for Mycroft

[sharpshooting]

Two days in, and John was still having a difficult time processing that he wasn't going round the twist. He really was in space, and Sherlock was really alive-- not the way John had spent half a year wishing, mad dreams of discovering his friend had faked his death and had been in hiding the whole time, but whisked away out of his life long before Moriarty's performance with the crown jewels.

Nothing made sense anymore. John would learn to live with it, but it was going to be hard for a while. And it certainly wouldn't be made easier by this: looking up to find Mycroft Holmes walking calmly through the transport hub where John sat playing a level of this Minotaur game on his phone.

He hoped Mycroft wouldn't stop, but of course he did, sending an unpleasant jolt through him at the sight of the familiar smug smile. He let his hand holding the phone drop to his lap and just stared, expressionless, willing Mycroft to back down.

Comments

[the_iceman]

Mycroft had heard that Dr. Watson had made an appereance aboard, but he had not actively sought the man out. He wasn't one for welcoming parties, or indeed, welcoming anything. It was a small enough population; they would meet eventually.

Today seemed to be that day and Mycroft decided a greeting would be in order. And, because Sherlock had begun to keep a phial of drugs on his person at all times, he might need to have a little talk with the man.

The ice-cold look the doctor was giving him, did not go unnoticed. "Doctor. Good to see you aboard this ship," he greeted.

[sharpshooting]

John knew he should just get up and walk away. That it was the smartest thing to do, not to mention the most diplomatic. But he'd barely been out of quarantine for 24 hours, he'd had the shock of a lifetime and more adrenaline dumped into his system than was probably good for him, and he wasn't feeling particularly diplomatic.

He put his phone in his pocket and got to his feet. When he spoke it was slow, his voice quiet. "What in God's name would make you think I have anything to say to you other than 'Go to hell'?"

[the_iceman]

Clearly something had happened. Mycroft was familiar with the fact that people came from different times as well as places, so it was indeed possible for John to be from a time somewhere in his future. That - in his opinion - would be the only reason for such a brusque reply. Something had happened.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," he replied calmly.

[sharpshooting]

And that was just like Mycroft, really. Pretending indifference to save face-- like he thought that just because Sherlock was here, alive, that it erased what he'd done.

John wasn't about to let that go by unnoticed. "And I'm afraid you do-- you just don't want to admit it. Which is fine." It was, really. It wasn't like he'd expected anything less. "Just don't make the mistake of thinking that I'm going to forget, or that it's okay. As far as I'm concerned, Mycroft, I've nothing to say to you, now or ever."

[the_iceman]

"Dr. Watson, would you do me the courtesy of explaining yourself," Mycroft repeated, not quite a request. "I assure you that I have no idea what you're referring to. What happened?"

[sharpshooting]

"You and Moriarty. You told him about Sherlock in exchange for information about his crimes, and he used what you gave him to convince the world that Sherlock was a fraud. You helped his nemesis turn him into a fugitive, and then--"

The rest was still hard to say, even with Sherlock still alive and claiming there was more to the story than met John's eye. He tried once, swallowed, tried again with a steadier voice.

"And then Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Bart's. While I stood on the ground and watched him. When I left London he'd been dead six months. So congratulations, Mycroft," he said, cool and toneless. "You've finally made it so you don't have to worry about him embarrassing you anymore."

He wanted to be the one to leave, but perversely, he had been there first, and wasn't going to be the first one to back down.

[the_iceman]

Mycroft knew about the first. He'd been there, he'd been asked to appear there, to question Moriarty himself. Quid pro quo. Tit for tat, in the criminal's words.

He hadn't revealed anything about his brother that he wouldn't have said himself. In return, Moriarty had said nothing that could lead to a useful arrest. They had reached an impasse. From that to Sherlock jumping off a roof, was a bit of a strech and not one Mycroft cared to believe.

"Sherlock?" He asked with a little snort. "I'm afraid you've been mislead, doctor. Sherlock's not the jumping kind."

[sharpshooting]

That sort of bland condescension was Mycroft's bread and butter, and normally it wouldn't have gotten any more rise out of John than any of Sherlock's ornery petulant behaviour-- visible annoyance, certainly, but physical violence? John would have said, until this moment, that he would never give Mycroft the satisfaction.

But the casual disregard for John's experience, combined with the raw patch on his heart from everything that had happened yesterday, combined to make him forget what a rational response to that smug disaffection ought to look like. He was swinging before he consciously told his fist to move, the punch landing solidly on Mycroft's jaw, sending him back a step.

His voice, when he spoke, was dark and rough with anger. "Don't tell me I didn't see what I saw. Don't you dare stand there and say I'm wrong, because I'm. Not. Wrong." He couldn't even take any satisfaction from the utterly shocked expression on Sherlock's brother's face, too furious at being told again that what he'd witnessed was a lie. "Just-- just stay away from me. I know I can't keep you away from Sherlock, but you had just better keep away from me, Mycroft."

He didn't care, now, about who left first. He started for the exit, then turned back and said, "There is a such thing as going too far, and you've gone there, and you can't go back."

[the_iceman]

Had it not been his jaw on the receiving end of that blow, he would have thought John's reaction quite funny. The aggravation, the incapability to not believe what his own eyes had lead him to deduce, the unfaltering defending of his brother. He had been right about this man upon their first meeting and was proven right once more.

Sadly, this proof came with an unexpected blow in his face. John was a man of action, but of reserve and intelligence as well, and that his comment had aggravated him beyond his reasoning capacities was... unexpected to say the least.

He composed himself quickly enough, unwilling to show his surprise (and indeed and not in the last place his pain). "Good afternoon then, doctor," he replied, not quite able to keep a hint of venom out of that last word, turning the other way.