The case file Mycroft pushed to the side of his desk was a tawdry affair, but one that needed to be dealt with. An occasional bar fight could be managed with a few quiet words and, when necessary, discreetly paid out sums of cash, but this incident was different. This time a punch or two hadn't been enough to assuage sorrow and anger.
Mycroft lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag and held the smoke in his lungs before letting it out again in one long, billowing, plume. Not for the first time, he regretted his maudlin brotherly promise to shield and protect Dr John Watson. To keep him safe from his worst impulses as he grieved the loss of Sherlock, his closest and most intimate friend. In the grand scheme of things the utilisation of government resources was miniscule, and given Dr Watson's past service to the Crown, arguably justified. However, others within the intelligence services felt otherwise. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility that, if matters continued to escalate, they would, without his blessing or authorisation, instigate a more permanent solution to the doctor's grief. Or worse, someone might raise troubling questions about sentimentality affecting Mycroft's judgement within the ranks of his superiors.
He pulled the file folder back towards him and read the incident report once more. If he didn't intervene then Dr Watson would face attempted murder charges. A sympathetic crown prosecutor might be persuaded to seek a conviction for grievous bodily harm, but the medical board would impose sanctions of their own. Dr Watson would be a doctor no more, if he was struck off the register, and what that would do to his tenuous ability to cope wasn't worth contemplating.
"This is the last time," Mycroft promised himself. He wrote out a series of instructions that would make the incident go away and routed them to the appropriate handlers, and then took another long drag on his cigarette as he mulled the problem of Dr John Watson.
Sherlock had known that his abrupt removal from Dr Watson's life would cut deep, but Mycroft doubted even he had anticipated the depths of pain his faux-suicide would induce. Sherlock had counted on Dr Watson's ability to fall back on his soldier's training. To grimly march on in the face of adversity. But soldiers who have seen too many battles often ran forward into fights, not out of a sense of duty, but because they prayed that they would finally be cut down. Swept up as he had been in his game with Jim Moriarty, it seemed possible that Sherlock had discounted that his stalwart friend might engage upon such a campaign.
The sad fact of it was the man who had once served as Sherlock's minder, now needed a minder of his own, someone who would provide more of distraction and a sympathetic shoulder than his friends had so far managed. Despite their best efforts, John was caught in a downward spiral. Though employed as a locum physician, he was putting in a minimal effort, working only enough days to pay his expenses. He had moved out of 221B Baker Street, but had made no effort towards turning his new flat into anything resembling a home.
And then there were the pub brawls...
The phone rang. Another problem, one of a more pressing diplomatic nature, was heating up in the Ukraine. Glad to be distracted by something more befitting his office, Mycroft dealt with the issue as if it were a trifle, although it was anything but. A wrong move at that particular moment could make the difference between war and a slightly uncomfortable cocktail hour when next the ambassadors of the two conflicted nations met.
The thought of awkward cocktail parties sparked an idea. According to the watchers who monitored Dr Watson, he had become a solitary drinker, eschewing any sort of companionship, male or female. But accidents in bars and pubs, when they weren't igniting punch ups, often led to apologetic offers of replacement drinks, and from there, stilted conversations, that when lubricated by alcohol, became progressively more friendly. Perhaps such an encounter could be arranged. Perhaps he could find someone who would pique the good doctor's interests enough that a random accident became something more.
It was that, Mycroft thought irritably, or forgo the softly softly approach in favour of cutting straight to the nuclear option: forcible incarceration in some suitable rehabilitation facility. A supervised regimen of therapy and antidepressants under the watchful eye of psychiatrists and staff, until the doctor was able to cope on his own once more.
Mycroft took another irritated drag on his cigarette, weighing the two options. Institutionalising Dr Watson wouldn't please Sherlock, even if the facility was more resort than hospital. Given the work he was undertaking, he didn't need that sort of distraction. It was probably better to try the less extreme approach first.
At one point Dr Watson had been a social creature who had actively sought out female companionship. With a few taps of the keyboard, Mycroft brought up dossiers of the women he had squired. He looked at their photographs. He read their CVs, and noted the length of time they had been objects of interest. There was a pattern. For a time, John Watson seemed desperate to attach himself to a woman who would help him find a quiet life. But his restless nature, the part of him that was fascinated by Sherlock and his exploits, put paid to those attempts. At some point John Watson came to the realisation he didn't want a quiet life. The pursuit of women had ended as his relationship with Sherlock eclipsed every other aspect of his existence.
Mycroft lit another cigarette. He considered the agents at his disposal, and how suitable they might be for the task of minder, and reluctantly conceded that there were limits to the resources he could expend on a personal problem. However, the issue in the Ukraine – now sorted – brought to mind another, less successful incident that had occurred in Tbilisi. There had been a female mercenary involved in that unfortunate affair. One who had subsequently gone into retirement.
He held smoke in his lungs as he brought her face to mind. Petite and blonde, the first blush of youth fading, she wasn't a conventionally pretty woman, although she was attractive in a rather hard to pin down sort of way. She had the assassin's ability to blend into a crowd, but if necessary, she could make herself the centre of attention. She had a quick wit, and a ready laugh. She had the skill to draw out a target and make them vulnerable. She was also good in a fight, which under current circumstances, might be useful. Perhaps interjecting herself into Doctor Watson's next fracas might make for a memorable introduction, Mycroft mused.
First, he needed to determine her availability. After all, it would do him no good to settle his hopes upon her if she was dead. Mycroft stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray and then pressed the speed dial on his mobile. "Anthea, I need you to locate – " He paused. She had called herself Rosamund Something, but had abandoned that identity after Tbilisi. The new name came to him. " – Mary Morstan. I think I may have a job for her."
He disconnected the call, considered the time, and poured himself a small drink as recompense for what had been a trying evening. No sooner had he taken the first warming mouthful, his phone chimed, announcing the arrival of the requested information. The updated dossier was even more promising than he could have predicted. There was a nursing certificate amongst Mary Morstan's qualifications.
Something akin to hope blossomed in Mycroft's breast. What could be more natural than two colleagues bonding over their workplace woes? He sent a text, instructing Anthea to put eyes on Mary Morstan, just in case her situation had evolved since the last time her file had been updated. Wheels set in motion, he finished his drink, and then decided to spend the rest of the evening at the Diogenes Club. There was an interesting problem set up on his chessboard, and he was determined to give it his full and undivided attention.
end