Author's note: There's a little bit of strong language in this story. It's not a running theme, but you have been warned.
Mycroft glanced up from his desk, a massive oak affair, stained some manner of dark mahogany. A stocky blonde man was being escorted in by a harried looking security officer in a suit. Mycroft waved the security man away disinterestedly, not missing the heavy relief on the man's face at being quickly dismissed. The door closed solidly behind him, and his just-a-little-too-quick footsteps retreated to stand guard at the end of the hall. John was in a mood, then.
"John, welcome. Have a seat." He finished with the documents he'd been reviewing, and stood, indicating a padded office chair beside his desk.
The man just stood there, glaring through him, stone faced and pointedly ignoring the offer. The chair in question received not so much as a cursory glance. Mycroft sighed under his breath, moving to stand beside the desk instead, and waited.
"What the hell are you playing at?" John's voice was tightly controlled, almost completely devoid of tone - but Mycroft was sure he could hear the violence that was struggling to escape, buried somewhere under all this strenuous self-discipline.
He smiled thinly; well aware it did not in any way reach his eyes. He hadn't intended it to. John Watson didn't trust him, and rightly never had. He didn't need to pander to the man now.
"Nothing. I simply wanted to speak with you and you've been less than reachable of late." He gestured to the upholstered desk-chair again. "Please. Sit."
"No."
A hint of steel and general ill-will had seeped past John's practiced military facade and into his voice. He was fighting the urge to cross the distance between them, and one hand unconsciously clenched and unclenched in a semi-steady rhythm as he wrestled with himself. So far, he'd succeeded far better than he'd expected.
"John…"
"I have nothing to say to you."
"Well I have something to say to you." Mycroft had almost forgotten just why his brother had gotten on so well with John in the first place. The two of them were a match made in stubborn, pig-headed, bloody-minded heaven.
"How nice for you." The blonde turned on his heel, apparently feeling himself losing the battle for self-control. It wouldn't be the first time Mycroft had watched John storm out of this room in a dangerous rage, and he doubted it'd be the last. John reached for the doors without looking back. "I don't want to hear it."
"It relates to Sherlock." Mycroft didn't even have to look up from the spot of rug he'd been studying a little too closely to know that the words had hit their mark. The steady marching steps stopped uncertainly.
John struggled with himself. He wanted to leave. He didn't want to indulge any more of Mycroft's nonsense head games and power plays. But something feral tried to claw its way out of his chest anytime Sherlock was mentioned, and he just couldn't resist the bait. He turned and marched back the way he'd come.