Words

The Way of Things | Sherlock | onesided Sherlock/John, John/Mary, Mycroft | G, 324 words

A/N: In which, on her iPod, Liz writes a ficlet out of boredom in fifteen minutes.

:::

“That’s Mary,” says Mycroft.

Sherlock looks up as Mycroft takes a seat, and says nothing. He knew Mycroft was going to find him; he had, however, underestimated the speed at which his brother would manage the task. Finding Sherlcok Holmes is difficult enough. Finding him when he is disguised and supposedly dead is even tougher.

“They met seven months ago.”

“Are you talking to me?” Sherlock asks, keeping his voice low - still playing the part of the older businessman. Not because it will fool Mycroft, but because it will annoy him.

Mycroft ignores the childish question. “They’ve been dating for five. Madly in love, from the look of it.”

Sherlock sees John laugh and lift a scone to Mary’s lips. This time, she laughs, and then John speaks. He can’t hear anything, of course. They’re at the cafe across the street, after all.

Sherlock doesn’t need to hear to know what’s being said.

“Why did you slip past my security and come here, Sherlock?”

“You know why.”

“I told you he was well.”

“And if he was not, you would have lied to me, to keep me away.”

Mycroft nods, and that is the only acknowledgement he will give to Sherlock’s statement.

“I want to go home.”

“I know you do. But your work isn’t finished yet, and John is doing well enough on his own.”

Sherlock does not react, and so Mycroft smiles, rising once more to his feet with the aide of his umbrella.

“Maybe you wish he were less well, Sherlock? Still moping over you? Weeping into his pillow?”

“Stop it.”

“I told you John was happy. Just once, Sherlock, I knew you wouldn’t like what you might find if you looked further.” Mycroft sighs. “Leave London. Nothing is here for you, Sherlock. Not yet.”

Sherlock looks at John, wrapping his fingers around the skin of Mary’s wrist, and wishes he was fanciful enough to believe any longer in lies.