Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so astounded. John had somehow kept this extraordinary secret from him for months and he'd never suspected.
It denied all logic, this … thing … of John's. There was no rational explanation and yet he'd just seen the proof with his own eyes. Mrs. Hudson had walked right past him and not seen him at all. "The mug, too? She didn't see you drinking the tea."
"I told you—it's not like I'm invisible, just … background. Like servants in rich houses, or film extras. It's not so much that people don't see me as … they don't observe."
"I do keep telling you that," Sherlock said, smiling at this further proof of one of his longtime maxims. "However, most people aren't quite that unobservant."
John just shrugged and turned to put his cup in the sink. "Hence the 'I can't explain it' explanation. It just happens."
Sherlock's head was filled with questions and he wanted nothing more than to take John's brain apart to examine it. "How long?"
"You mean, how long have I been able to do this? As long as I can remember, really. I didn't quite realize at first, just put it down to being unremarkable. Got marked absent a lot by teachers when I was sitting right in front of them—you can imagine what that did for my self-esteem."
Sherlock smiled. "Indeed. But you eventually could control it?"
"Yes, if I need to. It's mostly involuntary, really. Unlike some people I could name, I don't really like being the center of attention. It's just that this is like an added whammy. I can make sure I'm not the center of attention."
Fascinating, thought Sherlock, thinking of all the ways that could be useful for surveillance work. He asked more questions about the parameters of John's talent until he had a grasp on its space-location-proximity restrictions. "Does it work the other way? Can you draw attention?"
John looked thoughtful. Clearly the idea was entirely new. "I don't know. I don't think so. I've never tried." Sherlock watched as he heaved a sigh. "You're going to want to experiment on this, aren't you?"
Sherlock could practically feel his eyes light, the anticipation was tingling to his very fingertips. "Oh, yes. It will be fascinating."
Suddenly, the puzzle of Jim Moriarty wasn't nearly as interesting.
#
To John's surprise, revealing his secret didn't change much at all. He had to answer dozens of questions and yes, the anticipated experiments definitely made their appearance, but otherwise? Things were much the same. Sherlock and John investigated cases and John stayed out of the way. The only difference was that now Sherlock noticed when John was being evasive.
Naturally, Sherlock wanted to take advantage of John's new-found gift (new to Sherlock at least), and have him sneak into crime scenes for evidence, but John refused. "I'm not invisible to cameras, you know, and besides, that's just wrong. Strong moral principle, remember?"
It was almost surprising that it took Mycroft a week before he kidnapped John again.
When the car pulled up outside the surgery, John just heaved a sigh. He'd had a long day and wanted nothing more than to go home and collapse into his chair. He really didn't have the patience for dealing with Mycroft just now.
While he dithered on the pavement (and hated himself for being so indecisive), his phone chimed and he found a text message. "Please get in the car, John. I'll have tea waiting for you when you arrive. MH"
By Mycroft's standards, that was positively urbane, thought John, even if he would have preferred an actual invitation. Still, what choice did he have? The man had actually said please. So John slid into the backseat and tried not to think about how he never wanted to find himself on the wrong side of an experiment in a secret government lab. He also tried not to think of how long this conversation was going to be, if Mycroft felt the need to provide refreshments, but sent Sherlock a text in case it went long.
When they arrived at Mycroft's office, John went to sit at the conference table across from Mycroft with as good a grace as he could manage. "You know, I would have made you tea at the flat."
The man smiled and said, "Yes, but then we would have had Sherlock listening to every word, and some conversations are best left private."
John just looked at him as patiently as he could. "Because keeping secrets from Sherlock always works so well. You know he'll find out about this. I don't like keeping secrets, Mycroft."
"And yet you do remarkably well when you need to, don't you, John?" Mycroft leaned back, maintaining eye contact as his assistant brought two cups of tea.
"What do you mean?" he asked, and then tried not to react when Mycroft put a folder on the table.
"I've noticed," Mycroft began, his hand on the still-closed file, "That there seems to be an odd effect in many of these photos of you, John. Can you explain that?"
"They're not my pictures, Mycroft, and I'm not much of a photographer." John took a cautious sip of his tea, already prepared exactly as he liked it. He tried not to think about how creepy it was that Mycroft knew that.
"Oddly, the distortion is not in all the photos, just ones where you appear to be trying to fade into the background—usually to let Sherlock get all the attention. He's always been such a show-off. But how do you explain it?"
John gave a tight smile. "Sherlock being a show-off?"
Mycroft gave him a small grimace of a smile of his own. "That's a mystery for the ages. No, I'm talking about your extraordinarily self-effacing nature, John. You are a modest man, but that doesn't usually affect photography equipment."
John took another sip of tea to stall for time. "I don't know what to tell you, Mycroft. I don't know anything about cameras. I didn't even think it worked on them."
Mycroft's face relaxed the smallest bit. "That what worked on them?" he asked.
John tilted his head, thinking. "I mean, I thought it was only people because cameras don't have feelings, do they, they're just mechanical. I've never seen that kind of effect before, though. I wonder if digital is different than film, somehow? Or if it's because it's video?"
"It is a different technology," Mycroft said obligingly, "Anything is possible. But, why do you suppose it works on people?"
John shrugged, feeling tired, too tired. Tired from a long day. Tired from a life of keeping secrets. And really, why bother? What was the point? It would be good to unburden himself, wouldn't it? It wasn't like Sherlock didn't already know his secret. "I've never been able to figure it out," he said. "Just got used to people looking past me. It's not like I do it on purpose, most of the time, it's just easier not to be noticed."
"Why is it easier?"
"Because drawing attention to myself is dangerous. London with Sherlock isn't exactly safe—look what happened last week. A bloody bomb vest. And Afghanistan before that. And there was … well, sometimes it's just better to be overlooked, don't you think? You should know that better than anyone, since you're secretly the British government, right? That's not exactly something you want to draw attention to."
Mycroft gave an encouraging smile. "Yes, certainly, I understand the need for discretion. Most people aren't as good as it as you are, though. Why do you suppose that is?"
John shrugged, toying with his cup and feeling his long day catch up to him. He was almost groggy with fatigue. "Because I needed to, I suppose, though I really can't remember not being able to do it. It was safer that way."
"Safer? Weren't you safe?"
"No. Because of Da," John said, swallowing more tea. "It was bad whenever he noticed me, so it was just better if he didn't. I would try so hard to stay out of his way, but he'd find me anyway, so I just kept trying harder and harder and getting better at it. And then it just became a habit, I suppose. Staying out of the way. Not being seen. Being safe."
John stared into his cup, remembering his childhood. His father's drunken rages. The broken arm he'd had when he was four. How he'd had so many bruises his classmates called him clumsy. All he'd wanted to do was hide, and he'd gotten good at it.
Funny, he hadn't thought about it in years, had almost forgotten entirely….
He blinked, staring at his cup, then looked up at Mycroft. "You drugged me."
The other man nodded. "A truth-serum, yes. It's harmless, I assure you."
John pushed his chair back from the table, and tried to come to his feet, but the movement started his head spinning. "Why? Why would you do that?"
"It's nothing to worry about, John, I just needed to know the truth."
John forced himself to his feet, clinging to the back of the chair, breathing hard. He didn't think that Mycroft would actually harm him, but visions of government labs haunted him and he couldn't be sure. "And you couldn't just ask?"
Mycroft just sat and calmly watched him (the prat). "I did ask, John, last week, and you lied to me."
John shook his head and then clutched the chair. "No, I didn't. I didn't lie. I told you I didn't understand what happened, and it's true. I don't know why it works, I don't know how I do it, I just do it, and I saved your brother's life. I don't understand why you did this."
His knees were shaking now and there was a ringing in his ears that meant he wasn't going to be upright for much longer. What the hell had Mycroft put in the tea?
"Because I needed to know the truth, John. You live with my brother, and I have to protect him."
"Protect him?" John's knees had dropped him to the floor now, but he was still clutching the chair, panting in his effort to stay upright. "I saved his life. Again. Me. And I would do it again. You make such a big show about protecting him, but where were you? I was snatched off the street and forced into a bomb but I still managed to save your brother's life while you were nowhere in sight. You showed up the next morning with his friggin' coat as if that were all that mattered, and then you're surprised that I didn't trust you with the biggest secret of my life?"
Mycroft hadn't even bothered to stand up, but just sat there watching him struggle. "And that's exactly what concerns me, John. That you were keeping secrets. What other secrets do you have?"
"I stole a toy bus when I was seven. I played hooky to make out with a girl when I was sixteen. I accidentally walked off with a pen from work last week." John said as his fingers lost their grip and he sat heavily on the floor. "And your brother trusts me. I'd never hurt him¬—but that's not a secret. Neither is the fact that he's not going to forgive you for this."
"Should my brother trust you, John?"
"Yes! How can you not know that? You're supposed. To know. Everything." His vision was playing tricks on him now, distorting the office as if it were a carnival fun house. "I'd do. Anything."
He was slumped on the floor now, blinking slowly as he tried to force his eyelids open, tried not to succumb to whatever Mycroft had given him. See if he ever accepted tea from him again, he thought, and then almost giggled because with the way this was going, it seemed highly unlikely that would ever happen again.
Two perfectly polished shoes came into his field of vision, and just as he lost all contact with his consciousness, he heard a smooth voice say, "I may hold you to that."
#
(Note: Um, yeah ... the story just took a sharp left turn I was NOT expecting. Mycroft's got some explaining to do!)
