car, Sherlock at his side in the back seat, aroused fond memories of their eighteen-month crime-busting spree. He wanted to sleep, but the old worry that Sherlock might do something reckless if not monitored constantly kept him semi-alert.

Mycroft was in the front seat, conversing with the driver in low tones. John gazed at him through half-closed eyes, and the watchful tension subsided a bit. When the elder Holmes was around, he didn't need to be so vigilant. The relief was powerful.

They all needed to have a serious talk tomorrow, because from his perspective right now, John had no idea what the future held.