~*Hi All. First time composing a Sherlock story. I have to admit that I'm slightly obsessed with this program. I've paused my time watching and I'm going to complete this story before I see the sixth episode because I don't want it to influence my writing. Please no spoilers; but by all means flame away at the story and I'll review and edit it in a month.
Sherlock Holmes and associated character are the property of the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle estate. The Sherlock television production is the property of the BCC. I do not make any profit from this story - it is a tribute to the great writers out there. *~
Little Jack Horner
It wasn't like he wasn't busy. Yet he continually devoted the fifteen minutes of every morning to try and placate the situation over the Telegraph and a cup of tea. It was all the time he had spare for this tedious little problem. But he promised her that he would endeavour. Every year the same promise; "Keep an eye on Sherlock." Always for her. Always for Mummy.
This time away from solving the country's problems began when their mother last saw Sherlock for Christmas. He knew that his little brother was tackling every case that the Yard could throw at him in an effort to remove himself away from the "danger days". This meant that there was no sleep, no eating but luckily some hygiene practices taking place at Baker Street. Sherlock was malnourished and when Mummy put her arms around him, she broke down and cried. "You're too thin, Sherlock. You're almost dead," she whispered.
Sherlock shrugged it off and gave her a small smile. "Just a minor setback. Nothing to worry about." He then turned his cold eyes to him, and Mycroft glared back. They both knew of Sherlock's knowledge of the network of spies around London, keeping tabs on him. They both knew of Sherlock's ritual of scanning for bugs in his apartment each morning. They both knew that he prefer to solve his crimes at night, away from the night-vision goggles. But that didn't mean that Mycroft was going to worry Mummy with the details of Sherlock's life. He could worry enough for all three of them. But as Sherlock left early that night, barely eating anything and growling his goodbyes, the gentle lady broke down and clung to his lapels.
Mycroft needed a plan. He needed an inside man, one that could keep to Sherlock's side, coerce him into eating and sleeping; and of course report any concerns back to Mycroft. Next Christmas, Sherlock was not going to upset Mummy by manifesting as a concentration camp victim. He'd see to that.
So after a couple of days with the slotted time for contemplation, he had come up with a list of characteristics for an ideal room-mate for Sherlock. Male, as Sherlock distrusted women, intelligent to endure his brother's ramblings, brave to assist with the challenges of the detective's work and organised to provide Sherlock with some stability. Organisation was a trait that Mycroft emanated.
He often wondered how two siblings with the same genes could turn out so differently.
He looked over at his assistant in the arm chair. "Have you updated the list yet?" he asked, taking a sip of his Earl Grey. Without a flicker away from her blackberry, she picked up the manila folder from the side table near her, trotted over in her six inch heels and handed it to him.
"Latest update as of 5am this morning, sir," she said, never wandering from her screen. He politely smiled. "Thank you."
The folder was the same one every morning. A long list of names of the service men currently deployed overseas, when their tours were complete and whether they were honourably discharged. The characteristics of a service man met Mycroft's previous ideas perfectly. But now, he needed to find the right one. One name seemed to jump from the page.
The next stage of his plan was now a go.
"I need information on a Captain John Hamish Watson MD in an hour. I need the contact for Defence Recovery Capability and The Legion's accommodation division by four. Finally book me some time this evening to visit Mrs Hudson while Sherlock is not at home," he grinned.
The brunette gave a small nod and trotted away, her eyes not flickering from the small screen. Mycroft raised his cup in a toast to no-one and sipped. This was going to be easier than he thought.
The quick phone calls had resulted in the Captain being assigned quarters diagonally across the park from the allocated therapist's office and conveniently near St Bartholomew's Hospital where a certain medical professor, and acquaintance of Sherlock's, prefers to have his lunch in the open air and feed the pigeons his crumbs.
The black car slid in beside the pavement at 221B Baker St and Mycroft alighted, his is umbrella in hand. He left the therapist's file on the Captain in the car. Now, all he needed was to provoke the loving harassment of a good land-lady to convince his brother that he needed someone to clean his flat.
He smiled at he rapped on the door with the handle of his umbrella. He would need to task Anthea with setting up at meeting with the young doctor, if all went according to plan. After all, he would need to make sure that Mummy approved.