2010/01/30

Mycroft stood waiting, concealing no little anxiety. This latest fellow had him quite alarmed. He hadn't been around for any length of time, but he was already deeply involved in Sherlock's life. That had not happened before, and Mycroft didn't know what to make of it. Not only that, but the man's history raised red flags in a number of ways. Psychiatric issues, peculiar health problems, possibly unstable . . .

The new man got out of the car and made his way across the warehouse floor, stumping with his cane as he strode. Mycroft raised his voice. "Have a seat, John," he called, having provided a chair to accommodate the man's psychosomatic pain.

John Watson didn't abate his pace a jot. He kept walking, but he began to speak. "You know," he said. "I've got a phone." Mycroft knit his brows, wondering what the point of this very obvious statement of fact was. "I mean, very clever and all that, but . . ." Ignoring the chair, Watson walked straight up to him. "You could just phone me . . . on my phone." He gazed up at Mycroft with something like . . . was it disdain? Surely not.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet," Mycroft said. "Hence this place," he added, gesturing with his umbrella. "Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't want to sit down," Watson said.

Mycroft was finding this man more than a little unexpected. "You don't seem very afraid," he said, and it was true. He seemed irritated, a bit resentful of the interruption in his life, but not afraid. Mycroft wondered what he'd have to do to alarm this one.

"You don't seem very frightening," Watson said flatly, and quite unflatteringly.

Mycroft laughed, certain from the man's bearing that mockery would be the best way to nettle him. "Yes . . . the bravery of the soldier," he said. Growing serious again, he continued, "Bravery's by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" This didn't seem to be having the effect he'd wanted, so he carried straight into his usual query. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

Seeming extremely puzzled by the question, John blinked at him. "I . . . I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him . . . yesterday." Precisely the problem from Mycroft's standpoint. So fast – it was unheard of.

"Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him, and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

Watson still didn't rise to the bait. In a calm, almost disinterested tone, he said, "Who are you?"

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock?" John asked, tilting his head. "Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has?" Watson's expression seemed to acknowledge the point, but then his eyes narrowed again, glaring at Mycroft as he continued to speak. "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy?"

"In his mind, certainly." Mycroft wasn't altogether sure why he was sharing so much with this stranger, but he wanted to see how the good doctor reacted. "If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

Watson gave him a sardonic look. "Well, thank God you're above all that," he said with a small, scornful smile. Mycroft stared at him, startled by being derided by a man who should, by all rights, be afraid of him. Watson's phone chimed, and he pulled it out, calling up a text on it. Entirely ignoring the fact that he was in the midst of a conversation with a man who had arranged for him to be abducted, he actually stopped and read the text.

"I hope I'm not distracting you," Mycroft said, a tad miffed by the inattention.

Watson glanced up nonchalantly. "Not distracting me at all." He finished reading and tucked the phone away.

Deciding to ignore the rudeness, Mycroft carried on. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

Watson looked to the side thoughtfully. "I could be wrong . . ." he said, then he turned to look Mycroft full in the eye. "But I think that's none of your business."

"It could be," Mycroft said.

Without moving, without even changing expression significantly, John Watson almost seemed to exude menace. "It really couldn't," he drawled, his voice grown deeper and more intense.

Taken aback, Mycroft went a different direction. "If you do move into . . ." He glanced down at the notebook to give the impression he was not well aware of the address. "Two hundred and twenty-one b Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

"Why?" Watson shot back instantly.

"Because you're not a wealthy man," Mycroft said, unaccountably enjoying the back and forth with the doctor. He wondered what he'd say to such an indirect response.

Blue eyes narrowed coldly. "In exchange for what?"

"Information," Mycroft said, his tone a verbal shrug. "Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?" John asked, and Mycroft couldn't decide what the doctor thought was going on.

"I worry about him," Mycroft said. "Constantly."

"That's nice of you," Watson said, sounding dubious.

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a … difficult relationship." An understatement to say the least.

Watson's phone made the text sound again, and he pulled it out, once again relegating the man who might be planning to kill him to the background. "No," he said in clear answer to Mycroft's question; nevertheless, he seemed almost more interested in the texts he was receiving – no doubt from Sherlock – than he was in the conversation.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure," Mycroft protested gently as Watson put away his phone.

"Don't bother."

This was not the first time he'd received a point blank refusal, and Mycroft found it just as incredible as he had the first time. He didn't want them to say yes, but an immediate refusal didn't require thought, just knee jerk morality. He had to see that it was real. Narrowing his eyes, he gave Watson a sharp look. "You're very loyal very quickly," he commented, fully expecting Watson to agree. If he did, it would be slightly less disturbing than Hemrick's agreement had been, but it would be no more appealing.

"No, I'm not," Watson said frankly. "I'm just not interested."

Mycroft found himself unwillingly impressed by the soldier's genuine integrity. Better and better. And thus far, he'd seen no sign of instability. Time to address that. He opened his notebook to another page. "'Trust issues,' it says here," he said slowly.

Watson immediately grew suspicious, though it was more a matter of stance than anything else. "What's that?"

Without answering, Mycroft continued his thought ponderously. "Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?" Watson asked.

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily," Mycroft remarked, and this seemed to exhaust the little doctor's patience.

"Are we done?" he demanded sharply.

"You tell me." Watson gazed up at him irritably for a moment, then turned to go. As he went, Mycroft noticed something that intrigued him, something that made the credibility of many of his reports go up in smoke. To forestall Watson's leaving, Mycroft spoke again. "I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him. I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

As he had hoped, this observation brought Watson up short. He paused, still turned away, and Mycroft saw him give a little head shake, clearly aware that he was being played. Still, he turned around. "My what?" he asked.

"Show me," Mycroft said, marvelling at the man's continued calm.

After a brief hesitation, Watson raised his left hand and held it vertically, palm towards himself. A very closed and almost shuttered position. It said a great deal about his internal reaction to the situation. Mycroft crossed the space between them and reached for the hand. Watson jerked it away, seeming alarmed for the first time in this encounter. "Don't," he said warningly.

Mycroft gave him a remonstrative look. He couldn't imagine what the man was expecting. After a short pause, Watson brought his hand forward again, this time holding it flat, palm downwards. The doctor practically radiated tension as Mycroft touched his hand, looking for any sign of the tremor that had been described in the notes. If said tremor was caused by stress, now of all times, it should show up, but there was nothing. Rock steady, in fact. It said a great deal about the retired army doctor – and even more about the competence of his therapist. "Remarkable," Mycroft observed, releasing the hand.

Watson dropped it to his side again instantly. "What is?" he asked tersely.

Mycroft didn't answer directly. He turned away, contemplating his brother and this man who might just do for him. Calm when he should be alarmed, only finding himself overwhelmed by too much empty time, guided by a therapist who apparently believed that peace was the natural state of man. "Most people blunder round this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars," Mycroft said thoughtfully. "When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." Mycroft turned back, looking into John Watson's eyes. "You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?" The words jerked out of the shorter man, as though he didn't know that he wanted the answer.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand," Mycroft said, and he could see that Watson didn't like that he knew about that. The dismay and discomfort became more evident as Mycroft continued. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

"Who the hell are you?" Watson demanded, and it was the first time the man's shell came close to cracking. "How do you know that?"

"Fire her," Mycroft said smugly. "She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now, and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson, you miss it." He leaned a bit closer. "Welcome back," he whispered, and then he walked away. He wouldn't interfere any further just now. If this tough little man decided to stick it out with Sherlock, Mycroft would let it run its course for a time, see where it would go. He heard the man's phone chime yet again, and couldn't resist a little goad to ensure that the doctor would make the right choice. "Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson."

2010/04/25

"I hadn't noticed," John said after a long moment. "I'd assumed Ella was right."

"She no longer works with veterans," Mycroft said. "It doesn't seem to be her métier."

John shrugged. "I never went back. She called me a few times, and I think she worried that I had discontinued therapy. I'm quite certain she wouldn't have approved of my taking up with Sherlock."

Mycroft looked down at his hands and spoke diffidently. "If you wish to talk to someone, John, I could put you into contact with a counselor who knows how to help people with your particular needs."

"And who would hand you the reports right away," John replied dryly.

"Well, yes," Mycroft admitted. "But it's not as if I couldn't get them in any case. It would just be quicker."

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'll think about it," he said.

"Do."

"So, what happens if you decide I've become too dangerous to be around Sherlock?" John asked curiously. He didn't precisely disapprove of Mycroft's hands-on approach to handling his brother, but it did make life a bit more complicated.

"Oh, I'd see you got the appropriate help," Mycroft said. "Sherlock would hound me if I didn't." Mycroft smiled down at John. "Once you've gained the regard of a Holmes – or even two – you don't lose it. Besides, I don't foresee that happening."

John snorted. "I got him blown up," he pointed out.

"Actually, I believe he got you blown up," Mycroft corrected.

"Depends on how you look at it," John replied.

Mycroft shook his head. "No, John, I truly can't see how any of that could be seen to be your fault."

"Well, I can," John said. If he'd just managed to avoid getting abducted – if he'd just seen that Sherlock wouldn't wait for Moriarty to make the next move while watching crap telly – he could have done so many things differently.

"Only you would blame yourself for that situation, John," Mycroft said. "Regardless, even had I wanted to, I had nothing I could do to put you out of the way that wouldn't have been severely detrimental to you and entirely false." He shrugged. "Not then, at any rate."

"Not then?" John repeated.

"Well, I have something I could use against you now, but I'd really rather not."

John blinked at him. "And what's that?"

"The manner in which you saved my brother's life," Mycroft said.

"You can't use that against me, assuming there was anything to use," John said, giving him a frank look. "Your brother knows how his life was saved. He'd be in trouble as well."

"It hardly matters. If I wanted you gone, which I don't, Sherlock might do me some damage."

Abruptly, the room was swarming with people. He was separated efficiently from Mycroft by paramedics who got him strapped down to a back board. "Where's Sherlock?" he asked the anxious-looking man above him.

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know. Please lie still."

"I'm not going anywhere till I know that Sherlock is –"

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock said, suddenly hoving into his line of sight. "We have the evidence, all is well." Relief and the accompanying drop in adrenaline made John's vision swim. Sherlock was smiling down at him reassuringly. "You'll be –" He broke off, eyes widening. "What's happening? Why –" John stopped hearing anything at all before Sherlock finished his sentence.