This one is quite short and sweet :)
Apologies for how long it has taken~!
As always, reviews are greatly appreciated x
John Watson, M.D. Ex-Army. Afghanistan. Invalided. Suspected PTSD. Estranged sister.
This much Mycroft Holmes knew by the time John was seen shaking hands with Sherlock on the street outside 221B, the wan London sun softly scrutinising their every move.
He sat, almost uncomfortably upright, in his least-favourite armchair at the Diogenes Club, frowning solidly down at the file in his lap. His face could have been made of stone. Methodically, he began to swirl the last, melancholy dregs of tea, before draining the china cup with an indifferent elegance. Slowly and deliberately, he mulled silently over the intangible, human puzzle that was John Watson.
At first glance, he seemed to be practically ordinary. Well, as ordinary as a traumatised soldier could be. So then what was he doing looking to Sherlock Holmes, of all people, for a flatmate? Normal people just didn't do Sherlock. Well, once they had spent anything more than a cursory length of time in the same room as him. Mycroft smirked. The plain little man obviously did not have a clue about what his brother was like. Well, he would soon find out, wouldn't he? Rising from the chair, Mycroft set about putting the matter out of his mind. He would have put money on Dr Watson being out of Baker Street before the end of the week.
But then he went to the crime scene.
Sherlock worked alone, always. It was almost self-explanatory: he couldn't stand anybody, and nobody could stand him. Yes, better off alone, that was Sherlock to a letter.
So Mycroft never saw it coming.
He almost didn't look up as his phone chimed its frigid, factory-setting text alert. But one glance at the message made him sit forward in his seat.
SH at Jennifer Wilson scene w John W.
Mycroft would have gasped. Only Mycroft Holmes never gasps, ever. Instead, his eyes widened infinitesimally and his lips narrowed into a tight pucker. Here was his extraordinary, talented, narcissistic brother, inviting the short, blond soldier with the lumpy knitted sweater to join him in the Work: the only thing Sherlock had ever come to care about. The only thing, in his view, worth living for. To the untrained eye, the action might have almost escaped comment. But to Mycroft, who had known Sherlock the longest, the ordinary gesture made him start. It was completely ordinary, and that was the problem. Sherlock didn't do ordinary. Predictably abnormal, Mycroft thought the sun would freeze before he went so far as to describe anything Sherlock did as conventional.
But, by far Mycroft's biggest concern was how easily he had gotten it wrong. Almost-ordinary Watson had quite effortlessly upended all of Mycroft's careful estimations. Was he losing his touch? Had a desk job softened his mind? Explanations and excuses flitted through his head, each more unlikely than the one before. How had a soldier fooled him so easily? Small worry upon small worry began to gnaw an irritated hole at the back of his mind.
He bounced his phone in his hand for a moment, staring at his knees and weighing up his options, the great silver scales in his mind working smoothly and with a regal ease. If the doctor was going to stick around, as he certainly seemed to be, then he might as well make him useful.
He looked down at his phone once more and started to dial.
He had set that gloomy scene oh so carefully. Abandoned parking lot. Lone chair. His most sinister black umbrella.
And John Watson had turned up his ordinary little round nose at all of it. Even the bribes.
Mycroft was livid.
And yet, as he slid silently into the back seat of the gently humming vehicle, face unreadable, a small part of him could not help wondering if a little bit of ordinary might just be exactly what his brother needed.