Prompt: Holmes and Watson both enlist to fight in the Second Boer War, from Michael JG Meathook

A/N: This is set around 1901, since the Second Boer War was fought from 1899-1902. I may continue this at some point, I feel like I could get a decent casefic out of it.

It was one of the downsides of having so unique a position that it was frequently said the Empire would fall should he ever retire that Mycroft Holmes was never left alone to do the work associated with his position. He had ascended to what power he had precisely because he had the ability to analyze facts and figures in connection with each other because he had no attachments or preferences. He was perfectly unconnected and objective. So it was surely the height of irony that he, the most unsociable of men, now had to spend great portions of his day in rather pointless meetings of various ministers. Indeed, he often suspected that none of the various members of Cabinet could come to any sort of agreement were he not there to figure out how all their disparate policies and opinions would come together.

This was how Mycroft found himself at a meeting during which the Secretary of State was reading out a lamentable report about the British losses against the Boers in South Africa. It had been Mycroft's carefully considered opinion, based on every fact at his disposal, that getting involved in yet another South African war had been foolhardy. The Boers were entrenched and the British forces underprepared, and no amount of gold found in the area could be worth the cost in terms of lives lost and equipment used. There was the matter too of yet another foreign territory to govern, the labor that would be needed to extract said gold. The effort was not worth the cost, and Mycroft had told the Prime Minister as such, but he and the rest of the Cabinet were utterly struck, as most men were, by the power of that particular gold rock. Mycroft had never seen much value in it; based on all of human history it seemed to him that the pursuit of it had caused much misery and led to little good, but one could not deny that its hold was powerful and its financial effects considerable.

Mycroft observed the members of Cabinet from his seat at the end of the table. The various ministers usually avoided the seats next to him until there were none others left, and those that did take those seats often surreptitiously moved them so as to put more space between them and Mycroft. He was used to this; aware that most men thought him rather a cold fish and were a tad leery of him, or else in awe like poor Dr. Watson. He settled in to pay attention to the next report, a concerning one about the high rates of loss of life among the British troops. "Of course there are the usual amounts of men picked off by Boers, skirmishes and raids and the like. They've resorted to guerilla tactics." He said the words in a hushed, horrified tone, as though only savages would use such horrifying tactics. Mycroft was not sure what other tactics men in the wild bush would be expected to use. They could hardly line up in neat formations as British troops still did, despite this very technique having lost them several wars in the past. The war against the nascent United States for one. Mycroft thought about pointing this out, then realized he get nowhere. Those baying for blood would always get it, and part of how he'd survived so long in government was by keeping his head down. He wondered what Whitehall would have on for lunch that day, instead. "There are, of course, always fevers and sickness, but this report from the troops stationed at T-," naming a large post on the outskirts of British-held territory, "they've lost rather an alarming number of men recently, with no battle to show for it, and surprising low rates of illness. In fact, their army doctor says he's never seen troops quite so healthy."

Mycroft sat up straighter. An interesting problem. "Does the commander have any ideas?" he asked, and it was a mark of the respect in which he was held that the room fell silent. They might not always take his advice, but he had been right too often for them to ignore it altogether.

The Secretary of State looked down at his report again. "Well, the commander thinks it might well be murder. Of course, he does not say so lightly, since the only real suspects are those on the base. One hardly wants to declare our troops as murderers."

Mycroft thought about mentioning the rather large rates of crime reported in India that could be by none other than the British troops stationed there, but thought better of it. "Have they come any closer to determining the culprit?" he asked. An isolated base, no enemy in sight, a group of men who had no company but each other, under harsh discipline...there were many points of interest to it.

"None," the Secretary said in a defeated tone. "The commander wired for help only two days ago, and sounded exceedingly desperate."

"Say, Holmes, isn't your brother a detective?" the Minister for Defense Procurement, a rather pompous man whose intellect suggested he had the position through his ancestral pedigree and not for any aptitude at politics, said.

"Why, yes," Mycroft said, acting for all the world as if the very concept was a surprise, and not that he'd thought of Sherlock almost immediately. His brother was many things - infuriating and stubborn came to mind - but the greatest detective the world over did happen to be one of them.

"Well, I daresay he could figure it out!"

"Undoubtedly," Mycroft says. "However, Sherlock does not leave London, except when a case captures his interest enough to do so." He had dearly wished to keep Sherlock on as a foreign agent after his successful stint as a spy during what he dramatically called his "Great Hiatus." Sherlock's absolute refusal to even consider the idea was the only thing preventing Mycroft from doing so; to the nation's loss, for Sherlock was better at it than most of the men trained as such.

"Well, I daresay we could certainly reward him for his troubles," the Prime Minister began to say gruffly. "Certainly it would be a service to the Crown."

"I am sorry to report that money interests my brother not at all, and patriotism even less," Mycroft said. "Only the interest inherent to the case itself would induce him to take it." He smiled. "Yet I believe this case has factors of interest which may appeal to him. I shall certainly bring it up."

"Inform him the government shall pay for all expenses, and his transport," the Prime Minister said.

"Yes, I will. For two?" Mycroft asked. "I can assure you my brother will not take the case without Dr. Watson."

"On one condition."

"If that is the requirement, Mycroft, I shall certainly refuse the case," Sherlock declared the next day in Mycroft's office.

"Come, Sherlock, I thought you of all people would understand the necessity," Mycroft said. "You are to travel to South Africa, to an army camp, to solve a string of murders. You simply cannot do so as Sherlock Holmes! The assailant would know you are there and do whatever it takes to ensure you are no longer a threat. You must travel undercover."

"But to enlist in the army?" Sherlock argued. "You know I have never been one to obey orders."

Mycroft rubbed the bridge of his nose where a headache was forming. No, indeed, his brother had never met a suggestion he had not opposed merely on principle. "You pride yourself on your ability to disguise yourself, do you not? To take on a role other than your own?" He often wondered if his brother would have quite so difficult to deal with had he become an actor instead of a detective. Probably, he decided.

"Yes, but I have never portrayed a soldier, Mycroft," Sherlock said.

"Well, you shall have plenty of time to practice. The journey can take up to twenty days," Mycroft said. "And an excellent example to follow. Dr. Watson will be accompanying you, undercover as well, of course."

"I shall?" Poor Dr. Watson looked rather alarmed at the idea, and Sherlock jumped up.

"You cannot be serious! Watson is as thoroughly incapable of deceiving anyone as you are of solving this case yourself!"

Mycroft often had cause to wonder what the devil Dr. Watson - as ordinary and inoffensive an Englishman as there ever was - saw in his brother. He glanced at the doctor to see his mustache twitching in amusement. Heaven help the commander of the base when they arrived. Heaven help the ship's captain who transported them too, now that Mycroft thought of it. His brother and Dr. Watson trapped on a ship for nearly three weeks was nigh unimaginable.

"Then it is a good thing Dr. Watson will not be deceiving anyone. I have taken the liberty of enlisting him as an Army doctor with the rank of Captain." Mycroft turned to the doctor. "I thought it would be easier if you were simply to act as yourself as far as is possible."

"I quite agree," Dr. Watson answered. "Dissimulation really is not one of my strengths."

"And you, Sherlock, shall be a Lieutenant. Pickory, I believe is the name I chose."

"A Lieutenant?" Sherlock seized the papers and scanned his fictional biography.
Mycroft, why have you made me lower in rank than Watson?"

Dr. Watson burst into laughter, and Mycroft sighed, "Because, brother mine, Dr. Watson has in reality been a soldier, knows how to act the part, and you have not. You've just finished telling me you aren't a soldier at all, you may as well allow someone who is to lead you."

Sherlock looked decidedly unhappy about the entire situation, but continued perusing the file he had been given with the facts of the case. He soon was muttering to himself over it. Good. He was interested enough to take the case. "Your travel papers," Mycroft said, attempting to hand them to Sherlock, who ignored them in favor of studying the case. "Oh, never mind, Doctor, here you are," Mycroft said, turning to give them to Dr. Watson instead.

"Thank you," Dr. Watson said. "Holmes? Oh, I mean - Sherlock?" He blushed furiously red, and Mycroft could not help but be amused. Why the devil they both still insisted on the exclusive use of surnames after twenty years friendship was beyond even his understanding. Why, Sherlock had shared rooms with Watson longer than he ever had with Mycroft.

"Yes, yes, Watson, I am coming," Sherlock said. "I daresay the case will be shorter than either the journey there or back," he said to Mycroft. "I shall see you on our return."

"Do wire if you need anything, Lieutenant," Mycroft said, and was rewarded with a dark look as his brother left. It was almost enough to make him wish he was going too - watching Sherlock attempt to live as a soldier was sure to be enough entertainment for a lifetime.