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A new chapter! All new, no repost, no rewrite, just NEW! I am so happy and I hope you are too. And it makes me a poet! haha
New! :)

John followed Sherlock from the Diogenes Club, landing into the streets cool breeze and taking a deep breath instantly. He watched the curly-haired man a moment, unashamedly worried after the events in Mycroft's office, not that he could fully understand what it was; some kind of power play, obviously, but for what gain at all? Was he testing to see if he was faking immobility? "Sherlock, are you OK?" John asked, burrowing his hands into his coat pockets.

"I'm fine, fine. Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock's brow furrowed and he looked up at John, eyes widening a little, face considerably paler than John would have thought possible for the alabaster tones of the Detective's skin.

"What was all that? Grabbing at you, the intellectual war…" John scoffed.

"That was Mycroft lying." Sherlock gripped the wheels of his chair.

"So you believe he was there now then?" John asked, stepping in closer to Sherlock as a suited man carrying a briefcase walked past.

Sherlock shook his head, sniffing as his nose ran against the cool air. "No – but he knows who was."

"Sherlock; his fingerprints are all over the place." John groaned. "He was there."

"Mycroft practically is the British Government, John. Anything you can think of from your Sci-Fi movies, I can guarantee he's already overseeing in terms of weaponry and espionage." Sherlock sniffed again and glared at John, "…I've ransacked his office often enough to know that it is possible to duplicate fingerprints, at least on a secretive, military and governmental basis."

"So somebody faked his prints without his knowledge?" John surmised.

"No," Sherlock shook his head, "With it."

John almost laughed, "So he knows somebody was framing him?" he shook his head in disbelief. "That's fucked up, even for your brother."

"No!" Sherlock grumbled, exasperated. "Think! He knows that his prints are at the scene but he wasn't there, whomever it was that fired the shots was owed a favour by Mycroft but the shots weren't for me, they were for Lestrade."

John's brow furrowed deeper, "How…" he breathed out, "How could you even know that."

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock's brows hitched up and he pushed the wheels back, turning the chair. "We need to go talk to Lestrade."

"We can't, not now; he's got that meeting with Gregson about another case he's working on." John shook his head, "Can we just rewind a minute and will you explain to me what hell is going on here, because I have no idea."

"Later," Sherlock began powering forwards, "We need to get a cab home and I need to borrow your laptop." Baffled, John followed at a jog behind Sherlock, completely lost and bubbled with anger at the same time and desperate to understand what was whizzing through Sherlock's head. Were they still in danger? Was Lestrade?



Helping Sherlock out of the cab once they reached Lisson Grove, John thrust the fare at the driver and edged toward the gate with Sherlock at his heel. "Are you going to explain this to me at all?" he asked, unhooking the gate and swinging it open, holding it fixed until Sherlock was in the front garden.

"Once I have everything, yes." The Detective nodded. "Have I ever left you out completely?"

"Plenty of times," John nodded. "Look, I know Mycroft's family but…I don't want you taking on too much. We're just getting into a routine, just getting used to things and you're only just getting stronger. I don't want that jeopardised, especially when you're not on any physical therapy programme to help you adjust to the activity."

"Ah…" Sherlock grinned, pushing the key fob into the lift, "I've got that covered."

John paused on the steps and his eyebrow shot up as he looked at Sherlock, "You've got it covered?" he asked, sarcasm rife.

"Yep," Sherlock nodded confidently as the lift jolted and rose up steadily.

"Spit it out then," John said, hovering on the top step in wait for Sherlock.

"At the hospital," Sherlock began, "When I left you with Molly? I went to speak to some people. Occupational Health – with you being a doctor – will be more than happy to supply supports, exercise plans and weights for at-home therapy." He looked across to John, his fingers working with the key to free him from the lift, and the smiled. "You could look a bit happier."

Catching his frown, John licked his lips before responding, "Well you used your initiative, that's great but…"

"But what, John?" Sherlock snapped, "You said you'd do this, so that I could do it at home, with you, and not with somebody I didn't know in some hospital outpatient centre."

"But nothing," John shook his head, taking the keys from his pocket to unlock the front door. "I'm just surprised, I suppose. I kind of expected you not to bother and just wallow a little more, to just work on your own ability."

"I don't want kidney stones or sores or weakening in what muscles I do have that are strong enough," Sherlock said, tetchily, following John into the house with a slight bump over the top of the ramp. "And if anyone's going to be poking and hauling at me, I'd rather it was you than somebody I don't know."

Stopping in the hallway, halfway through removing his coat, John looked at Sherlock with seriousness in his eyes, "I know." His voice softened. "I'll make sure everything gets sorted and we'll start right away, OK?" Sherlock's lopsided smile tugged up and he nodded, reaching up to unfasten his jacket. "Laptop's on the table," John nodded into the dining room, "Get fixed up on there and I'll put the kettle on, then I want you to tell me everything you've got so far."

John joined Sherlock in the dining room a few moments later with a cup of tea for them both. He placed Sherlock's mug down beside the whirring laptop and took the seat opposite to allow him to at least study the Detective's face if he wasn't going to get any words out of him. Taking a slow mouthful from his tea, John checked the time on the wall clock and waited a few moments before disturbing the quiet. "Want to stand for a while?" he asked, the silence too thick and the inability to read Sherlock's mind about the entire thing making his brain itch. It was just something to say.

"I need to concentrate on this, John." Sherlock responded robotically, eyes on the screen of the laptop and fingers jabbing at the keys manically.

"And what exactly is this?" John asked, bringing his tea cup to his lips again. "You can concentrate and stand, you know," he submitted as an afterthought.

"John," Sherlock groaned, finally looking up and meeting his partner's eyes. "This is important. I need to look into this and be sure of what I think or things could get worse."

"I get that, sort of," John rolled his eyes, "but tell me where you're at so I can at least half understand what's happening."

Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose and then pulled back his hands from the laptop keys, looking squarely at John. "Yes, the prints are Mycroft's, but at the same time they're not. They're a mutation, a copy of his prints."

"You think made by something cooked up between the government and military?" John asked, pacing the conversation.

Sipping his hot tea, Sherlock nodded, "Yes. I think Mycroft knows his prints are there and yet he can say he wasn't there and not be lying. I also know, from about three months back when I went through his office after he pissed me off, that there was a case against him that was trying to be settled without authorities getting involved too much, from somebody working within the Police Force. I didn't think of it before, which is stupid, because it makes sense. He had Mycroft by the throat, metaphorically, with something he knew but I didn't get what it was. If it's what I think it is, this guy had it in for Mycroft over him letting him down over whatever this thing is. But I think Lestrade got caught up in it somehow. The shooter, with the copy of Mycroft's prints somehow adhered to his fingers by some gloves or gel or something was in the flat the night we went around. They don't know me from Adam, or you, but if you saw somebody trailing behind in formal clothing with two, uniformed officers with them, you would assume they were a superior officer, right? Shooter thinks I'm Lestrade and there you go…bang, bang," Sherlock paused, taking a deep breath, and looked at John's dumbfounded expression.

John had to admit that, in some warped way, it all made sense. Sherlock was a victim of circumstance and Mycroft knew it well but Lestrade, due to Mycroft's covering up, was oblivious. Mycroft's guilt and wanting to help Sherlock above and beyond was therefore explainable by Sherlock's deductions and Lestrade being unaware and unable to trace anything made sense then, too. "But," John shook his head, "What about the original case then? Do you think Mycroft made it up, as in made up the notes of the case but had the people in mind who were threatening him with the lawsuit?"

"I don't know," Sherlock shrugged, "That's what doesn't make sense. The case he originally handed us had nothing for us to go on, nothing at all, and he allowed us to involve Lestrade without a hitch. If it was the same people, he'd have been reluctant in case Lestrade found out more and endangered himself, I suppose. I don't know." Sherlock ran his hands through his curls.

"But he'll put you in danger? Nice." John scoffed and shook his head.

"We don't know anything for sure yet, John." Sherlock tutted, "Mycroft and I have our issues, yes, but he's my brother first and foremost."

"And he knew you could be in danger and let you do it anyway!" John's voice hitched. "He's a bastard, Sherlock, and he's lying to you if what you think is right and that makes him even worse." He tongued his cheek.

Sherlock drew down his mouth, touched by John's anger and care but confused and weighed down with all the possibilities and actualities of everything going on around him. He sighed out, exhausted and confused, and looked into John's eyes again. "Hungry?" he asked carefully. "Want to go out for an early dinner?"

John frowned, "I thought you wanted to get this done," he nodded at the computer.

"I need some air, an hour with you that isn't disrupted and some breathing space; Angelo's?" Sherlock said, closing down the lip of the laptop and steepled his hands against his lips, elbows on the table, fixing his eyes on John across from him. "Please?" he whispered, almost, sounding as though Mycroft's strange behaviour back at the Diogenes Club was just catching up with him.

John gave a soft smile, eyes gentle and nodded, "Yeah, c'mon, let's go."

A little shorter than the others but I got a lot of Sherlock's theories about Mycroft's involvement in there which I hope make sense whislt still being muddled - it's supposed to be a little cloudy yet give little ideas away as though Sherlock's working through it.


Date: 2015-12-18; view: 715


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Sherlock, he was there. The prints are Mycroft's – JW | This chapter HAS been proof read but you're likely to find tiddly mistakes, so I apologise.
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