A/N: An interesting combination in this one. You guys are wonderful. I don't own these characters.
Mary Morstan and Mycroft Holmes
Mary was four blocks from home when the black car pulled up to the curb. At first, she thought nothing of it—why would she? It'd been months since the last of the reporters. The world, it seemed, had finally moved on—but then a voice called her name.
"Miss Morstan?" It wasn't really a question; the tall, elegantly dressed gentleman obviously knew who she was. "Please do not be alarmed. I am an acquaintance of Dr. Watson, and I was hoping for a few moments of your time."
Mary's tone was polite, if solid. "If you intended any of those moments to take place in there"—she looked pointedly at the still-open door of the dark vehicle—"I'm afraid I will have to disappoint you. The whole don't-take-rides-from-strangers thing. You understand."
"I wouldn't dream of asking it," the man replied, sounding slightly amused. He gestured toward the wide park path. "Shall we walk, then?"
Mary hesitated for half a breath then nodded. If he meant her harm, he would have tried to stuff her into the back seat. Or the trunk. As it was, he was leading her down the populated park walk, swinging his umbrella, metering his long strides in deference to her smaller steps. Perfectly polite.
"So," she said after a moment, "you're here to talk about John."
"Yes."
"Forgive me, but what makes you think I would be willing?"
"You don't even know what I am asking yet."
"Does it matter?" The man's lips twitched at her answer, and Mary realized she'd pleased him somehow.
"Ah, loyalty," he drawled. A portion of his mind had flitted elsewhere. Remembering, perhaps?
"Common sense," she replied. "I don't even know who you are."
"Actually, Miss Morstan, I believe you do." All right, he had a point: the black car, the height, the umbrella...
"Well, then. What do you want, Mr. Holmes?" Mycroft smiled.
"Information."
"About John. Why?"
"Call it concern for his well-being."
Mary tipped her head, unconvinced. "You don't need me for that, Mr. Holmes. You've got agents and cameras. John's told me that he thinks you've had him followed in the past. I'd venture to say that you know exactly what he's been up to."
"I know his comings and goings, but I am curious as to his emotional state."
Mary's eyes softened, but her lips pressed into a wary line.
"Regarding your brother," she finished for him. Mycroft continued walking, face impassive, emotionless. It should have rankled her, this apparent lack of feeling, but some instinct stilled her thoughts. She stopped walking, and Mycroft swung round to look her in the face.
"It's not my place to tell you John's feelings, Mr. Holmes. You know him. He wouldn't appreciate the invasion of his privacy. But I can tell you this much, because it's plain for anyone to see: John misses your brother." She had his full attention—she could see that—this man whose mind stretched so far in any given moment, was completely focused on her words. She wondered if they brought him comfort. "John misses him every day. Loved him, I think. Beyond that, you'll have to come around and ask him yourself." Mary couldn't help the slightly rueful smile. "I'm sure you know the address."
"I appreciate your candor, Miss Morstan." They were walking again, coming to the other end of the park. Mary could see the black car waiting up ahead.
"Mr. Holmes?" He tipped his chin, regarding her. "I'm sorry. For your loss." She hoped she wasn't overstepping her bounds. "I didn't know your brother, sir, but from what I understand… he was something truly great."
"Is that what John has told you?"
"He didn't have to. Look at all the good your brother did, the people he helped. And he… he had John."
She wasn't quite sure how to explain that—her idea about Sherlock and John. How no matter what the world said, Sherlock had earned John's loyalty, had kept it even after his fall, had worked his way so far into John's good heart that even now, the doctor still dreamed of his friend. Nightmares, yes, but good dreams too… dreams of London, and chases, and skulls, and violins… She didn't know how to explain that Sherlock Holmes, the purportedly heartless man, had in some ways become John Watson's heart.
She couldn't explain any of it. But perhaps she didn't have to.
"Yes," Mycroft said simply. "You seem to see a great deal, Miss Morstan, and for that, I am grateful."
Mary shook her head, smile soft. "I am no Holmes, sir."
"Perhaps, not. But you are the chosen companion of Dr. John Watson, and I've come to see the value inherent in that. Do look after him." They'd reached the sidewalk. Mycroft hooked his umbrella over his arm and gave Mary a polite nod. "Good afternoon, Miss Morstan."
"And to you, Mr. Holmes."
She didn't wait to see the car pull away before she turned her feet toward home.
