He reviewed the file from Scotland Yard once more as his driver negotiated the limousine to the hospital where John Watson had been taken the day before after being stabbed by Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft frowned over the arrest reports. The art thief his brother had been chasing was charged with the attempted manslaughter of the unfortunate doctor. But quite honestly, the accident wasn't anyone's fault. The thief could not have known that Sherlock was holding a knife when he shoved John backwards into the detective in a desperate attempt to escape. Sherlock, though foolish to have been looking down at the knife in his hand instead of what was ahead of him, could not have anticipated that the thief would suddenly burst out of the office door and push John into him. John could not have avoided either the shove or the knife. An unfortunate series of events, all in all.

The cypher in the equation was Mary Morstan. Her relationship with his brother's flatmate had been a cause of concern to Mycroft, but the British Government had swiftly dealt with this threat to his brother's well-being by interviewing the young woman within hours of their engagement. * She had convincingly reassured him that her intentions were the same as his own: Sherlock's and John's continued partnership was important to her and she was enabling John to quit his job at the surgery in order to work with Sherlock full time. Mycroft had tacitly approved of this arrangement. With John as his brother's keeper, Mycroft's life was greatly simplified.

But would Mary's good will towards Sherlock still exist after this shocking display of carelessness on the detective's part? Would any woman feel comfortable with the man she professed to love working day by day in the company of such a loose cannon as Sherlock Holmes? How if she now realized the full extent of the danger John would constantly be subject to and insisted on the two parting ways? Any sane young woman, Mycroft thought, would run, not walk, away from such an intimate association with chaos personified.

Mycroft exited his vehicle at the door of the hospital and took the lift, hoping he was not too late to mend the rift that must certainly have opened between his outrageous brother and John Watson's charming young fiancée. He had already done his bit by ensuring a private room and the best care possible for his brother's colleague: he was ready to use every bit of diplomatic ability of which he was capable for damage control. Sherlock was safer working with John. Their association must be maintained, Mary Morstan's sensibilities notwithstanding.

Hesitating before John's door, he steeled himself for the confrontation. Politicians and diplomats were simple to manipulate: devoted lovers, he had found, were more difficult to negotiate with. Women tended to turn into vicious she-bears in the face of a threat to their loved ones. He regretted this turn of events deeply. In his one encounter with Mary, she had proven herself to be clever, honest, thoughtful, and kind, but not one to suffer fools gladly. He admired her, in spite of himself, and in any other circumstance would enjoy a lively conversation with her. In another life, they could, perhaps, have been . . . friends.

He knocked. At her summons, he opened the door and stepped inside. She looked up at him and gave him a warm and welcoming smile.

"Hullo, Mycroft! How lovely of you to come by and see us."

Mycroft pulled his lips into a smile of his own invention. Warm welcomes, in his experience, portended demands of some kind. Was Mary planning to sue Sherlock? Was she thinking of using this situation to extort money from him? But no, unless his deducing powers had left him entirely, he could see that her friendly greeting was genuine. But then, she was by all accounts a fair-minded young woman. She would not blame the elder brother for the negligence of the younger.

"I want to thank you for all you've done, arranging for this room and all," she continued.

"How is our patient?" he asked suavely, putting on his most sincere look of concern. And the concern was not truly feigned, for Mycroft actually liked John Watson and truly wished no harm to him.

"He's doing well," Mary said. "It'll be a long recovery, but recover he will, thank God."

"I'm gratified to hear it," Mycroft replied in relief. "I can't imagine how distressing it would be to Sherlock to know he had caused permanent harm to his friend by his own hand."

Mary's eyebrows lifted superciliously. "A great many people would be distressed by John's demise, however it came about," she commented calmly. "You might even have shed a tear over his coffin, to have lost the one man in the world who can successfully tell you off." The corner of her mouth trembled in a suppressed smirk. Mycroft felt certain she was not being serious. Was it possible she was teasing him? No one had ever teased Mycroft Holmes before.

John moved restlessly in his sleep, and Mary turned away from her guest to gently soothe him with soft words and loving hands. Mycroft felt uncomfortable, witnessing this intimate display of tenderness. He decided to come to the point so that he could leave the sooner. "Where is Sherlock?" he asked abruptly.

Mary did not turn away from John, but said distractedly, "I sent him home." She was leaning over her fiancé to give him a dose of morphine.

Mycroft's heart fell. So his fears were valid. Mary wanted nothing more to do with the man she had entrusted with her lover's safety and who had failed to keep him from harm. "I am sorry to hear it," he said, and the regret in his voice was genuine. "I had hoped that, as this was clearly an accident, you might be forgiving of my brother's ineptitude and continue to encourage his and John's friendship."

Mary turned back to Mycroft with widened eyes. "Mycroft Holmes!" she cried in consternation. "How long have we known each other now? An entire week, by my accounting! And yet you still don't know me any better than that? I'm very disappointed!" she scolded cheerfully.

Mycroft was taken aback. Mary's dimples had deepened in her amusement and her eyes sparkled with mischief. This was, he realized, what was called'affectionate teasing'. Such a thing had never happened to him before in all his life. She was completely disarming him.

"I beg your pardon," he began, but she interrupted him.

"I sent Sherlock home because he was exhausted from sitting up with me all night. I managed to sleep a bit here in this chair, but I'm sure he never closed his eyes the entire time he was here. He'll rest a bit, and then he'll come back and sit with John while I go get a break. We're in this together, you see. We're taking care of each other." Disconcertingly, Mary walked right into Mycroft's personal space and took his hand in hers. She led him to the chair and then perched herself on the edge of John's bed.

"There now, that's better," she grinned at his discomfiture as he sat down. "We've really not had much opportunity to get to know each other, have we? We should be great friends, you and I. We have so much in common, after all."

Mycroft blinked. "Have we?" he said bleakly. This was not going at all as he'd pictured. How had things got so out of his control? It was not, he thought, a bad thing. Just . . . odd.

Mary sighed and smiled at him gently. "When people get married, they don't just marry an individual, do they? They marry into a family. I've never had a family of my own, so I'm quite excited about joining John's little family."

"I shouldn't think Harry Watson was anyone to be excited about," Mycroft murmured dryly.

"Hmm," Mary frowned. "I haven't met Harry yet. She's taken it into her head to dislike me, sight unseen. No, I wasn't thinking of Harry when I said that. Sherlock is John's family now. And so, by extension, are you. We should get along famously, you and I—we both love Sherlock and have his best interests at heart."

In spite of himself, Mycroft felt captured in Mary's affectionate web. "I've never been much good at 'family'", he admitted hesitantly.

"And I've never been in one. We'll learn what it means together, shall we?" the irrepressible Mary responded.

"I suppose I have no choice," Mycroft admitted. He knew when he'd been bested. And he wasn't sure he really considered this a defeat. In fact, it felt rather like success.

00

*Mycroft and Mary first meet in "Show Me".