Some Friendly Advice
A/N: So, this is for this prompt over at the sherlockbbc_fic comm, because Mycroft is awesome and Sherlock (both the series and the character) is awesome, and awesome things are good.
Some Friendly Advice
John wasn’t even surprised when the payphone next to him started mysteriously ringing the moment he passed it; he just sighed and entered the phone booth. The voice he heard when he picked up the phone was exactly whom he suspected it would be, too.
“Ah, John. So good of you to -”
“I know you know I’ve a phone,” John said, interrupting Mycroft. “You’ve used it to get in touch with me before.”
“Yes, but anything so ludicrously easy to trace is completely out of the question at the moment, John. Now, I expect you know what to do when the black car pulls up to the corner in a moment? Good.”
The phone went dead.
John sighed and walked over to the curb, getting into the black car - a different black car from the one last time, but still the same in the essentials (i.e., being something he could imagine someone who was a Torchwood fanboy had once thought would be a really clever idea for an easily-disguised, ominous-looking vehicle) - without a fuss. In some respects, this sort of thing had become what was normal for his life, after he met Sherlock.
Anthea was sitting in the backseat, just as she had been last time, holding her Blackberry in her hand exactly the same way, giving John a nice sense of déjà vu. This time, at least, he felt no immediate urge to ask her out. He currently had a steady (well, for a given amount of steady, anyways) relationship, thank you very much. He was no longer quite so desperate.
He gave her a perfunctory smile instead, and sat down. “Do you do this kind of thing often?” he asked, both trying to make small talk and genuinely curious, as the car sped off into the midday London traffic. “Picking up random people for Mycroft, I mean.”
She smiled at him, the same insincere smile as last time, too. He wondered if she practiced it often. Possibly in mirrors. “It happens.”
“I see.” He nodded. His mobile buzzed in his pocket, but the look Anthea shot him when he reached to answer it made him reconsider.
“Can I -?” He indicted the ringing phone.
She smiled. “No.”
He said nothing. It was probably Sherlock, anyways, texting to tell him that he had accidentally blown out the windows again doing an experiment, and John needed to pick up some sheet glass on his way home. Alternatively, they had a new case, and while John hated it when Sherlock went off and put himself into needlessly dangerous situations on his own, the crime scene itself usually wasn’t so deadly (well, for anyone other than the victim, obviously), and John could certainly do with a few less dismembered bodies in his life.
They pulled up to an office building - an office building John remembered, in fact, because he had visited it during the affair with the Bruce-Partington plans. Which meant that the whole car thing had been completely pointlessly dramatic - not that that fact had ever stopped Mycroft from doing anything in the past. John sighed as he got out of the car.
Anthea led him into the building, and John was tempted to press the button for her in the elevator, just to prove that he knew where they were, but decided to refrain from actively antagonizing her. Instead, they ascended to the tenth floor in silence. She led him down the hallway, before leaving him by himself in front of an unmarked door - not the same unmarked door as it had been last week, John realized, but one directly across the hall from the unmarked door behind which Mycroft’s office used to be. Maybe he liked changing the scenery outside the window, or maybe he just liked being mysterious.
He knocked, and then let himself in when he realized the door was open. Mycroft was standing by the side of the desk, holding the receiver of a phone in one hand and listening to whoever was speaking; he gestured silently to the chair, then continued his conversation. This time, John sat.
After five minutes of listening to Mycroft saying things that made so little sense John had given up even trying to guess what they meant (and ignoring what were presumably six more texts from Sherlock), John happened to glance at the screen of the laptop perched on the desk in front of him. It was turned slightly toward him, he realized, at an angle that made it just possible for him to see everything on the screen, while still allowing Mycroft to plausibly deny that this had been his intention all along. It was clear though, as the first photo of Mycroft’s screensaver flashed across the screen, that he had intended John to notice it. John’s eyes widened in shock for a moment as his own birth certificate appeared on the screen, watching in fascination as that changed into a few baby photos of him, before switching to a photo of his family on vacation in France when he was six (his mom, tall and willowy, was kissing his dad, tall and stocky, while he and his sister, tall and skinny, were running around like mad ragamuffins (honestly, he’d no idea how he’d ended up short, because everyone other than himself in his family was tall - it just wasn’t fair)), and then a succession of photos from school yearbooks over the next few years. Driver’s license - prom photos - graduation photo - some pictures he and his roommates had taken of them fooling around during the first week of school - him on the football field - him in the hospital (he’d caught a ridiculously bad strain of influenza during his first year of uni) - him in the lab ... By the time this impromptu slideshow of his life reached scans of his enlistment papers, Mycroft had finished his phone call; now he just stood behind John in mute silence, watching the other man see his life flash by on Mycroft’s laptop screen.
At last, they reached photos from the last three months - him and Sherlock, running, ducking, getting shot at, nearly getting blown up, getting strangled (multiple times, in Sherlock’s case), eating at various restaurant, watching Bond movies together, and, most damningly, in the last photo, kissing in an antique bookshop.
John remembered that last one - it had been just last week, when they were on a case and John had managed to solve things by figuring out that the copyright date on one of the killer’s very rare, first edition books was wrong, and Sherlock, caught up in the moment and very, very proud of John, had kissed him in front of the very surprised proprietor of the bookshop. It wasn’t the type of thing you forgot, your first kiss with Sherlock Holmes.
Mycroft at last swept around to the other side of the desk, sitting down opposite John. He moved the laptop out of the way, resting his elbows on the edge of the desk and steepling his fingers.
“Now, I hope we can come to a proper understanding, John,” he said at last. “Sherlock is, as you know, of course, my younger brother.”
John nodded.
“And, as we both know, Sherlock is ... unused to emotional matters. He does not understand intra-personal affairs; he can barely comprehend relationships. He cannot accurately predict the emotional blow that would be dealt to him should things go ... wrong.”
John’s mobile went off, and he pulled it out to check it before Mycroft could say anything to stop him, frankly annoyed at this point with Sherlock for - well, everything. Sending him too many texts. Having an insanely powerful older brother.
“Assuming you’re with Mycroft,” the text read. “Ask him how diet is going. Pick up a dozen white roses, red carnations, and pink tulips before coming home. Need them for case. SH.”
“Sherlock wants to know how the diet’s going,” John said, looking up at Mycroft.
“It’s fine,” Mycroft said, the irritation in his tone audible. “As I was saying, I would hate to be you if anything went wrong with Sherlock, because ... well, with modern technology, there are so many things that can happen to a man who happens to get on the black list of the British government, aren’t there? Documents are so easy to forge - and even easier to get rid of. People can just,” he paused, as if searching for the word, and then, with a bloodless smile, continued, “disappear. I don’t think I have to explain everything to you in detail - I wouldn’t want to bore you, John - but I believe you understand exactly what I mean.”
“Quite clearly, yeah,” John said.
“Sherlock is my younger brother,” Mycroft said again. “Rest assured that I will blame anything that happens to him on you, Dr. Watson.”
“Thanks for that.”
“I trust you can see yourself out,” Mycroft said, and then picked up the phone on his desk and began dialing. John stood up and walked out, nearly knocking over the umbrella resting on the wall by door on his way out.
Now, by a dozen, had Sherlock meant a dozen of each type of flower? Or a dozen in general? If a dozen in general, how many of each did he want? Buying a dozen of each seemed like the safest recourse ... John had already located the nearest florist with his phone by the time he left the building. Things like this, too, had become everyday for him since he became involved with Sherlock Holmes.
Some Friendly Advice
John wasn’t even surprised when the payphone next to him started mysteriously ringing the moment he passed it; he just sighed and entered the phone booth. The voice he heard when he picked up the phone was exactly whom he suspected it would be, too.
“Ah, John. So good of you to -”
“I know you know I’ve a phone,” John said, interrupting Mycroft. “You’ve used it to get in touch with me before.”
“Yes, but anything so ludicrously easy to trace is completely out of the question at the moment, John. Now, I expect you know what to do when the black car pulls up to the corner in a moment? Good.”
The phone went dead.
John sighed and walked over to the curb, getting into the black car - a different black car from the one last time, but still the same in the essentials (i.e., being something he could imagine someone who was a Torchwood fanboy had once thought would be a really clever idea for an easily-disguised, ominous-looking vehicle) - without a fuss. In some respects, this sort of thing had become what was normal for his life, after he met Sherlock.
Anthea was sitting in the backseat, just as she had been last time, holding her Blackberry in her hand exactly the same way, giving John a nice sense of déjà vu. This time, at least, he felt no immediate urge to ask her out. He currently had a steady (well, for a given amount of steady, anyways) relationship, thank you very much. He was no longer quite so desperate.
He gave her a perfunctory smile instead, and sat down. “Do you do this kind of thing often?” he asked, both trying to make small talk and genuinely curious, as the car sped off into the midday London traffic. “Picking up random people for Mycroft, I mean.”
She smiled at him, the same insincere smile as last time, too. He wondered if she practiced it often. Possibly in mirrors. “It happens.”
“I see.” He nodded. His mobile buzzed in his pocket, but the look Anthea shot him when he reached to answer it made him reconsider.
“Can I -?” He indicted the ringing phone.
She smiled. “No.”
He said nothing. It was probably Sherlock, anyways, texting to tell him that he had accidentally blown out the windows again doing an experiment, and John needed to pick up some sheet glass on his way home. Alternatively, they had a new case, and while John hated it when Sherlock went off and put himself into needlessly dangerous situations on his own, the crime scene itself usually wasn’t so deadly (well, for anyone other than the victim, obviously), and John could certainly do with a few less dismembered bodies in his life.
They pulled up to an office building - an office building John remembered, in fact, because he had visited it during the affair with the Bruce-Partington plans. Which meant that the whole car thing had been completely pointlessly dramatic - not that that fact had ever stopped Mycroft from doing anything in the past. John sighed as he got out of the car.
Anthea led him into the building, and John was tempted to press the button for her in the elevator, just to prove that he knew where they were, but decided to refrain from actively antagonizing her. Instead, they ascended to the tenth floor in silence. She led him down the hallway, before leaving him by himself in front of an unmarked door - not the same unmarked door as it had been last week, John realized, but one directly across the hall from the unmarked door behind which Mycroft’s office used to be. Maybe he liked changing the scenery outside the window, or maybe he just liked being mysterious.
He knocked, and then let himself in when he realized the door was open. Mycroft was standing by the side of the desk, holding the receiver of a phone in one hand and listening to whoever was speaking; he gestured silently to the chair, then continued his conversation. This time, John sat.
After five minutes of listening to Mycroft saying things that made so little sense John had given up even trying to guess what they meant (and ignoring what were presumably six more texts from Sherlock), John happened to glance at the screen of the laptop perched on the desk in front of him. It was turned slightly toward him, he realized, at an angle that made it just possible for him to see everything on the screen, while still allowing Mycroft to plausibly deny that this had been his intention all along. It was clear though, as the first photo of Mycroft’s screensaver flashed across the screen, that he had intended John to notice it. John’s eyes widened in shock for a moment as his own birth certificate appeared on the screen, watching in fascination as that changed into a few baby photos of him, before switching to a photo of his family on vacation in France when he was six (his mom, tall and willowy, was kissing his dad, tall and stocky, while he and his sister, tall and skinny, were running around like mad ragamuffins (honestly, he’d no idea how he’d ended up short, because everyone other than himself in his family was tall - it just wasn’t fair)), and then a succession of photos from school yearbooks over the next few years. Driver’s license - prom photos - graduation photo - some pictures he and his roommates had taken of them fooling around during the first week of school - him on the football field - him in the hospital (he’d caught a ridiculously bad strain of influenza during his first year of uni) - him in the lab ... By the time this impromptu slideshow of his life reached scans of his enlistment papers, Mycroft had finished his phone call; now he just stood behind John in mute silence, watching the other man see his life flash by on Mycroft’s laptop screen.
At last, they reached photos from the last three months - him and Sherlock, running, ducking, getting shot at, nearly getting blown up, getting strangled (multiple times, in Sherlock’s case), eating at various restaurant, watching Bond movies together, and, most damningly, in the last photo, kissing in an antique bookshop.
John remembered that last one - it had been just last week, when they were on a case and John had managed to solve things by figuring out that the copyright date on one of the killer’s very rare, first edition books was wrong, and Sherlock, caught up in the moment and very, very proud of John, had kissed him in front of the very surprised proprietor of the bookshop. It wasn’t the type of thing you forgot, your first kiss with Sherlock Holmes.
Mycroft at last swept around to the other side of the desk, sitting down opposite John. He moved the laptop out of the way, resting his elbows on the edge of the desk and steepling his fingers.
“Now, I hope we can come to a proper understanding, John,” he said at last. “Sherlock is, as you know, of course, my younger brother.”
John nodded.
“And, as we both know, Sherlock is ... unused to emotional matters. He does not understand intra-personal affairs; he can barely comprehend relationships. He cannot accurately predict the emotional blow that would be dealt to him should things go ... wrong.”
John’s mobile went off, and he pulled it out to check it before Mycroft could say anything to stop him, frankly annoyed at this point with Sherlock for - well, everything. Sending him too many texts. Having an insanely powerful older brother.
“Assuming you’re with Mycroft,” the text read. “Ask him how diet is going. Pick up a dozen white roses, red carnations, and pink tulips before coming home. Need them for case. SH.”
“Sherlock wants to know how the diet’s going,” John said, looking up at Mycroft.
“It’s fine,” Mycroft said, the irritation in his tone audible. “As I was saying, I would hate to be you if anything went wrong with Sherlock, because ... well, with modern technology, there are so many things that can happen to a man who happens to get on the black list of the British government, aren’t there? Documents are so easy to forge - and even easier to get rid of. People can just,” he paused, as if searching for the word, and then, with a bloodless smile, continued, “disappear. I don’t think I have to explain everything to you in detail - I wouldn’t want to bore you, John - but I believe you understand exactly what I mean.”
“Quite clearly, yeah,” John said.
“Sherlock is my younger brother,” Mycroft said again. “Rest assured that I will blame anything that happens to him on you, Dr. Watson.”
“Thanks for that.”
“I trust you can see yourself out,” Mycroft said, and then picked up the phone on his desk and began dialing. John stood up and walked out, nearly knocking over the umbrella resting on the wall by door on his way out.
Now, by a dozen, had Sherlock meant a dozen of each type of flower? Or a dozen in general? If a dozen in general, how many of each did he want? Buying a dozen of each seemed like the safest recourse ... John had already located the nearest florist with his phone by the time he left the building. Things like this, too, had become everyday for him since he became involved with Sherlock Holmes.