Chapter Text
Sherlock stared down into the swirling blue water, stubbornly supressing a shiver as the wind cut through his coat.
He reached up and ran a hand through his wet curls, brushing them away from his face. Rain drizzled down relentlessly on him, threatening to turn into a full-blown storm.
It had been raining for three days straight.
Sherlock exhaled slowly, as close to a sigh as he would let himself come, and leaned back against the crumbling brick wall behind him, still staring down into the swirling waves of the river.
Mycroft was late.
For someone who was usually so scheduled, he was certainly taking his time now.
Sherlock lifted his gaze to scan the buildings around him, noting the location of CCTV cameras out of habit and then checking the windows and rooftops for snipers or anyone else who might be following him.
Two years. Sherlock could hardly believe how long it had been, it all seemed a dull blur now.
There was the wet swooshing sound of a car driving through puddles and wet leaves, and then a long black limo was in front of him. The door opened, pushed outward by someone inside.
Sherlock approached and slid sideways into it, inhaling the smell of new leather.
Within moments his seat was wet and slippery, from a combination of the dripping of his coat and the drizzle of the rain through the door. He pulled the door shut behind him with a satisfying thud and leaned back in his seat, enjoying the cool warmth of the car.
"I hope you weren't waiting in the cold for too long." The voice, smooth with a touch of insincerity, came from the seat beside him.
Sherlock turned his head to look at the source of the voice, taking in the usual suit and tie, neat haircut, and carefully neutral facial expression. Unchanged, then, despite the year or so it had been since their last in-person meeting.
"Only long enough to border on hypothermia." Sherlock replied dryly.
"Apologies. I was unavoidably detained."
"Busy blackmailing an opposing government official? Or did it simply take you that long to locate your umbrella?"
Mycroft sighed, exasperation peeking through his cool facade. "Neither. I was arranging last-minute details of your 'dramatic' return."
"Irrelevant details, you mean."
Sherlock expected a comeback, or at least an expression of exasperation, but instead there was silence.
Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly in confusion. Mycroft had an odd look on his face, something like... hesitation? Indecision? Either one was out of place on Mycroft's facial features.
"Mycroft?" The word came out more uncertain than intended, betraying Sherlock's unease at Mycroft's hesitance.
Mycroft was definitely hesitating now, and it showed in his tone of voice. "Sherlock..."
Sherlock frowned. "What?"
"There's.. something I haven't.. mentioned."
Sherlock's mind began to race, running through possibilities of what Mycroft could be hesitant about. Someone in Moriarty's network that they'd missed? A problem with Sherlock's return from the dead? Something to do with Mycroft himself?
"What?" Sherlock snapped, on edge now. "What is it?"
Mycroft hesitated again, then sighed. "It's about John."