whatofthewarts | (no subject)

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Irene Adler had many homes, and many more hiding places, but months after her death Sherlock was certain he'd found at least half those in the country. She had her many stolen jewels tucked away all over the apartment, and it took him the better part of the afternoon to dig them all out of their hidey holes. When he had them in his pockets, he went searching for someone else entirely.

Although they had their obvious differences, given their different environments, Sherlock found it was remarkably easy to track himself down.

"Making headway, I presume?"

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"If he's brought here, I'll say I got into a fight."

He doesn't sound like he's anticipating it, though.

"And yours has no reason to come looking for me. It's fine. No one will mind."

They're Sherlock's bruises, so he lets him worry about them.

"What do you make of the bee? It seems in good health, one obvious thing aside."

"It means I'm getting closer."

He admits, smiling crookedly (swollen skin pulling) and looking up at him, amicably.

"You simply must explain your methods to me."

He props himself up on an elbow, head leaning on his hand.

"After we indulge in some ice therapy I have been working on."

Ignoring the bit about the ice, Sherlock launches into an explanation. It's a beautiful analysis, betraying the inner workings of a deeply scientific and brilliant mind, relying on several major mathematical principles that haven't yet been invented. He gestures expansively while he speaks with the swollen hand.

The new principles, the shrewdness of it, has Holmes up and pacing. He's completely forgotten that he's naked, and also bruised, and that every muscle is sore. There's too much to think about to care about any of that.

"Of course!"

And he spouts off several tangents of his own, some of them completely unworkable which he dismisses on his own.

"And I can get home," most important, devotion showing radiant in him.

"Yes!"

The victory is enough to overshadow the very brief second where Holmes wonders how on earth he'll find anything as entertaining as himself. Everything will be so boring in comparison.

"I once met your Mycroft. He said yours was a world without coal polluting the air; a world where horseless carriages completely replaced the horse. Who wouldn't want that?"

"I don't care about that."

Dismissing, immediately.

"Truly. Not about black lung or the dangers of horses?"

They cannot be the same person. ...Never mind that Holmes is wondering where his pipe is.

"No. You're just- right. I failed him."

Explaining, though he doesn't really want to think about all this again.

"It needs to be set right."

Holmes looks at him, and rubs his palms together slowly.

"When I said that, it was not because I thought you would leave it at failure. I know that I would not. Neither of us could afford to, not with Moriarty."

"You never would have slipped that far."

He informs him, quietly.

"Our circumstances are very different, and I know it- but not why I failed where you didn't."

"There is the fact that I am several years older, with several years' more experience."

It seems such a plain explanation, though. Too simple.

"It is likely a factor, at the least."

"And Mycroft."

Biting the inside of his cheek.

"Our Mycrofts are similar. Yours seems less...uninhibited than mine."

He is curiously fond of both, though. His Mycroft is among the only people in the world who can make him relax enough to giggle like a schoolboy.

"What did he have to do with you and Moriarty?"

Testing, cautiously.

"I haven't uncovered all the ways. But he is deeply involved in the international world; and he assisted me in keeping Watson's new wife safe, and in setting the stage for confronting Moriarty face to face."

He looks at him with a small frown.

"What did yours do?"

"He traded me for information. Details about me for details about Moriarty's machinations. It's how he managed to convince everyone I was a fraud. A childhood anecdote here, a thing only a brother could know there-"

There is a chance that Mycroft was working with Moriarty here, in order to double cross him. A slim chance but one Holmes can't ignore.

"An understandable bargain, but certainly not one I would forgive a brother for."

"An error, maybe."

Shrugging.

"From Mycroft?"

Doubtful.

"Or he doesn't care."

Shrugging.

He can't say whether Mycroft does or not, of course. He knows that his own brother does, but Sherlock's had been...more careful. And Sherlock is not an easy person to attach to, he's sure.

"What matters, then, is if you care what he did."

"No."

Yes, so plainly.