.
T: In which I bring you yet more Guthrie-verse fun times! Spoilers for 'STUDY' right up to 'TGG', much slash, a great swath of theories/padding and some angst. I own only this modern verse take on Paterson G, along with the back story that he brings with him!
O
He's been sat at this gate for about ten minutes now, listening as other flights are announced and running through the little circle of checks in order to keep his mind at least half way occupied.
Passport tucked in the front pocket of his bag; boarding pass acting as a bookmark so that he can show both it and his photo in one quick, easy, movement: wallet there at his hip, weighing down his jacket pocket; mobile phone a slightly lighter presence in the pocket beneath.
Oh he knows he'll manage to somehow mislay something the very second that they begin boarding, still…
Ah, jaws theme playing happily at his hip…Mycroft's office line which means either his husband's pneumonia has miraculously cleared since their last conversation an hour ago or he's gotten bored…the latter of course is more likely and, sighing, he answers the call and states,
"Tell me you're at least still taking your medicine." A worryingly bubbly bout of laughter then a response of,
"Yes, yes. I begin to believe that you think me useless without you."
"Naturally," a beat then, "How can I help?"
"Would you say army doctors are trustworthy?"
Delirium, it has to be and sighing he simply responds with, "Go home, Mycroft," before hanging up and, after a moment's thought, turns his phone off in the hopes of perhaps encouraging the other to take him up on the suggestion.
It's of little surprise to find his husband waiting for him at the gate, his face all disconnected neutrality and his mid set form balanced happily on what looks to be an umbrella.
He's half way towards him, mind full of a lecture on the importance of keeping ones self healthy when he catches a sight of the ring.
It's nothing more than a plain band of silver, shining happily away at the base of his husband's right ring finger and yet the context behind it makes it oh so much more.
He'd gifted it to the other six months into their relationship on a whim and had instantly been reminded that, sweet though such a gesture was, it would never have a place in their relationship.
Had been reminded that they would have to hide their affection always in smoke and shadows or risk their enemies using it against them.
He'd swallowed back his anger, brushed the whole thing off as a momentary lapse and thought it a closed discussion until, one late winter morning, he'd been whisked, spontaneously, to Scotland.
A glorious trip full of long, rolling, skylines and a well planed marriage ceremony that'd concluded with a firm kiss and an enquiry of,
"What happened to this being something we were never doing?"
Mycroft had smiled, looped their hands together so that he could feel the chill of the ring against his hand and responded,
"Apparently even I can be wrong sometimes."
He'd removed it once they'd returned to England, stored it in a beautiful little box that he kept in his office and fallen into the habit of wearing it whenever they were apart for significant periods of time.
Thus it was no longer simply a ring, but a subtle reminder of how much he was missed and how very far his life had travelled in the last seventeen years.
Letting out a huff of frustration, he closes the distance between them and states,
"I've missed you too," before adding, "though don't think that means I'm forgiving you for endangering your health."
"It was worth a try at least," Mycroft remarks before adding, "My previous enquiry was not made out of delirium, though I see why you might've believe otherwise without context."
"Right and is this 'context' also why you're suddenly channelling a bad stereotype?" He enquires as he gestures, vaguely, toward the umbrella.
A warm smile that shifts, lightening fast, into something all together more…menacing…and then Mycroft states,
"There was an incident."
"Ok and you didn't delegate this 'incident' to someone else because?"
"Trust issues."
Ah so something genuinely important, at least in Mycroft's eyes, still,
"You still could have waited until I got back, two days really isn't very much in the scheme of things and whatever this 'incident' is it's not truly pressing otherwise they would've called the Prime Minister back early."
A faint noise of assent then,
"I fear I somewhat caved to temptation, still I saved a little something for you."
"Of course you did," He sighs, runs his hands through his hair and then enquires, "Can I least get a shower in?"
"Mm, in fact there may even be time for tea."
X
Upon returning from his shower he finds a steaming mug of gloriously scented Red bush and the welcome sight of his husband relaxing on the sofa.
"You're actually listening to me."
"Indeed," he responds before gesturing towards an MP3 player that has appeared on the coffee table. "You're assignment for the evening."
There is no shock of chill as is usual when he settles into the space at his husband's side, still at least he's no longer pumping out heat as though he's a radiator and there's the vaguest hint of colour there at his cheeks which...
"As much as I appreciate being the object of your undivided attention, Paterson, I am somewhat eager for your opinion on the matter."
"I could use you as evidence for mind reading abilities, I seriously could." He mumbles as he stretches first to secure his tea and then the player's thin black headphones.
Hitting the play button brings forth the living sounds of a restaurant and, for the very first time, he understands why some members of his previous profession have fallen so very in love with this method of information gathering.
Because there's something basely amazing about being able to hear anything you want to hear without fear of being spotted...of knowing things that you know you should not.
The sound of voices, not yet close enough to the bug that he can make out the shape of the words and yet close enough that he can recognise one of them beyond all doubt.
Sherlock.
He has only to lean the slightest bit forward for Mycroft to catch his wrist and force him to look at his face...at the shear weight of concern clear in his eyes.
Sherlock has been putting himself directly into danger for many long years and never before has Mycroft shown such active concern.
Unspoken is the understanding that this is because Mycroft sees, as well as he, that it's all in aid of proving Sherrinford wrong... Of somehow purging Sherlock the guilt of the other's murder.
So then why now?
Then the voices clarify, likely as either they drift closer to the bug or it drifts closer to them, and he's able to hear Sherlock remark,
"You should eat, we may be here a while."
"What about you?" A strangers voice which is, in itself, odd and then Sherlock's actively offering explanation...offering shape and definition to some of his more eccentric personality traits...
"Jesus." It rolls out of him without actually making contact with his head, a breathy expulsion of the utter shell shock he's feeling right now.
In his ear the conversation is carrying on but he's no longer paying it the slightest bit of attention.
He knows Sherlock, thinks of him as friend...as brother...knows the scars on his psyche even if they've never actively discussed them beyond their first fateful meeting.
It means he knows how hard it is to get Sherlock to trust you, knows that him simply explaining away whole chunks of his broken psyche is something that doesn't happen.
Ever.
In his ear the stranger is asking about 'nemesis's' and he knows that Mycroft's talked to him, knows that he's also registered how significant the development is and yet...
On it's own it's merely an abnormality, a puzzle to pick at when there's chance and certainly not something Mycroft would put this much worry into.
So,
"What aren't you telling me?"
"There is a force out there, a powerful, dangerous force that's behind every seemingly petty crime, every carefully crafted hit. At the very front of this force is one single man, a man clever enough to profit in his machinations without ever truly incriminating himself...a man with a great deal to fear from one such as Sherlock."
"You think they're one and the same, that criminal mastermind and the guy on this?"
"Watson, Dr Watson, and it's certainly plausible…there's too much of him that sits so very well with my brother, as though it's been crafted as such and the...incident...with Sherrinford has already proven how vulnerable Sherlock is to that particular form if mask."
"But if he's genuinely caught and you're right..."
"Then there is no way to stop him from getting hurt, however, if you talked to him...placed the seed of doubt in his head…"
"No." It's blunt, a little forcefully so, though Mycroft seems to have expected it for he simply folds himself into a somewhat defensive posture before stating,
"Then you can consider learning all there is to learn of Dr Watson your one and only assignment."
O
T: Tune in next week as Guthrie does research, gets taken out for coffee and deals with the aftermath of the explosion.