John feels exposed. He is, in fact, exposed -- or at least his pants are. They are poking cheekily up above his jeans, right where pants should not be. Good grief. John is glad he's (mostly) not gay; it seems far too embarrassing to look for a date, if this is the kind of thing involved. For the fifth time, John pushes the red waistband down to a more appropriate position. For the fifth time, he pulls it back up.

He can’t believe he let Harry talk him into this. He suspects that after yesterday’s movies and a good night’s sleep she’s feeling better, and that she is just milking the Clara angle for all it's worth. But she pleaded and made puppy dog eyes until he agreed to at least try them on.

What jumper goes with red pants? He doesn't have anything suitable, except maybe his Christmas jumper, which is not happening. Really, though, he needs something on the short side if the pants are to be at all visible.

“This is demented,” he mutters to the mirror. “I’m not going to match my outfit with my pants.” He pulls on a pale jumper which has shrunk slightly in the wash, then heads downstairs to the sitting room. Maybe he's being overly self-conscious, and nobody will notice. Except Sherlock.

Harry looks up and grins. “Oh, those do stand out!”

“Right, I’m changing,” John turns around.

The front door slams. “John, come at once!” Sherlock calls from the stairs. Everything else forgotten, John grabs his jacket and runs.

* * *

Several hours later, after examining two drowned bodies in a school bus, Sherlock leaves John standing outside with the instructions, “Wait. If you see anything unusual, shoot.” With that, he disappears. John stands there trying to figure out what kind of thing constitutes something unusual, and whether he is supposed to shoot that thing, or just shoot in the air to summon Sherlock. (He can rule out shooting to summon the police; they’re already on their way.) He suspects the latter, but wishes Sherlock’s communication were a bit more clear.

A black car with tinted windows rolls up. The back door opens. “Get in,” says Anthea, texting (not really Anthea, but it's the only name he has for her).

John, irritated, debates whether this is something unusual. It's unfortunately not. "I'm on a case right now, actually."

"Don't worry -- someone will be keeping an eye out." She tilts her head toward the CCTV camera peering at them from a nearby building. John surrenders, gets in the car.

He sits with a rigid back, tapping his fingers against his knees impatiently as they drive. Sherlock told him to wait. He should have waited.

“Should I give you my card? Make sure Mycroft hasn't forgotten my number?” he grouses. “That really would be the easiest way to get in touch.”

Anthea smiles and doesn't look up from her phone.

Eventually, they pull up outside an empty warehouse. John walks inside to find Mycroft leaning on his umbrella, looking pensively off into the distance. John clears his throat.

“Hello, John.”

“Mycroft.”

“I did try calling, you know.”

“Oh?”

“You didn’t answer.”

John remembers turning off his phone yesterday with talking to Harry. “Ah. Right.”

Sherlock's brother turns to face him and raises an eyebrow. “That's new.”

“What?”

“You have got a bad case of it, haven’t you?” Mycroft smiles, and instead of looking sinister, actually manages to look vaguely sympathetic.

“What are you talking about?” John asks nervously.

“Those rather fetching red pants, John.” Mycroft smirks.

John had forgotten entirely about the pants. He yanks his jumper down and practices his beet impression once again.

“Has my brother reacted?”

“No,” John mutters. “How do you know it’s for him, anyway?”

“John.” Mycroft shakes his head slightly.

John hunches his shoulders, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets. He pulls his jacket closed -- another layer to cover up the telltale pants. “No, he hasn’t reacted, and I expect he’s not going to. I think I’m barking up the wrong tree.”

Mycroft looks thoughtful. “I wonder.”

John glances up in surprise. “Why? Do you, um.” He swallows. “D'you have any evidence that Sherlock... likes... men?” John cannot fathom that he is having this conversation with Mycroft. But at this point he is desperate enough for information to continue.

“Perhaps. He has been involved with men before.”

“Oh.” John says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. That is better news than he expected. Men, plural, even. “When?”

“First month of university. He saw three of them, in rapid succession.”

“Hm. Any girls?”

“Three also. Second month of university.”

“Ah. Could have just been an experiment, then.”

“Yes.”

John is surprised that Mycroft is sharing this information with him. Mycroft seems to catch his thought. “You’re good for him, John. You make him a better man, and a more stable one.” John shakes his head at the idea of Sherlock being less stable. “I have no idea if you can attract his attention in the way that you want. But I wish you luck.”

“Thanks.” Mycroft isn’t all that bad, really, John supposes. He clears his throat. “Is that why you brought me here? To talk about this?” He starts to blush again at the idea that the British government has been surveilling him and his pants.

“I fear not.” Mycroft’s expression turns somber. “Has Sherlock ever mentioned our cousin, Sherrinford?”

John can't help himself. “Christ, what is it with your family and names?” Mycroft does not deign to answer. “Er, no, I don't think so. He doesn't really talk about family.”

Mycroft nods. “Sherlock and Sherrinford were almost the same age.” John notes the were. “And they were close, as children. Close like brothers.” John thinks he detects a certain wistfulness in Mycroft's voice. Mycroft has always been more of a caretaker than a peer, John suspects.

“After leaving university, Sherlock spent some time exploring the seedier side of London, taking copious amounts of illegal substances. Sherrinford and I both spent some time trying to look after him -- though he did not want to be looked after.” John knows how that goes. He wonders, not for the first time, what it was like to know Sherlock then, in his lost days, and whether he would have liked him, been drawn to him, in the same way.

Mycroft sighs. “Looking after addicts is not very rewarding, as I believe you know.” John nods. “Sherrinford gave up, eventually. He delivered an ultimatum which Sherlock refused to obey. So Sherrinford cut off contact. Even after Sherlock cleaned up for other reasons,” John wonders about those reasons, but now is not the time to ask, “they did not speak again -- not once in over a decade.”

John notes, again, the finality of the language. “What happened?”

Mycroft is silent for a long moment. “Sherrinford died yesterday,” he says. “Automobile accident.”

John's heart breaks a bit for Sherlock. “I'm sorry for your loss,” he says quietly, automatically. It's what one says.

Mycroft inclines his head. “Thank you, John. We were not particularly close. Eight years is a large age gap, and my work has not left room for some time now for me to maintain close ties. To anyone.” It's the closest John has ever heard Mycroft come to saying anything about his personal life. He sounds more resigned than regretful.

“Sherlock, however, is going to need your help, John.”

Quick nod. “Yes.”

“He's been avoiding me, and this isn't news I wish to pass on by text. Tell him for me, would you?”

“I -- yes. If that's what you want.”

“He'll take it best from you, I think.” John doesn't know what to say to that, but it's probably true. “Also, there will be a memorial service in one week’s time.”

“I’ll let him know.”

“Thank you, John. And good luck. With everything.”

And then John is back in the car, on his way to rejoin Sherlock, carrying with him news that he absolutely does not want to have to share.

* * *

“Did you know he talks to you when you're not here?” asks Lestrade.

“Yeah, I'm aware,” John admits. Lestrade nods, unsurprised.

They're standing outside the school bus. Sherlock has reappeared and, following the preliminary investigation, apparently shooed everyone who isn't a corpse out of the bus so that he can spend some time in his mind palace. How he got New Scotland Yard to agree to this plan, John will never know -- but John notes that Lestrade is keeping a close eye on him through the windows. It's cold, and John is wishing he'd brought his heavier jacket, or at least a jumper that fits properly.

Donovan walks past, says, “Your boyfriend wanted some quality time with dead people. You do realize he's a freak, right?” John ignores her, doesn't rise to the bait. He's still thinking about Sherrinford.

He's debating wandering off to find something warm to drink when Sherlock finally emerges from the bus. “John! I've solved it. Also not from our Kneecap Killer --” he frowns for a moment -- “but fascinating, nonetheless.”

“Brilliant,” he responds, knowing the solution will be. He nods as Sherlock rattles off his deductions. Unlike Lestrade, who is taking notes, he's not really listening. He's watching Sherlock's lips, the pleased half-smile and the rapid-fire of his observations. He's wondering what shape that mouth will make when he tells him the news.

Eventually, Lestrade thanks them, and Sherlock heads off to hail a cab. “Let's walk,” John says instead. It's an absurdly long distance from their flat, but Sherlock says nothing, just follows John as he starts off down a mostly empty side road.

It's nearly a half hour before John manages to say anything. He's been thinking about Harry, and what he'd do if he lost her, and especially what he'd have done if she'd died during that whole stupid year when they hadn't really been talking. He doesn't want to be thinking about any of it, can't help it.

“Sherlock,” he says, finally. Doesn't look at him.

“John?” Sherlock seems uncertain, not his usual self at all. He has probably realized that John has been to see Mycroft. John isn’t sure what else he’s managed to infer from John’s current behavior.

“I have some bad news.” Sherlock says nothing. After a while of hoping in vain that Sherlock has already figured it all out and will spare John from having to do this, he continues. “It's about your cousin. Sherrinford.”

Sherlock says nothing.

“Sherlock… there's been an accident.” Christ, he’s a doctor. This should be easier.

Sherlock says nothing.

“Sherrinford… Sherrinford died. Yesterday. In a car accident.”

Sherlock says nothing. John looks at him, finally, which he couldn't do while talking. Sherlock looks the same as always, for the most part. But he's not looking around, observing his city and the people in it (not that there are many people along the path they're tracing). Nor are his eyes darting in their characteristic I'm deducing now fashion. They're just flat. Empty. Unblinking. Staring at the horizon.

John wishes he knew what to do, to say. Knows, from seeing a friend blown up right before his eyes, that there is never anything to be said.

John reaches out his hand and wraps it around Sherlock's.

Sherlock jerks his hand away like he's been burned.

“Sherlock --”

“Get away,” he snarls. He wraps his coat tightly around him, speeds up, and takes off on a perpendicular path, his long legs carrying him at a pace that John would have to trot to keep up with. John stands and watches him go.

-----

Author's note: This chapter indirectly references Red Pants Monday: http://www.dailydot.com/entertainment/sherlock-martin-freeman-red-pants-monday/