AN: Oh my goodness you guys I have been remiss with the updates! My sincerest apologies. Ff and I have a love hate relationship atm, but that IS NO EXCUSE FOR MY NEGLIGENCE. So. To make it up, I have back to back chapters, as well as an update in 'Afters' all at once for you loyal readers. I love each and every one of you, and without further ado, I present you with more Jane and Sherlock.
PS: I should probably mention that I do not own Sherlock or its affiliate characters from the BBC and rights are reserved to the almighty Mofftiss, amen.
Fraud, Scandal, and Farce
It was purple.
Not just any purple, though. No, it was the colour of dusk upon the moors; the corona of the sun through a haze of wood smoke; the taste of the last dregs of whiskey at the bottom of a shot glass; a shade lighter than aubergine but darker than violet. It looked like jazz sounded — svelte and sultry like bassoon, and under the right light, it moved in a way that reminded her of ice slowly melting in a tumbler made of crystal. In a word; the shirt was Sherlock personified. When she looks at the price tag, she's not surprised in the slightest by how obnoxiously expensive it is; and the sheer audacity proves her point even further.
It is for precisely these reasons why Jane plucks it off the rack at Liberty's and heads for the checkout.
Granted, Dolce and Gabbana was a bit out of her price range, but from the moment she saw it in the shop window, she knew she couldn't notget it.
The simple fact that her brain suddenly decided to remember how to process the bloody colour purple now of all times was practically clandestine, especially with Christmas around the corner. That, and the fact she felt particularly awful about accidentally ruining his favourite pearl-grey one on account a pair of her…more colourful underwear ended up stowing away in the wash, irrevocably staining the expensive fabric with streaks of (what she assumed were) pink given the look of horror on Sherlock's face. At first she didn't know what the problem was, her partial colour blindness preventing her from really seeing the damage, but when Sherlock pulled the culprit free of the drum and showed her the incriminating 'Monday' stamped on the rear, she knew exactly what had happened seeing as how this particular pair of pants was indeed bright red.
Just thinking about it makes her chuckle to herself, and in good spirits she pulls out her wallet.
"Do you gift wrap?" she asks the store clerk cheerily.
"Of course. It's complimentary with purchase," the woman behind the counter says, and gestures to two rolls of paper behind her. "Christmas trees, or reindeer?"
She goes to answer, but stops when something catches her eye.
There, atop a pillar across from her, a security camera is mounted. One which she could have sworn was pointing the opposite direction only a moment ago.
Her good mood curdles, and she purses her lips. Bloody Mycroft.
The camera blinks and adjusts more squarely on her position, and she has to actively refrain from flipping it off.
"Miss?" the shop clerk says, snapping her back to the present. "Do you have a preference?" She indicates the paper again.
"Er…trees, I guess. That's fine," she says with a strained smile.
After the shirt is boxed up and wrapped, she makes her way out of Liberty's, scowling when she catches the camera tracking her in her peripheral.
She turns left instead of right, ducking into an obscure alley to try an avoid the All Seeing Eye of the insufferable British Government, and smiles to herself when she pops out onto a lesser known road. If what Sherlock taught her was correct, she only had to travel five blocks west before she reached a main road where she could hopefully hail a cab.
She only makes it three however, when a familiar black car with tinted windows pulls up along side her.
Jane grits her teeth, but otherwise keeps walking.
The window rolls down, and she nearly snarls, "You can tell your boss to piss off!"
"Now, now, Jane. Let's be reasonable. I merely intend on giving you a ride back to your flat," the man himself calls from the car. This makes her stop in her tracks, momentarily surprised it was actually Mycroft and not his PA, Athos, or whatever he was calling himself these days.
"What, no warehouse? Abandoned factory?" Jane says wryly.
"I'm afraid I do not have time for our normal rendezvous," Mycroft says with a blasé wave of his hand. He doesn't even look up from the file in his lap when he pops the door open for her. "Now if you would be so kind…"
"I think not, Mycroft," Jane says and straightens up to her full height, planning on marching away.
"I wouldn't require this if you would've only agreed to meet me at my office like I had first requested."
"More like threatened," Jane says, lip curling back into a sneer of disdain. She does get into the car, however, seeing as how it was likely he wouldn't bloody stop until she complied. She closes the door, and Mycroft raps on the glass partition. The car takes off down the road, and Jane crosses her arms defensively in front of her chest, not deigning to look at Mycroft sat next to her.
"Doing some Christmas shopping?" Mycroft says in his insouciant tones. He prods the carrier bag at her feet with the tip of his umbrella. Jane wrinkles her nose.
"I highly doubt you abducted me for idle small talk, Mycroft," she says. "Get to the point, or let me out."
"I can see you have been picking up on my brother's recalcitrance. How delightful," he says sourly. "How is the leg healing up?"
"Fine. Haven't needed the cane in weeks. Sherlock's also fine, by the way," she clips.
"Yes, I assumed so."
"Really? Because your radio silence, although refreshing, is a bit ill-timed given the fact your brother was nearly blown to bits by a madman with a disturbing hard-on for him." Jane can feel her face heat along with her boiling temper. There was always something about Mycroft that shortened her fuse.
"He is, as you say, fine," Mycroft replies with a caviler shrug.
"You've been gone for months! Of all the times you've interfered with his life, why stop now especially when he needs you the most?"
He fixes her with a mildly amused look. One that says, 'Aren't you one to talk?' It causes a hard lump of something unpleasant to settle in the pit of her stomach.
"That was different," she says weakly in response to his knowing expression.
"Was it, now? Because from where I am sitting, it looks like a veritable exit strategy," he says, lips thinning into a false grin.
"What are you talking about?" Jane says, raising her chin.
"Your record when it comes to emotional entanglements, romantic or otherwise, has been less than stellar," Mycroft says, sharp eyes boring into her.
Jane has to close her eyes in order to get a handle on her temper. "Mycroft…I swear to god. If you are poking around in my private therapy sessions again…"
"Trust issues," he says stridently, pulling out that hateful, hateful steno pad of his. "pesky things, aren't they? The problem is, they end up taking everybody down with the ship in the end. Wouldn't you agree? Best get out now while you can."
"Listen," she barks, finger jabbing in his direction. "Sherlock isn't an 'entanglement' to me. He is much, much more than that, and if you could only open your eyes for a change, you would realise that the reason I left in the fist place was because I lo —"
"Don't say it," he says, snapping the pad shut. His eyes are livid with anger even through the rest of him remains the picture of regal composure. It's actually quite terrifying, and she is reminded of the fact that this isn't just her best friend's overbearing brother, but in fact, one of the most powerful men in England and can probably have her disappeared six ways to Sunday. It's enough to startle her out of her tirade.
"You mistake me," he starts again, tone as smooth as silk with a deceptive cutting-edge that makes her spine rigid and holds her to attention, "I am well aware of what my brother means to you, Dr. Watson, and under any other circumstances your fealty and devotion would be admirable."
"But?" she says, an iciness cresting over her. She doesn't like where this is headed one bit, and she attempts to brace herself.
"But these are not the normal circumstances," he says. "Simply put: I agree that you leaving like you did was for the best for all involved. What I don't agree with is the fact that you came back." The admission is like the blow of a hammer.
"I'm sorry, what? You want me to leave?" Jane says aghast. She was certain she was headed for the Obligatory Elder Brother Chat. This was…unexpected, and actually rather ludicrous.
"Like I said, you've managed to tear the plaster off in one go so to speak, and now that this ridiculous co-dependency between you two has lessened in its intensity, you both can get on with your separate lives."
"Co-dependency?" Jane says dumbly. She can do nothing but repeat him as the horror of his words penetrate her. Apparently she wasn't mishearing him, and the reality of what he was saying makes her cold. God, he was serious. If there was anyone who could render her and Sherlock apart, it would be Mycroft Holmes.
"He gave you a reason to cope when you got back from the war, and in turn you distracted him from his more…recreational activities. For that you have my utmost gratitude. But there is a season for everything, as they say, and I am afraid your partnership with Sherlock Holmes is drawing to a close," Mycroft continues on in that aggravating business-like tone. It's becoming hard to breathe in the car, and Jane's head starts spinning.
"This isn't some transaction between us, Mycroft. It doesn't work like that," she says tightly.
"Oh? Did you really think you and Sherlock would carry on they way you are indefinitely?" Jane presses her lips into a thin line, her silence as loud as any answer, and Mycroft smirks. "Come now, dear girl. This is my brother we are talking about. You are the type to want to settle down eventually. Once this perverse addiction for danger runs its course, you will inevitably seek out some form of stability. Sherlock will never be able to give you what you want in the end."
"You have no idea what I want," she says, gaining a little of her courage back. It was always difficult to keep her footing with the Holmeses, given the fact they were able to see right through you like water at a moments glance. But for the first time, Mycroft was dead wrong about her, and it was bloody refreshing. "You think you have me pegged, but you couldn't be farther from the mark. Where is all of this coming from anyway? Not too long ago you were trying to pay me in order to get close to him, now you're what? Threatening me so I will leave? What's going on, and for the love of god, be direct. I have no bloody patience for your minced words and bloody mental chess."
Mycroft scrutinises her with a lilt of his eyebrows, reading the tenacity of her posture, and the challenge in her eye.
"Very well," he says, the amused smirk fading into something dangerous. He takes a short breath and unleashes a torrent, double barrels loaded. "You, Jane Watson, are a danger to him, plain and simple; a weak point serving only to be manipulated in order to force Sherlock's hand. You want to know where I've been? I've been trying to clean up the mess you've created, and in doing so I've owed people favours. It's because of you that Sherlock's future is no longer secure despite all I've done to make it so."
"My fault?" she says, gritting her teeth. "How do you figure?"
"You've single handedly done what no one has been able to, and have infected the core of him like one would if they were a virus." The words are like a slap to the face, and she blinks her astonishment. Mycroft presses on. "Furthermore, you've pried off his armour, and have left him to the destruction of others as well as himself, and this. This. Is what is the most dangerous of all. There have been many times where he has been right on the verge of destroying himself, and if you continue on, you will be actively giving him a tangible catalyst to self-implode if this thing between you doesn't work." He pulls a breath in through his nose, checking himself. This was as emotional as Jane had ever seen him, and she would probably be more concerned if she weren't so blisteringly angry. He parts his lips in a moue of distaste, his diatribe simmering under a veil of barely contained antipathy.
"There was once a time where I thought you could be the making of my brother, but in light of recent events, I am convinced you make him worse than ever. And if you genuinely care," he spits the word out as if it were something foul, "for him, then this wouldn't come as a surprise to you, and you would do as I ask and leave him now before it becomes even more impossible for you both."
Silence resounds between them, and Jane's heart clatters against her breast bone as her rage winds itself tight around her spine. She has to focus on breathing so she doesn't succumb to the violence waiting to be unleashed within her.
How dare he? How dare he?
"Jesus. No wonder he thinks he's a sociopath. You taught him to embrace the fact!" she says, shaking.
"I taught him how to keep himself safe," Mycroft corrects in razor tones. "And now there is only one thing threatening all I've done to keep my brother out of the proverbial fire, and it happens to be you."
"Why all this, then?" she says, a realisation hitting her. "Why not just have me 'relocated?'" Mycroft's gaze slithers away at this, a minor tell, and he stares at the partition in front of him. "Oh. I see. You can't just get rid of me because then it would be your fault and Sherlock would never forgive you. That's why you are asking me to do it."
"If you are capable of setting aside your baser emotions, you would agree that this is the most tactical solution."
"Bollocks! Don't give me that shite about tactical solutions and exit strategies. Christ! No wonder he can't stand the sight of you!" she exclaims.
"Yes well, when one is busy running the country, one does not have time to entertain notions of fostering brotherly love. Especially if one is too busy looking out for those with an automatic target on their backs simply because they are connected to me in the first place. Sherlock is, and always will be a liability as long as I hold the position I do in the government. And the last thing I need is for some common Army doctor to come around and ruin everything," Mycroft clips.
"If you honestly think I am capable of doing what you say, then you obviously aren't as smart as you claim," Jane snarls, balling her fists up in order to stop herself from decking the bastard. "You are also forgetting the fact that I would do anything to protect him just as much as you, and if I haven't proven to you just how dangerous it is to underestimate me by now, then you really are dumber than I thought."
Mycroft huffs bitterly through his nose still refusing to look at her. "Bravery of the soldier. Of course, I still maintain bravery and stupidity are synonymous."
"If you want me gone, you are going to have to do it yourself because I'm not going anywhere unless Sherlock tells me otherwise," Jane says ignoring the barb. "Now let. me. out."
"You are making a mistake," Mycroft says as the car slows to a stop and Jane zips up her collar as more of a protective armour than to block out the chill.
"No, Mycroft," she says, glaring at him. "the mistake was leaving for as long as I did in the first place."
Before she has a chance to reach for the door, Mycroft's hand clamps around her wrist like a vice.
"My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher and yet he elects to be a detective. What then, Dr. Watson, can we deduce about his heart?" There was a trace of pleading in his eyes as if he had been pondering this question all his life, and it took her breath away.
"I – I don't know," she says, startled.
Mycroft sighs and lets her go. "Neither do I," he says, defeated. "But what ever the case, his heart is solely in your hands now. I hope you realise the gravity of this, Jane. I really hope you do. For his sake, and yours."
Jane frowns at him, a tightness cinching her chest at the threat. She goes to say something else, but words abandon her at Mycroft's unusually candid expression. It is one of burning intensity; something ferrous and sharp lingering underneath.
It isn't until after the car drives away when she places that hidden, unfamiliar shadow in Mycroft's eyes: fear.
Jane doesn't know what to make of it, only that it leaves her feeling cold and bereft despite the cheer in the air around her, fairy lights already starting to go up on street corners, and the usual warmth of the holidays lighting up the people passing by. It was surreal, the car ride having felt like an alternate reality in of itself, a nightmare amidst all the gladness.
She sets off walking in the direction of Baker Street, rolling her shoulders and clutching the carrier bag tightly in her fist in order to dissipate the remaining unease.
She tries her hardest not to let his words get to her, she really does, but she can't help but parse through the threats, reflecting one of her deepest fears back to her.
No matter how this ends, you're no good for him.
Damn Mycroft for sowing seeds of doubt right when she felt like things were finally falling into place. After so many months of ambivalence and heartache, after rebuilding the bond between them, now everything was once again thrown arseways to the breeze.
She couldn't deny the kernel of truth Mycroft presented to her: it was easy for someone to use her to get to Sherlock. The disaster at the pool was proof of that, and the fact that Moriarty was still in the wind causes her stomach to clench unpleasantly at the thought.
But leave Sherlock? Leave the whirlwind of cases, and danger, and impromptu violin concerts at four in the morning, and adventure, and her amazing genius with his enigmatic smile and dark humour? They've tried to distance themselves once before and it didn't work. Just thinking about it is enough to make her ill.
Would she do it if it came down to it? — is the question.
It causes her to come up short and her heart to flutter.
Would she if it meant keeping Sherlock alive?
Yes. No question about it.
That line of thought was another thought that did strange, twisty things to her gut, and she resolutely pushed it to the back of her mind. Hopefully that was a bridge she would never have to cross.
She takes a cleansing breath and turns the corner onto Baker Street, already feeling more at ease with the familiar awning of Speedy's Café coming into view.
The windows of 221B right above the café were merrily lit, beckoning her to the warmth and comfort inside, and she sped up her walking.
Yes, she would definitely worry about all that later.
For now, the strains of a violin are wafting through the open window, calling her back to where she belongs. Where she's always belonged.