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Science and Faith	By : ambersue Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3734 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (BBC). The show and all characters belong to BBC, Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I don't profit from a thing.

Chapter List
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I still don’t know how to act
Don’t know what to say
I still wear the scars
Just like it was yesterday¹
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Hell.

As far as thoughts go, it’s hardly his most illuminating, but it’s the first one that crosses his mind as he stares at the door John closed in his face just seconds earlier. Sherlock can hear the doctor’s heavy steps on the stairs: his gait’s uneven; his leg’s been bothering him again.

Then the sound of the front door slamming. Sherlock crosses to the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to see the doctor storming his way down the street, fishing his mobile out of his pocket as he goes.

Who will he call? Sherlock wonders. He watches as John presses the phone to his ear, and there’s a visible sigh, a lowering of the shoulders, an easing of tension in his neck as the voice on the other end comes through. Ugh. Mary.

He lets the curtains close, his face frozen in a contemptuous snarl, his mind a lightning storm of firing synapses. Of course, he’d envisioned all the possible outcomes of this meeting, and John leaving had certainly been a distinct possibility. John adjusted better than most to the unusual and unexpected, but he was still well within the parameters of an average human being, and average human beings, when their capacity for the unusual is overwhelmed, flee: denial, avoidance, psychotic break, even loss of consciousness.

But John had made it through the shock of seeing Sherlock alive mostly intact—his little episode had been more of a brown-out than a black-out, really. He’d only fled when he’d realised that Sherlock had been observing him. Why? That was basic scientific method, observation. It was Sherlock’s nature. Did John not remember? He’d never seemed to care before. Sherlock had followed him, or had him followed, nearly everywhere since—well, since he hadn’t thought it was necessary, and Moriarty kidnapped John and used him as a pawn against the detective.

John had known he was being followed, and had mostly ignored it, occasionally commented on it in casual conversation. It hadn’t bothered him, Sherlock was sure, or if it did, it was too low on the list of Things Sherlock Did To Bother John to warrant much attention.

So what is different now?

Everything, his mind provides, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. This situation has him more addled than he realises, if his internal monologue has given itself over to gross exaggerations.

No, not everything. Think. What’s different?

Absence—obvious. He’s not as familiar with Sherlock’s habits anymore; he’s reacting as if it’s his first exposure to the detective’s eccentricities rather than his thousandth. Ugh, but isn’t right either, because John’s first reaction to Sherlock, originally, had been praise and awe.

The catalyst is the same, but the reaction is different, because—Not a constant. Oh, John.

Sherlock closes his eyes against a sudden tightening in his chest. No. He draws in a slow breath through his nose. No, this doesn’t make sense. He runs through their meeting again, playing it back like a film on the wall of John’s room in his mind palace.

John enters the room prepared for a fight: his shoulders thrown back, his hands held loose, fingers curled. His eyes dart once around the flat, checking his corners. Sherlock wonders if he even knows he’s doing it. His steps are certain as he crosses the room. Sherlock sees the punch coming, sees John’s fingers tighten, his arm draw back, but the detective is rooted to the spot. It’s the first time he’s looked John in the eye in three years, and he’s trying desperately to read what he finds there. He only has time to note the dark circles—the doctor is not sleeping well—before the punch connects and he’s thrown off-balance, pain flaring at his lip, the bright copper tang of blood in his mouth.

John blinks, and Sherlock practically watches the adrenaline drain from him, cascading down from his head to his chest to his belly and out through his legs like a tidal wave, dragging him down with it. John clings to Sherlock and Sherlock lets him, folding himself to the floor, cushioning John’s landing.

The detective can’t stop staring at those eyes; wide and disbelieving, the pupils slightly dilated, the irises like deep water, mostly blue but reflecting back an assortment of dulled browns and greys and greens. John’s hands are caught in his clothing; John’s head is on his chest. Knowing that John has missed him is hardly the same thing as seeing it, feeling it—and oh god, how has Sherlock not missed this, not needed it every second he was gone?

When he finally works up the courage to touch him, when John leans into the touch, Sherlock believes for a moment that they are fine; they are themselves. And then John pulls away, and the fury is back, the anger he wears like armor.

What the detective wouldn’t give to tear that armor away piece by piece.

The film shudders to a halt. Sherlock’s breathing is slightly ragged. He’s surprised by his physical reaction to seeing John again. Emotions have always been difficult for him to sort, and it’s his body, not his mind, that usually informs him of how he’s feeling. Some part of him says it is survival instinct, fight or flight, that has made him so agitated, but he knows it’s not that simple.

Downstairs, the front door opens, and there are footsteps on the stairs. Too heavy to be Mrs. Hudson, and she’s not due back for hours yet—Sherlock saw to it that she would be visiting her cousin in Oxfordshire today. The detective’s heart leaps into his throat. If John is back already, surely that means he’s forgiven. He stares at the floor, afraid to meet John’s gaze when he walks in, afraid his face will give away too much. The doorknob to 221B turns, and the door swings open.

“John, I—”

The words evaporate as Sherlock looks up to see the figure in the doorway.

“Ah,” says Mycroft, the corners of his eyes tight, his face gaunt. “No, I’m afraid not.”

They make no move toward each other. Sherlock slides one hand into his trouser pocket, aiming for casual disinterest and missing it entirely. He can feel the tension in his stance, can feel his lips press together defensively, trying to make up for the moment of vulnerability, as if it’s Mycroft’s fault, the way John’s name sounded so plaintive on Sherlock’s tongue. He allows himself to study his elder brother, focusing on spotting the man’s tells to distract himself from how many of his own are showing.

Mycroft has a better poker face, but then, he was prepared. His hands are clasped loosely behind his back, his arms and legs relaxed, his back straight. To the outside observer, he looks calm, collected. Controlled. To a Holmes, however, he is a picture of desperation: gaunt cheeks, mark on his belt indicating he’s recently started cinching it more tightly—he’s losing weight, and faster than he intends to. Puffiness around his eyes, slight bruising on the eyelids from rubbing his palms against them. Agitation, anxiety, sleeplessness. And that twitch in his right cheek, where the effort of keeping his smile small and condescending is taking its toll on his facial muscles.

God help me, Sherlock thinks. I believe he’s actually glad to see me.

Mycroft’s voice is low, his tone steady but far softer than its usual disdain. “It’s true then.” He looks the detective up and down, still not making any move to close the distance between them. “I’ve heard whispers for months. And there were the deaths…several prominent assassins, a handful of international criminals, all a bit too neat and a bit too convenient. But I didn’t know—I couldn’t believe—”

“Didn’t think I could fool the brilliant Mycroft Holmes?” Even faced with his brother’s obvious relief, with what amounts to affection—for them, at least—Sherlock can’t help but fall into old habits, taunting his elder brother.

And affection or not, Mycroft knows his role well. “No, Sherlock.” A deliberate pause, and the elder Holmes cocks his head to the side. His smile would look at home on a shark. “I just couldn’t believe you would really leave him. Really let him believe you were dead.”

He lets that hang in the air for a moment before adding, “And to think I’m the one called the Ice Man.”

Always when they speak, it’s a question of who will give in first—when Sherlock runs out of ways to irritate Mycroft, he asks him about his weight; when Mycroft is at a loss, he asks about John. Either topic is a guarantee, an ace in the hole that leaves the other brother with only scathing looks for weapons. King’s to Mycroft, this round, because Sherlock is reduced to scowling at him in silence.

Mycroft glances around the room, untouched by his younger brother’s ire. “I assume he’s already been and gone,” he says. “The conversation went well?” Again, a flash of teeth that says he knows exactly how the conversation went.

Sherlock finds his voice, turning his back on Mycroft and picking up his violin. “You’ve seen me for yourself now, dear brother. If you’ve nothing else enlightening to say, do kindly show yourself out.” He draws the bow across the strings in a shrill, sharp scale.

“I needed to prove to myself that you were alive.” Rather than leave, Mycroft at last steps into the room, seating himself on the sofa and crossing his legs before fixing his brother with a level look that Sherlock can feel prickling between his shoulder blades. The detective shifts, keeping his violin raised but watching the older man from the corner of his eye.

“Easier to spy on me from afar, don’t you think?” Sherlock quips. “Considerably less conversation required.”

Mycroft does not take the bait. “Do you really think I’m the only one who’s noticed?” he asks.

Sherlock runs through a few bars of Mendelssohn before he says, “If my enemies want to kill me, they’ll have to come out of hiding to do so.”

“Ah.” The older man steeples his fingers, tapping them against his lips. “And you think your enemies will settle for killing you? They’ve done it once, remember, and it didn’t take.”

A long, low note from the violin. Sherlock’s hand works the string into a quavering vibrato. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

“I don’t give a damn about your battles, Sherlock. I care about the collateral damage.”

The bow freezes, and Sherlock raises his chin, tilting his face toward his brother. His eyebrows draw together, forehead wrinkling in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“You may want to reconnect with your friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard. I understand they stumbled upon a rather gruesome murder scene a few days ago in Southwark.”

“Hardly uncommon,” Sherlock says, watching his brother’s face. “What does it have to do with me?”

“You happen to know the victim.”

Short list of possibilities, then, the detective thinks wryly. But there is no hint of mocking on Mycroft’s face, and that more than anything sends a chill down Sherlock’s spine.

“At least,” Mycroft corrects, “you knew him. Rather intimately, I believe.”

The short list shrinks to one name, glowing red in his mind’s eye. The blue eyes blazing with anger, strands of blonde hair sticking to his forehead as the rain blows in from outside. He looks like a statue in a Greek fountain, some forgotten god, damp and shining and breathtaking and heartless. The chill spreads through his limbs, and he lowers the violin before it can fall from his rapidly numbing fingers.

“Victor.”

Mycroft doesn’t need to confirm, but he nods anyway. “I wondered if it was an accident, at first. An unfortunate coincidence. Mr. Trevor—”

“—lives in Edinburgh,” Sherlock interrupts. He is staring out the window, eyes moving rapidly across the streetscape, but all his attention is turned inward. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“He’s a barrister, you know—or was a barrister. Rather good. Clients all over the kingdom…the kind important enough to drop everything and head to London for a late night meeting.”

“Well, that leaves criminals or the Crown.” Sherlock’s lips twitch in Mycroft’s direction, but his heart is not in the teasing.

“Criminals of the highest caliber. Or the lowest, depending on your point of view. It’s not surprising that he’d be in London, but his exact location was worrisome. Ask yourself, Sherlock, why Southwark? His clients are much higher end than that. They could have killed him anywhere.”

The detective spins to look at his brother. “A body in that neighborhood draws less attention than elsewhere.”

“These men adore drawing attention. Think, Sherlock.”

A few more seconds, and then the furrowed brow smoothes, Sherlock’s eyes widening in realisation. “John.”

Mycroft nods in acknowledgement. “If one wanted to get the attention of Sherlock Holmes, really let him know who he was dealing with, can you imagine a better way to do it?” He comes to stand beside Sherlock at the window. “This man you’re hunting—”

“Moran,” Sherlock says.

“Ah. Our file on him is rather lean, I’m afraid.”

“He’s careful. Not as clever as Moriarty was, but not as arrogant either.”

“Which is its own kind of clever,” Mycroft points out. “He’s never been incarcerated. The only black spot on his record is his dishonorable discharge from the service. Some incident involving the torture of a civilian.”

The elder Holmes glances at Sherlock. “This one doesn’t show off, Sherlock, but he knows exactly how to get to you. If he kills John outright, he risks sending you further into hiding. Finding Victor shows he knows about your past, shows he can find your secrets. Killing him sends you a message. Killing him two kilometers away from John Watson’s flat sends a different kind of message.”

Sherlock is silent. His hand, hanging loosely at his side, is trembling. Mycroft must see it, because there’s no other reason for him to reach out, to lay one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The detective flinches at the contact, but doesn’t pull away.

“He knows where John lives, Sherlock. And he knows how to hurt you. He knows hurting him will hurt you.”

Hating himself for this, Sherlock reaches into his pocket and withdraws his phone. It’s a new number, but John will know who it is. His fingers are still shaking as he punches letters on the touch screen, and it takes him several tries to compose the message. He hesitates, cursing himself for his impatience. After all of this, he’s back where he started: people dead because he wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t careful enough, and John in danger.

He hits send, and hopes he still has a chance to fix this.

***

1. The Script. Science & Faith. Sony Music Entertainment UK, 2011.
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