Mycroft sat glaring at the screen of his desktop computer as if he could burn through the display with all the gathered powers of sheer annoyance. Good thing that wasn't possible… He sighed, frustrated, at the evidence he saw before him. His hands came up and raked, one at a time, through his hair before balling them up into a single fist that became a fixture on the end of his chin as he leaned forward on elbows reddened from repeating this exact pose for hours. He would need to act; and soon by the looks of things.
He pushed back to lean into the leather of his chair, once again questioning why he still honored this last wish of his brother's. Before Sherlock had…fallen…he had had a long, and tedious, discussion with Mycroft over the fate of John Watson should anything befall himself. "You do realize that he is not a possession that you own? That you can't just dictate 'what happens' to him, don't you brother dear?" the elder Holmes had asked, half-chiding, half-curious. Sherlock had just bored into him with those shade-shifting eyes of his, steel gray at the time, until Mycroft finally gave up and just asked for the specifics. He could hardly refuse his baby brother, no matter what others might think regarding Mycroft's aloofness and cold exterior.
And now…this. Trouble. He sighed again, inwardly this time; need to stop showing such displays of weakness and indecision on the exterior. Dr. Watson had initially grieved as the older Holmes expected. Withdrawn, depressed, decreased appetite, etc. Although, this initial period had lasted a bit shorter than he had predicted. In fact, within a matter of three weeks, Dr. Watson had seemed relatively normal, with the exception of still being socially inaccessible. And there had been no obvious reasoning for this shift. No new relationships or career change. No support groups. No drugs. It all seemed so very odd. And so, as Sherlock's last wish was for John's well-being to be looked after, Mycroft had investigated, sensing an abnormality he couldn't quite put a finger on. What he found astounded even him.
He had noticed quickly that Dr. Watson's cell phone was getting more use as time progressed onward from the…incident. But it wasn't actual phone calls. It was texts. And not texts to any of the numerous people who currently worried over him and actually wished he would contact them somehow. No. They were all to a single individual's number. One the doctor should recognize as nonfunctioning. Mycroft shook his head at the ridiculousness of the idea of texting the dead. Given, perhaps one or two texts could conceivably be overlooked. Kind of like bringing flowers with a card attached to the cemetery. Sentiment. Human emotion and attachment. Brief flights of sanity were often forgiven of those suffering great loss, especially in the acute phase.
But this…this was no brief interlude of grief making itself known. This was something else. Delusion? Acute psychosis? It mattered not at any rate. It needed to be ended, and soon. Not because Mycroft was truly worried that John was insane, but because others, namely those in the remaining web of Moriarty's network, might catch wind of it and decide to finish what they had started. Much progress had been made in these months after, and soon this very well might not be an issue. But for now, it could possibly endanger the doctor's life. And besides the obvious threat of Moriarty's second, Sebastian Moran, there was also a more recent change in John's mannerisms, in this last two weeks in particular. For though he was still consistently texting the deceased, where it used to seemingly bring comfort, it now appeared that he was declining once again. His nonessential forays outside of the flat were lessening in frequency. And his expression, when observed, was just, less…him. Like he was putting on a mask of what he thought people wanted to see. If left alone long enough, his health may deteriorate.
Finally rallying his decisiveness, he rang his assistant to bring the car around. He would go straight over and discuss the situation with the other man. Dr. Watson had always been a level-headed man who listened with attentiveness to reason. Surely he would understand and accept Mycroft's assessment of the situation? Because if not…if not, then the remaining Holmes would do some things neither of them would enjoy; but it would keep Watson safe. And that end certainly justified the means, and would allow him to keep his word. It seemed longer than a mere few months ago when he had agreed to this. And even then, he never had thought it would come to him actually having to uphold the promise. There was so much left unsaid where he and Sherlock were concerned. He hoped that his actions here would atone for a bit of the mistakes he'd made there at the end.
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John looked up to see the imposing silhouette of the elder Holmes brother standing in the doorway to the living area. With an inward groan, he made to stand, but Mycroft motioned him to remain where he was, saying, "I won't be long, Dr. Watson." And so John settled back down, crossed one leg over the other, and tilted his head in impatience as if he had actually been about to go out somewhere. It may not be true, but he still wasn't feeling up to company yet; especially not this company. Mycroft slithered inside and took a position a few feet ahead of the chair John sat in. He tilted his umbrella out and leaned a bit more weight on it, using the motion to gather his thoughts.
"I'll be brief, John. It has come to my attention that you are doing something potentially harmful," and he began to pace back and forth from the couch table and back to John, back and forth, a nervousness making it impossible to remain still. John began, "I don't think…" and was interrupted. "Oh, I think you do, John," and Mycroft whirled around to face him, continuing, "My brother, John. You've been texting him. Repeatedly. For months." And they stared one another down as that accusation hung in the air between them. All of John's tightly rationalized reasons scattered; his insecurities arose to take their place. He knew? Oh God. It made him sick to think this. He stared in disbelief at the other man and couldn't seem to find his voice, which was alright as Mycroft seemed fine enough to fill the silence for both of them. "Let me be clear on this: You are in danger when you do this. Mentally…and perhaps physically as well; although we can find no hard evidence of this as of yet."
John blinked. Danger? He laughed in his head. Who cares? And then he sobered as he thought, Sherlock would. Mycroft made an impatient noise as he watched the thoughts flit through John's mind, saying, "Look, I'm…worried…about you. Alright? My brother would never have wanted you to suffer like this, John. Please. Just promise me you'll try? Something?" And John was still for long moments as he contemplated his being discovered. It hurt to think he would be taking away his only method of communicating with...coping with…Sherlock. But he knew Mycroft would keep standing there until he had an answer, so he took a deep breath, and said, "Yeah, alright. Sure, sure. I'll…try." It all sounded so forced.
Mycroft gazed at him for another moment, gauging his sincerity no doubt, before saying with a false smile, "Good. Very good." And he spun from where he had been pacing again and called out as he passed through the doorway and down the stairs, "I'll be watching." What a comfort, John thought with a shiver as the front door closed downstairs. While he appreciated the fact that Mycroft himself was dealing in his own way with the guilt of having let Sherlock down, he would never easily go along with this kind of pushing. God, he was so tired. He didn't want to deal with this now. What time is it? With a glance at the clock, he decided that he would rather think this whole nasty business over tomorrow instead.
He put up his dishes, rinsed his hands and slapped a bit of water on his face before patting it dry. Looking in the mirror, he saw a pale reflection of the man that used to be there. His blue eyes were murky now, no longer lit from within by excitement. And as he retreated to his room and dressed in sleep pants, he noted they fit looser than they had a few weeks back. He climbed unhappily into bed soon after, reaching over to the side table for the cable charger to his phone. Plugging it in, he looked at the screen, debating internally a moment, before clicking open his one-sided conversation with the detective. He typed in his message and hit send, then lay the phone down and quickly became lost in dreams of a world in which consulting detectives never fell.
10/1 What's real anymore? I'm falling, too. Catch me?