A/N: Didn't expect to write ch2 yet, but couldn't resist…
Chapter 2 – In which Mycroft plots.
The room was pleasant, as hospital rooms went. The white walls, floor and ceilings that would normally result in Mycroft having a horrific headache, had been tempered somewhat by the rows of colourful flowers lining the window sill and overflowing from the two bedside tables. John Watson was a well-liked man, there was just something about him that put people at ease and made them forget that he was perfectly capable of shooting a man dead from more than 200 yards. Some kind nurse had also lined the wall straight opposite the bed with all his get well soon cards. Combined with a comfy leather armchair that Mycroft had sequestered away from some Doctor's office, the room exuded a comforting, homely feel; perfectly suitable considering its present occupant.
It had been a week since Mycroft had confronted Sherlock in that dark alleyway not far from Baker Street. Every day since he had made it his duty to come by John Watson's room and sit for a while. His mother, if she was still alive, would no doubt have said it was his way of atoning for not being able to stop Sherlock from leaving. But Mycroft knew such guilt would be pointless. Sherlock had, and always would be, the most stubborn man alive. He knew going that his words would change nothing, but it had been his familial duty and so he had gone anyway. No, his Florence Nightingale resemblance was instead the beginning of his plan to clean up the mess his little brother had left behind. And so enter player two, stage left.
"He's gone sir?"
Mycroft noted her word choice; gone could be flexible, chameleon in its meaning. Combined with the lack of precise pronoun the sentence could be interpreted in numerous ways, thus any possible agents listening in would not gain any useful knowledge.
"Yes," Mycroft replied unnecessarily.
His PA's ability to know every precise movement of the Holmes family managed to astonish even him, but the question was phrased in such a way as to expect an answer and Mycroft, in direct counterpoint to his brother's abruptness, was always one to follow the social formalities. After all, it had taken years of painstaking study and assimilation during his youth to achieve such levels of social integration. To know all the little rules, etiquettes and patterns that governed humans allowed you to master them, and to master them allowed you to manipulate them. Knowing when to tilt your head in shame at a teacher, when to smile knowingly at a paramour, how to utilise phatic language to put one's pray at ease. And, more importantly, knowing those moments when discarding the rules will result in the ultimate impact on said prey. It was this ability to master human interactions that had not only allowed Mycroft to gain his current position in the world, but to also keep it.
A few minutes of silence had passed while his assistant loomed nearby. The heart monitor connected to Dr John Watson kindly counting out a beat for the current play to traverse by.
Beep, beep. Beep, beep.
Mycroft clenched his left fist as if in agitation, or some other unnamed emotion.
Beep, beep. Beep, beep.
He looked down at his fist, released his tense grip, and raised his barren face towards his assistant.
"Preparations will need to be made for the funeral."
Beep, beep. Beep, beep.
"I'll see to it immediately sir." Her face gave nothing away to the duplicity unfolding before the bedside of Sherlock's faithful Boswell.
And then, with a brief nod of condolence, she left the private hospital room, pulling out her personally adapted blackberry and instantly beginning her assigned task. By morning Sherlock Holmes would be officially dead, having run away from the scene of an explosion the week before he had finally been found by the police. He had confronted one of his enemy's lackeys in an empty warehouse; he had then been knocked unconscious and tied up before the place had been set on fire with him still inside. By the end of the week his remains would have been cremated, and by the time Dr John Watson awoke from his healing sleep all that would be left of the world's only consulting detective would be a small urn of ashes located in the Holmes' family vault. A cruelty perhaps, but a necessity. Mycroft's ability for reading people was as good as, if not better, than his brother and Mycroft knew that John Watson would wish to see the body before cremation. Being such a visceral man it would have been the only way he could come to terms with it. But just as Mycroft was certain that the burnt body of some treasonable traitor – who happened to share the same dimensions as Sherlock – would satisfy people such as Lestrade, he knew with equal certainty that John Watson wouldn't be. After all, there was a reason Sherlock had kept with John longer than any other flatmate.
Having succeeded in laying the groundwork for his plan to ensure Sherlock's ruse succeeded, Mycroft glanced at his fob watch. Mary, John's current girlfriend of only one month whom he had met during one of Sherlock's many cases, would be arriving in ten minutes. She had been visiting him every day, straight after work, and would sit by his bedside holding his hand while she went through her lesson plans for the next day at St Joseph's Primary School. For such a short relationship Mycroft thought her loyalty was to be admired – it very nearly matched John's own – and he made a mental note as he swept out of the hospital, his ever present umbrella tucked under his left arm, to help ensure the smooth running of their relationship. Such a steady, religious woman would be good for John Watson's mental stability over the next few years. She may even prevent John from realising the true depth of his loss; the love of a man he had never had the chance to own.
A/N Alas I foresee further heartbreak for our dear Watson before things get better I'm afraid. Sherlock will eventually be making an appearance again, and it will eventually be slash. I know it's short but I hope you enjoyed it anyway and please, please review and say what you think! More shall come when the muse strikes or when the reviews motivate me :-p