When I Look in the Mirror I See Double (1/2), R, Mycroft/John/Mycroft
Title: When I Look in the Mirror I See Double (1/2)
Pairing: Mycroft/John/Mycroft
Rating: R
Length: 12200 words
Summary: Mycroft and 'Anthea' are one mind in two bodies. Literally.
Notes: The kink meme is really weird you guys. I don't even know. Originally posted for the kink meme, here.
He doesn't realize he's different until he's three, when his mother buys him two of the same stuffed animal and he asks why she did so, each of him holding one of the large, floppy-eared dogs -- one by the ears and one around the middle, while trying to decide which way he likes best.
"So you both have one and don't have to share," his mother says, which makes no sense at all, really -- why would he want to play with two things that looked the same, if he could have had two that looked different instead?
"But they look the same," Clarice says, as Mycroft takes the one she's holding and goes to put them in his room. "Why can't we have ones that look different?"
"Well, what if Mycroft likes yours more?" his mother says, and he doesn't understand what she means.
He figures it out later, of course, after his mother tries to teach him how to read by making both Mycroft and Clarice sit at the table together, even though he can learn just fine if only one of them is there. "Why do you need both of us here?" he asks reasonably. "We won't learn any faster."
"Clarice needs to know this too," his mother replies, and sits her down when she tries to get up.
"But I'll know it when you teach Mycroft," she says. "So why should I sit here too?"
"Is Mycroft going to teach you how to read?" his mother asks sarcastically, and Mycroft and Clarice both frown.
"We're twins," Mycroft says, because he has not yet realized that twins are still two people, and he is something else entirely. "If you tell me, Clarice will know too."
After his mother figures out what he means (and tests it too, by having him draw the same thing twice, in two different rooms), she makes him promise not to tell anyone, ever. "It's dangerous," she says, "no one's ever been like this before. They'll take you away if they find out."
"Not even Papa?" he asks, when she tucks him into bed.
"Not even Papa," she agrees, and kisses his forehead -- first Mycroft, then Clarice. When the door closes, Mycroft does what he's done for as long as he's been mobile. He slides out of his bed and into Clarice's, curling comfortably around himself.
--
Being two separate people isn't impossible, but it is mildly confusing -- there are people and events that he's supposed to know or not know, depending on which body is doing the interacting, and while he's certainly smart enough to keep track of it all, it's... boring. Tedious. A waste of his mental capabilities.
There are limitless practical applications for what he can do, starting at coordinating his sleeping schedules so he can be conscious all the time and only getting better from there. He can't learn one thing twice as quickly, not exactly, but he can read two things at once or study two different subjects at the same time.
Muscle memory persists across both bodies. When he figures this out, he spends a solid week reading everything he can find about the brain, fascinated and gleeful. Later, he'll be disappointed that this doesn't extend to hand-to-hand combat because of his different centers of gravity, but when he realizes Mycroft and Clarice can play the piano with equal skill and half the total practice, it is the most brilliant thing ever.
--
Sherlock figures it out, of course.
"Mycroft," Sherlock says, when Mycroft and Clarice come home for the holidays. Mycroft checks on him while Clarice plays the dutiful daughter (his father doesn't know, and his mother doesn't truly understand, he suspects, or they wouldn't be expecting Mycroft to do the same later).
Mycroft looks at him. "Mummy says you set your curtains on fire last month."
"Did Mother tell you this, or Clarice?" Sherlock asks. He is taller than when Clarice saw him last. She'd gone home for winter hols while Mycroft had visited Sweden with some friends (a successful experiment -- he'd been able to keep track of both things at once, and had been rather proud of himself for weeks afterwards).
"The letter was addressed to the both of us," Mycroft replies, but that isn't the question Sherlock's really asking. In another part of the house, Clarice makes her excuses and goes to his room to unpack their things. "Well-observed, baby brother."
"Do you and Clarice ever want different things?" Sherlock asks curiously. "I mean, of course one of you could be hungry or cold when the other one isn't. But anything else? Why does Mycroft study Political Science while Clarice studies Economics?"
"Because those were my top two choices," Mycroft answers. "I can do both. It comes in useful."
"Do you speak when you and she are the only ones in the room?" Sherlock answers the question himself when Mycroft only stares at him. "Right, of course you wouldn't. There'd be no need to. Who else knows?"
"Mummy has an idea of it; no one else. Also, it's almost time for dinner. Mummy wants me to fetch you," Mycroft says, because their mother had told Clarice to fetch Mycroft and Sherlock for dinner when she finished unpacking her things.
When Clarice finally arrives (Mycroft stops talking and she picks up the thread of conversation seamlessly), Sherlock looks between them thoughtfully and says, "Mycroft, when you -- at night, do you and she ever..."
"There's no 'me and she'," Clarice says, and finishes pointedly as Mycroft, "Just me."
He doesn't answer the question.
--
"Hi again. Anthea, right?" John says to Clarice when Mycroft sends the car for him. He gives her a hopeful smile.
"Melanie, actually. I'm sorry, did you want something?" she asks politely.
The smile fades slightly, but John presses on. "Are you working tonight?"
For a moment, he's tempted to say no, and let John ask him out. Because John is kind, loyal, and surprisingly fit under his jumpers. Also, it'd drive Sherlock mad. But he's really more Mycroft than not (and John seems to still think his name is Anthea; he ought to correct that at some point), and it'd be dishonest.
But more importantly, Sherlock would probably figure it out and tell John within an hour of him getting home, so it's really out of the question. "I'm always working," she responds with an insincere smile, and looks back at her BlackBerry; she's researching the notes Mycroft will need for a meeting later.
"Well, I'm sure your boss wouldn't mind if you took a day off," John says.
Mycroft hates when men try to pick him up. It's always so clumsy, as if being moderately aesthetically pleasing somehow turns them into brutes. Not that he'd consider John a brute, and his earnestness is charming. But still.
"Not happening," she says, again politely. She doesn't bother to look at him this time, and they spend the rest of the ride in silence.
--
It's a routine meeting -- pick John up, congratulate him on not letting Sherlock die, once again offer to help John with his finances in exchange for information about Sherlock (John turns him down, again, on the principle of the matter), give John a case to pass to Sherlock which will largely be ignored until Mycroft makes a personal visit.
Mycroft's focus is mostly on Moriarty -- he's just received a couple promising leads, and he'll need to deploy teams to follow through on them, so he's surprised when John gives him a hesitant look and says, "So, Anthea."
"Her name's not actually Anthea," Mycroft comments, and raises an eyebrow. Clarice has already returned to his office, and is managing the daily minor crises that supposedly need his 'full' attention.
"So what's her real name?"
"I can't tell you that." Her real name's Clarice, but the one on her identification is Annabelle, and the name she gives people varies by the week. It's become a minor entertainment, choosing different names according to his mood.
"Is she seeing anybody?"
He hasn't had anyone ask him about himself since he'd gone to uni with both bodies and shared a flat with himself. "Not in the strictest sense, no," he concedes. "But she doesn't date."
"Why not?"
Because she's him, and John knows the both of them but doesn't know that. Because John's only attracted to her because she's pretty. Because in the strictest sense of the word, he's not even really a woman. He just pretends to be one when it's convenient for him, when he needs to be underestimated or unobtrusive.
On the other hand, it'd be interesting even if things were to end disastrously. But that's unlikely -- John's bisexual, and has had relationships with men in the past. Plus, he gets along with Sherlock, and no one gets along with Sherlock.
Then again, he does love things that are interesting.
"She has her reasons. But if you're interested, I can send her to your flat around, hmm, Friday 7 PM?"
John's body language goes immediately defensive. His eyes narrow suspiciously. "I don't need you to force her to go out with me if she doesn't want to. I'm not that hard up for dates, thanks. Is this part of one of your games with Sherlock?"
"I wouldn't worry about that," Mycroft dismisses. He's used to speaking about himself in the third person by now. "I'm hardly going to make her do something against her will. Friday, 7 PM. I'll send the car."
--
When it comes time to figure out what to do after uni, he decides he likes Mycroft more. There's nothing wrong with Clarice, but he doesn't like being a girl as much -- he doesn't like the way people treat her, nor the way she's expected to act. The clothes are less comfortable, and the respect her presence commands insufficient.
By his last year, Mycroft has several employment offers from a small number of promising government organizations, and Clarice has none. The former is important but the latter hardly matters. It's pointless to focus on two careers at once when he can truly excel at one instead.
He takes one of Mycroft's offers and focuses as much attention as he can on it, using both brains to achieve one goal. Several times, he hits upon a key realization when Clarice is awake but Mycroft asleep.
He installs Clarice as his assistant when the moment becomes opportune (in the meantime, she gets a doctorate -- because she can, and because he'd rather learn than do something boring, until he has enough strings to pull that he can get what he wants).
There are so many things people will say when they think their only listener is a secretary, or a woman; it turns out to be almost completely unnecessary to review the transcripts from the bugs just outside his office.
--
On Friday, Clarice takes a shower before her date while Mycroft goes through their shared closet to find her clothes for the night, envisioning herself in each outfit until he finds the one John would like best. He sets it on their bed, then fetches her boots from the closet. She normally doesn't wear them, but they make her legs look longer without making her taller. She's already a bit taller than John, so heels are out of the question.
It's a habit of his to use both bodies on the same task when no one's around, so Mycroft dries her hair while Clarice applies perfume to her suprasternal notch and the undersides of her wrists. When she accents her mouth with a small amount of lipstick, Mycroft runs the brush through her hair, then follows it with his fingers to coax out the worst of the static.
He helps her get dressed, passing her clothes to her so she doesn't have to pause to retrieve each article. Plain underthings, of course, as it's only a first date. He considers her when he's done. Not bad, he thinks, though the outfit will be a little chilly, if John wants to go for a walk. Perhaps John will offer her his jacket.
--
John flushes slightly when he opens his door. His eyes flick up and down her body. "Hi! I, um, wasn't sure Mycroft was serious when he said he'd..." He trails off.
"When he said I would go out with you tonight?" She finishes for him.
"You know you don't have to, right? I mean, if you don't want to, that's fine. I don't want you to feel obligated. I won't be mad or anything." Except that John's hair is still damp from his shower, and he's wearing a button-down shirt that nicely emphasizes his broad shoulders. He wants to touch them (with either body, to see how much strength is really stored in John's muscles).
"I don't mind. Did you decide yet what you want to do? I believe dinner, sometimes followed by drinks, is traditional."
"That sounds great." John smiles at her. "Are you still going by Melanie?"
"No, I decided I don't like the i-e combination at the end. I haven't chosen a new one yet. Any suggestions?"
John holds the car door open for her. He wouldn't, if Mycroft had gone instead (but then, he wouldn't have asked Mycroft in the first place). "I thought Anthea was nice, personally."
"Anthea for tonight, then," she agrees.
--
When he is nineteen, no one asks out Mycroft Holmes, but plenty of young men try their luck with his twin sister Clarice. Most of the time, he turns them down. He has his studies to attend to, and people to meet with, and a teenaged brother to keep from driving their mother mad.
But he says yes sometimes, because relationships are the sort of thing one needs personal experience to to truly understand, and he intends to understand everything. Clarice has the social life Mycroft can't be seen to have (he needs a reputable past if he's to go into government work, and unfortunately, he harbors no attraction to women).
He gets bored of most men after the first few dates -- too stupid, too shallow, too obvious when their eyes linger on Clarice's chest and their hands slide tentatively up her thigh, pursuing sex with a tenacity the subject matter really doesn't deserve. Clarice has sex with them anyway on occasion, when he's bored or because he's curious, but doesn't usually keep them around for long.
"I haven't been on a proper date in a long time," She admits to John as they wait for the waiters to bring them their meal. "Not since, hmm... Uni, I think."
John looks at her with honest surprise. "Really? Why not? I'd think you could get loads of blokes. Work?"
"Mostly," she agrees, and taps the tip of her fork against her lips before remembering the lipstick he'd put on earlier. He hadn't really liked the men who'd asked Clarice out before, and after uni, he'd experimented instead as Mycroft, before his career had started to require more of his attention and when discretion had been easier.
"What's it like working for Mycroft?" John asks, taking a sip of water. His face is open and friendly, a far cry from the guarded, wary expressions he wears when Mycroft asks him questions about his younger brother.
"Oh, it's alright." She handles all the electronic correspondences and sometimes even actual secretarial work while Mycroft takes care of the physical meetings. "How's living with Sherlock?"
John is freer with his words when he's on a date, and he tells her about Sherlock's tendencies towards using John's laptop and leaving toxic chemicals in jars in the fridge. He describes the way Sherlock likes to throw himself on furniture when he's in a sulk, and complains about how Sherlock never does any of the cleaning. He is halfway through an anecdote about the time Sherlock managed to stain his hands with silver nitrate when his phone buzzes.
"Text from Sherlock?" She asks, and looks at her plate, sneaking a glance at John to gauge his emotions -- it can't be anything important, of course, or else Mycroft's phone would have buzzed as well. John's mildly irritated face confirms that he knows he's being interrupted on a whim.
John sighs and slips the phone back into his pocket without replying. "It's nothing important," he says.
"He'll text again within the five minutes if you don't respond," she comments.
"He knows better. I'm on a date," and John smiles so shyly at her that she can't help but smile back, despite the fact that he's seen the CCTV footage, and knows that Sherlock's deliberately interrupted a good 40% of John Watson's dates (or 100% if one counted electronic intervention).
"If you say so," she replies, and is not surprised when, three minutes later, John's phone buzzes again. Sherlock's bored, not high (it's been a couple years, and Mycroft still counts each day Sherlock stays clean as a minor victory), and knows that John is enjoying his date. Sherlock does not know that John is currently on a date with his elder sister (else one of him would have received an irate text message by now).
"Sorry," John says, and sets the phone aside on the table. "I don't know what he wants. Probably just to have me run an errand for him. Where were we?"
"You were talking about Sherlock," she reminds him, with no small amount of amusement. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather be on a date with him?"
"Oh, god, no. I think I'd strangle him to death if I ever dated him." John laughs. "If he's this bad now that he knows I like him, I can't even begin to imagine how he'd act if he thought I loved him."
Mycroft doesn't have to imagine; he has an entire budget dedicated to cleaning up Sherlock's messes and ensuring he has clothes and food and the like. It's separate from the budget allocated for handling Sherlock's enemies, which is larger but also more useful, as Sherlock's enemies are not infrequently enemies of the state as well.
Unconditional love can be so inconvenient, sometimes (but he wouldn't trade it away for anything).
"Sherlock's hard to get along with," She agrees. "He likes to push people and always forgets that sometimes, he won't be forgiven for it." Sherlock's family had always forgiven his actions, and he thinks it's spoiled him, a little. In social interactions, certainly.
John, he expects, is probably not going to help the matter.
"Do you -- have you known Sherlock for long, then? When did you meet him?"
She gives him a tight smile, and a moment later, John's phone buzzes. It's not Sherlock this time -- he knows this because it's from his phone, because he'd had to pause the typing up of his commands for containing the Sudanese incident in order to send it. It's generally considered bad form to talk about men you're attracted to during a date. it reads.
John frowns and presses a button the screen curiously. "Blocked number, not Sherlock."
He knows when John's read his text because he flushes with embarrassment and hastily closes it. But he chalks it up as a success, because John changes the subject to the latest films instead, and he's seen enough of them to hold up his end of the conversation.
--
When the car stops in front of 221B Baker Street, she walks John to the door. John takes her hand in his and gives her a brief kiss on the mouth. It is their first kiss, formal and expected and just a little bit uncertain. Nice, though. She kisses him back.
His thumb strokes the back of her hand. "Do you want to come inside? For tea or, I think I might have a bottle of wine lying around?" John does; Mycroft had had it sent as a Christmas gift the previous year.
"No thank you," she replies, and nods at the car idling at the side of the street. "I should get back to work."
"You're going back to work? Bit late, isn't it?"
"Working from home," she says. "Good night."
He's still en route to his house when Clarice's phone receives the irritated text from Sherlock (Mycroft's phone receives it too, at the same time).
What are you playing at, Mycroft?
SH
It's followed by several more, in quick succession.
Is this a ruse to manipulate him into spying on me?
SH
He doesn't know we're related.
SH
He doesn't know about you either. Any of it.
SH
Are you going to tell him?
SH
It was just a date, Anthea types out, because Mycroft is in the middle of a conference call. Not everything is about you, Sherlock.
--
Mycroft doesn't intend anything to come of the date. He has work and he doesn't really have the time to pursue an actual relationship. It'd just been a nice way to pass an evening, and easier than repeatedly turning down John's advances. He's not even in the country (though Clarice is) three days later, when Mycroft gets an unexpected text from Sherlock.
John doesn't have Clarice's phone number.
SH
For a moment, he doesn't understand what Sherlock means (though in his defense, Mycroft's busy mentally examining pages of statistics for inconsistencies right now, so there isn't a significant amount of his concentration allocated to Clarice).
Unfortunately, Clarice hasn't got the personal phone, Mycroft does. A trade would be mildly inconvenient.
I don't have one, Clarice replies from her BlackBerry -- the one he uses exclusively for work. Tell him Mycroft and Clarice are twins.
Sherlock's reply arrives less than ten minutes later. Told him after the "date". I'll let him know you aren't available. SH
A perfectly acceptable outcome. He doesn't bother to reply.
Except that Clarice's work phone buzzes not two hours later. The message is from John, but Sherlock's phone number is the one that shows up on the screen.
Hi! Is this Anthea? Or Clarice? Sherlock's being a prat, but I had a good time the other day. Would you like to go out again sometime? :) -John
He really oughtn't. He really oughtn't. But he thinks about the look on Sherlock's face when he realizes they've been on a second date, and the feel of John's hand on his, and the warm, comfortable press of John's shoulder against his own. Mostly the latter, and that's what makes the decision for him.
Mycroft's away on business right now, so I'm rather busy, Clarice responds. But how does Friday after next sound?
--
"Are you my brother or my sister?" Sherlock asks one time, while they are all at home for Christmas. He is perched on the armchair in a corner of Clarice's room, legs drawn up to his knees. His shoes are on the seat; their mother would throw a fit if she saw. He eyes Mycroft and Clarice narrowly.
Clarice lies on the bed, and Mycroft lies between her legs. The back of his head rests on her breasts. Clarice's hands hold up the book, but Mycroft's eyes are the ones to read it.
"I'm your sister," she says, turning the page when he reaches the end of the current one, "and Mycroft is your brother. I suppose that means I'm both."
"You can't be both," Sherlock says, frowning.
"Why not?"
Sherlock doesn't have an answer, because apparently Mycroft perceives the world in a way different from most people (where, in this case, even Sherlock is in the majority). Because Clarice is a woman, and Mycroft is a man, which means that he is both. He finds about as much existential significance in this as normal people might find in the fact that they have both a left and right hand.
If he'd thought it was any of Sherlock's business, or if he'd bothered to be more introspective about it, he might have said, "You think of your body as a container for your mind. I think of my bodies as two possessions I own and control, with the same mind present in both. I'm Clarice just as much as I am Mycroft."
But it's really none of Sherlock's business, and he really hasn't thought about it much aside from its practical applications (there are a lot of practical applications), so he doesn't say anything.
--
Sherlock steals John halfway through their second date in order to pursue a serial arsonist. In theory, he doesn't mind, because it's always nice seeing his younger brother do something that isn't entirely self-destructive. But he does mind the fact that neither John nor Sherlock lets him know when it's over (he finds out from Scotland Yard instead).
Clarice retaliates by accepting John's invitation to come into to John's flat for some tea at the end of their third date, and afterwards, lets him press her against the sofa and slide his hands around her waist.
By the time Sherlock returns from Bart's, carrying a box of human body parts (he already has a collection of most extremities, so likely to be an internal organ, most likely a lung based on what little of the label he can see and the way Sherlock is humming slightly under his breath), one of John's hands is cupping Clarice's right breast under her bra, and her mouth is on his throat. Her hands are on John's hips, unsure if she wants to stop him from proceeding further.
The box doesn't fall to the ground (Sherlock's much too aware of himself to ever let that happen), but Sherlock does stop abruptly and make a noise of deep disgust. "Don't do that on the sofa. I sit on that."
Clarice smothers her laugh against John's neck as he groans. She pushes lightly at his shoulders. "Sorry, Sherlock," John says as he buttons his shirt back up. "I thought you'd be out all night."
"No, he merely went to Bart's for a few hours," Clarice corrects; Mycroft had seen the surveillance footage when Sherlock had left the flat, and he'd been grinning in the anticipatory way that always meant he was fetching more things to experiment on. "Lungs again?"
"I need to see the effect different poisonous gases have on lung tissue," Sherlock says curtly. He stares at her and John. She isn't surprised when Sherlock makes another annoyed noise and storms to the kitchen to deposit his lungs.
"Sorry," John murmurs to Clarice, his eyes following Sherlock's path. "Do you want to move to the bedroom?" he suggests, at the same time that Clarice extricates herself from him and says,
"I think I should leave now."
Disappointment flickers in his eyes but he walks her to the door, hand on the small of her back. They trade brief kisses at the doorway. "I'll see you later, yeah?"
"Of course."
--
"I really ought to fire everyone who doesn't notice when you sneak past them," Clarice comments when Sherlock appears in front of her desk, having bypassed two sets of security personnel. The third set had identified Sherlock and notified Mycroft, but as they didn't have any non-lethal weaponry, hadn't bothered to try stopping him.
"What are you doing with John?" Sherlock demands. He puts his hands on Clarice's desk, looming over her threateningly.
She raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. "Dating him, apparently."
"Apparently," Sherlock repeats, as if Clarice had really said, "Lulling him into a false sense of security so I can replace him with a robot clone to monitor your every movement." As if he didn't have surveillance teams for that instead. "Why?"
"He asked me out. Multiple times. It seemed easier than saying no."
Sherlock stares at her intently. "You like him," he says in a tone that sounds a lot like you took away my chemistry set had when they'd been children. "You're dating him."
She sighs. "Why don't you go inside?" she asks, because Mycroft's just finished his call with the CIA, and it will be easier to remove this conversation from the records if it's recorded by the bugs in his office instead of the ones outside it. "Mycroft's schedule is free for the next thirty minutes."
Sherlock does so, throwing himself into the chair on the opposite side of Mycroft's desk in a way that means he's gearing up for a truly spectacular sulk.
"I'm not the one who has to live with you, Sherlock," Mycroft reminds him as Clarice returns to her BlackBerry -- John has been texting him at work, which is moderately entertaining if only because several of Mycroft's men are currently trying to decide if, when, and how they want to tell him that it appears his twin sister is cheating on him with his younger brother's flatmate. "I don't care how much you sulk."
"You and John. You're -- He doesn't know he's dating you too," Sherlock informs him, slouching down in his chair.
"I'm aware of that," Mycroft says, and looks steadily at his younger brother. This is not how Sherlock normally acts. This is not how Sherlock's reacted to Mycroft's dating in the past (though that had been mostly snide comments, and they'd both been much younger then).
"Is there a difference between Clarice and Mycroft?" Sherlock asks abruptly, half-turned to look towards Clarice, though he can't see her through the door. "Aside from the obvious physical ones?"
"Career and influence. Expectations that have to be met," Mycroft says. "Everything of import is done under my name, and you already know she uses a false identity."
"Yes, obviously," Sherlock says crossly and settles back in his seat. "But aside from that."
"No. It's just hardware. Society has different rules for men and women, so sometimes we -- I -- act differently, but... aside from that, no." Mycroft folds his hands on the desk. "Why do you ask?"
Sherlock's never been interested before. But something's different. Something's different now, visible in the way his eyes slide from Mycroft's and the stubborn clench of his jaw. It's visible in the way Sherlock's lips tighten and he refuses to answer.
The reason hits Mycroft suddenly. It's not about him; it's about John.
But he's not jealous; if he was jealous, Mycroft would know -- Sherlock would be insufferable in his possessiveness, clinging and challenging and pressing all his buttons to make him go away (Mycroft doesn't mind; if Sherlock's happier having Mycroft's Stradivarius, he's welcome to keep it). So when he identifies what Sherlock's really feeling, he can't stop the surprised laugh that bubbles up in his throat.
"You're loyal to him. More than that, you're protective of him. I see Doctor Watson's loyalty has not been misplaced."
Sherlock scowls fiercely at him. "Shut up, Mycroft."
"Rest assured, little brother. I've hardly got a nefarious plan up my sleeve. They really are just dates." When Sherlock looks skeptical, Mycroft adds kindly, "If it'll make you believe me, most of the 'spying' I do on you is from the bugs in your flat -- there's no significant benefit to enrolling John's aid."
"So you genuinely care about him. Mycroft and Clarice. You're not just -- doing this for some plot."
"I haven't done that for years, Sherlock," Mycroft reminds him.
Sherlock looks like he wants to protest, or maybe say something else, but his phone buzzes and his eyes widen. "You told John on me!"
"Perhaps," Mycroft admits, because it's possible that as soon as Sherlock had come into his office, Clarice may have texted John about it, saying Sherlock was interrogating her about their relationship.
"I hate you," Sherlock mutters, halfway out the door, fingers already typing a response.
--
"Fuck," Clarice swears viciously when she missteps (his concentration is on Mycroft's conversation with Sherlock, so he doesn't notice the crack in the pavement) and her ankle gives out from under her. John catches her before she hits the ground, but her ankle still explodes in pain. "Fuck," she repeats again.
"Here, let me see," John says, and crouches down, wrapping warm fingers around the heel of her foot. He looks up at her after a few seconds. "It's just a little sprained. Does it hurt to walk?"
It hurts too much to carry her weight when she tries. She fishes her phone out of her purse. "Yes. I'll send for a car."
John's arm goes around her waist. "It'll be ten minutes before the car arrives. My flat's closer, and then we can put some ice on it."
--
When John pushes open the door and helps Clarice inside, Mycroft is already at the flat, talking to Sherlock (just an investigation into a missing foreign dignitary, is that so much to ask?). John stops short at the sight of Mycroft and Sherlock.
"Clarice sprained her ankle," John tells them.
"Obvious," Sherlock says to John. Mycroft has to bite his lip from agreeing with him; Clarice was limping and John was holding her up. It was rather obvious what had happened.
"Right, well, I'll just fetch some ice then." John helps her to the sofa next to Sherlock and then hesitates, looking between her and the kitchen, as if afraid to leave them alone together.
"John," Clarice says. "Whatever you're afraid he'll do, I've probably seen him do before. He is my brother. And he's so much better socialized, now that you're looking after him. Just like training a dog."
Sherlock scowls at her.
By the time John returns with the ice, wrapped in a hand towel, Sherlock and Mycroft have traded places. Clarice's bare ankle is in Mycroft's lap, where he prods it gently to test the pain. High heels can be so treacherous sometimes. Mycroft holds his hand out for the ice, which John hands to him after a second of staring.
"How's the pain?" John asks.
"She's fine," Mycroft replies, pressing the cold bundle against her ankle. "Hardly serious. Sherlock? If you don't do it, I'll have to find someone else who will, and no one quite has your finesse."
"You mean everyone else you have is incompetent," Sherlock says flatly.
"Compared to you, yes."
"You can do it yourself. Or make Clarice do it. You're just as capable, much as I hate to admit it."
"Sorry, I didn't know Sherlock and Mycroft were going to be over," John murmurs softly to Clarice. He toys with a lock of her hair. "Do you want to..." He trails off, looking hopefully up in the direction of his bedroom.
Clarice gives him a tight smile. She can't, not when Mycroft is here too. While he's capable of holding two conversations and sets of reactions at once, it significantly reduces his ability to make observations and conclusions. "No, it's fine," she says. "I should go home. There's a car coming for Mycroft in several minutes; I'll go with it."
"I don't want to," Sherlock is saying to Mycroft. His mouth set in a stubborn almost-pout that hasn't worked since he'd stopped being a teenager. "I'm busy."
"No you're not," Mycroft replies, because John had just been telling Clarice about how Sherlock was bored again and bringing undesirable things back to the flat in an attempt to alleviate said boredom.
He'd suggested posting the violin to Harriet's house and challenging Sherlock to find it (the important thing wasn't the location, but rather the travel time for Sherlock to get to the location). John had laughed himself sick when she'd told him about the time she and Mycroft had done something similar to Sherlock's favorite pair of shoes, when they'd been children and Sherlock had gone nosing about into his room.
"You're cheating again." Sherlock scowls at him. "I'm not going to help you if you're going to cheat."
John is apparently content to sit on the arm of the sofa and let Clarice rest her head against his thigh. His hand is on her hair, and it's -- nice, soothing. Interesting. It's not at all like the feel of Mycroft's hand on her heel, which feels exactly the way her own hand would -- interested but uninteresting, curious about the pain and casually comfortable with its location.
Both bodies tilt their heads back slightly, and he makes a pleased 'hmm' sound -- or, Mycroft does, and Sherlock gives him a sharp look, because that's the wrong body. John doesn't notice, but Sherlock has, because while physical sensation doesn't bleed through (he won't be limping on Mycroft's ankle), he only feels one set of emotions.
"I'll think about it," Sherlock says, and his eyes slide towards John, then Clarice, and finally land back on Mycroft. I'll do it if you tell him, it means.
He looks at John and himself; he looks surprisingly contented -- her body is content, relaxed because her ankle doesn't hurt all that much now that it's cold and not under strain. John's hand is in her hair, and his thigh is warm under the back of her head. He smells pleasant, too -- fresh, clean, and with a little bit of the smell of a hospital about him.
And he does rather like John.
"That's good to hear," Mycroft says, and stands up. Maybe. "The car is waiting outside. I'll see you later, Sherlock."
There is a moment of confusion where John and Mycroft both try to help Clarice up. Clarice grabs Mycroft's hand to get pulled up before John can say a word, leaving him looking put out and hurt.
"Sorry," Clarice says when he realizes what happened and gives John an apologetic smile. "Did you want to --"
"It's fine," John says, but his eyes follow Mycroft's arm around Clarice's back on their way out.
Part 2
Pairing: Mycroft/John/Mycroft
Rating: R
Length: 12200 words
Summary: Mycroft and 'Anthea' are one mind in two bodies. Literally.
Notes: The kink meme is really weird you guys. I don't even know. Originally posted for the kink meme, here.
He doesn't realize he's different until he's three, when his mother buys him two of the same stuffed animal and he asks why she did so, each of him holding one of the large, floppy-eared dogs -- one by the ears and one around the middle, while trying to decide which way he likes best.
"So you both have one and don't have to share," his mother says, which makes no sense at all, really -- why would he want to play with two things that looked the same, if he could have had two that looked different instead?
"But they look the same," Clarice says, as Mycroft takes the one she's holding and goes to put them in his room. "Why can't we have ones that look different?"
"Well, what if Mycroft likes yours more?" his mother says, and he doesn't understand what she means.
He figures it out later, of course, after his mother tries to teach him how to read by making both Mycroft and Clarice sit at the table together, even though he can learn just fine if only one of them is there. "Why do you need both of us here?" he asks reasonably. "We won't learn any faster."
"Clarice needs to know this too," his mother replies, and sits her down when she tries to get up.
"But I'll know it when you teach Mycroft," she says. "So why should I sit here too?"
"Is Mycroft going to teach you how to read?" his mother asks sarcastically, and Mycroft and Clarice both frown.
"We're twins," Mycroft says, because he has not yet realized that twins are still two people, and he is something else entirely. "If you tell me, Clarice will know too."
After his mother figures out what he means (and tests it too, by having him draw the same thing twice, in two different rooms), she makes him promise not to tell anyone, ever. "It's dangerous," she says, "no one's ever been like this before. They'll take you away if they find out."
"Not even Papa?" he asks, when she tucks him into bed.
"Not even Papa," she agrees, and kisses his forehead -- first Mycroft, then Clarice. When the door closes, Mycroft does what he's done for as long as he's been mobile. He slides out of his bed and into Clarice's, curling comfortably around himself.
--
Being two separate people isn't impossible, but it is mildly confusing -- there are people and events that he's supposed to know or not know, depending on which body is doing the interacting, and while he's certainly smart enough to keep track of it all, it's... boring. Tedious. A waste of his mental capabilities.
There are limitless practical applications for what he can do, starting at coordinating his sleeping schedules so he can be conscious all the time and only getting better from there. He can't learn one thing twice as quickly, not exactly, but he can read two things at once or study two different subjects at the same time.
Muscle memory persists across both bodies. When he figures this out, he spends a solid week reading everything he can find about the brain, fascinated and gleeful. Later, he'll be disappointed that this doesn't extend to hand-to-hand combat because of his different centers of gravity, but when he realizes Mycroft and Clarice can play the piano with equal skill and half the total practice, it is the most brilliant thing ever.
--
Sherlock figures it out, of course.
"Mycroft," Sherlock says, when Mycroft and Clarice come home for the holidays. Mycroft checks on him while Clarice plays the dutiful daughter (his father doesn't know, and his mother doesn't truly understand, he suspects, or they wouldn't be expecting Mycroft to do the same later).
Mycroft looks at him. "Mummy says you set your curtains on fire last month."
"Did Mother tell you this, or Clarice?" Sherlock asks. He is taller than when Clarice saw him last. She'd gone home for winter hols while Mycroft had visited Sweden with some friends (a successful experiment -- he'd been able to keep track of both things at once, and had been rather proud of himself for weeks afterwards).
"The letter was addressed to the both of us," Mycroft replies, but that isn't the question Sherlock's really asking. In another part of the house, Clarice makes her excuses and goes to his room to unpack their things. "Well-observed, baby brother."
"Do you and Clarice ever want different things?" Sherlock asks curiously. "I mean, of course one of you could be hungry or cold when the other one isn't. But anything else? Why does Mycroft study Political Science while Clarice studies Economics?"
"Because those were my top two choices," Mycroft answers. "I can do both. It comes in useful."
"Do you speak when you and she are the only ones in the room?" Sherlock answers the question himself when Mycroft only stares at him. "Right, of course you wouldn't. There'd be no need to. Who else knows?"
"Mummy has an idea of it; no one else. Also, it's almost time for dinner. Mummy wants me to fetch you," Mycroft says, because their mother had told Clarice to fetch Mycroft and Sherlock for dinner when she finished unpacking her things.
When Clarice finally arrives (Mycroft stops talking and she picks up the thread of conversation seamlessly), Sherlock looks between them thoughtfully and says, "Mycroft, when you -- at night, do you and she ever..."
"There's no 'me and she'," Clarice says, and finishes pointedly as Mycroft, "Just me."
He doesn't answer the question.
--
"Hi again. Anthea, right?" John says to Clarice when Mycroft sends the car for him. He gives her a hopeful smile.
"Melanie, actually. I'm sorry, did you want something?" she asks politely.
The smile fades slightly, but John presses on. "Are you working tonight?"
For a moment, he's tempted to say no, and let John ask him out. Because John is kind, loyal, and surprisingly fit under his jumpers. Also, it'd drive Sherlock mad. But he's really more Mycroft than not (and John seems to still think his name is Anthea; he ought to correct that at some point), and it'd be dishonest.
But more importantly, Sherlock would probably figure it out and tell John within an hour of him getting home, so it's really out of the question. "I'm always working," she responds with an insincere smile, and looks back at her BlackBerry; she's researching the notes Mycroft will need for a meeting later.
"Well, I'm sure your boss wouldn't mind if you took a day off," John says.
Mycroft hates when men try to pick him up. It's always so clumsy, as if being moderately aesthetically pleasing somehow turns them into brutes. Not that he'd consider John a brute, and his earnestness is charming. But still.
"Not happening," she says, again politely. She doesn't bother to look at him this time, and they spend the rest of the ride in silence.
--
It's a routine meeting -- pick John up, congratulate him on not letting Sherlock die, once again offer to help John with his finances in exchange for information about Sherlock (John turns him down, again, on the principle of the matter), give John a case to pass to Sherlock which will largely be ignored until Mycroft makes a personal visit.
Mycroft's focus is mostly on Moriarty -- he's just received a couple promising leads, and he'll need to deploy teams to follow through on them, so he's surprised when John gives him a hesitant look and says, "So, Anthea."
"Her name's not actually Anthea," Mycroft comments, and raises an eyebrow. Clarice has already returned to his office, and is managing the daily minor crises that supposedly need his 'full' attention.
"So what's her real name?"
"I can't tell you that." Her real name's Clarice, but the one on her identification is Annabelle, and the name she gives people varies by the week. It's become a minor entertainment, choosing different names according to his mood.
"Is she seeing anybody?"
He hasn't had anyone ask him about himself since he'd gone to uni with both bodies and shared a flat with himself. "Not in the strictest sense, no," he concedes. "But she doesn't date."
"Why not?"
Because she's him, and John knows the both of them but doesn't know that. Because John's only attracted to her because she's pretty. Because in the strictest sense of the word, he's not even really a woman. He just pretends to be one when it's convenient for him, when he needs to be underestimated or unobtrusive.
On the other hand, it'd be interesting even if things were to end disastrously. But that's unlikely -- John's bisexual, and has had relationships with men in the past. Plus, he gets along with Sherlock, and no one gets along with Sherlock.
Then again, he does love things that are interesting.
"She has her reasons. But if you're interested, I can send her to your flat around, hmm, Friday 7 PM?"
John's body language goes immediately defensive. His eyes narrow suspiciously. "I don't need you to force her to go out with me if she doesn't want to. I'm not that hard up for dates, thanks. Is this part of one of your games with Sherlock?"
"I wouldn't worry about that," Mycroft dismisses. He's used to speaking about himself in the third person by now. "I'm hardly going to make her do something against her will. Friday, 7 PM. I'll send the car."
--
When it comes time to figure out what to do after uni, he decides he likes Mycroft more. There's nothing wrong with Clarice, but he doesn't like being a girl as much -- he doesn't like the way people treat her, nor the way she's expected to act. The clothes are less comfortable, and the respect her presence commands insufficient.
By his last year, Mycroft has several employment offers from a small number of promising government organizations, and Clarice has none. The former is important but the latter hardly matters. It's pointless to focus on two careers at once when he can truly excel at one instead.
He takes one of Mycroft's offers and focuses as much attention as he can on it, using both brains to achieve one goal. Several times, he hits upon a key realization when Clarice is awake but Mycroft asleep.
He installs Clarice as his assistant when the moment becomes opportune (in the meantime, she gets a doctorate -- because she can, and because he'd rather learn than do something boring, until he has enough strings to pull that he can get what he wants).
There are so many things people will say when they think their only listener is a secretary, or a woman; it turns out to be almost completely unnecessary to review the transcripts from the bugs just outside his office.
--
On Friday, Clarice takes a shower before her date while Mycroft goes through their shared closet to find her clothes for the night, envisioning herself in each outfit until he finds the one John would like best. He sets it on their bed, then fetches her boots from the closet. She normally doesn't wear them, but they make her legs look longer without making her taller. She's already a bit taller than John, so heels are out of the question.
It's a habit of his to use both bodies on the same task when no one's around, so Mycroft dries her hair while Clarice applies perfume to her suprasternal notch and the undersides of her wrists. When she accents her mouth with a small amount of lipstick, Mycroft runs the brush through her hair, then follows it with his fingers to coax out the worst of the static.
He helps her get dressed, passing her clothes to her so she doesn't have to pause to retrieve each article. Plain underthings, of course, as it's only a first date. He considers her when he's done. Not bad, he thinks, though the outfit will be a little chilly, if John wants to go for a walk. Perhaps John will offer her his jacket.
--
John flushes slightly when he opens his door. His eyes flick up and down her body. "Hi! I, um, wasn't sure Mycroft was serious when he said he'd..." He trails off.
"When he said I would go out with you tonight?" She finishes for him.
"You know you don't have to, right? I mean, if you don't want to, that's fine. I don't want you to feel obligated. I won't be mad or anything." Except that John's hair is still damp from his shower, and he's wearing a button-down shirt that nicely emphasizes his broad shoulders. He wants to touch them (with either body, to see how much strength is really stored in John's muscles).
"I don't mind. Did you decide yet what you want to do? I believe dinner, sometimes followed by drinks, is traditional."
"That sounds great." John smiles at her. "Are you still going by Melanie?"
"No, I decided I don't like the i-e combination at the end. I haven't chosen a new one yet. Any suggestions?"
John holds the car door open for her. He wouldn't, if Mycroft had gone instead (but then, he wouldn't have asked Mycroft in the first place). "I thought Anthea was nice, personally."
"Anthea for tonight, then," she agrees.
--
When he is nineteen, no one asks out Mycroft Holmes, but plenty of young men try their luck with his twin sister Clarice. Most of the time, he turns them down. He has his studies to attend to, and people to meet with, and a teenaged brother to keep from driving their mother mad.
But he says yes sometimes, because relationships are the sort of thing one needs personal experience to to truly understand, and he intends to understand everything. Clarice has the social life Mycroft can't be seen to have (he needs a reputable past if he's to go into government work, and unfortunately, he harbors no attraction to women).
He gets bored of most men after the first few dates -- too stupid, too shallow, too obvious when their eyes linger on Clarice's chest and their hands slide tentatively up her thigh, pursuing sex with a tenacity the subject matter really doesn't deserve. Clarice has sex with them anyway on occasion, when he's bored or because he's curious, but doesn't usually keep them around for long.
"I haven't been on a proper date in a long time," She admits to John as they wait for the waiters to bring them their meal. "Not since, hmm... Uni, I think."
John looks at her with honest surprise. "Really? Why not? I'd think you could get loads of blokes. Work?"
"Mostly," she agrees, and taps the tip of her fork against her lips before remembering the lipstick he'd put on earlier. He hadn't really liked the men who'd asked Clarice out before, and after uni, he'd experimented instead as Mycroft, before his career had started to require more of his attention and when discretion had been easier.
"What's it like working for Mycroft?" John asks, taking a sip of water. His face is open and friendly, a far cry from the guarded, wary expressions he wears when Mycroft asks him questions about his younger brother.
"Oh, it's alright." She handles all the electronic correspondences and sometimes even actual secretarial work while Mycroft takes care of the physical meetings. "How's living with Sherlock?"
John is freer with his words when he's on a date, and he tells her about Sherlock's tendencies towards using John's laptop and leaving toxic chemicals in jars in the fridge. He describes the way Sherlock likes to throw himself on furniture when he's in a sulk, and complains about how Sherlock never does any of the cleaning. He is halfway through an anecdote about the time Sherlock managed to stain his hands with silver nitrate when his phone buzzes.
"Text from Sherlock?" She asks, and looks at her plate, sneaking a glance at John to gauge his emotions -- it can't be anything important, of course, or else Mycroft's phone would have buzzed as well. John's mildly irritated face confirms that he knows he's being interrupted on a whim.
John sighs and slips the phone back into his pocket without replying. "It's nothing important," he says.
"He'll text again within the five minutes if you don't respond," she comments.
"He knows better. I'm on a date," and John smiles so shyly at her that she can't help but smile back, despite the fact that he's seen the CCTV footage, and knows that Sherlock's deliberately interrupted a good 40% of John Watson's dates (or 100% if one counted electronic intervention).
"If you say so," she replies, and is not surprised when, three minutes later, John's phone buzzes again. Sherlock's bored, not high (it's been a couple years, and Mycroft still counts each day Sherlock stays clean as a minor victory), and knows that John is enjoying his date. Sherlock does not know that John is currently on a date with his elder sister (else one of him would have received an irate text message by now).
"Sorry," John says, and sets the phone aside on the table. "I don't know what he wants. Probably just to have me run an errand for him. Where were we?"
"You were talking about Sherlock," she reminds him, with no small amount of amusement. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather be on a date with him?"
"Oh, god, no. I think I'd strangle him to death if I ever dated him." John laughs. "If he's this bad now that he knows I like him, I can't even begin to imagine how he'd act if he thought I loved him."
Mycroft doesn't have to imagine; he has an entire budget dedicated to cleaning up Sherlock's messes and ensuring he has clothes and food and the like. It's separate from the budget allocated for handling Sherlock's enemies, which is larger but also more useful, as Sherlock's enemies are not infrequently enemies of the state as well.
Unconditional love can be so inconvenient, sometimes (but he wouldn't trade it away for anything).
"Sherlock's hard to get along with," She agrees. "He likes to push people and always forgets that sometimes, he won't be forgiven for it." Sherlock's family had always forgiven his actions, and he thinks it's spoiled him, a little. In social interactions, certainly.
John, he expects, is probably not going to help the matter.
"Do you -- have you known Sherlock for long, then? When did you meet him?"
She gives him a tight smile, and a moment later, John's phone buzzes. It's not Sherlock this time -- he knows this because it's from his phone, because he'd had to pause the typing up of his commands for containing the Sudanese incident in order to send it. It's generally considered bad form to talk about men you're attracted to during a date. it reads.
John frowns and presses a button the screen curiously. "Blocked number, not Sherlock."
He knows when John's read his text because he flushes with embarrassment and hastily closes it. But he chalks it up as a success, because John changes the subject to the latest films instead, and he's seen enough of them to hold up his end of the conversation.
--
When the car stops in front of 221B Baker Street, she walks John to the door. John takes her hand in his and gives her a brief kiss on the mouth. It is their first kiss, formal and expected and just a little bit uncertain. Nice, though. She kisses him back.
His thumb strokes the back of her hand. "Do you want to come inside? For tea or, I think I might have a bottle of wine lying around?" John does; Mycroft had had it sent as a Christmas gift the previous year.
"No thank you," she replies, and nods at the car idling at the side of the street. "I should get back to work."
"You're going back to work? Bit late, isn't it?"
"Working from home," she says. "Good night."
He's still en route to his house when Clarice's phone receives the irritated text from Sherlock (Mycroft's phone receives it too, at the same time).
What are you playing at, Mycroft?
SH
It's followed by several more, in quick succession.
Is this a ruse to manipulate him into spying on me?
SH
He doesn't know we're related.
SH
He doesn't know about you either. Any of it.
SH
Are you going to tell him?
SH
It was just a date, Anthea types out, because Mycroft is in the middle of a conference call. Not everything is about you, Sherlock.
--
Mycroft doesn't intend anything to come of the date. He has work and he doesn't really have the time to pursue an actual relationship. It'd just been a nice way to pass an evening, and easier than repeatedly turning down John's advances. He's not even in the country (though Clarice is) three days later, when Mycroft gets an unexpected text from Sherlock.
John doesn't have Clarice's phone number.
SH
For a moment, he doesn't understand what Sherlock means (though in his defense, Mycroft's busy mentally examining pages of statistics for inconsistencies right now, so there isn't a significant amount of his concentration allocated to Clarice).
Unfortunately, Clarice hasn't got the personal phone, Mycroft does. A trade would be mildly inconvenient.
I don't have one, Clarice replies from her BlackBerry -- the one he uses exclusively for work. Tell him Mycroft and Clarice are twins.
Sherlock's reply arrives less than ten minutes later. Told him after the "date". I'll let him know you aren't available. SH
A perfectly acceptable outcome. He doesn't bother to reply.
Except that Clarice's work phone buzzes not two hours later. The message is from John, but Sherlock's phone number is the one that shows up on the screen.
Hi! Is this Anthea? Or Clarice? Sherlock's being a prat, but I had a good time the other day. Would you like to go out again sometime? :) -John
He really oughtn't. He really oughtn't. But he thinks about the look on Sherlock's face when he realizes they've been on a second date, and the feel of John's hand on his, and the warm, comfortable press of John's shoulder against his own. Mostly the latter, and that's what makes the decision for him.
Mycroft's away on business right now, so I'm rather busy, Clarice responds. But how does Friday after next sound?
--
"Are you my brother or my sister?" Sherlock asks one time, while they are all at home for Christmas. He is perched on the armchair in a corner of Clarice's room, legs drawn up to his knees. His shoes are on the seat; their mother would throw a fit if she saw. He eyes Mycroft and Clarice narrowly.
Clarice lies on the bed, and Mycroft lies between her legs. The back of his head rests on her breasts. Clarice's hands hold up the book, but Mycroft's eyes are the ones to read it.
"I'm your sister," she says, turning the page when he reaches the end of the current one, "and Mycroft is your brother. I suppose that means I'm both."
"You can't be both," Sherlock says, frowning.
"Why not?"
Sherlock doesn't have an answer, because apparently Mycroft perceives the world in a way different from most people (where, in this case, even Sherlock is in the majority). Because Clarice is a woman, and Mycroft is a man, which means that he is both. He finds about as much existential significance in this as normal people might find in the fact that they have both a left and right hand.
If he'd thought it was any of Sherlock's business, or if he'd bothered to be more introspective about it, he might have said, "You think of your body as a container for your mind. I think of my bodies as two possessions I own and control, with the same mind present in both. I'm Clarice just as much as I am Mycroft."
But it's really none of Sherlock's business, and he really hasn't thought about it much aside from its practical applications (there are a lot of practical applications), so he doesn't say anything.
--
Sherlock steals John halfway through their second date in order to pursue a serial arsonist. In theory, he doesn't mind, because it's always nice seeing his younger brother do something that isn't entirely self-destructive. But he does mind the fact that neither John nor Sherlock lets him know when it's over (he finds out from Scotland Yard instead).
Clarice retaliates by accepting John's invitation to come into to John's flat for some tea at the end of their third date, and afterwards, lets him press her against the sofa and slide his hands around her waist.
By the time Sherlock returns from Bart's, carrying a box of human body parts (he already has a collection of most extremities, so likely to be an internal organ, most likely a lung based on what little of the label he can see and the way Sherlock is humming slightly under his breath), one of John's hands is cupping Clarice's right breast under her bra, and her mouth is on his throat. Her hands are on John's hips, unsure if she wants to stop him from proceeding further.
The box doesn't fall to the ground (Sherlock's much too aware of himself to ever let that happen), but Sherlock does stop abruptly and make a noise of deep disgust. "Don't do that on the sofa. I sit on that."
Clarice smothers her laugh against John's neck as he groans. She pushes lightly at his shoulders. "Sorry, Sherlock," John says as he buttons his shirt back up. "I thought you'd be out all night."
"No, he merely went to Bart's for a few hours," Clarice corrects; Mycroft had seen the surveillance footage when Sherlock had left the flat, and he'd been grinning in the anticipatory way that always meant he was fetching more things to experiment on. "Lungs again?"
"I need to see the effect different poisonous gases have on lung tissue," Sherlock says curtly. He stares at her and John. She isn't surprised when Sherlock makes another annoyed noise and storms to the kitchen to deposit his lungs.
"Sorry," John murmurs to Clarice, his eyes following Sherlock's path. "Do you want to move to the bedroom?" he suggests, at the same time that Clarice extricates herself from him and says,
"I think I should leave now."
Disappointment flickers in his eyes but he walks her to the door, hand on the small of her back. They trade brief kisses at the doorway. "I'll see you later, yeah?"
"Of course."
--
"I really ought to fire everyone who doesn't notice when you sneak past them," Clarice comments when Sherlock appears in front of her desk, having bypassed two sets of security personnel. The third set had identified Sherlock and notified Mycroft, but as they didn't have any non-lethal weaponry, hadn't bothered to try stopping him.
"What are you doing with John?" Sherlock demands. He puts his hands on Clarice's desk, looming over her threateningly.
She raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. "Dating him, apparently."
"Apparently," Sherlock repeats, as if Clarice had really said, "Lulling him into a false sense of security so I can replace him with a robot clone to monitor your every movement." As if he didn't have surveillance teams for that instead. "Why?"
"He asked me out. Multiple times. It seemed easier than saying no."
Sherlock stares at her intently. "You like him," he says in a tone that sounds a lot like you took away my chemistry set had when they'd been children. "You're dating him."
She sighs. "Why don't you go inside?" she asks, because Mycroft's just finished his call with the CIA, and it will be easier to remove this conversation from the records if it's recorded by the bugs in his office instead of the ones outside it. "Mycroft's schedule is free for the next thirty minutes."
Sherlock does so, throwing himself into the chair on the opposite side of Mycroft's desk in a way that means he's gearing up for a truly spectacular sulk.
"I'm not the one who has to live with you, Sherlock," Mycroft reminds him as Clarice returns to her BlackBerry -- John has been texting him at work, which is moderately entertaining if only because several of Mycroft's men are currently trying to decide if, when, and how they want to tell him that it appears his twin sister is cheating on him with his younger brother's flatmate. "I don't care how much you sulk."
"You and John. You're -- He doesn't know he's dating you too," Sherlock informs him, slouching down in his chair.
"I'm aware of that," Mycroft says, and looks steadily at his younger brother. This is not how Sherlock normally acts. This is not how Sherlock's reacted to Mycroft's dating in the past (though that had been mostly snide comments, and they'd both been much younger then).
"Is there a difference between Clarice and Mycroft?" Sherlock asks abruptly, half-turned to look towards Clarice, though he can't see her through the door. "Aside from the obvious physical ones?"
"Career and influence. Expectations that have to be met," Mycroft says. "Everything of import is done under my name, and you already know she uses a false identity."
"Yes, obviously," Sherlock says crossly and settles back in his seat. "But aside from that."
"No. It's just hardware. Society has different rules for men and women, so sometimes we -- I -- act differently, but... aside from that, no." Mycroft folds his hands on the desk. "Why do you ask?"
Sherlock's never been interested before. But something's different. Something's different now, visible in the way his eyes slide from Mycroft's and the stubborn clench of his jaw. It's visible in the way Sherlock's lips tighten and he refuses to answer.
The reason hits Mycroft suddenly. It's not about him; it's about John.
But he's not jealous; if he was jealous, Mycroft would know -- Sherlock would be insufferable in his possessiveness, clinging and challenging and pressing all his buttons to make him go away (Mycroft doesn't mind; if Sherlock's happier having Mycroft's Stradivarius, he's welcome to keep it). So when he identifies what Sherlock's really feeling, he can't stop the surprised laugh that bubbles up in his throat.
"You're loyal to him. More than that, you're protective of him. I see Doctor Watson's loyalty has not been misplaced."
Sherlock scowls fiercely at him. "Shut up, Mycroft."
"Rest assured, little brother. I've hardly got a nefarious plan up my sleeve. They really are just dates." When Sherlock looks skeptical, Mycroft adds kindly, "If it'll make you believe me, most of the 'spying' I do on you is from the bugs in your flat -- there's no significant benefit to enrolling John's aid."
"So you genuinely care about him. Mycroft and Clarice. You're not just -- doing this for some plot."
"I haven't done that for years, Sherlock," Mycroft reminds him.
Sherlock looks like he wants to protest, or maybe say something else, but his phone buzzes and his eyes widen. "You told John on me!"
"Perhaps," Mycroft admits, because it's possible that as soon as Sherlock had come into his office, Clarice may have texted John about it, saying Sherlock was interrogating her about their relationship.
"I hate you," Sherlock mutters, halfway out the door, fingers already typing a response.
--
"Fuck," Clarice swears viciously when she missteps (his concentration is on Mycroft's conversation with Sherlock, so he doesn't notice the crack in the pavement) and her ankle gives out from under her. John catches her before she hits the ground, but her ankle still explodes in pain. "Fuck," she repeats again.
"Here, let me see," John says, and crouches down, wrapping warm fingers around the heel of her foot. He looks up at her after a few seconds. "It's just a little sprained. Does it hurt to walk?"
It hurts too much to carry her weight when she tries. She fishes her phone out of her purse. "Yes. I'll send for a car."
John's arm goes around her waist. "It'll be ten minutes before the car arrives. My flat's closer, and then we can put some ice on it."
--
When John pushes open the door and helps Clarice inside, Mycroft is already at the flat, talking to Sherlock (just an investigation into a missing foreign dignitary, is that so much to ask?). John stops short at the sight of Mycroft and Sherlock.
"Clarice sprained her ankle," John tells them.
"Obvious," Sherlock says to John. Mycroft has to bite his lip from agreeing with him; Clarice was limping and John was holding her up. It was rather obvious what had happened.
"Right, well, I'll just fetch some ice then." John helps her to the sofa next to Sherlock and then hesitates, looking between her and the kitchen, as if afraid to leave them alone together.
"John," Clarice says. "Whatever you're afraid he'll do, I've probably seen him do before. He is my brother. And he's so much better socialized, now that you're looking after him. Just like training a dog."
Sherlock scowls at her.
By the time John returns with the ice, wrapped in a hand towel, Sherlock and Mycroft have traded places. Clarice's bare ankle is in Mycroft's lap, where he prods it gently to test the pain. High heels can be so treacherous sometimes. Mycroft holds his hand out for the ice, which John hands to him after a second of staring.
"How's the pain?" John asks.
"She's fine," Mycroft replies, pressing the cold bundle against her ankle. "Hardly serious. Sherlock? If you don't do it, I'll have to find someone else who will, and no one quite has your finesse."
"You mean everyone else you have is incompetent," Sherlock says flatly.
"Compared to you, yes."
"You can do it yourself. Or make Clarice do it. You're just as capable, much as I hate to admit it."
"Sorry, I didn't know Sherlock and Mycroft were going to be over," John murmurs softly to Clarice. He toys with a lock of her hair. "Do you want to..." He trails off, looking hopefully up in the direction of his bedroom.
Clarice gives him a tight smile. She can't, not when Mycroft is here too. While he's capable of holding two conversations and sets of reactions at once, it significantly reduces his ability to make observations and conclusions. "No, it's fine," she says. "I should go home. There's a car coming for Mycroft in several minutes; I'll go with it."
"I don't want to," Sherlock is saying to Mycroft. His mouth set in a stubborn almost-pout that hasn't worked since he'd stopped being a teenager. "I'm busy."
"No you're not," Mycroft replies, because John had just been telling Clarice about how Sherlock was bored again and bringing undesirable things back to the flat in an attempt to alleviate said boredom.
He'd suggested posting the violin to Harriet's house and challenging Sherlock to find it (the important thing wasn't the location, but rather the travel time for Sherlock to get to the location). John had laughed himself sick when she'd told him about the time she and Mycroft had done something similar to Sherlock's favorite pair of shoes, when they'd been children and Sherlock had gone nosing about into his room.
"You're cheating again." Sherlock scowls at him. "I'm not going to help you if you're going to cheat."
John is apparently content to sit on the arm of the sofa and let Clarice rest her head against his thigh. His hand is on her hair, and it's -- nice, soothing. Interesting. It's not at all like the feel of Mycroft's hand on her heel, which feels exactly the way her own hand would -- interested but uninteresting, curious about the pain and casually comfortable with its location.
Both bodies tilt their heads back slightly, and he makes a pleased 'hmm' sound -- or, Mycroft does, and Sherlock gives him a sharp look, because that's the wrong body. John doesn't notice, but Sherlock has, because while physical sensation doesn't bleed through (he won't be limping on Mycroft's ankle), he only feels one set of emotions.
"I'll think about it," Sherlock says, and his eyes slide towards John, then Clarice, and finally land back on Mycroft. I'll do it if you tell him, it means.
He looks at John and himself; he looks surprisingly contented -- her body is content, relaxed because her ankle doesn't hurt all that much now that it's cold and not under strain. John's hand is in her hair, and his thigh is warm under the back of her head. He smells pleasant, too -- fresh, clean, and with a little bit of the smell of a hospital about him.
And he does rather like John.
"That's good to hear," Mycroft says, and stands up. Maybe. "The car is waiting outside. I'll see you later, Sherlock."
There is a moment of confusion where John and Mycroft both try to help Clarice up. Clarice grabs Mycroft's hand to get pulled up before John can say a word, leaving him looking put out and hurt.
"Sorry," Clarice says when he realizes what happened and gives John an apologetic smile. "Did you want to --"
"It's fine," John says, but his eyes follow Mycroft's arm around Clarice's back on their way out.
Part 2