(Author's Note: This oneshot is really just a ficlet, a personal conversation between Mycroft and John that takes place post-TFP. Written mostly for a friend that I RP Mythea with on twitter. This fic itself implies Mythea.)
The cab ride was long, uncomfortable, and arduous. It was pouring rain out. John was stuck in a terrible bout of traffic caused by an accident with a motorbike driver, the poor sod.
John had to resist the urge to hop out of the backseat and help the man. No coat, no helmet. He must have been insane, riding a bike without any gear on his body, just a pair of denim trousers and a t-shirt. But, there was a rather large group of Paramedics around to attend to the young lad and it eased John's worries.
So, John went on, and eventually they made their way through traffic and pulled up to the curb of the Diogenes Club. John paid the driver and crossed the sidewalk to slip into the building. He was eyed for a long moment, but no words passed between he and the man at the front counter.
The old man merely smiled, assuming that John was around looking for Mycroft Holmes. He pointed towards the sitting room down the hall, far away from the large, open room with various government officials and ambassadors. The door was closed and John gave it a gentle knock.
When it opened, Mycroft found himself rather surprised at his visitor. Anthea stepped past him, a pile of folders in hand as she left, slipping out the back door so no one would see her in the front hall.
"Doctor Watson," Mycroft finally said, stepping aside to allow the man to wander inside. "To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you on such a rainy, dreary day?"
Rather awkwardly, John gave the other man a smile. He stopped for a moment, a hand balled up into a fist — a sure sign that he was nervous, anxious. Mycroft noted this, of course, and arched a brow.
"What is it?" the elder Holmes asked.
"We should talk," John began to say. "In fact, I think we should have had this conversation a month ago. But I've been too… busy at home, with Sherlock."
Mycroft closed the door behind the good doctor, merely standing there for a moment and watching the other man. It was interesting, in a way. To watch John squirm about, wondering exactly how to word all it. How to say what needed saying.
"Sherlock was adamant that I give you space," he began, "but in a way, I think that was his own way of convincing himself that you wanted anything but to see him. We need to talk. I need to… be a buffer, of sorts, I suppose. And I have things that I need to get out."
Mycroft was clearly uncomfortable. This conversation was one that he'd never thought of having with the doctor. There was no need. After all, it had already come to pass, and nothing of significance could possibly be worded correctly, in a way that could suffice to summarize what had happened that terrible day at Sherrinford. Mycroft wanted to give his life to save his brother's best friend's own. Nothing more to say.
"Don't look at me like that," John said. "Like you'd rather be anywhere but right here, right now. We need to talk, Mycroft. Just let me. I'll do the talking."
Mycroft pulled a face, a defensive hand rising and falling again. "If you say so," he muttered. "You came here with purpose. Say whatever it is that just so happens to be burning a hole in you, Doctor. What is it?"
John paced for a moment before speaking. "It's about us. About what happened in Sherrinford. I just need to know. Are you… alright?"
Never in a million years did Mycroft ever expect to hear those words fall from the doctor's lips. He sighed rather heavily before answering. "Yes. Quite alright. As is my brother, I'm sure."
What a load of rubbish. It was written all over John's features, in his eyes. He didn't believe a word of what Mycroft said, much to the other man's dismay.
"I know that you'd rather live under the notion that no one of importance really sees you for you. Genuinely. But that isn't necessarily true, is it? I see you. Because I'm looking. We're men. Let's act like it, yeah? Be honest with me, for once. I'm the closest friend of your little brother's. I'm not the only friend, no. But I once was. Now he has more. Molly, myself, Craig and that dog of his, Greg." He stopped, choking up. He'd almost mentioned his late wife.
Mycroft, rather blown away by all that had come to light, stepped away from John to wander over to the warm hearth. He had himself a seat, fingers reaching out for his glass of single malt whisky he'd been nursing earlier, before John's interruption.
"Is this going somewhere?" Mycroft asked, a single brow arching curiously.
John came over, having himself a seat beside the man, eyes finding the fire and watching the flames flicker and dance.
"The thing is," he said, "you aren't who you say you are. You haven't seen the battlefield, like Sherlock and I. And I'm… worried about you. From one friend to another."
The latter sentence shocked Mycroft. He stared blankly at John, as if the words hadn't quite caught up with his brain for a moment. Friends. Mycroft didn't do friends.
John laughed at that, at the vacant expression upon Mycroft's features. "After all these years, you really don't think that I've... not come to think of you as a friend? I may never say it again, but it doesn't change the fact. You are. Just as Sherlock is to me. And your parents. They're wonderful. And more than that, you were willing to die for me. Does that not matter? It should. It matters to me."
He paused, suddenly anxious at Mycroft's silence. The man was like Sherlock. He lived to have the last word. He loved to hear himself speak, if for no other reason. He would procrastinate with death itself if it meant having the very last word.
Mycroft looked pensive for a moment before saying, "It's over now. What's the use in talking about it? 'O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?' Winter has passed. Spring has arrived. What more is there to discuss?" He sobered for a moment, then set his drink aside. "John, listen… There is nothing in the world that I would not do for Sherlock, and I mean that. You've seen that."
John. He never called him by his first name. It caught his attention, the sincerity in the man's voice taking him by surprise.
John, for a moment, merely swallowed. "I'm not here to go over everything," he merely said. "I'm just here to… say thank you, to you. The situation wasn't entirely your fault, you know. You take everything on your shoulders. I suppose you have to, being the older sibling. I know how that is. I do. I blamed myself for Harry's drinking problem for years, because I'd left for university. But listen to me… I'm just here to thank you."
The air in the room suddenly grew terse. Mycroft didn't know what to say, at first. He glimpsed John's way, then back towards the fire. Before he could even think of a response, John continued.
"I see the way you look at Anthea. I see the way she looks at you. Maybe it's about time you both admitted something to one another. I'm not telling you what to do. Lord knows, I'm not. But I'm just giving you some advice, from man to man. I've dealt with your brother for long enough now to know that life is precious and if you care about someone, tell them, and sometimes the Holmes boys need a push with that. So tell her."
Mycroft stood from his seat, then gazed John's way with a thoughtful expression. "Sherlock is very lucky to have you. I never would have taken that away from him. You're a good man, John Watson. Keep my brother in line. He needs you as much as you do him, though he may neglect, from time to time, saying that."
John took that as his cue to leave. Mycroft wouldn't be saying much else. But he felt all the better for having gotten it all off his chest. Every single thought.
As he reached for the doorknob, however, Mycroft said something he certainly didn't expected.
"He was so alone, you know. Before you. And he owes you so much."