Silhouettes 18

-XXX-

"—the suspect from last week's tussle with private investigations has not yet revealed any motives. The Yard released a statement this morning saying that progress is being made, yet no details are yet being released to the public. Our experts say that they are likely working on a heavy background search to find connections between the victims, and perhaps conducting some psychological evaluation. We will keep you informed as the case progresses –"

I turn the TV off with a quick press of the button. Thankfully, Sherlock had not been mentioned in this report. His press conference with police had happened on Monday. I have been actively avoiding media since then. I figured today, Wednesday, it might be safe.

I finish my email to Dad, promising that everything is going well, the new job is still working out, et cetera, then I pack the laptop into my backpack. Following this, I remove my work outfit – a pair of black slacks, layered with a white camisole and burgundy sweater. It'll be ready for me to jump into as soon as I finished my four o'clock.

-XXX-

Our show is a successful. The applause is warm. We take our bows and waves before turning backstage. My fingers ache – just as they usually do on such cold nights after several hours of playing. It is request night, so we took a lot of requests from our elder crowd. I don't know how many times I've played "Fire and Rain" since I started at Pinstripes.

I'm on my way out, backpack slung over one shoulder, when a cheery voice stops me.

"Viola!"

John sits at the bar, nursing a cup of what could be water. He smiles merrily at me.

I slide onto the stool next to him. "I didn't think Pinstripes would be your kind of place, Dr. Watson. You strike me as a mess hall kind of fellow."

"I do like a good MRE," he says lightly. "Deduce that, did you?"

I hadn't, actually. I found a bit of history on John Watson's military career when I was looking up things about Sherlock Holmes.

"I think a tour of Afghanistan is quite impressive."

He sort of shrugs into his glass. It's almost embarrassment, mingled with pleasure, too.

"What are you doing here?"

"I did promise you a drink sometime this week," he reminds me.

"Ah, but I have class tomorrow. Could we make it coffee?"

He smiles. "Suits me."

-XXX-

"I'm actually glad you wanted coffee," he admits when we take our seats in the cozy corner of a nearby café. "I'm not so fond of alcohol myself on week nights."

"I glad I'm not the only one," I murmur. "It would seem most of my friends are all for excessive drink."

"Most of your friends are probably in their early twenties," he counters. He takes a hearty sip of his coffee. "Thank you, for coming out with me."

I smile. "I don't think this is what you had in mind when you asked me out, John."

"No," he agrees. "But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it. Even if, well…." The doctor smiles a little sheepishly. "Sherlock has kind of called dibs."

I snort. "I doubt that, Dr. Watson. He pretty much told me everything between us was a mistake."

"And you believe that?"

I trace the rim of my mug. "He said it, didn't he?"

"He doesn't always speak the truth, Viola. He can lie."

Biting my lip, I shift in my seat. "He cannot dictate your life. You could date me."

"Would you want to?" He tilts his head.

"I –"

When I cannot answer, he ducks his head with a slow smile. "I thought not. Listen, I'll not stand in for him. I'd love to, Viola, you're lovely. Yet we both know you're already plenty attached, and he's clearly set on you. Even if he's being a bit of an arse about it now. He's bad at comprehending people – mad in how he can read a person, but anything much past their head he's a dull as a 'll come round."

"And if he doesn't? I'm not going to wait forever. I'm not waiting, period."

John is silent for a time. Our waitress makes her round, offering refills. I accept my cup being topped off, but John politely declines. We move onto other subjects. He begins telling me stories of his clinical work. One, about a man with a golf club in his head, straight through the skull. I cringe through the tale, making the appropriate "grossed-out" noises. We then speak at length on freak accidents we've seen on TV or read in the papers. I recount one story from my village of a young man who spent his youth with a nasally voice, only for it to disappear when he visited the physician with complaints of congestion, to have a small pencil eraser plucked from one of his nostrils. John is utterly disgusted and strangely fascinated.

This is about the time our check arrives. I happen to catch the time on my phone. It's nearly one. Apologetic, I tell him that I ought to get home, go to be, prepare for classes.

We pay – John gallantly offers to pay in full, but I insist on covering my share – then we go outside. For a time we walk, not quite ready to depart from one another's company. We talk for sometime more on a great many things. The weather, university, apartment hunting in London, and so forth. Despite our difference in age, I find that John is very easy to converse with. It is a true pity that he will not date me. I think we'd really hit it off.

I am about to call a cab when he stops me with a spot of hesitation.

"What?"

He looks at me with his brows lifted. "He still cares about you. I promise."

"While I do believe you to be an honest man, John, we both know its Sherlock whose the ace of deducting."

"I didn't deduce that," he says quietly. "He all put pushed me out to see you tonight."

"Thanks," I reply, crinkling my nose.

"Not that I didn't want to see you. But he especially wanted me to come."

Confused, I start. "I thought you said –"

"He wasn't exactly wanting me to take you dancing," John says dryly. "But I know for a fact he was wishing I'd…look after you."

"What?"

John sighes "He wants you to be looked after. Even if he won't do it himself."

Incredulous, I shake my head. "Even if that were true, I can look after myself just fine, thanks. He knows that. And, supposing Sherlock did want me to be babysat –" Here John opens his mouth in protest. "—I'd would say it's none of his business how I fare."

"You know it isn't like that," John chides gently. "Perhaps you didn't realize this, but association with Sherlock can tend to be a dangerous thing. Regardless of your intentions, you can find yourself in some less-than-safe situations sometimes."

"I'm not –"

He cuts across me. "Just. Trust me. I know we can hardly monitor your twenty-four-seven. He is concerned. He'll always be concerned, Viola. That's precisely the reason he'd wish to send you away from him."

Sincerity shines in John's green-grey eyes. My throat aches.

"John. I don't…I don't doubt you. But I no longer have an association with him. There is nothing to fear."

I turn to the street, waving a hand. A cab pulls up to the curb. Behind me, John sighs again, though he politely opens the door for me.

"I know you have no reason to believe in me – or him, for that matter. But I can assure you in all that he does, Sherlock has a reason. It might not be clear. It might come off as pig-headed or stupid. But the majority of the time he's working out his own strategy. In the end, he'll have everything figured. And everything will work out." John meets my eyes seriously. "In the end, it almost always does."

"'Almost' isn't good odds."

He smiles. "There has only been one time I've seen Sherlock beaten. Even then, in the end he got the final say. No one has even come close, save for Moriarty and The Woman."

Moriarty is a name I am familiar with, however, The Woman (John say the name with such pronouncement that I have not doubt it is entirely capitalized) is not a name I recognize. I almost ask, but decide against it. The cabbie is already looking pretty pissed.

"I'll see you around, John."

"Yeah. We should do this again. Next week."

I raise a brow. "Is that what you want, or Sherlock?"

"I'd certainly like to see you," he says fairly. We leave it at that. I slip into the car. John shuts the door. He waves as the vehicle parts from the curb. I offer a hand back. Soon, he slips into the darkness.

-XXX-

My cab passes my street. It takes me a few minutes to realize we're far past where I am supposed to be. I lean forward, mouth open to inform the cabbie, when I realize he's very familiar.

"We'll be there shortly, ma'am."

"Where?" I demand.

He speaks calmly. "At your stop."

We pull up before a very familiar statue.

Long Waters to my left, I stare out into the inky black. No swans tonight.

"Kensington Gardens?"

An even more familiar person, a redheaded woman holding a Blackberry, stands a few feet from the curb. I open the door, stepping out before the driver can come 'round to get me.

"Again?" I groan. "I mean, seriously? He can't just call? I mean, I have a life, you know."

"I'm sorry, are we interrupting your evening programs? I assure you, tonight's episode of Big Brother isn't too interesting," she says snarkily. I almost blush at the (slightly true) accusation.

She leads me towards the Peter Pan statue. This is the first time I've seen it since I was a kid. The tiny boy beckons with one bronze hand. In the darkness, with only the yellowy of a few lanterns light, the metal seems to breathe with untold life. I am so enthralled by the sight that I fail to see the man – Mr. Very Important Government Person – sitting at a small table just off to the side. When I do, I am naturally taken aback.

"Ms. Carters, do sit. I apologize for the lateness of the hour."

Scowling, I take a seat across from him. The table is nicely set, with a thick black table cloth, cut-crystal stemware and plates with gold hand-painted around the rim. Some grapes, a small cake, a selection of cheeses, and a decanter of wine sit on the tabletop. Without asking, he pours me a glass of wine. I sip as he beings, wincing at the bitter taste. It's very dry. I'm definitely one for cheap, sweet wines.

"So. You've reunited with Benjamin." He lifts his glass, regarding it against the lamplight. "Or, should I say Sherlock?"

I sit up. "You didn't tell me?"

"Was I obligated to?" he asks lazily. "Go ahead and eat, I know it's been a while since you've had dinner. You spend so much time feeding others, my dear. That was how you broke his shell, with a sandwich or two."

I snag a few grapes. This causes me to think of Cyrano de Bergerac's first act. I smile to myself, ducking my head. But the reminder of where I am quickly sours the happier thought.

"This is our second meeting," I point out. "I think I deserve to at least know a name or something now."

He is unimpressed by my directness. "Mycroft," he tells me shortly, still occupied with his wine. I'd take him for more of a Scotch fellow, now that I think of it.

I wrinkle my nose. "Mycroft? That's like the name of some 19th century romantic newspaper hero, almost as bad as…." I drift off, mouth falling open, aghast.

Mycroft, who is now watching closely, smiles slowly. "As Sherlock?"

"You're kidding me? You're his biggest 'rival?.'"

"Siblings are always rivals," he says shortly. "I assure you. Especially when it comes to family. Never stop competing for mummy's affection, and the like."

I stare. "Brothers. How….why must I deal with two of you? Isn't one enough?"

Mycroft chortles. "Oh, my dear. We are a package, whether Sherlock believes it or not. Besides, who do you think put him in Sussex, monitored his every move? I still keep an eye on him to this day, even though he's over thirty….Mother would be rather disgruntled if I knowingly let anything befall her 'baby boy,' and I must keep him out of mischief. I've known about you for quite some time now. An any associate of my brother's becomes an acquaintance of mine."

"I'm not his associate."

"Ah, perhaps that is not the right word," Mycroft allows delicately, fingering the handle of a nearby fork. "Though, it sounds more professional that 'lover.'"

I feel myself heat. "I'm not that, either." "Not anymore."

"Of course not, my dear."

"Why am I here?"

"I am simply checking in on you. Now you're aware of my brother's identity. So you must surely comprehend the danger against him, and therefore you."

Flatly, I say, "You want me to distance myself."

He looks affronted. "I would never presume to tell you what to do. However, I would advise. At the very least, be informed, and be careful. I should hate to lose another one of my brother's favorite toys…after all, he's only got the two. Yourself and Dr. Watson.

I am very hot now. "I am hardly a 'toy.' Sherlock made it very clear he wants me to have no part in his life."

"He will come around," Mycroft scoffs. "He needs the friends, whether he'll acknowledge it or not. You're already a fixture, Ms. Carters, one he'll not want to live without. Despite his desire to shield you, his own wishes will win through in the end. You'll see. He'll not keep you out."

"You brother has all but personally asked that I vacate his life. I don't belong. He made that very clear when he disappeared after fucking me –" Here Mycroft winces at my course language. "—and leaving without so much as a text. While I appreciate you evident concern, I am afraid it is sorely misplaced, Mr. Holmes. Now, if you will excuse me, it is quite late, and I've got classes in the morning. Good night."

I stand to leave.

"I find it curious that you didn't ask," he drawls after me. It's bait, bait I am foolish enough to take.

"Ask what?"

He fixes me with a solid stare. "Ask my brother why he left for London after spending the summer charming you in Sussex. You never asked."

I am quiet, pressing my fingers into the arch of the chair I am standing behind. The skin turns pale under the pressure. I don't ask how he knows what was said during my visit to 221B. I probably would not like the anwer."The why didn't matter. I mean, it does," I correct myself. "But leaving was the worst offense. Leaving without anything."

"Emotion." There is a slight sneer in his tone. "You're more affect by the emotional issues of the matter."

"Yeah," I say simply. "Yeah, I am."

I step away. One last look at the statue, then I am moving towards the car.

"Good night, Ms. Carters," the man called Mycroft calls quietly after me.

-XXX-

Things I have learned: There are no streetlights near the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens. Also, I don't believe the streets running along the statue are vehicle-accessible, but Mycroft does what he wants.

Google maps is a great thing.

Apologies for the lack of responses and updates.