The Devil in Devon

John's eyes closed seconds after his head hit the pillow. He was so exhausted that the room spun. Mycroft was beside him, reclining against an avalanche of pillows and tapping lightly on his laptop keys. In the suite's sitting room, beyond the closed bedroom door, John could hear Sherlock pacing about, reading the case file for the millionth time and muttering to himself.

John sighed in relief as the paracetamol kicked in. He'd needed an extra-strength dose after spending four hours in a small rental car with the Holmes brothers bickering nonstop. He hadn't heard Lestrade return to the suite yet: the former DI was probably still in the hotel pub, indulging in beer and barmaids to forget the nightmare.

Four hours. That's how long it had taken them to drive from London to the Royal Clarence Hotel in Exeter. John understood why they hadn't traveled via a more expedient or comfortable method, such as government helicopter or town car: if Black Cell or another subversive group was, as Mycroft suspected, behind the mysterious footprints that appeared in Woolsery two weeks ago, their arrival in Exeter had to be low-key. On the other hand, if Lucifer himself was actually back after an absence of almost 160 years, as paranormal groups trumpeted, John didn't want to give him a heads-up either.

Although he accepted the need for caution, the drive had left John with a headache that sent him to bed soon after checking into their three-bedroom suite. When he heard the soft click of the lamp being turned off and felt the mattress dip as Mycroft settled next to him, he grumbled into the goose-down pillow, "Was it really necessary?"

The elder Holmes didn't ask what he was talking about. "I'm sorry, John. Sherlock can be terribly intractable."

"He was only half the problem. You were just as intent on having the last word."

"Naturally. My brother has to learn that he can't have his way all the time." Mycroft shimmied across the mattress until he was pressed tightly against John's back. His lean arm settled around John's bare waist. "I am sorry that our fraternal spat wearied you. I assumed that you were used to our interactions by now."

John threaded their fingers together and smiled despite his fatigue. "I thought so too. But four hours of listening to you and Sherlock fight about this case, the weather, and the price of petrol raised the bar. Hell has been redefined."

Mycroft kissed his shoulder. "Good thing you never saw us growing up. Such confrontations went on around the clock."

"Lord." John shuddered. "I don't know how your parents kept any hired help."

"Me neither. Perhaps that's why Father's wine cellar was constantly depleted," Mycroft sighed. "Still, Sherlock was unusually vitriolic this afternoon. I suspect it was because of this." He waved his hand over them both. "Like I've already told you, he'll be insecure about our relationship for awhile, John. Brace yourself."

"I know. This is hard for him to handle. I'm his best- actually, he says only- friend. You're his 'arch enemy' on a bad day. I think he's still trying to figure out how this happened."

"So are you."

It was true. John had known Mycroft for almost as long as he'd known Sherlock, and he hadn't always held him in high regard. For the first two years of their association, he'd seen the elder Holmes as a pompous nuisance who spied on and occasionally manipulated both Sherlock and John. Then, last year, Sherlock was forced to fake his suicide and disappear to protect his friends from James Moriarty's wrath. John, alone and unaware of the unwilling deception, fell into a grief-fuelled depression and planned his own death. Mycroft forcibly intervened, setting off a chain of events that led to forgiveness, healing, friendship, and finally a love that surprised everyone involved.