III. Mycroft
John really hated last resorts. There was a reason they were last on the list—they weren't pleasant to contemplate. But he had committed himself to this course of action, and he couldn't back out now. He raised his hand to knock.
And the door opened, John's upraised fist stopping just short of Mycroft Holmes' nose.
"Er…sorry," John stuttered, stepping back.
"Not at all," Mycroft frowned. He also stepped backwards, into his office. "I was just going to lunch, but I've got a few minutes. Did you need something?"
He really hated last resorts. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I have a question. Can I come in?"
The government man gestured him inside, the crease of concern never fading from his brow. Closing the door, he turned around and asked, "What is it, John? I hope my brother hasn't done anything that—"
"No, no, nothing like that. I just…I have a question."
"Alright," Mycroft gave a little wave of permission. "Go ahead."
John took a deep breath, clasping his hands behind him in classic military "at-ease" position. "Weird as this may sound," he said, mustering his courage past the awkwardness, "I really need to know…Sherlock's middle name."
Mycroft stared at him, and John took a tiny bit of pleasure from the feeling that, for once, he had taken the elder Holmes completely by surprise.
"His…middle name."
"Yes, his middle name, the second name on his birth certificate, what his mother called him when he was really in trouble, his middle name—why is that so amazing to everyone?" John's voice rose in exasperation, and he took a deep breath. "Listen, sorry, I…dunno. Never mind. Forget it."
"No, no…" Mycroft held up a hand. "My apologies. You simply took me by surprise. I cannot recall the last time someone asked me such an…unusual question."
"And considering your job, that's saying something." John shrugged, spreading his hands. "It's a long story—"
"And one that, I assure you, I have no desire to hear." Mycroft Holmes stepped behind his desk and sank into the chair there, steepling his fingers in the same manner Sherlock did when he was thinking and staring at John over the long fingertips. "Have you asked him?"
"Sherlock? Of course I did." John leaned back in the chair with a shrug. "He wouldn't tell me."
"Then what makes you think I will?"
Suddenly tired of all the games, John shot Mycroft the sort of deadly look he hadn't dared use since the first night he met the man in a damp warehouse. "Because if you don't," he said, enunciating every words clearly, "You can say goodbye to our little meetings." He would never get into one of the elder Holmes' fancy cars again.
Mycroft gazed at him, considering. Wondering, probably, if the occasional checkup-by-proxy was worth it.
"Very well," he said at last. "But if Sherlock comes to me, asking who told you, I will deny all accusations. And I have a feeling I'm a much better liar than you are, Dr. Watson."
Not sure if that was an insult or not, John simply nodded. "Agreed," he replied. "What is it?"
Grabbing a sticky note from his desk, Mycroft scribbled something across the yellow square and pushed it toward John.
John picked it up. Looked at it. Read the word—the name—written there. Looked back at Mycroft.
Back at the note.
Read it again.
And stood.
"I see," he said. He cocked his head. "Your…parents," he said, "Were they…?"
"Insane?" Mycroft shrugged. "Who knows."
"Right." John glanced at the note in his hand again, and shook his head. "Right."
And with that, he left, dropping the note in the garbage as he passed.
And to think that he had always hated "Hamish".
