Mycroft Holmes liked to sit and think. He didn't have endless energy like Sherlock seemed to, but he had an incredible capacity to connect things in his mind that surpassed even his brother's abilities, and the way he did that was to sit alone and simply think. It wasn't very often that his thoughts wandered anywhere he didn't will for them to go, but tonight, sitting in the doctor's chair while the man himself was suffering somewhere, it was inevitable this thoughts would turn that way.

He liked the doctor very much, though he wouldn't be surprised if the man himself didn't know it; he knew he wasn't a very expressive person nor did he ever intend to be. He could, occasionally, have his moments of bright joviality and at heart he felt as young and full of laughter as he'd once been, but outwardly he knew what he exuded was the demeanor of a cold, detached logician. Beyond calling Sherlock 'my dear' he did nearly nothing affectionate and had no friends. That was by design, of course: he hadn't founded the Diogenes because he wanted to talk to people, after all. If he wanted friends he would make some, but he didn't. If he did, however, he'd want a friend like the doctor.

He'd been a good friend to the doctor once. Or, at least, he hoped he'd been. They hadn't talked about it, but everything had worked out for the best so he must have at least done something right. He wasn't very good at showing compassion, but that was the very task he'd needed to accomplish, and at least he'd brought the doctor through it alive.


The knock on his door was soft, hesitant, but Mycroft called for his visitor to come through without fear. Even if he didn't have good reason to believe he knew who it was, there were very few people who knew where he lodged, and surely anyone who meant him harm would neither announce themselves nor seem hesitant while doing so.

"Hello, Doctor," he greeted the man who came into his room. "Please, come in. Make yourself comfortable: drinks are on the side table and though I have no chair for visitors as I do not entertain, I assure you the lounge is quite comfortable to recline on, so do take advantage. You will otherwise forgive my lack of hospitality, I hope: I prefer to be alone, and have no one to do for me, only a cleaner during the day when I am out. I prefer it this way, to be completely in my own company at the end of the day."

John Watson hesitated, glancing around like there might be a trap, then half-turned.

"Which is not a dismissal," Mycroft amended himself. "Stay, Doctor. I would not have invited you in if I could not abide your company."

Still, Watson seemed cautious, surveying the room methodically before finally turning all the way around once more and closing the door behind him. "Mr. Holmes," he said, then paused, clearing his throat. "I apologize for showing up like this uninvited, but your brother has always impressed upon me that you are trustworthy and wise and that it is to you I should go for advice if I am ever in trouble and he himself is unavailable." He cleared his throat again; his voice was low, scratchy, and his eyes kept darting around the room oddly.

"That was rather presumptuous of him," Mycroft grumbled, not acknowledging the strange way the doctor was acting. "He was quite correct that I would never turn you away, but I apologize on his behalf if he overstepped from advice giving into issuing orders. I am sure you are well aware of how masterly he can be; it is just like him to refer you to me instead of trusting any of your own friends. I will have a word with him if you like."

Watson smiled wryly, but there was something strangely forced about it. "Mr. Holmes, your brother is the best friend I have, and he also happens to be a man I trust implicitly to give good advice. As for the others I have, well, I, like Rehoboam of old, learned as a very young man that there is often more wisdom in listening to the advice of a perfect stranger than that of a friend."

"I see," Mycroft said with a nod. "Please, Doctor, take a seat, then, and tell me why you have come."

Watson hesitated. "Your brother is out of the country at the moment, and is quite unreachable, or else I would not have been so presumptuous as to bother you."

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft said a bit forcefully, his own masterful nature showing through, "sit down." And, as with Sherlock, Watson did as he was bid. With either Holmes' brother, it was nearly impossible to deny their sense of authority, and since Watson trusted him implicitly there was no reason to question his instructions.

"Doctor, you're pale," Mycroft said in a voice that was suddenly as kind and gentle as Watson had ever heard. "Your hands are shaking, your breathing is uneven, and even if I didn't practice what my younger brother has termed the 'science of deduction' I would be able to see you're down to your last nerve."

Watson looked at him with wide eyes, opened his mouth as if to say something. The only thing that came out, however, was a small gasp like a sob. He squeezed his eyes shut, and he lowered his head, bringing his hands up to grasp either side of it, his fingers threading into his hair. He rested his elbows on his knees, leaning over like he was physically ill and needed to retch.

"My brother," Mycroft said casually, seemingly unaffected by the sight in front of him, "is not as much of a heartless automaton as he may at first appear. It is an excess of love for all of humanity that drives a man to work a profession like my brother's, not a lack. I am saying this while assuming it is something you already know, of course. Even a man as gracious and patient as yourself would not consent to live with my brother for long if he was truly as arrogant and imperious as I am aware that he often first appears. He must impress upon you that his his intentions are honorable and his friendship is genuine and his arrogance is born out of confidence and not condescension, or else you would not admire him and accept him as your closest friend. I have a feeling he is the one you would normally consult for distraction on an evening like this one, for certainly he has proven himself trustworthy in all respects."

Watson was still trembling, giving no sign he was hearing Mycroft's words.

"Did you know I hired the man who is now my most trusted secretary because of you?" Mycroft continued regardless. "He had a strange way about him I saw immediately: angling his chair so he could see the windows even as I first spoke to him regarding the position, turning sharply when someone slammed a door out in the hallway, and saying all the right things but with something beneath each word that seemed to indicate a sincerity and fierceness of spirit I rarely see. His references were good and his background was accomplished, but it was clear his experience in the Second Afghan War has greatly affected him. I almost dismissed him, but then I thought of you. I thought of your loyalty to my brother and how he praises you. I thought of how your own experiences in war made you a bit odd, and you'll forgive me, Doctor, but you are, yet nonetheless you're trustworthy and honorable and a well-qualified doctor. And so, I hired him. The worst things about him were an increasingly severe morphine addiction and a strange kind of mood he'd get, but considering who my brother is I had compassion regarding the morphine and he's quite better now. And, remembering who you are, sir, I ignored the strange behavior. And in return, he has been hardworking and loyal. He's no John Watson, of course, but a man on whom I can rely. I do not regret taking a chance on him. And that is thanks to you, Doctor."

Watson's teeth were grinding, his hands were clenching and unclenching through his hair in a way that looked physically painful, and he made no response.

Mycroft rubbed his chin. "I know my brother holds you in high regard. In point of fact, I'm not sure I've ever heard him speak an ill word concerning you. Not that I would expect him to, mind, but he's not shy about bringing his complaints when he visits, be they about friends or foes. I can imagine how distressed he must have been to see you like this for the first time. For a man like him it is abhorrent to be helpless, to be in any situation where he cannot control the outcome or be the man in charge of proceedings or even simply have a full logical grasp of the events before him. What does he do for you, I wonder? He certainly wouldn't stand by and leave you in distress; it is not in his nature to abandon a friend in need. And yet he is not the kind of man who knows how to display deep levels of compassion in regard to this kind of thing. Perhaps he is now, though," Mycroft mused. "After all, he took measures to ensure you would come to me if you needed me. Speaking of, can you hear me yet?"

Once again, Watson didn't answer him or give any indication he'd heard him at all. Mycroft sighed, rising from his chair to sit beside the doctor. He took the liberty of reaching into the other man's pocket, lifting out the heavy revolver he knew he'd find there. He flipped open the chamber wondering if there would only be one. He hoped there wouldn't be, hoped that the doctor hadn't planned anything when he'd picked up his revolver and put it in his pocket that night, hoped it had only been instinct. He looked, turned the gun over, let the bullet fall into his hand. There was only one. He folded his hand over it, feeling the cold hardness of it in his hand and slipping it into his own pocket before clicking the chamber again and putting the revolver back in the doctor's pocket.

"My brother considers you as dear a friend as you he," he murmured. "He would be most put out if you died, so let's avoid that, shall we? I assume that is why you came to me. It is much easier to resist temptation when you are not alone. I hope you know you can trust my brother. I hope he helps you."

Watson's breathing was slowly evening out. "Doctor?"

Watson took one long, deep, shuddering breath, raising his head and glancing around, the look in his eyes as fearful and guilty as if he was a murderer freshly caught. "Mr. Holmes," he said, and his voice was weak, stuttering. He cleared his throat. "I apologize, sir," he whispered. I think I should go now." He stood too quickly and swayed on his feet.

Mycroft jumped up, himself moving quicker than he had in a very long time. He wrapped his arms around the other man and pushed him backwards so they both landed back on the lounge with a solid thunk.

"Doctor," he snapped, forcing Watson to look at him before exuding a calm demeanor once more. "You're safe here, Doctor. You know you are, because you trust my brother. Sherlock wouldn't have sent you here if he didn't think I would give you as much consideration as he does, you know he wouldn't have. You know it, yes? So be safe, and be at peace. Rest here for tonight, and in the morning whatever is tormenting you shall be dispelled."

John Watson seemed as if he would protest, but Mycroft laid one large hand on his shoulder. "John Watson," he insisted softly, "please. For my brother's sake, if not for your own or my own, stay here."

Watson had nodded very slightly. "I will," he whispered

Mycroft believed him and decided the worst was behind them. He left the man for just a moment to find him a blanket, and when he came back Watson was fast asleep, still half sitting up on the lounge. Mycroft rubbed his chin, wondering if he should move him; he was certainly going to be sore in the morning. But better sore, he decided, than woken, and so he laid the blanket over him and left him alone.

He tried to return to his chair to sit and think, but another human presence in the room, even a sleeping doctor whom he trusted, made the process quite impossible. That was what he told himself, ignoring the idea that he was more disturbed by the doctor's distress than he was allowing himself to admit. He retired, therefore, and as he expected John Watson was gone when morning came.

His brother had intruded less than a week later, entering without knocking or announcing himself or speaking a word of greeting. He'd stood in the middle of Mycroft's room, sliding his eyes over every corner and taking in everything. Mycroft had stayed where he was, watching Sherlock through hooded eyes. Finally, seemingly satisfied, Sherlock reached out his hand. Mycroft took it, they shook, and, as if he'd been a specter who'd never come in at all, Sherlock disappeared as quickly and silently as he'd come.


Mycroft Holmes reached into his pocket, his fingers feeling the cool metal of the single bullet he kept there, the one that had been there every day since that night. There was no logical reason he should feel the way he did, but despite all he'd done for England, all he'd done for peace throughout Europe and beyond, that one night felt different, like when he'd reached into the doctor's pocket he'd done the world one great service eclipsing all the others, like when he died that one act would be his crowning achievement, the one thing he'd carry with him into eternity.

He hoped to God the doctor wasn't dead.

"Sir?"

Mycroft looked up. "Yes, Whitaker?"

His assistant, too, sometimes got that far away look in his eyes, got defensive and jumpy and wound tight enough to snap. Mycroft knew the emerging field of psychology would one day study men like Whitaker and Watson, that one day they'd understand it. He hoped that day would be soon.

"It's your brother, sir."

Mycroft always kept Whitaker busy when he got that look. Math was the best, he'd learned. Combing through budgets and examining businesses for fraud was somehow an excellent way to distract him, and Whitaker was remarkably good at it.

"Sir?"

"I know it," Mycroft murmured, bringing his thoughts back into order, knowing that he'd let them wander because he already knew the news Whitaker was bringing and wasn't quite ready to contemplate what was coming next.

"Sir? You do?"

"He's found him," Mycroft murmured.

"Yes, sir. Your brother is with Blackwell as we speak. I'm very afraid, sir, that he's gone into the lair of the Sons of Apollo without any backup, and it seems as if his only plan is to murder them all."