From the Desk of the British Government (Part 1)
Mycroft sighed and tossed the report onto his desk. His dear, younger brother was being evicted again. So typical. He simply did not have the time to deal with this now between the reports from Korea and the rumours from Serbia. Plus, Mummy and Daddy were off the day after tomorrow to the European Philatelic++ Convention in Moravia. He didn't have the heart to tell them and possibly sour their trip. Maybe it was high-time Sherlock dealt with the consequences of his actions by himself. Mycroft allowed himself a slight, self-righteous smirk at the prospect before returning his attention back to matters of state.
Sherlock stared blankly at the eviction notice. Rent three months in arrears. Why hadn't Mycroft ... Oh, that's right, he had told Mycroft to bugger off back in September. Well, he could right that. He had his own funds, after all. He wasn't a child. The detective scanned the rest of the letter, numerous complaints of noise, unnatural stench, fire hazards, odd and disreputable company, blah, blah, blah. He humphed as he removed his dressing gown and donned a jacket in preparation for visiting his perpetually melancholic landlady two floors below. He knocked on the door and plastered on his most contrite, scolded school boy face. He never got the chance to use it.
"Hello, Mrs. McCracken. Lovely day. About this letter there must be some misunderstanding I ..."
That was when Mr. McCracken, all eighteen stone of him, wrenched the wide door open. Standing greasy haired and pock complected in a stained white vest and blue tube-driver trousers, he removed an acrid smelling stub of a cigar from his mouth before pointing the glowing end directly between Sherlock's eyes. Nicotiana rustica*, medium gray, large, flaky ash.
"You. End a' month. Gone." He had then slammed the door in Sherlock's face so hard that the wall shook.
Happy New Year to you, too, Sherlock had thought sarcastically as he mounted the stairs back to his soon-to-be-former flat. He sighed. This would undoubtedly result in interaction with Mycroft. Tedious. Perhaps he would by-pass his brother this time and find a suitable place in London on his own. Mycroft had arranged this place, after all, and look how unsatisfactory it was. Sherlock petulantly snapped open the newspaper and began scanning the realty adverts. He sighed again. Moving, boring.
John Watson stood at the ATM staring at his account balance. He had just deposited his second monthly pension cheque, not that you'd notice. His rent at the horrid bedsit the MoD had arranged for him was more than half. After groceries and utilities that left him a whopping 62 quid. One month and he had already dipped into his savings. He needed to find a job, which meant he would have to actually start looking for one. He turned away from the machine determined to continue on his daily walk. Walking helped. The leg was getting better, he told himself. To which he answered himself that the bloody leg was perfectly fine. He grit his teeth and began concentrating on shifting weight off of his cane. One step, two, five. Maybe he could do this today. Ten, eleven. He was passing a bus stop and there was a press of people exiting the bus. Someone jostled him and he staggered a step putting full weight on his right leg. A sharp stab of pain exploded in his mind. Was it his leg, his shoulder, his chest? He couldn't tell. He hopped and limped across the sidewalk to the lean against the building and hissed out a breath trying to regain his control. A woman was apologizing to him. John was looking past her his ear tips flushing red. Fine, I'm fine, it's fine, he heard himself say before being distracted by the need to shove his trembling left hand into a pocket. Jesus, who was he trying to fool? He was a mess. He could never find work, never practice medicine like this. The woman gave one last look of concern before continuing on her way. John limped off in the opposite direction. What the hell was he going to do?
/-/-/-/-/-/-/
Mycroft massaged his temples as he read today's report. 221 Baker St., owned by Martha L. (Sissons) Hudson, widow of minor American drug boss, Frank G. Hudson (convicted, double homicide, State of Florida, 3/10/2003, executed by lethal injection, 19/1/2007). Surely not! No longer able to sit idly by, he fired off a text to his dear brother.
Westminster, really? Need I remind you, brother
mine, that your trust fund stipend remains fixed.
You know Mummy and Daddy agree with me on
this point. I suggest you pursue options more
in league with your finances. MH
Sherlock scoffed derisively as he read the text. Damn Mycroft and his constant meddling. Mrs. Hudson was one of the few clients he remembered well. She had been absolutely delighted to see him and had even offered him a special rate on the upstairs flat. Originally, he had gone over to look at the smaller unit, 221C, but that was basement flat. While it would have been an ideal environment in which to continue his mould experiments, he hadn't much liked the look of the place. Then Mrs. Hudson had shown him 221B. Inexplicably, he felt a sudden affinity for those rooms and had asked to lease the flat on the spot. He had begun moving boxes in the very next day. The rent was almost double that of his old flat, however, so he lamented to Mike Stamford about the high cost of living in London while he examined chips from several types of green paint.
"It's a two bedroom, didn't you say? Why don't you get a flatmate to split expenses?" Mike offered earnestly, trying as ever to be helpful. Sherlock sublimated his impatience. He needed to cultivate Mike's good will in order to retain his lab access.
"Surely, you might have surmised, Mike, that I would be a rather difficult person to share a flat with." He faked a self-deprecating smile before returning to the Work.
"I suppose, but rents being what they are, you never know who might be in similar straits," Mike added jovially. Sherlock didn't so much as glance up from his microscope. Mike shook his head. Maybe the git was right. Pity upon any poor sod stuck with him as a flatmate.
"OK, I'm off out. Remember, Philson's Advanced Organic Chem has the room at 3 pm."
John was feeling very frustrated after his appointment with Ella. She was still insistent about the stupid blog. Nothing happened to him. How many ways could he say it? How was a blog supposed to fix his leg or his hand, get him a job or stop the damn nightmares? The only good it had done was put him back in touch with Bill Murray. Actually, that was part of his frustration. Bill was doing great and getting on with life while John remained stuck fast. John stewed over the session, face glowering, as he walked. Walking helped. It was a fine day for January, he decided to walk through Postman's Park behind Bart's and then down to catch the Tube at St. Paul's.
/-/-/-/-/-/-/
Mycroft immediately sat up straight upon seeing the latest report. His brother had moved into 221B Baker St. despite the expense and his explicit disapproval. Childish. What was more, he had plans to interview a potential flatmate that very evening. A flatmate? Good Lord! He instructed his assistant to assemble a dossier on one John Watson, MD within the hour.
As Mycroft perused the file his mind seized upon any and all potential weaknesses. Former soldier recently discharged after being invalided home from Afghanistan. A doctor but currently unemployed and likely unemployable due to physical disability and a diagnosis of PTSD. No immediate family excepting one alcoholic sister, estranged. Working class upbringing. Respectable bank balance for a career army officer, but insufficient to adequately augment his army pension in the long term. Minimal debt, so far. Experiencing difficulty in adjusting to civilian life. Psychosomatic limp. In therapy. Mycroft sat back steepling his fingers under his nose. There was nothing illicit here but he had enough to work with. He would arrange his own interview with the man. Tonight. A show of power, perhaps, followed by a bribe, and moving on to the personal, if necessary. Yes, that should be sufficient to gauge the true measure of this John Watson. And, ideally, send him packing.
Sherlock never spared John Watson a thought as he dashed down the stairs and out the door in search of the pink case. The killer must have dumped it somewhere close. The longer he held on to it the greater his risk of discovery. The killer must have driven the victim to the house so he need only consider alleys and roadways wide enough for a car. Roadways? Really, Sherlock, the man is trying to discard a bulky object without being seen. Think, why don't you. Sherlock shook Mycroft's condescending voice from his head and dove down the first alley to which he came searching for the right skip. Only an hour later, as he sat in a cab on his way back to Baker St. with his prize next to him, did he think of John. He wondered if the good doctor would have the sense to return back to the flat promptly. They had so much yet to do.
To say John felt out of place and slightly foolish as he shed the blue protective suit in what had been the first floor sitting room of the derelict house in Lauriston Gardens would have been an understatement. Then, there had been Sgt. Donovan's questions and her "advice" about Sherlock Holmes. Just what the devil was he doing out here searching for a cab at night in Brixton? It had already been a long day and his leg really hurt but he couldn't stop turning things over in his mind. Obviously, he shouldn't take the flat with Sherlock. The guy was a complete tosser and probably a madman. But, he was also brilliant, genuinely brilliant, and interesting. John felt an odd mix of trepidation, exasperation and excitement as he continued his limping cab quest. He felt awful for Jennifer Wilson and for her family and friends, he really did, but he, John Watson, had just done something. Someone had asked for his assistance and his opinion. He had just done something for the first time in months. Maybe Sherlock wasn't always such a dick. As a doctor, John had lots of experience dealing with difficult people, after all. Besides, the flat was quite nice. The sight of an approaching cab roused him from his thoughts. Damn, he missed it. Limping on, John noticed yet another public phone was ringing. His curiosity piqued, he answered it.
/-/-/-/-/-/
Mycroft ended the call and closed the video feeds on his laptop before stepping out of the sleek black sedan. He hung his umbrella over his arm as he typed on his Blackberry. The click of his heels echoed as he walked over to "his mark" several yards away from where he had had the chair placed. He had chosen this particular location because of it's immense size and reverberant acoustics. He sent his assistant a single word inquiry.
Impressions?
Remarkably calm and composed. Even more so than the Detective Inspector.
Elaborate.
Thanked Edwin for opening the car door. Put on his seat belt before we left. Currently attempting to "chat me up".
Any signs of distress at all?
None whatsoever.
Estimated time of arrival?
2 minutes.
Mycroft considered this information for a moment. Maybe this one would prove more interesting than anticipated. He returned his phone to his breast pocket before casually leaning on his umbrella, one foot cross over the other. It was time to see exactly what stuff Dr. John H. Watson was made of.
/-/-/-/-/-/
A/N - This chapter ended up being a lot of filler around ASiP. Sorry. A lot of people have suggested a Mycroft chapter but I've had such a hard time getting anything to coalesce in my brain. Or rather, I have too many fragments that are too short so this will be the first of 2 or 3 Mycroft chapters. As I have said before, I love all the Mycroft and John scenes in the show. Actually, if anything was missing for me in Series 3 it was that there really were none of these! That being said, for the life of me I could not come up with a believable new Mycroft & John scene that fit really early in the show. I mean how do you top their first meeting in the warehouse? That one scene set so much of the tone of who both John and Mycroft are. Since I couldn't think of anything new I decided to leach of the show. I tried to rotate POV from Mycroft, to Sherlock, to John, etc. I hope it worked.
Please, please, please leave a comment or review.
* Nicotiana rustica is the Latin botanical name for a type of tobacco used in making cigars, according to Wikipedia. Sherlock knows ash...
++Philatelic = Regarding stamp collecting
Not beta'd or Brit-picked.
