John stared at his reflection in the immaculate window that belonged to a black government car.
"Over three years and Mycroft just pulls up, expecting me to hop inside and be whisked off to some secret location for a little chat?"
He laughed.
"What does he want?"
The tinted driver's window rolled down slowly, revealing a stoic-looking man with tanned skin. He wore a pair of dark sunglasses. Go figure.
"I'm not free to tell," he said, "but I can assure you that it is of the upmost urgency and that Mr. Holmes has requested your presence as soon as possible."
John pursed his lips, clenched his left fist at his side, put himself on a mental leash so he wouldn't just turn his back and walk away right at that moment. "If he's so desperate, then he should've come himself," he replied hotly.
"That would only occur under the most favourable of circumstances. Today the circumstances are not as such. Now please get in, Doctor Watson, we really need to be moving along."
The backseat door opened on the driver's side. John recognized the woman who called herself anthea sitting there, fiddling with her phone. She scooted over without even looking up.
He had to admit; curiosity was tugging at the inside of his chest quite violently, and he almost smiled at the thought of the great Mycroft Holmes requiring his assistance in something. It must've been just as desperate as the driver had explained, considering the two men hadn't spoken since Sherlock's…
"Dammit," John muttered under his breath, climbing into the care and slamming the door behind him.
The drive was longer than usual. After about half an hour, John began to get impatient, thinking about the Chinese he'd been planning on ordering that night for dinner.
It sounded really good right now.
He didn't say anything aloud.
Another twenty minutes of driving finally brought the vehicle to a halt. John climbed out and stretched his legs before daring let his eyes wander about.
They were parked in a giant warehouse – reminiscent of the building that he'd met Mycroft in for the first time, more than four years ago. Mazes of hallways and doors shot off to his lefts, whilst stacks of unidentifiable materials were placed to the right. In front of John stood a person; his distinct figure outlined in a silhouette by the tricks the lights on the ceiling placed on his eyes.
"Mycroft," John said simply, walking forward, attempting to hide his limp as best as he could.
Knowing Mycroft however, he knew it was fruitless; the Holmes would see, no, read his efforts in a matter of milliseconds.
"John, I'm so glad you came," there was a smile to the older man's voice. "I have expected you to turn away."
"Trust me, the thought crossed my mind."
"Of course."
John stopped a few feet in front of Mycroft. He didn't really care anymore, didn't want to think that much. He just wanted to get this over with and get back home to his Chinese.
"Alright, get to it. You called me here for an important reason, I'm told, but you're already losing my interest. Can we please get this over with?"
"Have a seat, Dr. Wa-"
John sighed tiredly. "I'm fine where I stand Mycroft. The sentiment of our first meeting is appreciated, but we've already been over this."
The elder Holmes brother scowled, but kept his voice level while he spoke. "Don't say I didn't warn you. I would've thought you'd be better having this conversation sitting down. If that is your choice, however, I've no objection.
We'll start off with this: how familiar are with a man by the name of Sebastian Moran?"
"Vaguely familiar. If we're thinking of the same man, I knew him briefly from Afghanistan. He's an excellent marksman."
"More than excellent," Mycroft exemplified, handing him a manila folder with many blacked out segments of information on the front of it.
John sifted through the papers inside, quickling scanning his eyes on the information that caught his eyes first.
Sebastian Moran.
Male; aged 35.
Afghanistan service: November 2005 – August 2008.
Sebastian Moran was discharged from service after showing violent behavior towards fellow servicemen on a numerous amount of occasions.
"Always was a strange bloke," he commented, closing the folder. "Alright, yeah, him. What about?"
"He's dead."
"Ah, well that's…,"
"Fortunate; very, for us. A couple of months ago we found out he was working under Moriarty. The consulting criminal's right hand man, actually."
Things were finally starting to get interesting. "Did you…you get any information off of him before he died? Does this somehow mean you're close to clearing Sherlock's name?"
"Nearly," Mycroft nodded, taking back the folder. "But we failed to get any information. We were notified that he did, however, keep data and records on a hardrive to a computer."
"Lemme guess, you don't know where the hardrive is, nonetheless it's imperative you recover it some way or another?"
"You're still very good, Dr. Watson," Mycroft let out a dry laugh before wiping his features of all emotion once again.
John shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. Damn his leg. "I still don't understand what this has to do with me." he said.
Mycroft's eyes hesitantly flicked down to the floor, and then to a door to John's left. "My offer for sitting down, from earlier, still stands. I highly suggest you take the suggestion."
What was with the constant insisting? John was growing aggravated. He chewed on the inside of his cheek habitually. "You've forgotten I was a soldier, am a doctor, am a man who watched his best friend kill himself. I'm not queasy or easily upset. I can handle what you throw at me like an adult."
The ex-army doctor could see the doubt playing in Mycroft's mind even without any fancy deduction skills of his own. But Mycroft merely loosened his grip on the handle to his umbrella, and began to spin it.
"We – well, when I say 'we' I really mean myself, would like to see you back in action Doctor Watson. Your experience is being wasted in basic Surgery tasks. I'd like to offer you the position of secondary investigator in the case of Sebastian Moran's missing hardrive."
Ha! John almost wished he'd had a drink so he could take a big long gulp before spitting it out due to shock. Mycroft surely was out of his mind these days. John knew he wasn't right for the job – never was, and never would be either. So what possessed Mycroft to proposition him like this? For conversation's sake he asked, "and who's the primary?"
Mycroft's lips drew into a taunt line. John could've sworn he heard him whisper chair but then he loudly cleared his throat. "Don't worry – he's experienced enough on these types of cases and I have a feeling the two of you will work well together. If you choose to accept, that is."
John carded a hand through his hair. What in the hell was he doing? He could refuse this all, right now, go back to his flat and get some Chinese. He could turn on the telly and waste away the evening mindlessly.
"I accept."
AUTHOR NOTE
whelp folks, this is my first attempt at writing fanfiction. like ever. pretty pathetic, right? i'm really paranoid about characterization, so if anything ever seems ooc to you, or could be worded better, or anything, please don't feel afraid to let me know!
but anywho, i hope you enjoy. :)