A/N: Slightly darker than previous chapters. Okay, quite a lot darker. And oddly sexual at points - but in descriptions of scenarios/not ordinarily sexualised things; no sexy times between characters. Nothing graphic, but yes, provocative. So...you've been warned. And there are a couple instances of cursing.
THANK YOU FOR THE FEEDBACK! Please keep it coming!
-o-
3.
The stakes were always rather high with Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft knew; the man ate, slept and breathed high stakes. He could hardly deign to exist without dire threat of imminent death: his lifeblood was running headfirst into the raging flames, fending off a broadsword with a switchblade, fencing with psychotic masterminds on the crumbling ledge of a twelve storey building...in a torrential downpour; his addiction skillfully blurred the line between therapeutic and toxic: without it, the young detective fell to pieces; too much of it, he destroyed everything he touched.
It had been cocaine once, Mycroft mused. He almost missed those days.
But something told him Sherlock would never touch drugs again, now that he had felt the tendrils of orgasmic warmth only an unsolved puzzle could bring, the deafening sound of semtex countdowns and the intoxicating feel of the icy tip of a Colt, cocked and poised, digging intimately into the base of his skull.
Sherlock often said he was "married to his work." Mycroft did not doubt it, for no man or woman on Earth could do for him what solving cases could.
Although, he thought, frowning, one man had come close.
Mycroft did not know the nature of Sherlock's relationship with John. Of course his surveillance would have shown instances of sexual relations, but the fact none were recorded indicated very little as far as personal entanglement went: romance did not necessarily equate sex, just as affection did not necessarily equate attraction. Coupled with the fact Sherlock was an extremely...difficult individual to manage (being somehow simultaneously brilliant and idiotic, perceptive and obtuse, logical and childish, stoic and irrational...Mycroft needn't go on), the elder brother might have believed it entirely if John said Sherlock telling him to shut up was the younger man's interpretation of "I love you."
Mycroft would be very very hesitant in admitting this, but he was desperately grateful to John Watson for everything the army doctor had done for Sherlock. Mycroft knew he had a tendency to come across as unfeeling - and, truth be told, to a large extent these perceptions and allegations of heartlessness were actually based on fact rather than conjecture; it was difficult to run the nation when sentiment got in one's way. That being said, there was in fact a rather limited list of things Mycroft cared about in the purest definition of the word: when push came to shove, no matter what the political implications, intricacies, dangers, or deleterious after-effects, Mycroft would choose these people every single time.
Mummy and Sherlock.
And John, dear sweet Dr Watson, had looked after Sherlock so often as to almost make the British Government's younger brother a non-issue.
Of course, from the converse perspective, John was now so deeply intertwined in Sherlock's affairs that one could successfully argue he had, yet again, become a liability.
Mycroft highly disliked liabilities. They were so...messy.
He idly twirled his umbrella and smiled at John, remembering the last time they had sat across from one another - John's cruel but deserved words that hardly scratched the surface of Mycroft's gilded skin; John hadn't understood why, then, hadn't seen all the little details and how they seamlessly came together to fit a picture even Sherlock might have sat well with.
Mycroft had almost - almost - felt a flicker of doubt and guilt then; extended periods of time in John Watson's presence tended to do that to a person, his goodness like a sweet but too-strong coil of smoke from overburnt incense, a smell one didn't quite notice or mind at first (one even grew used to it, fond of it, overlooking its presence but certainly noticing its absence), until the one day said individual might realise he had reached for an article of clothing, say, or a cherished book or knapsack, only to discover every item in the flat (every surface, every fibre, every molecule, even his bloody skin) smelt like that.
Again. Not a bad smell by any means, but - inescapable. Pervasive. Suffocating.
It must have been hard, Mycroft had once thought distantly, to be around so much virtue and not constantly reek of it.
But the John Watson staring keenly, guardedly back at him now did not bear that same overpowering scent of goodness, kindness, morality, respect, and genuine belief in people for people's sake. Yes, it was still there, Mycroft doubted he'd ever be rid of the stink, but it was muted some how - masked, layered, as if someone had foolishly tried to cover the traces of common cannabis and cloves cigarettes with imported cologne and fine cognac.
There was a peculiar glint in John's eyes. It was disarming and held a bit of a challenge; it was more masquerading as less; it was the brainiac playing dumb to appeal to someone who did not put much stock in intelligence but rather favoured a full set of lips and a smouldering pair of eyes and a coy smile that asked them, "Who do you want me to be tonight?"
Fair question.
Who did Mycroft want John to be tonight?
For all the tea in the China, he could not honestly say.
"Ah, Dr Watson," Mycroft said finally. "It's so lovely of you to join me. I trust you found the journey pleasant?"
John smiled. It was calm enough - mild, easy-going - but there was a serrated edge to it Mycroft might have missed were he not so keen an observer. "Very pleasant. And the company even more so," the army doctor replied. "Mary and I talked about the weather."
Mycroft nodded along, knowing 'Mary' did not talk at all, and wondered vaguely if John was trying to hint at something or was simply lying to show he could. Disliking the feeling of doubt, even for a scant few seconds, Mycroft opted instead to smile more deeply.
Condescendingly.
John didn't react at all. "So," he said briskly, "I'm assuming this is not a social call? Don't get me wrong, I do love our chats, it's more just that since we left things a little - "
He paused, as if thinking how to best describe their last interaction. Mycroft noticed how his hands clenched slightly, even though his face did not change. Growth in self-control, the Holmes brother thought. Vastly improved from last time. Intriguing.
"- tense," the sandy-coloured hair man decided with a charming smile. "Heated emotions that day. Some unresolved issues, as I recall."
"Just so." Mycroft pulled out a giant folder. "Regarding said 'unresolved issues,' recent activities have..." He searched for a more graceful way of putting this and came up with nothing, so he forged ahead bluntly, "...drawn attention to you, Dr Watson. And I cannot hope to provide adequate protection for you if I don't know what you've got yourself into."
He smiled again.
John smiled back, just as coldly. "I understand your painful position, Mycroft," he said politely, though that edge was back and Mycroft absentmindedly reminded himself to tread carefully. "It's got to be awfully disorientating thinking one minute you're playing the game and you've laid the pieces down nice and perfectly, right?"
Mycroft looked at him indulgently. "You gift me with too much credit, dear doctor. I am not omniscient."
John peered at him. "Aren't you?" he asked, in a voice not meant to be answered. "It must have come as a shock. You had everything just where you planned it. But the next thing you know, your players start ignoring the rules!"
He gave a short, hollow laugh and something in Mycroft's mind prickled with uncertainty.
"Usually there's foreplay, right?" John said coyly, eyes fierce and dangerous, voice disturbingly soft and sweet. "A slow progression, tantalisingly build up? But not this time. With them - they'd been waiting too long. They were hungry, desperate, passionate things. But of course, given the source, that passion was still exacting, calculated, orderly in its devolution, and that - that drives you mad."
Mycroft studied him, trying to determine what this phenomenon was.
John noticed him studying him, and his lips twitched ever so slight in that very striking way.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed a fraction and his heart skipped a beat.
"I suppose that had to be the worst of it, for you," John said breezily, studying his nails in an elegant fashion that was altogether foreign and familiar and Mycroft's skin almost - almost - began to crawl. "For you, Mycroft, that stung, because it was controlled and, let's be honest, the timing was spectacular - and because you knew exactly how they were doing it, you were always one step ahead and predicted their every move. And there was that crucial moment when you could've stopped it but something changed, something big, something important, and the game was out of your hands and you, Mycroft, hate letting others handle your toys."
John laughs softly. "The best bit? You, realising you'd been labouring under a misapprehension. It hadn't been your toy for quite some time, long before you let go of the reins. That no one would believe you. That nothing would change. That the truth was repugnant and the lie was so seductive. The best bit was your realising you were too good at your job, and it had cost you everything you loved."
He smiled faintly. Politely.
In that moment, he perfectly ordinary. Mycroft stared.
"Tell me, how am I doing so far?"
Mycroft came back to himself and gave a slight scoff. "You're no Sherlock, that's for certain."
But inwardly, he was...nervous.
"But that doesn't mean I'm not right," John said quietly, that benign smile still etched across his face. "You got upset because the surveillance unexpectedly cut out. Why?"
"No," Mycroft corrected patiently, as if speaking to a child. "I revisited your files because this colleague of yours, the freelance 'exterminator,' as you put it, used a technological device to completely dismantle the signal."
John didn't so much as blink. "Why were you still recording?" he pressed.
"I like to be thorough," Mycroft replied levelly.
"Bedroom practices aside," John quipped, with a casualness that reminded Mycroft fleetingly - dangerously - of his younger brother, "let's be honest, here, Mycroft - and I mean really and truly honest: bare-bones, mythophobia, never-have-I-ever drinking games type honest. Did you know from the start, or did you piece it together?"
Mycroft paused minutely, but that pause was all John needed.
"Even from the last chat we had?"
Mycroft had to give him credit: the man's voice was amazingly steady, despite the anger blazing in his eyes.
"There was a plan in place," Mycroft said slowly. "I could do little to stop it, only work to prevent as much collateral damage as possible."
"And he knew." John had a very familiar, narrowed expression on his face. Mycroft winced. It was uncanny, and...much as he was loath to admit it, it hurt to see on someone else's face. Especially when that someone happened to be Sherlock's best friend.
John was staring into space, shaking his head, a sort of darkly appreciative look marring his features. "It's just so...twisted and brilliant, the way you three play. Like children at Snakes and Ladders, only it's abandoned warehouses, Semtex and hair-line tripwires...and, naturally, king cobras, black adders and Ursini's vipers."
Naturally.
Once upon time, Mycroft noted, that voice would have held horror - or at least discomfort, annoyance or resignation even. Now it just held...analysis. Detached admiration. Clinical consideration.
Mycroft was not one to swear, usually; he thought it uncouth.
But all thoughts of impropriety aside, the only thought running through his head at this precise moment was a rhythmic repetition of: This is...well and truly...a bloody fucking nightmare.
Two of them. Together. In one head.
How had John not gone completely mad yet?
"He may not known every detail exactly from the start," John went on in that same detached way, the entity Mycroft was beginning to unconsciously label as his 'Holmes half,' "but he was not exactly in the dark, either. I thought his not caring how the press saw him was just Sherlock being Sherlock, but no, of course not, he knew, he knew the direction it was heading because he knows Moriarity better than Moriarity knows himself."
Mycroft noted the use of present tense but said nothing.
"He knew the plan and counteracted it accordingly. Of course, taking into account the fact Moriarty is clinically insane, more people were at risk than just Sherlock alone. More, in fact, likely, than just Sherlock, I, and you. You predicted and intercepted and bargained down a slice of his pride - inch by inch - as recompense for another life saved, or another building not destroyed. You did it for the 'greater good.' You did it because you knew- better than anyone else in this whole bloody world - how much of a stubborn arse Sherlock can be sometimes, but that even he feels guilt occasionally and the pain of knowing he'd inadvertently caused so much damage - that, you know, would demolish him even more than a smeared reputation ever could. Because after all, he hasn't lost yet. And public opinion is swayed so bloody easily."
John peered at Mycroft strangely. "I don't know if I want to strangle you or thank you," he said with alarming frankness.
Ah. That'd be Watson talking.
"Yes, well. I can save you the trouble of deciding by moving on to the subject of the man in your flat, shall we?" Mycroft smiled again and turned back to the dossier.
-o-
"I talked to Mycroft. You came up," John said.
The Doctor smiled. "I thought I might," he replied with a cheerfulness that rang hollow in the spacious flat. "Mentioned the good bits, I hope?"
John raised an eyebrow. "Like your rakish looks? Your well thought-out plans? Your intergalactic interpersonal skills?"
Something in his voice, though, made the Doctor think he was teasing rather than being antagonistic.
He straightened his bowtie. "Something like that, yeah," he replied with just the perfect combination of arrogance and wounded pride. Put on, of course. All for show, wrapped up nicely with a slight pout to match. It was a speciality of his.
John scrutinized him for a few seconds - the Doctor wondered passively what he saw - before returning to his task of translating Sherlock's code. It was a good minute before he set the biro down and looked up again. Face carefully blank, John locked eyes with the Doctor and made a sweeping gesture with his hands that may have been a shrug. It was a strangely elegant move, the Doctor mused.
"It's funny you mention the 'good' bits," John said, tone betraying nothing. "I used to know what 'good' meant but somewhere along the way I found it connotated a whole lot more than I gave it credit for."
The Doctor nodded absently. "'Good' is one of those concept thingies, so variable and open to interpretation. Personally I have trouble putting much stock in it, but that's just me. I know other people - " his eyes flickered to John, though the other man was looking elsewhere, " - need terms to be defined, constructs put in contexts; even if we were speaking different languages or came from different cultures, it'd fine so long as I illustrated my experiences using concrete connections, comparisons, correllations, the meaty stuff. To cross that barrier we'd either have to agree on a singular meaning, or agree to accept each other had his own."
The Doctor wondered, briefly, how John had handled that during the merge. While it was obvious neither Holmes nor Watson had "won," exactly, since all attributes of both men were still equally present in John's psyche, it had to be awfully noisy in there! What did that do to a person, the Doctor thought? He was momentarily distracted, mesmerised by the line of inquiry. How did one function in society, constantly questioning if a decision was moral, or right, or practical, or idiotic, or boring, or selfish, or vulnerable, or beautiful, or -
Just - how, when there were two very distinct voices screaming at him which to pick?
Still staring into space, eyes narrowed in thought, John hmm'd his assent. "Lestrade said something of Sherlock, once," he said. "That Sherlock was a great man, and with luck someday he might even be a good one."
The Doctor saw immediately where this was headed, but like a train wreck, he could neither do anything to stop it nor look away from the collision.
Wait. No.
Oh hell.
He was even going to be the one to step on the accelerator.
"And Mycroft said the same of me," he concluded.
He was shocked to find himself grinning again.
John gave him an odd look and he stopped, shrugging minutely in half-hearted apology. It was just, well - the Doctor had to admit, although predictable, the symmetry of this was rather lovely.
In a macabre way.
John studied him again, this time wearing a smile himself. "Reckon he's right?"
The Doctor hesitated and gave the query some honest consideration. "Tricky question to answer, that, because again, it depends what you mean by 'good.' I've saved whole planets and obliterated entire races. I've sacrificed myself for beings I hardly knew and turned my back on my own people for the 'greater good,' as you say. I've been called a good man - a hero, a saviour. But I've also been told death follows me wherever I go."
He stared intently at John. "So what do you think?"
John snorted. "Sounds rather human to me," he said, intentionally paraphrasing the Doctor's earlier words.
It wasn't said in a mocking tone, but somehow that made it worse, and the Doctor didn't know why. No, wait, hang on, yes he did. Of course he did. He knew exactly why. But he hated being reminded, and John's Sherlock side knew it.
And in that moment, the Doctor wished he weren't capable of something so human as hate.
He swallowed it down, though, and remembered this was about John Watson, not the hybrid. He couldn't give up now, no, not when he was just beginning to break through.
Not when they were just starting to connect.
"Human, eh?" he said with a smile and a raised eyebrow. "That's not one I usually get, but I'll take it."
John nodded again, gracefully pretending not to see through the act. "Nothing I haven't experienced with Sherlock. Well, beyond that he actually is human - er, we think - and he doesn't get extra bodies if he uses his up - well, except this last time, but that was Molly's doing and kind of a special circumstance, and the body was already dead, besides. He does sometimes steal limbs from Bart's morgue, but I doubt he's stocking up for impending quadriplegia. And while he's definitely a genius, he's not some mega-brained madman in a blue box."
He paused to think.
"Other than that, though, it's nothing new or disturbing or horrible. I mean, it doesn't scare me, and...maybe I should do, but I don't feel the need to draw lines or make a fuss about 'good' or 'bad,' or 'right' or 'wrong,' or any of it. You have advanced kit and you're helping me with the translations, and at the moment, we're allies. I've only been around you a few times but I'm a pretty decent judge of character. Sometimes you put things together faster than even Sherlock could; other times it's like, no matter how astronomically high your IQ is, you don't have a bloody clue. And so in those moments I remind you. Good balance."
He looked like he wanted to say something before suddenly changing his mind and settling on: "It's familiar. Part of me kind of enjoys it."
The Doctor remained very still, unsure how to proceed because he couldn't quite read John's emotional state. "Does it bother you?" he asked finally. "Any of it. At all. Do you have questions - "
John looked up, smiling. "No, it's fine, really. If anything I have more reason to trust you now."
The Doctor looked at him piercingly. "And why the hell is that?" he asked.
John shook his head as if it were obvious. "Because Mycroft doesn't want me to."
Ah, thought the Doctor with a growing smile. Brotherly love at its finest.
-o-