A/N So, random thing post-season 2. Tralala.
Thanks to johnsarmylady and Fayet
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XLI. Teamwork
"You've improved him," Mycroft notes quietly, pouring himself a small, gold-rimmed china cup of creamy brown tea. The high walls of the now-familiar Diogenes Club loom around them, and John shifts uncomfortably in his too-stiff armchair, watching the elder Holmes cautiously. As frequent as these visits have become after Sherlock's return post-Fall—at this point, John finds himself in the Diogenes twice a week at best—he can't deny that he hasn't quite adjusted to the stuffy, eerily silent atmosphere. The whole building carries an undeniable air of professionalism about it, and even if John spent multiple years as a soldier, he's never really grown used to the lack of casualty displayed in residences of the government.
"In what way?" he questions as Mycroft turns around, settling into his own chair and crossing his long legs gracefully.
"You complement him," the slimmer man elaborates, taking a long, thoughtful sip of the tea. "Your warmth to his coldness, your courage to his intelligence… don't get me wrong, I certainly think it holds him up on occasion."
"Yeah, thanks."
His lips curve into a cold smile, and a low laugh comes from his throat. "Overall, though… I didn't expect you two to form the type of… bond that I now see so clearly. You're a team, Holmes and Watson, it's… intriguing to watch."
"Is that all you have to say?" John asks warily, curling his fingers around the velvety armrests of his chair. "Because, no offense or anything, but I really think I could be doing more productive things than this…"
"I'd say that you've grown used to my presence, but you never really feared it in the first place, did you? I can still remember that first night, clear as glass… that warehouse… my lovely assistant, what was her name that particular occasion?"
Anthea, John thinks, but he says nothing. He's sick of putting up with Mycroft—he's ready to leave, and he makes that as apparent in his posture as possible without being downright rude. When the seconds of silence begin to turn brittle, he finally speaks up again. "I don't understand why you had to pull me all the way across London just to tell me that we make a good team."
"That's not all that I'm telling you," Mycroft retorts, his tone almost entertained. His pale blue eyes gleam, and he drinks again, shallowly and thoughtfully. "What I'm saying, John, is that… I can tell, sometimes, that it's at least crossed your mind to be partners on more levels than one."
John's blood freezes.
"Yes, hitting a little closer to home, aren't we?" He leans forward, his gaze steady and intent, reaching over to set his cup aside. A soft clink rings through the padded air as it settles into its waiting saucer. "Just remember what I said, Dr. Watson… you've improved him. And it's not beyond my belief that you have the capacity to do so even farther."