Chapter Text
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Category: BBC Sherlock 2010 fic
Rating: This part G - safe for all
Characters: Mycroft and John
Series: No
Spoilers: Anything from the current season might get mentioned but set before the end of the first episode.
Summary: Mycroft really does care. The book’s proof of that. But John isn’t convinced. Until there’s a crisis and he’s checking the index.
Archive: Just tell me where it's going
Additional 'stuff': I’m (fairly) sure Mycroft works for MI6. I’m also hoping (in my Sherlock universe at least) that Mycroft and John will become friendlier towards each other. Maybe, maybe not. We shall see…
Title: Multiple entries - One
John’s walking back from the newsagent, Sunday papers tucked under one arm, an umbrella under the other. It’s been threatening to rain and, unlike Sherlock, John pays attention to the weather forecasts and the color of the sky before he leaves the flat.
The car glides up almost silently behind him, and it’s beside him before he notices it. A sleek, silver sports car, not his taste but he can tell it’s expensive, an indulgence for a man, or woman, with too much money and no children – the car’s neither got space for them nor upholstery that would stand up to sharp-edged toys or carelessness with food or drink.
He notices it out of the corner of his eye as it slows to match his speed almost exactly. Immediately he’s on edge, brief experience of life with Sherlock a sharp reminder of his military training, eyes sweeping the street ahead and behind, checking he’s not walking into an obvious trap.
A window slides down and Mycroft’s face is revealed. “Get in Dr Watson.”
John looked into the passenger seat, then the cramped back seats. No sign of the brunette he remembered from his last ‘meeting’ with Mycroft and he’s relieved. Bending, he keeps back a little from the car, not quite trusting the man inside. “Where are we going?”
“I have something to show you.”
John shook his head, waving the newspapers. “If I don’t get these home, Sherlock’ll probably find a way of destroying something else in the flat and Mrs Hudson will go mad.”
Mycroft smiled, the expression making John bristle. It was a now-familiar mixture of amusement and certainty. He *knew* John would get in the car. Whether that, or something else, was the cause of his amusement would remain a secret. John wouldn’t ask and he was certain Mycroft wouldn’t share.
Reluctantly, tossing the papers onto the back seat, John slid into the car, buckling his seatbelt. Some soft classical music surrounded him as he pulled the door closed.
He was becoming used to, although not able to identify, the music Sherlock played but this was different. Nice, but not what he was used to. Had become used to, he corrected himself. Like a lot of things he’d grown accustomed to since he moved into 221B Baker Street, Sherlock’s violin playing matched his mood. Loud angry music for times when Sherlock was frustrated or upset, softer, lighter pieces for times he was celebrating cracking a case or simply a minor breakthrough
This was clearly Mycroft’s taste in music. Sitting back, listening, he watched the streets slide by as the car made its way through the light early-morning traffic. If either of them understood that the music removed the need for small talk as they sat beside each other they didn’t mention it.
*************************
Pimlico…a little later
Mycroft waved a hand at a black leather couch. “Have a seat Dr Watson.”
John looked around the room. A typically masculine room, almost no decoration except for a pair of pictures on the piano at the far end of the room, children, two boys, too close in age to be Sherlock and Mycroft. So, John surmised, Mycroft’s children. He had seen the man’s wedding ring on the wrong hand. He was divorced but still couldn’t bear to completely remove the reminder of his marriage. Maybe, he guessed, because of the children. He smiled inwardly. Before Sherlock he would probably not even have noticed the ring, much less which hand it was worn on.
Mycroft was unlocking a small wall safe. “A whole month you’ve managed to survive living with my brother. Longer than anyone. So it’s time to give you this.”
Turning, he handed over a small leather-bound book, its cover cracked and worn, the once-white label covering the top third of the front cover faded but still bearing the book’s title in faded blue ink: ‘The care of Sherlock Holmes by Mycroft Holmes’.
Taking the volume from Mycroft, John opened it to the first page. Handwritten, the index started at A and going through to W. Each index letter had one or more sub-headings, A – Alcohol and Anorexia, D, rather worryingly he thought, listed Drugs and Dentists.
John tried not to focus on the more worrying entries, under E – Eating Disorders and Eating (Reminders to do so) while F offered First Aid (see also Injuries and Hospital) swiftly followed by N – Nightmares, Under V, John read Vegetables, Violin - quite innocuous, he thought, after the previous entries.
Mycroft paced across the room, standing at the window looking out while he gave John to opportunity to grasp the purpose of the slim volume.
John perused the hand-written entries, blue ink a little faded in places. “You wrote this…when?”
Mycroft turned, hands behind his back. “1997. Sherlock had graduated, I had found him a flat, someone to share it with and he was about to start working as a trainee forensic analyst. I thought his co-habitee deserved some kind of instruction manual for my brother. He can be a little…bewildering…if you’re unused to his ways.”
John chuckled softly. “Does he know…about this?” John waved the book.
Mycroft sighed. “This is the only copy. The first person I gave it to…a charming young man named…Joshua…gave it back after only three days.”
“So, no, then?” John pushed. Then, against his better judgment, he had to ask: “Three days?”
Mycroft sighed again, remembering. “Apparently Sherlock found a dead pigeon in the park and brought it home. Joshua came home from…somewhere…and found Sherlock sitting in the living room plucking the unfortunate creature. There were, according to his note terminating his co-habitation, ‘blood and feathers everywhere and masses of maggots’.”
John grimaced and squirmed at the mental picture. “So, I can keep this.”
“For as long as you remain at 221B Baker Street.” Mycroft said, somewhat wearily.
John stood, sensing the meeting was at an end. “When we first met, you described yourself as Sherlock’s arch enemy. Why did you lie?”
Mycroft frowned. “I wasn’t certain of your…motive…for wanting to move in with Sherlock.”
John wanted to laugh. “Motive? Um…homelessness?”
Mycroft nodded. “Of course, I know that now, but I’m afraid experience has caused me to be…careful.”
“That’s why you work for the Secret Service.”
“Secret Intelligence Service.” Mycroft corrected sharply.
John filed that one away for later thought.
John frowned. “You wanted to…what…scare me off?”
Mycroft nodded earnestly. “Yes. However, it would seem I was a little…hasty…in my assumptions about you.”
John wanted to smile at the older Holmes’ words and the *almost* contrite tone they were delivered in. “Anything that isn’t in the book?”
“Oh, knowing Sherlock, I would imagine so, wouldn’t you, John?”
John smiled, both at the truth of the statement and the way Mycroft had seamlessly switched to using his first name. “Knowing Sherlock, yes. Well, thank you for this.” He stood and headed to the living room door.
Mycroft strode quickly, his legs longer, each stride covering more ground than John and he arrived at the door at the same time. “Sherlock and I have our…differences. But be under no illusion *Doctor Watson*. If you cause my brother to come to any harm, physical or otherwise, you *will* regret your carelessness.”
The first time they met, John had been more intrigued than afraid. This time, as Mycroft invaded his personal space, he felt more scared than he had been when he lay dying in a stinking Afghan ditch.
Almost as quickly as the feeling had washed over him, it was gone as Mycroft was, once more, all charm and easy smile. “Now, we’d better get those newspapers onto your kitchen table before Sherlock destroys the flat, hmm?”
Trying to get some moisture into his throat, John nodded mutely.
*******************************
A short time later, as he walked up the stairs to the flat, Mycroft’s words came back to him and, as he unlocked the door, a distinctly unpleasant smell immediately entering his nostrils, he muttered: “And what if he causes me to come to any harm?”
End of Part One…