2. Research.
T: Warnings/disclaimer as in previous chapter, oh and everything in bold is a text message.
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Solider...promoted twice...demoted once...key witness in a controversial trial yet never called...WIA...Mmm...Skilled physician...crack shot...stubborn to a fault...
"Drinks his tea with skimmed milk and then adds four and a half teaspoons of sugar to compensate for the bitterness. I have attempted to point out that it would simply be healthier for him to return to full fat milk but somehow it 'went through one ear and out of the other'."
He's in his office, which means there's a small team of highly trained yet entirely inconspicuous security staff, not to mention three chatty, cheery, secretaries, designed to insure he knows exactly when to expect visitors.
Yet still Sherlock's managed to sneak in on him and, what's worse, managed to make him feel as the one at fault.
Not that he's going to let him see that, oh no, he's just going to give him his best go at the patented 'your mere existence bores me' expression that is Mycroft's particular speciality and simply wait for the younger man's impatience to get the better of him,
"You know that I do not believe in co-incidence."
"Yes and it's why I'm stuck here covering old ground."
A softening just there about his eyes and then Sherlock's folding himself into his spare chair,
"A few days ago Seb…sorry… Sebastian Wilkes, he's the posh chap you wanted to strangle back during my stint at university...pulled me in on a little case. For one as cleaver as this 'Moriaty' it would have been child's play to see the state of matters between us, to know that alienating Seb would be the ideal way to get me inside. However, when I introduced John as my friend he corrected me."
It's very little in the greater scheme of things and yet the same could be said for the basis of Mycroft's own misgivings.
It's also unprompted, which means it's also an offer if gratitude.
So he sidesteps the temptation to prod further at this particular aspect of the matter and instead casually enquires,
"So, how someone takes their tea, isn't that the sort of thing you'd normally push right back out of your head?"
Sherlock freezes, his whole body suddenly a tense coil of...something…and the skin high on his cheeks staining just barely.
It has been a long time since Sherlock has looked this young, since his face has slipped enough of it's mask to expose the scarred little boy buried beneath the apathy, the fiction of social ignorance, and to see it now sets a fear in his heart that's intensified as he states,
"It's because it's John," voice a small vulnerable thing that has him scrabbling about for some form of comfort and, because it's Sherlock he's dealing with, he only needs to get as far as that intention to have the younger man smiling his odd, twisted, smile.
"Indeed and, as always, it's welcome. Unfortunately there is little even your boundless talents can do to help, Paterson...little even I can do..."
There is frustration there in his voice now and, smiling despite himself, he states, "You're falling for him,"
"No, that would be irrational…illogical...he deserves more than I would be able to offer...deserves a happy, intelligent, little wife who could make him a home...a life..." He reels the whole thing off as little more than observation and he knows that means Sherlock's digging his heals in…
…which means there will be no talking about this particular subject again until the younger man deems it necessary.
There's no shifting a Holmes once they've made their mind up, after all.
So he waves a dismissive hand and states, "That's that then," before adding, "It stands whatever, Sherlock."
There's no more need to put a shape about that 'it' than there is anything else when one is talking to Sherlock and the other nods, firmly, before stating, "I'll keep it in mind," as he all but sweeps from the room.
He's counting under his breath the minute it clicks closed, reaches 'five' before he realises he's doing it and 'ten' before Mycroft wonders in, a perfect picture of distracted disinterest.
"I'm not buying it." Sharp, because it's all a little too much for his temper right now and instantly his husband's face is an entirely unreadable thing.
"So you're still taking his side."
"God, can you hear yourself?"
With which the dam breaks and they're snarled into a full on, irrational, shouting match.
He storms out, eventually, because it's that or letting his temper really carry away with him to the point that he's striking out simply for a release and making certain there's no possible way of clawing things back again.
Ten minutes later he's snuggled back into his 'civvies' and made a home for himself in the pub he'd once named his local.
Of course he understands why Mycroft is being so…odd…right about now, understands that this is all tied into the undercurrent of scars that Sherrinford left behind and yet…
Dwelling on it right now's only serving to keep his blood boiling and so he fixes his attention onto the oversized TV screen, lets the simple mindlessness of watching others engaging in energetic sports, wash him into an almost comatose state.
Another ten minutes on and Sherlock's texting him with the statement of, this would have been the appropriate point to 'sell' me out, Paterson.
One, that's not who I am, he should know that by now and two, HOW in the hell can you know about the fight already?
He has made an appointment to see me tomorrow about a case. If it were something he truly needed me for he would have asked to see me today…his normal source of more menial aid is inaccessible…you have quarrelled about just where your loyalties lie.
A brief instant, barely enough time for him to get even really register the unintentional insult, then his phone is buzzing in first the statement of,
You are, of course, invaluable in your own way, Paterson, and then the enquiry of, while on the subject do you still have 'friends' in the media industry, specifically someone who might be willing to forge a press pass or two?
I do, can I ask why?
You may, but I am not at liberty to discuss the matter. At least not yet.
Riiiight…give me an hour and I'll get back to you, ok?
Certainly…shall I put a good word in for you tomorrow?
God no, you'll only make it worse!
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T: The bit at the end is my nod to 'journalist John' in TGG, because there's no way in heck someone's just going to believe someone's a journalist on their word anymore and I just happen to have an ex-journalist kicking around who's offered Sherlock cart blanche as far as aid requests go. Indeed I think it was the whole 'ok so Sherlock's gotten hold of a press pass which he's then filtered on to John…' rationalisation of that whole scenario that prompted me to make my Guthrie a journalist rather than a novelist as my initial thought!