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

[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.