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“Other things may change us, but we start and end with the family.”
~ Anthony Brandt
The morning was chilly yet pleasant, with clear skies and bright sun. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes strolled through the streets of Denerim hand-in-hand, appropriately bundled up, on their way to the Market District. They'd received John's first month's pension and were planning to pick up groceries, as well as see if there were any odd jobs they could find around the square or from the Chanter's Board. (Ordinarily, just one of them – usually John – would have gone, but Sherlock had insisted that John had no idea how to haggle. John had pointed out that skillful haggling did not typically include scanning each merchant and subtly blackmailing them with their once well-kept secrets. Sherlock had naturally demanded proof that this was so.) As they walked, they made light conversation about current events, recent experiments, and letters John had finally been able to receive now that he had a permanent address.
It had been more than a week since they'd reunited and John had moved into 221B Baker Street. Life since then had settled into a quiet normalcy, without regiment or restriction – and neither of them could have been happier. They were looking forward to further adventures and exploration, but for now they were content to simply enjoy being together. John, however, was becoming a little concerned. Sherlock had been acting a bit strangely lately.
“When did you come to bed last night?” he asked Sherlock as they turned onto a quiet side street.
Sherlock did not answer right away. “No later than usual.”
“Yes, well, your 'usual' is so late that it's early – early morning, that is,” John shot back. “I'm not deaf when I meditate, Sherlock; I know perfectly well when you've come in. What is going on? That's the fourth night in eight days that you've gone to bed just as the sun is coming up. And don't tell me you were just sitting up reading or working because you missed a speck of mud on your boots this morning. As you know, it rained yesterday afternoon, and we didn't go out after that.” He quickly added, “I'm not checking up on you or anything – but I occasionally notice things too, you know.”
Sherlock was quiet. “I sometimes like to take late-night walks. It helps clear my mind. Why is that of concern to you?”
John sighed. “Sherlock, you know it's not that I don't trust you, or think that you can't take care of yourself. I just – I'm worried about you. Sometimes you seem fine, but other times you seem a bit...disconnected, I guess. Like you're not all there, and not because you're lost in thought. And then you do things like wander off by yourself at night for long periods, or hide all the sharp objects in our place. Or like yesterday, when I cut myself making dinner, and you acted like I'd cut off my arm.” He squeezed Sherlock's hand. “You know you're not alone anymore. Whatever's bothering you, you can talk to me about it. We'll work through it together.”
Sherlock stopped walking; John did as well, but did not let go of his hand. They turned to face each other, alone in the street.
“I am still becoming accustomed to your presence, John,” the mage said finally.
John nodded. “I know. I am, too. To your presence, I mean. Think about it – we went from just seeing each other occasionally to being apart for a year to practically being married in one night.” He chuckled. “Not exactly a traditional courtship. We're both still adjusting, and that's to be expected. But I don't want you to feel like you have to isolate yourself when you feel uncomfortable.” Standing on tiptoe, he kissed Sherlock lightly, pulling away before Sherlock could deepen it. He'd become wise to Sherlock's attempts at distraction when they tried to discuss what was bothering him. “There's nothing you can't talk to me about.”
Sherlock was silent; John waited patiently. After several minutes, the mage finally spoke. “John, I –”
Thwack!
Whatever he had been about to say was rudely interrupted by an arrow whizzing past them from an alley on their left to bury itself in the wooden wall they were standing next to.
Both of them jumped, startled. The arrow had just been close enough to grab their attention without any risk of hurting them. Surely such a good marksman would know better than to practice in such close quarters, unless he got some sick thrill out of just missing people.
“Hey!” John shouted angrily. “Watch where you're shooting!”
There was no answer; John was about to move to investigate, but Sherlock was already examining the arrow. “John, look at this.”
John did, but saw nothing special about the missile. “What? This is just an ordinary arrow, Sherlock. Everyone who can pick up a bow has a quiver full of them. Shouldn't we –?”
Sherlock shook his head. “Look closer,” he said, gesturing impatiently.
“All right, fine, but I don't –” Now John saw that there was indeed something odd about this arrow. “Hang on – there's a note attached to it.”
Puzzled, John unrolled the note as Sherlock looked on. “'Good morning. Don't move,'” he read aloud. “'This is a friendly note to let you know you're being kidnapped.'” He looked up, alarmed, only to see Sherlock looking annoyed. “Sherlock...?”
“Mycroft,” was all his partner said, scowling.
“Are you sure?” John frowned, rereading the note. “This handwriting looks familiar...”
“It ought to,” a voice answered from around the corner. Moments later, a silver-haired man clad in light leather armor and carrying a shortbow emerged from the alley. He looked at John, tipping his head. “Seeing as that's all you've seen of me for the last twenty years.”
John's eyes widened in disbelief. “Greg?”
Greg Lestrade responded with a broad grin. “At your service, old friend.”
“You're one to talk about being old,” John teased, indicating his friend's hair.
Greg grinned sheepishly. “No one to blame but myself for that one, huh?”
He slung the shortbow on his back as John ran to meet him. The two men laughed and hugged in the middle of the street as Sherlock watched, his expression unreadable. After a few moments, they walked over to him. “Greg Lestrade,” John said, his smile bright, “this is Sherlock Holmes.”
Greg looked Sherlock up and down. “So you're the mage who stole John's heart.” He offered his hand, which Sherlock took for the slightest of shakes. “Enchanté.”
“Bloody son of an Orlesian,” John murmured affectionately.
Sherlock tilted his head and looked at John. “As am I.”
“I know. But you're not the one who just made a spectacularly bad pun.”
Greg grinned cheekily. “You've missed me. Admit it.”
“It's been far too long,” John said warmly. “So what's this about a kidnapping?”
“Oh, right. Just a second. These arrows aren't cheap, you know.” So saying, Greg yanked the arrow from the wall and stuffed it back into his quiver. “Anyway, sorry for the near-miss, but fact is I'm here on behalf of a client – and friend – to kidnap and bring you two to the Holmes estate. To – and I quote – 'among other things, pick up your belongings that have been sitting here for one bloody year, you tosspot.' His words, not mine.” He looked at Sherlock. “Shot in the dark here, but I'm pretty sure he meant you, ser.”
“I gathered such,” Sherlock replied coolly.
“The Holmes estate?” John repeated. He looked at Greg, comprehension finally beginning to dawn. “Wait – do you work for Mycroft Holmes?”
Greg shrugged. “Not officially. But I am his preferred Irregular when he needs to hire us, and occasionally he trusts me with outside jobs like this one.” At John's astonished look, he chuckled. “I would have mentioned it to you sooner, but confidentiality issues and all. You know how it is.”
John quickly thought back to some of the letters he'd received over the past year. “Hang on; how long have you been working for him?”
“Oh, we first met about sixteen years ago when he needed an Irregular for a special job – one of my first tasks for them, in fact,” Greg said casually. Neither he nor John noticed Sherlock's lips part slightly in surprise at that comment before abruptly closing again. “After that we worked on and off together for a while – he doesn't use the Irregulars as often as some of the other groups he's connected with – but recently he's needed our – my – services more often. So we've pretty much worked together exclusively for the past year.”
John shook his head in amazement, laughing before he lowered his voice. “So you know how it is to deal with a Holmes?”
“Oh, yes.” Greg grinned. “Rather fun, isn't it?”
John smiled back. “I suppose I have to say oui.”
“Well, come on, you two.” Greg pulled a cloak from his pack and donned it. “We're losing daylight here.”
“My brother and I have not seen each other in thirty years,” Sherlock said crisply. “What is another wait?”
Greg rolled his eyes. “Another wait is the difference between my waking up tomorrow morning and my mother receiving my head by morning courier. Now come on.”
The three men proceeded on their way, with John walking between Greg and Sherlock. The ex-guardsmen made most of the conversation, with Sherlock only occasionally chiming in.
“How long are you in town for?” John asked Greg.
“Not long, I'm afraid. I just got back from a job three days ago and was handed a new one the minute my foot crossed the threshold. The Irregulars have been quite busy lately. I'm leaving in a couple days for the Frostback Mountains, of all places.” He grimaced. “If it's cold here...it ought to be so much more pleasant there.”
“Indeed,” Sherlock said. “Considering your last job was in the relatively temperate climate of South Reach, on behalf of a nobleman who generously provided you with a warm bed, a horse, and, unbeknownst to him, the juvenile affections of his daughter. You attempted to dissuade her, but the young woman was not so easily put off, and she holds out hope that one day you will return regardless of her father's wishes, as evidenced by her favor.”
Greg stared at him for a moment, then turned to John. “You'd think I'd be used to that by now.”
John shrugged and smiled. “Give it time.”
o~O~o
A while later, the trio had crossed the bridge and made their way along Drakon River to the upper-class area of the city, near the hill where Fort Drakon stood. Eventually they came to a large estate a short distance up the hill – not as sprawling as the properties owned by the arls or even those of the banns, but clearly the domain of one in high social standing. Greg and John practically had to drag Sherlock the rest of the way – and John knew it wasn't because the mage was fatigued.
Once they arrived, Greg knocked on the door. An elven servant answered and showed them in, taking their cloaks. While they waited for their host in a room just off the foyer, John looked around, suitably impressed. Mycroft Holmes was clearly a man of exquisite, though not extravagant, taste. The estate was expensively yet tastefully decorated, with fine carpets and wall hangings offsetting the chill of the grey stone and polished wood. All the furnishings had an air of understated practicality that struck John as very Fereldan.
If Sherlock was affected by all this finery, in such contrast to the modesty of 221B, he did not show it.
They did not have long to wait for their host. Mycroft himself appeared minutes later. He walked down the hall to meet them, fashionably and elegantly dressed as always. He wore his usual discreet, perfunctory smile.
“Bonjour, Mycroft!” Greg said cheerfully. John did not fail to observe how Sherlock stiffened when Greg used his brother's first name.
“Bonjour, Greg,” Mycroft answered pleasantly. He looked at John, his friendliness now just slightly more restrained. “Hello, John.”
“Hello, Mycroft,” John answered politely.
Mycroft then turned to Sherlock. “Brother dear,” he said, smiling just a bit too widely now.
“Brother mine,” Sherlock replied stiffly.
With greetings done, there was a moment's silence.
“Food and drink in the usual place?” Greg asked.
“It is. I just purchased a new ale you may be interested in. It was delivered straight from Honnleath and arrived this morning.”
“Merci!” Greg took hold of John's arm. “If you'll excuse us, gentlemen, this man and I have some catching up to do.”
“What, I'm no gentleman?” John asked with feigned indignation.
“Not if you want to pick up where we left off, you're not.”
“As I recall, we left off –”
“Well, memory does worsen with age –”
Once the rogue and the warrior had exited to the hall, their good-natured arguing still just audible after they closed the door, the Holmes brothers were left alone. There was a long period of silence, broken first by Mycroft.
“How are you, brother dear?” he asked pleasantly.
“As well as can be expected.” Sherlock's answer was tight-lipped.
“One never knows what to expect with you, Maker be praised,” his brother said. “It keeps life more interesting, as I'm sure John well knows.”
“And that is the difference between you and me.”
Mycroft frowned. “Are you trying to imply something, Sherlock?”
Sherlock glared. “You have always needed to maintain control, Mycroft, even over things you could not reasonably expect to. Including my life.”
Mycroft sighed. “This isn't about your being sent to the Tower, is it? Sherlock, that was thirty years ago. I understand if you're still angry about that – you have every right to be – but you're free now. You're with a man who would protect you with his life, and you've learned how to control and cultivate your talents. You have managed quite well despite your circumstances.”
“Circumstances you created for me,” Sherlock retorted.
Mycroft's once-even expression was now more annoyed. “You were born with your magic, and you know it. Do you think Mummy and I didn't consider every option we had? Even Father had discussed the possibility with us, just to be safe, before he died. We'd seen what happened to mages whose families tried to keep them a secret. Look at what happened with Connor Guerrin just last year. The only other possibility would have been finding you a competent teacher, and the chances of that were extremely remote. All we could do was try to make the transition as easy as possible for you. Would you rather have been dragged away by the templars, or spent your life with us on the run and in hiding like common criminals? Perhaps it could have been managed differently, but what's done is done. And consider that had you never gone to the Tower, you might never have met John.”
Sherlock considered the last statement for precisely one minute. “When you couldn't control me, you handed me off to someone who could,” he said coldly. “But even then, that wasn't good enough for you. You still wanted a hand in my life, even after you had given up all rights to it.”
“If you're referring to the many times I offered to secure your release, that was not about control.” Mycroft sounded more like he was talking to a moody teenager than a man in his mid-thirties. “Before Mummy died, I had promised her that I would do everything I could to try to help you out of the Tower – and even if I hadn't, I would have done so regardless. We were both determined you wouldn't spend your life imprisoned there. All that remained was for you to let me help you.” Mycroft snorted. “And even she knew that wouldn't be easy. Luckily she was not around to hear about your first refusal.”
“I do not deny that you helped me, Mycroft.” Both of them knew that was as close as Sherlock would come to showing gratitude for Mycroft's actions – for the time being, anyway. “But even then, did you need to exert some degree of authority?”
“What do you mean? All I did was obtain your phylactery, have it made into a necklace, and deliver it to you.” Mycroft sounded slightly annoyed that he hadn't been able to do more, or that there weren't more strings attached.
“Yes, but did you know who you enlisted to help you?”
“Yes, of course! There were only three, and all were vetted thoroughly before I availed myself of their services. The necklace-maker was a skilled Tranquil mage employed by the Wonders of Thedas, and the Tranquil are not known for betraying confidences if they have no reason to do so. The courier was one I had known for some time, the sort of person who, for the right price, could be trusted to make deliveries without asking or inviting questions. And as to the man who helped me retrieve the phylactery –” Mycroft stopped abruptly. “I am sure you would not be asking if you did not already know.”
Sherlock gestured vaguely toward the hall. “He mentioned today that you and he first met sixteen years ago when you needed an Irregular for 'a special job.' He also mentioned that he was new to the Irregulars at the time. You would have wanted a recent recruit for this task, as those newest to an organization are those most eager to please, most likely to do as they're told without question. I am sure even John will put it together eventually, if Lestrade does not tell him first.”
Mycroft smiled somewhat patronizingly. “Rather elementary, my dear brother.”
Sherlock ignored the comment. “What did you know about him?”
“I knew a great deal about him before I even met him, Sherlock. You're going to have to be more specific.”
It was Sherlock's turn to sigh. “Did you know who he was? Who his friends were?”
Mycroft tilted his head, finally understanding. “Did I know that he is the best friend of the man you would eventually come to trust with your life? No, I did not.” He sounded oddly neutral about this fact. “When I checked into Greg's background, John was certainly listed among his known associates, but nothing stood out about him. In fact, John had only recently begun templar training, and had not even been stationed at the Tower yet. Contrary to what we wanted you to believe as a child, Sherlock – and what you still seem to believe now – I do not control every significant event in your life. Some would ascribe such occurrences to the Maker, others to chance, still more to something different altogether. What you believe is yours to decide.”
He took a step towards his younger brother. “In your case, do you need to believe I have control to make up for your lack of it?”
Sherlock remained impassive. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”
Mycroft glanced around, making sure the door was closed, before he moved closer. “Then show me.”
Without warning and with the reflexes of a cat, he grabbed Sherlock's left arm and pushed up his sleeve. When he saw the scars and white lines echoing up and down his brother's arm, he closed his eyes for a moment.
“I would ask what you are thinking,” he said finally, “but clearly all thought and reason has gone out the window.”
Unable to extricate himself from Mycroft's grip, Sherlock glared and snapped his left fingers once, twice, three times, producing fire, ice, and lightning in quick succession. When Mycroft released his arm, Sherlock snatched it away and rolled down his sleeve.
“How long, Sherlock?”
“That is none of your –”
“How long, Sherlock?”
Sherlock did not answer for a few moments. “Some months after I escaped the Tower, but before I moved to Denerim.”
Mycroft exhaled deeply. “I trust you have not harmed any innocent people in your pursuit of new knowledge?”
Sherlock shook his head. “The only blood I have spilled is my own.”
“For now.”
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, 'for now'? I have no intention of harming anyone other than myself, if that is what you are implying.”
Mycroft rubbed his forehead with one hand as he turned away and began to pace. “It may not be you who spills innocent blood, Sherlock.”
Sherlock said nothing.
Mycroft turned on his heel to face his brother again. His tone was sharp. “What kind of demon did you make a deal with?”
Several minutes passed before Sherlock replied. “A pride demon, one who I met during my Harrowing, and who claims to have watched me since well before that.”
“Oh, perfect.” Sarcasm practically oozed from Mycroft's lips. “You made a deal not only with the most powerful type of demon currently known in the hierarchy, but one who has a special interest in you. Let me guess what you offered it: yourself, after a certain period of time.”
“Ten years.” The response was terse, clipped.
Mycroft threw up his hands. “Why, Sherlock? I will not argue your right to make your own choices, but when your decisions are as monumentally stupid as this one –”
“What was my alternative?” Sherlock demanded. “Moriarty –”
“Oh, it told you its name, as well? Or at least how it wanted to be addressed?” Mycroft stared for a moment before shaking his head. “Well, this situation continues to look more and more promising, wouldn't you say?”
Sherlock's scowl deepened. “As I was saying, Moriarty made it quite clear that it would not cease to...take interest in me. If I had ignored it, there is no telling what it might have planned in retaliation. Entering the Fade and confronting it directly was too impractical. Accepting its teachings and promising willful possession was the simplest way to try to control it.”
“And why didn't you just try to kill it once you had summoned it from the Fade?” Mycroft questioned.
Sherlock's gaze flicked away from Mycroft's for an instant. “That was one backup plan. However, it proved...unfeasible.”
“Unfeasible?” Mycroft stared. “Because, according to Vheren, pride demons are powerful enough to dispel magic as well as be immune to it...or because your own thirst for knowledge, your need to be the best, dispelled your common sense?”
He leaned towards his brother. “Or both?”
Sherlock's silence was answer enough.
“You have done your reading,” was all he said after a time.
Mycroft sighed. “It is always wise to know one's enemy, Sherlock. Any threat to you is a threat to me – and I do not mean in the practical sense. You may not believe me, but it's true. When I grew older and discovered exactly what dangers mages can present, to non-mages as well as themselves, I studied all the Fade lore I could get my hands on. I have commissioned studies to produce more. I may be the smart one – oh yes, you remember that, don't you?” he asked on seeing Sherlock's raised eyebrow of recognition. “But despite that, I never believed you had serious potential to be dangerous.” He looked briefly at Sherlock's still-covered left arm. “However, it turns out I know you better than you think. And given your track record, you still don't know what you're going to do when the time comes.”
“Ten years is time enough.”
“Not to a demon, it isn't.” Mycroft gave Sherlock a meaningful look. “And not to a human, either.”
“Do you refer to me or to John?” Sherlock asked quietly.
Mycroft lifted his own eyebrows. “You have changed, then. Even if only by heading further down the path of foolishness, on perhaps a different branch.”
“Because caring is not an advantage? As you and Mummy always used to tell each other?” Sherlock snapped.
Mycroft eyed him. “There is a difference between being disadvantaged and being deficient, Sherlock. Which would you rather be?”
Sherlock said nothing.
“You let him down once. He forgave you.” Mycroft tilted his head. “Are you willing to try your luck again?”
Sherlock was still silent.
“You've certainly pressed it enough by keeping this secret,” Mycroft remarked. He narrowed his eyes. “How have you done it for so long?”
For the first time, Sherlock looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I've been...distracting him.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Well, that would explain the high collars he's taken to wearing of late.” He sighed. “You know as well as I do that you can't keep it up forever. He will find out sooner or later, Sherlock. Better he hears it from you first.”
“I know.”
“Then let me just say this: if you had to choose anyone to be your companion, your protector, you chose well. With his background, he is equipped to protect you in more ways than even I can. He is fiercely devoted and loyal to you; even 'death' could not keep you apart. He cares for you even more than he cares for his Maker. He needs to know, Sherlock, for his safety as well as yours.”
Sherlock looked at his brother with almost bewildered eyes. “I didn't choose him, Mycroft. Nor did he choose me. We just...found each other, sort of.” He said the last more to himself than to his brother, with a quiet amazement that belied his confidence in logic, reason, and all the things one was supposed to factor into choice, or the illusion thereof.
Mycroft waved a hand dismissively. “Regardless of how you met...you chose to trust him, didn't you? To share your life with him? And that is beside the point. What's done is done. You know very well what you have to do. Now do it.”
Sherlock nodded, though neither his gaze nor tone showed even a hint of acquiescence. “I will.” He cocked his head. “And I suppose you think you are a paragon of decisive action?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Kidnapping us simply to get my things out of this place?” And reunite John and Lestrade, as well as you and I? he did not say.
Mycroft gave him a superficially pleasant smile. “'This place', as you so charmingly refer to it, is as much yours as it is mine. And you and John are welcome here anytime. However, I simply thought you might like to have your vielle, as well as your potion-making implements and other books back. And when you did not come to collect them...” He let the sentence hang there for a moment before continuing. “Besides, they are taking up valuable space here.”
“Yes, in this vast estate. And if I bring them to our home they will take up valuable space in our little apartment. What is the difference?”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “The difference, brother, is that they will not have been donated to the local orphanage by the end of this week.”
Sherlock glowered. “Are you really so eager to be rid of any reminder of me?”
“There is no need to be so hostile, Sherlock. I simply thought you might like to have your things back, the better to make your new home more comfortable. And you cannot avoid me forever. We are all each other has in this world.”
“Such a tragedy,” Sherlock shot back. “And patently untrue.”
“Do I detect a hint of sentiment? My, you have changed.”
“Shut up. You know where we live. You could have just had them delivered,” Sherlock said coolly.
Mycroft smiled; Sherlock didn't. “Where is the fun in that? Now,” he said, opening the door, “why don't we join the others for some lunch?” When Sherlock did not respond, Mycroft sighed. “This is not a fairy story, Sherlock. Partaking of the food will not trap you here forever.”
“No, but there is the danger of going insane from staying too long and running round chopping everyone's heads off before the afternoon is out.”
“What fairy tales did you read as a child?” Mycroft asked as they made their way down the hall.
“The same ones you read.”
“Ah, yes.”
o~O~o
Greg and John sat across from each other at the long table in the dining room, tankards of a dark ale with a thick, oaky smell placed in front of them. As they swirled it in their mugs while laughing and talking, the ale took on a glow not unlike that of the flush spreading across their respective faces.
“You sure this stuff is safe to drink?” John asked, eying the drink dubiously.
Greg shrugged. “It's ale from a village of apostate mages. You're the templar, you tell me.”
John frowned, then shrugged; he did sense something from the ale, but as far as he could tell it wasn't malevolent or dangerous. “Honnleath is a village of apostates?”
“You really have been in the Circle too long.”
“I suppose so,” John said, taking a sip. He knew from all his years there that no one made better ale than mages, and indeed, this was the best he'd had in a long time.
“So you're getting back in touch with your Orlesian side?” he asked as he set the tankard down.
Greg took a drink before answering. “Well, you know I sort of lost interest after my father died. Maddy, too, once she moved to Rivain with Rafe. Knowing the language came in useful for my work, certainly, but I really didn't feel much connection to Orlais once he was gone. That's what happens when your mother is Fereldan through and through.” He smiled. “But then, that's what my father loved most about her.”
John smiled as well. He'd only met Alain and Elsa Lestrade a handful of times, but he'd always admired how utterly devoted they'd been to each other – east and west, fair and dark, practical and romantic. At least some good things had come out of the Orlesian invasion.
“Anyway, as you now know, I've known Mycroft for quite a while, but it wasn't until the past year or so that we started to get to know each other outside of work – mostly because we were working together so often, we usually just ended up stopping for drinks or dinner after I finished jobs for him. And, as you also know, he and Sherlock are half-Orlesian too, through their mother. And hearing him talk about her, all the cultural things she loved – authors and artists and what have you – made me think about what my father had loved about Orlais, and next chance I got I went to my mother's and started going through all the things he'd brought with him when he moved here. So we've been comparing and contrasting for a while now.” His smile became wistful. “It's like getting to know my father in a whole new way.”
John smiled. “I'd love to see them sometime.”
“Sure! Once I get back from the Frostback Mountains, we'll go visit Mother. She'd love to see you again. And she really appreciated your sympathy letter, by the way.”
“Of course. So that's how you and Mycroft got to be friends?” John asked.
“Pretty much.” Greg gave his friend a mischievous look. “Isn't that basically how you and Sherlock got together? Sitting around over tea and talking?”
John gave a small laugh, conceding the point as he sipped his ale. He raised an eyebrow. “So are you trying to say something about you and Mycroft...?”
Greg snorted. “John, Mycroft and I have known each other as grown men for sixteen years. If nothing's happened by now...then it's not bloody likely to, is it?”
“I suppose not,” John said innocently, unable to hold back a smirk. Greg returned the look, and moments later both men were laughing. Once their laughter had subsided, Greg studied him for a few moments.
“You know,” he said, “you seem really happy, John. More than I've ever seen you before. It's good to see that.”
John grinned. “Well, I am. And thanks.” He took a long sip before continuing. “Life's better than it has been in a long, long time. And Sherlock seems happy, too.” As he set down his cup, he cast his gaze downwards for just a moment. “For the most part.”
Greg looked at him, concerned. “Something wrong?”
“Well...” John bit his lip. “I can't put my finger on it, but Sherlock has been acting kind of odd lately. He doesn't seem unhappy with me or anything, but...something just seems off. Like he's worried that I'll turn around and smite him if he says something wrong, or like he has this big secret he just can't talk about.” He looked at Greg again. “I'm worried about him.”
“Well, John, forgive my saying so, but his whole life is a secret, and you do have reason to be.” Greg leaned forward, resting his hands and mug on the table. “Him being an apostate and all.”
“Yes, I know that,” John said. “But...he's managed to make it on his own thus far. I don't know why he would be worried now, especially now that we're together again.”
“Maybe that's what's worrying him,” Greg said thoughtfully. “That you'll up and leave or turn on him if things don't go how you'd like, and he'll be alone again without any protection. This has been a big change for both of you. A good one, yeah, but you're still adjusting.”
“Yeah, I know,” John sighed. “Maybe you're right. I keep trying to get him to talk about it, but he...” He trailed off, seeming a bit embarrassed.
Greg raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
“He...” John fiddled with his tankard, casting his eyes all around the room as he answered. “He keeps...distracting me.”
There was a full two seconds' silence before Greg burst out laughing. “I'm sorry, John, really, but you can't just tell me something like that and expect – expect –” He was cut off by another fit of laughter.
John rolled his eyes as he took a drink. “Yes, haha, very amusing. And how long has it been for you, hm? Are we really supposed to believe that that nobleman's daughter couldn't tempt you?”
Greg's laughter finally died down. “Really, John, is that the sort of question asked between gentlemen?”
John gave him a teasing, knowing look. “You're the one who said I wasn't a gentleman.”
“Touché!” Greg took another swig of ale.
“In all seriousness,” John said, before the conversation could get too far off-track, “I know I have to get him to talk about what's bothering him. I just don't know how.”
“Well, from what you've told me about him and what I've seen so far,” Greg said, “I think you'll just have to keep trying. Don't push, but don't give up. Mycroft's not so different in that regard – but then again, he knew my parents' names before we even met, so he had the advantage.” He snorted. “Andraste's arse – sorry,” he quickly corrected on seeing John's chagrined look, “it took him fifteen years to even call me by my first name. After a while he was comfortable enough to start telling me things about himself. He and Sherlock are cut from the same cloth, you know.”
John nodded. “You're right. I know. I will. And I'll let you know what happens.” There was a brief pause before he went on. “Out of curiosity, did Mycroft ever mention Sherlock?”
“Oh yeah, his brother's not exactly a big secret or anything; he just never came up in conversation that much.” Greg took a long sip. “Actually, to tell you the truth, I knew about him before Mycroft ever even mentioned him to me; I just didn't know I did.” He stopped, seeming to carefully review that sentence, then deeming it satisfactory.
“Oh? What do you mean?”
Greg leaned over the table; John followed suit. The silver-haired mercenary spoke confidentially. “You know how Mycroft and I first met, sixteen years ago?”
“For 'a special job'?” John frowned, not seeing where this was going.
“Yep. He needed me to intercept a certain item's delivery, and normally he might have enlisted the help of the Mages' Collective, but knowing how mercurial they can be about that sort of thing, he didn't trust them not to keep it afterwards. Same reason he didn't go to the Friends of Red Jenny or any other groups you might think of. I was new and eager and didn't ask a lot of questions, just did as I was told.” He sat back, mug in hand, waiting for John to put it all together.
It took John a few more minutes and several more sips of ale; Greg sat patiently. Intercepting an item...Mages' Collective...sixteen years ago...special...Sherlock...
He gasped, nearly dropping his mug. Greg nodded, satisfied. John stared at him, wide-eyed. “You – you retrieved Sherlock's phylactery all those years ago?”
Greg just smiled and took another gulp of ale. John sat back, his look of disbelief slowly transforming to amazement, then gratitude, then a broad smile. “Well, I guess I've got you to thank for this, then...among other things.” He pulled the phylactery from under his shirt and held it out for Greg to see.
Greg returned his grin. “I suppose you do. So, will you be picking up all our future drink tabs in gratitude?”
John scoffed. “Once Orzammar freezes over.”
“Well, it was worth a shot.” Greg took a thoughtful sip.
“Small world sometimes, isn't it?” John mused.
“Indeed.” Greg looked his friend up and down for a moment. “Funny, the things that bring people together.” He chuckled. “I mean, look at us. We met because you didn't know what you wanted to do with your life and I thought I knew what I wanted to do with mine.”
John considered, smiling. Oh, he remembered that well. The two of them had signed up for the guard as eager, young, aimless men with nothing but skills to offer. They'd left a few years apart, but both had become disciplined, humbled, and focused by their experiences. Enlisting was easily the best decision John had ever made, and he knew Greg often felt the same.
“And now,” Greg went on, “I know and love what I'm doing with my life, and you...you've got the whole world open to you. With someone you love.” He smiled, without a hint of jealousy or bitterness, just genuine contentment. “You really are lucky, John.”
“I know.” John remained characteristically modest. “But look at you. You're friends with the Fereldan government, and you make a living traveling all over the country. You're doing pretty well, too.”
“Well, thank you.” Greg took a drink. “Can't say it's a bad thing, knowing the Fereldan government has my back. And the best thing about my work is that I never know where it'll take me next. Who would ever have thought I'd get paid to travel to places I never would have dreamed of seeing?”
“Like Orzammar?”
“Yep.” Greg took another swallow. “Interesting place; it's like a completely different world down below. They don't welcome too many surfacers, but as long as you can handle a weapon, you'll be fine.”
John gave his friend a sly grin. “Then it's a miracle you survived your first visit.”
“And what do you mean by that, ser?”
“As I remember, when we were in the guard, you couldn't handle a weapon to save your life. I had to do it for you!”
“That was one time,” Greg shot back, “and as I recall, I saved yours more than once, too.”
John scoffed. “Pure luck.”
“Luck, nothing! Luck is just another word for skill.”
“Well, I know what I'm getting you for your next birthday. A dictionary.”
Greg leaned back in his chair, regarding his old friend with amusement. “Well, it seems there is only one way to settle this. Just like we did in the old days.”
“You'd be the expert on that.”
Greg ignored the jab. “You know what I mean, don't you?”
John raised an eyebrow. “Are you proposing a duel?”
Greg's expression mirrored John's. “Will you accept my challenge?”
“Certainly.” John leaned back and took a casual sip from his mug. “I'll give you the chance to defend against false accusations.” He gave his friend a sly grin. “Of course, they won't exactly be false once they're proven.”
“Speak for yourself!”
At that moment the Holmes brothers entered the dining room, to see the two friends sitting across from each other with half-filled tankards of ale.
“So it's settled, then?” Greg was saying as they walked in. “Tomorrow, noon? Back alley near the Wonders of Thedas?”
“Yes, ser!” John mock-saluted. “And we will see who can better handle his weapon.”
“Just like old times?”
“Indeed.” John smiled with a teasing affection. “Emphasis on the old.”
Greg shook his head, laughing. “Says the man who remembers the Orlesian rebellion!”
“You don't only because you slept through it!”
While Sherlock had watched the exchange and tried – unsuccessfully – to hide his faint amusement, Mycroft had signaled the servants to bring in lunch. He tapped Greg on the shoulder. “Before we eat – Greg, a quick word if I may?”
“Sure.” Greg quickly excused himself and went out the door, leaving John and Sherlock alone together – something they both seemed quite happy about.
Once in the hall, Greg and Mycroft moved to the next room so they couldn't be overheard. “Greg,” Mycroft asked, “are there still minor tasks that the Irregulars can outsource?”
Greg nodded. “Oh, yes. Mostly things similar to what the Warden helped us with during the Blight. We're stretched a bit thin these days, and recruitment's been slow. We could definitely use some extra help.”
“Good. See to it that John and Sherlock take advantage of that.”
“For money, you mean? Oh, absolutely. I already suggested to John that he talk to our liaison in the Gnawed Noble if he ever wants work; we don't take help from just anyone, but my word'll be good enough for an in. The travel's the hardest part, really, but both of them seem to be able to manage that.” Greg looked keenly at Mycroft. “Somehow I don't think that's what you really wanted to talk about, though.”
“No.” No snarky quip or dry observation from Mycroft, just a simple statement of fact. “Greg...how close are you and John?”
Greg was surprised. “He's my brother in all but blood. Twenty years haven't changed a thing between us. You know that.”
“Good.” Mycroft paused. “He will need your friendship greatly in a short time. Your support will mean everything to him.”
“Well, of course! I'll always be there for John. But Mycroft, he has Sherlock now. Don't you think...?” He trailed off on seeing Mycroft's look. “Oh. Is this about Sherlock?”
Mycroft nodded. “Sherlock is in a great deal of trouble. John will have a difficult time helping him through it. By that token, he will need you to help him.”
“Well, you didn't even need to mention that first part. I'd already guessed Sherlock's in enough trouble, being an apostate, even if everyone else thinks he's dead,” Greg said somberly. “And if you mean to say he's in even more trouble, well... But thank you for the warning. Even if it's just through letters, I'll do whatever I can to help John - and Sherlock, too. I swear.”
Mycroft smiled. “Thank you, Greg. As always, you –”
“Meet expectations?” Greg finished. He grinned at his friend. “Well, better to aim high and accidentally hit your target than aim too low and miss it altogether, I always say.”
“Spoken like an expert marksman.”
Laughing, the two friends returned to the dining room for lunch.