»»──────　SH　──────««

As soon as they took off their jackets and hung them on the peg, they headed up to the first floor. Sherlock held his breath for all seventeen steps, so John wouldn't hear how much effort he had to put into such a simple task.

Leaning heavily against the wall, he finally dared to take a deep breath, but not before John disappeared from his sight. It's going to settle down. After all, not that long ago, he returned from the hospital. It'll take some time, he tried to assure himself. However, a tiny, malicious voice in his head seemed not to have high hopes for him and suggested he not expect rapid results from himself.

Sherlock closed his eyes shut and sucked in a large gulp of air with a massive inhale. He can't let doubts get in the way. John will surely notice that he has lost him somewhere. John, his dear kind John, who has always followed him into the unknown, no matter how dangerous it could be, will know immediately that something is wrong, and he'll come back, looking for him.

Although the thought of being cared for felt nice and warm in Sherlock's chest, the consequences predominated, squeezing his stomach with shame. He couldn't let John see him like this. Weak. Breathless. Insecure. That was absolutely unacceptable! What would he think?

By sheer force of will, he collected himself, put on his invincible facade, and with shoulders held high and proud, he entered the flat.

Avoiding John's gaze in order to hide his pink face, he headed to the hall.

"Sherlock... You don't have to hide. I promise I won't question you about anything," John blurted.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks while his brain processed what John had just told him. Was John willing to give up on the whole Reichenbach Fall case without demanding an explanation?

For the first time since returning home, he had a pure smile appeared on his face. Of course, he was. It was John, after all. His best and only friend he ever had, and the bravest, kindest, and wisest man in the world.

How could he last so long without this man going mad? He should enjoy every minute spent with him, not hide in his room and drown in self-pity! There will be loads of time for that at night, when he'll do his best to resist falling asleep again.

He faced his friend with a sneer. "That's very thoughtful of you. I appreciate it, but I'm just going to take a shower..."

"So you finally stopped sulking, then?" John teased with visible relief.

"I don't sulk, John..." Sherlock made a highly offended face and pouted his lips. "If I remember correctly—and I do—I warned you that sometimes I don't speak for days... I had to sort something in my Mind Palace," he clarified, gifting him with one of his 'it's obvious, don't be an idiot' glares.

"Yeah, sure, I should have known that..." he heard John's sarcastic reply before he slid into the bathroom. He didn't have to be in the same room to see John's grin.

He undressed, but not after making sure (several times) that he had locked both bathroom doors. Then he got into the shower enclosure and closed the glass door behind himself. Soon, the bathroom filled with the comforting noise of a running shower.

The hot water did genuine wonders—it caressed his skin and soothed his muscles, stiff with tension. The tiredness rose with the warm steam, and the familiar smell of shower gel cheered him up a bit and stimulated his mind and body.

Unfortunately, what he witnessed a while ago could hardly pass forgotten.

Their arrival hasn't surprised him in the slightest. He reckoned that his resurrection would attract a certain amount of attention. Think about it: when the only Consulting Detective in the world turns into a liar, then into a suicidal man, and finally into a plump dumpling that was raised from the dead, it's not surprising that his return will cause a stir in society.

Only...

Until he left the safety of Baker Street, it was just him and a handful of people that knew about his new state and the unpleasant memories that got him into it.

But now, his return has turned out to be real, and it could not be kept secret any more. Soon, the whole of London (and maybe even the whole of England) will know how pathetic Sherlock Holmes ended. That instead of the famous, fearless detective, only his empty, fleshy shell had returned.

And John...

John will find out soon that he's not worth his time. It seemed unlikely that he would move out, but he knew John would start treating him differently. Praises for his deductions will slowly fade out, just like nudging him to eat and sleep more, and instead of them, he will hear more and more often not to do this, to go shopping, to find a job like a normal person would... which he probably should, because otherwise, he will be completely useless.

He can't just sit on the couch while letting his older brother and John do all the work. If he no longer helps the town get rid of criminals, then at least he should earn some money and be useful in looking after the household.

And maybe he could start with paying the bills, he thought as he realised that he'd been standing under the shower for a good while. That won't please John very much...

Slowly but surely, the water grew cold, and it was time to wash the foam off and climb out of the shower enclosure. He dried himself, slipped into the dressing gown, and sneaked into his bedroom.

He walked to the closet and began looking for something to wear. He decided he would have to settle for a pair of black sweatpants and a grey hoodie, as his wardrobe could not be considered very generous.

Mycroft had offered him several times to take him to his private tailor, which Sherlock vigorously refused. The last thing he wanted to undergo was a session with an unfamiliar man, circling around him with a tape measure.

»»──────　★　──────««

And speaking about Mycroft...

Sherlock more than expected that his annoying older brother would stop by, considering today's events, yet he couldn't say that his visit would have boosted his mood.

Mycroft took control of everything and everyone, and the Order could become his second name. Well, maybe the third one, right after the Umbrella...

They were sitting in front of the fireplace, both sitting in their armchairs and drinking a cup of hot tea, when Mycroft Holmes (to Sherlock's great joy) appeared in the door frame.

"Good evening," he said, nodding towards the doctor. "And hello to you, brother dear. How are you?" he asked, as it was his habit when he graced them with a surprise visit.

"I was doing pretty well... And then you came in," Sherlock growled from his armchair. The corners of John's lips twitched.

Mycroft didn't seem amused (but when did he?). "Believe me, I really hate to interrupt your idyllic evening, but I guess you have an idea why I'm here... Anyway, how was your dentist's appointment? I hope you behaved like an adult this time," he emphasised the word adult with a sneaky sneer, only to be rewarded with a bored roll of the eyes.

"Oh, God, not again... It was a long time ago, Mycroft," Sherlock said, waving his hand.

To put it simply and explicitly, Sherlock Holmes hated dentists. He hasn't approved of this job since his very childhood, let alone his parents.

A vivid image of their mummy, huffing behind his back, chasing him all around the house while using curious swearwords and rhetorical questions similar to "Why can't you be as reasonable as your brother?" has stayed in his mind to this day.

However, his dentist remembers Sherlock's dental sessions with true terror. Things between the two have been rather tense since he had bitten him to the point of needing a few stitches. Whenever he comes to him again, he won't even let him open his mouth without numbing it first.

"As far as I remember, it's not that long," the man, usually called The British Government, lazily leaned on his umbrella, and his face gained an even more serious look, which meant that he'd certainly get a lengthy lecture. Not about the rules of decency when visiting a dentist this time...

"Let's get to the point. I'm not here just to tease you. It's about that group of journalists. I've withdrawn all the photos they captured, but you should be more careful. I'm sure you know well that your resurrection won't go unnoticed. And not just that, people will be curious... You don't want it to get in the newspaper, do you?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and tilted his head threateningly. "Maybe I'm wrong, but that's none of your business..."

Mycroft frowned in disagreement, and a tiny, worried wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows. "You are wrong, Sherlock. You, especially you, know very well what journalists can do... Do you want it to end up just as with Moriarty?"

Sherlock's face turned into a stone mask, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. Of course, he knew what they were capable of. Kitty Riley's article has ruined his entire career and friendship! But there was no point in worrying about it. His worries won't turn back the time...

"They are idiots anyway; I don't care about what they think... I can't hide forever—the sooner they take my photo, the sooner they'll leave me alone!" he threw in a bitter remark. He can say goodbye to his old life and his Work, anyway.

"Well, I still have some work that needs to be done. The politician never rests... Would you accompany me?" Mycroft asked innocently, although, in his case, it meant more like 'You have no choice, come with me...'

Sherlock folded his fleshy arms on his chest and pouted at him. "You had no problem finding a way up here. I'm sure you'll find a way out as well."

But the git already turned his back on him, heading out of the door, convinced that he'd follow.

"I'm coming..." The detective sighed and scrambled out of the armchair with zero enjoyment.

"If there's anything you need, just ask me. I'll be glad to help you," the older Holmes began as they descended into the darkened hall.

"I need nothing from you any more; I think you've done enough," Sherlock noted venomously and turned around to leave. "If that's all you wanted to tell me, you could have told me up there... The door is over there, just in case you have forgotten."

Mycroft's hand grabbed his wrist and stopped him in his tracks. "Sherlock, I get that you're angry with me. I have to admit, it was cruel of me to send John here without letting you know first, even by my standards. But if you knew about my plan, you would never have agreed to it."

"So you played a dirty trick on me to make me look like a fool?" Sherlock snarled and yanked his hand out of his brother's grip.

Mycroft raised his hands, palms first, to evince that he had no intention of arguing. "Quite the opposite. I'm trying to help you. You need somebody who you really trust... And John is the only one you have allowed in. You complete each other's qualities and fix your flaws, and you need him as much as he needs you."

Now, that was something Sherlock had to agree with. He could count the people he trusted on the fingers of one hand. And after the nasty experiences he had gone through, his trust thinned out even more.

He had felt a little better since John moved back in. John's presence couldn't drive away ugly thoughts, but it improved his mood and decreased his loneliness.

The days felt a bit more liveable. His life finally acquired some meaning again.

When Sherlock seemed to calm down a bit, Mycroft let his arms fall alongside his body and shot his "little" brother with a pitiful glance. "If I were in your shoes, I would talk to him. You know how suspicious John can be."

Unfortunately, Sherlock didn't accept his advice the way Mycroft probably hoped for.

"I think I can take care of myself. You don't have to lecture me all the time! And speaking about your preaching, I remember that it was you who told me that caring is not an advantage!"

He knew Mycroft meant no harm and just wanted to protect him, but he hated his stupid power complex! Only because he's the older one doesn't mean that Sherlock's still that little boy who has to be treated like a fragile flower. He was a properly functioning adult, God damn it!

"Yes, I just warned you that caring is not an advantage, not that it's something bad. That would be truly hypocritical of me. I care about you, even though you obviously don't see it that way, and I don't want you to do something stupid."

"You have a curious way of showing it, when you're forcing me to stay home and order what I can or can't do..." Sherlock spluttered, and his hands, hanging alongside his torso, clenched into fists.

And then Mycroft made a horrible mistake, saying something he should never have vocalised.

"Trust me, I have no intention of doing that... It's just... I'm sure even you realise that this state makes you rather... vulnerable."

He had no time to even finish the sentence, as Sherlock had already trod towards him. "What did you just say?" he shrieked, glaring daggers at his sibling, and only the power of will did not allow him to throw himself on wide-eyed Mycroft.

Mycroft's words awakened the chaotic mess of emotions that had been piling inside his chest during the last few months, yet they never got a chance to express themselves. And Sherlock tried not to imagine what horrible things he could do to his brother (albeit unintentionally) if he hadn't kept it under control.

He walked over to him until they both stood face to face, and although he was a little lower than Mycroft, he could easily catch up on those few inches with his anger and corpulence.

"Let me give you some advice as well. Get the hell out of here before I'll show you how vulnerable I can be!" he said in a whisper so dangerous that nobody would ever doubt the truthfulness of his threat.

Not even Mycroft. Fixing his grey eyes on Sherlock's, he gave him a quiet, polite apology, and with no other word, he took his leave.

Sherlock watched Mycroft's disappearance. At any other time, a feeling of satisfaction would warm him, but today he boiled in rage. He turned around on his heel and headed back to the flat.

However, he was not even halfway up the stairs, and he could no longer catch his breath. His heart pounded in his ribcage at such a volume that he could hear it with his own ears. The muscles in his legs stung painfully, and his flabby belly jiggled with each step. He stopped on the ninth stair and sloped against the bannister, shaking with fury and fatigue.

What bothered him most was that, deep down, he knew his brother was right again.

About John as well as about his vulnerability.

"Who am I trying to fool? He's right... I can't even climb up this stupid staircase!" Sherlock gritted his teeth and sank onto the stairs. He lost track of the time he'd been sitting there, elbows propped up against his knees, face hidden in his palms. That was why he started, as he heard a woman's voice from below.

"What was that noise about?"

As he raised his head, he spotted their nice landlady just a few stairs below, watching him in concern. His expression must have given the impression of being even more pathetic than he already felt, since she approached him and sat down beside him.

"This position is not very suitable for your hip... The angle you are sitting in and the height of the stair-" he commented, but Mrs Hudson only laughed it off.

"Damn my hip... What happened, dear?" she asked with worries on her wrinkly face and moved a little closer to him.

"My brother happened," Sherlock hummed grumpily. He expected Mrs Hudson to ask, to lure him into speaking, or at least to give him some kind of speech, but none of that happened. His kind landlady knew him all too well for that.

A thin arm wrapped around Sherlock's back. He froze. He's never been the one to look for physical intimacy, and he hardly allowed anyone to invade his personal space.

He feared to move so as not to squeeze or lie on her. He felt like a giant next to her petite figure. Mrs Hudson saw no problem in it as she gently brought him closer to herself and soothingly put her hand on his knee.

Sherlock glanced up, and his gaze met her loving eyes. A strong ripple of emotions emerged in his chest and dissolved his tension and uncertainty. He dared not to guess how much she knew, and to be honest, he didn't care.

The knowledge that he was sitting with someone who did not ask him questions, did not give him lectures, and loved him unconditionally was enough.

AN:

Good morning, my dear readers!
I think our boys would be lost without Mrs Hudson, wouldn't they? Her mother-aunty relationship to Sherlock was a balm for a soul from the very first episode. What do you think?

Yours,
PaulineHolmes02🖤