Updated 5/25/2014 edited by author.
Disclaimer: I couldn't be further from making money off of Sherlock...
Warnings: Mentions of psychology, war, and extreme cases of adrenaline. It's nothing terribly scary, and I doubt there are any delicate people in the audience at this point. Especially you freaks that actually watch Sherlock (*throws confetti at his own party*).
"No. No. Absolutely not!"
"But Sherlock! It's not much more than a physical assessment and a few mental exercises over a couple of weeks, if that. It's not like it will take that long, nor will it really be all that complicated. Surely I can pause a bit between work and the case to help your brother out," John said, exasperated, sitting heavily upon his usual chair in the corner of their living room.
Sherlock himself was pacing about the length of the space from the window to the kitchen opening. He was only able to do so because Watson had put his foot down not three days ago and they had managed to clean the flat to a decency not seen in a long while. Between the points in the brilliant man's pacing, John glanced repeatedly and apologetically at Mycroft situated on the edge of the old couch, poised as a lord in court. His face was far too guarded and that didn't settle well with the doctor.
"But it'd take up time! Time we neither have nor I feel the need to give to him! And why is he in our home? He has half the doctors in the country at his beck and call, with the other half sitting prettily on standby, and he chooses you out of all of them? Why hasn't he gone to others?" Sherlock whined, his temper tantrum escalating slightly.
They'd been going at this for thirty minutes by this point. Mycroft had offered them a ride back to the flat after they'd gotten all they could from the crime scene. John was forced to accept for them seeing as the younger Holmes was being stubborn. Sherlock only agreed to enter the sleek vehicle after the doctor practically shoved him into it.
As far as John knew, yes, there was a rivalry between the siblings, but this kind of petulancy was a bit much in the ex-soldier's eyes. This was the sort of attitude he only saw while visiting his young niece and nephews. In all the Holmes brothers claimed to be, both ever intelligent and holier than thou, they were surprisingly childish when it came to the other. For though it was Sherlock who was shrieking about like a banshee, it was Mycroft sitting on the couch picking non-existent lint off his coat that was inciting the younger Holmes to even more dramatics. John almost wished they'd just duke it out and get it over with.
Really, such immaturity.
"Ok, I understand Sherlock, I get what you're saying. But if you would bloody well sit down!" Preferably before I stoop to your level and throw a pillow at your head, "We can hear more than five sentences from Mycroft and use a cool, clinical head to figure out what we're going to do!" John finally raised his voice.
It had the necessary effect (thank god), and swiftly Sherlock stomped over to the skull resting on the ottoman only to stroke it while he hunkered down like reprimanded youth. Even while saying nothing, the man could say so much. It made John want to beg for patience aloud. That frown was still marring those far too fetching features, but John made the effort to drag his glare back to the elder Holmes.
"So, as you were saying, Mycroft, why exactly do you need my help? I'm sure there are others who have far more experience and training to help someone such as yourself..."
"But you see, that is the issue. I have been to the best this country has to offer. I've seen the doctors who have been my primary physicians since before I could talk. I have also been to the leading medical practices around. All their testing, and musing, and prodding have got them returning to me stating nothing conclusive. I simply 'have one of the healthiest bodies in all Britain, especially for my age range'. And while they caution me on losing any more weight than I already have, maybe even seeking out to further my yoga and meditation practice a little more than the once daily for the stress, they believe nothing is wrong with me," the smoothly crisp cadence, a little deeper and posher than Sherlock's, stated exasperated.
Mycroft finally let some of the worry show on his face, giving in to his truer feelings. John noticed then how quite gaunt the man was beginning to look. It was hard to tell how trim the elder Holmes was underneath his layered suiting after all. John had the same issue with Sherlock at times, he reminded himself, and had to pay exceptional attention to the younger man lest his health truly start to deteriorate because of poor diet and sleep. More than once were there tiffs between the flatmates about calorie intake and its effects on mental clarity. Coffee, tea, and toast did not constitute one's daily allotment of calories, no matter how vehemently Sherlock attested to their virtues.
John, like any physician with a head on his shoulders, should have seen it sooner. He felt rather daft for not noticing. The face, after all, was the last feature of any figure to show signs of weight fluctuation. The slightly older man showed nary a patch of skin aside from face and fingers (and only when not wearing gloves). Mycroft's skin was as pale as Sherlock's, just as clearly fresh, and hid most illnesses quite well. But there was an exhaustion apparent about the eyes not normally seen in a man supposedly so healthy. So, clearly there was something amiss, but the variables were just well disguised.
John could determine the signs of fatigue quicker than even more experienced civilian doctors; and in damn near any condition. On more than one occasion it had been him stating the hard line for more than one member of his squadron when he knew they couldn't go any further on nothing but half-rations and adrenaline. This, he suddenly realized, was not much different. The ex-soldier felt the need to kick himself repeatedly. How stupid of him not to connect the two situations together!
"What makes you different, Dr. Watson, than the rest of them is that you know people like me. You understand people in high-stress careers, and you have banked their life and your's on your ability to determine when to give them a push or put the brakes on. You've even been forced to operate surgery under live fire. I have read your files," - John was unsurprised - "and your records state plainly that one of the reasons you were so sought after was this skill. I might not be in a war zone filled with guns and bombs, but I assure the circles I travel in might be better traveled if such honest things were permitted," Mycroft stated bluntly, his gaze boring into John's.
This was not a man intimidated by much, the doctor felt deep in his bones. Mycroft Holmes was used to espionage, international delegations, and whose daily decisions might even determine the fate of the country. Smaller men would quake under such pressure, but even Sherlock couldn't balk at how strong his brother was. Looking over at the man in question, John knew that this must be so.
It occurred to the ex-soldier that maybe Sherlock was more worried about his big brother than he was willing to let on. The siblings' relationship was hardly a normal one. Had the tantrum been more about not understanding what was happening to one's sibling, than actually being about the inconvenience of and not wanting to share one's things, John wouldn't be surprised.
"Then why not get another army doctor? There are others decorated more than I am, and many of them are between deployment or are honorably discharged..." John asked calmly. It wasn't like he was trying to get out of helping the elder Holmes, but a man had to know the full reason of things before jumping into something that could prove to be a taxing challenge only yet to be diagnosed.
Across from both John and the broody Sherlock, Mycroft shifted, looking a bit uncomfortable with what he was about to say,
"I'm asking you because... well, because Sherlock trusts you. You know him, and he knows you. That doesn't normally happen to a Holmes. We aren't..." the slightly older man trailed off then, adjusting his grip on his ever present umbrella. John felt movement to his left and glanced over to his flatmate. Sherlock's face was a thunderous storm, intense, and rather frightening. The gaze was not directed at him, thankfully, but at his brother.
"We are not the most socially acceptable of creatures, Dr. Watson. Sherlock does not even try to fit in with the hubbub of today's society. Never has, and probably never will," - Sherlock scoffed, but Mycroft ignored him - "I have a little more need of this ability, and have spent many years grooming my social graces to allow me to maneuver about. I am able to glean what I want and when I need it due to this ability, but it is far from a natural course of action for myself. I have to try. Thankfully not nearly as much as I used to, but it does not change the fact that it is still a conscious effort.
"Someone else, some other army physician, or even a proper psychiatrist, as this is looking more and more of needing, wouldn't understand this. They would not understand us," Mycroft raised his palm towards John before the man could protest. Was it that plain to see that he didn't think he was nearly as special as this official was making him out to be? He was just John Watson, ex-soldier, and a regular surgeon at the local hospital. Nothing near close to what Mycroft was implying.
"No, Dr. Watson, I don't think you quite understand. With you, Sherlock is normal. Or at least, he's viewed as a little more human by the masses. You connect people like us and them together in a way that I've never been able to accomplish. I know full well that I intimidate people, Sherlock does too. We both happen to feel contempt for the populous' quick determination of us and the few individuals similar in breed, but we cannot do anything about their reactions. Not alone, we can't."
Mycroft stood, setting his carriage in a rigid fashion; his height imposing. It must have taken a lot for him to come to this conclusion, John thought, a little in awe. Knowing Sherlock, speaking as plainly as this must have been like pulling one's teeth one by one.
"I'm not asking you to halt your life, Captain, but to assist me at your convenience. I'll insist to not impose myself upon you, but I have no where else to go. Seeking help out of the country is out of the question given the necessity for discretion. Even the most secure facility can be compromised. I know that truth more than most. You are the best choice, and at this moment the only choice. You have the training, you have the understanding, and you have the connection. I'm unable to find those three attributes in anyone else in the whole of Great Britain. Now, will you help me?"
There was a drawn out pause in the eclectic living room, only broken by the muted sounds of the London night time through the thin barriers of stone and glass. Otherwise, it was so quiet one could have heard a pin drop. John came back to the present quickly, blinking rapidly to quell the adrenaline rush such a speech had invoked within him. He'd not felt that in a while, he thought to himself with a funny grin stretching the length of his lips.
These Holmes men, John thought with a laugh inside his head, they really know how to get a man's blood boiling, rushing about in one's veins so rapidly one might as well be high off of caffeine!
"Well..." the doctor said aloud finally, feeling a little funny even breathless after such a confession, with those intense stares directed entirely at his face, "When you put it like that, what else am I to do? Where would you like to start? I've got no plans, and it's only 9 o'clock. I'm sure we can make some sort of progress in the next two hours..."
AN: I LOVE ALL MY REVIEWERS. Seriously, you all make me feel so fabulous. I love hearing from you all so, please, tell me more! What do you like best so far? What do you like least? Over all, I mean. It can be anything from plot line, characterization, style, or chapter length even. In fact, how do you like the chapter length? Should I make them longer? Does it really matter?