"Doctor Watson?"
"Yes?"
"Mycroft Holmes has asked to see you, sir."
"Oh. Alright. Thanks, Vera."
Doctor John Watson, self-appointed baby-sitter for Mycroft's comatose younger brother, Sherlock Holmes... He sighed, steeled himself for an awkward encounter, and made his way to room 221. Mycroft was waiting in the doorway, leaning imperiously on his umbrella and drawing glances from the nurses for his posh suit. For once, the man who may-or-may-not be the government looked... ordinary. John had seen that expression on far too many faces. He softened, realizing that even this man cared for his little brother.
"Good evening, Doctor. I hear that you are continuing your... personal approach to my brother's care. I must say that this is unforeseen - of course, you didn't meet him awake."
"Heh. Perhaps this episode will scare the rough edges off... What did he do, work-wise, I mean? Despite the drugs, he looks like an intellectual sort of bloke."
"Yes. Crudely put, but yes. After we dragged him through university, he did help the Yard on a few cases. I believe he was beginning to think of himself as a... 'consulting detective'."
Mycroft did not miss the odd little smile which curved the corners of the doctor's lips.
"What are you thinking of, Doctor Watson?"
"Well, you see... I've begun reading him detective novels..." He became embarrassed. "After hours. I... haven't got anything better to do, I suppose."
"No? I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit. Dr. Sawyer over there would clearly enjoy spending the evening with you." John started, and Mycroft smirked. "Though perhaps she's not your type. Anyway, I am grateful for your interest, Doctor Watson, and I will be checking in with you weekly for your observations of Sherlock." With that, Mycroft left.
Well, John thought, that was odd. And embarrassing. Shaking it off, he continued into the room and settled into the chair next to the man's head. A book lay in his lap.
"Your older brother was here, Sherlock. I bet you noticed somehow; he seems like the sort of man you probably never get along with. Are you as obnoxiously observant as he is? It would be just my luck, wouldn't it? Well, let's get on with the story before I give myself away anymore, hmm? … 'It is true that I can speak the exact, the idiomatic English. But, my friend, to speak the broken English is an enormous asset. It leads people to despise you..."
A/N: John is reading from Agatha Christie.