Sherlock awkwardly tried to spark John's passion. And hurt him so much that John left. However, coming to terms with loss isn't about Sherlock.
https://www.wattpad.com/story/341514125-fanfics-about-sherlock-bbchttps://archiveofourown.org/works/47086126Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.
Mycroft has long been accustomed to being the laughingstock of all MI6 because of his concern for his brother. The opinions of people whose IQ doesn't exceed the thinking abilities of a goldfish never bothered him. However, Mycroft is not used to being a loser. And he wasn't going to get used to it!
How absolutely ordinary, a gray creature could disappear so that not only Sherlock but also Mycroft himself could not find him?! Of course, he has only idiots under him, but these are well-trained idiots who perfectly perform their small primitive functions, generally giving a good result.
And yet no one could find John Watson. It's been a month since he disappeared. And still there was no trace.
Stupid, emotional Sherlock. He is all emotions. He still understood nothing. Having a pet, even the sweet one, is not an advantage. Caring is a burden, not a reinforcement.
Mycroft prided himself on the fact that he had known no feelings or attachments. He admired the pure of his reason, not defiled by the influence of primitive, insignificant manifestations of biology, overshadowing the view of the world, an obstacle in the management of life. Mycroft's reason has always been practical. When people are driven by desire, they see only those possibilities that the world leaves open for them but do not create new doors in the universe. Those possessed by desires don't see the difference between Good and Pleasure, and therefore cannot distinguish Good from Evil, distinguish what is right from what is wrong. And that makes them unsuitable for making Goodness.
But Mycroft admitted that he himself, despite all his efforts, remained imperfect. He made a mistake.
It was necessary not to look at the saved life of Sherlock, but to eliminate John shortly after he shot the cabman.
John. That strange tin soldier. Could have been the making of Sherlock. Or could have made him worse than ever. However, he made Sherlock someone different. But who did he become? Or what is it? Mycroft didn't understand. And he hated not to understand.
Now Sherlock, having lost John, tossed between searches, work for wear and tear and drugs. Mycroft was losing a brother, and he hated to lose.
But this problem is solvable. Mycroft sent Sherlock to the hospital more than once. There is something else that is more important.
In those days when the paths of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes crossed, Mycroft's brother started to fool around again. Everything is standard and usual: boredom, brothels, drugs, but so far at the level that Sherlock could quit on his own, without the help of doctors and clinics. However, the irrepressible Lestrade phoned Mycroft, demanding action. Mycroft couldn't help but leave an emergency line for him. And Lestrade was right in his concern. But Mycroft couldn't intervene, because there were very difficult times in the service, a very responsible case was going on. And it was impossible for him to meet Lestrade, and interference would make the often meetings inevitable.
Mycroft didn't want to turn into a teenager with sperm toxicosis at the sight of Lestrade. At the sight of any other person too but only Lestrade of all humanity acted on him like that. Mycroft didn't know when it started. Not long after Lestrade started letting Sherlock pry into investigations.
This ordinary soldier, not a sparkling mind, but not a fool, a useful cog in a police car, suddenly turned out to be a bright, enticing personality. He was not afraid of his direct superiors, insisting on bringing in a civilian consultant from outside. He sent Mycroft, along with his threats of transfer, to a remote village so far away that the said village would appear to be the capital of the world. And he didn't refuse to go to even more remote and unpleasant places when Sherlock had to be taken out of there, and Mycroft had no unoccupied people.
And Mycroft fell into the most primitive of traps. But he hoped to get out, wanted to continue to avoid personal meetings with Lestrade, and therefore allowed John Watson to stay near Sherlock. The outcome of such a connection did not matter. The only important thing is that the uncertainty will end soon, and Sherlock will be either in his former form or in the clinic. The main thing is to keep ready those who will deliver it there.
However, things didn't turn out the way Mycroft expected. Sherlock quit drugs to cling to his addiction to John. Mycroft expected the adrenaline junkie John to be addicted to Sherlock, but it turned out to be exactly the opposite. Sherlock willingly did for John what Mycroft could never get from him, no matter how hard he tried: Sherlock gave John control of his life.
Mycroft was faint-heartedly glad of this at first: John took up all this burdensome work with Sherlock's bills and food, he walked him in the parks, made sure that Sherlock was not rude to others at least a couple of times out of a dozen, and forced him to restore a semblance of order in the apartment — in other words, he did the work of nanny, servant, and relieved people useful to Mycroft from unnecessary trouble.
But there was something more than that. At what point did pal become the palpitation of Sherlock, the principal in his life?
Sherlock was supposed to belong to Mycroft. And he always slipped away. But he jumped into John's palm.
Should, should, should have removed that pal back then. Offer a job in Sydney, make an inheritance in Edinburgh... But it's too late now.
Now John has disappeared on his own, and that is destroying Sherlock.
Mycroft didn't know what his stupid brother had done this time, and Sherlock was in such a state that nothing can be determined from him. Worthless brood-hen Hudson understands nothing. But Sherlock could have at least spilled the beans to Lestrade.
That Detective Inspector again! Damn Greg took every opportunity to get into Mycroft's brain, make him choke, and make his blood boil.
No, the blood doesn't boil, this is stupid poetisation.
But why does Mycroft feel like fire is flowing through his veins?
This is ridiculous. And hopeless.
Greg Lestrade is divorcing his second wife. This is not a husband. The woman.
This is the second woman with whom his marriage broke up.
[You idiot], Mycroft told himself.
He knew nothing about whether Greg had connections with men. Mycroft was afraid to find out. And he himself did not understand what scared him more — Greg's lack of intimate interest in men or presence.
The head didn't work. His lower part pulled everything over.
Mycroft, through a closed line on the phone, ordered the assistant to immediately get a hotel room and bring Alice White there.
Mycroft never used call-guys.
The woman. Any woman. They are all like the dawn — a beauty that makes the world more pleasant but cannot evoke emotions.
Irene Adler was an exception. However, even she didn't interfere with Mycroft's practicality and purity of reason.
But she knew how to take the pressure off. Irene understood how to cater to everyone. No one could compare with her in the skill to give pleasure until now. She seemed to read minds and did what the client needed to. She did not need instructions, she could immediately give satisfaction.
Mycroft sighed. Greg certainly didn't pick up the whip. And therefore…
Andrea entered the office.
"The car is waiting, sir".
"Thank you," Mycroft nodded and walked to the door.
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