13/01/2012: So it appears I may be retarded. I wasn't paying attention and sort of deleted the story trying to edit it ;-; yeh.
The second chapters on my USB somewhere far away so I'll update that in a day or two and then a new chapter to make up for my stupidity
Just because I felt sorry for Sherlock in that scene .. and because the bromance between Sherlock and John makes me believe this could of maybe have happened :3
Pure bromance although it could be seen as preslash - I ship them together but I just think the story works better with it being friendship.
Yep.
John raised his teacup to his lips, allowing himself to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He was listening of course, since undoubtedly he would be the one running around after Sherlock, giving medical opinion, grappling serial killers and consoling whatever poor fool unfortunate enough to fall into Sherlock's verbal line of fire. John had no desire, however, to be caught up in the fiery pit of petty rivalry that was Mycroft and Sherlock. There was also currently not enough tea on hand for him to risk asking any questions in exchange for a dressing down of his intelligence from both Holmes brothers. Besides, he was drinking tea in bloody Buckingham Palace, across from a man who embodied the British Government. Case be damned, he was at the peak of British-ness and he was going to savour it.
"Dominatrix," repeated Sherlock, the foreignness of the word hanging thick on his tongue.
"Don't be alarmed, it's to do with sex," replied Mycroft swiftly, recognising a point of weakness.
Without missing a beat, Sherlock shifted, "Sex doesn't alarm me."
Too fast. His vulnerability exposed.
Mycroft smiled with a smug satisfaction, "How would you know?"
This was when John decided to break his pact of inconspicuousness.
He had always been good at reading people, but being able to read Sherlock Holmes was something he prided himself on. The detective was so naturally unreadable that one had to reach a certain level of acceptance from the man before having even the slightest idea of what he was feeling, something John was acutely aware of as one of the very small number of individuals having reached this level.
The doctor was also aware of the fact that, although his egotistical pride would never see him admit it, Sherlock's vanity took credence over his hatred, allowing some merit to the words of his brother as a Holmes; one with the gift of logic and bereft of the burden of sentiment.
The fact was, Mycroft had struck an open wound, Sherlock was hurt, and John was witnessing the event.
Throwing all caution to the wind, because goddammit Sherlock against all odds had become something akin to his platonic version of a soul mate, Mycroft had more of an annoying power complex than Sherlock and sod it, half the world thought they were shagging anyway, John set his teacup down with a firm 'clink'.
"Actually," he began, silently cursing the detective, the human form of the British Government and their bloody sibling rivalry, "I'm pretty sure he does know. In fact, I'm just going to confirm it for you."
The silence that followed was delicate.
Mycroft, caught unguarded, faltered in his path, an occurrence that happened so rarely it only served to further incriminate him, leaving the older Holmes brother staring wide-eyed at John, who in turn had responded by coolly leaning back, raising an inquiring eyebrow.
Sherlock had remained impassive in expression, although John could feel his body tense slightly, his eyes casually flickering once towards the doctor with a flash of uncertainty, the exact image of when he was unsure about how to proceed with a particular social protocol.
Harry, the stand in for the client, shifted uncomfortably.
The army doctor, doing well to school his voice to emulate confidence instead of nervousness, smiled.
"Mycroft, you look like I've just told you he's a Sicilian illegal art dealer. I mean, under the circumstances, is it really that surprising?"
Sherlock felt the right corner of his mouth tug slightly. Sicilian illegal art dealer. Of course. Brilliant, loyal, surprising, desperately moral John, placing himself in an undesirable situation to give one to Mycroft and defend what Sherlock reluctantly admitted was possibly his supposed emotions slipping up. 'Sicilian illegal art dealer' was a reference to one of their past cases, one that involved an indifferent Sherlock and a highly sulky John going under the disguise of a homosexual couple. The detective inwardly smiled, careful to remain impassive on the outside to deflect his brother from the knowledge that he had only just become a player in the game. Clever John.
Mycroft, thoroughly disliking the feeling of being having been switched out of the upper hand, frowned, carefully studying the parties in front of him. This area however, the area of sentiment, much less sentiment involving his brother, was uncharted territory.
Ignoring his discomfort, Mycroft Holmes regained his composure. He did not control multiple important factions of the British government and hold considerable influence over several others for nothing.
"My dear doctor, I've read your file. I know more about John Watsonthan you do, or should I say John 'three continents' Watson?"
John creased his brow lightly. He hadn't been known by that by anyone other than his small platoon in Afghanistan, and certainly not by anyone of any high standing. Information like that he would have thought would have been scarce to successfully document.
Mycroft continued, smug in that he had managed to gain some equal footing.
"A man of your history, with clear capability and charm, an aversion to long-term relationships and able to what was it again? Attain kisses from three separate entities whilst doing a pass through of a minor province in France, convince a supposedly homosexual female to engage in a romantic relationship in Australia, be the cause of a fight between two women in a Japanese bar and other delightful stories I'm sure, as well as being able to claim the moniker of 'three continents' chooses to settle down with my baby brother?"
Scoffing, Mycroft lifted his head in victory, "Hardly."
Sherlock shot a petulant glare towards his brother although not without a hint of uneasiness.
Mycroft's words, aimed to discredit an intimate relationship, nevertheless raised a separate possibility. John Watson was different, yes, set aside from the dull, inane drones of society. But he was also so very human, considered normal in respects that Sherlock never could be and was thus able to affiliate himself with whom he pleased. John Watson was Sherlock's only choice in friend. Sherlock Holmes was not John Watsons.
John, sensing his flatmates hesitance and the expanding ego of his brother, jumped in before a verbal war between the two could ensue. Sherlock, he knew, needed reassurance. Mycroft needed a thorough kick off his pedestal.
"I don't know if you recall Mycroft," said the doctor, nonchalantly straightening his jacket, "but the first time we met it was you who told me that I craved the danger of the battlefield. It's not just the excitement, the danger that you can feel by just standing in the same room as Sherlock, it's everything about him. I would follow Sherlock Holmes into the depths of hell. You may not be used to the idea of someone caring about a Holmes brother, but you don't get to tell me that your 'baby brother' doesn't."
Sherlock smiled with a rarely seen degree of warmth, eyes conveying a silent 'thank you' to his dear blogger, not play acting as the other man in this homosexual relationship, but genuinely to a friend.
As a stark contrast, Mycroft twisted his mouth into a frown. It was not often that one stumbled the great Mycroft Holmes. This would not be one of those times.
"John Hamish Watson, born in London to an Anne and Hamish Watson? Sent to a boarding school in the countryside at the mere age of eight."
The doctor stiffened. "Yes?"
"Father died of terminal lung cancer at the age of ten, although you never cared for him did you, what with all the drinking and the bruises on your mother and sister. Mother remarried twice, prompting your expulsion from your boarding school when you hospitalised an older boy by the name of Terry Dresden for calling your mother a 'whore'. Fast forward ten years you have your heart broken by Mary Morstan, a woman you had intended to engage in marriage and one who left you for a higher standing man who promised more than a mere doctor. You join to army to escape her and your alcoholic sister, cue your fraternising with fellow soldier Bill Murray and oh," drawled the older Holmes brother, "the Afghanistan incident of Peter Summers."
John blanched, feeling far too exposed.
Impervious to the low warning growl, Mycroft turned towards his brother.
"Ah yes, now how much of that did you know about the good doctor? Please, he is no more in an intimate relationship with I than he is with you."
Adding insult to injury, Mycroft motioned for the nearby maid who had kept to the door out of both respect and fear.
"Lemon crisp, doctor?" proffered Mycroft, selecting one of the biscuits off the artfully arranged platter.
"Actually," said Sherlock, his deep baritone severing all pretences of resolution in the room, "John prefers jammy dodgers. Did they not have that in that piddly file of yours or was that section located across the room of which there were too many obstacles in your path for you to simply roll yourself over to retrieve?"
Despite himself, John snorted ungracefully, thoroughly enjoying the scene.
The detective stood, pulling up his flatmate in the process by grabbing onto his hand.
"Don't call me next time one of your drones creates a boring little problem."
Sherlock turned to leave with a half-giggling John in tow before turning back suddenly and picking up the silver platter laden with biscuits.
"Consider this my fee for putting up with you and a favour on my behalf. You certainly don't need the temptations in front of you. Now if you don't mind we're going to head home and finish what we started before you chose to rear your ugly head."
Mycroft let out an involuntary splutter.
"You weren't even at the flat together!"
"Irrelevant," countered Sherlock, "the investigation interrupted our doings and you interrupted the investigation; ergo, you interrupted us."
John coughed, picking up the forgotten bed sheet folded neatly on the floor.
Reddening, Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, "You mean as to say.. the reason for your attire this morning.."
Sherlock smirked, placing an arm around the doctor.
"Oh yes."
Outside, the two had managed to make it to a nearby bench before collapsing into a fit of laughter.
"Oh god," gasped John, wiping a tear from his face, "his face when he thought we were buggering."
"Completely worth the ridiculous ruse," replied Sherlock with a resounding boom of laughter, "Of course it won't take him long to figure it out."
"That.. thing you did John," continued the detective, voice cheerful with the remnants of laughter but calm, "that was good. Thank you."
"S'alright, he needed a good taking down. The amount of times he's kidnapped me.," John frowned in mock disapproval.
Sherlock mimicked his expression, "Oh the inanities of your life John Watson," prompting the two to start giggling again.
"I still can't believe we fooled a Holmes."
Sherlock shrugged, smiling happily, "No one can fool Mycroft Holmes. That is, unless I've had a hand in it."
I don't usually write so I hope that wasn't too unbearable :)
I might continue with little one shots or an actual story if anyone's interested - like Mycrofts revenge etc etc n_n up to what you guys think.
So continue or no?