F. Contact

I value my intuition, and I don't take threats lightly. It may have only been a dream, but it rattled me, so I decided to take action. The next day Dr. John Hamish Watson was subjected the most severe security screening that could be given to anyone short of the investigation given to a potential head of state. We ran cross-checks comparing his location to known locations of Moriarty's associates. We interviewed friends and relations. We checked everything that might reveal whether he had been compromised. John passed with flying colors.

I read the interviews:

"John was a good boy and an excellent student."

"He has a great personality. The ladies love him."

"He's a good man to have at your back in a dangerous situation."

"He saved my arm."

"He saved my life. How is he?"

Page after page confirmed it. Dr. John Watson was exactly who he said he was.

Even during the investigation, I continued to meet with John to talk about Sherlock. Usually I would send the car to pick him up. I didn't call him because I did not want to leave evidence for Sherlock to find.

At work, after Sherlock had unlocked Irene Adler's phone, we spent a great deal of time analyzing each piece of data for its possible strategic significance.

"And this one?" I asked. Pointing to a sketch.

Agnes leaned over the desk brushing back a strand of her perfectly coiffed hair "We think that this is the inside of the American Embassy in Pakistan. It shows the location of a secret room where the names of certain operatives are kept." she said.

"I see. Transfer this information to MI6. Now about the missile plans..."

The intercom buzzed. "Sir."

"Yes Phillipa?" I replied.

"We have a Dr. Watson to see you."

"Show him in please. Agnes, we will continue this later."

"Yes Mr. Holmes." Agnes replied nodding as she rose and walked toward the door.

John Watson entered the office in a striped shirt and black coat with no tie. He turned toward Agnes holding up a hand to get her attention. "Anthea isn't it?" He said "Remember me?"

"Pardon?" Agnes said standing tall in a way that thrust out her ample chest.

"We've met before?" He answered.

She raised her chin in an expression of extreme detachment. "Have we?" She asked.

"Okay!" He said sheepishly nodding his head as she walked past him out of the office.

I stood. "So, John to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?" I asked while picking up the files and placing them into a locked filing cabinet.

John walked further into the room, hands in his pockets. "I got off work a bit early," He said, "and since it's about the time for another one of our meetings, I figured I'd come over and save you the trouble of sending a car."

"You came straight from work?" I asked, "Don't you think that Sherlock might notice?"

"He's not here." John replied running his hands across the back of the chair.

"Then, where is Sherlock?" I asked. Walking around the desk to stand beside him.

"France." John said.

"France?" I replied raising my eyebrows in surprise.

"Yes, he's on a wine tour." John said, "A wine stain tour really. He's writing another monograph. Tobacco ash wasn't enough for him."

"I see, " I said smiling, "and you didn't go with him?"

John laughed, "And have him insult me for not knowing the difference between a stain from a 1979 Burgundy and a 1804 port? No." John shook his head.

"Well, if Sherlock isn't here, then why..."

"Why am I here? Actually I do have an ulterior motive." John said with a twinkle in his eye. "You see, my stove has burned out and Mrs. Hudson is having it repaired so I haven't had decent cup of tea for a few days. And I thought, good old Mycroft will know where to go to get a cuppa, so how bout it? I'll even be 'mother' this time."

I think that my mouth actually fell open when I heard him say this. I did not remember anyone ever asking "old Mycroft" to "have a cuppa" before.

"You're not busy are you?" He asked apologetically.

"No. No. I was just about to take my luncheon." I walked over to the door and opened it. I leaned out to see Phillipa talking with Agnes. She looked up. "Phillipa, would you please call the car around and make a reservation for two at the Royal Garden for tea."

"Sir?" She asked surprised, then recovering she nodded curtly, "Yes sir." she said picking up the phone.

I walked back into the room, my hand still on the door handle and turned to see John standing before me a large grin on his face. He grabbed my arm affectionately, "Thanks Mycroft." He said before brushing past me out of the door. He rubbed his hands together and laughed as he strode through the outer office leaving me to follow in his wake.

We had a very pleasant tea, the two of us, sitting at a table overlooking the gardens. Soft music drifted through the air as sunlight refracted through my crystal water glass making patterns on the table. John took my tea cup and poured just as he said he would, adding sugar and milk and passing it back to me with a smile.

"Thank You." I said taking the cup and saucer.

"Don't mention it." He said pouring some for himself without sugar. "It's a pleasure to go out with someone who eats for a change." I laughed.

John took a sip of tea and turned his head to look out of the window. I took a moment to simply look at him. John's button down collar bent a bit as if he had worn the shirt for more than a day. His protruding ears were not at all covered by his recently trimmed hair. His pale eyelashes were quite long and there was a small nick on his chin where he had cut himself shaving this morning. John seemed quite comfortable.

Mostly we talked about Sherlock. John saw a side of Sherlock that I had never seen. To John, Sherlock was a passionate man, a sensitive man. John told me how he loved jam on toast in the morning, and how he appreciated a good joke. That he thought the stars were beautiful, although he knew virtually nothing about them. That he still played board games at his age.

I found myself just listening to John talk. I placed my chin on my clasped hands and closed my eyes. His voice when he talked of Sherlock was gentle, exuberant, and a little sarcastic. He made me smile.

John was Sherlock's friend. In many ways, John was more like a brother to Sherlock than I was. Brother, Frater, Friend. From the old English 'frēond' meaning a close associate, relative or lover. Listening to John talk about the two of them, I wondered whether it would ever be worth it to have a friend.

.._.._

To be a Holmes is to eschew feeling. To place duty before desire. It has always been so. Sherlock was a rebel. He let himself feel joy and pain. He let himself care for others. Caring was his weakness. It always had been. I knew that he cared for Irene Adler. It was in his every act, his every word. So when the report came across my desk some months later saying that Irene Adler was dead, I knew that something had to be done.

I had a false report manufactured that said she was alive in America. I was going to send it to Sherlock. Then I decided to send it to John. Then I was going to send a car for John. In the end, I decided to take the file to John myself.

That was how I came to be waiting in the rain outside of "Speedy's sandwich bar and cafe". John was late, and I found myself anxious. I lit a cigarette to calm my nerves. I saw him come around the corner wearing a green coat without an umbrella. We went inside, and I ordered us coffee.

I told John the fiction that I had devised to tell Sherlock. At first he did not see why it mattered.

"He despised her at in the end." He said. "Won't even mention her by name just The Woman."

"Is that loathing, or a salute?" I said, "One of a kind the One Woman who matters."

"He's not like that. He doesn't feel things that way. I don't think." John replied.

"My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher yet he elects to be a detective, what might we deduce about his heart?"

"I don't know?" John said.

"Neither do I," I replied, "but initially he wanted to be a pirate."

I let John decide what to tell Sherlock. He left to go upstairs while I waited in the cafe for him to return with the file. I sipped my mediocre cup wondering why I was here. It was certainly unusual to find myself in such a place. I rested my chin on my clasped hands and looked around watching the common people going about their normal lives.

Why was I waiting here? I hadn't come to see Sherlock, and it certainly wasn't for the food. I was forced to admit that I had come primarily to see John. I had to admit to the possibility that I might have begun to care about him. I had already shown how I valued his opinion in matters concerning Sherlock. I had let him decide what to say. Normally I am so very decisive, but now I waited to see what John would do. It was unlike me. I ordered another coffee.

John returned the file minus the phone.

"I'm sorry," he said. "He took the phone."

"No matter." I replied, "We've already retrieved all of the data."

"I didn't tell him about Irene Adler." John said, "But I think he knew anyway. He said that she texted him to say goodbye."

"Do you think that he'll be alright?" I asked.

"I'm not sure." He said.

"Do you think... that you might meet me next week to tell me how Sherlock is getting along?" I asked. I found that my pulse had increased. I sat watching him over my clasped hands as if I were praying or begging.

"Probably...Yeah, I can do that. Well, I better go now." He said rising and walking away.

I nodded but remained sitting. My heart was beating so hard, I was sure that he could hear it. I felt, hopeful, light-hearted. Despite the fact that I was in a public place, I put my head in my hands. Then I thought, "What would my Father think?" and I rose and left for home.

That night I had another dream.

The door to my office opened silently. It was John Watson. I was facing the portrait of Her Majesty, so I did not see him approach. He walked toward me slowly. Walking heel toe, heel toe as he approached my chair. John placed his hand on my shoulder and slowly slid it down my chest and over my waistcoat. He pulled me toward him so that my back was against his chest. His other hand gently held my chin. He rolled my head back to rest on his shoulder as he bent over my chair wrapping me in his arms. His head resting on my naked neck. He rocked me back and forth wrapping me in warmth and comfort. I crossed my arms over his, and caressed his hair with my fingertips. I closed my eyes, and fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning I woke with the sun, relaxed, refreshed, and smiling as I had not done since I was a very small child.