God this is so short. A number of people put this on their story alerts so I guess I'm doing something right? Would love some feedback though. I hope Mycroft isn't too OOC in this chapter.
Very few things surprise Mycroft Holmes, but as he read the words on the screen, he finds himself utterly speechless.
I KNOW HE'S ALIVE. I'M GOING AFTER HIM, EVEN IF YOU DON'T TELL ME WHERE HE IS. I'LL FIND HIM.
For once, his brilliant mind cannot think of an adequate response or mode of action. His face softens into a slight frown, as his eyes go over the text once more. I'LL FIND HIM. He puts his phone down on the table, completely disgusted with his indecisiveness. He pushes his chair back, stands and walks over to pour himself a glass of scotch. He takes a generous sip, the liquid burning as it passes through his throat. He sits back down, elbows resting on the hardwood surface and burying his face in his hands.
Mycroft recognizes the conflict within him. On the one hand, he can tell John exactly where his brother is. It would be better, he thinks, since John can protect Sherlock better than he ever could. And with Sherlock embarking on such a treacherous task, he definitely needs someone to look out for him. On the other… Mycroft feels obligated to keep his word. Sherlock had made him promise to keep his secret and watch over John, sending him to the most dangerous place possible – by Sherlock's side – is obviously not what Sherlock had meant when he asked Mycroft to keep John safe. "You owe me," Sherlock delights to remind him. Mycroft knows he has so much to make up for, especially since he is responsible for the Richard Brook debacle.
And yet… and yet…
I KNOW HE'S ALIVE.
To crush John's newfound hope, to deny him the truth when he has finally grasped it, is that not more cruel, more detrimental than sending him off on a wild chase?
Mycroft rests his chin on his hands and contemplates the question he has put before himself. He is still and silent for minutes, but the quiet holds no answers for hm. He reaches for his glass of scotch and downs it in one gulp while his other hand reaches for the phone.
He knows. And he's coming after you. – M
Mycroft waits, but the reply is near instantaneous.
What did you tell him? – SH
Nothing. – M
Good. Keep it that way. – SH
You underestimate him, dear brother. – M
John is better off. – SH
Make him believe I'm dead. Give him irrefutable proof. – SH
He watched you jump off a building. If that is not 'irrefutable proof' then I don't know what is. – M
Have him committed. – SH
You can't be serious. – M
Just tell him you're alive. – M
No, I don't want him coming after me. – SH
He already is. – M
Just received word. CCTV puts him near Ms. Molly Hooper's apartment. – M
Shite. – SH
What do you want me to do? – M
Stop him. - SH
You'll only raise his suspicions. – M
Not if you can convince him I'm dead. – SH
You owe me. – SH
He'll never believe it. – M
Even without proof, even though he won't know until he actually tries it, Mycroft knows it to be true. He remembers their first meeting, John's evident trust in his brother. He remembers finding it endearing, maybe even a bit naïve. But now he thinks it may have been his best quality.
He must. – SH
Mycroft sighs as he reads his brother's reply, stubborn as ever. If this is what he wants, then… He shakes his head ruefully. He hates having to do it, to even attempt it; the army doctor has been through so much already, he thinks. He pictures John's defeated, crumpled face in his mind and knows that it is the outcome that he must hope for, must try to achieve. He doesn't like it one bit.
He dials a number and presses the phone to his ear. A female voice answers.
"Yes, boss?"
"Bring me John Watson."
"Right away, sir."
Another picture vies for attention in his head, of John walking out, his gait, his posture, everything screaming his determination and relentless faith. Mycroft knows he shouldn't, he knows Sherlock won't be pleased with him, but that image makes him smile and he hopes to God it's the one he witnesses.