dimity_blue | Sherlock fic - Deal or no Deal, pt 2

Title: Deal or no Deal
Author: Dimity Blue
Rating: PG
Genre: gen, humour, angst, AU
Characters: John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, OCs
Word Count: 5,761 words
Disclaimer: Not mine.

By the time the car reached the Diogenes Club, John's euphoria had abated somewhat and been replaced by a sick, uncertain feeling that was rapidly turning into anger. Sherlock was alive - and he'd left John to grieve for him for the past three months. The car stopped and John threw open the door and practically ran down the path. There was an escort waiting for him and, as he turned and began to lead the way at a steady pace, John followed, practically treading on the man's heels in his hurry. He barely gave the man time to knock on a door before John pushed past and opened the door himself. The door shut behind him and he blurted out, "Sherlock's alive." Mycroft gazed at him, no surprise on his face, and what was left of John's happiness dissipated entirely. "You knew."

"Sit down, John."

John held onto the back of the armchair, disbelief warring with his anger as he repeated, "You knew."

Mycroft sighed, then answered, "Yes."

John's hands clutched tighter at the armchair as he fought the urge to punch the smug bastard in the face. Mycroft knew. Sherlock had told Mycroft but left John to spend the past three months grieving, devastated that his best friend was dead.

"Moriarty hired hitmen to kill you, Detective Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

"Moriarty's dead," John said automatically, as his mind tried to make sense of the non-sequitur.

"The demons told you that, did they?" Mycroft shook his head. "How indiscreet."

"So Moriarty's hitmen -"

"Had orders to kill you unless Sherlock jumped," Mycroft interrupted, his voice harsh. "With Moriarty dead, there was no way to stop them. Sherlock had to fake his death in order to protect you."

"But..." John's fury died down a little and he could think again. "Why stay dead? Once Moriarty was gone -"

"Moriarty's network is still active. The world believes Sherlock is dead; he's able to work in the dark...and remove the inner circle."

And there was no place for John at Sherlock's side. Mycroft didn't have to say it for John to know it was true; his grief provided cover for Sherlock. Even now, knowing the truth, John would have to stay in London and mourn a man who wasn't dead. It was the only way to protect Sherlock.

Defeated and tired, John sat down and accepted the glass of whiskey Mycroft handed him. "How long?"

"For as long as it takes."

John swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, revelling in the burn of it all the way down. He was a soldier, and now he had to stay behind, stay safe, while Sherlock fought on the front line alone. And there was nothing he could do without exposing Sherlock to danger. "Who else knows?"

"Only those who were necessary in helping Sherlock fake his death."

It was a small comfort. "Lestrade?"

"No. I should imagine his anger will almost equal yours."

It would...assuming Sherlock came back alive. John hoped he'd get to see Greg's reaction. He drank some more whiskey and tried to look on the bright side; at least Sherlock was alive, for now. At least he might return. That was more hope than John had had - outside of that contract, anyway.

Which reminded him... It was probably unwise to provoke Mycroft but John was honestly curious. "You're not a demon, are you?"

He took a spiteful delight in almost having made Mycroft choke on his whiskey. "My dear John!"

"You can't be an angel."

Mycroft finished dabbing spots off his tie and put his handkerchief away, his gaze meeting John's. "I'm as human as you are."

John rather doubted that. "Then how did you know?"

There was a gleam of mischief in Mycroft's eyes.

"You haven't bugged their offices!" And John thought he liked to live dangerously.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

John leaned back in his chair and resisted the urge to scoff loudly; he recognised an official, governmental denial when he heard one. He swallowed another mouthful of whiskey, then asked, "Now what?"

"Now you forget."

"Forget?" John could never forget. And, unlike Sherlock, he never would want to forget. He realised Mycroft was gazing at the glass in John's hand, and he looked down, then tried to sit up straight in shock. "You drugged me!"

"Yes." John stared at him in disbelief as Mycroft continued, "It's the only way, John. You will forget, no matter how much you wish otherwise. Now, go to sleep."

As though the words dissolved his will, John's eyes slid shut.

~~~

John opened his eyes and yawned, then sat up straight so fast he almost wrenched his back. It couldn't be six o'clock already. He'd only shut his eyes for a minute before putting his shoes on, and now it was six o'clock and the damned place (literally, in this case) would be shut. Shaking his head in disbelief that he'd been that tired, John got up from his seat and headed into the kitchen area of his tiny bedsit. It was strange, he thought idly as he poured milk into his mug, that demons would stick to such a rigid schedule, almost like an old fashioned bank. He stopped, staring at his mug as a wisp of memory floated through his mind, then shook his head as it eluded him. It must have been something he'd seen on the telly.

He'd just have to go to the address the next day, that was all there was to it. It had taken him long enough to get the actual address - everyone knew of it, knew someone, a friend of a friend, who'd been there - but getting hold of an actual address had been more difficult than John would have thought. In any case, waiting one more day wouldn't hurt.

~~~

John looked down at the paper in his hand, then back up at the address in front of him. This was it. He looked at the building next door and checked their number, then the one on the other side. Yes, this was definitely it. Only...there was nothing there.

There ought, John thought, to be a building in the middle. But there wasn't. John checked the paper in his hand again. The numbers on the other buildings bore out his belief that there should be a building, a number seventeen to go with their fifteen and nineteen. He looked harder at the gaping space, thinking that maybe he'd somehow missed a building. It was utterly impossible that there wouldn't be a building there, even if he'd got the wrong address completely. But there wasn't. No matter how hard he stared, his eyes informed him that yes, there was a large gap in the middle of the two buildings, and it was just the right size for another building to fit in.

He walked up the path, through the tiny forecourt of gravel surrounded by wrought iron railings, and stared at where the doorstep was meant to be. Buildings just didn't disappear, but that's what it looked like this one had done. Upped and gone in the middle of the night, like a rent-defaulting tenant.

"Strange, isn't it?"

John jumped at the sound and turned on the spot to stare at the man leaning against the wrought iron railings. "Uh, sorry, what?"

The man grinned at him, cosying up to the railings as though he were propping up the bar in John's local and about to discuss the football scores. "That," he said, nodding his head to the large space where the building wasn't. "Went in the middle of the night, it did. You should've seen the crowd here this morning." He laughed, a wheezy sound, hinting at lungs that were well acquainted with forty cigarettes a day. "They didn't linger though. Well, they wouldn't. Too worried that lot might come back and start talking to 'em."

"Went?"

The man nodded. "Gone. Not a sound either. Not that they're sorry," he added, a reassuring tone in his voice. "It's not what you want in the neighbourhood, is it?"

John managed to collect his wits. "Do you know where they've gone to?"

"Nah, not a clue. Not like that type'd leave a forwarding address...well, apart from the obvious one." He laughed again. "I'd say try the landlord but it's all government buildings 'round here, so you won't get no answers from them."

"Government..." John stared at the empty space. Mycroft couldn't have...could he? Even Mycroft couldn't make a whole building disappear.

"Not that it's any of my business," the creaky voice continued, "but, er...what did you want with them anyway?"

John closed his hand around the paper, crumpling it up in his pocket. "I don't suppose it matters now."

"Oh, one of them." After a moment, he added, "Take my advice, mate, and stay away from them. It's not what you want, something like that hanging over you. No one would want that for you, would they?"

John breathed heavily through his nose, then marched back down the path. "Thanks for the advice."

As John passed him, the man said, "Which you won't take." He didn't sound offended, he even smiled - a slight, rueful, quirk of his lips - as John stopped and turned to stare at him. "No one takes unasked for advice. It's never what they want to hear, is it?"

"How did you know?"

The smile widened. "I've seen them all - the good, the bad, the indifferent. They all came here. And quite a few of them came stumbling out in shock that they had nothing left to bargain with." His knowing gaze looked John up and down. "Not you though - you could've signed. But nobody would want that for you." He leaned over and plucked the paper from John's pocket. "Best to leave them alone, John Watson."

He turned and walked away, ignoring John's demand of, "How did you know my name?"

As John followed him, he sped up, turning the corner of the street quickly. John broke into a trot, then a flat out run, then stopped at the corner, staring around. The long street was empty and the man was gone.

For a moment, John stood still, trying to ignore the way his heart was hammering. The man couldn't have just disappeared...unless he wasn't human, that was. He'd seemed human, though that didn't guarantee a thing. John took a deep breath, then another. The man had probably ducked into one of the tiny gardens the area specialised in and was lurking out of sight, that was all. He debated searching, then turned away and headed home. Even if the man was still around, he'd undoubtedly find it easy to avoid being spotted.

By the time John got to his street, he'd made up his mind to get back in touch with Bill, the friend who'd reluctantly handed over the business address that had so suddenly turned into an empty space. Bill would argue, John was sure of it, but it was the only way. The thoughts of Bill's arguing vanished as John spotted the posh black car outside his building. "Mycroft," he sighed.

Putting his shoulders back, John marched into battle. Unsurprisingly, the car door opened as he approached and Mycroft smiled at him from the back seat.

"John, do please get in."

After a moment, John did while mentally acknowledging his curiosity as to what Mycroft wanted now, and whether it could possibly be coincidence that the demons'...landlord was the government and here was a 'minor official' on his doorstep.

John took his time settling himself into his seat, taking a small and petty delight in making Mycroft wait. Once he was comfortable, he looked over and said, "Mycroft. What can I do for you?"

"You can stop asking people where to find the nearest - or any other - demons' office," Mycroft replied, surprising John by coming so quickly and so bluntly to the point.

John pursed his lips. "I might be wrong, but I don't think that's any of your business."

"You'd be surprised."

"No, I don't think I would." As Mycroft opened his mouth, John continued, "If I choose to sign a contract for Sherlock's life, that's my business, not yours."

"I'm afraid it's very much my business, John. I won't allow you to sign a contract."

That just added to the annoyance John had been feeling over the day's frustrations. "Why? Jealous because you won't - or can't - sign a contract for him?"

There was a look in Mycroft's eyes that suggested the barb had gone home, but his tone was mild. "You won't be able to enter any demons' offices, John, so give it up."

And that, as the saying goes, was that. John tried; he got another address from Bill, then another useless address after that, when the second address turned out to be another empty space. After that, Bill refused to discuss the issue with him at all and even went so far as to hang up on John. It wasn't until spring was almost over that John finally accepted Sherlock wouldn't be resurrected at all. It left John wondering how exactly Mycroft had managed to stop him so successfully; after all, demons were supposed to make deals with anyone suitable. John thought Mycroft couldn't have that much influence with demons...could he?

Of course, about eighteen months after that, Sherlock returned, whole and reasonably healthy, with no demon intervention needed at all.

Though John still had his suspicions about Mycroft.

The end.
14th March 2014.