October 1881
"I take it I was correct in my solution to the little problem you brought to my attention last week?" Mycroft asked, sitting across from his brother in the Strangers' Room in the Diogenes.
"Oh, yes, the affair of Lady Millina and the identical dogs. After some small enquiries I determined that you were indeed correct," Sherlock Holmes said, "I must say, I think Watson thought I was gifted with divine knowledge after I returned with that explanation and was later proven correct. At least until I disabused him of the notion by explaining my processes."
"Hmmph," Mycroft said. "You enjoy showing off for him. You always did like an audience, dear brother. I take it that is why you did not inform him that I was responsible for the theory that you later proved correct?"
Sherlock shrugged, "I never can resist the dramatic." Mycroft suspected the drama of the reveal was often the only thing that kept his perpetually bored brother interested in cases after he'd already figured out the answer. More to the point, he was finding himself more and more interested in this Doctor Watson. He thought they would have parted ways by now, either because no man could stand to live with Sherlock Holmes for longer than six months, or because Sherlock himself would become fed up with the situation. He finally gave up wondering and got straight to the point.
"Are you searching for new lodgings? Your career seems to be doing splendidly so far, to hear the official police talk." To hear the official police grumble is what he should have said. The gossip about how Sherlock Holmes was more competent than the police force had even reached Mycroft's staff, and had created quite a flurry of activity in trying to determine how the authorities could improve themselves.
Sherlock shook his head, "I find these rooms serve my purposes very well. The landlady is certainly much more pleasant than the one at Montague Street. I see no reason to move now."
"So is Doctor Watson opening a practice then? You did say that was his intention?"
"For heaven's sake, Mycroft, the man has only just regained the minimum of health!" Sherlock Holmes looked as indignant as his elder brother had ever seen him. "Your Afghan campaign destroyed his health utterly; in the beginning it was difficult for him to even climb the stairs!"
Mycroft watched his brother with interest; he had never heard Sherlock express this much concern over a fellow human being before. Out loud, he said, "It is not my Afghan campaign, Sherlock. I simply make it possible for Her Majesty to do what she feels must be done. So he is not leaving either? You are both comfortable enough to continue lodging together?"
"I find it useful to have someone to discuss things with; on more than one occasion he has been useful in helping me find a solution to a case. Oh, do grow up, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped as his brother began to laugh in disbelief. "Is it so difficult to imagine that I should enjoy another's company?"
"You never have before."
"Watson is different. While possessing none of our genius, he is nonetheless intelligent in his own right, courageous, open-minded, and above all, patient. All in all, a very pleasant companion," Sherlock explained. "He has even been good enough to assist me on a case or two, and I have found it very helpful."
Mycroft sat up straighter, "You're taking him on cases?" That was unusual. Sherlock Holmes worked in almost total secrecy. He trusted no one save himself. And now this new fellow-lodger was being given privileged status after a mere nine months?
"I was very nearly killed on a case only two months ago. If not for Doctor Watson's service revolver, I would not be sitting here now," Sherlock said in utmost solemnity.
"I thought you said he was only just recovering from the Afghan campaign? Yet he is somehow able to accompany you on criminal chases throughout London?"
The younger Holmes simply did not answer, but Mycroft was always able to tell when his brother was lying, and he knew that Dr. Watson could in no way be as weakened as Sherlock had made it seem. This whole situation was becoming extremely interesting.
"I have never felt the need for friendship," Mycroft began. "My fellow men seem to offer nothing but unpredictability and interruption to one's routine. I would have thought you were the same; it appears I was wrong. How interesting." Sherlock always did have that childish need to show off, which Mycroft lacked. Perhaps that accounted for the difference. Mycroft filed the question away in his mental files for later perusal.
"Forgive me for interrupting your thoughts, Mycroft," Sherlock said, standing up. "But Watson and I have two seats reserved at the performance of Wagner's latest tonight." With that, he left, leaving Mycroft alone with this new problem to solve.
The next day, Mycroft used his prerogative as a member of the British government for the first time to look up the records of one veteran in particular. It was as Sherlock had said; Dr. Watson had graduated in 1878 from the University of London with a degree in medicine and promptly joined Her Majesty's army as a doctor. He had been sent to India, joined his regiment in Afghanistan, was injured, contracted enteric fever at Peshawar and was shipped home. Where, presumably, he was introduced to Sherlock Holmes and they took rooms together. On first sight, seemingly a very ordinary fellow. But Sherlock never took interest in ordinary, so there must be something more unusual about Dr. Watson. Mycroft was almost gratified that his normally unfailing instincts had missed something as important as a need for companionship in his own brother, as it at least gave him something to think about.
Then again, one never knew with Sherlock. He could decide he was bored with his fellow-lodger by next week and move out before anyone noticed.