D. Chess

In chess, one has to be willing to sacrifice pieces. Sherlock was always a little too fond of his knight.

Once you reveal such a fondness, it makes one subject to strategy. All I had to do is threaten his knight, to get a free move because I knew that he would waste a turn to save it. You see, it is a disadvantage to show preference. It is a disadvantage to care too much for any one piece. I've tried to teach Sherlock this lesson, but he never learns. Caring is something that should only be done abstractly, such as caring that the greatest number of British citizens should have the best quality of life imaginable. General, not specific you see?

Matters of state concerned me so I did not think of Sherlock for some time, but when an alert arrived on my desk saying that a gas explosion had damaged Sherlock's flat on the same day that the problem of the Bruce-Partington plans arrived, I decided that I could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. The next morning, I went to pay a visit to my brother Sherlock.

The street was strewn with rubble. Sherlock's apartment was as well. Although the window had been covered, there was a decided chill in the air. Sherlock was playing his violin. He had a fondness for Beethoven. I was never one for the romantics. He stopped when he heard me on the stairs. I walked across the glass and rubble strewn floor. My feet crunching it to powder. A glittering dust that left a residue on my carpet when I finally did get to work an hour later.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" He asked.

"Can't I can show concern for my own dear brother when he has been in an accident?"

"Frankly. No." Sherlock snapped.

"May I at least sit down?" I asked and Sherlock gestured grandly with his bow.

Glancing around the room I could see that despite the rubble from the explosion, the floor was relatively neat. A sign that Sherlock was not yet on a case. The bright yellow happy face on the wall riddled with bullets showed that he had not had a case for some time. I smiled. Sherlock always got destructive when he was bored.

"As it so happens, I do have a case that I need looking into."

"There it is." He said plucking the strings flat on purpose.

"It is of national significance." I added.

"I'm not interested." Sherlock said pulling his bow across in a sustained G that rattled my tooth.

Sherlock knew how much the violin irritated me. At least the way that Sherlock could play it. As a child Sherlock attempted to make sounds on his violin that would burst ear drums and break glass. Now, it appeared, he had finally perfected the skill.

Just then, there was a footstep on the stair, and Sherlock glanced aside as his name was called.

Ah yes, John Watson, where had he been?

The look of concern on his face was heart-warmingly beautiful. The faint smell of perfume and cinnamon air freshener showed that he had just been at the house of a woman, although he had not slept with her. The creases on his skin near his neck revealed that he had slept in his clothes. The discomfort of his step and the pattern of folds on his pants showed that it was a large-ish couch, perhaps leather.

John's presence alone seemed to defuse some of the tension in the room. After a brief exchange, Sherlock said, "I can't." in a voice that sounded almost as if he regretted it.

"Can't?" I said echoing his lie.

Sherlock then went on to insult my weight, again. I decided to gently probe John about their relationship.

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became...pals." I said absentmindedly twisting my umbrella. "What's he like to live with? Hellish I'd imagine."

"I'm never bored." John replied.

Sherlock was being intransigent simply because he wanted to oppose me. He was annoying as only a little brother could be. He obviously didn't know the meaning of the words 'national significance.' Luckily John did.

When Sherlock refused, I gave the file to John. When John challenged me saying, "you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident." Sherlock actually laughed. Sherlock was very closely attuned to John. He reacted to John's every word and gesture. To paraphrase Shakespeare Sherlock lived almost by his looks.

It was interesting this...relationship of Sherlock's. It was indeed the closest relationship that he had ever had. It intrigued me. I knew now that Sherlock would take the case because John would, for John could do nothing without Sherlock watching him.

When I shook John's hand, it was firm and rough like before. But this was a totally different feeling. The last time that I had held his hand, he was eager to get away from me, and although now he was only being polite, I could feel the warmth in his grip. I held his hand a second longer than was absolutely necessary. Then I leaned forward and told him, "See you very soon."

I must say that I was anticipating seeing him again, even as I walked from the room. Sherlock scratched shrill notes on the violin just to irritate me. I swear he knows the frequency to vibrate teeth. But as I left, I could still feel the pressure of John's handshake. In my business, I shake many hands, but political hand shakes don't have the warmth of social ones. I could still feel John's warmth.

That was the day of my root-canal operation, an annoyingly tedious affair. I amused myself by texting Sherlock, and when he did not answer, John.

It was an odd thing this relationship of Sherlock's. I understood it of course. Sherlock was like a rudderless ship drifting around aimlessly looking for interesting things to occupy his mind. He had found an anchor in John. No, a port is probably the better analogy. John was a port that he could go back to.

John honestly cared for Sherlock. He did not seem to be as dangerous or lost as he had been before. Sherlock had given him a purpose. Someone to care for. Someone to defend. I wondered for a moment if there was anything ...physical going on between them.

"Physical, with Sherlock. That would be impossible." I chuckled.

Besides John Watson was clearly heterosexual. And yet, there was still something there...something special between them.

As I sat in the dentist's chair, I found myself replaying the visit in my head. Sherlock changed the moment John had come into the room. It was if John exuded calm. For someone like Sherlock who was always active, always thinking, John's stalwart presence was soothing. It was soothing simply to watch him. The way he walked, stocky, determined, strong. The concern in his voice when he feared that Sherlock might be hurt. The look on his face. The wrinkles around his nose so different in concern than they had been in anger. The way he stood open-mouthed as he looked at the aftermath of the explosion. Yes, I could understand Sherlock's fascination with Dr. John Watson. I felt a bit of it myself.

A hand on my shoulder told me that they were done with my teeth. It had seemed only moments ago they had started. Where had my mind been?

I went to work, and as I returned from the records room, Philipa told me that Dr. John Watson was waiting in my office. I took a moment to wipe my hands. For some reason they were damp.

"John how nice," I said as I entered the room, "I was hoping it wouldn't be long."

John was wearing an ugly brown suit. It was probably the only suit he owned. His striped tie was slightly askew. I had to resist the urge to straighten it. I was arranging my files so I only 'heard' John shifting nervously in his seat as he lied about Sherlock's interest in the case.

"How sweet of him to try to make me think better of my brother."

I knew that Sherlock was off doing some trivial thing just to spite me. That was Sherlock's way, but John lied for him anyway. It was cute. It was adorable.

I found that I couldn't keep the smile off of my face as I turned to look at him. You see, there were so many people who had sat in that chair: ministers, spies, beautiful women, and yet none of them had ever been as charming as Dr. John Watson was at that moment, lying about how interested Sherlock was in the case.

My tooth still hurt, but I found myself leaning casually against my desk as I talked to him. I rarely ever do that. I am not a 'casual' man. I did it because it seemed the friendlier thing to do, and because it allowed me to be closer to John. I found myself talking slowly as I explained everything to him. Everything about this visit was atypical.

Normally, when someone needs to be briefed, I leave something at the front desk. I could have easily given John a file and had him read it securely in the outer office. Why was I wasting time with John that I should be spending on finding ways to manipulate the Korean elections? Why was I bouncing on the edge of my desk explaining this case when I should be asking for an icepack for my tooth? The truth was that John himself was an anesthetic. Talking about something simple. Having John listen to me. It was... I don't know the word for such an emotion. It's not soothing as I thought before. He was stimulating. I found that I was stimulated as I watched him in a way that I had not been for a long time. I think that the word for what I was feeling was ...pleasure.

Watching John smile. A man who was so laughably bad at lying, it was a joy. And it was such a change from our previous meeting in the warehouse. Yes, I felt pleasure talking with him, and so few things give me pleasure in this day and age. Devising a plan to further the governments aims. Discovering and solving a mystery. Making a successful play in the game. A good meal. These things give me pleasure. Women also, but they are a tainted pleasure because one can never trust them.

But having a simple conversation with John was a rare pleasure. I found myself drawing out the explanation to make him stay longer. It made me feel decadent. Every word I said. Every fact that fell from my lips into John's ears was decadent because it was already in black and white in the file.

I watched how John unconsciously licked his lower lip when he was nervous. The way he narrowed his brows in concern for me when the pain in my tooth made me wince. To think, he showed concern for me. I wanted to see that smile again, so I asked about Sherlock.

"How is he getting on?" I asked.

John immediately looked nervous. He looked down and said, "He's fine and it is going very well. He is completely focused on it." John looks so sweet when he lies.

For a brief moment, I realized my peril. John was a piece like Sherlock's knight. I should not become fond of him. I ended the interview planning to go on to more serious matters. As he rose, I walked forward and shook his hand.

His touch was unusually sensual. It was as if every nerve in my body was resonating with the feel of his skin on mine. His handshake was strong and firm. Holding John's fingers against my own, I tried to memorize the shape of them so that I could remember when he had gone the warmth of human contact without guile.

I took a step closer to him, and he looked up at me. His lips pursed in an expression of curiosity. His hair glowed in the dim lamplight. The spicy, musky scent of his aftershave was slightly intoxicating. I felt dizzy. Then John pulled his hand away from mine, and left the office. The pain in my tooth returned full force.

I went to my chair and sat down as I decided what to do about Dr. John Watson. He was indeed dangerous. Dangerous in his amiability. Dangerous in his compassionate nature. Sherlock was already smitten with him. I was in danger of becoming so.

A player should not become too fond of his pieces. Something would have to be done about Dr. John Watson before another player discovered my weakness and exploited it.