John stepped into the backseat of the car and was surprised to find Mycroft there. Usually he'd just send the car around and drag John off to meet him at some undisclosed location. He wouldn't come himself unless… bugger!
"You were spying on me!" John blurted.
"'Spying' is such an undignified word," Mycroft said, spinning his umbrella. "But I warn you, John, be careful of that Morstan woman. Things are not always as they seem."
"I'm a big boy, Mycroft, I can handle myself," John grumbled.
"I'm sure you can. That's why you were going to ask me to provide security for Miss Morstan's mother," Mycroft teased.
John sighed. "Yes. Will you? It's the only way she'll help us."
"Fine. But you would do well to heed my warning. Shall we take you back to Baker Street?"
"No thanks, I'll walk; it's not that far and I need the air. Thank you for your help, Mycroft," John said sincerely.
After John exited the car, Mycroft instructed his driver to take him to the office, then steepled his fingers under his chin as he always did when pondering. The good doctor did have a point; they needed Miss Morstan's assistance, and she would never cooperate if she thought there was even the smallest threat to her mother. Still, there was something he didn't trust about the woman. He sent a text to Anthea.
Upgrade Mary Morstan's surveillance status to Grade 4 and do a Red Level background check. - MH
Mary Morstan could be the key to clearing Sherlock's name or she could be the ruination of everything they'd worked for. Mycroft was taking no chances this time; he'd made a mistake where Sherlock was concerned once and he could ill afford to repeat it. Unbidden, Mycroft's mind went back to the last conversation he'd had with their mother. It had been a gorgeous spring day and he was both grateful that Mother could enjoy such a day before she died and enraged at the world for being happy when he was miserable.
Amelia Holmes was perhaps the only woman in history who looked regal when dying of breast cancer. After seven years of struggle, she was losing, but she was determined to be beautiful until the end.
"Mycroft!" Amelia smiled as her elder son entered the room.
He kissed Amelia on the cheek and sat next to her bed. "How are you, Mother?"
"Much better now that I have my boy," she said, ruffling 22-year-old Mycroft's hair as she'd done when he was small.
Mycroft smoothed his hair back into place, slightly embarrassed. "Sherlock sends his love."
Amelia shook her head sadly. "I worry terribly for your brother, Mycroft. Sherlock has the potential to be a great man, but without a guide, he could fall into darkness. Will you look after him?"
"I promise I shall, Mother," Mycroft said, stroking her hand.
They sat silently for a moment and then Amelia continued, "Over the last few years, I've entrusted you with far more responsibility than a person your age should have to bear. You have greatly exceeded my expectations, and I am very proud of you."
"Thank you, Mother," he whispered. It was the only time Mycroft Holmes had ever cried.
Mycroft returned to the present, damning himself once again for breaking his promise to Mother. He had only given Moriarty information about Sherlock in order to prevent the criminal mastermind from "blowing up NATO in alphabetical order." He realized too late that Moriarty's goal was not nuclear annihilation, but the annihilation of Sherlock. Stupid! How could I let him fool me?
For the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes had disappointed his parents, and the only thing he hated more than being disappointed was causing disappointment. He could feel their disapproving gaze on him every time he walked by their portraits in Holmes Manor, could sense that even though they were deceased, they knew what he'd done and would not soon forgive him. Technically, Sherlock hadn't forgiven him either; he'd merely called a truce in exchange for safe passage out of Britain and assistance in combating Moriarty's agents.
Mycroft had just one way to make restitution to his family: to ensure that by the time Sherlock returned, his name would be cleared, he could go back to work, and most importantly, that John was safe. If my brother returns to a career still in shambles and a dead best friend, then I may well lose him for good. And that was a thought too horrible to contemplate, even for Mycroft.
On Friday, Mary and John met at a local coffee shop and John explained the arrangement. "My friend owns a security company and he can station bodyguards outside your home and anywhere else you like. It'll be discreet; you won't feel like you have MI6 staking out your home or anything."
"That sounds great, but how much would it cost?" Mary asked, sipping her latte.
John smiled. "Let me worry about the bill. You worry about your mum."
"John, I couldn't ask you to do that! It's got to be expensive!"
John waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry. He owes me a favor."
Mary kissed him on the cheek. "I really need to get back to work. But, I was wondering, um… what are you doing next Friday night?"
"I didn't have any plans," the doctor said somewhat sheepishly.
"Want to get dinner?"
"I'd love to. There's this new curry place down the street from my flat. Meet me there at 6? I'll text you the address."
The red-haired woman broke into a luminous smile. "All right. It's a date!"
John grinned as he watched Mary walk away. He tried to remember how long it had been since he'd had a date. Sherlock had been dead four months, and his last date was two months before that... crikey. He hoped he wasn't too out of practice.