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Grief, John thinks, filaments of feather stuck to his hand’s nervous sweat, has made him a fool. His brown suit sits too big on him. Mycroft blinks at him across the desk.
“When you were at Baker Street,” John starts, “that once. And I was in the stairwell.” He swallows. “Sherlock told me something, after.”
Mycroft’s eyebrows rise. “Did he indeed?”
John speaks the rhythm from memory: “That those in your family do not die but turn to ravens to serve their monarch and their country.”
“I see. And what do you believe, John?”
I believe he flew to my window to see me. I believe the feather in my pocket is his. “I don’t know, but I was hoping you could--confirm, or, um.”
There are silent speeches in the set of Mycroft’s mouth. “I can tell you nothing of my brother’s flights of fancy, if you’ll pardon the phrase,” Mycroft says. “I’m forbidden to speak of his case.”
John rises. “Right. I’ll let myself--”
“John. Were I you, I should visit the Tower before my return to my”--A cleared throat--“charming flat. Do tell the staff I sent you.”
John finds himself in a hall full of oil paintings. Don’t get your hopes up, he tells himself. In case it isn’t true. But oh: it could be.
*
There are so god-damned many of them.
The ravens strut around the gardens and flutter from the Tower walls; John finds a seat and watches the flock. Each bird seems to him like Sherlock: this one has a redness in its black depths that reminds him of Sherlock’s hair, that one a length and impatience of stride that remind him of Sherlock’s walk.
A beating of wings and there’s a raven beside him, its movements quick, its gaze keen. The feathers at the back of its head are disheveled in a way that leaves John’s chest aching. John extends a hand to the raven, who pokes him, inquisitive, with its curved beak. The bird must be light, John thinks, light enough to fly, but it seems to him to be heavy with intelligence, its dense and brilliant weight etched with sleek lines.
Tentative, surgeon-careful, John runs one palm over the raven’s back. It flexes its wings into his touch and closes its eyes. “Oh, Sherlock,” John whispers, too sad to stay silent. “I’ve missed you. So much.”
“John,” Sherlock murmurs, sitting where the raven had been.
As he comes to, John smells unwashed wool and nicotine and 221b. Sherlock’s scarf is fraying, his hair a wreck.
“John,” Sherlock says, his hands warm on either side of John’s face, “You've brought me back.”