Arch Enemy
John stared at the telephone for a moment considering his options. Get in the car, the disembodied voice had commanded. Oddly, John didn't feel frightened or intimidated, just curious. John had always had a bit of a sixth sense and could readily tell the difference between things that were just "a bit scary" and those that were "truly dangerous". This situation smacked of the former and not the later.
Standing just 5 foot 6 inches tall and currently weighing in at something less than ten and a half stone, John was hardly an imposing physical presence. No surprise there. What did surprise a lot of people was that John was not a man who was easily intimidated. In fact, he was almost impossible to get a reaction from, something that had irked his instructors mightily during army basic training. Most people seemed to assume that because John was not particularly intimidating that he must, therefore, be easily intimidated. But, John Hamish Watson was Harriet Maeve Watson's brother. He had learned long ago (like before kindergarten) that nothing unsettles those who seek to bully or harass more than simply not taking the bait. The nameless movie-villain voice would not have gone through all this theatre if he intended to hurt or kill John. First of all, why would anyone bother targeting him? And, second, why would they go through all the trouble with the phones and cameras. The cameras bit had been very clever, after all. No, this wasn't dangerous it was simply showing off. For some reason he thought of Sherlock blatantly showing off as he made those incredible deductions about a dead woman. John got into the car, fastened his seat belt and nodded to the beautiful, James Bond worthy woman sitting next to him.
Hello ... what's your name then?
/-/-/-/-/-/
Have a seat, John.
John had exited the black sedan without betraying any reservation and quickly surveyed his new surroundings, some sort of large, industrial warehouse. The main work floor was empty except for a wildly out-of-place black leather and chrome chair. He ignored the offered chair and walked toward his mystery caller/captor/possible criminal-mastermind, a tall, impeccably dressed man with an umbrella. A brolly? Really? Although it was very inappropriate, John's first thought was that he had just been abducted by Mary Poppins' evil twin brother. Not exactly a menacing figure, how anti-climatic. He spoke his mind.
You know, I've got a phone. It's very clever and all that but, ah, you could have just phoned me ... on my phone.
The other man answered using perfect, public school diction.
When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes one learns to be discrete ...
'Sherlock? Somehow Sherlock is messed up with this guy?' John thought quickly, then realized he wasn't surprised. The other man was still talking.
... hence this place. The leg must be hurting you. Sit. Down.
Mycroft pitched the last two words as a command, like a school master who expected obedience. John's defiance was instantaneous.
I don't want to sit down.
Mycroft studied the man in front of him for a beat considering his little speech, his tone, his posture, the unwavering eye contact.
You don't seem very afraid.
Again, the defiant retort was immediate.
You don't seem very frightening.
Mycroft noted that the composure and lack of fear appeared quite genuine. Combined with the initial impressions from his assistant he could only surmise that his small show of power had not been effective. Time for more direct intimidation. He tossed his head back and let out a condescending laugh.
Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?
He finished with an edge. There was no overt reaction so he pressed on directly in an accusatory tone.
What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?
Sherlock, again. John reminded himself that he obviously wasn't the target here. There was safety in that. Well, at least for him. Somewhat taken aback by the question, he opted for honesty,
I don't ... have one. I barely know him. I met him ... yesterday.
Mycroft noticed John's confusion. Good. Time to push.
Hmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?
John could no longer contain his curiosity or his irritation,
Who are you?
An interested party.
Interested in Sherlock, why? I-I'm guessing you're not friends.
Mycroft paused briefly gauging the truth in his answer regarding his dear younger brother.
You've met him. How many friends do you imaging he has?
John raised his eye brows giving the mystery man the point on that one.
I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.
And what's that?
An enemy.
An enemy?
John was surprised by Mr. Poppin's open assertion. Who the hell was this guy?
In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic.
The dead-panned retort rolled easily off John's tongue,
Well, thank God you're above all that.
Mycroft was mildly affronted by the insolence of the comment and was preparing to counter with his next barb when John's attention was drawn to the text alert chime from his phone. The soldier casually fished in his pocket and read the message. Mycroft was becoming slightly miffed.
I hope I'm not distracting you.
Not, distracting me ... at all.
John considered the message for a moment longer before returning the phone to his pocket and returning his attention to his "host". Mycroft resumed his offensive.
Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?
John feigned looking circumspect before answering.
I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business.
Mycroft was ready to make his offer. He looked at John knowingly.
It could be.
Another immediate reply.
It reeaally couldn't.
This time John's response was pitched dangerously low. Mycroft was almost impressed, but back to business.
If you do move into, um, two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street ...
John forced his expression to remain neutral but he subconsciously took a step back. He felt exposed. This was getting to a bit too close.
I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.
John didn't know what he had been expecting but he certainly had not been expecting this turn. Was he being bribed? Set up for black mail? He asked as much.
Why?
Because you're not a wealthy man.
John was starting to feel increasingly wary.
In exchange for what?
Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to.
OK, this was getting truly bizarre. Apparently John had been hauled off the street for the sole purpose of being press-ganged into spying on someone he had just met. Did this sort of thing actually happen to people?
Why?
I worry about him. Constantly.
John offered another dead-panned reply,
That's nice of you.
Mycroft decided to let it pass, this was already taking too long,
But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a difficult relationship.
John's phone chimed another text alert, and he, again, causally retrieved his phone to look at the incoming message. No doubt these texts were from Sherlock, Mycroft mused. Mycroft had seen John's phone records. In the 6 weeks since he had started his new phone plan, John had received a total of 21 texts from four sources, his sister, his therapist's office, someone named Murray, and his mobile service provider. Mycroft was somewhat puzzled as to why his brother was apparently latching on to this one.
John considered the text then offered Mycroft his answer,
No.
But I haven't mentioned a figure.
Don't bother.
Mycroft chuckled in condescension again. Was this near-penniless man with few meaningful prospects really about to refuse him? Surely this was a show of shear obstinance not integrity.
Your very loyal, very quickly.
No, I'm not. I'm just not interested.
Mycroft's air of false congeniality fell away completely and his face hardened. Time to give the good doctor a glimpse of what he was up against. Mycroft reached into his breast pocket for his notebook again.
Trust issues, it says here.
John's eyes widened as they immediately locked on to the small leather-bound book. He quickly sought to re-establish his composure.
What's that.
It came out weaker than John would have liked.
Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people.
Who says that I trust him? John tried to sound defiant.
You don't seem the kind to make friends easily.
John rushed back in. Time to end this farce.
Are we done?
Mycroft looked positively predatory as he replied,
You tell me?
John met the powerful man's gaze straight on. He tilted his head to the side, a non-verbal response that spoke volumes. Then he simply turned and began to walk away. At that moment, he could not have cared if he had to limp across the entire city, he was done here.
Mycroft was mildly impressed. The last bit had been a highly personal attack yet John Watson's retreat was defiantly unhurried and steady. Interesting. Could it be? He needed to be certain.
I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen.
John stopped. How the hell? He slumped slightly as he felt his curiosity and anger trump his resolve to leave. He shook his head tightly and turned back to face his nameless nemesis again. He spoke through clenched teeth,
My what?
Time to expose the true nature of our doctor-soldier's character, Mycroft thought.
Show me?
John regarded Umbrella Man for a long moment, then he straightened and raised his rock steady left hand. Mycroft approached and moved to grasp it. John reflexively pulled the hand away and stiffened. He issued a warning to cover his discomfort. Bad leg and shoulder or no, right now, he really could end this prick.
Don't.
Mycroft gave John a knowing look. "Come now, Doctor," it said. John relented allowing the other man to examine his hand.
Remarkable.
What is?
John pulled his hand back and returned it to his side. By second nature he fell into his military posture, head up, eyes straight ahead. His lips were a tight line and his jaw was clenched. Mycroft waltzed away turning his back as he expounded upon his deductions.
Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield. You've seen it already. Haven't you?
The elder Holmes gave John another knowing look. John bit out his tight-lipped question.
What's wrong with my hand?
You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's post traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of you military service.
John struggled but managed to maintain his composure but could no longer contain his anger.
Who the Hell are you?
For the briefest moment, a look almost resembling empathy crossed Mycroft's face. He had just laid the doctor bare as intended but he had had to cut quite far to the bone to do it. He watched as John Watson quickly reestablished his control.
How do you know that?
The Umbrella Man continued sounding both arrogant and entirely nonplussed. However, his next words would come to reverberate within John.
Fire her. She's got it the wrong way around. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady.
John glanced quickly down toward his hand before returning his eyes straight ahead. Mycroft finished his smug exposition.
You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it ...
He leaned in with a faux whisper that was anything but warm or welcoming.
Welcome back.
The Umbrella Man then turned and walked, no, strolled away. John remained standing at something very close to attention. His phone dinged again.
Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson.
Mycroft called without looking back. John gave the man one more glance. What the hell was that supposed to mean? The Bond woman approached him again.
I'm to take you home.
John read the incoming text. It was from Sherlock, of course (Could be dangerous), and then examined his hand. It was steady as a rock. Could the Umbrella Man be right? Did his problems stem from the tedium and lack of purpose he had felt since his return rather than his messed-up head? He smiled to himself slightly. Maybe. Maybe it was time to take a risk again.
Address?
John answered easily.
Umm, Baker St. 221B Baker St.
/-/-/-/-/-/-/
Once back in his car Mycroft immediately sent a text his assistant. He was almost certain of the response before it arrived.
Where?
Baker St.
Mycroft considered for a moment.
Any evident impact?
None whatsoever.
Assemble a full report. Include , complete service record, past relationships, NHS records (including full psychiatric), academic transcripts right down to his 11+ scores. By 9 a.m. tomorrow, if you please.
/-/-/-/-/-/-/
Several days later ...
Mycroft sat back in his chair, his hands tented in front of his face considering the police report on the incident with Sherlock and the cabbie. In his statement to the Met, his brother had said that Jefferson Hope had admitted having a 'sponsor'. This was particularly interesting in light of recent rumblings about the emergence of a powerful central figure who had interests and influence in crimes across both the continent and the Isles. Could these serial suicides be connected to a larger web of crimes. The information was too sparse and too nebulous to be certain of anything.
After several minutes further contemplation about the events at the College, he glanced to the corner of his desk to the folder labeled Watson, J.H. He sighed. The balance of probability was that the doctor was the shooter. This was an undeniably worrisome development. Very, very few people could have made that shot, especially through a closed window, without hitting his brother who must have been standing facing the cabbie. Not only that, but the good doctor was then able to conceal his involvement from the police. Most troubling, however, was that Watson appeared completely unfazed by his actions. Mycroft had seen the doctor and Sherlock as they left the crime scene joking and chatting amicably less than an hour after Watson had killed a man. He had no doubt that his brother had deduced much about Watson's true nature, why else would he even bother with him, but Mycroft wondered whether Sherlock really appreciated the potentially dangerous complexity that was John Watson. Perhaps it was time to call on his dear, little brother at his new flat and bring him a house warming gift. Mycroft put John's file in his briefcase.
/-/-/-/-/-/-/
The fact that Sherlock had anticipated his brother's visit did not make the event any less unpleasant. John had left over an hour ago, off out with Stamford or maybe he was shopping or perhaps he'd gone to the library. Sherlock hadn't actually bothered listening. He knew Mycroft would visit before their parents return from their winter junket to Marrakech so today was a good bet. His brother entered the flat and wordlessly circled the sitting room once before settling (with a hint of disdain) in the red stuffed chair that John seemed to favor. Sherlock placed his violin and bow back in its case and turned toward his elder brother. Mycroft casually reached into his brief case and removed John's file. Holding it before him in two hand, he sat back in the chair and primly crossed his legs.
"Why?" he asked like a school master. Sherlock stiffened, immediately on the defensive.
"Why? To pay the rent, of course. As you were so keen to point out, my current stipend is only marginally sufficient for renting in Central London. I require a flatmate."
"So you choose a financially strapped, unemployed, war veteran. Really, Sherlock."
"John is a doctor ..."
"Who is unlikely to ever practise surgery again. As always, practical considerations, such as your chosen ... flatmate's," Mycroft spat the word with undisguised scorn, "solvency, played no part in your decision-making process. Typical. How much do you know?"
"What's it to you?" Sherlock replied petulantly? Mycroft sighed and raised his eyebrows.
"Don't be tiresome, dear brother, it was a simple question," he chastised.
"John Watson is an army doctor who was invalided home from Afghanistan late in the summer or early autumn. He is, or was, a career soldier, quite a good one, I'd wager. He has no immediate family, save one alcoholic sister, from whom he's estranged, and has no close friends, at least not in London. His accent and career path suggest a lower middle class or working class upbringing, likely in a broken home given his sister's alcoholism and his own guarded nature I suspect he was a scholarship case from a young age and attended a reputable grammar school where he excelled at rugby, despite his size, and earned A-levels in history, literature, anatomy and physiology and probably biology. As for his solvency, while not wealthy, John is fiscally responsible and lives within his means, which are currently limited by the pittance your Government sees fit to offer as compensation for his injury in service to Queen and Country."
"Nothing more?"
Mycroft's voice was that of a weary school master sorely disappointed by his charge. In truth, Sherlock had thought of a lot more. He'd thought of the instantaneous and ineffable connection he felt toward John, his desire to earn the man's praise, and his interest in unraveling the mystery of this steel-cored enigma wrapped in a fuzzy jumper. He would never admit such sentiment to his brother, however. Instead, he countered his with a flippant retort,
"He doesn't take sugar in his coffee, he supports some unpopular football team, New-something, and I believe his favorite color is blue. Oh, and he turned you down flat. That's was this is really all about, isn't it?" Mycroft offered no reaction to the jibe but continued on, unperturbed.
"Maths," he said examining his manicured fingernails.
"What?" Sherlock asked confused.
"His last A-level was in maths not biology. As always, your deductions are correct but superficial. You've missed the thing of greatest import."
"And, what, pray tell, dear brother, might that be?" Sherlock asked in a voice dripping with insolent sarcasm.
"John Watson is a dangerous man." The elder Holmes leaned across the space between the two chairs and placed John's file on the small table next to Sherlock's chair. Sherlock glared at his brother. He could not deny the truth, but agreeing seemed like a betrayal, somehow. Nonetheless, this statement was obvious and could not, therefore, be Mycroft's point. He rolled his eyes and faked a sniff of boredom in reply while studiously ignoring the folder.
"His army training, in combination with his protective nature, has provided him with a certain, lethal skill set. Something Messr. Hope learned first hand." Mycroft paused giving his brother a look of knowing condescension as if to say, 'Yes, little brother, of course I know.' Sherlock resumed his glare.
"Yet, he is principled and courageous, possessing inordinate amounts of both loyalty and integrity," Mycroft expounded professorially. Sherlock sighed in a show of impatience and draped both arms along the armrests of his chair.
"I thought you came to bury him not to praise him. Your point, Mycroft?" Mycroft looked at his brother seriously for a beat before he continued.
"He's ... damaged," he said flatly. Sherlock sat straighter in his chair, a wary, slightly puzzled look on his face. "and, therefore, vulnerable, thus ultimately a liability." Mycroft peered down his nose at his younger brother.
"While you might gain a great deal from an association with John Watson, I fear you have little, if anything, to offer in return, and the man is in need." Mycroft pointed to the file and nodded, again inviting Sherlock to read at it. Sherlock looked at the closed file and then back at his brother his cautious expression unchanged.
"Your lifestyle does offer a certain level of distraction but little substance. What happens to the good doctor he realizes that fact. Or, more likely, when you simply grow bored with this little experiment?" Mycroft waved a dismissive hand to encompass the flat. Sherlock's face fell in the wake of his always smarter brother's words.
"Think it over," Mycroft said, nodding once more at the file. He rose, straightening his waistcoat, and retrieved his umbrella and case. He then began moving toward the door following the same wide arc he used when entering. He had descended the top four stairs when he heard his brother call after him.
"Mycroft!"
He turned. Sherlock was standing on the landing John Watson's file in his hand. Perhaps, at long last, a thank you? Unlikely. Sherlock descended two stairs. He had thought it over. He'd thought of a cab ride to Brixton, of a roof top chase, of shared laughs, of quite acceptance and praise, of a miraculous shot out of the blue, of Chinese food and oddly companionable silences. Glaring down Sherlock thrust the folder into his brother's chest almost unbalancing him.
"You forgot something, dear brother," he spat, cold fire burning again in his translucent eyes.
Mycroft grasped the file and straightened, his gaze shrewdly calculating as always.
"Unwise, dear brother," he replied before continuing down the stairs.
/-/-/-/-/-/-/
The next day ...
John smiled as he sat on his bed holding his old cane out in front of himself. It was Tuesday and he had just cancelled his weekly appointment with Ella. Your therapist thinks it's post traumatic stress disorder. He rubbed his right leg just above the knee, no pain. Fire her. The truth was, he felt good. Really, pretty, bloody, good. He'd had only the one bad nightmare on Saturday and yesterday morning he had gone for a run. For the first time since Before he had gone for a run. He had been slow and only gone 3 miles but it had felt good. Normal, even. Granted, Sherlock was hardly normal. He was completely mad and a total nutter, and his brother, Mycroft, Jesus! But Mrs. Hudson was an absolute gem and even Lestrade seemed like a good bloke. He was going to tea at Mike and Beth's next Sunday. Things were good here. His smile faded as the familiar pins-and-needles-like sensation spread down his wrist, though his left palm and out through his fingers. He clenched his fist tight then stretched his hand out wide. He sighed wishing it was all just in his head. John looked back at the cane. A win was a win. He tossed the cane up in the air and caught it easily. He stood up and put the hateful thing in the back of his wardrobe. One step at a time.
/-/-/-/-/-/-/
A/N – Sorry this took so long. It took me forever to find an angle (Mycroft was fighting me, again) and I'm still not sure if it really works. Be gentle.
All that wonderful dialog in italics that you recognize was penned by Mr. Moffatt and is obviously not mine Neither is any of the description of the setting. Nothing nasty intended there. Just entertaining myself and, hopefully, maybe a few other people. Don't own, as usual.
Not beta'd or Brit-picked.
Any and all comments, corrections, suggestion or reviews are eagerly sought. Thanks for reading.