Please note that I am not crazy. Not psychologically, anyway. Just... psychotic.
Notice Me, John
Dr. John Watson picked up his bag of groceries and stumbled out of the store. It wasn't a very busy day, so he didn't have to dodge a lot of people to get to the main street, where he planned to hail a taxi. However, no matter how many times he raised his hand in the air and chased after the yellow cars that raced down the London street, they all seemed to ignore him. As though he wasn't there.
When he almost dropped his grocery bag, John sighed and gave up all together. He was just about to sit down when a large black car with tinted windows pulled up on the curb right in front of where John was standing. The army doctor was just about ready to make a run for it when the window rolled down and a very giddy looking Mycroft Holmes popped into view.
"I see you're having a bit of trouble getting a cab, John," he deduced, kind of like Sherlock, with that cat-like grin that spread across his entire face. "I think I can help you get home."
Confused but somewhat grateful, John half smiled and got into the car next to Mycroft. "Thanks."
That was the first time Mycroft Holmes drove John home himself.
The second time was when Sherlock was being himself, and John just wanted some time away from his slightly irritating flatmate. He'd gone for a walk, but instantly regretted it when the wind began to blow across the street, and John struggled to see in the bluster. When he raised his arm into the air to shield his face from the wind, he happened to catch the sight of a familiar black car with tinted black windows pull up next to him.
This time, however, the door simply opened. John, getting the message, slid into the leather seats and shut the door behind him. Indeed, it was Mycroft Holmes that was sitting next to him. He nodded to the body guards in the front, and they began to drive again.
"It's a windy day, John," Mycroft said, his tongue escaping from his mouth to lick his lips as he talked. John's eyebrows went up, even though he didn't want them to, at Mycroft's surprisingly hungry glare. "What are you doing out there, all alone? It's dangerous to take a walk all alone."
How the bloody hell did he know that? John thought, scratching the side of his head when he replied, "I didn't know it was this windy, and I wanted to take a walk. Thanks for picking me up."
"You're extremely welcome," Mycroft answered with a dark grin. And then he watched John.
And watched.
And watched.
John began to feel extremely - just as Mycroft had said - uncomfortable until the black car with the tinted windows pulled up next to 221B Baker Street. His legs could not get him out of the car fast enough as John scrambled onto the pavement, muttering a quick, "Thank you. Good bye," as he went.
Once he was inside, John shut the door behind him and knitted his eyebrows together.
What the hell was that?
The third time that Mycroft Holmes knew exactly where John was, one of the rare times he was alone, was when John was returning home from work. He had stopped to grab a muffin - he'd been running late this morning, so he'd been unable to grab one and was starving - and was walking back to 221B Baker Street when that achingly familiar black car with the tinted windows began driving slowly beside him on the street.
Oh damn it, John thought with dread.
The window rolled down, even as the car was still moving and following John, and a hauntingly cheery voice shouted to him, "Oh John!". The army doctor could pretty much hear the flourish at the end of the call.
He could have pretended not to hear. He could have ducked into the nearest shop and ran away from Mycroft forever. But before he could even rejester what he could have done, the car screeched to a halt and one of the body guards jumped out, then gently guided John into the car. Extremely - just as before - and thoroughly disturbed now, John moved as far away from Mycroft as he could on the seat. "Thank you, but I really didn't need-"
"Oh, it's perfectly all right John," Mycroft interrupted with his twisted, cat-like grin. It was almost inhuman how largely that man smiled; it looked like his mouth should have dropped off his face. "It's my pleasure, actually."
And then it came again. The watching.
The creepy watching.
Those dark eyes, searching him.
Finally, uncomfortable to the maximum amounts, John cleared his throat and asked nervously, "C-can I help you with something?"
Shaking his head slowly, Mycroft, unblinding, replied with a breathy, "I think you're doing everything that you can possibly do to help me right now. Just sit there and look beautiful."
"O-kay," John stated, gone beyond the limits of creeped out, reaching for the door handle and tugging mercilessly. He didn't care if they were in the middle of the road; he just wanted to get away from his genius of a flatmate's brother as fast as inhumanly possible. He was very disappointed to find that the door handle was, indeed, stiff. Locked.
"John," Mycroft said slowly, unwavering in his cat-like grin. He was like the Cheshire Cat, with a grin wider than should be possible, and big eyes that tore right through John in a way that made him want to break the window and run for his goddamn life. "There's something you need to know, and right now is a good time as any to tell you."
"Mycroft, I appreciate the ride, but-"
"John, I've been watching you for a long time. I know your patterns of movement, I know where you are at every single moment, and I come up with every excuse in the book to find you and bring you home. But I don't think just seeing you anymore will be just enough."
"Mycroft, what are you-"
The man whom Sherlock claimed was supposedly "the British Government" set his jaw in a line, his eyes now burning with desire. "John, I want you to understand something. You belong to me, no one else. You're mine, John Watson. Mine."
Horror rose up in John's chest as Mycroft moved forward slowly at first, reaching out with his hand. He managed to gently brush John's knee before the slightly younger army doctor yelped out in surprise and scrambled with the lock, managing to pull it up and yank open the door. The door swung open, but John found himself facing traffic.
"Shut the door, John," a deep, dreamy voice drifted out from within. John found himself looking over his shoulder at a very solemn, very needy Mycroft Holmes, who was slumped back in the seat, eyes burning still. Tearing holes in him. "Come back to me, my love."
Okay. That was it. John launched himself out, and, thankfully, landed hard on the sidewalk. He tossed a glance over his shoulder at the black car with tinted windows before taking off in a sprint down the sidewalk.
He didn't have to go very far before he reached 221B Baker Street. He flew inside and shut the door behind him, breathing heavily. He shut his eyes and then looked back up at the ceiling, trying to calm himself.
It's all right, John. He's gone. Mycroft's gone. And you'll tell Sherlock about him, and Sherlock will get rid of him. You'll see. Sherlock'll do something about it; he hates Mycroft just as much as you do.
And do something, Sherlock did.
"Mycroft did what?"
Rarely did John Watson ever see his flatmate surprised. However, this time was different; Sherlock Holmes had been sitting in what had been dubbed "Sherlock's chair" eating a bowl of popcorn. A few pieces flew out of his mouth when John finished his terrifying tale of being stalked. He had finished with the fact that Mycroft had called him "mine" and then how he'd escaped when Sherlock had his small outburst.
"Can I get a restraining order on the British Government, Sherlock?" John groaned, falling dramatically into the chair with an extra sigh. "Is that poss-" he froze when his cell phone began to buzz.
Knitting his eyebrows together, John picked up the phone and saw it was a text... from Mycroft. His insides dropped when he opened the text, shaking slightly from nervousness.
Almost immediately, the song "I Will Follow Him" by Little Peggy March began to play in the room. Sherlock leapt from his chair and leaned over John's shoulder, so that they both read the text at the same time.
"Notice me, John. I'll be watching you."
"Oh God," John groaned again, fisting his jumper. "This isn't going to stop."
Notice me, John. I'll be watching you.
Hmm, I might write a companion fic to this. Continuing Mycroft's stalker adventures. Now, I'll have you know that I love Mycroft and/or Gatiss, and I have no disrespect for either for them. But I ship a one-sided Johncroft, because why else would Mycroft freaking abduct John in nearly every episode? Hope you enjoyed; and laughed just a little bit.
-Doc xx