Another thing to juggle
Jul. 4th, 2011 10:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solrosanNote: This was never supposed to be more than just a single fic (New circumstances), but I can't leave things with open endings. I'm too curious not to work out what happens.
Summary: What Mycroft does and react after getting the same news as John received in Brother of addicts.
***
Mycroft was in a meeting (nothing overly important, domestic school founds) when he got a surprisingly colourful text from his brother. It was not uncharacteristic for him to have one eye on his phone during conferences conducted in English; it was however very unlike him to have a reaction to the information he got.
It was unlikely that anyone of the neatly dressed men and women around the table noticed it. Mycroft, however, could feel how his whole body got tense for a moment and how disappointment came flowing over him like a tsunami.
The disappointment was not aimed at Lestrade who, apparently, had failed to accommodate John Watson’s wishes to bring Sherlock in. Nor was it aimed at Sherlock who, yet again, had managed to slip away from something that might be good for him. Actually, Mycroft was strangely pleased that his brother still was able to slip away from the Yard. The disappointment was aimed at himself, for believing things would be different this time.
Hope made people foolish and Mycroft felt ashamed of his stupidity. It was frustrating how naive he got when it came to Sherlock just because he wanted things to turn out for the better.
Mycroft put all of that aside for now; Sherlock was an ever existing problem but it didn’t mean it could take up all his time. Domestic school founds was the problem, literally, on the table at the moment and it deserved his attention.
Late in the afternoon Mycroft arranged for someone to find out where Sherlock was. He always slept better when he knew where his younger brother dwelled, even if it happened to be under a bridge somewhere (it seldom was the case though, a fact that amazed Mycroft from time to time). John Watson was sent a quick thought, nothing more, as Mycroft assumed Sherlock had told him off by text as well.
In a bizarre way, Mycroft was thankful that his brother was such a good pick-pocket, because it meant he would never sell his phone to get drug money. These petty thefts of Sherlock kept the line of communication open for times when Sherlock needed him.
Around the time Mycroft got into his car that night to catch a late flight to Frankfurt (the EMU was still the same mess he had predicted it to be in the late 1990th and even though he had opted for the United Kingdom to sign the treaty committing them to join sometime in the future, he was now very pleased with the fact that they had not) he got a notification through his P.A. that Sherlock was located.
That was good; the European economy needed his full attention and that he couldn’t give if Sherlock was lost.
There was no more news about Sherlock during Mycroft’s time on the continent. That was also good; no news meant status quo. His people still knew where Sherlock was and even better, Sherlock didn’t do anything more stupid than usual.
First three days after Mycroft got back to London he could allow himself some time to go through the gathered information about his brother. He printed everything (he still preferred reading on paper even if all his files were digitalised nowadays) and sat down in an armchair, far away from the desk he otherwise occupied.
It wasn’t a very interesting read; Sherlock had been good after running away from the police. From what Mycroft’s source could tell him, not even the cocaine purchases had been high. Then, he guessed, there wasn’t much for him to do in that area. Sherlock would need at least a month after this fiasco before he would accept any kind of contact with his older brother.
He briefly flipped through the paperwork he had printed on John Watson, but, as he had imagined, there were even less interesting points there. The good doctor seemed to go on with his life as normal; that was…good, he guessed.
It had been cruel of him to ask John to get involved again; the man had enough with his own and Mycroft was very well aware of it. At the moment, it had felt like a possibility to sort Sherlock out and how could he pass on an opportunity like that? Anyway, he wouldn’t do the mistake of getting caught up in hope again. Not for a long time at least, it was inevitable to get his hopes up again. It was human nature and Mycroft was not immune to it, frankly, he did not want to be.
The paper shredder next to the armchair eagerly chewed up the information about his brother and Dr. Watson faster than he could feed it. It needed to be emptied in the near future he realised and made a mental note to ask someone to do it tomorrow.
Maybe he should call off the surveillance on John Watson? The British taxpayers shouldn’t have to pay for that and, in all honesty, it would be kinder to the man in question to leave him be. If Mycroft didn’t know anything, he couldn’t tell Sherlock anything and John would be left alone.
Yes, he would cease the surveillance; first thing tomorrow…after he had taken care of the paper shredder. Then he should send an e-mail, thanking for the attempt to help and telling John that the offer concerning a new liver for his sister still stood if it was ever needed.
He heaved himself on his feet. Once upon a time this chair had been his most frequent sleeping place, but with age came wisdom and he had realised how much more comfortable it was sleeping in a bed; not to mention the awareness that the world would not come to an end just because he was away from the office. Thanks to – or because of – computers, he wasn’t as indispensable as he’d once been and it suited him well; he had a granddaughter he wanted to see more often and his wife really deserved more attention than he’d been given her all these years.
If it had not been for Sherlock’s habit, Mycroft’s life would have been borderline perfect according to him.
***
By the trouble Mycroft had understanding the e-mail he had received, one could think it was written in traditional Chinese, or some of his other weaker languages, and not English. It was forwarded from his P.A. since she had been the one sending out the first one. Mycroft never sent e-mails from his personal address, the only four people that had access to it was his wife, his son, Sherlock and, of course, his P.A..
The mail he had received read:
Thank you for my privacy, have no need for it. Forgot what it feels like and what to do with it.
Please stop talking about Harry’s liver, I do appreciate the sentiment, but she’s been sober for almost a year and I want to imagine a world where she stays that way.
I had expected you to contact me sooner; I was about two days short of jumping up and down in front of a camera just to get your attention. Need any help with Sherlock in the future you can contact me. You have my number and address (and obviously my work- and home e-mail addresses, most likely my social security number and passport information).
Best regards
Dr John H. Watson.
Mycroft had an urge to send for John, but it would be irrational; he needed to be at Westminster in an hour and that was more important than his personal gratitude towards John Watson.
Instead he pressed reply and wrote:
Thank you.
There will be no need to get my attention by CCTV, instead please respond to this e-mail if anything would present itself. It goes directly to my inbox.
Mycroft Holmes.
That was much unexpected. And appreciated. Mycroft had not been able to predict that, but he liked that there was still people out there that could surprise him. It made it worth while to keep this country afloat; not to mention, it made life more interesting to live.
John didn’t respond to the e-mail, but Mycroft hadn’t expected him too.
***
It did not matter that it was just eleven days before Christmas; the sound of his P.A.’s steps approaching in haste was always an omen of doom.
The woman was otherwise very put together and he had only heard her raise her voice once during the 15+ years she had been working for him – the day she lost her father in a plane crash. The fast clicking of spike heels had been the foregoer of natural disasters like hurricane Katrina in the former colonies and the tsunami outside TÅhoku; economic crises following bursting of what-ever-current bubbles; most recently it had been due to the death of the queen (what a disaster that had been for the national economy).
Mycroft wondered why she never was in this kind of rush to bring him good news; the Prime minister getting the Nobel peace price; the last Russian nuclear head was destroyed or something simple as the work they’d done to increase the awareness of the benefits of using condoms had reduced the number of sexually transmitted infections among teenagers with 52 %.
These things he had to read about. No one ran down the hall to tell him things that were rewarding about his work. As if he didn’t need to know about it. As if he didn’t think it was important.
He did.
“Sir,” the woman said, a bit short of air, after closing the door and he confirmed with a slight nod that he was listening even if he wasn’t looking, “Your brother is at St Thomas’.”
Mycroft flinched and stared at her. Even if he felt stunned by the information, he could still see that his otherwise so well put-together assistant was in vague state of shock; her eyes were almost more unsettling than the news itself. She must have been just as prepared for this possibility as he had been, so the severity of her reaction told him this wasn’t just a scare.
A feeling, almost unknown to Mycroft, speared through him – panic. To a man whose livelihood and identity, more or less, was built on his ability to reason and think logically, this was paralysing.
Sherlock’s problem was just another thing Mycroft left at the office when he went home. His family thought the main reason uncle Sherlock didn’t come around anymore was because of the falling out the brothers had had at Mummy’s funeral. Therefore his P.A. was the only person who knew the whole width of Sherlock’s drug habit – saved himself and maybe John – and also the only person who could begin to grasp what it meant to Mycroft. This was not because he had told her, he seldom spoke of personal things, but because she always was around.
“He’s alive,” the dyed-black-haired woman told him when she didn’t get a verbal response to her news.
Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, for the moment too reviled by the fact Sherlock was alive to be angry with her for not starting with that piece of crucial information.
“Why this time?” he asked, going through the schedule for the rest of the day, looking for a possible slot to slip away to the hospital.
“Hypothermia.”
Mycroft sighed. Her short and concise description displeased him, but since this was one of the things he loved about her every other day, and because he was so relieved it wasn’t an overdose, he didn’t mention it.
“Who was on him?” he asked, even though it didn’t matter. Who ever it had been, Mycroft would make sure that person would spend the remaining part of his/her life, picking litter and dog excrement of the pavement. In Oymyakon, Russia. Admittedly, having two eyes on Sherlock at all times was not an easy task (Mycroft had first hand experience) but loosing sight of him for a long enough time for him to get severe hypothermia without contacting Mycroft…. That was inexcusable.
”Feldmann,” she answered and he opened his eyes, giving her the death glare he wanted to give Kerry Feldmann. She endured it because she knew she wasn’t the real target; she would probably been able to endure it anyway. She was that kind of woman.
“Who found him?”
“Schubert.”
For a short moment he wanted to tell her to use sentences when she spoke. This was not really important information though. Not now at least. Punishment and rewards could be yield later. At least the reward could come as a pleasant Christmas bonus.
“Please reschedule my meeting with the Ministry of Justice,” he asked her in a telling voice.
“This is the reschedule meeting; you cancelled three days ago,” she reminded him.
Most of the times, it was unnecessary to remind Mycroft of anything since he remembered everything himself. It was often, however, worth while to remind him that he alone didn’t rule the world and needed to do his bitts on time to enable for the others to do theirs.
If Mycroft had been a man prone to profanities he would have used a string of them right now, that meeting had been the only thing even remotely possible to cancel today. He couldn’t reschedule the Prime minister’s meeting with the Dutch Prime minister and he needed to be there, he didn’t trust Anne DeVries – the Dutch version of himself. Despite the trust issue, DeVries was – spare his P.A. – the closest thing he’d had to a mistress, even though he didn’t know her real name. Nor did she know his. All the more reason he did not trust her and needed to be present. And wanted to, she was intriguing.
“Bring me some tea please,” he said with a defeated sigh and added just before she left: “And updated information.”
When the door shut and he was alone he felt a sting of despair. At first, he had trouble breathing when he realised that he had, for a few second, thought he had lost his only sibling and felt relief. Yes, a part of the desperation had been cowering relief; he understood that now because that same part was now disappointed. How could he be disappointed his brother was alive?
Getting his breath back, he picked up his private phone, the one to which Sherlock sent all his texts. That was where he kept John Watson’s phone number. Despite the man’s offer to help, Mycroft had exerted himself to not involve John. Until today, there hadn’t been much to involve him in even if Mycroft had wanted to; one arrest and a close-to-eviction, nothing Mycroft couldn’t take care of. Just as much as John didn’t want a new liver for Harriet from him, Mycroft didn’t really want to ask for John’s help.
Today it didn’t look like he had much choice. There was no way he was going to let Sherlock be alone at the hospital – he never stayed for very long if no one was there telling him so.
“Dr. John Watson?” he asked when John answered. Mycroft recognised the voice immediately, but he had been taught it was polite to ask.
“Yes, this is he.”
“Mycroft Holmes,” he introduced himself, bowing once again to the social rules of how to conduct a conversation over the phone. In difference to his brother, Mycroft had realised early on that people responded better when you acted in these ceremonious ways. Even if they seemed tedious.
“Oh.”
John’s voice sounded muffled and distant. Mycroft wondered if this was his way of preparing for bad news. It was always so much harder to deduce state of mind over the phone.
“Am I interrupting anything?”
Again, politeness. More flies with honey.
“I’m at work, but it’s slow right now.”
That wasn’t a fulfilling answer, but since it wasn’t a no. Mycroft took it as an invitation to at least state his reason for calling.
“I wonder, does your offer to help concerning Sherlock still stand?”
“Yes, do you need anything?”
Did he need anything? The question was hard to comprehend for Mycroft since this had always been a collaboration to help Sherlock. Not him. He dismissed the thought as a bad phrasing and nothing else.
“Sherlock has been taken to St Thomas’, hypothermia.” Mycroft didn’t leave time for John to react and let the mind jump to death and overdose, as his had, “I cannot go there until 1 o’clock tonight, as earliest. Do you think you might be able to go there?”
There was a long silence. Mycroft waited patiently, it felt like a huge thing to ask for.
“I can be there in maybe two hours,” John said without an ounce of hesitation in his voice, but Mycroft guessed there had been an internal struggle in the doctor’s head during the extended silence.
“I would deeply appreciate it, thank you,” Mycroft could hear his voice tremble slightly with relief.
“Yea, well….” John sounded a bit uncomfortable all of a sudden, “How are you?”
“I am fine. There is no need to ask about me.” Mycroft was bewildered by the seemingly random question. Very few people asked about him, being there questions about his health, whereabouts or thought.
“If you say so,” – Mycroft got the feeling John didn’t believe him – “Are you going to come by the hospital when you’re done…saving kittens from burning building?”
Mycroft smiled. Stupid thing to smile about, but there was just something about the tone in John Watson’s voice that made it sound ridiculous. Not to mention the fact that it was ridiculous; Mycroft was never going to do anything so work intensive. Truth be told, he had wanted to be an astronaut, not a fireman, when he was a small boy.
“Yes, when the kittens are safe I will come. Please keep him there until then.” It was close-to-amusing to think about the Dutch Prime minister and DeVries as kittens, but not amusing at all to think about 10 Downing Street on fire.
“Okay. I make sure Sherlock stays until you get there.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
They hung up and Mycroft felt a confusing sense of comfort seep in to him. John was going to watch over Sherlock; he didn’t have to worry about his brother. He would, but he didn’t have to and hopefully he would be able to remind himself of that often enough to not be completely outwitted by Anne DeVries.
Sherlock’s timing had never been good; hopefully this wouldn’t result in a national tragedy. Either way, having John Watson as support and backup, had all of a sudden made his life much simpler.
***
Last part: A piece of bad news wraped in protein
Summary: What Mycroft does and react after getting the same news as John received in Brother of addicts.
***
Mycroft was in a meeting (nothing overly important, domestic school founds) when he got a surprisingly colourful text from his brother. It was not uncharacteristic for him to have one eye on his phone during conferences conducted in English; it was however very unlike him to have a reaction to the information he got.
It was unlikely that anyone of the neatly dressed men and women around the table noticed it. Mycroft, however, could feel how his whole body got tense for a moment and how disappointment came flowing over him like a tsunami.
The disappointment was not aimed at Lestrade who, apparently, had failed to accommodate John Watson’s wishes to bring Sherlock in. Nor was it aimed at Sherlock who, yet again, had managed to slip away from something that might be good for him. Actually, Mycroft was strangely pleased that his brother still was able to slip away from the Yard. The disappointment was aimed at himself, for believing things would be different this time.
Hope made people foolish and Mycroft felt ashamed of his stupidity. It was frustrating how naive he got when it came to Sherlock just because he wanted things to turn out for the better.
Mycroft put all of that aside for now; Sherlock was an ever existing problem but it didn’t mean it could take up all his time. Domestic school founds was the problem, literally, on the table at the moment and it deserved his attention.
Late in the afternoon Mycroft arranged for someone to find out where Sherlock was. He always slept better when he knew where his younger brother dwelled, even if it happened to be under a bridge somewhere (it seldom was the case though, a fact that amazed Mycroft from time to time). John Watson was sent a quick thought, nothing more, as Mycroft assumed Sherlock had told him off by text as well.
In a bizarre way, Mycroft was thankful that his brother was such a good pick-pocket, because it meant he would never sell his phone to get drug money. These petty thefts of Sherlock kept the line of communication open for times when Sherlock needed him.
Around the time Mycroft got into his car that night to catch a late flight to Frankfurt (the EMU was still the same mess he had predicted it to be in the late 1990th and even though he had opted for the United Kingdom to sign the treaty committing them to join sometime in the future, he was now very pleased with the fact that they had not) he got a notification through his P.A. that Sherlock was located.
That was good; the European economy needed his full attention and that he couldn’t give if Sherlock was lost.
There was no more news about Sherlock during Mycroft’s time on the continent. That was also good; no news meant status quo. His people still knew where Sherlock was and even better, Sherlock didn’t do anything more stupid than usual.
First three days after Mycroft got back to London he could allow himself some time to go through the gathered information about his brother. He printed everything (he still preferred reading on paper even if all his files were digitalised nowadays) and sat down in an armchair, far away from the desk he otherwise occupied.
It wasn’t a very interesting read; Sherlock had been good after running away from the police. From what Mycroft’s source could tell him, not even the cocaine purchases had been high. Then, he guessed, there wasn’t much for him to do in that area. Sherlock would need at least a month after this fiasco before he would accept any kind of contact with his older brother.
He briefly flipped through the paperwork he had printed on John Watson, but, as he had imagined, there were even less interesting points there. The good doctor seemed to go on with his life as normal; that was…good, he guessed.
It had been cruel of him to ask John to get involved again; the man had enough with his own and Mycroft was very well aware of it. At the moment, it had felt like a possibility to sort Sherlock out and how could he pass on an opportunity like that? Anyway, he wouldn’t do the mistake of getting caught up in hope again. Not for a long time at least, it was inevitable to get his hopes up again. It was human nature and Mycroft was not immune to it, frankly, he did not want to be.
The paper shredder next to the armchair eagerly chewed up the information about his brother and Dr. Watson faster than he could feed it. It needed to be emptied in the near future he realised and made a mental note to ask someone to do it tomorrow.
Maybe he should call off the surveillance on John Watson? The British taxpayers shouldn’t have to pay for that and, in all honesty, it would be kinder to the man in question to leave him be. If Mycroft didn’t know anything, he couldn’t tell Sherlock anything and John would be left alone.
Yes, he would cease the surveillance; first thing tomorrow…after he had taken care of the paper shredder. Then he should send an e-mail, thanking for the attempt to help and telling John that the offer concerning a new liver for his sister still stood if it was ever needed.
He heaved himself on his feet. Once upon a time this chair had been his most frequent sleeping place, but with age came wisdom and he had realised how much more comfortable it was sleeping in a bed; not to mention the awareness that the world would not come to an end just because he was away from the office. Thanks to – or because of – computers, he wasn’t as indispensable as he’d once been and it suited him well; he had a granddaughter he wanted to see more often and his wife really deserved more attention than he’d been given her all these years.
If it had not been for Sherlock’s habit, Mycroft’s life would have been borderline perfect according to him.
***
By the trouble Mycroft had understanding the e-mail he had received, one could think it was written in traditional Chinese, or some of his other weaker languages, and not English. It was forwarded from his P.A. since she had been the one sending out the first one. Mycroft never sent e-mails from his personal address, the only four people that had access to it was his wife, his son, Sherlock and, of course, his P.A..
The mail he had received read:
Thank you for my privacy, have no need for it. Forgot what it feels like and what to do with it.
Please stop talking about Harry’s liver, I do appreciate the sentiment, but she’s been sober for almost a year and I want to imagine a world where she stays that way.
I had expected you to contact me sooner; I was about two days short of jumping up and down in front of a camera just to get your attention. Need any help with Sherlock in the future you can contact me. You have my number and address (and obviously my work- and home e-mail addresses, most likely my social security number and passport information).
Best regards
Dr John H. Watson.
Mycroft had an urge to send for John, but it would be irrational; he needed to be at Westminster in an hour and that was more important than his personal gratitude towards John Watson.
Instead he pressed reply and wrote:
Thank you.
There will be no need to get my attention by CCTV, instead please respond to this e-mail if anything would present itself. It goes directly to my inbox.
Mycroft Holmes.
That was much unexpected. And appreciated. Mycroft had not been able to predict that, but he liked that there was still people out there that could surprise him. It made it worth while to keep this country afloat; not to mention, it made life more interesting to live.
John didn’t respond to the e-mail, but Mycroft hadn’t expected him too.
***
It did not matter that it was just eleven days before Christmas; the sound of his P.A.’s steps approaching in haste was always an omen of doom.
The woman was otherwise very put together and he had only heard her raise her voice once during the 15+ years she had been working for him – the day she lost her father in a plane crash. The fast clicking of spike heels had been the foregoer of natural disasters like hurricane Katrina in the former colonies and the tsunami outside TÅhoku; economic crises following bursting of what-ever-current bubbles; most recently it had been due to the death of the queen (what a disaster that had been for the national economy).
Mycroft wondered why she never was in this kind of rush to bring him good news; the Prime minister getting the Nobel peace price; the last Russian nuclear head was destroyed or something simple as the work they’d done to increase the awareness of the benefits of using condoms had reduced the number of sexually transmitted infections among teenagers with 52 %.
These things he had to read about. No one ran down the hall to tell him things that were rewarding about his work. As if he didn’t need to know about it. As if he didn’t think it was important.
He did.
“Sir,” the woman said, a bit short of air, after closing the door and he confirmed with a slight nod that he was listening even if he wasn’t looking, “Your brother is at St Thomas’.”
Mycroft flinched and stared at her. Even if he felt stunned by the information, he could still see that his otherwise so well put-together assistant was in vague state of shock; her eyes were almost more unsettling than the news itself. She must have been just as prepared for this possibility as he had been, so the severity of her reaction told him this wasn’t just a scare.
A feeling, almost unknown to Mycroft, speared through him – panic. To a man whose livelihood and identity, more or less, was built on his ability to reason and think logically, this was paralysing.
Sherlock’s problem was just another thing Mycroft left at the office when he went home. His family thought the main reason uncle Sherlock didn’t come around anymore was because of the falling out the brothers had had at Mummy’s funeral. Therefore his P.A. was the only person who knew the whole width of Sherlock’s drug habit – saved himself and maybe John – and also the only person who could begin to grasp what it meant to Mycroft. This was not because he had told her, he seldom spoke of personal things, but because she always was around.
“He’s alive,” the dyed-black-haired woman told him when she didn’t get a verbal response to her news.
Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, for the moment too reviled by the fact Sherlock was alive to be angry with her for not starting with that piece of crucial information.
“Why this time?” he asked, going through the schedule for the rest of the day, looking for a possible slot to slip away to the hospital.
“Hypothermia.”
Mycroft sighed. Her short and concise description displeased him, but since this was one of the things he loved about her every other day, and because he was so relieved it wasn’t an overdose, he didn’t mention it.
“Who was on him?” he asked, even though it didn’t matter. Who ever it had been, Mycroft would make sure that person would spend the remaining part of his/her life, picking litter and dog excrement of the pavement. In Oymyakon, Russia. Admittedly, having two eyes on Sherlock at all times was not an easy task (Mycroft had first hand experience) but loosing sight of him for a long enough time for him to get severe hypothermia without contacting Mycroft…. That was inexcusable.
”Feldmann,” she answered and he opened his eyes, giving her the death glare he wanted to give Kerry Feldmann. She endured it because she knew she wasn’t the real target; she would probably been able to endure it anyway. She was that kind of woman.
“Who found him?”
“Schubert.”
For a short moment he wanted to tell her to use sentences when she spoke. This was not really important information though. Not now at least. Punishment and rewards could be yield later. At least the reward could come as a pleasant Christmas bonus.
“Please reschedule my meeting with the Ministry of Justice,” he asked her in a telling voice.
“This is the reschedule meeting; you cancelled three days ago,” she reminded him.
Most of the times, it was unnecessary to remind Mycroft of anything since he remembered everything himself. It was often, however, worth while to remind him that he alone didn’t rule the world and needed to do his bitts on time to enable for the others to do theirs.
If Mycroft had been a man prone to profanities he would have used a string of them right now, that meeting had been the only thing even remotely possible to cancel today. He couldn’t reschedule the Prime minister’s meeting with the Dutch Prime minister and he needed to be there, he didn’t trust Anne DeVries – the Dutch version of himself. Despite the trust issue, DeVries was – spare his P.A. – the closest thing he’d had to a mistress, even though he didn’t know her real name. Nor did she know his. All the more reason he did not trust her and needed to be present. And wanted to, she was intriguing.
“Bring me some tea please,” he said with a defeated sigh and added just before she left: “And updated information.”
When the door shut and he was alone he felt a sting of despair. At first, he had trouble breathing when he realised that he had, for a few second, thought he had lost his only sibling and felt relief. Yes, a part of the desperation had been cowering relief; he understood that now because that same part was now disappointed. How could he be disappointed his brother was alive?
Getting his breath back, he picked up his private phone, the one to which Sherlock sent all his texts. That was where he kept John Watson’s phone number. Despite the man’s offer to help, Mycroft had exerted himself to not involve John. Until today, there hadn’t been much to involve him in even if Mycroft had wanted to; one arrest and a close-to-eviction, nothing Mycroft couldn’t take care of. Just as much as John didn’t want a new liver for Harriet from him, Mycroft didn’t really want to ask for John’s help.
Today it didn’t look like he had much choice. There was no way he was going to let Sherlock be alone at the hospital – he never stayed for very long if no one was there telling him so.
“Dr. John Watson?” he asked when John answered. Mycroft recognised the voice immediately, but he had been taught it was polite to ask.
“Yes, this is he.”
“Mycroft Holmes,” he introduced himself, bowing once again to the social rules of how to conduct a conversation over the phone. In difference to his brother, Mycroft had realised early on that people responded better when you acted in these ceremonious ways. Even if they seemed tedious.
“Oh.”
John’s voice sounded muffled and distant. Mycroft wondered if this was his way of preparing for bad news. It was always so much harder to deduce state of mind over the phone.
“Am I interrupting anything?”
Again, politeness. More flies with honey.
“I’m at work, but it’s slow right now.”
That wasn’t a fulfilling answer, but since it wasn’t a no. Mycroft took it as an invitation to at least state his reason for calling.
“I wonder, does your offer to help concerning Sherlock still stand?”
“Yes, do you need anything?”
Did he need anything? The question was hard to comprehend for Mycroft since this had always been a collaboration to help Sherlock. Not him. He dismissed the thought as a bad phrasing and nothing else.
“Sherlock has been taken to St Thomas’, hypothermia.” Mycroft didn’t leave time for John to react and let the mind jump to death and overdose, as his had, “I cannot go there until 1 o’clock tonight, as earliest. Do you think you might be able to go there?”
There was a long silence. Mycroft waited patiently, it felt like a huge thing to ask for.
“I can be there in maybe two hours,” John said without an ounce of hesitation in his voice, but Mycroft guessed there had been an internal struggle in the doctor’s head during the extended silence.
“I would deeply appreciate it, thank you,” Mycroft could hear his voice tremble slightly with relief.
“Yea, well….” John sounded a bit uncomfortable all of a sudden, “How are you?”
“I am fine. There is no need to ask about me.” Mycroft was bewildered by the seemingly random question. Very few people asked about him, being there questions about his health, whereabouts or thought.
“If you say so,” – Mycroft got the feeling John didn’t believe him – “Are you going to come by the hospital when you’re done…saving kittens from burning building?”
Mycroft smiled. Stupid thing to smile about, but there was just something about the tone in John Watson’s voice that made it sound ridiculous. Not to mention the fact that it was ridiculous; Mycroft was never going to do anything so work intensive. Truth be told, he had wanted to be an astronaut, not a fireman, when he was a small boy.
“Yes, when the kittens are safe I will come. Please keep him there until then.” It was close-to-amusing to think about the Dutch Prime minister and DeVries as kittens, but not amusing at all to think about 10 Downing Street on fire.
“Okay. I make sure Sherlock stays until you get there.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
They hung up and Mycroft felt a confusing sense of comfort seep in to him. John was going to watch over Sherlock; he didn’t have to worry about his brother. He would, but he didn’t have to and hopefully he would be able to remind himself of that often enough to not be completely outwitted by Anne DeVries.
Sherlock’s timing had never been good; hopefully this wouldn’t result in a national tragedy. Either way, having John Watson as support and backup, had all of a sudden made his life much simpler.
***
Last part: A piece of bad news wraped in protein
