CHAPTER 51. THE THINGS WE SEE
Mycroft sat in his comfortable throne like chair, his clean-shaven chin balanced upon the knuckles of his left hand. Gray eyes sharp, and following the now stiff legged movements of a blond man in a brown jumper.
The man's steady hands moving making accusing gestures, punctuating his words with a wagging finger and his chest heaving. All details that Mycroft picked up on to conclude John was angry.
The younger man in the brown Jumper would think he was getting his point across, thinking that the British Government's silence was a sign of a remorseful apologetic man.
Being a good man he would also assume that the older, gray-eyed minor employee of the British Government was seeing the error of his ways.
Regrettably that is not what Mycroft Holmes was thinking at all, he was a million miles away.
Not normally a man that day dreams, or rather really dreams at all, Mycroft Holmes found his mind wondering away, perhaps it was the familiarity of the situation, or the lack of sleep these last few weeks.
No it wasn't the obnoxious younger brother that robbed him of what little rest the older Holmes was allotted on such a tight schedule.
It was this infuriating Moriarty, he was vying for Mycroft's attention, unlike Sherlock who was self-destructive, this maniac was blowing things up. Word reaching Mycroft that the mad man and his assassin was in London, could they know about Bond Air?
"Mycroft?" The older Holmes jumped; John was crouched down in front of him, eyes narrowed glancing over his face. "When was the last time you've had something to eat?" John went into Doctor mode. Mycroft frowned now pulling back a little not too fond of being in close proximity to anyone, although John wasn't just anyone.
"Pardon?"
"S'what I thought. You Holmeses might be master geniuses but when it comes to eating and don't look at me that way. We both know Sherlock's a twit and only jabs at your weight because he has yet to realize you aren't twenty anymore and even then you weren't over weight just a bit more rounded.
I blame Sylvie for all the pies and cakes she used to force feed us at the table. Anyway where are the, oh, here we are."
John opened the door and stuck his head out, gesturing for one of the staff members an older gentleman in his late forties, the man remained silent and entered the room before speaking.
"How may I help you sir?"
"Yeah, uh will you bring Mr. Holmes something for lunch? Whatever it is that he normally has and some tea and biscuits. Thanks." The man in the black penguin like uniform nodded and John watched the white gloved thin man with the black suit tails disappear down the silent corridor. Turning back to Mycroft he plopped down in the chair.
"You know there are others available to run the country. Just at least eight hours maybe six of sleep would do you good. When's the last time you had a physical?" Mycroft wasn't accustomed to anyone speaking to him so informally about his personal health. "I'll take your silence as at least a year and half ago."
"Yes, that's correct, the government requires even their minor employees to undergo a yearly physical." Mycroft tried to read the Doctor's expression, he was thoughtful.
"I bet he's said something about more rest and you bullied him into keeping it out of your report. Probably suggested some exercise and sunshine. Also shot down." Mycroft was startled how did the man know that.
"Because I know you." John answered his non verbal question. "I know you and I am a Doctor, nothing fancy like the government boys but good enough to see fatigue and vitamin deficiency when I see it. Easily remedied by rest, three meals a day and some sunshine."
"Sunshine?" Mycroft made a face, "I get plenty of sun-"
"Ah, here is something a nice sandwich and soup. Now, I'm not an idiot I know you'll ignore the more rest suggestion what with Korean elections, American Presidents, CIA, MI whatevers and Government projects, keeping you busy. So being a soldier I know how to pick my battles. That said, Mycroft Holmes I expect you to eat three meals a day and at least spend some time walking the park. Perhaps you would find the time if you weren't so busy worrying over the health of others." John gestured for him to go ahead and eat. Mycroft realized he was hungry, when did he last have something to eat?
"Now as I was saying Mr. Holmes. I am an adult. I'm not some kid-" He could hear the words John was throwing at him, but his eyes and his mind did not see the man in the brown jumper.
No instead he saw a young ten year old John Watson in a ridiculous maroon jumper and his faded jeans with the grass stains at the knees. A nervous smile on his slightly rounded face. What he saw was a young boy with blond hair neatly cut, eyes bright and truthful.
If Mycroft continued to take in the details he could see that John's short legs didn't touch the ground in the large chair instead they swung absentmindedly back and forth. Of course this was all in his mind. Obviously exhaustion was getting the best of him. However if Mycroft allowed himself to further explore this hallucination he would make out a cast on the boy's left arm with several scribbles. Mycroft observed once that someone had drawn a small sailboat with a pirate flag and sharks swimming in the waters somewhere near the wrist.
He would always remember how the boy would shoot nervous glances not wishing to hold a stare too long, always tense waiting for someone to lash out.
How did this memory work it's way out from the cells of his mind's fortress? Sentiment wasn't something hard to suppress for Mycroft Holmes the notorious iceman.
Mycroft recalled that this version of John was a default reference he fell back on, when the younger man came forward to plead Sherlock's case. This is what made John Watson dangerous.
How could he have forgotten all of this, he was never really angry at John. More disappointed, he'd always thought of John as reliable as another set of eyes to watch out for his little brother.
What kind of pressure was that for a young boy? John Watson had questioned Mycroft and Father's distance from the younger Holmes. Perhaps it was because John made people care, made them feel. Guilt was the part of sentiment and nostalgia Mycroft loathed most, almost more than feelings of helplessness.
Mycroft let out a heavy exhale marveling at how difficult it was to concentrate or even pay ample attention to this man's words when they seem to be coming from a ten year old child pretending to be older than he is.
"So, do we have a deal?" John was looking at him with those blue eyes, in that voice still light and squeaky a tenor, not having yet hit the baritone that came after puberty. This was the disadvantage to an eidetic memory, everything could be recalled with such clarity, even down to the scent of dirt, grass and honey from traipsing after bees with Sherlock in the gardens.
It took everything in Mycroft to look repentant, his lips fixed he shifted in his chair, uncomfortably. He did need to push these memories away, nostalgia and sentiment were toxic emotions, he had no time to entertain them.
"John, I will be more delicate with the information. Regarding your past. I only released what I thought necessary for the DI to-"
"Best handle me? Did you expect him to put the kid gloves on with me, I'm not some some-" Mycroft could see John as a child with the fading bruise around his right eye, throwing up his arms in exasperation.
"John don't you have work today?" The young boy's eyes widened and he looked down at his watch, Mycroft attempted to shift the conversation towards more neutral ground.
"Well I better go. This isn't over Mycroft Holmes. Eat your sandwich. Don't make me have a talk with your physician, I promise I am far more intimidating then you. When need be." It took everything in the older Holmes to not allow the grin tickling the edges of his lips to break free from the usual tight-lipped expression of passive disinterest.
John only shook his head locking eyes momentarily with the older Holmes, squaring up. "I have a feeling you heard nothing I said. Seeing how I have to get to work-"
"John, I'll have a car drop you off." Mycroft offered coolly. Sitting back, his gray eyes similar to Sherlock's, although some would say where the younger Holmes's were analytical, and disinterested Mycroft's were calculating and cutting.
Like snow and ice those two, both very cold but they had separate melting points. Some found Sherlock's callousness almost tolerable they grew accustomed to his eccentricities and after a time no longer batted an eye when he spoke. Maybe because he had such dark features mummy's handsome looks.
As for Mycroft, his expressionless face, and hard stare was disconcerting and uncomfortable, to the point people skirted out of his path to avoid it. These were the eyes that tried to lock onto John's sky blue. Except the British Government who indeed had inherited his father's appearance, did not receive the usual response. Instead John Watson shook his head "You are impossible I must be mad for associating with you two." And with that he turned on his heels marching towards door pausing briefly he threw over his shoulder "This isn't over Mycroft Holmes."
Mycroft shook his head, of course it was. John Watson could never stay angry longer than a week.