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Mycroft knows things. Dark, terrible things. He sees them, in grainy black-and-white film canisters. Hovering like an omniscient presence over England. Secrets. Lies. Conspiracies. Whose turn it was to get milk this week.
He never thought he’d witness something as shocking as Sherlock asking John to the Valentine’s Dance.
The problem is that Mycroft works. Sherlock says he “is the British government”; this is untrue. Mycroft is most of the British government, yes, but not all of it. Obviously.
Either way, his work presented a highly alarming moral dilemma the moment he sat down and found himself wielding very metaphorical golden scepter of CCTV cameras.
Suddenly Mycroft didn’t have to ask Athena for biscuits all day long and nervously chew out his pen cap and send demanding emails to all of Sherlock’s teachers. He could watch Sherlock walk from school to home, see every moment where he befriended small dogs, intimidated small children, and nicked even smaller lollies from the pound shop by charming poor Molly into a stupor whilst stuffing them into his coat.
But Mycroft never had to worry anymore. He emptied Sherlock’s drawers of the stolen lollies every Friday afternoon once he was home from work, but he didn’t worry.
He did, however, show concern over Sherlock’s brain tumor when he saw him walking home with John Watson.
Sherlock never smiled around people. Mycroft had been privileged to a couple corner-of-the-mouth twitches in his lifetime and even the rare appearance of a smile when Mycroft had made a particularly good joke or Mummy was around.
But Sherlock never smiled around people. Mycroft knew the difference between the shamming smile that Sherlock used on Molly and the one he was wearing now. Sherlock was genuinely smiling. Laughing. Staring at John Watson in a way Mycroft had never seen him look at anyone. Like John Watson was a sun or a planet or a crime scene.
Sherlock obviously had a brain tumor. Whatever the ailment, it was mentally upsetting, and Sherlock was most likely going to die soon. Mycroft read John Hamish Watson’s file several more times and concluded that yes, Sherlock was clearly fatally ill.
“You cannot terminate him, Mycroft,” Sherlock announced as he walked into the house that afternoon. Mycroft was nervously tapping his umbrella against the ground, attempting to look as intimidating at usual in the front hallway but ultimately failing. Sherlock dropped his schoolbag on the ground and strode past Mycroft without a glance. Mycroft followed him into the kitchen where Sherlock promptly began making tea and a peanut butter sandwich. He must be in excruciating pain, Mycroft thought. He’s voluntarily eating. He’s eating a peanut butter sandwich.
“I can terminate anyone I want to,” Mycroft countered and resisted the impulse to reach out and check Sherlock’s temperature.
“John refuses to be terminated,” Sherlock said, and bit into his sandwich, as if John Watson refusing to do anything was irreversible fact.
No one could kill John Watson, Mycroft suddenly realized, not just because John Watson refused to die, but because Sherlock wouldn’t let them.
“I wasn’t planning on terminating John Watson,” Mycroft said stiffly.
“You were,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, and finished the whole sandwich. Mycroft stared and completely forgot deny that he had been planning John Watson’s untimely death/disappearance. Sherlock licked peanut butter from his thumb and made to go upstairs before Mycroft called after him, “Wait.”
Sherlock turned. Slightly apprehensive, defensive, oh god, this was the work of John Watson in less than an hour. The power he held over Mycroft’s brother was terrifying. Mycroft had no idea what he wanted to say, what would help him understand. Without thinking, he blurted, “What did he say that made you laugh?”
Sherlock paused and seemed to consider this, and then said in the way one says He told me he loved me, “He told me that I was an idiot.”
Sherlock disappeared up the stairs, and Mycroft requested for the butler to retrieve his good wine.
__
As it turned out, Sherlock did not have a brain tumor. Mycroft requested three highly- trained doctors; they all came to the same conclusion. Except one, who said Sherlock was probably just infatuated, and Mycroft had snapped at him in such a ferocious manner that he cringed guiltily when he walked past his mother’s portrait afterward.
Sherlock continued walking to school and from school with John Watson, and John Watson refused to be terminated, and Mycroft continued to worry. John Watson was worse than a brain tumor. John Watson was a simple, dull human who held an outrageous amount of power over Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft was sure that if John Watson asked Sherlock to stand with him in front of a train, Sherlock would do it without question.
John Watson was simply too dangerous, and Mycroft decided it was time to terminate him.
While John was standing outside of school waiting for Sherlock, Mycroft directed his driver to roll up to him. John eyed the car carefully, but did not move suddenly or uncross his arms.
Mycroft rolled the window down. “Please get into the car, Mr. Watson,” he said smoothly.
“I don’t think I will,” John Watson said bluntly.
“I think you understand your situation, Mr. Watson. Please get into the car.”
John Watson looked around, as if expect someone, anyone to have noticed the car, and finally huffed through his nose as if this was nuisance to his day and opened the door. He threw his schoolbag into the car and slid in.
Mycroft inspected him: stubborn, re: ridiculously stubborn, mother and sister are alcoholics, hungry, last ate: approximately 12:30 PM, a ham sandwich with no mayo, loyal, re: ridiculously loyal, loyal to Sherlock in a way that is only paralleled by Sherlock’s devotion to John Watson, shoes approximate £ 20-25 worth, hand-me downs, assists a clinic after walking Sherlock home (white latex caught in the zipper of his schoolbag, smells of antiseptic), stupid (he got into the car): re-evaluation: “bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity”: John = someone Sherlock cares for: therefore, re: stupid = brave. re: ridiculously brave, also reckless: odd attraction to reckless things : explanation for being drawn into Sherlock’s orbit? : Error 104 : who exactly is in whose orbit?
John Watson stared at him.
“You’ve become an acquaintance of Sherlock’s,” Mycroft said finally, and examined the tip of his umbrella to give himself something to look at. John Watson’s eyes were accusing and frankly they made him think of Sherlock when he told Mycroft that John Watson refused to be terminated.
Mycroft expected a fair number of reasonable responses. He did not expect what John Watson said.
“No,” John began, and Mycroft felt relieved, because this made so much more sense. And then John continued, “No, I’ve become his friend.”
“His friend?” Mycroft’s voice rose to an almost perceptibly embarrassing pitch, but he caught it in time and resolved to a cool exterior. “Sherlock doesn’t have friends,” he pointed out, because this was a fact.
“That’s what he said,” John quipped, but his face was hard now. “It’s probably because that’s what you had him believe, isn’t it?”
There was something odd about having one of the permanent, solid rules of the universe (Sherlock doesn’t have friends) turn over and be disproved. Because John Watson was obviously Sherlock’s friend. And Mycroft was wrong. And Sherlock thought he couldn’t make friends because of this wrong assumption by Mycroft.
He felt perceptibly guilty, but did not let John Watson know. (The last thing he needed is John Watson holding power over two Holmeses; there would be a frighteningly dangerous imbalance).
“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock?” Mycroft asked instead.
“Yes,” John said, crossing his arms, “and you can’t terminate me. I won’t allow it. Who would take care of Sherlock?”
“I would,” Mycroft snapped before he could stop himself.
John Watson nodded once, as if he knew all along that this strange man in this car who had kidnapped him was someone who would take care of Sherlock, and this was just a confirmation. “You can’t tell him he is sick when he smiles anymore,” John said blatantly.
“I know,” Mycroft conceded.
“And you have to let him eat peanut butter sandwiches and steal lollies. And you can’t get rid of me,” John said, and the latter sounded less like like a term of treaty and more like a fact.
“I don’t believe I can,” Mycroft said truthfully. After a moment’s pause, “You don’t seem very frightened.”
“You aren’t very frightening,” John replied. “You just worry.”
Then John Watson rapped on the glass between the back seat and the driver, saying “I’d like to get off, please,” opened the door, nodded at Mycroft politely, stepped out onto the sidewalk with his schoolbag, and walked away.
Mycroft wondered just how it become that in five minutes, this had gone from a kidnapping to John Watson’s negotiation of terms and Mycroft’s plan had gone from terminating John Watson to never letting John leave his brother’s side.
__
In February, Mycroft decided he loved John Watson.
He loved him. Adored him. Revered him. Not nearly as much as Sherlock, but significantly more than Mycroft had ever held respect for anyone before.
Sherlock had put on a whole stone and Mycroft found himself with less furious experiments to clean up. He didn’t find anymore bullet holes in the wall and he hadn’t heard Sherlock say he was bored unless it was immediately followed by Sherlock resolving to become un-bored by visiting John. Sherlock smiled, even when Mycroft had thrown out all of the cherry lollies and purposefully switched them with root beer and blackberry flavoured. Sherlock laughed. Sherlock ate peanut butter sandwiches, and recently, Hob Nobs.
Sherlock got anxious.
Mycroft didn’t know why Sherlock suddenly became anxious. It began around February sixth, and the longer Mycroft noticed Sherlock being anxious, the more Mycroft worried. He couldn’t remember what it was like to be worried. Mycroft’s own nails were bitten to the quick by February eighth, and his pen caps were ultimately in various states of destruction on his desk.
Mycroft didn’t know Sherlock was capable of being nervous, or tense, or anxious, or distressed, or agitated. But Sherlock paced and thought for long periods of time and paced more and ate a whole jar of peanut butter in two days and bit his lips until they were raw and stayed in his room more often than Mycroft had seen him staying in his room since November. This must be Sherlock being nervous, Mycroft decided. Obviously, this is all John Watson’s fault.
On February ninth, Mycroft parked his dark car in front of John Watson again, and bristled at the confusion on John Watson’s face as he clambered into the car for the second time.
Mycroft glowered at him. John Watson laced his fingers together and played twiddle-dee with his thumbs.
“Thank you for letting Sherlock collect those poisonous mould samples last week,” John finally said, and Mycroft made a mental note to find said poisonous mould samples and promptly bin them. “We had a brilliant time. But he really doesn’t like blackberry flavoured lollies. I think you know. He’s been ranting about blackberry lollies for a while now, so maybe you could give him mystery flavors instead, he’d have a riot.”
“What have you done,” Mycroft seethed.
“What?” John repeated dumbly.
“You’ve done something. He is anxious. He is worried. I am the only one who is allowed to worry. Sherlock is never worried. Sherlock does not get nervous. He doesn’t. You are making him nervous and if you do not stop I will make you disappear and no one will ever know what happened to you.”
John Watson licked his lips nervously and let out a shuddering breath. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Mycroft glared. “No. You will tell me what you plan to do to stop this.”
“Now?” John protested.
“Now,” Mycroft asserted.
John considered this, chewing his lip.
“I’ll have pad thai with him,” he began slowly, timidly. “And I’ll help him at crime scenes. I’ll make sandwiches and let him think, but not for too long, or else he gets restless and poetic.” He grew emboldened. “I’ll let him deduce me and let his brother kidnap me and I’ll let him call me an idiot. I’ll give him compliments whenever he does something amazing, which is always, and I’ll clean up his hazardous waste zones he calls labs, and I’ll make him go to school when he’s too caught up in his head to realize that it’s Monday again. I’ll make him smile and make him watch telly and drink tea with two sugars, because he really likes it best that way, and when he gets lost in his head, then I’ll just wake him up and remind him that—“
John stopped abruptly. He licked his lips again and glanced to the window and back to Mycroft.
“And I’ll remind him that someone loves him,” he finished quietly.
Mycroft knew this. He nods. “That is sufficient, John Watson,” he says coolly, but inside he is so relieved that his whole body seems to sag. “Make good on your word.”
“Yes,” John said distantly, opening the door, and he glanced back to Mycroft. “I will.”
__
On February 10th, Sherlock relaxed. Markedly.
In fact, Mycroft would go so far as to say that Sherlock was elated.
He checked the security cameras and found what he wanted; then he requested audio, and was lucky to find that in the rain, Sherlock and John had been standing in the doorway of an apartment complex with an intercom speaker next to the buzzer.
In objective terms: on February 10th, John walked Sherlock home. It was raining; when the trickle become a downpour, Sherlock and John ran into the shelter of a doorway.
There was a CCTV camera across the street, trained on that door, and the intercom speaker was fuzzy-sounding, but it was passable.
For a while the two stood in the doorway, with Sherlock trading sarcastic barbs for fond comments from John on the state of Sherlock’s hair. Mycroft fast-forwarded through their banter but as soon as he saw Sherlock reach out he pressed play again.
“You’re soaked,” Sherlock said regretfully.
“It’s no problem. I’ve tons of endurance.”
“Your mother won’t like it. I should have let you have my coat.”
“Bother my mother,” John said keenly and turned to Sherlock. “I ran out in the rain because I wanted to. You’re not to blame.”
“I should have-”
“Hey,” John said, “cut it out.”
They stood in silence for a while and watched the rain. Mycroft was about to begin fast-forwarding again when Sherlock spoke.
“Are you taking Sarah?”
“Hmm?” John hummed distractedly.
“Sarah Sawyer. To the Valentine’s Dance. Do keep up John,” Sherlock repeated stiffly. He looked tense and there was the nervousness that had been around before; Mycroft gritted his teeth. So this was what had kept him so agitated. A school dance.
“No,” John said and glanced to Sherlock. Mycroft caught a glimpse of his face: taken aback and then suddenly determined. John continued unabashedly and bravely, “Are you?”
\“Why on earth would I take Sarah Sawyer to the dance?” Sherlock snorted, but his shoulders were still stiff and he still was refusing to look at John.
“God no, not Sarah. I wouldn’t ever put you through that. But anyone? Going with anyone to the dance?”
“I don’t do dances.” Sherlock said dully. “Obviously.”
“Ever?”
“What reason would I have to go?” Sherlock asked and stared at John Watson like someone looking at something they want but cannot have, and even through the awful speaker quality Mycroft heard the note of resignation in his voice and his heart positively ached. Oh, Sherlock.
“You might go because I asked you to go with me,” John said, voice clearly shaky but impossible to misunderstand.
Sherlock stared.
“As my date,” John continued, as if his first assert might have been misconceived.
Sherlock continued to gape. John fidgeted. Mycroft nearly pounded on his desk from frustration.
“Um,” John said finally. “Or not. That’s— that’s fine. It’s all fine.”
“John Watson,” Sherlock said in the most heartstruck way possible, “will you go to the Valentine’s Day Dance with me, although it is a trivial holiday with no purpose but commercial appeal and an excuse for people to gorge themselves on chocolate and wine?”
“I would love to go with you,” John replied, equally fond. “Even if your description makes it sound a lot less romantic.”
“Good,” Sherlock nodded once, like that matter was settled. He stuck his head into the street. “The rain seems to have subsided. We can run to my—“
John interrupted him by dragging him down by his collar into a hard kiss. Then he drew away just as quickly and said casually, as if nothing had happened, “Yes. We can get some dry clothes and I’ll put on James Bond. And I’ll beat you there.”
John Watson took off into the rain.
Sherlock grinned. He laughed. And he followed him.