Dreaming: Hello again, guys! Seems I couldn't stay away. Anna came to me about a request/idea and I started spewing things I thought of, and the next thing I knew, we were at it with another collab, and ohh, boy, was it so much fun! I hope you guys like this one as much as we did while writing it! XD
Aerorolo: Hey hey heyyy~ We are back 8D I am super excited to present you another collab fic that Ari and I did! It was so awesome writing with her again ;_; So much fun! We took turns on writing chapters like last time, with me writing the first chapter. Like what Ari said above, hope you enjoy it as much as we did!
Prompt: I would LOVE to see a one shot of disguised!Sherlock living as 'Benedict Cumberbatch', visiting John and hunting down Moriarty's henchmen. Bonus brownies for gingerbatch~
Requested by: umqraisntmorsecode
It's the best word to describe him right now. Infuriated is another.
Restless, only because he can't stand staying indoors, tucked and hidden away by Mycroft. However, that isn't the only problem or reason.
Staying indoors sometimes feels like a tedious game of sit-and-wait. The sitting: to laze about with only loneliness for company, and doing the necessary things at home: eat, sleep, shower, research (but he hardly does what the average person does in his or her own home. Eating and sleeping aren't necessary for lengthy periods of time for him). And then the waiting: to wait and hear from Lestrade on any new cases, or to wait for John to come home, or something similar.
But this is hardly the case nowadays.
No one knows he's alive, expect for a very few people.
Yet he continues to sit and wait. As if a miracle will happen. As if he could simply fulfil someone else's expressed miracle one day.
He finds himself quite anxious, over the past two and a half years, after having no contact whatsoever with his dear and only friend of his. It's all to do with protection, to keep one safe (in this case, his close friends); and for this reason, he has to resist rushing back to Baker Street in a hurry.
Adding to the Mycroft-keeping-him-locked-up problem, he finds his older brother checking up on him almost every day. He would feel rather perturbed by Mycroft's watchful eyes, but, however, he's used to it after years of cameras in the flat and months of this already, and so he waves his brother away as Mycroft asks him how his day was.
Perhaps, he's anxious, too, because he's awaiting news. Good or bad, it doesn't matter. In a way, he longs for communication from the outside world. His brother makes an effort to speak with him face to face, but only to update him on his chase for Moriarty's henchmen (Mycroft, once he discovered Sherlock's plans, arrested him "for his own good" and overtook the task himself with his government lackeys working under him, and it's annoying, really, that Mycroft has to be such an overprotective git with a control freak complex) and occasionally to inform him what John has been up to.
And there it is.
The reason why he feels so infuriated: John.
He doesn't feel certain rage at the doctor, but rather himself, in a way. Actually, yes, precisely that: he's furious at himself. John, beneath it all, is truly the reason why he feels restless. John is the reason why he feels so angered at his position now. For if he had only informed him of his absurd feelings for the other, then maybe things would have changed.
Hardly, he reminds himself honestly.
He feels enraged because he misses John. He longs for John's company and voice and daily musings, and every time he thinks he's able to voice it to Mycroft, he shuts up on the spot. What would it matter if he informed him of these feelings, anyway? It's not like his brother would do anything to help. He'd rather discourage it than encourage it, as a matter of fact. Possibly because it will be less heart-breaking if he never returns into John's life.
Because, Mycroft would think (and sometimes Sherlock does, too), feelings for John?
And now, suddenly, the room feels colder than it did before. He could have sworn he closed the window not too long ago. It's as if the weather is approving of his mixed up thoughts and feelings, choosing to reflect it accordingly.
He turns to the side, pulling his robe around him, curling up on the couch.
He releases a heavy breath, not bothering to look up at the newcomer. He hears a bit of rustling as if his brother is carrying a plastic bag, and it's placed on the coffee table.
"I hope you had some lunch, dear brother." Mycroft seats himself in one of the armchairs. He frowns upon the state of the living room. Photographs and articles, all pertaining to Moriarty's henchmen, plastered everywhere on the walls, and some scattered on the coffee table. And in some photographs, a thick red mark is crossed over the face. He's keeping track on how many henchmen they have left, clearly. "You should really clean up this mess, Sherlock." He picks an invisible fluff off his trousers.
"What do you want?" the detective demands, wasting no time. He refuses to face the other.
"I only came to check up on you."
"Like you don't do that enough already," Sherlock sarcastically remarks. "I found your camera behind the couch this morning!"
"Sitting around all day is rather dull." Mycroft crosses a leg over the other. "You should get some fresh air once in a while."
"Oh? Like I can obviously do that?" Sitting up now, with a dark expression. "How long is it going to take before Moriarty's henchmen are taken down, and I'm released? It cannot be that hard!"
"I have the best people working on it!" Sherlock rolls his eyes and Mycroft glares back as he continues, "No need to get impatient, Sherlock. John is doing fine, if that's what you're worried about." He scoffs.
Sherlock clenches his jaw rightly as he stands. "I said nothing about John, nor did I ask anything about him!"
"Perhaps I should get you to see a doctor..." Mycroft comments quietly as he peers around the room.
"I am not sick!"
"Perhaps not physically, no," Mycroft says mostly to himself, and if Sherlock hears, he ignores it. Louder, his brother adds, "Then I insist you go get some fresh air," he says simply. "I'll have eyes on you, so don't get any reckless ideas. But you can wear one of your disguises and see for yourself how John is doing."
"Once again, I said nothing about John..." Sherlock sits back down again, dropping his voice.
"Sherlock..." Realising his younger brother's eyes are growing dark and cold, he places his hands on his lap, eyeing the detective. "You haven't shaved in a long while..." Mycroft notes, examining the other. "Please tell me you haven't been sulking for this long. It's been nearly three years, now."
"I'm not sulking." He brings his knees to his chest. "Merely thinking."
"And yet you haven't shaved."
Mycroft stands from the armchair, pocketing his hands. "I hope you eat soon. I don't want you to starve." He cocks a brow and gestures to the bag on the table. "I brought you strawberries. I know how much you used to like them as a child."
Sherlock drops his gaze to the bag. "I hate strawberries," he murmurs.
"It's not too long before we catch the rest of them." Mycroft heads to the door. "And do get some fresh air. You possibly could have cabin fever."
"Cabin fever is for the weak."
"Which you will become if you keep staying inside. I know I am confining you, but not to the extent you're making it seem."
Sherlock huffs crossly. "This isn't just about me getting 'cabin fever' and fresh air as a cure. You're encouraging me to go outside to sneak a peak at John, for my own viewing pleasure, aren't you?"
Mycroft places a hand on the doorknob. He takes a good look at his brother. Instead of answering directly, he merely says, "With that thick stubble you've got going on, coupled with, perhaps, some hair dye, even I wouldn't think you were Sherlock Holmes, merely a look-alike in the eyes." And with that, he leaves, clearing saying a resounding 'yes' to his brother. He knows for sure the strawberries will have been eaten by the time of his next arrival.
Sherlock sits for a moment or two, rethinking. He can't just wait for Mycroft to tell him when they've finally gotten rid of Moriarty's henchmen. And if he really wants to see John (which, in fact, he does), then he should take some sort of action, at least. There's no room to feel angered or frustrated any longer.
Perhaps seeing John would lighten his spirits. But then the thought of John getting harmed just because of his selfish reasons stops him from attempting to catch a glimpse at the doctor. However, he knows his brother is keeping tabs on John and that he's safe and sound, and what's more, he will be disguised, if only to prevent panic in the media, as well as to keep John safe…
Sherlock brushes his fingers across his chin and notices Mycroft is right about the stubble. He passes the living room, glancing at his reflection.
Ah! An experiment! He almost missed the excited bounce in his step from what feels like ages ago. He's more himself, now, just at the idea of it. He heads to his allotted bedroom to get changed.
In a swift movement, Sherlock leaves the confined space, heading to the nearest supermarket.
He knows he can always find another time to consume those strawberries.
At first, it feels like a daft idea, but Sherlock still wants to experiment. He needs it to work. If he's capable to pulling such a disguise – in order to see John or if possible, speak with him – then leaving the stubble on and dying his hair ginger to match (he was never very fond of his split-genes) won't hurt at all.
After Sherlock is done with his hair, he gives it a bit of a trim, making it completely different to his usual messy and dismayed hairstyle. He's pleased with himself when he examines himself in the mirror.
He spends a few more days inside his flat, clearing his wardrobe and buying some new clothes. Mycroft visits him at the end of the week, perplexed at his brother's current state.
"You didn't eat the strawberries..." He calls out, knowing Sherlock is running around the flat doing odds and ends for his own reasons. The bag was never touched or removed from the coffee table, thus leaving it in a terrible state that even Mycroft can't stomach.
"Not hungry." Sherlock says as he enters the living room. Mycroft takes a second to realise who the person is in front of him. He gapes at his younger brother and Sherlock nods, deducing his brother's reaction. "Now don't look at me like that, Mycroft."
"You actually changed your appearance?"
"I must dash now." He stares again at himself in the mirror for a quick moment.
"He'll know it's you in seconds." Mycroft says this as a test, Sherlock knows, because he was the one to suggest this in the first place.
"If I was actually 'Sherlock'," the detective grins.
"You're willingly to act differently as well?" Mycroft raises a brow.
"Oh, shut up." Sherlock snaps, heading to the door. "Don't bother waiting for me."
"I'll keep a watchful eye..."
He feels the adrenaline like a sweet addiction he's finally picked up again as he pushes the front door open. He feels the chilly spring breeze brush past him, only adding to the rush and thrill of it all, and he hails a taxi.
Like heading to a crime scene, Sherlock feels the excitement bubbling inside him. However, it isn't even a crime scene, nor going to Scotland Yard; it's simply going to see John. A smile creeps onto his features as he reaches his destination.