Compromises - A Johnlock Fanfiction

Chapter 2 - Bad News

Chapter 2: Bad News

“Evening Mycroft, what do we owe the pleasure?” Sherlock spat sarcastically, it was the third time we had seen Mycroft since Sherlock faked his death two years ago. The first time after 'The Fall' as we had dubbed it, Mycroft had shown how emotionless he could be, the second time he proceeded to show us the wrath he had bottled up that well controlled mind of his and told Sherlock how disappointed in him he was and that he could have dealt with it in a much more effective way rather than breaking everyone's heart in such a cruel way. Sherlock had been close to punching Mycroft and I had had to intervene, abruptly ending their fight and causing the two brothers to ignore each other for a year. Sherlock still wouldn't tell me how he had done it but just said he had received help from a good friend. Why would Mycroft break the childish silent treatment they had been giving each other unless it was important? Mycroft did not retaliate the way I thought he would to Sherlock's rude greeting, he instead turned to face us and stood in a military way.

“I have received some very bad news and I would prefer it if you were sat down Sherlock.” Mycroft mumbled, his eyes flickering over to mine and revealing the panic and upset he was feeling in the few seconds he looked at me for. Sherlock stubbornly stayed exactly where he was, refusing to follow any instructions Mycroft gave him. I looked over at Sherlock, feeling a kind of pity for Mycroft, for once. “Maybe we should all sit down, I'll make some tea's. Mycroft?” I asked, hoping to move this meeting along a bit and break the ice so that he could just say what he had to say.

“Good idea. Shall we?” he motioned to the chair for Sherlock to sit in while Mycroft sat in the union jack chair which was usually where I sat. I brought out the teas and one coffee for Sherlock, placing them on the small coffee table sat between them. I pulled out a chair from the dining table which was just a pile of papers now, sitting down between them. It was probably the most dangerous place to be sat right now but I didn't want this meeting coming to blows.

“What was this bad news you needed to tell us, Mycroft?” I said, feeling uncomfortable in the staring match going on between them. Mycroft broke the eye contact, turning to me and resuming the despaired expression he had been holding when we walked in. He nodded at me and I knew what he was about to say would send Sherlock into one of his 'bad nights'.

“Sherlock, as you knew mummy went into the home a couple of years ago. Her dementia got increasingly worse and worse, she hardly even knew who we were but I just received a call that they found her dead in her room this morning. I'm so sorry.” I looked up, surprised at the choked up tone to Mycroft's voice. He sounded so miserable and hounest, I had never known either of the Holmes brothers to show much vulnerability apart from when Sherlock called me before he jumped off of St Bartholomew’s. I then looked over at Sherlock who was staring expressionlessly into the coffee he had picked up and sipped from. This continued for a couple of minutes before Mycroft stood up and excused himself, thanking me for the tea and holding back the moisture in his eyes. I showed Mycroft out and turned back to Sherlock once he was gone. I watched him for a few minutes, in his frozen stupor. As soon as the door of Mycroft's car slammed outside Sherlock dramatically came out of his state and violently threw his coffee mug at the neatly wallpapered wall opposite him. The mug shattered into thousands of little shards which sprayed out all over the wall and floor, devastated the way Sherlock's heart must be. I sat down where Mycroft had been sitting, making sure he didn't do anything stupid and after an hour he didn't seem to be in a state to go anywhere. All he did was lift his legs up to bring them up to his chest.

I stayed where I was, planning to not sleep until I saw Sherlock sleep. At what must have been 3 in the morning Sherlock stirred slightly from his trance and looked over at me with that blank expression on his face and without any warning stood up and went to his room. I frowned, keeping my ears pricked for any sound which soon came in the form of smashing glass and plenty of thuds. I pushed up from the chair, running to his door and trying the handle. Locked. Of course it was. I banged on the door, hoping Sherlock would answer but there was only one answer to this problem. I backed up a little bit and kicked just below the lock, breaking it in the process, and falling into his room. Sherlock looked up in a shocked manner from his kneeling position on the floor almost inside his wardrobe where he had been digging around trying to find something. Various items were strewn around him, some were smashed, others were crumpled piles of clothes. He was holding an old, creased photograph of a small family of two boys and a dark haired woman. As soon as we both realised what the other was doing Sherlock's face crumpled and a sob escaped his lips. He took a few deep breaths to try and keep in the tears but he had to turn away from me as a single tear trickled down the sharp lines of his cheek. I let out a deep breath, not knowing what to do. I had known Sherlock to show when he was happy so to see such an overflow of emotion was like seeing a dam bursting it's banks and not knowing how to help what was happening. I shuffled over to Sherlock, kneeling down next to him and patting his shoulder. He wasn't the dramatic sort of crier (like he was with everything else); he was still very masculine in his grief, not even making a sound, just letting the tears fall and making his eyes all red and puffy. I used the sleeve of my jumper to wipe away the tear stains on his cheeks and then opened my arms for a hug. He hesitated but helplessly fell into my arms, his heavy weight resting on me completely. I wrapped my arms around his and squeezed trying to show him wordlessly that I was there for him and I would never leave him. He soon relaxed and squeezed me back, crying into my jumper and giving me another sleepless night. I don't know how I managed to even get jobs with the way I slept my way out of them. I knew Sherlock didn't interact with normal people but I had underestimated his idea of a hug. We ended up hugging for hours, his constant slow crying making a large wet patch on the chest of my jumper and my arms started aching until I lost all feeling in them completely. I didn't have the heart to end the hug though and wondered how many days Sherlock could go on like this, I had seen him go almost a week without moving or speaking so I was worried I would have to have my arms amputated before the hug would end. His body had grown heavier and heavier as light started to filter through the window. I shifted my arms, realising he had fallen asleep in them. I moved my legs, waiting to get feeling in them before sweeping the overly tall man off of the floor and gently resting him on his messy single bed which was as bland and colourless as the rest of his room. I could hardly keep my eyes open so I didn't notice the crumbled picture abandoned on the floor but I did take the time to remove his jacket and shoes, carefully tucking him into his bed the way his mother might have if he was still a child and if she was still alive. I sat myself in the leather armchair I had forgotten was wedged into the corner of Sherlock's room, having to removed a pile of jars and clothes before hand. I soon felt myself relax into the chair and before long my eyes fell shut and the world went black before I could think through everything that had happened or think to check Sherlock's room for drugs or cigarettes.