Author's Note: This is a new story and a new fandom, so I'm decidedly nervous about how this is going to be received! Writing this was an experience - though it's been a refreshing change to be able to use colloquialisms for once, as those of you (if any) who have read my recently-completed story Dangerous Liaisons will understand! Anyhoo, as always, any feedback whatsoever will be wholeheartedly appreciated, whether it's good or bad...I'm always looking to improve! :) This is my take on Sherlock's past and allows for a large amount of creative licence. I'm sorry if you feel I didn't explain things in enough detail or that my version of events is just not faesible, but I was anxious of making it too long-winded...anyway, that's what reviews are for, so if you feel that way please do let me know.
I should also probably inform you that the rating of M will most definitely be justified later on in the story. Just as a warning, there will be slash, most likely violence and was planning for a bit of drug use as well!
I hope you enjoy reading!
M
Two weeks after their reported disappearance from their family's home in South Kensington, the bodies of twins Katherine and Kristina Parker-Williamson were found by police in the early hours of this morning. Scotland Yard's Detective Inspector Geoff Lestrade later released a statement confirming the discovery and stated that an investigation is already underway.
"We have our very best people on this case," DI Lestrade told our reporter. "At the moment it's unclear as to how the girls died, but I can assure you on behalf of every member of my team that we will be working around the clock until such a time that the person responsible for such an atrocity is prosecuted."
For those unfamiliar with the Parker-Williamson case, 4 year-old twin girls Katherine and Kristina were first reported missing by their mother Evelyn on October 5th of this year. More on this chilling story as it develops.
Four years old. What a bloody nightmare. I shifted uncomfortably inside the blue scrubs an unsmiling Sally Donovan had thrust in my direction as we'd arrived, trying to take in the scene before me and struggling to keep a sudden flurry of violent emotions hidden where the forensics team (and Sherlock Holmes in particular) would not notice them.
The two little girls lay side-by-side on the floor, positioned on their backs so the whole room could see the twin faces with tear tracks still visible through the dirt smothering their cheeks. Their eyes were closed as if they were sleeping, only these girls would not be waking up. I closed my own eyes briefly. This was beyond comprehension – the most brutal, horrific, mindlessly fucked-up situation I'd ever borne witness to. For Sherlock Holmes, however, this was just another day.
Lestrade had been on the phone at seven in the morning with a message for Sherlock – an address and a "please come quickly, I'm totally lost without you". A half hour in a taxi had brought us to an abandoned house somewhere near Putney. The whole place smelt of damp; mould and decay crawling up the walls, rooms downstairs and up plunged into eerie darkness. As per usual, Sherlock had rushed out the door without so much as telling me what Lestrade needed him for, so I was left to guess the finer details. But I'd run with Sherlock long enough to know it would be a murder, and I remember thinking as we pulled up in the cab that this house would be a bloody terrible place to die – all alone in the cold with the darkness closing in around you. I'd been following the Parker-Williamson case via the papers, as had almost everyone in London, and it was alarming to see how the story had affected the public. Young mothers would hold their children's hands that little bit tighter, as if afraid they would be snatched away in broad daylight, and it had been days since anyone had seen a child out and about in South Ken. Children all over the world were kidnapped and killed every day; it was a shocking but very real statistic which did little to take the edge off this case. Two little girls. Fuck.
"How long?" Sherlock's voice was pitched lower than usual as he bent over the first of the bodies, crouching on his haunches like a lanky dark-haired cat waiting to pounce.
"Less than an hour when we found them." DI Lestrade looked paler than usual and had a thumbnail in his mouth. He was watching Sherlock closely, and I wondered then whether he'd dragged us out here because he needed Sherlock's help or because he couldn't handle working this case alone. Neither option would have surprised me – when the bodies of two kids turn up, it ceases to be just another open-and-shut case. Indeed, this discovery seemed to have affected the whole of Lestrade's team; even Anderson who had somehow resisted the urge to make snide comments over Sherlock's presence when we'd rocked up in our cab. I should have guessed then that there was something not quite right...
Long fingers clothed in plastic gloves, Sherlock ran his hands over the first body with as much care (in my opinion) as if he was perusing a cut of rump steak for Sunday dinner.
"They weren't killed here," Sherlock said, straightening up. "They were moved, perhaps half an hour after death."
"How can you tell?"
The little girls wore matching button-up jackets, and I noticed Sherlock had un-poppered them from the top. Beneath the material, previously hidden by the cut of the coats, their skin was peppered with ugly black bruising. Bloody hell...
"Collars folded and buttoned up," Sherlock said, waving an arm as though Lestrade's questioning was levels beneath him. "To hide the bruising. If they'd died here, the killer wouldn't have bothered." He knelt back down. "John?"
This was my cue. Feeling as though I was moving on autopilot, I stepped closer to Sherlock and the two girls, knelt down and applied my doctor's hands to the situation. Cause of death was fairly obvious, or so it appeared to me – the girls had pale skin, and the contrast of dark bruising in the shape of handprints around their necks told me all I needed to know.
"Strangulation," I told him, and it took almost all I had to keep my voice from wavering. Sherlock just nodded.
"Quite right." He looked to Lestrade. "We're looking at maybe a twenty-four hour margin between time of death and time of delivery, as it were." He smirked slightly, clearly amused by his own phrasing, and as always oblivious to the dark scowl I could feel gathering on my face. "Bruising to that degree wouldn't have formed for a good while."
Lestrade nodded grimly. He was looking at me. "I hate to ask, Doctor – but any immediate signs of sexual abuse?"
"Oh I would say most definitely." Sherlock answered for me, butting right in before I could begin to speak. He dropped once more to his knees and swept back the loose material of Kristina Parker-Williamson's little sundress. I looked away in disgust, but not before I'd seen the worst – more bruising covering her thighs. Handprints. Finger-marks.
"We'd need a post-mortem to know for sure," I said through gritted teeth.
Lestrade nodded, but I could tell Sherlock had irked him too. Somehow, the nature of this case had thrown a lot of factors into sharp relief – this was the murder of two little girls we were dealing with, and yet Sherlock seemed determined as usual to take it lightly.
"Anything else you can tell us?" Lestrade asked Sherlock, who was still bent over the first body examining dirty marks on the clothing with uninterrupted focus. "I'll take anything you've got, but make it quick – we've got to get the photographs finished and everything packed up before the press get their muscle in."
"There has to be more, there has to be..." Sherlock leant in close, aligning his nose with the girl's neck and taking a deep sniff. I saw his eyes dilate. What had he found? More to the point, what had he found that was would make sniffing the body of a four year old girl even halfway to acceptable? "Oh, yes..."
"What, Sherlock?" I asked, unusually snappy, but then who could blame me? I'd never approved of my friend's offhand attitude to murder cases, but this really took the piss.
"Clever. That is impressive presence of mind..."
"No time like the present," Lestrade said pointedly.
Sherlock looked up. "Carbolic soap," he said. "Both bodies, scrubbed with carbolic soap and water..." He was grinning.
"Explain to me why that's a good thing," Lestrade said irritably. "As if it's not bad enough we've given the killer time enough to get away, it turns out the bodies have been scrubbed with bloody carbolic to destroy any potential DNA evidence!"
"Exactly." Sherlock's eyes were shining. "Nothing's ever straightforward when the killer is considerate enough to spice up what would otherwise be an uncomplicated case." He leapt to his feet, actually bouncing a little, and clapped his hands together. "Uncomplicated cases are boring. A child killer always makes for an exciting ride; just like children themselves – they delight in playing me around!"
"Are you kidding me?" I growled. "Two little girls are dead, probably raped to cap it off and you're talking about exciting?"
Something inside me had finally snapped. I was sick of it: sick of his brusque approach; of the way he was speaking about the murderer of these two little girls as though he had killed them simply to provide the wall in 221b with a little relief. It didn't matter how many cases we worked on together – I would never be used to the way he could find the positive side to a brutal double murder or describe a serial killer with two-dozen victims under his belt as a "genius" as opposed to the more everyday term of "raging psychopath". It was disturbing enough for someone like Lestrade to witness, but for me -a doctor and soldier who had dedicated his whole life to serving and protecting others, who had both brought about and prevented death on numerous occasions- to see this self-satisfied bastard stomping all over the deaths of innocent people was pretty close to intolerable. Worse than that was how he could just switch off his emotions when and where it suited him, acting as though the death of two innocent children was all water under the bridge. It really grated on me – it was barely even human!
Sherlock was watching me closely, which only saw to irritate me further. I hated it when he looked at me that way; as though I was another of his test subjects under constant scrutiny and observation. Given time he would have said something, but I was far from finished. Before I could stand to hear him speak to me again, to offer an explanation, I had to get it all out.
"Can't you at least try to put yourself in their shoes for one minute?" I demanded. "You're four years old, subjected to a violent assault by a strange man who later kills your twin sister while you watch, waiting for it to be your turn. How the hell do you think that would feel, Sherlock?"
"Quite terrifying I should imagine," Sherlock said casually, as though we were discussing football scores or the weekend weather in Glasgow. "But seeing as how I am not a four year old girl and never shall be, John, I hardly see the relevance."
I wanted to hit him. God knows, if it had been anybody else I would have. I took a deep breath in, trying to picture Sherlock as a woman or a very old man – anything to keep me from breaking his nose then and there.
"Just do me a favour," I said to him. "Try for a little empathy for once in your life. I mean for God's sake, Sherlock, think of the parents!"
"Yes, yes, they've lost their daughters." Sherlock had the nerve to tut. "It's all very tragic, I know."
"Well do you not even care that some poor sod is going to have to explain to them their twin daughters have been murdered and sexually abused?"
"Point me in the right direction and I'll do it myself." Sherlock cleared his throat. "'Your daughters are dead. Give me two days and I shall have their killer for you in a shiny silver prison cell'."
"Listen to yourself!" I was shouting now, so angry my vision was clouding over with red spots. A little voice inside my head was telling me I was overreacting; that it was stupid to get this wound up over Sherlock Holmes and his stubborn indifference to murder, but I couldn't seem to help myself. All I could see was the parents of those two little girls ten years from now, still sobbing against each other over the loss they'd never been able to recover from. "Just so I know, is the concept of 'tact' completely unfamiliar to you, or do you just choose to piss all over it for kicks?"
"What makes you think hearing a sugar-coated version of events will make them any easier to accept?" Sherlock demanded, his voice still infuriatingly calm. If it was at all possible, I was growing more and more pissed by the second; riled by how easily he could remain calm. "Surely in these cases, the decent thing to do is..."
"Decency?" I was done with shouting; my voice had dropped to a level I felt even Sherlock Holmes would be able to recognise as dangerous. "No way, Sherlock – don't you dare talk to me about decency. You don't know the meaning of the word!"
"If it bothers you so much, there's really no reason for you to say," said Sherlock crisply, and now I could hear the venomous edge to his voice. But it fell upon deaf ears as I ripped off my rubber gloves and threw them at his feet.
"Fine. I'll move my stuff out today shall I?" He had been talking about the crime scene, but that didn't matter anymore. I was throwing my towel in; the end of my tether had been reached.
"The extra space would be much appreciated." His voice was still a monotone, not a hint of anger to be heard.
I shook my head. "I'll be gone by the time you get home!"
"Alright, you two," Lestrade butted in, and I half expected him to push inbetween us. "When you're done with the lover's tiff, I've got an investigation to run. Let's remember where we are..."
Sherlock and Lestrade were both looking at me like I was a bomb on a rapidly-decreasing timer. After all the shouting, the house which had become Katherine and Kristina Parker-Williamson's final resting place seemed even more silent than before. As the red mist began to clear, it began to dawn on me just how many people I'd made an arse of myself in front of –Sherlock, Lestrade and most of the Metropolitan Police's homicide division to name but a few. I could see the headlines now: 'Lunatic Doctor Causes a Scene on Police Time!' ... 'Army Service Too Much For Scotland Yard Lackey!' ... The list wore on.
Lestrade moved first, placing himself between me and Sherlock and resting a forbidding hand on my arm. He'd be sure to muscle in if I went for Sherlock, and honestly I didn't fancy my chances. Maybe two years ago I could have taken him... Now, I wasn't so sure. The edge of my anger was dying now, and I thought I could survive without smacking my best friend, tempting though it still seemed. I flexed my fingers carefully, inwardly counting to ten.
"We can finish up if you need to take a break, Doctor. No, I'm not throwing you out," he said, seeing I was about to argue. "I just thought you might appreciate a moment." He lowered his voice, but I didn't doubt that Sherlock could still hear him. Perhaps Lestrade wanted him to. "Don't think on it, John – you're not the first one who's been tempted to give him a good pop, and guaranteed you won't be the last!"
I nodded. I was still seething, and being in the same room as Sherlock and those poor murdered girls was only making it worse. Lestrade was right – I had to go before I did something I'd regret.
I cast one last look at Sherlock. He'd turned away from me and was crouched once again over the girl's bodies. Lestrade was watching him too.
"Are you going to be OK?" he asked in the same low voice.
"Yeah, yeah..." I cleared my throat, trying for a little perspective.
As I left the room, it was to find an audience had gathered. Half a dozen coppers clad in their blue forensics scrubs had congregated on the stairs, Anderson among them, and Sally Donovan was all but pressed up against the keyhole. They all shifted uncomfortably as I approached, and walking down the stairs I could feel their eyes on me. I caught Anderson's gaze as I passed and found it all too easy to guess what he was thinking: 'What did I tell you? Psychopath. Now it's rubbing off on you too!'
I pulled off my scrubs, cramming them into the sterile bag offered me by a uniformed blonde in the downstairs hallway, and stomped out the front door into the street. It was barely light outside and freezing cold. A five minute walk would take me to the main road where I'd be able to hail a cab, and as I went I could see my breath hanging in the air before me.
Once I'd put a good mile between myself and Sherlock, I'd calmed down enough to start thinking about what I was going to do next. Though my anger had more or less abated, it had been replaced by a disposition stormier than I'd felt in years, and though the pretty lady cab driver kept trying to catch my eye in the rear-view mirror, I still couldn't raise a smile. I looked at my watch – 8:15. Too early for a lunch date, but perhaps Sarah would fancy some breakfast if I dropped round for her... It was a moment before I remembered – she was in Birmingham til Monday morning at a conference. Bugger it. I decided that the first thing I wanted was a shower. That crime scene and the two dead girls had left me feeling inexplicably dirty. I wanted to scrub myself from head to toe; purge my skin and my body of the smell of that house and the sight I didn't see myself recovering from quickly. Perhaps a shower would wash away all traces of my row with Sherlock too... I shook my head. It was too early in the day and I was still too hacked off to be feeling repentant. Nonetheless, a shower was what I needed right now; a shower and a stiff drink. And I could find both of them back home – 221b Baker Street.
"Morning, Doctor Watson! I didn't hear you leave earlier?"
Almost a year it had been since I'd first moved in, and Mrs Hudson was still addressing me as 'Doctor'. That said, I was still calling her 'Mrs Hudson', as was Sherlock who had known her far longer. In any case, I wasn't in the mood to make pleasantries and in stomping up the stairs past her without a word, slamming the door in my wake, I think I said as much.
On the other side of the door of Flat B, I breathed an enormous sigh of frustration. So much for forgetting about Sherlock – our flat was strewn left, right and centre with his crap; so much of it that a visitor to our humble abode would be under the impression Sherlock Holmes lived here alone. From an outsider's point of view, John Watson had never set foot in this flat. It certainly didn't feel like John Watson was here now. I felt spaced out, exhausted beyond measure, and alien in my own home. Every time I breathed inwards, I could small Sherlock's narcissism, his egotism, and the sociopathic personality he continually used as a shield to hide the fact that in reality he was little more than a hyper-intellectual, self-righteous bastard! I tried to tell myself he could help it; that his behaviour was classifiable as symptoms of a serious psychological disorder, but nothing it seemed could thwart my anger. Sherlock never thought of anyone except himself... so why would I even feel like I belonged here at all? I sighed again and groaned. The shower could wait – I wasn't going to find the release I so craved inside a bottle of shampoo...
I habitually kept the tequila hidden in the same cupboard as the sink cleaner – one place I knew Sherlock was unlikely to ever go searching. I had to clear a space on the worktop; Sherlock had left phials, dished and other untouchables all over the place, as per bloody usual. Git.
I poured a measure of liquid gold into a chipped West Ham mug (a Christmas gift from Harry and the only drinking receptacle I deemed untouched from Sherlock's kitchen experiments) and lifted it to my lips. I had studied dependence on alcohol as well as clinical and chronic depression at medical school, but no amount of studies could have stopped us from drinking ourselves. There was no escape from the fact that in our darkest moments, a little shot of self-destruction was the best (and in some cases only) medicine we knew of.
I lifted the tequila bottle once more to pour a second glassful, grimacing as I remembered I had promised to be out of the flat by tonight. Maybe if I was passed out by the time Sherlock made it home, I wouldn't have to deal with it until tomorrow...
"Tempting though it might be, John, I regret to tell you the long-term relief will be only marginal..."
I jumped a good foot in the air at the sounds of the voice, familiar as it was, and sloshed copious amounts of tequila out of the bottle all over the kitchen worktop.
A man stood behind me, leaning casually against the kitchen doorframe. It was only half eight in the morning, but my visitor -in his spotless grey business suit and eyes characteristically bright and beady- might well have been up for hours. In his right hand he held a BlackBerry, in his left a copy of the morning paper. There was no need for introductions: I knew the man well, and in any case, the family resemblance between him and his brother spoke volumes.
"Mycroft." I managed a weak smile. "You surprised me...hello!"
"After eleven months of a flatshare with my brother I would have thought you, Doctor Watson, were beyond shocking!" Mycroft offered me a hand which I shook, over the initial astonishment of finding my flatmate's older brother in my kitchen. How had he got in anyway? I was sure I'd locked the door...
"Can I get you something – tea? Coffee?" I asked, sounding far more polite than I felt. Mycroft had eyes and ears all over London, and if he'd come here simply to lecture me about Sherlock, I was sorely tempted to tell him to fuck off.
"Just a glass of water will be fine, thank you."
I was stumped for what I should use as a glass. There was nothing left in the kitchen that I could say for certain hadn't played host to bodily fluids or dangerous chemicals sometime in the not-so-distant past. 'Eye of newt and toe of frog...'My kitchen was like a bloody witch's cauldron! Behind me, Mycroft cleared his throat.
"The glass tumbler to the left of the microwave I think, John..."
I checked it. Seemed clear enough. If he was willing to drink from it, that was good enough for me. Tequila bottle and chipped mug in hand, I swept through to the lounge and threw myself down in the armchair with the union flag cushion. I knew well enough that Mycroft would follow me.
"You probably have some questions as to why I am here." The oldest Holmes slapped the newspaper down on the coffee table, open so I could see today's top story. The smiling faces of Katherine and Kristina stared out at me from below the headline, and I had to look away. My bad mood was back with a vengeance. How lucky it was I held in my hands the perfect solution...
"Particularly vicious case, this one," Mycroft said, gesturing the paper with his free hand. "I would have expected Sherlock and yourself to be all over it by now. Thought it would be right up your alley..."
"Sherlock seemed to be enjoying himself," I said irritably, scowling down at the still empty mug in my hand and wondering if it would be too impolite to pour and drink another measure while my guest was watching.
Mycroft smiled. "So I gather..." He began to scroll through information pictured on the screen of his BlackBerry. "'Try for a little empathy for once in your life'..." He glanced upwards at me, then back again to his phone. "' Can't you at least try to put yourself in their shoes for one minute?'... And finally, my personal favourite: 'Don't you dare talk to me about decency. You don't know the meaning of the word'..." Mycroft slipped his BlackBerry into an interior jacket pocket. "You seem surprised, John," he said. "Surely you didn't expect this little spat to go completely unnoticed? I should have thought that most of London could hear you!"
So it was Sherlock after all. I should have guessed. Mycroft Holmes was every bit as nosy, meddlesome and intrusive as his brother was, and both possessed very similar ideas when it came to privacy. How in the name of hell had he managed to bug Lestrade's crime scene? No doubt it was illegal. No doubt Mycroft would find a way around it. The key difference between Sherlock's officious behaviour and his brother's was that Mycroft had enough power under his belt to get away with it!
"Look, Mycroft," I said, struggling to keep my voice level and jovial, but not managing all too well. "I don't know how you do what you do or why, but you have to understand..."
"As to how," Mycroft cut in, "to tell you that would be a matter of extreme risk to national and international security. As to why, well...that will be easily explainable if you will just be patient."
"If this is going to be about this morning," I said through gritted teeth, "I really don't want to talk about it."
Mycroft lifted a hand graciously. "There will be no need for you to talk, John, just as long as you are able to listen."
I considered. I had nothing better to do, but this was a matter of principle! I was fed up with the Holmes brothers thinking they could come and go as they please, 'borrow' and hack into my computer, listen into my private conversations and then turn up unannounced to give me a hard time over them. My brain was a fat kid caught between a sticky bun and a jam doughnut – half of me wanted nothing more than to throw Mycroft Holmes out with the knowledge there was at least one person in the world that he couldn't lord it over. But the other half (the half irrevocably tampered with by Sherlock) wanted to hear what this smug twat had to say. Whatever the reason for his interference was, I hoped for his sake it was good, as I made up my mind to let him speak.
"I know you're a busy man, John, so let me cut to the chase." Mycroft set his water glass down on the coffee table beside the newspaper and looked me straight in the eye. "Perhaps now is the time to come clean and tell you that today's little display was not the first disagreement I have observed between you and Sherlock." The foreboding look in his eye was the only thing which kept me from arguing. "However, today I believe was the first time either one of you have raised the possibility of moving out of your shared...premises." He looked around him, a customary grimace on his face. I felt a stab of fierce loyalty to this flat – my home, despite what I had told Sherlock. Anyone would have thought Mycroft lived in a four-storey palace. In fact, from what Sherlock had told me, four-storey palace was not far off!
"And so I came down here, at great personal expense might I point out, to enquire as to whether that was still your intention," Mycroft finished.
"Why did you bother?" 'Great personal expense'... I wasn't sure where my contempt of Mycroft had come from, but suspected the most responsibility would fall to Sherlock.
"Because I would like to recommend, respectfully of course, that you stay." Mycroft reached inside his jacket and removed a chequebook. I had seen it once before in my life, under what appeared to be very similar circumstances. "If recommendation alone proves insufficient..." He flashed me a thin-lipped smile. "Well then I'm sure we can come to an arrangement to suit all parties."
"I told you before, I don't want your money." Mrs Holmes, whoever she was, had a lot to answer for. Having produced two sons -one who believed people's feelings could be compensated with money and another who had yet to work out that people possessed feelings to be compensated, I hoped she was proud of her work!
Mycroft was staring, but I refused to budge. Finally, the chequebook was returned to its pocket and the tension between us lifted.
"I hope if that is your attitude, that you have decided to stay put without the incentive." Mycroft sounded cheery, almost amused by my decision. "Might I say how pleasant it is to see your loyalty to your friends has not diminished these eleven months...?"
"This isn't about loyalty," I said, "I just don't want, or need your money."
"Aha I see." Mycroft smiled once more, and I was reminded of a crafty fox sitting in the middle of a cage of rabbits. In short, he knew he had me cornered. "You've made alternative sleeping arrangements already have you?"
"There are places I can go," I said defensively, but it was all an act. I didn't want to leave Baker Street, and furious as I still was, I didn't want to leave Sherlock either. The man was more than my flatmate – he was my closest friend. But how could I go back now? The damage had been done, and I was going to have a hard time on my hands convincing Sherlock. If my doubt had shown on my face, Mycroft did not comment. He was on his BlackBerry yet again, clearing his throat as he began to speak.
"Indeed there are..." With one long finger, he began to scroll. "Let me see... Ah yes. Your sister – Harriet Emily Watson, four years your junior, currently residing 151 Warwick Street, Sandhurst, Devonshire..." He glanced up. "A little far afield perhaps. Well what about closer to home... Here we go – Doctor Sarah Button, thirty-one years of age, currently residing 71c Hirst Street, Westminster." He smiled. "Far closer..."
"How...How are you doing that?"
"One of the many benefits of occupying a position in government, John," Mycroft said, and for the first time I felt on edge, as though he were threatening me. "Every man, woman and child's details at your fingertips – you just have to know the right people, and then pick someone at random..." He snapped his fingers. "Names, Current address, old addresses, profession, date of birth, place of birth, family members, banking details, National Insurance..." He clicked a button and began to read again. "Jonathan Henry Watson, Doctor and ex-army medic, born 27th May 1974 in Richmond Upon Thames, London, to Henry and Elizabeth Watson, both deceased – Henry on 18th December 1995, Elizabeth more recently on 3rd March 2008." He paused for breath. "One sister -Harriet Emily, recently divorced from a Miss Clara Henderson. Currently residing 221b Baker Street, London borough of Westminster, known associates – Mr Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective in liaison with Scotland Yard Police Service. Took and passed driver's test in 1993 after four failed attempts. Dear, dear John! One known arrest, dated nine months ago – one count of vandalism and damage to public property, for which the offender received twenty-five hours of community service and..." I saw one corner of his mouth twitch. "...an Anti Social Behaviour Order." Mycroft cleared his throat, clearly struggling to regain his composure. "Patron of Barclays Bank, current account number..."
"Yes, alright, alright!" I had a nasty suspicion my mouth was hanging open as if on a hinge. Never again would I ridicule those who wanted fingerprints taken off record after arrest; with Mycroft Holmes on the job, people had good reason to be paranoid! My insides felt like scrambled egg, torn as I was between outrage and alarm that one of the most powerful and influential men in Britain was reading my life story to me like it was the menu of our local Chinese takeaway. This couldn't be happening – it was just too surreal. My eyes fell on the BlackBerry Mycroft still grasped tightly in his hand. Did he have the details of everyone in the country stored on that thing, or was it a privilege he kept reserved especially for me?
"What are you going to do with that?" I asked, nodding towards the phone with some fear of what the answer would be.
"The same as I would with anybody's information, John – absolutely nothing whatever!" Mycroft slipped his BlackBerry back into his jacket. "This kind of data is worthless for any practical purpose, but the things we learn while uncovering it..." He chuckled.
"You can delete it then," I said staunchly. "If you're not going to blackmail me with it...what's the point?"
"Sentimental value?" Mycroft said, an unconscious twinkle in his dead grey eyes. "That was a joke, John, though I did come across a rather amusing school photograph attached to one file I might well pass along to Sherlock in the near future..."
"Why are you doing this?" I demanded. "Why me? I'm just John Watson!" I buried my head in my palms, trying to massage out the pain which had been gathering beneath my temples. "John Watson," I repeated, as if the more I said it, the truer it would be; as if I needed convincing. "I'm nobody special..."
"To the rest of the world, perhaps no," Mycroft said. He looked down from his full height – a rather impressive feat. "To my brother, however, you are somebody rather special indeed, which in reality means that you, John Watson, are of Code Blue importance to me too...Let me finish," he told me sternly. "It will not have escaped your notice that Sherlock has a shall we say difficult time expressing his emotions..."
Understatement of the bloody century!
"...What you may not be aware of however is that you," Mycroft pointed a finger accusingly in my direction, "as of the 8th of January this year became the first person in an extreme length of time to evoke from him a municipal, empathetic response of any kind." Mycroft cocked an eyebrow amusedly. "Blood from a stone, John...I must say, I'm impressed!"
January 8th? What had happened on January 8th? I racked my brains for the answer. Oh right. The swimming pool. Moriarty. The bomb. My clothes on the floor. I could hear the Irishman's insane laughter; see the panic in Sherlock's eyes as the red light of the sniper hovered over my forehead...
"Even if that's true," I said, playing for time so I could try and get my head around what Mycroft was telling me. "Even if... why is that such a surprise to you? We're friends..."
"Indeed you are," Mycroft said mysteriously.
"You're not answering my questions," I said, my voice rising as anger broke through the surface.
"My apologies..." Mycroft sipped at his glass. "Please, go ahead."
"Why do you have all my details on that thing?"
"As I told you before, you are extremely important to me at present. You have become close to Sherlock, and security necessitated I read your file through thoroughly."
"But why am I important?" My head was aching now worse than ever. I didn't understand...
"I don't think you understand the significance of what I am saying, John." Mycroft stepped up in front of my chair and knelt so our eyes were on the same level. "You are the first person Sherlock Holmes has trusted in seventeen years. You are his first friend in seventeen years. Now consider the importance of that."
"He's an unsociable bastard and borderline sociopath who..." I trailed off, looking hard at Mycroft. "Seventeen years?" I asked in disbelief. "He hasn't had a friend in..."
"Just how much has my brother told you about his past, John?"
I considered. What had Sherlock told me about his past? I knew he'd been to university – Cambridge I think, where he'd studied chemistry and criminal psychology. I knew he was the youngest child; that Mycroft was seven years older; and that they had been raised in a rambling manor house in the country. I knew both Mr and Mrs Holmes were dead and had been for some years. In short, I knew the basics and nothing more. Beside me, Mycroft smiled, and an involuntary shiver went down my spine, feeling as though my mind had just been read.
"As I suspected."
I shrugged. "He doesn't like to make small-talk..."
"And nor do I," Mycroft said, and this time I couldn't miss how his voice had hardened. The gloves were off now – Holmes meant business! "Which is why I came down here, John – to..."
"...Bribe me?"
"...Inform you," Mycroft almost snarled, "of just how much your presence here means to my brother in the hope that that knowledge would change your mind about leaving."
"I'm not his husband, Mycroft," I steamed, horribly aware of my flushing cheeks. "You can control Sherlock's life if he'll let you, but not mine, do you hear me? If I want to leave, then I'll bloody well leave!"
"If you want to leave, John..." I had no answer to that. My pretence would only take me so far against the older brother of a hyper-intelligent deducing machine; I knew he could see right through me. I sighed, not looking forward to talking my way out of this one without admitting Mycroft was right, but he got there first.
"I know his behaviour is frustrating to you, John, compassionate as you are, but please, if you would allow me to explain the reason behind it... it might surprise you to know that whatever psychological disorder Sherlock has told you he suffers from is not the sole reason..."
'Please'. After eleven months with Sherlock, not a word I was overly used to hearing! It still struck me as odd that Mycroft was here; especially as it appeared to be for nothing more than to convince me not to move out of 221b. What was this? The upper-class's answer to 'I'll get my brother on you'?
"I don't know what to do anymore..." I hadn't realised the words had come out until I saw the half triumphant, half strangely sympathetic, 100% predatory expression on Mycroft's face.
"Then let me explain to you why my brother is the way he is." Mycroft's voice could have put an insomniac into a coma. "Or rather, why he is the way he pretends to be..."
"Pretends to be?"
"A magician's greatest trick," said Mycroft "is fooling his audience into watching the one hand when in reality the truth lies in the other." He straightened up with a slight wince and sat down instead in the chair opposite my own. "Sherlock's unsociability, his lack of empathy, his cold, unyielding character, and in particular this brand of 'sociopath' he seems so keen to adopt - All an elaborate shield I'm afraid, which he has built up around himself to hide the vulnerability beneath. A long time ago now, a great personal trauma befell Sherlock – one which altered him for what I once feared would be an irrevocable period of time."
"But why do I come into all this?" I asked weakly.
"Because I have good reason to believe that Sherlock has been on the road to recovery since he met you," Mycroft said. "You're making him better, John, even though you might not realise it, you are..."
"Better how?"
"You saw the look in his eye that day in January, John; that was no coincidence. He's changing..."
"Changing as in he might be able to feel?" I looked up, unable to keep the hope from my voice that my flatmate might yet prove to be a decent human being. If Mycroft was right and his problem was merely the result of a long-buried trauma, then as much as it pained me to admit it even to myself, there was really nobody better to help him recover than me. Patients responded better to people they trusted, and I had the necessary training to boot. I suddenly wondered if this had been Mycroft's plan all along – to shock me into helping Sherlock by recounting disturbing tales from his childhood.
Mycroft smiled; clearly realising he had as good as been given permission to begin his story.
"It is not that Sherlock doesn't feel emotion, John; rather that he is afraid to. Perhaps by the time we are through you will understand why..."
So...what did you think? I'd love to continue with this as I have an idea of where to head next, but I'd also love to know what you thought.. Also, was hoping to ask for an opinion on the next chapter's POV - will be dated back 17 years and through the eyes of Sherlock, but should it be from his POV (e.g. in the first person much like what you've just read) or third person? I'm stumped!