2. Title: The Interview

Fusion: Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest

Characters: Mycroft and John, mention of Sherlock and Lestrade (S/J gen or squint, Mystrade implied)

Rating: PG

Mycroft: Do take a seat, Doctor Watson. A man needn't really stand trial on his feet: literalism, god forbid, is only one letter apart from liberalism.

John (standing): I'm fine as I am, Mr Holmes.

Mycroft: I'm afraid you do not feature on my list of eligible flatmates for Sherlock, one that I share with the dear Detective Inspector. However, I'm quite ready to put you under surveillance, should you prove sufficiently honorable. How old are you? No, you needn't answer, that's an easy guess. Forty-one.

John: I'm thirty-fi...

Mycroft: Absolutely. (Anthea types quickly.) Do you drink?

John: Certainly not. I must admit, however, that I have a sist—

Mycroft: A cystic leg, yes, yes, I've seen. So demanding, legs - that's the lower classes for you. One wonders at Mother Nature giving us feet before chauffeurs: quite the wrong agenda, if you ask me. (He checks his notes.) Now, it is my opinion that in order to survive in my brother's company, one should know either everything or nothing. Which do you know, Doctor Watson?

John (sarcastic): A little of each?

Mycroft: Excellent. I myself do not approve of radical measures as a rule; they always prove so oppressive to one's career. What is your income?

John: Well, I have my army pension. But I'm currently, er. Unemployed.

Mycroft: A man of leisure, then. (He sizes John up.) Afghanistan or Iraq?

John: Will you people bloody well stop asking me that? I'm not a greyhound species, for Christ's sake!

Mycroft (fondly): Ah, I'm afraid this pet name is already booked. (A discrete cough.) You would share a city flat with Sherlock, of course; the dear boy can hardly be expected to reside in the countryside, so unhygienic when you think of all that unwashed grass and soil. The flat stands across Regent's Park, which I'm told has become quite sanitary now they've built four European business schools on its outskirt. What are your politics, Doctor Watson?

John (grimly): Haven't been back long enough to slap up some, Mr Holmes. Can I say my vote is for survival?

Mycroft: Oh, but so is mine, my dear fellow. Living above one's fellow creatures is a praiseworthy purpose; one that should be encouraged, though selectively. Now to minor matters. Are your parents still alive?

John: Well, it all depends, sir. Is this a literal question?

Mycroft: ... I'm sorry?

John: Oh, I should have told you that Watson is really my sister's name. My sister was eighteen when she found me —

(Anthea steals a slanted glance at her superior's face and stops typing.)

Mycroft: Found. (He tilts his head aside with a contemplative frown.) May I ask you to expatiate a little, Doctor?

John: Glad to. She was travelling to Clara's place up North - Clara was her future ex wife, you see, worked in Derby at the time, so Harry would take the first train from St Pancras and have a bite at the station café. Which is where she found me, in an old gladstone bag. I was a month old at the time.

Mycroft (mouthing the words as if possessed by a demonic piece of toffee): A gladstone bag.

John: Yup. I've kept the bag, if you want a peep at the evidence. In fact, it's what got Sherlock interested in me - he likes the unusual cases, you know, and since there was also a gun in the bag —

Mycroft: The gun is immaterial.

John: Oh, I wouldn't quite say that. It proved pretty useful later on.

Mycroft: Doctor Watson, I must confess that I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. A bag-gentleman is hardly what I wish for Sherlock to associate with. It is also unfortunate that he has little or no respect for transport, as this would be the focal point of your upcoming investigation. No, I must regretfully state that this interview is over.

John: Well, what can I do about this? I really want that flatshare, you know - and I could be the making of your brother, I could!

Mycroft: Possibly. But I'd rather avoid his introducing you to Mother as the offshoot of a tearoom and a piece of artillery. She is highly sensitive to the subject of firearms, has been ever since that wretched incident with Sherlock and the birthday goldfish. Anthea, would you be so kind as to drive Doctor Watson back? I have another candidate waiting.

Exit John and Anthea. Jim Moriarty saunters in.

Ah, Mr... (Mycroft checks his notes.) Mr Hightea? Well, you do not feature on my list of eligible flatmates, one that I share with the dear Detective Inspector. But I'm certain this exception can be remedied - with such a name, I'm guaranteed not to, ahem. Buy a cat in a bag. Haha.

Jim smiles - a lissom, slightly feline smile - and takes the seat opposite to Mycroft's.