New Fic: How Mycroft Stopped Worrying About Sherlock
Title: How Mycroft Stopped Worrying About Sherlock (aka Who Protects the Protector?)
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD. Sherlock created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Warnings: Very mild reference to the possibility of past abuse, and Mycroft being well, Mycroft
Author’s Notes: Started with a joke list, ended up with, well, this.
Summary: Mycroft has worried about Sherlock all of Sherlock’s life. This, however, is all about to change.
Thank you to everyone who has commented on any of my other stories. It is my intention to respond to all the comments… eventually, but I love them all. Thanks.
Thanks, as always, to trillsabells for the beta and general cheer leading.
“I worry about him. Constantly.” - Mycroft “A Study in Pink”
*-*-*
To say Mycroft worried about Sherlock was to say that the war in Iraq was a mild embarrassment.
Barely a day went past when Mycroft did not cast his mind, however briefly, to the problem of his brother. This was not a new thing. No, very much not. Mycroft had been worrying about his younger brother since the moment he had first laid eyes on the scrawny, red splotched, crinkled infant and had, with a truly horrified expression, promptly asked if he was supposed to be like that. Turned out that while there had been nothing wrong with new born Sherlock, that same question could be answered with both a yes and a completely resounding no. It was also a question that had plagued him for thirty-two years so far and would probably continue to do so for the rest of his life.
Yes, he worried about Sherlock. Constantly.
Sherlock, being Sherlock, of course failed to appreciate this concern and would actually do his best to make Mycroft’s job even harder than it had to be. Trouble at school, problems at Oxford, drugs - cocaine and morphine, how pedestrian - not wanting to get a proper job to put his exceptional talents to good use, not caring about anything. The boy was a nuisance of the highest order, resisting all help and advice, even if it cost him. He couldn’t even manage to keep a steady address for a reasonable length of time, let alone a flatmate. There seemed to be no limit to the sorts of people Sherlock could infuriate.
The Sherlock Problem was almost as much of a challenge as the current whole world financial market collapse.
Then a new file was dropped onto his desk.
It was there waiting for him following his meeting with the Home Secretary. He knew without even opening it that it had something to do with his wayward brother. Sherlock always did seem to go out of his way to make trouble wherever and whenever he could. Such files were becoming annoyingly common place. Sherlock always tended to wear his toys out far sooner than he should, or else he got bored with them. A new file meant a new toy. He wondered how this one would go, what their purpose would be and how long they would be around for.
John H. Watson, the file read. Medical Doctor, Royal Army Medical Corps, Captain, honourable discharge (medical).
He tapped the file thoughtfully. Afghanistan, he was sure of it. He vaguely recalled reading something about a doctor being injured in a raid in Helmand Province some months back. A number of files of that like crossed his desk, more often than he liked, but this one had lingered in his mind for a small time longer because for once the casualties had not been caused by accident, incompetence or friendly fire. As such the press had only had limited interest in it - good news isn’t real news. No soldiers had died, but eight civilians, including three children, had been saved, two suspected insurgents captured, three more killed, and the brief mention of a doctor who had stayed on his feet and tended to the wounded before collapsing from suspected blood loss.
It seemed the doctor had come home.
This would be interesting. A doctor and a soldier, hardly his brother’s usual choice, but the combination was uniquely conflicting. A killer and a healer. Yes, Sherlock would be drawn to that contradiction, would want to understand it.
The file was hardly the thickest although it did make rather interesting reading. It did not take someone of his intelligence to realise there was some missing information. What was there was certainly interesting though. Thirty-seven years old, five foot six and a half. Mother deceased - cancer. Father absent. One sister, younger, aged thirty-six, Harriet Watson, separated from female civil partner, Clara. Alcoholic.
King Edward VI Grammar School, Chelmsford, non fee paying, “outstanding” school according to OFSTEAD, Financial Times’ most successful state school at GCE advanced level from 1993 to 1998. Tindal House. Rugby and cross country. Clarinet player, Junior Orchestra. Excellent GCSE results. Three As at A-Level. Deputy House Captain. Three school awards. No official detentions. One minor blip for a fight when he was twelve. He claimed he was standing up for another child against a bully. A man with principles then. Loyal, perhaps to a fault.
Accepted to study medicine at King College London, trained at Medical College of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital (as it was then known). Excellent record, excelling at emergency medicine. Graduated with honours, worked at St Barts and then Guys. Practiced for eight months before signing up for the army, accepted first time into the RAMC. Postings in Cyprus and Kenya. Two tours, both in Afghanistan. Highly commended. Second tour ended after an injury in a fire fight. Shot in the shoulder. Bullet went straight through. Infection. Sent back to England to recover. Honourable discharge on medical grounds, army pension. Psychosomatic limp. Therapist says trust issues. Not the most forthcoming individual. Nightmares, PTSD, trouble assimilating back to civilian life.
Intelligent, loyal, controlled, level headed and skint. Interesting.
He closed the file and tapped it again with his finger before picking up the report from the day before. It appeared that this Doctor Watson was to look at a flat with his brother, a certain two hundred and twenty-one bee Baker Street, owned by a Mrs Hudson, widowed, file also included.
He made a note and called his assistant. He needed to meet this Doctor Watson.
*-*-*
He understood as soon as he met the good doctor. There was something about him. Nerves of steel. The bravery of the British soldier. But more than that. There was the unbreakable core of a man who had faced death and stared it down. Very little would scare him now, not even a shadowy figure in an abandoned building.
The therapist was obviously an idiot. Trust issues? This was just a man who liked to know what he was facing. That was good. Sherlock was a man with whom everyone knew where they stood. He made no secret of his like or dislike of things. Of course that had gotten him into a lot of trouble as a child. Poor Mrs Gooch, she never had properly recovered from Sherlock’s blunt assessment of her abilities.
Sherlock must have assessed this Doctor Watson and not found him wanting. For once Sherlock’s instincts may be correct. John Watson, such a common name for such an unlikely man. The archetypal common man. So common it would be virtually impossibly to find someone like him again. Intriguing.
He had declined the money without even hearing the amount. Loyal then. Stayed on his feet, maintained eye contact. Determined also. Steady as a rock, not one indication of his apparent PTSD. He really should sack that therapist, she is quite useless.
Yes, this Doctor Watson was certainly one to keep a look out for. If anyone could keep his brother in line, this man might just manage it.
*-*-*
It was hardly an effort to determine who had shot that cab driver; nerves of steel and a steady hand. He didn’t even need to look at Doctor Watson’s fingers for the powder burns. Army issue 9mm Browning L9A1 handgun. No licence. Tut, tut.
He got back into the car. His to-do list was being quite heavily weighed down by his brother and his brother’s new companion. So far it included:
• Investigate Doctor Watson’s full military record, cross reference with special ops and secret service
• Send cabbie’s pills off to the lab for testing (berate Sherlock when it’s revealed they’re both poisoned)
• Transfer funds to Sherlock’s account re losing of ‘bet’ that Sherlock would be unable to find a suitable flatmate within 7 days
• Send correspondence of congratulations to Sherlock on the said acquisition of suitable flatmate
• Send second correspondence warning Sherlock not to break said suitable flatmate
• Acquire licence for Browning L9A1 in the name of John H. Watson.
• Suppress any police investigations into the identity of shooter
• Talk to M about getting licence to kill for John H. Watson (remind her she still owes you a favour for sorting out the Lagos incident)
• Consider finding a proper therapist with relevant clearance just in case they are needed
• Upgrade Doctor Watson’s security clearance level
He dictated the list to his assistant. That would give her something to do and keep her occupied for a short while. He had Prime Minister’s Question Time to consider and an election date to finalise.
*-*-*
Seven weeks later and he found his list being expanded upon. He was mildly surprised, and a small amount amused, that it had taken his brother that long to find himself back into trouble, and even more astonished that Doctor Watson had more than settled into his brother’s life. In fact settled did not quite convey the right sentiment. It was more like absorbed. Yes, Doctor Watson had been deduced, accepted and then absorbed into Sherlock’s life and did not appear to be looking to leave any time soon.
This was… good.
This was also a touch disturbing.
A month in and most people would have discovered three things about his brother. One, that he is as unusual in his personal life as he is in his public life. Two, that he has no intention of changing any time soon. Three, that this includes sleeping - or the absence of - eating - ditto - violin playing, hobbies, ‘experiments’, relationships, the concept of personal space, and more. A couple of weeks of this - and the strains of a violin during the early hours of the morning - is usually enough for most people to realise that they are not as bad off as they believe themselves to be and that they have other options open to them which are preferable.
In comparison, Doctor Watson appeared to have taken it all in his not considerable stride and was treating it as if it was, if not perfectly normal, at least perfectly acceptable.
This was good… and also a little disconcerting. However, the man had survived an alcoholic father - abusive? details still not forthcoming - medical school and the military. He had been shot at, been shot and had shot to kill. It was clear he could handle high levels of stress without adverse psychological effect or losing sight of the smaller matters like empathy, emotion and caring. He was in fact a marvel. The MOD’s loss was definitely Sherlock’s gain.
He had also managed to stop Sherlock from slipping into one of his boredom funks, which in itself was mildly impressive. However, it seemed that the good doctor was a better friend to Sherlock than Sherlock was to him. Manipulative date crashing? Tut, tut, Sherlock. Not that Sherlock had ever shared his toys particularly well. But allowing the good doctor to get an ASBO? Perhaps the doctor was just too trusting at times.
He amended the list to include the following:
• Get ASBO in the name of John H. Watson dropped entirely
• Make sure that should John H. Watson be arrested in the future, any and all criminal charges would be automatically dropped without question until further notice
• Transfer money from Sherlock’s accounts to Doctor Watson’s (he’s more than earned it)
• Pull file on DI Dimmock including full medical history and psychological profile
• Recheck Doctor Watson’s psychological profile (make sure he is unlikely to snap and pull a gun on Sherlock as that would be rather unfortunate)
• Get full history and psychological profile on Doctor Sarah Sawyer (need to make sure she’s also unlikely to snap and pull Doctor Watson’s gun on Sherlock - would not be the first time something similar had happened)
• Run check again on John Watson Sr, try to confirm whether there might have been any abuse when he had been at home - sexual unlikely, physical possible, emotional more likely. Add outcome to Doctor Watson’s psychological profile. Need to make sure he is not likely to become a serial killer.
• Get full history of Doctor Watson’s previous relationships - how many, how serious, how likely.
He paused briefly at the last one. He had considered, albeit fleetingly, that perhaps he was going too far, but had decided that he wasn’t. Doctor Watson’s relationship history was important as it would have a bearing on his relationship - friendship? - with Sherlock. It would not be good to lose such an important person out of Sherlock’s life simply due to a possible romantic involvement. Was Doctor Watson the type to fall fast and deep, heavy and hard, or slowly and lastingly? Or perhaps he was the type to love them and leave them?
Also, should Sherlock ever realise that he does in fact have a sexuality, and that it could well tend towards other men, would Doctor Watson be flattered, offended or interested should Sherlock suddenly decide to proposition him? He needed to know these things, because the fallout could be, well, Chernobyl-like.
He called his assistant. It should give her something to do while he was busy “advising” the UN.
*-*-*
It seemed Doctor Watson had a far better grasp of his brother than perhaps even Sherlock had suspected.
‘It’s no use trying to hide what you are because Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.’
‘Spectacularly ignorant’. He tapped his umbrella on the marble floor as he strode through Westminster. Yes, he liked that. ‘Spectacularly ignorant’. It had a good ring to it.
Sherlock was hardly going to like it when he returned from Belarus. Not that that was going to matter too much. He was hardly going to be happy anyway since the case hadn’t even been worthy of being called a case - although it had distracted Sherlock for a day or two with the benefit of giving Doctor Watson a break from him, so every cloud and all that - but Sherlock was likely to be rather difficult to manage once he returned. A challenge - however slight - could well be needed.
He mentally started to amend his list:
• Schedule a brief meeting with the Belarusian Ambassador (just to confirm that Sherlock had not inadvertently caused a diplomatic incident while over there)
• Find something to keep Sherlock occupied once he gets back, the more leg work the better
He paused before adding:
• Get a printed copy of “A Study in Pink”, highlighting the relevant passages and have it added to the scrapbook.
He reached his car and slid in the back before informing his assistant of what he had decided. She nodded, advised him that Sherlock had arrived back in the country without diplomatic incident and handed him a file regarding a dead civil servant and some missing defence plans. It seems she had read his mind. At the back of the file, he also found a copy of “A Study in Pink” with all the relevant passages highlighted.
She smiled slightly when he handed them back to her with an approving nod. Then she returned to tapping away on her BlackBerry.
“The future Deputy Prime Minister,” she said before he could even ask who his next meeting was to be with.
Ah yes, the new boy. He suspected this meeting was going to be just as challenging as the ones regarding the Korean election he had just come from (and would be later returning to). Of course the man in question had no idea he was going to be the future Deputy Prime Minister, that was to be the meeting’s fun surprise, but it was always entertaining disabusing anyone of the mistaken belief that an election result was merely decided upon by the voting public.
He rubbed his tooth with his tongue again. The pain was almost becoming distracting.
“Tomorrow midday,” his assistant said without looking up.
Turned out he already had a dental appointment. How thoughtful.
*-*-*
It transpired that Doctor Watson was not the sort to turn into a serial killer under pressure - reassuring. Nor was he an evil criminal mastermind - unlikely, but even Sherlock had had that thought cross his mind for a second or two. He was extremely level headed when facing death - certainly when having a bomb strapped to his chest and a sniper aimed at his heart. He was incredibly loyal - telling Sherlock to run when he had the chance. And he was a fast thinker - his actions having saved both their lives after the explosion.
He was also unconscious.
Mycroft had not been planning on spending any of his time in a hospital, but that was where he had inevitably ended up. It was hardly the first time he had found himself in such a place - the memory of Sherlock’s pale, skinny body after that overdose would stay with him forever - but it was the first time that it was not Sherlock he was worried about.
He strode purposely down the hospital corridor and pushed open the door at the end.
Considering everything, Sherlock had emerged out of the situation reasonably undamaged. He had a number of cuts and bruises, had required some stitches and would not be running anywhere for the next few days, but it was Doctor Watson who had ended up with the suspected collapsed lung and was currently in surgery.
“What are you doing here?”
As usual his brother was less than receptive to his presence.
He walked up to the bed and leant nonchalantly on his umbrella. “I was hoping for an explanation.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “They weren’t the real project plans. I’m not an idiot.”
“I’m not talking about the plans, Sherlock.”
They looked at each other. They both knew what he was really talking about.
“You don’t deserve him you know,” he said.
Sherlock looked away first but declined to comment. A bruise was starting to form across his cheek.
Enough having been said, Mycroft patted Sherlock’s leg through the hospital issued sheets and then left. His presence was no longer required and his to-do list was growing longer and more complicated by the hour.
He had a current new main point:
• Find, bring down and destroy James Moriarty
That, however, he felt would take considerable hours, man power and resources. When his brother made enemies, he really did make enemies.
“Sir, there’s no sign of Moriarty at the pool site.”
Of course there wasn’t. Moriarty was too good for that. He would go underground like the rodent he was. They just had to find and flush him out.
He got in the car.
“Is everything alright, sir, with your brother I mean. You look… apprehensive.”
“My brother is fine,” he said studying the handle of his umbrella. “But it turns out I may have made a mistake.”
“Oh, sir?”
“Yes.” He leant back in his seat and curled his face into a disapproving frown. “I am rather surprised by it as well. All this time I have been worrying about Sherlock and yet tonight has shown that at least some of it is unwarranted. It is perhaps not Sherlock that I should be worried about.”
Yes, he would have to amend that list to include the following:
• Stop worrying about Sherlock
Doctor John Watson had turned out to be a far greater asset than he could have ever imagined. He was brave, loyal, trustworthy, honest, reliable, quick thinking and good under pressure.
Mycroft knew he could sleep far better at night - or at least when he did sleep - knowing that such a man now looked after his brother’s back.
He thought back through the last few months and tried to count the number of times Doctor Watson had not only saved his brother’s life, but had also saved him from boredom, drugs or being beaten to death by a grieving member of the general public. It was an impressive amount and calculating how much it would cost him in terms of finances, man power and resources to provide a similar service to Sherlock that this John Watson did, he had to admit that the other man was practically worth his weight in gold, if not more. He was virtually irreplaceable.
This in itself was a cause for concern and he found himself having to amend his last point to compensate for the effect the good doctor had had on Sherlock’s life. It now quite simply read as this:
• Stop worrying about Sherlock… start worrying about John instead
*-*-*
THE END
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD. Sherlock created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Warnings: Very mild reference to the possibility of past abuse, and Mycroft being well, Mycroft
Author’s Notes: Started with a joke list, ended up with, well, this.
Summary: Mycroft has worried about Sherlock all of Sherlock’s life. This, however, is all about to change.
Thank you to everyone who has commented on any of my other stories. It is my intention to respond to all the comments… eventually, but I love them all. Thanks.
Thanks, as always, to trillsabells for the beta and general cheer leading.
“I worry about him. Constantly.” - Mycroft “A Study in Pink”
*-*-*
To say Mycroft worried about Sherlock was to say that the war in Iraq was a mild embarrassment.
Barely a day went past when Mycroft did not cast his mind, however briefly, to the problem of his brother. This was not a new thing. No, very much not. Mycroft had been worrying about his younger brother since the moment he had first laid eyes on the scrawny, red splotched, crinkled infant and had, with a truly horrified expression, promptly asked if he was supposed to be like that. Turned out that while there had been nothing wrong with new born Sherlock, that same question could be answered with both a yes and a completely resounding no. It was also a question that had plagued him for thirty-two years so far and would probably continue to do so for the rest of his life.
Yes, he worried about Sherlock. Constantly.
Sherlock, being Sherlock, of course failed to appreciate this concern and would actually do his best to make Mycroft’s job even harder than it had to be. Trouble at school, problems at Oxford, drugs - cocaine and morphine, how pedestrian - not wanting to get a proper job to put his exceptional talents to good use, not caring about anything. The boy was a nuisance of the highest order, resisting all help and advice, even if it cost him. He couldn’t even manage to keep a steady address for a reasonable length of time, let alone a flatmate. There seemed to be no limit to the sorts of people Sherlock could infuriate.
The Sherlock Problem was almost as much of a challenge as the current whole world financial market collapse.
Then a new file was dropped onto his desk.
It was there waiting for him following his meeting with the Home Secretary. He knew without even opening it that it had something to do with his wayward brother. Sherlock always did seem to go out of his way to make trouble wherever and whenever he could. Such files were becoming annoyingly common place. Sherlock always tended to wear his toys out far sooner than he should, or else he got bored with them. A new file meant a new toy. He wondered how this one would go, what their purpose would be and how long they would be around for.
John H. Watson, the file read. Medical Doctor, Royal Army Medical Corps, Captain, honourable discharge (medical).
He tapped the file thoughtfully. Afghanistan, he was sure of it. He vaguely recalled reading something about a doctor being injured in a raid in Helmand Province some months back. A number of files of that like crossed his desk, more often than he liked, but this one had lingered in his mind for a small time longer because for once the casualties had not been caused by accident, incompetence or friendly fire. As such the press had only had limited interest in it - good news isn’t real news. No soldiers had died, but eight civilians, including three children, had been saved, two suspected insurgents captured, three more killed, and the brief mention of a doctor who had stayed on his feet and tended to the wounded before collapsing from suspected blood loss.
It seemed the doctor had come home.
This would be interesting. A doctor and a soldier, hardly his brother’s usual choice, but the combination was uniquely conflicting. A killer and a healer. Yes, Sherlock would be drawn to that contradiction, would want to understand it.
The file was hardly the thickest although it did make rather interesting reading. It did not take someone of his intelligence to realise there was some missing information. What was there was certainly interesting though. Thirty-seven years old, five foot six and a half. Mother deceased - cancer. Father absent. One sister, younger, aged thirty-six, Harriet Watson, separated from female civil partner, Clara. Alcoholic.
King Edward VI Grammar School, Chelmsford, non fee paying, “outstanding” school according to OFSTEAD, Financial Times’ most successful state school at GCE advanced level from 1993 to 1998. Tindal House. Rugby and cross country. Clarinet player, Junior Orchestra. Excellent GCSE results. Three As at A-Level. Deputy House Captain. Three school awards. No official detentions. One minor blip for a fight when he was twelve. He claimed he was standing up for another child against a bully. A man with principles then. Loyal, perhaps to a fault.
Accepted to study medicine at King College London, trained at Medical College of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital (as it was then known). Excellent record, excelling at emergency medicine. Graduated with honours, worked at St Barts and then Guys. Practiced for eight months before signing up for the army, accepted first time into the RAMC. Postings in Cyprus and Kenya. Two tours, both in Afghanistan. Highly commended. Second tour ended after an injury in a fire fight. Shot in the shoulder. Bullet went straight through. Infection. Sent back to England to recover. Honourable discharge on medical grounds, army pension. Psychosomatic limp. Therapist says trust issues. Not the most forthcoming individual. Nightmares, PTSD, trouble assimilating back to civilian life.
Intelligent, loyal, controlled, level headed and skint. Interesting.
He closed the file and tapped it again with his finger before picking up the report from the day before. It appeared that this Doctor Watson was to look at a flat with his brother, a certain two hundred and twenty-one bee Baker Street, owned by a Mrs Hudson, widowed, file also included.
He made a note and called his assistant. He needed to meet this Doctor Watson.
*-*-*
He understood as soon as he met the good doctor. There was something about him. Nerves of steel. The bravery of the British soldier. But more than that. There was the unbreakable core of a man who had faced death and stared it down. Very little would scare him now, not even a shadowy figure in an abandoned building.
The therapist was obviously an idiot. Trust issues? This was just a man who liked to know what he was facing. That was good. Sherlock was a man with whom everyone knew where they stood. He made no secret of his like or dislike of things. Of course that had gotten him into a lot of trouble as a child. Poor Mrs Gooch, she never had properly recovered from Sherlock’s blunt assessment of her abilities.
Sherlock must have assessed this Doctor Watson and not found him wanting. For once Sherlock’s instincts may be correct. John Watson, such a common name for such an unlikely man. The archetypal common man. So common it would be virtually impossibly to find someone like him again. Intriguing.
He had declined the money without even hearing the amount. Loyal then. Stayed on his feet, maintained eye contact. Determined also. Steady as a rock, not one indication of his apparent PTSD. He really should sack that therapist, she is quite useless.
Yes, this Doctor Watson was certainly one to keep a look out for. If anyone could keep his brother in line, this man might just manage it.
*-*-*
It was hardly an effort to determine who had shot that cab driver; nerves of steel and a steady hand. He didn’t even need to look at Doctor Watson’s fingers for the powder burns. Army issue 9mm Browning L9A1 handgun. No licence. Tut, tut.
He got back into the car. His to-do list was being quite heavily weighed down by his brother and his brother’s new companion. So far it included:
• Investigate Doctor Watson’s full military record, cross reference with special ops and secret service
• Send cabbie’s pills off to the lab for testing (berate Sherlock when it’s revealed they’re both poisoned)
• Transfer funds to Sherlock’s account re losing of ‘bet’ that Sherlock would be unable to find a suitable flatmate within 7 days
• Send correspondence of congratulations to Sherlock on the said acquisition of suitable flatmate
• Send second correspondence warning Sherlock not to break said suitable flatmate
• Acquire licence for Browning L9A1 in the name of John H. Watson.
• Suppress any police investigations into the identity of shooter
• Talk to M about getting licence to kill for John H. Watson (remind her she still owes you a favour for sorting out the Lagos incident)
• Consider finding a proper therapist with relevant clearance just in case they are needed
• Upgrade Doctor Watson’s security clearance level
He dictated the list to his assistant. That would give her something to do and keep her occupied for a short while. He had Prime Minister’s Question Time to consider and an election date to finalise.
*-*-*
Seven weeks later and he found his list being expanded upon. He was mildly surprised, and a small amount amused, that it had taken his brother that long to find himself back into trouble, and even more astonished that Doctor Watson had more than settled into his brother’s life. In fact settled did not quite convey the right sentiment. It was more like absorbed. Yes, Doctor Watson had been deduced, accepted and then absorbed into Sherlock’s life and did not appear to be looking to leave any time soon.
This was… good.
This was also a touch disturbing.
A month in and most people would have discovered three things about his brother. One, that he is as unusual in his personal life as he is in his public life. Two, that he has no intention of changing any time soon. Three, that this includes sleeping - or the absence of - eating - ditto - violin playing, hobbies, ‘experiments’, relationships, the concept of personal space, and more. A couple of weeks of this - and the strains of a violin during the early hours of the morning - is usually enough for most people to realise that they are not as bad off as they believe themselves to be and that they have other options open to them which are preferable.
In comparison, Doctor Watson appeared to have taken it all in his not considerable stride and was treating it as if it was, if not perfectly normal, at least perfectly acceptable.
This was good… and also a little disconcerting. However, the man had survived an alcoholic father - abusive? details still not forthcoming - medical school and the military. He had been shot at, been shot and had shot to kill. It was clear he could handle high levels of stress without adverse psychological effect or losing sight of the smaller matters like empathy, emotion and caring. He was in fact a marvel. The MOD’s loss was definitely Sherlock’s gain.
He had also managed to stop Sherlock from slipping into one of his boredom funks, which in itself was mildly impressive. However, it seemed that the good doctor was a better friend to Sherlock than Sherlock was to him. Manipulative date crashing? Tut, tut, Sherlock. Not that Sherlock had ever shared his toys particularly well. But allowing the good doctor to get an ASBO? Perhaps the doctor was just too trusting at times.
He amended the list to include the following:
• Get ASBO in the name of John H. Watson dropped entirely
• Make sure that should John H. Watson be arrested in the future, any and all criminal charges would be automatically dropped without question until further notice
• Transfer money from Sherlock’s accounts to Doctor Watson’s (he’s more than earned it)
• Pull file on DI Dimmock including full medical history and psychological profile
• Recheck Doctor Watson’s psychological profile (make sure he is unlikely to snap and pull a gun on Sherlock as that would be rather unfortunate)
• Get full history and psychological profile on Doctor Sarah Sawyer (need to make sure she’s also unlikely to snap and pull Doctor Watson’s gun on Sherlock - would not be the first time something similar had happened)
• Run check again on John Watson Sr, try to confirm whether there might have been any abuse when he had been at home - sexual unlikely, physical possible, emotional more likely. Add outcome to Doctor Watson’s psychological profile. Need to make sure he is not likely to become a serial killer.
• Get full history of Doctor Watson’s previous relationships - how many, how serious, how likely.
He paused briefly at the last one. He had considered, albeit fleetingly, that perhaps he was going too far, but had decided that he wasn’t. Doctor Watson’s relationship history was important as it would have a bearing on his relationship - friendship? - with Sherlock. It would not be good to lose such an important person out of Sherlock’s life simply due to a possible romantic involvement. Was Doctor Watson the type to fall fast and deep, heavy and hard, or slowly and lastingly? Or perhaps he was the type to love them and leave them?
Also, should Sherlock ever realise that he does in fact have a sexuality, and that it could well tend towards other men, would Doctor Watson be flattered, offended or interested should Sherlock suddenly decide to proposition him? He needed to know these things, because the fallout could be, well, Chernobyl-like.
He called his assistant. It should give her something to do while he was busy “advising” the UN.
*-*-*
It seemed Doctor Watson had a far better grasp of his brother than perhaps even Sherlock had suspected.
‘It’s no use trying to hide what you are because Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.’
‘Spectacularly ignorant’. He tapped his umbrella on the marble floor as he strode through Westminster. Yes, he liked that. ‘Spectacularly ignorant’. It had a good ring to it.
Sherlock was hardly going to like it when he returned from Belarus. Not that that was going to matter too much. He was hardly going to be happy anyway since the case hadn’t even been worthy of being called a case - although it had distracted Sherlock for a day or two with the benefit of giving Doctor Watson a break from him, so every cloud and all that - but Sherlock was likely to be rather difficult to manage once he returned. A challenge - however slight - could well be needed.
He mentally started to amend his list:
• Schedule a brief meeting with the Belarusian Ambassador (just to confirm that Sherlock had not inadvertently caused a diplomatic incident while over there)
• Find something to keep Sherlock occupied once he gets back, the more leg work the better
He paused before adding:
• Get a printed copy of “A Study in Pink”, highlighting the relevant passages and have it added to the scrapbook.
He reached his car and slid in the back before informing his assistant of what he had decided. She nodded, advised him that Sherlock had arrived back in the country without diplomatic incident and handed him a file regarding a dead civil servant and some missing defence plans. It seems she had read his mind. At the back of the file, he also found a copy of “A Study in Pink” with all the relevant passages highlighted.
She smiled slightly when he handed them back to her with an approving nod. Then she returned to tapping away on her BlackBerry.
“The future Deputy Prime Minister,” she said before he could even ask who his next meeting was to be with.
Ah yes, the new boy. He suspected this meeting was going to be just as challenging as the ones regarding the Korean election he had just come from (and would be later returning to). Of course the man in question had no idea he was going to be the future Deputy Prime Minister, that was to be the meeting’s fun surprise, but it was always entertaining disabusing anyone of the mistaken belief that an election result was merely decided upon by the voting public.
He rubbed his tooth with his tongue again. The pain was almost becoming distracting.
“Tomorrow midday,” his assistant said without looking up.
Turned out he already had a dental appointment. How thoughtful.
*-*-*
It transpired that Doctor Watson was not the sort to turn into a serial killer under pressure - reassuring. Nor was he an evil criminal mastermind - unlikely, but even Sherlock had had that thought cross his mind for a second or two. He was extremely level headed when facing death - certainly when having a bomb strapped to his chest and a sniper aimed at his heart. He was incredibly loyal - telling Sherlock to run when he had the chance. And he was a fast thinker - his actions having saved both their lives after the explosion.
He was also unconscious.
Mycroft had not been planning on spending any of his time in a hospital, but that was where he had inevitably ended up. It was hardly the first time he had found himself in such a place - the memory of Sherlock’s pale, skinny body after that overdose would stay with him forever - but it was the first time that it was not Sherlock he was worried about.
He strode purposely down the hospital corridor and pushed open the door at the end.
Considering everything, Sherlock had emerged out of the situation reasonably undamaged. He had a number of cuts and bruises, had required some stitches and would not be running anywhere for the next few days, but it was Doctor Watson who had ended up with the suspected collapsed lung and was currently in surgery.
“What are you doing here?”
As usual his brother was less than receptive to his presence.
He walked up to the bed and leant nonchalantly on his umbrella. “I was hoping for an explanation.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “They weren’t the real project plans. I’m not an idiot.”
“I’m not talking about the plans, Sherlock.”
They looked at each other. They both knew what he was really talking about.
“You don’t deserve him you know,” he said.
Sherlock looked away first but declined to comment. A bruise was starting to form across his cheek.
Enough having been said, Mycroft patted Sherlock’s leg through the hospital issued sheets and then left. His presence was no longer required and his to-do list was growing longer and more complicated by the hour.
He had a current new main point:
• Find, bring down and destroy James Moriarty
That, however, he felt would take considerable hours, man power and resources. When his brother made enemies, he really did make enemies.
“Sir, there’s no sign of Moriarty at the pool site.”
Of course there wasn’t. Moriarty was too good for that. He would go underground like the rodent he was. They just had to find and flush him out.
He got in the car.
“Is everything alright, sir, with your brother I mean. You look… apprehensive.”
“My brother is fine,” he said studying the handle of his umbrella. “But it turns out I may have made a mistake.”
“Oh, sir?”
“Yes.” He leant back in his seat and curled his face into a disapproving frown. “I am rather surprised by it as well. All this time I have been worrying about Sherlock and yet tonight has shown that at least some of it is unwarranted. It is perhaps not Sherlock that I should be worried about.”
Yes, he would have to amend that list to include the following:
• Stop worrying about Sherlock
Doctor John Watson had turned out to be a far greater asset than he could have ever imagined. He was brave, loyal, trustworthy, honest, reliable, quick thinking and good under pressure.
Mycroft knew he could sleep far better at night - or at least when he did sleep - knowing that such a man now looked after his brother’s back.
He thought back through the last few months and tried to count the number of times Doctor Watson had not only saved his brother’s life, but had also saved him from boredom, drugs or being beaten to death by a grieving member of the general public. It was an impressive amount and calculating how much it would cost him in terms of finances, man power and resources to provide a similar service to Sherlock that this John Watson did, he had to admit that the other man was practically worth his weight in gold, if not more. He was virtually irreplaceable.
This in itself was a cause for concern and he found himself having to amend his last point to compensate for the effect the good doctor had had on Sherlock’s life. It now quite simply read as this:
• Stop worrying about Sherlock… start worrying about John instead
*-*-*
THE END