Options

Summary: John has to choose his options for his GCSE years which prompts some panic from his grandfather.

John stared moodily at the letter as Saif handed them out in tutor time.

Options.

Tapping the end of his pencil against the paper, John stared at the blocked choices.

It seemed a pretty safe option to not pick art. Or music. No matter how much it annoyed him that Sherlock's gift with the violin hadn't been passed on.

Languages…he was shite at them. Mycroft and Sherlock had once had what sounded like an epic sniping match in about four different languages, switching between them with an ease that had made John seethe with envy.

In comparison to them, there wasn't much he was good at.

The letter had been sitting in his bag for days. No-one had asked about it at home so he assumed that the email had been ignored.

In the end he nervously tapped on the door to Grandpa's study. The man still used it to hide from Grandma when she was in a cleaning frenzy.

Grandpa glanced at him over the top of the paper. "Does she need me to do the top of the cupboards?" he asked warily.

John shook his head, then shrugged. "Probably," he muttered. "But uh…" Not entirely sure how to explain it, he settled instead for shoving the letter at his grandfather.

"Ah," Grandpa said, folding his paper slowly. "Your GCSE options."

John was already starting to despise the idea of GCSEs. "They said to pick something that will help with our future careers," John said as he dropped to the desk chair moodily. "But…" he took a deep breath. "I don't know what I want to do."

"I wouldn't expect you to know at the grand old age of thirteen," Grandpa agreed.

"You did, I bet."

Grandpa opened his mouth and sighed as he shifted in his comfy chair. "I knew…I knew what I was expected to do," he said carefully. "But, in case it has escaped your notice, John, neither of my sons followed in my footsteps and neither expect you to follow in theirs."

Like he could do what his father or uncle could. "That doesn't help," John said after a moment as he weighed Grandpa's words up.

"Do what you're good at," Grandpa suggested. "Pick a few jobs that interest you and follow those."

Like that was any more helpful. "I don't want to work in an office," John said after a moment.

"Okay."

John had absolutely no idea what that left. Annoyed, he stared down at the letter.

"I could just flip a coin," he muttered.

Grandpa glared at him and sat up properly. "Let's go through this sensibly," he said firmly.

It wasn't going to help. And, as Grandpa started talking about everything under the sun, all John could think of was that moment a few weeks ago when Sherlock had finally learned to simply sit quietly with John and let him reach his own decision.

It sucked he had a case.

"Get here now," his father his down the phone at Mycroft.

Did the entire family think that he worked at a pub and he could just shout for people to cover his shift? Taking a deep breath as he sorted the documents for his next meeting, Mycroft shook his head. "I am at work," he said, stressing the last word very clearly in case his father was having a moment of senility.

"John's asking me about his options," his father complained.

"We agreed we wouldn't pressure him to-"

"He doesn't know what to do," his father cut over Mycroft. "And now he's saying that if he doesn't pick the right options he might not get a job he likes because he hasn't got the right qualifications. They were getting like that when I left work – we hated the new intake, no experience. What if he has no experience and I encourage him to pick the wrong options?"

Mycroft rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Then he can go to night school and get the correct qualification, thus showing he is prepared to do more than he has to do to get the job and putting him head and shoulders above the rest."

"That's good," his father breathed. "I'll tell him that. What about a career? What should I tell him is a good career?"

Good God what was wrong with the man? "Are you ill?"

"This is important," his father snapped. "You never asked and Sherlock never asked. For entirely different reasons but neither of you ever came to me to talk about career options or school-"

Thankfully, Mycroft thought as he tapped his pen on the desk. Who on earth would his father have called then?

"Speaking of," he said, glancing at the clock. "You could always phone John's father and annoy him at work instead."

"Your brother didn't answer his phone. I don't know what's got into him lately."

Mycroft sighed. "Three hours. I can be at yours then."

"Not earlier?"

"I have a meeting with the Prime-minister," Mycroft snapped.

There was a long pause.

"What options did you take again?" his father asked thoughtfully.

"Goodbye."

John groaned when Mycroft walked in.

"What a pleasant greeting," Mycroft muttered. "Is there an etiquette option on that form?"

John looked as if he were already sulking as he glared at the television. "Who cares," he muttered.

After years of dealing with Sherlock, the sulk barely registered. Instead, Mycroft picked up the letter and stared at the blocked options. "You enjoy history," he said looking through. "And ICT is a must because computers are essential. Now…languages-"

John's jaw tensed.

"You have some ability with Spanish."

His nephew's doubtful gaze switched to him, unimpressed. "I'm not taking languages," John muttered. "Or music, or art."

"Drama?"

John shrugged.

"Better than Geography which now seems to be code for miscellaneous," Mycroft decided. "And being confident when speaking with people, being able to act…far more important. There is also PE-"

John glared at him and said nothing. "Should I take enrichment class too like the thickos?"

Ah.

Not entirely sure how to proceed, Mycroft blinked at John. "You are not thick," he said.

"I'm average."

True.

John's grades were a little above average in most things. There was no bright shining academic gift, though on the other side there were few glaring weaknesses. John tended to be in the second or third sets in the subjects he had already been settled for and that would likely continue into GCSEs.

But John was a solid athlete and his strength was being a team player.

Mycroft stared at his nephew and then switched the television off.

"Hey-"

"Do you think an employer cares of you can recite Keats or rattle off the Roman Emperors in reverse order?" Mycroft asked. "What is important is the skills you learn. To work with a group, to complete independent tasks and show initiative. To include others and either be a good leader or a good follower."

John stared up at him.

"And you, like it or not, are a good leader."

The snort that came from John annoyed Mycroft on so many levels.

"Your father is a terrible leader," Mycroft said, tapping his foot. "He annoys people, he berates and humiliates them. If he didn't have a unique skill set your father would be in trouble. I am a terrible team player. I hate ceding control and trusting others. I despise group negotiations. You can do both-"

"And will get along fine in a perfectly normal boring job," John muttered.

Teenagers were idiots and incredibly self-absorbed in their own melodrama.

"You could be a personal trainer," Mycroft said. "You have the abilities for it; athletic, good with people." Usually, Mycroft added silently as he stared at the belligerent boy. "You could be a teacher-"

John winced.

"You could go into archaeology, into police work." Sherlock would kill him for suggesting that one. "You could save lives and be a fireman or a doctor-"

John still didn't look convinced.

"Look it up," Mycroft suggested, sensing that if he pushed any harder then John would just shut down for the sake of it. "Or continue to sulk at the television. Your choice."

It appeared John decided to take the former option.

Teenagers.

John seemed quiet over the next few days. Sherlock seemed on another planet and blinked at Mycroft when the options evening letter came.

Mycroft would be dealing with this one then.

John's form tutor was still a useless man, Mycroft thought as he listened to the generic spiel. Ten minutes later he was released, free to wander around the departments to talk to the teachers.

When he finally found John, the boy was talking to a red-headed teacher who had her arms folded and was looking at his nephew with an amused frustration that Mycroft was well acquainted with.

As he walked over the teacher glanced at him curiously and then looked down at John.

"Oh." John turned at looked at Mycroft. "This is my Uncle."

Mycroft waited.

And waited.

"It appears you do need these etiquette lessons," Mycroft murmured with a sigh.

The idiot child blinked, baffled apparently.

"I'm Ms Llewly," the woman said with a nod. "Deputy head."

Ah.

He'd heard of the woman from his father. She'd been involved in the fight incident that had taken place while Mycroft was at a conference in Berlin. He'd pictured someone a little more…

A little less…

She had freckles for heaven sakes.

Not entirely sure why this was relevant, Mycroft nodded at her. "A pleasure to meet you," he said, clapping a hand on John's shoulder.

"I was just saying to John," she said, looking back down at the boy. "I'll have his head if he doesn't take PE. It'll boost his science levels through the roof. Far better at practicals, aren't you John?"

Curious, Mycroft glances down at John who was casting him a wary look.

What did the boy think he was going to say? "Practical knowledge is far more useful than theoretical," Mycroft murmured gently. "Think of how upset your father would be if he couldn't do his experiments."

John almost smiled.

A miracle.

"Oh," Ms Llewly suddenly shifted. "John, could you do me a huge favour. Could you run and grab me a blue folder on my desk in my office?" she asked, handing him her keys.

It was source of pride that John raised an eyebrow and glanced between the two suspiciously. As if relenting to the fact he would be talked about, John nodded and made his way out of the room.

"You trust him," Mycroft said, trying not to sound too surprised. Few teachers did.

"I trust that he isn't so stupid as to nick something when he has the keys," Ms Llewly said. "And that, as someone else once said, he would want more of a challenge."

Ah.

Hearing his own words repeated back to him from two years ago made Mycroft wince as he tried to imagine how long that incident had been talked about in the staff room. "What is it you wish to speak about?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"Nothing really," she said looking around the room. "I just need my folder."

Oh.

Oddly disappointed, Mycroft looked away and at the parents milling around.

"You're rather young for a deputy head," he heard himself say.

"Thank you," was the only response he received. "And what do you do?"

"I work for the government," Mycroft said suddenly not at all sure what to do with himself. He kept himself stood as stiffly as possible.

"Ah," she said nodding. "Nothing to do with education I hope? Might have to hold you for ransom if so."

Mycroft shook his head. "No. I merely attempt to limit their idiotic ideas."

Ms Llewly glanced at him and her mouth twitched in amusement. Odd, she wasn't classically beautiful or particularly elegant in her features but she looked…sturdy. As if she wouldn't break with anything that came her way but would smile and get on with it. He imagined she would look just as at home in a pair of wellies as she would in the trim suit she was wearing.

What the hell was he doing?

He was considering John's teacher. And not just any teacher but the one that John, reading between the lines, was starting to trust.

Still didn't stop him glancing at her finger. No ring, no tan lines.

Unmarried? That didn't necessarily mean unattached-

Stop.

Stupid idea.

"I should thank you," he said slowly. "You have been…it is good that John has someone looking out for him. At school."

"He's a lovely kid," she said. "Takes responsibility which is far too rare these days."

Pride buzzed within him at the words. It was a fine thing to know John was thought of in such a way.

"May I ask where his father is tonight?"

Mycroft shook his head. "He had to work. Sherlock can be…do not hold it against him that he isn't here. My brother invented his own job; he has very different ideas-"

"I gathered," Ms Llewly said with a nod. "Still, he and John seem very close."

"They are," Mycroft agreed.

"And it's impressive that John's mother is involved in his life still."

Mycroft narrowed his gaze, just about resisting the urge to look curiously at the woman. "How do you mean?" he asked.

"Asking her advice, that sort of thing," Ms Llewly said. "Staff room mutterings had it that Sherlock Holmes took advice from no-one. And that seemed to include when he himself was a student." She smiled slightly. "I can imagine he wasn't the easiest student to teach if that was the case."

"That's probably why our father was a regular visitor every Monday morning," Mycroft murmured. "May I ask, exactly what advice has Sherlock taken?"

"From John's mother?" Ms Llewly prompted. "I was impressed by how much John had relented after the fight; he'd looked like he was about to explode when we left the two of them alone. Sherlock said that he'd been told to sit quietly with John and let him talk when he wants to. It's been a revelation with John. We've suggested to his teachers that they let him go outside to cool off if he's starting to lose his temper or get riled up and since then he's barely had any trouble. He's usually calm enough that when someone talks to him he doesn't make it worse for himself."

That was new. Sherlock usually talked at John, trying to offer solutions and quick fixes. When had that changed?

When had Sherlock gone to see Anna and when had he actually listened to her?

Mycroft watched as John came back, the blue folder under his arm looking rather smug with himself; pleased that he'd been given responsibility.

Something was different.

Sherlock's recent attitude; for weeks he'd been busy on some case that he'd refused to talk about and then all of a sudden nothing. He'd become insular and quiet; he'd looked lost in thought most of the times that Mycroft had caught a glimpse of his brother.

And if Anna had been involved…

Anthea got back to him as he dropped John off at his parents' house.

Sherlock had visited Anna thirteen times last month.

Once for what had been described as a conjugal visit.

Then nothing.

A conjugal visit?

Really?

Mycroft tapped his hand on his knee as he sat in the car reading over the information.

What the hell was going on?

Author's Note:

Two things - first, there will be three more chapters of this fic and secondly, please do pay attention to the warnings on next chapter when it's posted.

Hope you enjoyed :D