John Watson was merely an extra in the fictional set-up of Sherlock Holmes life. But now he's determined to have a bigger role whether Mycroft likes it or not.
But everyone works for Mycroft. Everyone.
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Epilogue - A Meeting With The Creative Director
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He'd been bundled into the back seat of a car many a time, but never with such ferocity and speed. A disinterested young woman sat to the left, Blackberry in hand, furiously communicating with another faceless suited type, as he was launched into the leather coveted seat next to her.
"Hello again John." She purred, as a smile curled from her lips.
Lydia. That ball breaking bitch of a woman who had him thrown out the first time when he was found hiding messages in the grotty 'true crime' section of the local library. He was killed off at that point. One of the scores supposedly found burned to crisp in the smouldering ruins after an apparently loose fingered customer left their cigarette in the bookcases.
He had been only a minor team player, a little more than an extra in the grand scheme of things, and he knew when he took on the role that it could be over in a matter of weeks. The Creative Director was notorious in his his ability to hire and fire at the flip of a coin. His contract had been for a month and with a regular spot in the library where Sherlock was a common frequenter so his work load would be reasonable, his pay better than mediocre. It was mainly background work, but in an industry so saturated with people and so thin on decent, well-paid jobs this was a chance not to be missed.
He remembers his only line, 'If you're looking for anatomy, you'll find it in the Medical Reference section, third row on the left.' He remembers that cold, pointed face nodding in approval before striding off amongst the stacks of dusty papers and crumbling text. He remembers being enraptured, staggered, flabbergasted even, that a man of such intelligence and nous hadn't even the tiniest inkling that none of this was real. The library, built from scratch by a team of set designers. The people, hand picked actors from stage and screen, either fresh out of drama school, or like himself, a plodding bit-part character actor chosen for reliability and experience. The books, all fake, all fiction, written in fictitious voice by fictitious authors and distributed by fictitious publishers. The furniture, the wallpaper, the carpets, all traded in for advertising space scattered amongst the cavernous, epic structures.
He had watched Sherlock from behind the corpulent reception desk, the pale, thin hands scooping through endless pages of body parts and bodily functions, the intense eyes devouring knowledge from the text. It was hypnotic and mesmerizing.
The Creative Director had chosen well. He was a most endearing subject.
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"Creative Director is not happy with you John." Lydia placed her Blackberry delicately on her lap.
"He never is." John mumbled and folded his arms. He'd been caught sneaking into the compound. Again. Jones, the guard at Gate 5, must have been more alert than he had realised.
"Why do you keep coming back John? We let you go for a reason."
"Because he deserves better than this and you know it." Angrily, John turned his body towards the window, he wasn't going to get into some existential argument in the back of a fake car travelling along a fake road in a fake city. "Where are we going anyway? You usually just throw me out of the nearest gate and threaten me with a charge of trespassing."
Lydia merely chuckled, before the car braked suddenly to an aggressive halt. She glared at John, her eyes laced with contempt, and smirked. "Creative Director would like to discuss further options with you." The car door swung open. "Now. Out you go."
A burly, muscular youth grabbed him by the arm and dragged him from the comfort of the car. He landed hard onto the damp asphalt, backside first.
Why did he continue to come back? Unsuccessful attempt after unsuccessful attempt. Each one a valiant failure of an attempt to release an unwitting prisoner from his closeted shell of a life.
As the rain absorbed into the denim of his trousers he thought of Sherlock holed up in his acrid, stuffy flat, poring over materials, storing it all in his encyclopaedic mind, and all of it fake. To Sherlock this was his lifeblood, his truth. But what kind of life is spent finding truth when all one can access is fakery and fiction? In Sherlock's world two plus two could equal five and nobody would question it, because that is how it is, that's how the Creative Director wants it, and that's how it was going to be. And those who disagree or go against be damned.
He had started off as a willing participant in this charade. The persuasive propaganda of 'What Sherlock doesn't know can't hurt him', in a way, made perfect twisted sense. This was Sherlock's world, this was what he knew, and if all was kept in a delicate equilibrium then this is all he would ever know. The outside influences could not infect his mind or affect his path. This carefully constructed womb-like existence would keep Sherlock comfortable but at the same time stimulated. But as his contract rolled on - one month, six months, nine months, twelve months - and his character profile increased, he was finally given a name, age and social standing, his questionable passivity morphed into active concern.
He was pulled along the pavement and thrown in behind an heavy steel door, riddled with cracks of peeling paint and nail scratches. The gruff ball of muscle behind him grunted and shoved him down the corridor.
"That way," the man hacked, his voice garbled by smoker's phlegm.
John edged his way down the dank, greasy corridor, being careful to avoid the smatterings of bird excrement that swathed over the floor.
"Do hurry up John!" A slimy, rich voice echoed off the walls.
And there he was. The impeccably tailored suit, the expensive shoes that creaked with value with every step, the casual stance of a man imbued with excessive power. He still carried that wretched umbrella even though it only ever rains on his cue. Protection perhaps? A gun hidden in the tip? A collection of ninjas that sprout from the walls whenever he opens it indoors? John wouldn't be surprised.
Mycroft thinks that much of himself.
"Well, isn't this a pleasure?" Mycroft coos arrogantly, swinging his umbrella smartly around his fingertips.
"Not my definition of a pleasure-"
"Sit. Down."
John calmly places himself on the cheap plastic chair that has been placed behind him by some unknown assistant in the darkness.
"I know you like to test my patience John. We've been here before. This is the fifth time you've tried to trespass on my property."
"It's never bothered you this much before."
"It ALWAYS bothers me. You signed a contract before you came here and yet you continue to renegade on that contract. I hired you because you were reliable, resourceful and your old army record implied a certain sense of honour."
John chuckled. "I'm getting a lecture from you on honour. Piss off Mycroft. Just let me go." He rose from his chair. "And what's all this dark, MI:5 warehouse shit? Are you hoping you will scare me off?"
"SIT DOWN."
"No I won't sit down. You know why I'm here and you're scared because my reasons are fucking valid."
A taught smile ran across Mycroft's face. "This is a situation that you do not and cannot comprehend. You come in here and do your work, you play a role. That is what you did John. That's all I asked of you, that is all I asked of anybody."
John silently fumed, his face flush, his neck warm with anger. It's your brother for God's sake. Your brother.
"Now I am offering you a choice John. We need to end this constant pendulum swing, back and forth, because, quite frankly, I'm sick of this whole sorry situation."
"Oh a choice? I bet this is a good one."
"You can have your part back on the basis that you adhere strictly to it. No improvisation, no sneaking messages into books, no coded messages to the newspapers or the periodicals. You will hide in plain sight where I can see you at all times. I can keep track of you, know exactly what you're doing so no harm can come to my brother and your stupid little escapades will end."
"Not lik-"
"Or. The other option is I let you go. With the minor charge of trespassing of course." Mycroft sneered. "But you will be blacklisted, you will have a cross against your name, your reputation in tatters. Scandal, drugs, prostitutes. I can conjure such a wave of salacious gossip that you will never work again, you friends will disown you and your beautiful partner Mary will never trust you as you long as you shall live. You will lose everything that you hold dear."
John inhaled deeply, shifting in his seat.
"Your decision John."