Well, John contemplated as his taxi crawled through the Whitechapel traffic, if he was honest, maybe it had a bit to do with revenge. Not that you would know that that was his purpose if you had merely glanced at the vehicle. The sky was a dingy white, quite possibly the least enigmatic of colours and in stark contrast to the dramatic cloak of shadow Mycroft invariably summoned whenever he performed this enterprise.
It was with apathy that John watched the hordes of tourists meandering down the street, a street he had become unbearably familiar with, thanks to the fact that he'd been travelling down it for at least half an hour. Despite their insistence on photographing every telephone box and pigeon, they still seemed to be moving faster than his cab but he refused to leave it, despite the driver's suggestion that he do just that.
No, his snail-paced method of transport was about the only aspect of gravitas he had left in this entire excursion; boring weather, boring time of day (2:30 in the afternoon so Mrs Hudson could watch Rosie because Sherlock was visiting Eurus) and even boring footwear thanks to his fancy black shoes mysteriously disappearing from the cupboard.
John glanced at his watch with apprehension, and realised that he was really pushing it now. Certainly if he had neglected to follow Molly's advice and hadn't left half an hour early, there would have been no way that he would make it in time. In fact, if this gridlock persisted throughout the east end, he might not make it anyway.
However, mere moments before he reached for the door handle, the car lurched forward and began to travel at a speed that seemed rather implausible considering that, seconds ago, the road had been at a literal standstill.
Despite knowing that he was tempting fate, John allowed himself a sigh of relief. At least he would be able to pull up outside the conference building in a suave black cab.
The reason for all these preparations was that, like Sally had suggested over 7 years ago, John had got himself a hobby. And it was, like most aspects of his life, a rather unique one- scaring Mycroft.
He had first discovered his enjoyment of this activity when he and Sherlock had confronted the elder Holmes about Eurus. His flatmate had been all for simply charging into Mycroft's abode and demanding to know the truth, but John had sensed an unsurpassable opportunity and Sherlock hadn't really needed much convincing.
Since John had first made acquaintance with his sociopath, Mycroft had summoned him to various abandoned edifices on no less than 12 occasions. By number 4, John had naturally begun to grow compliant, but this had typically resulted in several genuine kidnappings, so it was always with a feeling of dread that the doctor climbed into the nondescript cars.
The clown stunt had been enthralling, and John found that he quite understood why Mycroft must enjoy terrifying him on an at least biannual basis. And, having experienced that buzz, he was desperate for a repeat experience.
Sherlock had masterminded their previous endeavour, but this time John was striking out on his own. This wasn't actually the most desirable of situations as fortune always seemed to favour the Holmes brothers (although the same couldn't be said for their sister), but it was necessary, because the detective was to be the subject of their meeting.
-
It was exactly 2:30 when John stepped (scrambled) out of the car and ascended (clambered) up the stairs to the stark room he'd hired for the meeting. He surveyed his choice with delight.
Due to the fact that he didn't control the entire UK government, and possibly some foreign ones too which he thought someone ought to look into, John had naturally been unable to commandeer anywhere like Battersea power station. Abandoned car parks, Mycroft's other favourite locations, were also off the cards, because they didn't tend to be abandoned in the middle of the afternoon; at least not the ones he had access to.
So, finally, John had contacted an old friend who had vacated the world of medicine for the courtroom, and asked if he could possibly have the use of one of the conference rooms in his office building, preferably on a high floor. This last request was based on Sherlock telling him that he used to request the upper floor whenever he was admitted to hospital, as it made Mycroft sweat whenever he came to check on him.
Actually, John thought, that had been really quite selfish of his roommate, especially as he could probably take a reasonable guess as to why he was in the hospital in the first place.
"I do hope I'm not interrupting you, Doctor Watson."
Punctual as ever, Mycroft had arrived.
-
John was about to, passive aggressively of course, ask Mycroft to sit down, when he realised that he'd forgotten to get the chairs, which were stacked outside where the cleaner had left them for him.
"Mycroft." He said, hoping to sound authoritative, and possibly slightly sinister.
"I'm a busy man, if you are simply planning on stating my name, I am sure my body double would be more than suitable for your task."
Mycroft had a body double. What was he thinking, of course Mycroft had a body double.
The elder Holmes tapped the metal tip of his umbrella, no sabre, no gun, against the floor.
John was panicking slightly now, having anticipated he would have time to go over his opening speech, which had naturally completely disappeared from his brain the moment Mycroft entered. Why did Mycroft have to be the "on time" one? Actually, that wasn't true, both Holmes brothers were very prompt, but one of them liked to make an entrance and had had to be dragged out of the flat last week so they weren't disgracefully late to the Marylebone surgery New Year's drinks.
"I have summoned you here," ooh that sounded good, "to discuss your brother."
"What's he done this time?"
"Well you would know, wouldn't you?"
"John, if you don't arrive at your point in the next 30 seconds, I will have to send for Michael."
Definitely not his real name.
"You've put a camera up in our toilet!" John blurted suddenly.
"There's a window that my little brother could easily fling himself out of." Mycroft replied calmly.
"No he couldn't!" John cried, "And he wouldn't anyway, I've got that in writing."
"Nevertheless, there are all sorts of hazards in a bathroom-"
"You sound like a paranoid school inspector!"
"You're the youngest sibling, aren't you?" Mycroft said, quietly.
"Well, yes. How did you, oh, you looked at my birth certificate or something."
"No."
I will not bite, John recited in his head, I will not bite.
"How then?"
He didn't even bother being disappointed in himself.
"You have a sister."
"Yes, Harry."
He wasn't betraying her privacy, for one thing she had a criminal record which was the kind of thing that Mycroft definitely had access to.
"An addict, who's condition means she is frequently a danger to herself or others." He summarised.
"Yeah, and?"
That had come out a bit too much like a grouchy teenager.
"Ah John, as ever you see but do not observe."
"Don't quote your brother at me!"
"I can assure you that Sherlock was not the architect of that phrase."
Mycroft twiddled his umbrella idly.
"There's a four year age gap between my brother and yourself?"
"Five."
"So he's younger?"
John remained silent, aware that the rhetorical question forewarned of a trap approaching.
"And, it would be fair to say that you feel the need to protect him."
"Of course! The man's been shot! Multiple times!"
"And that is how I know that you are the youngest child. Also, up until you became aware of Eurus, you would have been labouring under the illusion that Sherlock was the youngest, and yet you made no comment. However, the moment you discovered Sherlock was actually the middle child, you jumped on the opportunity for teasing."
This was why John shouldn't have asked.
"And so we have something in common John, we both want to protect Sherlock, both from himself and others."
"Yes, but I don't want to wrap him in cotton wool and keep him in a cushioned room!"
"A shame that did not work."
Sarcasm. Probably. Hopefully.
-
Halfway through their conversation, John had finally found his plan for what he was going to say in his coat pocket.
Unfortunately, as part of the "intimidating government official" thing Mycroft had going on, the man had not looked away once from the doctor, so John had been unable to consult his piece of paper.
However, all of a sudden, a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass resonated throughout the room. Mycroft immediately strode over to the window but John remained immobile.
Prior to his enrolment into the army, he had worked in an office very similar to this one, and he would know the sound of a pigeon flying into a window anywhere.
With Mycroft searching for the cause of the noise, John was finally able to glance at his agenda, but was instantly disappointed by his notes, well note.
Sicily. Why had he just written Sici- oh.
"What you need Mycroft, is a holiday."
"Don't be absurd."
"If you're about to list the reasons that we/your country needs you, save it; I've got a longer list about why they don't."
Mycroft drew in a long suffering breath.
"Between now and next Thursday, I can guarantee that Sherlock is not going to get into trouble."
Mycroft raised both eyebrows. Clearly unable to do just the one then. Interesting.
"Lestrade's on holiday in Sicily for 3 weeks and he's the only person in Scotland Yard, or indeed the entire metropolitan police force, who tolerates him enough to give him a case."
"My brother could find himself some mortal danger just popping to the shops."
Not that he's ever done that, John thought inwardly.
"Well if he did take it upon himself to go adventuring in the early hours of the morning, he'd set off the Rosie alarm."
"What's a "Rosie"?"
"My daughter, Mycroft. We're also getting a red setter puppy on Thursday, and he is absolutely determined to not die before we take him home."
"Oh, getting a dog. Playing happy families now then, are we?"
"We're not playing."
A person who was unaccustomed to Mycroft wouldn't have seen any change in his icy facade but, after 10 years, John noticed that he had clearly been taken aback by the ferocity of the doctor's tone.
"Sherlock is safe." John concluded, "So you can take a break from your constant surveillance of our lives."
At this point, John had been planning on suggesting Mycroft jetted off to Italy for a couple of weeks in the sun. However, he was swiftly coming to the realisation that the Mediterranean might not be a destination that was completely compatible with the man.
For some reason, John had always been under the impression that Mycroft was relatively tan. But now he was standing in the bright white room, under the bright white lights, it became apparent that the eldest Holmes had only seemed so because John had always mentally compared him to his siblings- a junkie and a woman who hadn't seen direct sunlight in over 20 years, apart from her brief excursion into London.
So, while Mycroft wasn't unhealthily pale, he probably wasn't particularly suited to Southern Europe.
"What about Shropshire?" He blurted out.
"Shropshire?" Mycroft inquired.
"You wouldn't have to leave the country, and there would be no obligation to sunbathe."
And it would probably rain on your sister imprisoning, brother stifling face, he added silently, recalling a uniquely wretched camping holiday which had been cut short by a thunderstorm and subsequent floods.
"If all you're going to do is try to make me go on holiday, I really must leave you with Michael."
"No. That is all I wished to impart." That sounded a bit overly posh, like Sherlock when he was nervous.
"Goodbye then, Doctor Watson."
Mycroft probably wasn't going to go on holiday.
On a sort of unrelated note- In my opinion, Name of the Game by ABBA is the best Johnlock song, with lots of use of the words case, game etc. Think about it being sung from Sherlock's point of view.