Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. That honour lies with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss. But I can dream!
'Anthea' placed a cup of strongly-brewed coffee next to Sherlock and silently left to deal with the protesting officers outside. Sherlock didn't even look at the cup - though he was dying for something unhealthily caffiene laden - and glared at Mycroft, (whom in turn glared right back at Sherlock,) on the screen, which was now sat on the conference table.
Mycroft broke first with a sigh - he had a 10am appointment with the MOD that could not be avoided - this couldn't take all day. (Or night, rather, for Sherlock.) "Brother dear, do you care to tell me what on Earth you are doing in New Zealand at this hour?"
"Don't be a simpleton Mycroft. You know exactly why I am here." Sherlock rolled his eyes, putting his feet on the table in a way he knew that Mycroft would find vulgar.
Mycroft curled his lips displeased, but carried on. "Really? One would assume you were on a case - what with the blonde hair; but I happen to know for a fact that you don't have one. So why would you be on the other side of the world?" Mycroft clasped his hands together under his chin, obviously enjoying himself.
"To get away from my obtrusive brother?" Sherlock said sarcastically. "We don't assume Mycroft. Say what you wish to say, then I shall be on my way." Sherlock winced at the unintentional rhyme. He hated play on words, unless, of course, murder was involved.
"Do you think it wise to spy on Doctor Watson? My people are very capable of ensuring his safety."
"Yes, I know. Your people were on sparkling form the night Moriarty abducted John and strapped a semtex vest to him."
Mycroft's face turned sour. "We have more efficient people on his detail."
"Indeed. Though you understand my concern -"
"Concern?" Mycroft looked positively gleeful behind a mask of characteristicly sardonic humour. "For Doctor Watson?"
"No. For his inherent ability to be kidnapped. Moriarty is a smart man, whom knows where to strike -"
"Because of your concern." Mycroft's voice left no room for dispute - he really did have an appointment to be getting along too - naturally Sherlock, the man who would outlive god to get the last word, decided not to concede.
Though his arguement wasn't quite as eloquent as one would think of the great Sherlock Holmes. "No."
"No?"
"No. I have no concern for John's welfare. This is purely tactical, as I explained to the Detective Inspector, Moriarty could strike at anytime. I will not be caught unaware."
Mycroft smirked as much as a respectable man such as himself would. (Which actually wasn't all that much, but enough to be noticable to a certain consulting detective.)
"My agents have confirmed that Moriarty is currently in Norway. Give Joanne five minutes, I'm sure she can get you on the next available flight there."
"So it's Joanne today?"
"You're changing the subject Sherlock."
"Irrelevant. I shall be on my way. You have a defence meeting you're going to be late for, going by your particularly formal state of dress and regular clock checking. Goodbye Mycroft; perhaps you should try the Sucoll diet, by the way - it's the new fad amongst pasty, overweight, obtruding government officials." Sherlock started putting on his coat; a black, shorter version of the Belstaff - which he was loath to leave at home, but it was necessary for the disguise.
"I shall not grant you passage into New Zealand without proper cause." Mycroft sounded disgruntled - he had only put on two pounds, his dietician had said that he'd reached a plateau!
"Then I will go without a permit. Police are idiots. I've seen six ways to leave this terminal without going through border control." Sherlock sounded bored.
"I daresay that being a fugative would be quite impeding to your tactical efforts." Mycroft scoffed the last words.
Sherlock scowled at Mycroft.
Mycroft smiled sardonically, the position of power well and truly in his hands as always. "Tell me of the true nature of your trip - that it is purely out of the personal concern you have for Doctor Watson and his safety - and I will cancel your deportation order."
Sherlock gripped the back of the chair tightly with both hands glaring at Mycroft. Mycroft stared back, observing.
Exactly one hundred and eighty seconds passed before Sherlock stormed out of the conference room.
Mycroft didn't stop him.
John and Sarah's taxi rolled up to a well kept house in Ashburton, a large town an hour away from the airport.
A man limped out to greet them grinning; he was tall, with greying hair that had grown out to his shoulders, he had a large puckered scar that ran down from his forehead to his chin.
John and Michael had first met when they were part of the same All Arms Recruits Course after they had enlisted. They parted ways after John left to do his medical training and Michael was assigned to a base in Northern Ireland. They met again, several years later, when John was assigned as the field surgeon in Michael's Company in Iraq. Unfortunately it was during that deployment that Michael had the bad luck to step on an IED on patrol. Michael was given a medical discharge after being fitted with a prosthetic leg. He moved to New Zealand with his wife Ngaire and her son Lee, whom were both originally from New Zealand and settled into a civilian life quite nicely, tending his vegetable plot. John and Michael never lost contact, except for the few months during John's depression when John himself was discharged.
John sometimes wonders if he would have been happy with civilian life if he had had a wife and children himself, and hadn't met Sherlock. How could Michael stand it? It was a mystery, but Michael, ever an upbeat bloke, didn't seem to hold any reservations; and John didn't feel the need to ask. Hopefully New Zealand would have the same effect for John as it did for Michael.
Michael gave John a quick hug, still grinning like a cheshire cat, and shook Sarah's hand.
He raised his arms, palms outstretched like a ringmaster pumping up the crowd at a circus; and motioned vaguely around him. The sky was black but cloudless, giving an unobstructed view of the millions of tiny stars dotted in the sky; a scene Londoners rarely get to experience. The suburb was quiet, the breeze was warm and crickets chirped softly in the darkness.
Relaxing bliss.
"Welcome to New Zealand." Michael said still grinning.
A/N: Oh man, writing interaction between Sherlock and Mycroft just about killed me. I had to rewatch all episodes where Sherlock and Mycroft had a conversation (not that I ever need an excuse to watch Sherlock!) and it still feels wrong to me! Your opinions?
This is actually quite short, but again, I felt this was a natural stopping point.
I promise next chapter I'll try to write in some actual plot and get this story rolling.
Thank you to all reviews that I haven't had a chance to respond to yet - I'm going to work on that!
Any and all reviews and PM's are welcome, whether you liked it or not. Constructive criticism is very useful to me. I will endevour to respond to all of them.