We All Fall Down

The Favor

Sherlock looked around the abandoned house.  Mycroft had told him to be here at precisely two in the morning.  It was five after by the time the brother finally made his appearance.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

Sherlock just stared, his face impassive, resembling a cat that was, to be blunt, fed up with his shit.  If he had a tail, it would surely be flicking behind him in annoyance.

“You could say hello, you know.  No use being impolite.”

“I have no reason to be polite with you.”

Mycroft frowned.  “You have no reason to be impolite.”

“You lied,” Sherlock spat the accusation like venom through gritted teeth.  He knew Mycroft would understand what he was talking about.

“It isn’t good for you, Sherlock.  That’s why you left.  The true reason.  Don’t try to pin the blame on me, you know it does nothing.”  Mycroft was strictly business.  He knew this would happen if he agreed to arrange a meeting with his brother, but for some reason, he came anyway.

“Mycroft, don’t think for one second that I won’t ruin this entire plan if you go back on your word.”  Sherlock’s jaw clenched as he finished speaking, his tone as cold as his eyes.  His face was locked in a permanent scowl, displaying only a fraction of the fury he felt at that moment. 

Before John, it had always been easy to dismiss any emotion.  When he first met John, it still was for too short a time.  Then, John had grown on him, had somehow made him feel.  Sherlock tried to ignore the entirety of it, but it grew more and more difficult each day.  Finally, Sherlock couldn’t lock away any of it.  He had locked himself in his bedroom, a rare occurrence in itself.  Then, Sherlock had wept.  He had wept because he knew he couldn’t continue.  The only option was to leave John, something that he feared and loathed, but was required of him nonetheless.

Moriarty had made it easier and also harder by asking him to complete his story.  That way, Sherlock didn’t need to explain to John why it was absolutely necessary that he leave.  The downside was that Sherlock couldn’t say a proper goodbye.

“Sherlock…” the elder brother began, but Sherlock cut him off.

“No.  I won’t settle for your pathetic excuses.  Tell me that he’s okay.”  He looked into Mycroft’s eyes in the most pleading expression he could muster, bringing forth a small sigh as Mycroft slid a hand down his face.   Obviously, he was exhausted.  Sherlock didn’t care in the slightest.

“He’s fine, Sherlock.”  Mycroft attempted to hide the lie behind his usual blank face, but Sherlock saw through the façade in an instant.

“Mycroft…” he growled, stepping forward aggressively.

“He’s been diagnosed with depression, but refuses to take the pills.  The few occasions he leaves the house are to purchase more liquor, which he usually drinks alone at the flat.  Your housekeeper tries to-“

“She’s our landlady.”

Mycroft nodded, ignoring the barely noticeable flash of pain behind Sherlock’s eyes.  “Yes.  Well, your landlady tries to take care of him.”

“I’m going back.”

“No, Sherlock.  You’ll only be putting them all in danger.  I have my eyes on John.  For the moment, he will be fine.  I’ll see what I can do.”  He spoke with his usual matter-of-fact tone, eyes watching Sherlock as a hawk watches its prey.

Sherlock scoffed.  “No, you won’t.  None of it matters to you. “

“Yes, it does, Sherlock.  Whether you believe it or not, I do have a heart.”

Sherlock turned his back on his brother, hesitating for a moment before walking out the door.

“He calls my phone.  Sends me texts, begging me to come back.  He’s in much worse condition than you are letting on, Mycroft.  Do not take me for a fool.”

With that, Sherlock left his brother alone in the dark.  He had one new voicemail from John.