A/N: have some more! next one may be longer in coming, though.
When he arrived at the Dorchester Hotel, and was admitted by one of the smooth and immaculate doormen whose expression was acknowledging and deferential, if not quite welcoming, because that would be too personal, John felt out of place.
He'd taken pains to dress well, knowing he'd not want to stand out too much, although a glance around the luscious and well-lit lobby told him he may not have had to bother. Several guests were dressed in regular clothing, jeans and casual shirts, although John suspected the labels were high end, well above his means.
He sighed internally – no, not well above his means. Sherlock wouldn't have batted an eyelash if John had nicked his debit card to buy that kind of clothing. He probably wouldn't have even noticed the charges, although he was certain to notice the brands themselves. But John found this unnecessary because Sherlock, with his impeccable taste in clothing, never complained about what John wore. In fact, he complained when John didn't wear jumpers, even in the summer, when it was not really an option.
It was Sherlock who'd selected and purchased the suit John wore now, which was tailor-made – the very first piece of clothing John had ever had that was. It had replaced the suit he'd worn to Harry's funeral, his standard funeral and wedding suit at the time. That suit, and everything else he'd worn that day, he'd given to Sherlock to get rid of.
Some time after that, Sherlock, in one of his I'm-bored-and-you'll-do-as-I-say moods, had dragged him out, insisting John needed something presentable for when the appropriate occasion arose. John went along with it because it was pointless to try and argue with Sherlock about almost anything, and Sherlock's sense of style was much more refined than John's.
He'd argued with the tailor over colours and cuts and thread counts and weights and styles and breathability and John had stood there like a living, breathing dummy, being told when to move, what to move, how to stand, having swatches of fabric held to his chest so Sherlock could eye them critically before dismissing them or nodding with calculated reluctance – maybe.
John had never imagined buying a simple suit would be such an ordeal.
In the end, though, he had something that fit and became him quite well, which, despite the casually but expensively attired guests lounging about the lobby and the bar with their evening martinis, he was glad he'd worn, because he was going to meet with Mycroft Holmes, who never dressed down.
Even in Edinburgh, during the long hours waiting for David's captors to call, Mycroft had not so much as loosened his tie or shed his suit jacket.
John felt somewhat out of place, as though some patron or hotel staff member would recognize him as not staying there and demand to know who he was, and what he wanted. Sherlock, he considered darkly, would have breezed in with full confidence that the world would bend to his will and desires and that anywhere he was, he was meant to be. John had seen this work at crime scenes when Lestrade wasn't present before, although it was less effective on the police in general, because they were conditioned to treat everyone on site as if they didn't belong. Sometimes even one another, and John had seen subtle turf wars played out with sharp glances and off handed remarks that could make even Sherlock envious at their cutting power.
There were no police officers here, but security was in evidence and they eyed John up, but he ignored them, because security he could deal with. It reminded him of being in the army. Instead, he made himself appear as though he were bored – an expression he'd learned from Sherlock, although on Sherlock it was often not feigned – and pulled out his mobile, sending a text to Angela MacTaggart to let her know he'd arrived.
One moment, someone will meet you, she sent back and John wondered who it would be. Did she still have people willing to work for her, even though she was retired? Would she have pressed one of Mycroft's staff into service? He hoped it wasn't Anthea (he still wasn't sure he believed Sherlock that her real name was Karen Johnson) because he wanted to avoid any contact with the text message addict. Surely, Angela knew that Anthea would alert her boss if John was present.
But it was the hotel manager, appearing from behind some glossy wooden door that separated the above stairs from the below stairs, the door shutting silently behind him, probably felt-lined or something, John thought, so as to block out noise.
"Doctor John Watson?" the manager asked solicitously, all poise and confidence, the things John were not particularly feeling right now.
But he was a doctor, he reminded himself. That was probably important for appearances, somehow.
"Yes," John agreed, returning his mobile to the pocket on the inside of the jacket, where the weight wouldn't distort the fabric or the lay of the suit. Sherlock and the tailor had been insistent about that.
"Right this way, please. Ms. Thorington is expecting you."
At this, John made himself not raise his eyebrows but nod, as if Angela's assumed name did not surprise him. He should have known, he told himself.
He was taken up by lift – accessible with a hotel key card only – to a floor with what appeared to be a very limited number of rooms, all suites, John supposed. There was no noise on the floor, save for the very faint rustle of their footfalls against the thick and luxurious carpet, and the soft shifting of fine wool as they moved.
The manager stopped them outside a door and waited, and John tried to pretend as though he were expecting this. There was no rapping on the dark, polished oak, nor any other indication – a call, a text – that they were there, but within the space of a few moments, the door was pulled open. John caught a glimpse of a sumptuously appointed suite behind Angela MacTaggart, who stepped partway into the corridor, almost letting the door shut behind her, but not quite. Her right hand rested against the wood, fingertips keeping the weight enough to let the door remain open a crack.
"Doctor Watson for you, Ms. Thorington," the manager said quietly.
"Thank you, Richard," Angela replied in an equally soft voice. "Please see that we're not disturbed. My son's just fallen asleep."
John knew he shouldn't have been surprised that David was there, but he was. Where else would the boy be? A little over two months after his abduction, would he consent to be parted from the only parent he'd ever known? Unlikely.
John saw Angela note his surprise, but doubted the hotel manager had done so.
"Of course," the manager said smoothly, easily. "Good evening."
She nodded at him and he slipped away, moving softly back up the warmly lit corridor and Angela beckoned John inside, resting an index finger against her lips as she did so. John kept quiet, following her through the spacious suite, trying not to gawk. He had felt the same in her apartment in Edinburgh, although the furniture and decoration there had been simpler, less opulent, but no less obviously expensive and high class.
Angela guided him into the master bedroom and shut the door silently behind them. John wondered for a moment what Sherlock would think of that if he knew – alone in a bedroom with Mycroft's possibly former lover.
And they were alone. John had been expecting Mycroft to be there – that had been part of the arrangement they'd worked out, but he wasn't. Nor had John really imagined meeting with Mycroft in a bedroom, so in a way, it was a relief that his brother-in-law was not present.
"He's here," Angela said quietly, reading his expression with years of expertise on her side. "Look."
She gestured John over to the desk, where two laptops were set up, both of them displaying images that John immediately recognized as camera feeds. It didn't surprise him at all to see that one of them was from a camera just over the door of the suite in the corridor, showing the hallway on either side as it stretched away. She'd had to have known somehow that he and the manager had been outside.
The other was fed into the suite's second bedroom. The image was less distinct, because the heavy curtains were drawn, even though it was still not quite dusk yet, the summer sun still up, but beginning to set.
There were two figures on the bed in the other room, Mycroft Holmes and David MacTaggart. The boy, whom John recognized easily from the photos he'd seen, curled up next to the man, his head pillowed on Mycroft's left thigh. Mycroft was sitting up, back against the headboard, with the most absent expression John had ever seen on his face, and he realized then that Mycroft really had no idea he was there. He'd assume only that Angela was watching, if anyone was watching at all.
He was idly stroking David's curly hair, the hair that had reminded John so much of Sherlock's, that had given him his first inkling that there was some relation there. The boy was asleep, chest rising and falling slowly, and Mycroft's eyes looked distant, although John was willing to bet his mind was still working rapidly, even if his body was still and his expression vague.
John looked at Angela, unable to disguise his shock.
He'd never imagined associating anything domestic with Mycroft before. It had been hard enough imagining Sherlock doing it even when he'd seen Sherlock doing it, and it still caught him by surprise after all this time.
"He was the one who made the exchange," Angela said, and she sounded almost weary. John's heart went out to her – although she looked better than the last time he'd seen her, which wasn't difficult, she still looked tired, and sad now, rather than terrified. "He was the first familiar person David saw after – after five days of being drugged, starved, and held captive."
John wondered what it took for someone, a parent especially, to say those words.
He wanted to ask so many things, but knew it wasn't his place, nor his business. Sherlock, he suspected, would have started on the questions and deductions immediately, but John knew a lot more about tact – in fact, he just knew about tact in general – and kept his mouth shut. Whatever arrangements Angela was making with Mycroft were her affair.
He was here about Mycroft's brother, not Mycroft's son.
"You'll have to be patient," she said. "David will need to be more deeply asleep before he can get up."
At this, John just nodded, glancing back at the computer monitor and Mycroft, who was unaware that he was being watched.
John wondered how that would go over once he realized, a man who was so used to watching himself, to being the one behind the camera, the one with the electronic eyes that could see almost anywhere he wanted them to.
John realized suddenly that he'd become almost accustomed to the idea that Mycroft was watching him. How odd to be on the other end, even if only briefly. Odd, but not at all appealing, really.
"Drink?" Angela offered.
"Before talking to Mycroft?" John said. "No. Probably afterwards, though."
She gave him a small, wry smile, little more than a twitch of her lips, but her hazel eyes glinting once in the sunlight that slanted through the high windows, leaving patches of late, golden light on the thick carpet and plush bed.
"Well considered," she replied. "Tea or coffee instead?"
"Tea," John agreed and she set herself to making some, handing it to him in a fine china cup and saucer that was probably worth more than John's monthly salary at the surgery. He tried not to think about what would happen if he dropped it.
She waved him into a seat, and John sat in a striped navy-and-cream wing back chair, part of him wishing they had something half so comfortable at home. Angela took the matched chair, which was angled somewhat to face him, slipping her shoes off and drawing her legs up under her, curling into the chair. She sipped her tea quietly, hazel eyes distant for a moment.
"How is he?" John asked.
A slight smile touched her lips against the edge of her cup, then she lowered the cup to the saucer and met John's eyes.
"David? Or Mycroft?"
For a moment, John wondered what kind of reply he'd get if he answered Mycroft's name.
Somehow, he doubted it would be much information at all.
"David," he replied.
Angela nodded, and John knew she'd have guessed this. She took another sip of her tea, as if to delay the moment in which she replied.
"He has some good days now," she admitted. "It is slow. There are times when I think he forgets, just moments, really, and then it's as if he's realized he's forgotten and it comes back. He has nightmares. I was glad to come to London, actually – there are nights when it isn't me he wants. Those are the worst of them."
John marvelled at her ability to keep her voice steady while she said this. Not only to admit how much her son was still suffering, but also that there were times she was not enough. That David wanted the man who had rescued him. His father. Whichever. John didn't pretend to understand what the boy felt for Mycroft.
Or what Mycroft felt for David, really.
Although, he thought, he had a clearer idea on that last one. His eyes slid back to the laptop screen, watching Mycroft holding a sleeping David. He had stopped stroking his son's hair and was just sitting silently now.
It was strange, John suddenly realized. He'd seen Sherlock do precisely the same thing with Josephine, but for different reasons. Not because Josephine was scared and wouldn't sleep, but because Sherlock actually enjoyed it, with her. Because she wanted to curl up with her uncle and doze off, secure and happy and safe. Not because it was the only way she could fend off fears that were too old for a child. For anyone, for that matter.
He wondered what Mycroft thought of this whole thing, this situation that he'd removed himself from because neither he nor Angela really wanted his involvement, and then which had suddenly been forced onto him.
He wanted to say something reassuring to Angela, but refrained. What could he say? He didn't know David. Didn't really know her, either. When it came down to it, most of the time, he felt like he didn't know Mycroft. And who was John? Brother-in-law to an absent father, husband to an unknown uncle. It didn't mean much.
"Come," Angela said then and uncurled herself from the chair, slipping her shoes back on. She stood, poised and graceful, belying the tired woman she'd been only a moment ago. John put his mostly-empty teacup aside, rising to join her, and she led him out of the bedroom, into the sitting room, still carrying her cup and saucer.
He wondered what had alerted her, and then how many times Mycroft must have sat with David until the boy had fallen asleep that Angela could read when he was about to gently dislodge himself.
Angela settled herself into a low-backed armchair and nodded for John to take the couch, which he did. It didn't escape his notice that both of them would be able to see Mycroft emerge from the other bedroom without having to look over their shoulders, and that he would be able to see them. He felt vaguely uncomfortable in his tailor-made suit, in this room in this hotel where both Mycroft and Angela would feel at home, but which was not really John's type of place. But he drew a breath and dismissed the disquiet with the practiced ease of years of military and medical training. He knew he'd never match Mycroft's abilities at commanding his reactions, but it didn't matter. That wasn't why he was there.
A minute or two later, the bedroom door opened and Mycroft eased himself out, moving with the kind of precision John expected from him, but much more care, much more caution. The door barely made a sound when it closed again and, for a moment, Mycroft was still, an expression of relief on his face that was quickly banished, or at least subsumed under his control.
When he turned to face them, his expression changed again, his clear grey eyes darkening somewhat, the barest moment of shock passing through them. And John saw something in them he'd never seen before – Mycroft was suddenly aware of being pinned. Not trapped, not like he'd been in Edinburgh, at the mercy of a drugs lord and his mercenary-trained kidnappers. Confronted this time by someone he knew and trusted.
"Ella," Mycroft said simply, but there was a hint, a mere hint, of reproach in his voice.
"Come and sit," Angela said, keeping her voice quiet so as not to disturb David. "John would like to talk to you, that's all. We're both quite tired with the way things are going with you and your brother."