Fic: OPERATION SEPARATION (Chapter 1)
Title: OPERATION SEPERATION
Author: missilemuse
Chapters: 7/7
Words: nearly 15,500
Rating: T
Warnings: for description of drug use and slight non-explicit non-con in chapters 4 & 5.
Summary: The formation of an unbreakable bond? Not if Sherlock has his way. As they say, the road to hell is paved with the best of intentions, post TBB, pre TGG, first time effort.
Spoilers: for the first and second episodes
Disclaimer: John and Sherlock belong to ACD's grey cells and each other in that order.
Author's notes: I have no idea how this is going to turn out as starting to write this in the first place was the result of a poorly controlled impulse. I type like John Watson, so although the next part is ready in my head typing it out is a bitch. I'm in love with the BBC reincarnation, so please excuse this fit of insanity. Credit for inspiration goes to the fabulous actors and the amazing fanfic writers respectively. Enjoy (hopefully)!
PLAN OF OPERATION
It was 10 p.m. The hustle and bustle of surrounding offices had stilled and the second hand of the clock sweeping across its face was the loudest sound in the room; not that he was aware of it. He closed the file in front of him after putting a final signature on the paper. All he wanted was a few hours of uninterrupted sleep but it didn't show in the way he held himself. Appearances were important. He wouldn't be where he was if he couldn't keep up appearances. There was the final report of the day on the upcoming Korean elections that he had to finish reading. It wouldn't do to be unable to keep up with his frighteningly efficient new assistant. His hands didn't betray any exhaustion as he stretched to get the file but before he could reach it, a low buzz filled the room. His assistant would have traded her job to see her unflappable boss surprised, even if it was for an instant. Only two people had access to that number and he knew there was no way that Mummy would be up at this hour. If he was shocked, his voice didn't betray him.
"Hello Sherlock"
"Mycroft," no preambles, not that he expected any. "I need to speak with you. Could you meet me tonight?"
The tone was devoid of his brother's usual derision. Sherlock's voice was a shade too smooth, controlled.
A phone call and a request (not an order) for a meeting the same day. This was unprecedented and proportionately worrying.
"You could come to the office right now." That was when he heard the sound of distant sirens in the background.
"Fine. I will see you in an hour and not in that bug box you call your office. The usual place, don't be late." The phone was cut off.
This was more like it.
He pressed the intercom. "I need a full report on my brother's activities with respect to his latest case on my desk in fifteen minutes."
"Yes Sir."
Too bad that the report on Korean elections would have to wait.
***
He was on time, walking sedately up to the fountain swinging his umbrella casually. Sherlock was already sitting on the bench, sitting still. One sweeping look ascertained that he appeared unhurt. Yet he wasn't restless or fidgeting, sitting still with his hands clasped in front of his face in deep contemplation of the grass in his line of sight. He did not look up as his brother approached.
"You are late.''
"Some of us have work to do, you see, beyond answering a bizarre summons at a moment's notice."
Silence greeted his words.
"Mycroft, it is about John."
Ah...
Sherlock twisted his head so that he was now facing Mycroft, the moonlight making his eyes gleam. The last time he had looked like that was when he had been ten and the family dog was about to be put down. The report had not been that bad, considering this meeting wasn't occurring at a hospital bed-side. Of late, that had been the only place they tended to meet, if you discounted the last time. He didn't respond, insufficient data.
"He was kidnapped tonight, a case of mistaken identity. They wanted me. Instead, they captured him along with his date. I barely reached in time to save him. I … He could have been… I could have been too late. I very nearly was too late."
Sherlock's head was back in his hands, eyes squeezed shut, elbows resting on his knees. He took a deep breath.
"I assumed that as soon as we were back at Baker Street, he would begin packing. I had prepared myself for this eventuality even before rescuing him. He was injured. The EMT's had to patch him up for a minor head trauma." He paused.
Mycroft was eyeing the tip of his umbrella with great interest. He was already aware of the details, except for the mistaken identity bit (mistaken identity in era of www, really!). He knew where this was going.
Sherlock's voice dropped lower, "He thanked me."
Then he snapped to his feet pacing furiously, his hands in his hair, not bothering to keep his voice low.
"He should be getting away from me, as far as he can. THAT should have been the logical outcome. I don't understand. He… I don't understand", he fell helplessly silent.
Mycroft finally found his opening. "Calm down. You are overthinking this."
"Don't patronise me, Mycroft."
"Dr. Watson is a battle hardened soldier. He deliberately shot a man within twenty-four hours of meeting you. So do not insult his integrity or courage by implying that a petty kidnapping would rattle him, would make him flee. In doing so, you are the one who is patronizing him."
"This was very different, Mycroft. Being mistaken for me, almost being killed instead of me. John didn't choose this like the last time. A meaningless death in a filthy alley where the murderer doesn't even know your name. No one would choose this."
"For heaven's sake, Sherlock, he is not a child who needs your mollycoddling. He chose to live with you despite being completely aware of the danger involved. He chose to admire you, in spite of your unbridled arrogance. He chose to trust you with no effort on your part to earn that trust."
Sherlock had closed his eyes, but Mycroft continued mercilessly, "He chose to stop you from gambling on your life by shooting that despicable cabbie. "
"Exactly, it is my turn now to stop him from gambling on his. I owe it to him."
Mycroft cursed internally. There it was again, undeniable LOGIC. For a moment he found himself wishing that his brother was actually a sociopath. The fact that he cared, but had no understanding of the mechanics of emotion was more of a bother. Logic was Sherlock's compass. That emotions defied logic was beyond his understanding. Fine then, he was going to have to learn this lesson the hard way. Mycroft got up gathering his umbrella.
"Alright then, you are essentially correct in deducing that Dr. Watson ought to move out. Certainly a new lifestyle would be far safer, more conducive to his longevity."
Sherlock stared at him, taken aback at the sudden turn the conversation had taken.
"You agree with me", he shot suspiciously.
"Obviously, I do hate repeating myself." With this parting shot he began walking away.
"I need your help."
Mycroft stopped dead in his tracks while smothering a small gasp. Those words had never been uttered by an adult Sherlock, not even through the agony of a painful rehab. Today was a red letter day indeed.
"John needs to chance upon new accommodations that would be suitable and affordable for him on leaving Baker Street, preferably somewhere close to his place of work. I know you can arrange that without arousing suspicion on his part."
Sherlock saw the smirk before Mycroft could completely hide it.
"Believe me when I say that approaching you was the last resort and painful as it may be, I will owe you a favour for this. You could compel me to solve one of your mind-numbing tedious problems."
"You misunderstand me, little brother." Sherlock winced. "What I am actually amused about is your misplaced confidence in your ability to manipulate the good doctor into leaving."
"How I achieve that is none of your concern."
"Oh, none in the slightest", Mycroft chortled. " Is that all then?"
"Yes."
"Very well. I will call in that favour when I need to. Good luck, Sherlock!"
Sherlock raised the collar of his coat as he trudged slowly back to Baker Street. Good luck indeed. Luck had nothing to do with what he intended. He had a plan of operation with the steps worked out. By the time he was done, John would be through with him.
He sped up unconsciously. It should be easy. He was a sociopathic freak. His parents had thought so. Three separate shrinks thought so. Seb, Sally, Anderson and now Dimmock were convinced of this. He didn't care what his brother thought. He had reached the front door and unlocked it quietly, just for today. John was hurt and needed his rest. Starting tomorrow, things would be different. This was going to be a piece of cake.
Next Chapter
Author: missilemuse
Chapters: 7/7
Words: nearly 15,500
Rating: T
Warnings: for description of drug use and slight non-explicit non-con in chapters 4 & 5.
Summary: The formation of an unbreakable bond? Not if Sherlock has his way. As they say, the road to hell is paved with the best of intentions, post TBB, pre TGG, first time effort.
Spoilers: for the first and second episodes
Disclaimer: John and Sherlock belong to ACD's grey cells and each other in that order.
Author's notes: I have no idea how this is going to turn out as starting to write this in the first place was the result of a poorly controlled impulse. I type like John Watson, so although the next part is ready in my head typing it out is a bitch. I'm in love with the BBC reincarnation, so please excuse this fit of insanity. Credit for inspiration goes to the fabulous actors and the amazing fanfic writers respectively. Enjoy (hopefully)!
PLAN OF OPERATION
It was 10 p.m. The hustle and bustle of surrounding offices had stilled and the second hand of the clock sweeping across its face was the loudest sound in the room; not that he was aware of it. He closed the file in front of him after putting a final signature on the paper. All he wanted was a few hours of uninterrupted sleep but it didn't show in the way he held himself. Appearances were important. He wouldn't be where he was if he couldn't keep up appearances. There was the final report of the day on the upcoming Korean elections that he had to finish reading. It wouldn't do to be unable to keep up with his frighteningly efficient new assistant. His hands didn't betray any exhaustion as he stretched to get the file but before he could reach it, a low buzz filled the room. His assistant would have traded her job to see her unflappable boss surprised, even if it was for an instant. Only two people had access to that number and he knew there was no way that Mummy would be up at this hour. If he was shocked, his voice didn't betray him.
"Hello Sherlock"
"Mycroft," no preambles, not that he expected any. "I need to speak with you. Could you meet me tonight?"
The tone was devoid of his brother's usual derision. Sherlock's voice was a shade too smooth, controlled.
A phone call and a request (not an order) for a meeting the same day. This was unprecedented and proportionately worrying.
"You could come to the office right now." That was when he heard the sound of distant sirens in the background.
"Fine. I will see you in an hour and not in that bug box you call your office. The usual place, don't be late." The phone was cut off.
This was more like it.
He pressed the intercom. "I need a full report on my brother's activities with respect to his latest case on my desk in fifteen minutes."
"Yes Sir."
Too bad that the report on Korean elections would have to wait.
***
He was on time, walking sedately up to the fountain swinging his umbrella casually. Sherlock was already sitting on the bench, sitting still. One sweeping look ascertained that he appeared unhurt. Yet he wasn't restless or fidgeting, sitting still with his hands clasped in front of his face in deep contemplation of the grass in his line of sight. He did not look up as his brother approached.
"You are late.''
"Some of us have work to do, you see, beyond answering a bizarre summons at a moment's notice."
Silence greeted his words.
"Mycroft, it is about John."
Ah...
Sherlock twisted his head so that he was now facing Mycroft, the moonlight making his eyes gleam. The last time he had looked like that was when he had been ten and the family dog was about to be put down. The report had not been that bad, considering this meeting wasn't occurring at a hospital bed-side. Of late, that had been the only place they tended to meet, if you discounted the last time. He didn't respond, insufficient data.
"He was kidnapped tonight, a case of mistaken identity. They wanted me. Instead, they captured him along with his date. I barely reached in time to save him. I … He could have been… I could have been too late. I very nearly was too late."
Sherlock's head was back in his hands, eyes squeezed shut, elbows resting on his knees. He took a deep breath.
"I assumed that as soon as we were back at Baker Street, he would begin packing. I had prepared myself for this eventuality even before rescuing him. He was injured. The EMT's had to patch him up for a minor head trauma." He paused.
Mycroft was eyeing the tip of his umbrella with great interest. He was already aware of the details, except for the mistaken identity bit (mistaken identity in era of www, really!). He knew where this was going.
Sherlock's voice dropped lower, "He thanked me."
Then he snapped to his feet pacing furiously, his hands in his hair, not bothering to keep his voice low.
"He should be getting away from me, as far as he can. THAT should have been the logical outcome. I don't understand. He… I don't understand", he fell helplessly silent.
Mycroft finally found his opening. "Calm down. You are overthinking this."
"Don't patronise me, Mycroft."
"Dr. Watson is a battle hardened soldier. He deliberately shot a man within twenty-four hours of meeting you. So do not insult his integrity or courage by implying that a petty kidnapping would rattle him, would make him flee. In doing so, you are the one who is patronizing him."
"This was very different, Mycroft. Being mistaken for me, almost being killed instead of me. John didn't choose this like the last time. A meaningless death in a filthy alley where the murderer doesn't even know your name. No one would choose this."
"For heaven's sake, Sherlock, he is not a child who needs your mollycoddling. He chose to live with you despite being completely aware of the danger involved. He chose to admire you, in spite of your unbridled arrogance. He chose to trust you with no effort on your part to earn that trust."
Sherlock had closed his eyes, but Mycroft continued mercilessly, "He chose to stop you from gambling on your life by shooting that despicable cabbie. "
"Exactly, it is my turn now to stop him from gambling on his. I owe it to him."
Mycroft cursed internally. There it was again, undeniable LOGIC. For a moment he found himself wishing that his brother was actually a sociopath. The fact that he cared, but had no understanding of the mechanics of emotion was more of a bother. Logic was Sherlock's compass. That emotions defied logic was beyond his understanding. Fine then, he was going to have to learn this lesson the hard way. Mycroft got up gathering his umbrella.
"Alright then, you are essentially correct in deducing that Dr. Watson ought to move out. Certainly a new lifestyle would be far safer, more conducive to his longevity."
Sherlock stared at him, taken aback at the sudden turn the conversation had taken.
"You agree with me", he shot suspiciously.
"Obviously, I do hate repeating myself." With this parting shot he began walking away.
"I need your help."
Mycroft stopped dead in his tracks while smothering a small gasp. Those words had never been uttered by an adult Sherlock, not even through the agony of a painful rehab. Today was a red letter day indeed.
"John needs to chance upon new accommodations that would be suitable and affordable for him on leaving Baker Street, preferably somewhere close to his place of work. I know you can arrange that without arousing suspicion on his part."
Sherlock saw the smirk before Mycroft could completely hide it.
"Believe me when I say that approaching you was the last resort and painful as it may be, I will owe you a favour for this. You could compel me to solve one of your mind-numbing tedious problems."
"You misunderstand me, little brother." Sherlock winced. "What I am actually amused about is your misplaced confidence in your ability to manipulate the good doctor into leaving."
"How I achieve that is none of your concern."
"Oh, none in the slightest", Mycroft chortled. " Is that all then?"
"Yes."
"Very well. I will call in that favour when I need to. Good luck, Sherlock!"
Sherlock raised the collar of his coat as he trudged slowly back to Baker Street. Good luck indeed. Luck had nothing to do with what he intended. He had a plan of operation with the steps worked out. By the time he was done, John would be through with him.
He sped up unconsciously. It should be easy. He was a sociopathic freak. His parents had thought so. Three separate shrinks thought so. Seb, Sally, Anderson and now Dimmock were convinced of this. He didn't care what his brother thought. He had reached the front door and unlocked it quietly, just for today. John was hurt and needed his rest. Starting tomorrow, things would be different. This was going to be a piece of cake.
Next Chapter