Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this.
Warnings: Drama Llama on his way?
John could tell Mycroft was getting a little overwhelmed.
He'd suspected that, unlike Sherlock, the elder brother wouldn't be too keen on making his personal opinions and emotions public domain between anyone; even friends. And neither of the two brothers had ever discussed hardly anything from their youth. John didn't even know if their father was still alive. Given the amount of time it'd taken for Sherlock to admit to having an older brother, he wouldn't be surprised if a father or other siblings were off in some distant part of England. Not an entirely preposterous notion, indeed.
Those thoughts aside, Mycroft's face hadn't really recovered from his initial shock a few minutes before. He was staring at the surgeon with a mild fish-eyed façade and had a look about him of a man who couldn't believe John's seriousness. Poor bloke, probably had never thought about therapy in all his life up until this point. Not only that, but English people rarely, if ever, discussed their intimate feelings and memories with anyone outside of the immediate family, and even then never in a public place outside of the family homes. Control and appearances took precedence.
John wasn't going to kid himself, he was no psychologist. He was a surgeon. Those were entirely two different breeds of birds. Frankly, he felt a little more nervous than his own face and voice tone showed. The last time he'd done any work with a psychologist's mindset had been in med school, and only because it was a requirement to graduate. Otherwise, John had avoided that department the whole of his school tenure and residency like the plague. It was a necessary evil then, and, to be honest, he had no bloody idea why he was jumping into this now by choice!
Unfortunately, this was an issue found entirely in Mr. Holmes' head. That John was certain of. The signs were all there. He'd seen this plenty of times in the army (and it may have been why soldiering was so cathartic). The origin of Mycroft's affliction was still unknown, for though it was apparently pathological, its source was still undefined. It was surprising to find such a thing in such an intelligent man, but Holmeses were entirely capable of defying logic.
Sherlock was the most prime example of this anomaly, but it was entirely too interesting to find it also in the elder sibling. Would their father or mother act as such? Watson was putting his money on that the brothers' father, should he still be living, would be the parent who attributed such an ability.
"I want you to catalogue your life, Mycroft. Start with your earliest memories as a kid. What were the significant, defining moments of your life? What did you feel when they occurred?" John began explaining as he lead the still gob-smacked elder brother to the scale in the loo. It wasn't the greatest scale money could buy, but it gave a relativity that would work for their purposes.
"While you do that I'd like for you to make a daily journal. What's going on right now, mostly. Anything can go in the journal. Thoughts, ideas, worries, daily events, anything really. I'm also going to insist that you switch your weight training and running schedules with each other, with no more than thirty minutes in each module. Your calorie intake needs to go up by a third to double. We want to put you back on that happy medium at somewhere between twelve and fourteen stone (148-190 lbs), preferably in the mid-range of that," John described as Mycroft meticulously redressed as he scribbled out more notes on that lined paper pad. He'd really need to get a proper notebook to record all his observations for the long run, John mused.
"So..." Mycroft's voice ran softly throughout the open space of kitchen and living room. It made Watson jump a bit, not having heard it in the last seven minutes or so. The tall, lean figure had covered himself once more in that misleading garb, standing on the meridian between the kitchen and the living room. John had to admit he felt a bit of a loss for the fine figure hidden beneath. Maybe, once the right muscle mass was gained back, he'd be able to convince Mycroft to go shopping for more casual clothes. Something a bit trimmer and not so concealing as a vested suit and tie ensemble.
"I'll be able to help your work by writing a diary and a memoir?" the elder Holmes asked, and John had to smile a bit to himself. Leave it to a Holmes to put such an official sounding name on a simple journal.
"If you'd like to call them that, then sure. They don't nearly have to be as extensive as that sounds. It's more like a noting of memories and making observations. Kind of like a journal for an experiment. You're giving me concentrated data to make my analysis with, make sense?" John shouted slightly as he ran to hide his notebook somewhere he might keep Sherlock from finding it for at least half a day.
"I see... well then, is there anything else you'll be needing from me this evening. I am certain Sherlock is on his way any minute. He'd never let me keep you for more than three quarters of an hour," Mycroft mentioned eye-balling John, still with that curious expression.
John sighed, and rolled his eyes, "Yes, yes, he's probably rambling along the dark streets of London causing a havoc. Probably thinks you're torturing me, or worse, boring me lunacy."
Mycroft played along for a minute, looking affronted, before his features smoothed out to a prim sort of snobbery he was want to exude, "And am I, Dr. Watson, boringyou...?"
John walked the slightly older man to the door with a lopsided grin plastered on his face, "Dreadfully so, I'm afraid. We'll have to do better to appease the worries of your younger brother, Mr. Holmes."
Mycroft flipped the end of his umbrella into his hand, rolling the length of it in his grasp for a moment before settling,
"I shall endeavour the feat. Shall I tell Anthea to email you for your schedule? The only time I'll have truly free is a few evenings next week," the government official stated, clopping down the stairs in a very dignified fashion.
John followed him down to the front door, once again opening it for the elder Holmes. Somehow he wasn't surprised to see the black Mercedes parked on the curb, awaiting its master's return. The driver was standing with the car door ajar and the doctor could just make out the LCD screen of the man's assistant's blackberry. When had Mycroft had the time to call for the transport, John didn't know, but he wasn't going to question its efficiency. Made life a little easier for him considering he really didn't know when Sherlock was going to show up again, and it would be better if the man's brother was well out of the vicinity before he gained sight of him.
"That'll work for me. Same time, same place mostly. We'll go over your journal then and I'll retake measurements. If Anthea needs any assistance with food or exercise tell her to ring me. I know quite a bit and a few random things that might boost your calorie intake, or ease your calorie burning down to a more manageable measure," John mentioned. He was very well versed in gaining and losing weight due to the strictness of his former profession.
Mycroft shook his hand firmly and stepped over to his ride, before driving off to god knows where, the man simply stated, "Do tell Sherlock not to worry. His arch-enemyisn't going to die on him so readily..."
Thinking the statement odd, but somehow rather endearing, John nodded and the car merged back into the slow traffic of their relatively busy street.
Before returning to his shared flat, John took a long moment to stare up at the sky; taking a deep breath or two. He truly did wonder what exactly this all could be. The basic issues were covered, and he certainly trusted the elder Holmes (who was far more responsible of the two) to follow the doctor's orders. But, to be honest, managing someone's daily functions and giving them instructions to write their feelings down on a few bits of paper wasn't the most profound thing he'd ever instructed. Next week would be the beginning of the hard work, and he was looking forward to it only because he really did care about the older man.
Scrubbing his face with his free hand, Watson traipsed back up the stairs to 221B Baker St. to await the arrival of his flatmate. He wondered, ruefully if he could lock all the doors between him and the younger man, or maybe feigned sleep or death, he might save himself from the explosion he knew was going to happen in the next hour or two.
If Sherlock was dependable on anything, it was that he would always be dramatic.
AN: OMG. You guys. You're awesome. I've just about reached the 2,000 view mark. I'm so happy. I didn't think people would take this story seriously, or even really like it at all. What started as a drabble for me (probably not going to be more than a chapter or two), suddenly is going to be something I take very seriously. I'm hoping to keep up my three day posting. These chapters aren't terribly hard to write lengthwise. I hope you all are enjoying the story thus far.
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