The baby had come with due congratulations, despite the premature birth throwing everything for a loop. His normal failsafes, his usual eye on Sherlock had grown weak in the face of Moriarty's return, and while he had been all too happy to send his dearly beloved brother back home, turn the plane around -- it exhausted him, spending so much time calculating and mapping and following whatever little leads they could find. He had expected his brother to take the forefront, but Sherlock Holmes hadn't been reachable for days.
A visit to his flat (not physically, no, no need until he knew he was there) with the CCTV told him that he wasn't available. Not home. Danger signs that send warning bells off in his head, because he had left for a somewhat extended period of time. He put the alert on his brother higher, made sure to keep two men's eyes on him in order to tell him when the lanky young man would be arriving, put full security on Mary and John and the baby, and god help him Sherlock, if you allowed Moriarty to get to you now --
It wasn't a shock when Sherlock's dear little seven percent solution was out and about again. A kit with a needle and a vial and a syringe, and Sherlock's absence becomes all too clear. He attempts him by phone, first. Calling, not texting, because he refuses to do anything but speak to him in person, refuses to do anything until he hears his dear brother's voice. The landlady becomes the best ( and only ) option -- John needs to be with his family now, no time for these games with Sherlock, despite however he knew the man would be the best to keep him away from it.
Ms. Hudson shows him upstairs, and allows him in the room.
He's not surprised when he opens the door to see his darling dear baby brother (christ, he remembers when he only came up to his chest, remembers when he didn't think Sherlock knew what smack was, remembers when he wasn't addicted to morphine and heroine and vacillating between highs and lows) lying on the couch as though the world is in slow motion. To him, it likely is.
He stares.
"Sherlock." Clipped, formal. Attempting to be polite. He had been emotional with him in the past, but showing one's weakness to Sherlock Holmes is an invitation for disaster.
no subject
The baby had come with due congratulations, despite the premature birth throwing everything for a loop. His normal failsafes, his usual eye on Sherlock had grown weak in the face of Moriarty's return, and while he had been all too happy to send his dearly beloved brother back home, turn the plane around -- it exhausted him, spending so much time calculating and mapping and following whatever little leads they could find. He had expected his brother to take the forefront, but Sherlock Holmes hadn't been reachable for days.
A visit to his flat (not physically, no, no need until he knew he was there) with the CCTV told him that he wasn't available. Not home. Danger signs that send warning bells off in his head, because he had left for a somewhat extended period of time. He put the alert on his brother higher, made sure to keep two men's eyes on him in order to tell him when the lanky young man would be arriving, put full security on Mary and John and the baby, and god help him Sherlock, if you allowed Moriarty to get to you now --
It wasn't a shock when Sherlock's dear little seven percent solution was out and about again. A kit with a needle and a vial and a syringe, and Sherlock's absence becomes all too clear. He attempts him by phone, first. Calling, not texting, because he refuses to do anything but speak to him in person, refuses to do anything until he hears his dear brother's voice. The landlady becomes the best ( and only ) option -- John needs to be with his family now, no time for these games with Sherlock, despite however he knew the man would be the best to keep him away from it.
Ms. Hudson shows him upstairs, and allows him in the room.
He's not surprised when he opens the door to see his darling dear baby brother (christ, he remembers when he only came up to his chest, remembers when he didn't think Sherlock knew what smack was, remembers when he wasn't addicted to morphine and heroine and vacillating between highs and lows) lying on the couch as though the world is in slow motion. To him, it likely is.
He stares.
"Sherlock." Clipped, formal. Attempting to be polite. He had been emotional with him in the past, but showing one's weakness to Sherlock Holmes is an invitation for disaster.