John didn't think it was possible to be ignored by every cab in London until today. Or at least it feels that way, trudging along with a bum leg from a crime scene, of all places because his flatmate (potential flatmate and definite madman) can't be bothered to wait up for him. John sighs and his wings are hunched in an unabashed show of brooding, but his leg is aching with frustration and annoyance, so he doesn't much care.
"Dr. Watson."
John does a double-take, slowing to a stop in front of a quiet little café. A woman is holding the door open, apparently absorbed in typing away diligently at her blackberry. A moment passes in silence and she looks up at him expectantly, motioning towards the interior of the café with her head.
John hesitates, his brain spitting out automatic feedback on the situation. The café in question is small but distinctly posh - definitely more than he could afford even with something more than just his army pension - and sufficiently populated to ease his nerves a little. The woman is attractive - certainly enough to spark John's attention if the fact that she knew his name at all didn't put him on edge - with slim white wings that are in stark contrast with her dark, elegant outfit and phone that is evidently so incredibly fascinating she can barely take her eyes off it. All in all - not a threat. Probably.
John's cane clicks loudly against the tile as he enters the establishment despite every bit of sense he has screaming at him not to. He wouldn't have known what to look for among the rich neutral colors of the décor and air heady with the smell of coffee and baked goods had it not been for another soft utterance of his name from his left, effortlessly catching his attention.
"Dr. Watson," the man says with a smile that would be just as at home on the cat that ate the canary. He certainly doesn't look intimidating in his three piece suit and gray-blue tie, but his wings speak of something more lurking behind the façade of a foppish politician with expensive tastes. They're large, though that may just be because they seem to have a presence of their own, and pale gray with the promise of great white streaks hidden within the folds. Nobodies don't have wings like that. His fingers pluck idly at a teacup settled on a delicately patterned saucer on the table before him, but his appraising gaze doesn't leave John. "Please. Take a seat."
He hesitates, glancing around the café before cautiously taking the opposite seat. He frowns when a cup of his own is placed in front of him, but it remains untouched. "So," John says finally, raising his eyebrows. "What's this all about then?"
An oily smile flickers across the man's features and he leans back to lounge slightly in his chair and tilts his head ever so slightly. "Very to the point, aren't you, John?"
The use of his name is engineered to disarm him, but he doesn't let it. This stranger has already made it abundantly clear that he knows more about him than he ought to. "Well, my leg hurts and I'd rather like to get home, so yeah, I guess you could say that."
"Home." The man draws the word out, savoring the single syllable like a delicacy. "That wouldn't be," he pulls a small notebook out of his suit coat and makes a show of examining it, "221B Baker Street, now would it?"
Icy fingers of dread squeeze John's heart, but he doesn't let it show. "I could be wrong, but…I think that's none of your business."
A low chuckle rattles in the back of his throat. "Oh, but I think it is," the man says, still as calm and smooth as can be. "You see, my brother-"
"Your brother?" John interrupts despite himself, brow furrowing momentarily. So it's the elder Holmes that sat across from him? That…explains a lot about the whole conversation, actually. And yet somehow doesn't put him at ease.
"Yes, of course," Holmes says, looking at John as if he'd somehow missed the fact that fish can swim. He sighs and leans forward over the table slightly. "As I'm sure you've noticed, my brother is a man of eccentric - and on occasion, extremely childish - tastes. Just as you, John, are not a rich man. Should you indeed move into 221B, I am willing to provide you with sufficient funds in return for information."
"You're asking me to-" A chirp from his mobile interrupts him and he pauses to glance at the incoming text.
Baker Street.
Come at once if convenient.
SH
"-to spy on him for you?"
"However you wish to term your employment is your own prerogative, I assure you." The elder Holmes frowns as John's mobile goes off again. "Interrupting something, am I?"
If inconvenient.
Come anyway.
SH
"Not…at all," John responds, sounding entirely distracted as he drags his gaze away from the phone. "Anyway, the answer's no."
His lips thin and a subtle twitching in those great, gray wings betray his irritation despite the upward curl of his mouth. He's not a man that often gets told 'no' in any way, shape, or form. "You're very loyal, Dr. Watson. Very loyal, very quickly." His gaze pins John down, sharp and serious. "Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous man - more to himself than any other. I worry about him constantly."
At that moment John suddenly wants nothing more than to ask the elder Holmes what happened to his brother's wings and the curiosity might have overpowered him had it not been for the line, invisible and yet clear as day, that lay between him and the subject, very clearly not intended to be crossed. Not here, not now. He settles for wetting his lips instead, the old habit comforting and familiar. "I'm a doctor. I help people," he says, as if that were as good as any promise.
Another beep.
Could be dangerous.
SH
"Hmm," Holmes hums thoughtfully. He clasps his hands together with a sense of finality and straightens in his chair, eyebrows lifted. "Well. If there's someplace you'd rather be, by all means, go ahead. The car waiting outside will take you." Another thin smile unfurls across his features. "It's been a pleasure, Dr. Watson."
"Ah, yes," John says as he stands, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Thanks for the, um, tea," he adds lamely, though the cup still sits picture perfect on its saucer, untouched and probably stone cold by now. He makes his exit and finds, as promised, a sleek black car waiting for him, the woman from before texting beside the open back door.
He slides in the smooth, expensive-feeling leather interior and requests the driver take him to Baker Street, but there's someplace he needs to stop by first.
A/N: Just a bit shorter than the others, on average, but Mycroft Holmes doesn't share chapters with anyone. Or I dunno, something like that xD In any case, I'll mostly likely put up the next chapter tomorrow rather than Saturday to make up for it. As always, please review! Even if it's just a little thing, they make me happy.