Chapter Text

Title: The Great Holmes Swap

Summary: Anthea finally agrees to date John if he can prove that living with Sherlock is much harder than coping with Mycroft, but when they switch lives, chaos, hilarity and true love ensues. 

Chapter 1: Psychedelic Drugs and Renaissance Art

Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Anthea, 

Rating: PG-13 

Genre: Humour/Romance

Warnings: Slash, domestic scenes and too much George Clooney. 

AN: Written for this prompt at the Sherlock Kink Meme. Thank you to sherlock2040

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It began when another of Sherlock’s psychosis-inducing experiments accidently found its way into John’s morning tea. That particular cup of Earl Grey proved to be even more than Captain John Watson of the Northumberland Fusiliers could handle. After only three sips, John hit the floor like a proverbial sack of potatoes. What was more embarrassing than being paralysed from the waist down was being discovered several hours later by none other than Mycroft Holmes and his stunning assistant “Anthea” or “Not Anthea” as the case maybe.

Mycroft Holmes, ever the cultured gentleman, ordered two burly special agents dressed in dark suites to remove him into the waiting Bentley parked conspicuously outside the front of 221B. Mrs Hudson, who returned from her Pilate class only to see John being frog-marched out of his flat, remained admirably calm at the sight of her tenant being forcibly removed. Mycroft smiled reassuringly at the landlady and ushered his assistant out of the door before Mrs Hudson could offer them tea and biscuits. Five minutes later the viscous puddle of drool left on the carpet was the testimony to John's existence.  

When John regained his senses and the use of his lower extremities, he was lying in a brightly decorated hospital room with several IV lines going into his arm and a cardiac monitor beeping way in the background. The scene was melodramatic enough for Grey’s Anatomy and the presence of a gorgeous lady beside his bed only added to the Hollywood effect.

“Possibly Anthea” was bearing down at him with a perfectly sardonic smile.

“Nice to see you back amongst the sentient, Dr Watson,” she said calmly, “Mr Holmes will be along shortly for a chat,”

“A chat?” slurred John and he hastily reached out to wipe the drool from his chin. Anthea's immaculate attire made him suddenly very conscious of his own inadequacies.

“Yes, Dr Watson, a chat,” she concluded, emphasizing the last word enough to make it sound vaguely threatening.

“I don’t want – chat,” gargled John, still not able to fully master the rudiments of speech. His mind was surprisingly clear and this made the situation all the more embarrassing. Anthea was an exotic beauty worthy of immortalising by romantic poets. He would never have a chance with her but that didn’t make the humiliating situation any easier to bear.

When he managed to get hold of Sherlock, John silently vowed to make sure the detective never solved another crime ever again.

“Really Dr Watson,” Anthea replied in her most condescending voice, “I don’t think you’re in a position to argue,”

John wished he could think of a witty reply but his mental faculties all but evapourated as the very male part of his brain registered the delicate curves of her body. She was exquisitely proportioned, a model that Michelangelo would have glorified in marble.

“I -,” he stuttered as Anthea stepped casually towards him, “I -,”

“You seem lost for words, Dr Watson,” remarked Anthea who was by now particularly hovering over John’s personal space.

He decided in that split second to ask the question he had been rehearsing for over two years, since the moment he first laid eyes on her extraordinary beauty. 

“I’d like to go out with you!” he blurted. The more rational part of him was faintly relieved that sentence came out as a garbled string of odd noises but by the expression that was spreading over Anthea’s face, he knew she had understood the general meaning. 

“You’d like to date me?” whispered Anthea, her smile turning practically predatory.

Under stress and devoid of any option to retreat, the military training, that had become second nature to John, kicked in. The straight talking and pragmatically military aspect of his personality calmly decided to commence a full on frontal assault.

“You are the most beautiful and cultured woman I have ever met,” replied John candidly. With focus and determination he managed to annunciate his words enough that they were at least understandable. This minor success helped to refuel his self-confidence and steady his erratic heart beat. The sweat that was prickling underneath his skin dissipated and the essential tremor in his hands subsided to barely visible twitch. 

 He was Captain John Watson of the Northumberland Fusiliers. He had faced down Taliban suicide bombers; this conversation was a walk in the park.

“You are amazingly intelligent, eminently brilliant in fact and even though I hardly know you, I promise I will put every ounce of my being into making you happy for the rest of your life.”

Anthea raised on finely shaped eyebrow in an expression not dissimilar to the ones worn by Mycroft during his prolonged battles with Sherlock.

“Are you proposing to me?” she asked with a note of genuine humour in her voice, “a minute ago you only wanted a date.”

A small surge of panic threatened to burst John’s new found calm; perhaps professing his undying love had been too much?

“No,” he said decisively, “I’m merely telling you how I truly feel. You hardly know me but at least give me the chance to prove myself to you.”

“Dr Watson, as much as I appreciate your heart felt if blunt confession, I hardly think we are remotely compatible. A man who can’t even manage his own flatmate does not appeal to me.”

John usually braced himself for a rejection in the same way that he braced against incoming enemy fire but the strategy completely failed to maintain his military control in this particularly situation.

“What? I can’t manage Sherlock? Do you have any idea what a complete and utter nightmare he is to live with!” demanded John.

He was angry, and frankly insulted by Anthea’s casual criticism. It was not John’s fault that a psychedelic paralytic poison had mysterious appeared in his mug overnight. No sane person could have defended against such an event and John was not going to let Sherlock push his behaviour into the paranoid-delusional spectrum of psychiatric disease.

“It hardly takes any brain power to at least check your mug before drinking,” replied Anthea haughtily, “ after all your tea had turned bright purple.”

The rational side of John had to admit he did not give the tea a second glance after pouring it out but his wounded pride was enough to make him carry on the argument.

“Tell me, do you wake up every morning and check for poisons, bombs and other death traps? Does that sound like something a sane person would do?”

Anthea merely smiled back at him with very attractive arrogance,

“Dr Watson, I wake up every morning and organise the British Government. I think managing to stay alive with Sherlock is rather trivial in comparison.”

John immediately realised who she had been referring to as “the British Government” but it was rather disconcerting to have his morbid fears confirmed. Mycroft Holmes apparently did control the United Kingdom.

“It’s an entirely different matter!” complained John, “Your boss doesn’t leave biohazardous waste in your private space.”

“No,” countered Anthea, “he does however start World Wars. Which Holmes do you think is more difficult to manage?”

“Well Sherlock,” continued John stubbornly, “likes to play chicken with criminal masterminds. Has Mycroft ever faked his death for 18 months and then wandered in off the street again demanding milk?”

Anthea performed the classy feminine equivalent of rolling her eyes in response to that particular question.

“Mycroft gets kidnapped more often than I have manicures, and besides you don’t have to deal with his dieting.”

John was about to comment that Mycroft’s dieting seemed to be paying off extremely well but then he realised just why the cake-loving bureaucrat had been losing weight. Despite this, John wasn’t ready to concede the argument.

“Sherlock plays the violin at four in the morning and he steals my food, not to mention the decomposing body parts in the fridge!”

Anthea pursed her lips into the most adorable pout John had ever seen.

“Mycroft watches George Clooney films repeatedly and he makes me do it with him.”

“How’s that even a bad thing?” asked John, “George Clooney is a brilliant actor and he plays a wide variety of deep and interesting characters.”

“Well,” snapped Anthea, “if you think my life is so easy, why don’t you try it for a week?”

John didn’t believe that Anthea was being serious; the challenging tone in her voice was simply a bluff intended to end the surreal contest of which Holmes Brother was worse. However, the more John thought about her proposal that more attractive it began to sound.  The shocked expression on Anthea’s face when he called her bluff would be entirely worth doing just that. She would never actually agree to swap her upper-class life for his sordid existence, so John would inevitably win the argument by default.

“Fine! I will try out your life for a week,” said John smile sweetly.

The anticipated capitulation didn’t occur; instead Anthea smiled back at him with a distinctly evil glint in her eyes. 

“Deal,”

“What?” gasped John.

He was completely flabbergasted, the situation had spiralled out of his control and he could see from the smug expression on Anthea’s face this was exactly how she had planned it. 

“Are backing out already? I knew you couldn’t handle the pressure but arguments aside, I’m giving you a Sherlock free holiday with five star accommodation, surely you would appreciate that.”

The devilish woman did have a point. The proposal would give John the chance to escape from Sherlock and their death-trap laden flat. Anthea looked to be very well off, certainly wealthier than John could ever hope to be, so perhaps stepping into her life would be a luxurious experience. He could picture himself curled up on a ridiculously expensive couch surrounded by scented candles and listening to soothing classical music. He would be able to enjoy the peace and quiet everyone else took for granted; it was an offer he simply couldn't refuse. However, like any seasoned card player, John would wait for the opportune moment to reveal his hand. 

“Of course I’m not backing down” said John casually, “I just don’t think you’ll be able to convince Sherlock or your boss to go along with this crazy scheme.”

John expected Anthea to at least pause for thought but she simply pulled out her blackberry and started typing away rapidly. After several seconds, Anthea slipped it back into her pocket and smirked down at John with dark humour.

“It’s all been arranged; you’ll be paid my usual salary and be given all the benefits I get as a matter of course. Mycroft’s coming to pick you up in ten minutes.”

John stared at her with utter astonishment; how could Anthea just command her boss to change his assistant with one text?

“The goldfish out of water look doesn’t suite you,” continued Anthea smoothly, “and don’t worry about Sherlock, he probably won’t even notice you’re gone.”

That’s quite true, thought John, and also rather depressing.

Anthea left swiftly afterwards, and John cursed himself for not reminding her he would still like to have a date. His romantic overtures had been all but buried under their silly feud. Once again Sherlock Holmes had managed to ruin John’s love life without even making an appearance.

He was left alone in the quiet hospital room, wondering how he was going to explain to Sarah that he would not be going into work this week because he had just become PA to the British Government. John suddenly hoped that Anthea was just playing a very nasty practical joke on him in retaliation for his clumsy attempts at seduction.

However, his hopes were utterly dashed when Mycroft Holmes came strolling into the room, jovially swinging his black umbrella.

“John,” he said with great humour, “I see you’ve just been co-opted into becoming Jane for week.”

“Jane?” asked John in completely confusion.

“Oh, you really didn’t think her name was actually Anthea, did you?” replied Mycroft with condescending smugness. 

“Er – no?” supplied John, not quite sure how he was supposed to react. 

“Good,” drawled Mycroft in a low soothing tone that sounded vaguely sinister, much like the man himself. “Don’t worry about your belongings; I’ll have them sent over to my apartment this afternoon.”

“What!”

John knew that he was overusing that particular word but there didn’t seem to any other alternatives in the English language to expression his ever increasing surprise.

“Well you did agree to practically swap lives with Jane,” said Mycroft, sounding terribly reasonable.

“Anthea lives with you?” asked John, trying to keep the incredulous disgust out of his voice. It appeared that Anthea or rather Jane, had forgot to mention that part of her arrangement with Mycroft.

“For professional reasons,” replied Mycroft, his steely gaze preventing John from furthering any inappropriate thoughts.

John truly wanted to believe him, he was still utterly fixated on the stunning woman who had swept into his life with the force of a tornado and turned it upside down. 

“Er – okay?” 

His well honed sense of self preservation applauded his acquiescence. After all, how terrible could one week as Mycroft's "live-in" PA be?

“Well, Dr Watson, I think we shall have a very interesting time,” concluded Mycroft, looking disturbingly smug.

Chapter Text

Title: The Great Holmes Swap

Summary: Anthea finally agrees to date John if he can prove that living with Sherlock is much harder than coping with Mycroft, but when they switch lives, chaos, hilarity and true love ensues. 

Chapter 2: Grand Designs and Gratuitous Nudity 

Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Anthea, 

Rating: PG-13 

Genre: Humour/Romance

Warnings: Slash, domestic scenes and too much George Clooney. 

AN: Thank to sherlock2040 for the idea of this prompt and thank you to my magnificient beta adamsgirl42. 

 

 

 

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When Sherlock Holmes finally tumbled through the front door of 221B, he was too delirious to process the woman occupying John’s armchair. Waving an unsteady arm in her general direction, his mouth mumbled something about “not taking clients” and then demanded her immediate departure in a much louder voice. To his consternation, she not only refused to be cowed by his presence but had the gall to talk back:

“I am not a client.”

Sherlock turned one blurry eye to look at her, whilst the other stared longingly at his bedroom door.

Not a client –  he thought, a small spark of familiar recognition seeped into his drugged mind, well who are you then? He stood swaying laconically in the middle of the living room for long enough to fixate both his eyes on the woman. This didn’t make his vision any less blurred but at least both halves of his brain were now processing the same problem.

“I live here.” replied the woman casually sipping tea from John’s AstraZeneca mug. 

Lives here, uses free crockery, likes tea...

Something in his amphetamine overdosed brain suddenly clicked and all the pieces fell back into place.

John? John!

Sherlock thought he would have been more disturbed about his flatmate having a sex change, but he had long since accepted John’s lack of heterosexual traits despite his numerous girlfriends. The said girlfriends obviously all reached the same conclusion about his gender issues because none of them ever stuck around.

Sherlock had no idea what one should say when confronted with a transsexual flatmate. In fact, Sherlock wasn’t even sure which pronoun he was supposed to now use when addressing John.

Would John be a “he-she” or a “she-he”?

Perhaps he should just stick to first names but then John could hardly be “John” anymore. It was quite likely the fellow had adopted some vulgar feminine version of his given name.

Sherlock liked John just the way he was: calm, competent and flat-chested. The conspicuous cleavage his assistant now sported would distract criminals and policemen alike, not to mention the large breasts would inevitably obstruct Sherlock’s view whenever John bent down at a crime scene.

However, Sherlock understood, despite the dangerous amount of drugs racing through his system, that transexuality was a “delicate” topic and he needed to be “sensitive”.

“You look good,” mumbled Sherlock, his tongue not quite able to catch up with the velocity of his words.

John, or whatever “he-she’s” name was, smiled back at him. Sherlock couldn’t quite make out the rest of her expression but he was sure it had been the right thing to say.

“You look stunning.” he continued swiftly. The amphetamines had dissolved the usual filter between his lips and brain and all the social constraints Mycroft had drilled into him evaporated.

“In fact, I would perform coitus with you if I was – if I was...”

Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what he had to be in order to covert “Not John’s” body. He had never found women to be sexually attractive and, despite some experimentation, he had reached the same conclusion with men. It appeared that the entire human race just didn’t appeal to his sexual appetites.

“You’d sleep with me if you were what, Mr Holmes?” demanded Female John.

“ – if I was not not into humans?” suggest Sherlock. He knew that a double negative was a cardinal grammatical sin but his mind was too busy dancing with amphetamines to care.

“So animals then?” asked Female John sounding vaguely amused, “would it help if I dress up as a large furry mammal?”

Sherlock thought about the proposal and concluded that although he didn’t mind engaging in sexual activity with John, this particular feeling only applied to Male John and not the woman he had turned into. Also, a gorilla suit would only inhibit the act of coitus not encourage it.

“No – the frustration of undressing would far outweigh any sexual gain from the texture and appearance of the costume,” stated Sherlock blandly. John might have become a woman but his mind was still firmly stuck on the normal spectrum of idiocy.

“Perhaps something more exotic - blue paint Avatar style?”

Sherlock grimaced at the reference to popular culture. John had spent hours extolling the virtues of a man named James Cameron and his irrational, bordering on psychotic, imagination.

“Not this again!” he snapped impatiently.

Sherlock’s mood was rapidly deteriorating. The novel amphetamine isoforms he had “confiscated” from Scotland Yard were proving to be highly unpredictable in their effects. He could feel a thin sheen of sweat on his back and tension headache slowly blossoming across his forehead.

“We’ve never discussed this before,” pointed out Female John.

“Good God! Did they give you a memory wipe when they created your melodramatic cleavage? On that topic do, they still give you back your penis in a jar?” demanded Sherlock.

His limbs were starting to switch of their own accord and one arm flayed outwards like it had been possessed.

“What have you been taking?” asked Female John, sounding both exasperated and highly entertained.

Concern,  thought Sherlock irritably, how utterly, predictably John.

“I’m fine – of course, I’m fine,” he slurred, “Where’s the milk? We’re out of milk!”

The last thing he saw before he hit the carpet were his most recent case notes piled neatly in alphabetical order on the table.

---

 

There truly wasn’t a single word in the English language that could describe John’s reaction to Mycroft Holmes’ residence.

It was not just impressive, it was magnificent. Never in his wildest dreams, had John imagined a private residence of such opulence and splendour. Even tea at Buckingham Palace paled in comparison.

Instead of the minimalist apartment he had been envisaging, the Bentley swept up a tree lined drive that seemed to extend impossibly far through beautifully manicured lawns. At the end of their journey stood Mycroft’s personal Palace; a true testament to the finest Italianate architecture to ever be immortalised in stone.

A huge rectangular pool, complete with multi-tier fountain, accentuated the grand entrance which stood atop an ostentatious and imposing terrace flanked by sweeping staircases on either side. Towering, majestic Corinthian columns adorned the external facade. Elegant sash windows placed at aesthetically pleasing intervals looked out onto the beautifully arranged garden surrounding the fountain.

“Welcome to my home, Dr Watson.” said Mycroft, a small smile playing across his features. John didn’t know how to respond, he was still transfixed the extensive grounds that seemed to extend as far as the eye could see.

“Is this still London?” asked John after several moments of stunned silence.

“Oh yes,” replied Mycroft, casually, “I could never get to work on time from Surrey or Suffolk.”

“Yeah...” muttered John weakly.

A uniformed chauffeur opened the door for him, and John almost tumbled out onto the thick gravel drive that curved through the ornate gardens.

“Steady on, Dr Watson,” said Mycroft soothingly, “you haven’t seen the inside yet.”

The inside  thought John, would probably bring him to his knees.

As John walked into the entrance hall, he felt like he had been transported onto the set of Downton Abbey. A magnificent oak staircase wound around the opulently decorated walls of the three-storey high atrium. Hazy sunshine streamed from the glass skylight in the roof, illuminating the intricate patterns on the marble flooring in the centre of the cavernous space. Enormous tapestries coated the walls, vividly depicting biblical scenes of war and redemption.

In the midst of all this opulence, John half expected the Earl of Grantham to stroll down the grand staircase demanding to know who had allowed such a grubby peasant to enter.

“Do you like it?” asked Mycroft. His low, soothing voice was so close that it made John jump reflexively in fright. The most dangerous man he would ever meet was standing directly behind him, casually violating John’s personal space.

“Er – well – it’s...nice,” mumbled John. His extensive and colourful vocabulary simply vanished from memory and he was reduced to sounding utterly inadequate.

“Well then,” continued Mycroft, not bothering to step away from John, “perhaps you’d like to come and have tea in the conservatory?”

“Yeah...okay,” muttered John, his attention captivated by the gigantic crystal chandelier glistening in the sunlight.

Mycroft Holmes reached out with both hands and physically steered a startled John through the house, not giving him enough time to marvel at the other magnificent treasures which lined each room. The large, smooth hands gripping both his arm and shoulder were not uncomfortable but his skin started to crawl anyway because it was Mycroft touching him. The taller man was smiling serenely, seemingly unaware of John’s discomfort. He wanted very much to order Mycroft away but the grandeur of his surroundings had muted his spirit.

When they finally sat down in the conservatory for tea, John was enormously relieved that he was out of arm’s reach. The conservatory was a small but fabulously decorated space, complete with miniature citrus trees and ornate cane furniture. Tea for two sat on one silver platter with cakes, buns, finger sandwiches arranged in pleasing geometric patterns on the other.

“Do hope you will feel at home, Dr Watson,” said Mycroft with his most charming smile. “I think our first week together will be quite uneventful.”

“Our first week?”

“Mmm – I was hoping you’d agree to stay on for a bit longer but only if you want to.” replied Mycroft graciously but his smile had become vaguely sinister.

“Wait, I only agreed to swap with Anthea for one week, I can’t take any more time off work. Besides your brother might get himself killed if I stayed away any longer.”

Mycroft merely looked at him with one raised eyebrow as if to say how disappointed he was with John’s irrational objections.

“Listen,” said John, willing his voice to remain steady, “this was all started by a stupid, childish argument. I don’t want it to have any lasting consequences.”

“Oh,” said Mycroft, his smile becoming distinctively predatory, “my dear John, it’s too late for that now.”

 

---

 

After passing out Sherlock dreamt of blue aliens and pickled penises. In his fevered dreams Female John was constantly nagging him to tidy up the flat when all Sherlock wanted to do was examine the detached part of his anatomy that was now floating inside a jam jar.

He was jolted awake by the sound of shrill screaming coming from the living room. Sherlock promptly rolled out of bed and staggered to his dressing gown which was hanging limply on the back of his door. Sometime during the night or day he had stripped off all his clothes but, as usual, Sherlock didn’t bother to tie up his dressing gown. John tended to turn a blind eye but then peek at him when he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking. Mrs Hudson, on the other hand, usually gave him an open stare and some superfluous comments about decency.

He sauntered into the living room, expecting to see John and Mrs Hudson exchanging distressed looks over his latest experiment. The eyeballs from the morgue had given him an excellent model of how virtuous humour splatters out after penetration of the eye by blunt objects.

However, instead of the usual suspects, Sherlock saw a woman shakily emptying the contents of his experiment into the bin.

“What are you doing?” he snarled, running across to the kitchen as fast as his legs could carry him. Although the experiment had been a success, he had intended to feed the by-products to the stray ginger cat that sulked in their alleyway.

As the woman turned around, Sherlock belatedly realised that she was none other than his brother’s PA. Unfortunately he couldn’t react fast enough to preserve his modesty.

When confronted with a full view of his manhood, Jane let out another shrill scream, this time several decibels louder than the last. Flustered and confused, Sherlock tried to cover himself and turn around at the same time but his dressing gown became snagged on the kitchen chair and slipped off his shoulders with embarrassing ease.

Now he was completely naked and presenting his backside to her, Sherlock wondered briefly if he could knock her out with his jackhammer and claim the entire incident was a side-effect of brain damage.

“That wasn’t on purpose!” Sherlock all but screamed. His hands were firmly plastered across his groin but he wasn’t sure how much would be revealed if  he turned back to retrieve his only form of covering.

“I’m not looking,” hissed Jane, who had probably screwed her eyes shut and covered them with her hand just to be safe.

“Right,” said Sherlock, trying to sound calm and collected, “I’m turning around on the count of three.”

“I’ve already covered my eyes,” snapped Jane, “hurry up and get on with it!”

“Don’t you dare peek.” replied Sherlock suddenly filled with paranoia.

“Seriously?” cried Jane, her voice a full octave higher than normal, “Why would I want to! I’ve already been traumatised for life, you inconsiderate autistic psychopath!”

“I am a high functioning sociopath!” barked Sherlock.

Completely forgetting his previous desire for modesty, Sherlock whirled around and gestured wildly with his hands to emphasise the point.

“Do your research, woman! How on earth my brother has survived with you as PA is completely beyond me.”

Assuming that Sherlock must be decent by now, Jane hesitantly opened one eye and peeked out from between two splayed fingers only to be confronted with an uninterrupted view of Sherlock’s entire anatomy.

“You’re peeking,” screamed Sherlock, suddenly very aware of his nakedness. He had not felt so violated since the last time Mycroft stripped him down and forced him into a bath. Sherlock had tried to delete all records of the grim experience but it was etched too deep in his emotional memory.

“I thought you’d be dressed by now,” hissed Jane, the hands covering her eyes turning white with strain, “Do you enjoy exhibiting yourself?”

“Not to you!” snarled Sherlock and then belatedly realising just how wrong that retort sounded.

Jane made a strange noise, halfway between a snort and a scream. She started to edge her way around the kitchen, still with her hands firmly clasped over her face.

“Just put your trousers on!” she growled.

Despite her lack of vision, Jane was making very good progress across the kitchen and Sherlock look the opportunity to swiftly retrieve his dressing gown. When he put it back on, he made sure to securely tie the robe closed so only his head, hands and feet were visible. Under the protection of his warm, comfortable dressing gown, Sherlock felt his heart rate return to normal and the remaining anxiety dissipate into the silky smooth fabric. He was in control of his faculties once more and the turmoil in his mind completely subsided. Now that he was decent again, Jane could stop trying to claw her eyes out like a whimpering cat.

Unfortunately, the very nasty and distinctly childish part of his intellect decided that there really was no need to pull Jane out of her discomfort just yet. Instead, he most certainly deserved to extract revenge for her sudden unwanted presence in his flat. If he played the cards right, none of this would ever get back to his brother.

“Make me,” replied Sherlock, revelling in the power he was holding over her.

“What? You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”

“No, but seen as you’ve seen everything anyway, I don’t see why I have to get dressed.”

“I don’t want to continue seeing it!” moaned Jane. She was now standing against the couch with her face parallel to the carpet.

“Oh but I think you do,” replied Sherlock, with wicked delight, “I saw how you were looking at me, I wonder what Mycroft would say if I told him?”

“I wasn’t checking you out!” hissed Jane, but the lack of vision prevented her from using her usual non-verbal ammunition against him. “Mycroft would understand.”

“Well, if Mycroft would understand, why don’t you just take a good long look?” demanded Sherlock stepping right up to her so that they were no more than inches apart. Jane’s fear and revulsion was almost palpable but squashed against the couch, she had no way of escape.

“Go away!” snarled Jane but unfortunately with both hands engaged, she could not push him away.

Sherlock bought his hands up to grip her’s and calmly started to pull them from her face. Initially Jane was too shocked to respond but unfortunately Sherlock had entirely miscalculated this particular step in the game. He had entirely negated to include Jane’s special operative combat training into the equation.

With one swift manoeuvre she kicked his legs out from under him, but he still had a firm grip on both her wrists so they tumbled together on to the living room floor with Jane on top and Sherlock cushioning her landing. Jane used her elbows as both leverage and weapons as they grappled on the floor, Sherlock trying to right himself and Jane trying to maintain the high ground with her hands still clasped over her eyes.

In any other situation, Sherlock would be grudgingly impressed by her fighting prowess but in the heat of this moment he was too busy using her lack of vision to his advantage. With a combination of strategy and brute strength he managed to crawl on top of her. Unfortunately, she simply dug her knee into his groin and all conscious thought completely evaporated.

He screamed unflatteringly like a stuck pig and neither of the combatants heard the sound of Mrs Hudson bursting into the room with Lestrade and Donovan hot on her tail.

“Sherlock!” cried Mrs Hudson sounding astonished but only faintly disapproving.

“Well it’s about time you found a girlfriend,” said Lestrade in a very matter of fact voice, “but could you at least make it vaguely consensual?”

Chapter Text

Title: The Great Holmes Swap

Summary: Anthea finally agrees to date John if he can prove that living with Sherlock is much harder than coping with Mycroft, but when they switch lives, chaos, hilarity and true love ensues. 

Chapter 3. Facebook Gambling and Complete Misunderstandings

Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Anthea, 

Rating: PG-13 

Genre: Humour/Romance

Warnings: Slash, domestic scenes and too much George Clooney. 

AN: Written for  this prompt  at the Sherlock Kink Meme. Thank you to sherlock2040 for the concept and adamsgirl42for being a wonderful beta, as well as someone to bounce ideas off!

 

 

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“Well it’s about time you found a girlfriend,” said Lestrade in a very matter of fact voice, “but could you at least make it vaguely consensual?”

Donovan stood in the doorway, looking simultaneously scandalised, amused and maliciously delighted.

 Mrs Hudson gestured with exacerbation at the tangled form of Sherlock and Jane, frozen temporarily by shock.

“I don’t know about young people these days,” she muttered uncertainly, “when I was their age, young men used to take us to dances...”

Sherlock immediately rolled out of the compromising and suggestive position. Jane, who had finally uncovered her eyes, instantly stood up. Despite her rumpled clothes and thoroughly mashed hair style she emanated calmness and strength.  The two policemen in the room looked vaguely relieved and slightly stunned by her transformation from damsel in distress to strong female professional in a matter of seconds. They both seemed happy that they wouldn’t have to instantly arrest Sherlock, despite how much Sally Donovan would love to exercise “due” force on him.

“Are you alright?” asked Mrs Hudson approaching her cautiously. She was wary around strangers, particularly those that Sherlock liked to bring back to the apartment. However this time, to her surprise, Sherlock had managed to procure a fashionable, well-heeled young lady who looked like she should be having tea at the Savoy rather than sprawled across the carpet.

“I’m fine, thank you,” said Jane, her voice smooth and steady.

“I do hope Sherlock didn’t give you too much of a fright, my dear,” said Mrs Hudson sounding a little desperate, “he does that sometimes, but he’s a lovely boy really.”

“I can take care of myself,” replied Jane stoically, “if he comes near me again, I shall not be so courteous.”

“Oh, I like you,” said Lestrade with barely disguised glee, “but I get first dibs on kicking him in the groin next time, I’ve been queuing up to do that for years.”

Lestrade's words seemed to shake Sally out of her shock induced silence but surprisingly, her first words were not the usual scathing insults he had in store for Sherlock. 

“We thought you were gay!” cried Sally throwing both her hands up in the air with gratuitous melodrama. 

“Looks like the John/Sherlock facebook group you set up is going to be well disappointed,” smirked Lestrade, “also you own me and Dimmock forty quid.”

Hate for Sherlock burned coldly in Sally’s dark eyes as she gazed angrily down at him from the doorway.

“Ugh, I knew I shouldn’t have bet on the Freak, he’s probably doing this just to spite us! How many laws did you break to get her back to your flat?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Donovan,” snapped Sherlock, flinging the hair out of his eyes with equal melodrama, “and I do not need to perform criminal acts in order to attract the opposite sex. Jane is here of her own free will!”

Sally snorted with complete distain and Lestrade raised one bushy eyebrow in response.

“Actually, I am,” interjected Jane as she pulled herself to her full height.

“Oh, I’m sure you are dear,” said Mrs Hudson, sounding very relieved that she wasn’t harbouring an actual rapist in her house.

“Why?” demanded Lestrade and Sally in unison.

“My brother sent her,” snarled Sherlock, who always said “brother” in a tone most people reserved for the Third Reich.

“Actually,” replied Jane candidly “I’ve swapped living arrangements with Dr Watson. He’s staying at my accommodation in exchange for my presence at 221B.”

Lestrade and Sally’s identical looks of confusion suddenly morphed into knowing smiles.

 “Oh, you’ve really done it this time, Sherlock,” crowed Lestrade cheerfully, “what did you do? Eyeballs in his coffee? Severed head in the bathroom? Poo on his toothbrush?”

Lestrade's gloating did not have the desired effect. Instead of annoying Sherlock, it sent the normally cool consulting detective into something of a panicked frenzy. 

“John left me?” demanded Sherlock in astonishment. His normal baritone had suddenly became an octave too high and though his eyes betrayed little, there was a hint of fear in his expression that couldn’t be suppressed.

Perhaps it was the presence of Jane that tipped his usual self-control off balance or perhaps it was the strange narcotic he had ingested in the name of research. Either way, Sherlock’s true emotions burst to the surface and the stiff upper lip which had been drilled into him from birth suddenly began to waver.

“So John was with you in the first place,” said Sally obviously fishing for something to reclaim her money from the betting pool.

“Actually, it was the modified tetrodotoxin Sherlock left in his mug,” Jane clarified coldly, “John had been paralysed for several hours before Mycroft and I discovered him.”

“John left me!” cried Sherlock as loudly as he could to the world at large. Mrs Hudson jumped in surprised and then had to fan herself with a stained copy of the Times to lower her blood pressure.

“Why are you surprised?” asked Lestrade casually leaning against the door and rubbing his stubble covered the chin, “you should just be glad he didn’t torture you to death first.”

“Spiking your flatmate’s drink is not the right way to go about getting into his pants,” added Sally sourly,

“John left me!” snarled Sherlock, pointing angrily at his dressing gown covered chest as if to say ‘how could he?’

“Yes...Sherlock,” said Lestrade in his most patronising tone, “that’s what happens when you behave like an arse twenty four seven,” but Sherlock wasn’t listening to him. Instead the detective jumped to his feet with an explosion of energy and started to tear books down from the shelves. A copy of Gray’s Anatomy went flying over his shoulder into the coffee table and Kumar and Clark Clinical Medicine soared into John’s chair with a heavy thud.

The four other occupants of the flat, watched with mixed emotions of shock and exasperation as Sherlock systemically tossed, launched, piled and dropped all of John Watson’s possessions into a heap on the living room rug. The entire process took less than two minutes.

“Oh dear,” protested Mrs Hudson eventually, “it’s a bit extremely don’t you think?”

Sherlock completely ignored her as he grabbed a jar of clear liquid from the kitchen cupboard and pulled a lighter out from his dressing gown pocket. It took several seconds before Sally and Lestrade realised what he was about to do but thankfully Jane was much quicker in her reactions.  By the time they reached Sherlock, he was already pressed faced down on the carpet with Jane kneeling firmly on the small of his back.

“Don’t even think about it, Sherlock,” she said calmly,

“Oooh, you are good,” said Lestrade smoothly, “Fancy going for a drink some time? I owe you a lot more than just a pint!”

On hearing those words, Jane’s staunch composure appeared to crack just a little and she determinedly turned her attention back to Sherlock who was trying to squirm out of her expert grasp. Behind Lestrade, Sally Donovan rolled her eyes and reminded him quite bluntly that they were both on duty. However, neither cowed by Sally nor put off by Jane’s inattention, Lestrade merely continued pulling his most charming smile.

“I love how you handled that,” he continued undaunted, “did you get to have combat training before?”

“Mmmm – mmmm!” rumbled Sherlock from his prone position faced down on the carpet. Jane, apparently understanding the string of noises, dug her knee painfully into his back.

“What did he just say?” asked Sally suspiciously.

“Nothing of import, now what did bring you two here in the first place?” asked Jane, expertly deflecting both police officers’ attentions.

“Oh,” said Lestrade looking vaguely embarrassed and then slightly excited, “well there’s been another Ripper murder!” He had almost expected Jane to jump with undisguised glee at his response but instead she reacted like a normal sane person and wrinkled her nose with distaste.

“mph!” cried Sherlock, who was probably struggling to breath at this point, “mmm – mmmm!”

“Would you like to come – er – to the crime scene, I mean,” said Lestrade hastily, “John usually does, and I just thought you might want to as well?” He brushed a nervous hand through his greying hair and tugged his coat straighter. “I - I mean we - could do with your help,”

Although Lestrade was not an obtuse man, he did fail to notice that Jane wouldn’t make eye contact with him and that she was suddenly looking rather uncomfortable at his intense interest. Sally swiftly came to Jane’s rescue as one woman to another.

“Ignore him,” she said bluntly, “he’s just got divorced and he’s on the rebound, but you can come to the crime scene with me, if you want. It’ll be better than staying in this death-trap of a flat, that’s for sure.”

Jane smiled and relaxed her grip on Sherlock’s left arm, which she had twisted behind his back.

“Well, then fancy giving me a hand with this perp?” she asked cheerfully ignoring Sherlock’s futile struggles.

Lestrade was forced into the background as the two women dragged Sherlock upright and held him in place between them. His face was rubbed raw from the struggles with the carpet and his nose was only gradually regaining its original shape.

“Get off me!” snapped Sherlock, “Give me my lighter back!”

“Sherlock, you’ve got a case,” said Mrs Hudson soothingly, “forget about John, he’ll be back.”

“I don’t care about the stupid case!” snarled Sherlock. Several audible gasp echoed through the resonating silence that followed.

“Would you feel better if I phoned him up for you, dear?” asked Mrs Hudson tentatively, “He did leave me a message saying something about staying with Mycroft...”

Sherlock managed to look even more mutinous than before but it was hard to tell whether his hate was directed at John or his brother. 

“I’ll get him on the phone,” concluded Mrs Hudson, clearly thinking that John’s arrangement with Mycroft was simply a form of respite from Sherlock rather than anything more sinister. “Why don’t you three go down stairs for a spot of tea and cake, I’m sure I can handle it from here.”

Jane and Sally exchanged looks of silent agreement, already in sync with each other after only minutes of acquaintance. Lestrade gazed from one woman to the other, feeling very much like the proverbial third wheel at a dinner date.

“Well, if you say so Mrs Hudson,” he muttered, “but I haven’t got all day.”

“Everyone get out!” spat Sherlock imperiously, “Not you, Mrs Hudson,”

 

 

As the room reluctantly emptied, Mrs Hudson closed the distance between them and gripped Sherlock around the waist in a firm hug. He made a small noise of surprise but relaxed into her arms and patted her kindly on the back.

“I need to tell you something,” muttered Sherlock over her shoulder. He took a deep breath and signed like a man with the world weighing on his shoulders.

“John’s had a sex-change operation,”

“Oh,” responded Mrs Hudson only vaguely surprised, “is that why he has so many pictures of naked women on his laptop?”

 

---

 

Afternoon tea with Mycroft Holmes was turning into a very uncomfortable affair. It started with the polite mistake when they both reached for the same scone and Mycroft accidently brushed his fingers over the back of John’s hand. He apologised profusely but John couldn’t help but feel  the words weren't entirely sincere. Then there was the eye contact. If Mycroft has been anyone else John would have merely deemed him to be benignly attentive but Mycroft’s gaze never felt John’s face as they conversed stiltedly over tea. The look in Mycroft’s eyes was anything but benign, it was a hungry, predatory expression as if this man would like nothing more than to cross the distance between them and devour John.

Next, Mycroft started to toy with his food, taking small bites and licking the crumbs from the corners of his mouth this great deliberation. Not a single crust escaped the attention of Mycroft’s flexible tongue but the spectacle made John want to avoid eye contact at all costs. After that, Mycroft softly pointed out that John had jam on his fingers from the fruit tarts, which made the doctor blush in embarrassment. The other man hurried reassured John that there was nothing to be embarrassed about and before John would protest, Mycroft gently but firmly capture his hand and wiped away the jam with his napkin. When Mycroft finally released his grip, John resisted the urge to jerk his hand back like it burned.

Thankfully, after enduring a few more minutes of tea and inconsequential small talk, which in itself was very sinister, John’s phone rang.

“Oh, it’s – er – Mrs Hudson,” said John, “I’d better get that,”

Mycroft leaned casually back in his cane chair and with tight smile.

“Hello, Mrs Hudson is everything alright?” asked John, taking the opportunity to look away from Mycroft’s intense gaze.

“John, dear, Sherlock wants to talk to you,” replied Mrs Hudson sounding rather nervous, “it’s about your – well – your abrupt departure,”

“I’m so sorry Mrs Hudson, I know it’s all really very sudden but well, I thought it would be a good idea to get away from Sherlock for a while,” said John.

Or at least, I did,  thought John, now I’m not so sure. He sneaked a quick glance at Mycroft who was sitting motionless before him. The other man clearly saw his covert gaze and smiled back widely enough to show his gleaming teeth.

“Well, at least talk to him about it, I’ve spent that last half hour getting him to calm down” said Mrs Hudson, “He’s quite distraught about your new situation, you know.”

“He’s just angry there’s no one to buy the milk anymore,”

“Please, dear, Sherlock’s really very upset” pleaded Mrs Hudson.

“Oh, alright,”

John waited impatiently for Sherlock to come to the phone, though he was rather grateful for the timing of the phone call because he could at least gather his frayed wits about him after Mycroft’s assault.

When Sherlock finally picked up the receiver his tone was not one of cold indifference, or petulant rage as John had been expecting. Instead the detective almost sounded contrite, which made John equally surprised and suspicious.

“John, I’m – I’m sorry about the tetrodotoxin,”

“Well, it’s a bit late for that now, don’t you think?”

“I’m...sorry for the things I said earlier – I wasn’t in my right mind,”

John screwed up his forehead trying to think of exactly which conversation Sherlock was apologising about; there were certainly plenty that needed apologising for in the last few weeks.

“Well it’s about time,” replied John, not wanting to give up the moral high ground on this rare occasion when Sherlock actually admitted to his mistakes.

“I – I,” Sherlock paused uncertainly, sounding unlike his usual confident self, “I think what you did was very brave. I don’t understand it but I’m supportive of your decisions.”

Sherlock’s choice of words was terribly melodramatic for the current situation but then this was the man who referred to his brother as an “arch-enemy”.

“I don’t need your approval, you know,”

“I know, John,” replied Sherlock and then sighed deeply, “I just want you to know that you’re welcome to come back to 221B whenever you feel comfortable – I’ll – I’ll – I’ll be here for you.”

The depression and well suppressed desperation in Sherlock’s voice made John rethink his gruff reply. It appeared Sherlock was not coping well without him but John wasn’t his caretaker and it was about time that Sherlock finally did some housework. A week of doing his own laundry would teach Sherlock to appreciate John.

“Thanks but I think I’ll stay here for the time being,” replied John. Even without looking, John knew that Mycroft was smirking.

“Right,” said Sherlock glumly, “right, I’ll speak to you soon...then.”

“Yeah, text me if you burn the house down,”

John thought Sherlock wanted to say something else but then there was faint click as Mrs Hudson reappeared on the line.

“Did it go alright, dear?” she asked kindly, “I know it’s a very difficult time for you,”

John blinked in surprise at her concerned tone. She was used to Sherlock poisoning, shooting, burning and otherwise unintentionally attempting to destroy John. Perhaps his reaction to this particular episode was a bit extreme but Mrs Hudson was also used to John walking out in the middle of the night and sleeping on Sarah’s sofa.

“I’m fine, Mrs Hudson, honestly,”

“There’s nothing you want to talk about?” she asked suggestively, “I’m full of advice you know,”

“Er – nope, nothing I can think of at the moment,” replied John, distinctly aware that there was a definite hint of weirdness to the conversation.

“I just want you to know that I support you, dear, I support you with all my heart,”

“Thanks?” said John tentatively,

“I’ll leave you be then,” she finally said after a long pause.

“Bye,”

John hung up with relief and a vague suspicion that he had missed something very important in that conversation. However his mind did not have time to dwell on the subject because Mycroft Holmes was leaning forwards in his chair, looking eagerly at John.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” muttered John, smoothing out the napkin on his lap and reaching for another delicious Russian Teacake, “fine,”

“I hope my brother isn’t given you grief for leaving?”

“No – er – well maybe, but only because he doesn’t want to do his own laundry.”

“Well, it’s about time he learnt to look after himself, isn’t it?” said Mycroft jovially, “How about we take a stroll around the grounds, John, just you and me?”

John spluttered and choked on his teacake in response. Unfortunately this gave Mycroft the perfect opportunity to approach him in the name of first aid. By the time John started breathing away, Mycroft’s hand had insinuated itself onto his lower back and was rubbing soothing circles across his jacket.

“Oh dear, John, you really must be more careful,” muttered Mycroft as he loomed over John’s hunched body but he didn’t sound quiet as unhappy as John would have liked. In fact, Mycroft’s tone was positively pleased.

Dear lord,  he thought, I should have given in and gone back to Sherlock.

Mycroft smiled approvingly down at him from a great height, his hand still planted firmly on John’s lower back.

 

---

“It’s a hard conversation to have, dear,” said Mrs Hudson as she sat across from Sherlock. They both had identical cups of steaming tea in front of them but Sherlock had not touched his.

“I don’t believe I didn’t see it coming!” said Sherlock petulantly.

“Well, neither did I,”

“But I like John,”

“Well, you should still be friends,” said Mrs Hudson, “just because John has a vagina now doesn’t mean you can’t be friends.”

“He’s not John anymore, Mrs Hudson,” snapped Sherlock, “he or rather she is going to change his name to something horrible like Tracy or Jade or Katniss!”

“You promised to be supportive,” she said sternly,

“The thought of John dating other men!” cried Sherlock, out of the blue, “it’s unbearable. I think I’ll kill anyone who touches him, slowly and painfully.”

“You have to respect John’s choices. If he wants to spend...time....with Mycroft that is his – well – her decision.”

Suddenly Sherlock’s expression turned from frustration to sheer unbridled disgust. His entire face contorted as he no doubt abruptly realised the implications of Mrs Hudson’s suggestion.

“Honestly, dear, you can be rather slow sometimes,”

“I’m going to be sick, Mrs Hudson,”

Chapter Text

Title: The Great Holmes Swap

Summary: Anthea finally agrees to date John if he can prove that living with Sherlock is much harder than coping with Mycroft, but when they switch lives, chaos, hilarity and true love ensues. 

Chapter 4. Murderous Rage and Messy Revenge 

Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Anthea, 

Rating: PG-13 

Genre: Humour/Romance

Warnings: Slash, domestic scenes and too much George Clooney.

Thank you to sherlock2040 for the original concept and adamsgirl42 for being an amazing beta - editor. 

 

 

---

 

 

Unbeknownst to the general public, a serial killer was stalking the streets of London. This particular embodiment of evil enjoyed butchering young single women in the back alleys of Hackney and Whitechapel. The first victim was mutilated beyond recognition and had to be identified by her dental records. The second victim was so thoroughly disembowelled the coroner couldn’t tell where one organ ended and another began.

Like the makings of any sensational news story, there was first an attempted cover up by the Metropolitan Police PR department. This was closely followed by the leaking of private police communicates detailing the horror all its grotesque glory. News International, who had been bribing police officers for years, immediately ran a four page spread on the new “Ripper Murders” with a free London walking tour with every copy sold.

It was no surprise when the press started to flock like vultures again before the second body had even cooled.

By the time Sherlock, Jane, Lestrade and Sally arrived at Scotland Yard the front entrance was already blockaded by a horde of ravenous journalist and concerned citizens. A team of burly police officers cut a swath through the crowd to let their patrol car through.

Lestrade’s office was on the fifth floor but even from this height, the noise of the baying journalists outside was hard to block out.

“Twenty-year-old student at UCL, cash strapped and heavily in debt,” said Lestrade, describing the first victim in his usual gruff, nonchalant manner. “Turning tricks on the side, lucrative business from what we discovered in her bank account but she spent it faster than she could rake it in.”

“Prostitute,” said Sherlock in a tone that suggested he already found the case boring.

“You’re one to judge,” snapped Sally, who clearly considered Sherlock’s line of work several rungs below prostitution on the career ladder of ill repute.

“Anyway,” interjected Lestrade, “she was found dead in Hackney with her throat torn out and her face slashed beyond recognition.”

“I want to see,” demanded Sherlock instantly and Jane looked from her blackberry with barely concealed horror.

“He has no sense of common decency,” said Sally blandly, “you can try beating it into him but I dare say his brain just isn’t wired that way.”

“Anyway,” growled Lestrade impatiently, “our Vic died from massive haemorrhage. They found at least three litres of blood at the crime scene, splatter all consistent with the injuries.”

“What about shadows, lack of splatter, the killer must be drenched in blood,” insisted Sherlock, fidgeting restlessly in his seat. If anyone noticed his uncharacteristic behaviour they were probably too tired to comment.

“Nope, this guy knew where to stand, best guess he got microsplatter on his arm but nothing noticeable.”

“How do you know it’s a man?” demanded Jane, out of the blue.

Lestrade flashed another charming smile and proceeded to layout the fundamentals of criminology. Sherlock yawned loudly throughout the lecture and then launched a pen using a rubber band straight into Lestrade’s face. He ducked with the well practiced graced of a man accustomed to flying missiles and threw the pen right back at Sherlock.

“They just won’t grow up,” said Sally in a long suffering tone.

“Tell me about it,” Jane muttered in agreement, “my boss insists on having the last word with everyone, including the Queen Mother when she was alive.”

Sally’s eyebrow shot up in surprise.

“The poor lady nearly had a heart attack when he phoned her up with a witty comeback at three in the morning. She was one hundred and two years old.”

“Yep,” agreed Sally, “they never grow up.”

“And the time he confiscated all the chocolate from the children on the Great Easter Egg Hunt at the palace. He claimed it was for “health and safety” reasons.”

“I bet he ate them all himself,” said Sally, knowingly.

“It wreaked havoc with his dieting schedule!” sighed Jane.

“Er, ladies, stop the mothers’ meeting, we are still discussing the case here,” said Lestrade waving his hands dramatically. The twin looks of distain quickly shut him up.

“I suppose we should head down to the morgue,” he said in defeat.

---

 

 

The police morgue was a menace to Health and Safety that would put any Easter Egg hunt to shame. Firstly, it was staffed by Barry and Larry, two identically obese men with equally bad body odour and utterly disinterested attitudes to infection control. Secondly, the law which criminalised smoking indoors apparently didn’t apply to this dank corner of the Scotland Yard. Every junior officer in need of a fag break on a wet afternoon could be found in the morgue casually polluting the atmosphere. Thirdly, there was the persistent smell of sewage in the air which even the choking smoke could not fully mask. Several different plumbers and a Thames Water specialist had all failed to come up with a reasonable explanation. Some of the new recruits started spreading the rumour that the morgue was haunted by a particularly malodourous ghost: Stinkin’ Stan.

Jane tried to look comfortable with her surroundings but the smoke was ruining her tailor made suit and she couldn’t imagine how she was going to get the smells out of her hair. Sherlock, meanwhile, became very preoccupied with deep breathing exercises.

Lestrade gruffly ordered everyone to brace themselves as he flung the sheet off the first cadaver.

Although the morticians had hosed down the body, the raw gaping wounds still looked horrific. Lestrade had not been exaggerating when he claimed there was very little left of the first victim’s face.

Jane tried to look away from the grotesque corpse but her eyes refused to obey her command. The image burned itself into her retina and her psyche.

“Let me give you a hand,” said Lestrade grimly. He reached out an arm to support Jane but she knocked it back reflexively. She had seen many things in the course of her duties and her personal life with Mycroft but nothing quite prepared her for the mutilated body of a young woman who had been murdered for no other purpose than a monster’s amusement. Suddenly she could feel the bile rising up in her throat and quickly stretched out a hand to lean against the wall.

“It’s shocking the first time round,” said Sally supportively, “but you get used to it.”

Sherlock had finally gained enough of a nicotine fix to turn his mind to the case at hand. He pulled out a small magnifying glass and started scouring the body like an antiques dealer looking for flaws.

“Small mark just above the right deltoid,” he said contemptuously, “injection.”

“She did have crack in her system...”

“Wrong place for crack!” snapped Sherlock, leaping around the table, “it’s an intramuscular injection, likely a sedative but undetectable on usual drugs screen – prescription drug! Lack of defensive wounds –

“She has defensive wounds,” pointed out Lestrade but Sherlock merely gave him a contemptuous look that most people reserved for particularly ignorant racists.

“The wounds on her hands are covered in grit, she didn’t hit anyone, she scrapped them on a brick wall, meaning she was attacked from behind and drugged backwards. The mutilation happened after she was subdued by the injection. This was well planned, coldly premeditated. The killer must have been out hunting all night, victim was either just unlucky or actively targeted – not sure which yet. ” answered Sherlock in a torrent of words.

“Right,” muttered Lestrade grimly,

“Where’s victim number two?” demanded Sherlock suddenly.

“She’s still cooling in a pool of blood, just the way you like them,” said a familiar contemptuous voice from the other end of the morgue.

Anderson, the forensics officer, had finally arrived wearing an expression of great distaste.

“Anderson,” replied Sherlock with mock joy, “how’s the wrist? Considering the criminal you apprehended was ten years old, I’m sure only your pride was injured.”

Anderson scowled at Sherlock like he was an especially vile specimen of rabies-carrying bat.

However before he could make an ineffective comeback, his eyes were suddenly drawn the slender, graceful form of Jane leaning against the wall, her head cradled in her arms. Captivated by her beauty and bolstered by the sure knowledge that she would be just as attracted to him, Anderson slithered forwards. On the way, he completely ignored Sally, who was standing expectantly to one side waiting for her lover to acknowledge her presence.

“I must have missed the meteor shower the bought you to Earth, honey,” he said in his most seductive tone, “so tell me which piece of heaven you descended from.”

Jane looked even more nauseous at this pick up line than the grotesquely mutilated corpse.

“Seriously, Anderson, we are on duty!” snapped Lestrade. The hypocrisy of his statement did nothing to quell the righteous indignation in his tone.

“Not that it stopped you,” commented Sally cynically. Lestrade gave her a disapproving look that promised that her next pay review was about to be delayed indefinitely and she quickly turned her attention back to the corpse.

“I need to see the second victim,” snapped Sherlock, “right now, before your forensics team do any more damage to the crime scene.”

Anderson was about to protest but Lestrade’s glare quickly silenced him as well.

“No harm done,” he promised with a hint of amusement, “she’s not going anywhere after all.”

 

---

 

The dark alley behind Billingsgate Market reeked of rotting fish. Several boxes of unidentifiable decomposing seafood had been dumped haphazardly into the narrow medieval alley way, poisoning the entire area with an unbearable stench. Although the City of London had deemed this alley way worthy of a name, the passage was really nothing more than a precarious gap between two buildings.

It was a very grim place to die.

The body lay undisturbed in the middle of the alleyway, too far from either entrance to be spotted from the main roads. Congealing pools of dark blood lay splattered around the prone figure making the scene look like a grotesque piece of modern art.

“Well, have fun, Sherlock,” muttered Sally sarcastically as Sherlock leapt over the police cordon and jumped merrily into the crime scene.

Jane, on the other hand, was looking decidedly queasy from both the breakneck police car ride and the sight of another freshly slaughtered murder victim.

“Violent attack,” shouted Sherlock without bothering to wait for anyone else to catch up, “killer used a knife, at least twelve inches long – no eighteen – frenzied slashes indicates uncontrolled rage. Target area is the abdomen, most of the organs are minced beyond recognition,” he continued casually.

Lestrade and Sally merely exchanged exasperated looks before following Sherlock into the crime scene.

Behind them, Jane staggered a little and pressed her palm against the slime stained wall to keep herself upright.

“Are you alright, my angel?” demanded the sickeningly sweet voice of Anderson. Without even bothering to ask permission, he stealthily wrapped a hand around her exposed elbow. “I know how hard it is to see your first crime scene,” he continued in what might have passed for a soothing tone.

“I – I need to some fresh air,” whispered Jane, trying to push Anderson away.

The smell of drying blood and rotting fish was repugnant and it permeated every inch of the dark damp alleyway.

“Oh, don’t worry my dear, I’ve got all the fresh air you need,” replied Anderson, a sly smile as he tried to crowd her against the wall and envelop her in his arms.

What happened next was definitely not the best response Jane could have made to his terrible attempts at sexual harassment but in later weeks, she decided it was exactly what he deserved.

 With one very unladylike heave, Jane emptied the contents of her lunch all over Anderson’s starched white shirt, black suit and newly polished shoes. The only thing she regretted not covering was his face but the expression of pure shock etched over his features was enough compensation.

“Well done, Anderson,” said Sherlock casually as he strolled out from the crime scene again, “your chat up lines are producing ever greater returns,”

Behind him, Jane could hear Lestrade and Sally sniggering all over the crime scene.

---

 

“Oh dear,” said Mycroft suddenly, pulling his phone out of his pocket and staring at the screen as if Sherlock Holmes might jump out of it.

“Er – bad news?” asked John, wondering if this could be the reprieve he had been praying for; being stuck in a small boat on the middle of a lake really offered very little opportunity for avoiding contact with Mycroft.

The charming sky blue boat glided smoothly over the crystal clear waters of Mycroft’s personal pleasure lake. Swans swam idly through the water lilies, diving for fish and arrogantly preening their features. Small dragonflies with brightly coloured wings darted like tiny arrows across the gleaming surface, occasionally coming to rest for precious moments on the bow of the boat.

“It appears I am needed back at Whitehall,” replied Mycroft sounding terribly disappointed.

It took all of John’s considerable military self control to keep his composure and not take a deep sigh of relief.

“Ah, duty calls then?” he said trying to sound less than jovial.

“Alas, we shall simply have to take another boating trip tomorrow, you really must see the island,” insisted Mycroft, smiling broadly,

John hid his groan behind a well place hand and silently wished the boat could move faster towards the shore.

“Good luck with whatever crisis is brewing,” muttered John as the small vessel glided soundless up to the pier.

“Oh I don’t need luck,” replied Mycroft, flashing a neat row of gleaming white teeth, “I’ve got my PA.”

John released a dramatic moan when he belated realised that he wouldn’t have the afternoon to himself, after all.

Well,  he thought with mock cheer, what is the worst that could possibly happen?

 

By the time they actually reached Whitehall, John thought “the worst” had already happened. John could not use the Blackberry Mycroft had practically thrown at him with the air of a man burying nuclear waste. It was a contraption designed for people with nifty fingers and even niftier brains. John’s rough hands were more used to handling the firm weight of semi-automatic than the flimsy plastic cover of a smart phone.

 In the last half hour he had only just managed to turn it on and now he was staring at a welcome screen that look anything but welcoming.

Mycroft sat in the back of his ostentatious town car looking for all the world like a carefree aristocrat surveying his private fiefdom. John’s unholy struggle with the Blackberry passed uncommented, if not unnoticed beneath his serene gaze.

John was usually an inordinately patient person but shut in the close confines of Mycroft’s car, fighting with a piece of technology that shouldn’t be allowed to exist and being deliberately ignored by the man who had forced him into this position, he could feel his blood boiling. Not even Sherlock Holmes had managed to make him this mad since he returned unannounced from the dead demanding milk.

“You know,” he grounded out through clenched teeth, “you could give me a little help.”

Mycroft turned to look at him with a mixture of amusement and innocent helplessness.

“Oh, John, I have no idea how to work that thing either,” he replied jovially, “Jane always did all her organising on it though and you really must check our personal schedule...”

“You didn’t check your own schedule?” asked John, “but we’ve been doing nothing all morning!”

“Well,” admitted Mycroft casually, “I’m sure we haven’t missed anything too important, apart from what’s just happened.”

John had a horrible sinking feeling that the entire British Government was probably in complete turmoil right now because he hadn’t thought to check Mycroft’s schedule. He tried very hard not to worry about a possible nuclear war with Russia or a massive terror attack that would make 9/11 pale in comparison. However trying wasn’t good enough to stop his heart galloping away with his blood pressure.

“Are you telling me,” snarled John, “that the government is in crisis right now because you won’t check your own schedule?”

“John, there is a crisis every day, I’m sure this one’s relatively minor.”

The words did nothing to reassure John, who felt he was only seconds away from needing to hyperventilate into a paper bag.

“What exactly is this crisis?”

Mycroft looked slightly puzzled for a moment before shrugging nonchalantly.

“I have no idea, you should have full details on the Blackberry,”

John gaped at him with pure horror. The key to solving this disaster was firmly stuck inside a demonic piece of plastic and John was solely responsible for retrieving it. Not for the first time, his sense of duty utterly clouded his more rational judgement. His mind was no longer dwelling on Mycroft’s uncharacteristic lack of concern; instead it was reeling with the horrific images of dying soldiers. John could be the only person standing between Britain and another devastating war. If he did not get to the information in time, he could be personally responsible for the death of thousands, even millions of people.

The military training and combat experience had taught him to harness the power of his fear. Instead of wallowing in paralysing terror, the surge of adrenaline cleared his mind and sharpened his senses. With zen-like focus, John honed in on the devilishly tricky piece of technology. He had personally disabled Taliban bombs with nothing but a paperclip, this Blackberry did not stand a chance.

It took him mere minutes to crack the code to message box and another two seconds to open the file in question. Any other person would be trembling with fear but John’s hands remained steady and unwavering as he read the message.

Parking regulations meeting 3pm in the Blue Suite - Refreshments will be served.

“What!” cried John, almost dropping the Blackberry in shock. The message he had been led to believe was the key to saving the world turned out to be nothing more than an office memo. “Tell me this is some sort of code!”

Mycroft pulled out his own phone and stared at the screen for a short moment.

“No, it’s accurate,”

John stared at the other man in complete astonishment for a full minute before he finally burst out:

“You had the text message all along?!”

“Yes,” replied Mycroft, frowning, “what made you think I hadn’t?”

“You said you had no idea what the crisis was about!” cried John. He could feel the little artery throbbing in his forehead, waiting impatiently to burst.

“Well, I have no idea why there is to be a parking regulation meeting...”

If John could literally vent steam, it would be pouring out of his ears and nostrils in great billowing clouds. However, as a human being he needed other outlets for the pent up rage boiling behind his eyes. This particular episode of stress, which would no doubt take years off his life, could easily have been avoided had Mycroft simply communicated with him. Instead, the irritatingly smug man had simply sat back and allowed John to nearly rupture an aneurysm whilst averting a non-existent crisis.

There were no words to describe John’s rage in that moment. He was only a murder weapon short of becoming a homicidal maniac and that wasn’t about to deter him.

Mycroft didn’t seem to notice to murderous glint in John’s eyes, nor the strange way he had taken to holding the Blackberry. The infuriating man looked a calm and unconcerned as ever.

Thus it gave John great pleasure to knock one unresponsive piece of metal against another unresponsive piece of flesh. It was terribly childish but on reflection John decided it was exactly what Mycroft and the Blackberry deserved.

The very expensive phone collided with melodramatic effect with the side of Mycroft’s unsuspecting face. The Blackberry made a resounding thud against Mycroft’s thick skull and then bounced off straight back into John’s outstretched hand.

That was for dragging me into this mess,  he thought viciously, and this is for your terrible attempts at seduction!

He hurled the phone again and although Mycroft bought his hands up to defend his face, John’s marksmanship was far too deadly. The phone cheerfully bounced off Mycroft’s nose straight back to John’s hand, leaving a painful mark in its wake.

It was a terrible pity he couldn’t video the entire sequence and place the episode on Youtube under the title “Great Git Bricked by Blackberry”.

However the lovely red marks blossoming across the side of Mycroft’s face were enough of a triumph to appease John’s anger. The new look of respect in Mycroft’s eyes was an added bonus. 

---

AN: This chapter is about developing the plot a bit more because this is a case fic as well as a romantic comedy. It will get darker in the future but I promise the humour will keep it light hearted. 

Also additional thanks to all of the people who have been so supportive in their comments for this story. It has really kept me going through the long hard slog of exam term. Your comments are a shining light in my otherwise bleak existence. 

I have not forgotten your requests either but I cannot always fill everyone exactly as there is a plot to get through but I think this chapter has filled in several request - you know who you are - and requests are still open. 

Please leave your comments, thoughts, feelings etc. I love to hear from readers and I'm also intrigued where people find this story from. You can read Chapter 5 at  http://wellingtongoose.livejournal.com/4534.html

Chapter Text

Whitehall, the hallowed corridors of power, where the government was seamless run by an army of civil-servants. At the heart of this magnificent building was the Blue Room, a palatial conference arena that once played host to Winston Churchill’s war cabinet and the peace talks which led to the Good Friday Agreement.

If John was overawed by Mycroft’s country house, entering Whitehall produced a whole new level of amazement that he had never experience before. The sumptuous oak panelling coupled with the lush vermillion carpet made John feel like he had stepped back to a time when Britain controlled an Empire upon which the sun never set.

Mycroft, on the other hand, looked completely composed despite the deepening red marks on his nose and forehead. His aristocratic comportment prevented anyone from making eye contact with his various wounds.

The parking regulation meeting had not yet begun but the personnel were already helping themselves to wine and soft drinks that had been laid out on a splendid mahogany conference table in the Blue Room. They looked like typical bureaucrats: overweight middle aged men in Spencer Hart suits and over polished shoes. The conversation was jovial but dull and John, who had never worked in an office, was silently appalled by the banal jokes being told in the crowd.

When Mycroft entered the room, his presence was immediately felt by the gathered bureaucrats. Some looked slightly panicked, whilst others put on brave face and welcomed the most dangerous man they would ever meet with open arms.

John felt rather sorry for the soft, overindulged paper-pushers who had to spend every working hour directly under the nose of Mycroft Holmes. The man probably ate their self-esteems for breakfast and then viciously crunched through their hopes and dreams for lunch.

Mycroft was smiling calmly at a perspiring office worker who had decided to attempt a conversation with the shadow ruler of Britain. He was a fat, balding specimen who had more ambition than was particularly healthy for a man of his position. John tried to look like he actually belonged amongst the opulent decor and smartly dressed civil servants but his oatmeal jumper and denim jeans simply looked out of place in this formal atmosphere.

The meeting began not long after John’s awkward introduction to several members of the civil service. They had smiled politely but didn’t try to hide the looks of curiosity and disdain at Mycroft’s new PA. He was very much relieved when the attention in the room shifted to the large projector.

Parking regulations was probably the most boring subject John had ever had the misfortune of being lectured on. After ten minutes of mind numbing figures, he suddenly felt a suicidal urge to re-enlist and go on another tour of Afghanistan. At least in the middle of the desert surrounded by hostile forces there were no parking regulations. John found himself daydreaming of combat operations whilst the obese man giving the presentation whittled on about judicial allocation of spaces.

As if by magic or perhaps pure good fortune, the fire alarm went off like an air raid siren right in the middle of a particular boring discussion over permits. John sprung to his feet with military swiftness and automatically assessed the nearest exits. The fat, indolent bureaucrats simply sat looking like stunned sheep waiting for someone to give instructions.

John wondered briefly if he should just let natural selection take its course but then he decided that letting a room full of people burn was somewhat amoral.

“Everybody to the nearest fire escape,” snapped John,

“It’s must be a drill,” said one rotund man, “we get them -,”

Before he could finish the sentence the antique windows came crashing in a thunderous shower of glittering shard.

Two hundred year old sash windows disintegrated like fragile ice sculptures as a team of black clad special agents abseiled into the room. By the way they moved, John could tell they were servicemen – possibly SAS or even Special Branch. Four of them carried semi-automatic pistols of the type commonly issued to military personnel on Black Ops. The other two held hand pistols very similar to the one that John had left behind in 221B.

Unarmed and fully exposed to their line of fire, John hastily raised his arms in the universal gesture for surrender. Around him a pandemonium of confusion and fear erupted through the conference room. Glasses of red wine and champagne went flying in all directions as the civil servants tried to hide under the table or run to the nearest exit.

The special ops team merely watched and waited as the panicked bureaucrats tried in vain to wrestle open the locked doors. They stood in formation but did not engage their weapons because they really didn’t need ammunition to control this particular flock of sheep.

“What do you want?” John asked calmly.

Although special ops never wore insignia on their uniforms, John knew that smashing through the windows of Whitehall was not a routine manoeuvre for any of Her Majesty’s Special Services. These men were not friendly servants of the government, they had another agenda altogether.

In the distance the alarm continued to whine but John understood that back-up wasn’t going to arrive any time soon.

“We want everyone to calm down,” replied their spokes person. He was a tall Caucasian male with startling blue eyes and a fashionable smattering of stubble around his chin. “You will not be hurt if you obey our instructions.”

John glanced around the room and spotted Mycroft still sitting nonchalantly in his chair, looking for all the world as if nothing had happened. He wasn’t sure whether to admire the man’s bravery or curse his arrogance.

“What do you want?” repeated John steadily. The other people in the room had fallen silent as they huddled in tearful groups under the table and against the doors.

“We want your full co-operation,” demanded the spokesman smoothly. “We do not want to hurt anyone.”

“Why are you here?” whimpered a particularly brave man from under the table.

“We have some demands we would like to make to Her Majesty’s Security Services,”

“Oh dear god, we’re being held hostage,” cried a hysterical man, who was hiding very unsuccessfully behind a lampshade.

John refrained from rolling his eyes at the sheer stupidity of everyone in the room. He needed a plan and none of the soft, fat laden office workers were going to be of any help. Falling back on his military training, John used his peripheral vision to assess the possible exit routes from the room. The windows were an option but the room was seven floors up and he had no idea if there was a feasible ledge wrapping around the building for them to escape. The doors were locked but not barred so with the right amount of leverage and his credit card, John could open them. Otherwise, there was the gigantic fireplace, which would have a correspondingly big chimney.

Presently he turned his attention back to the team of armed men, who were still patiently waiting for their hostages to quietly surrender. Six heavily armed, highly trained ex-servicemen were more than a match for John in his current precarious state. On the bright side, they did not seem intent on doing anything more than displaying their weapons for the time being. By the way these men casually handled their guns, John could tell they had years of experience in combat and they would be excellent marksmen if the need arose.

Mycroft was still casually browsing through the new parking regulations handbook and steadfastly ignoring the group of dangerous criminals who had just come crashing through the window. Perhaps he was waiting for MI5 to come to the rescue but from the audacity of the hostage takers’ entrance, John believed the alarm system had been hijacked and no-one knew of their predicament.

One slightly built man dropped a portable platform crammed with a high-tech array of communications equipment on the table. The quivering bureaucrats shuffled hastily away as if the platform contained high grade explosives. John eyed the computer interface in plain view from where he was standing. These particular criminals didn’t feel the need to disguise their faces or their equipment which did not bode well for anyone’s chances of survival.

“Why us?” demanded John quietly.

The tall spokesman merely smiled back at him with cold blue eyes.

“Why not?” he asked casually, “you are just as good anyone else,”

“Who are you working for?” asked John calmly.

“No-one that you would know,” replied the other man cryptically.

“How long are you intending to hold us for?”

“However long it takes to get the government to agree to our terms, but I assure you things would go much faster if Lord Salisbury co-operates.”

John looked about the room trying to identify the mysterious Lord Salisbury. He had not been introduced to all the people in the room and he was now greatly regretting the lack of intelligence. He spotted one particularly terrified man wedged uncomfortably under a plush blue sofa so that only his broad backside was visible. From the way he was wriggling around like a hapless maggot, John was savagely delighted that the man’s girth had trapped him beneath the ostentatious piece of furniture.

Could this dull, brainless specimen of humanity be Lord Salisbury? Thought John, he certainly fits the mould – but then again so do most of the people in this room.

His first priority was to get to Lord Salisbury before the crack team of ex-Black Ops could. Unfortunately for John, they apparently knew who Lord Salisbury was.

“Look,” said John hoping he could stall for some time, “you obviously have a plan and we are in no position to oppose you, so there’s no need to hurt any of us. Why don’t you just contact the government and start negotiations straight away?”

The spokesman looked down at John with curiosity but his mild features and fluffy jumper were the hallmarks of a harmless man. After a minute of intense scrutiny, the black clad criminal turned away, completely losing interest in the short man with prematurely greying hair.

“Lord Salisbury,” he said after a moment of silence, “we hope that you will co-operate.”

To John’s utter astonishment Mycroft Holmes looked up disdainfully from the parking regulations handbook and smiled sarcastically back at their captor.

Lord Salisbury? Thought John, well I should have guess by the size of his house – but that would make Sherlock some sort of minor nobility...

“You certainly have my attention, Mr ...”

“Bond,” replied the villain, “James Bond.”

Mycroft’s smile only widened as he made a great show of scrutinising the spokesman from head to toe. John knew that Mycroft has already deduced a thousand useful facts from their hostage-taker before the man had even shaken the broken glass out of his hair.

“Well, Mr Bond, what would you like to negotiate?” replied Mycroft calmly.

Several overweight members of the meeting peered out from their respective hiding places with a looks of fear and awe.

“Your guaranteed support for the upcoming Pharmaceutical Bill for starters,” replied the tall Caucasian man.

“You have gone to a lot of trouble for one lobbyist, Mr Bond,” said Mycroft with a hint of amusement, “all you had to do was arrange a meeting through my PA.”

John’s heart leapt to his throat when the spokesman lifted his semi-automatic pistol and pulled off the safety latch with a thunderous clap.

“I am a believer in aggressive negotiations,” he replied coldly.

Mycroft Holmes stared impassively down the barrel of the military issue weapon, his expression unchanged. John grudgingly felt his respect for Mycroft grow by several degrees. He had experience the terror of being held at gun point many times and he had never truly conquered that chilling fear.

“I can see that,” said Mycroft with a lavish dose of irony colouring his tone, “but there is no need to frighten the general public over such a trivial matter. I suggest we adjourn to the adjacent room and discuss your terms in more comfortable surroundings: the Red Room, perhaps? It is completely sound proof. I’m sure you’ve been professional enough to secure every room in this suite?”

Several members of the team looked apprehensive at Mycroft’s suggestion. The young, lithe man at the communications hub started typing something into his expensive computer. From John’s vantage point, he could just make out the commands going into the problem. The criminals appeared to running some sort of signal jamming program and their resident computer whizz had just reinstated several CCTV cameras inside the room. However from the image displayed on the screen, John could tell that a feedback loop of images recorded during the meeting were being fed back into the camera. As far as security were aware, the Blue Room was still occupied by doe eyed civil servants wasting public money on unnecessary bureaucracy.

The spokesman and perhaps leader stared at Mycroft coldly for several seconds before making a unilateral decision.

“Very well, open the doors to the Red Room.”

For a split second, another man: short, stocky and badly shaven, looked as if he was about to argue but one look from his commander made him stay silent.

“Oh,” added Mycroft, “Bring my PA along too.”

He gestured absently in John’s direction as if he was nothing more than a glass of wine Mycroft wanted to finish.

The short stocky man grabbed John’s arm and manhandled him to the nearest set of doors. Several terrified civil servants scattered in his wake. Mycroft followed calmly behind nonchalantly swinging his umbrella.

Three men came into the room with them: the ring leader with piercing blue eyes, his stocky second-in-command and a third man who looked terribly young but just as frightening.

John was unceremoniously dumped in a chair, whilst Mycroft gracefully sat down in another. Two kidnappers stood behind them menacingly, whilst their leader rounded on Mycroft with his automatic pistol.

“Now we are alone, Lord Salisbury, here are the demands.”

He produced a thin sheet of paper with an extensive list, which John could not quite make out. Mycroft studiously read through the document and then deliberately scrunched up the paper into a ball.

“This is a ridiculous, it cannot be done,” he said haughtily.

To John’s horror, the ringleader raised his gun and pointed straight at Mycroft’s forehead. The safety latch had been removed and the criminal’s finger was curled tightly around the trigger. A tiny amount of pressure would result in Mycroft’s brains being splattered all over the expensive upholstery.

In the face of imminent death, Mycroft Holmes merely laughed languidly as if negotiating at gun point was the most mundane part of his job.

Christ, that man has no sense of self-preservation, thought John desperately. Even Sherlock had the good sense to rethink his attitude when faced with the prospect of having his brains blow out by a sniper. There was only one way forwards: if Mycroft refused to save himself, John would have to do it for him.

He eyed the fireplace, the windows and doors looking for a feasible exit. As he glanced towards the ceiling, he saw a ventilation shaft fitted into the Styrofoam ceiling tiles. The sterile white tiles clashed horribly with the dark oak panelling but their presence indicated that an extensive ventilation system had been installed. If they could enter the ducts, there was a good chance they would be able to crawl into an adjacent room.

However before they could conduct this daring escape, John had to take down three heavily armed ex-special agents with his bare hands. Thankfully he at least had the vague semblance of a plan.

This almost makes me miss the Taliban, he thought cynically, but as Harry always said “you only die once”.

John started to hyperventilate and tremble like a man on the edge of having a panic attack. At first the two lackeys simply ignored him, engross by the steadily rising tension in the room. However when John gasped weakly and collapsed onto the floor clutching his chest, he caught the attention of the whole room.

“Boss,” drawled the short stocky man, “I think this one’s having a heart attack.”

The adrenaline rush was enough to make John perspire convincingly and years of watching patients struggling with angina allowed John to pull off all the other symptoms.

Their leader’s attention was still fixated on Mycroft Holmes and the screwed up ball of paper he held tightly in one hand.

“We’ll deal with him,” snapped the painfully young man.

He approached John’s prone body and made the last mistake of his life.

John’s arms shot out and grabbed the semi-automatic pistol with both hands. In a split second he pulled the assailant down on top of his own body to give him cover and with one swift movement detached the gun from its sling hanging around the man’s neck. The element of surprise was enough to stun his opponent for a few precious seconds. By the time the young man’s reflexes kick it in it was already too late. John had lined up the barrel of the gun squashed between them and he fired. A sicken burst of thunderous shots cracked through the air. The dull wet splashing noises told him that the bullets had penetrated through the body lying above him. A muffled scream from beyond John’s vision signalled that he had also hit the second man, who had predictably rushed to his comrade’s defence.

John flipped the corpse off his body and covered his vulnerable position with another burst of gun fire. He had no time to look over at Mycroft as he jumped to his feet with lightening speed and rolled behind a couch to dodge the gun fire from the injured man. The ornate couch took a vicious pounding as his stocky opponent emptied an entire round of ammunition into the plush cushions. Pieces of fabric and splintered wood exploded from the furniture, covering John with a fine layer of debris.

He retaliated by slotting his gun underneath the couch and firing at the other man’s feet. A vicious bloodied howl confirmed he had mortally wounded the enemy and pushing the advantage like he had learned in Helmand, John broke cover to finish the second man off. It was all over in under a minute: two bleeding corpses and a thousand bullet holes littered the room.

His risky strategy had paid off but unfortunately it meant that he had to leave Mycroft Holmes to mercy of the ringleader. To John’s immense relief: the leader, unwilling to risk taking his eyes off Mycroft and equally unwilling to kill the man, had not joined in the gunfight. Instead, he had dragged Mycroft from his chair at gun point and was now holding a hand gun to his temple.

“Move and I will shoot him,” snarled the only remain criminal in the room.

John had planned for this development but his opponent was a veteran of aggressive negotiations. He had carefully positioned himself so that John could not possibly take him out with a well aimed bullet from any angle.

“Okay,” replied John, who had ducked back behind the splintered couch, “you win, don’t hurt him.”

The enemy didn’t reply but John could hear his laboured breathing as they reached an impasse.

“Drop your weapons, and come out with your hands up, do it now or I will kill him,”

“No you won’t,” said John calmly, although his heart was pounding in his throat. “You need him too much.”

“You don’t want to call my bluff,” snarled the other man, “don’t underestimate the things that I will do to survive.”

John cradled the semi-automatic weapon against his chest and leaned his side against the bullet ridden couch. He really didn’t want to find out what this man would do when cornered and right now his opponent sounded desperate. This wasn’t the situation he had hoped for but then no plan ever survived the battle.

“Alright,” he conceded, “I’m going to slide my gun towards you,”

“Do it now” shouted the other man.

John reluctantly slid the weapon under the couch and watched it career into the open, stopping just a few metres short of Mycroft’s over polished black shoes. He was now facing a potentially unstable criminal empty handed.

“Come out with your hands up,” demanded his enemy.

John had very little choice in the matter but moving towards Mycroft meant getting closer to the discarded gun, so he obediently stepped out from behind the couch.

What happened next would amaze and amuse John for weeks to come, much to Sherlock’s dismay.

He knew instantly from the look in his opponent’s eyes that John Hamish Watson was a dead man. He was going to die ridden with bullet holes, slumped against the splintered remnants of a red couch. In that moment of realisation, John mentally prepared himself for inevitably death. He thought lovingly of the people he would leave behind: Sherlock, Harry, Mrs Hudson, Sarah, and he thought longingly of all the things that he had never been able to do: sky dive, cruise the Caribbean, make up with Harry.

In that split second of reconciliation with death, John felt only a calm acceptance of the end to his life. As he breathed out, he looked back into the face of his murderer and smiled.

As if on cue, Mycroft Holmes, the indolent lazy bureaucrat, sprang into action. Before John’s bewildered eyes he swung the stupid umbrella he insisted on carrying straight into the assailant’s face. The umbrella would not have done any damage had it merely been an umbrella but this particularly specimen belonged to Mycroft Holmes. With a smooth twist of the ebony handle, a wickedly sharp blade sprung out from the metal tip and impaled their kidnapper right through the skull with a resounding crunch.

The corpse instantly dropped to the floor and his gun clattered harmlessly onto the gun beside Mycroft’s polished shoes. A single trickle of blood oozed out from the dead man’s brain and dripped unceremoniously onto the plush cream carpet.

John’s gormless expression must have been particularly impressive because Mycroft casually picked up his phone and snapped a picture of John gaping like a beached whale.

“You killed him,” whimpered John.

“The licence to kill is just one of the perks of my job,” replied Mycroft genially.

“You killed him with your brolly,” reiterated John in a strangled tone.

“No,” replied Mycroft studiously, “I killed him with my umbrella.”

John stared at him silently for nearly a minute and then burst into the hysterical laughter. Despite the carnage of the room and the three corpses littering the floor, John couldn’t stop the uncontrollable mirth escaping. He fell over sideways with pure glee and collapsed onto floor gasping for breath.

“Dr Watson,” continued Mycroft sternly, “kindly refrain from drooling on the carpet,”

“Your – brolly!” choked John between fits of laughter,

“I assume you have an escape plan,”

John wiped the tears from his eyes and clambered back to his feet.

“Oh God, where can I get one of those?”

“It’s classified,” said Mycroft with a dark smile that caused John to sober up immediately. His previous mirth suddenly turned to ice cold dread.

Mycroft’s creepy demeanour seemed positively menacing in the light of what had just happened. The professional way in which he despatched the last man was decidedly worrying. The fact that a crack team of rouge special agents went to all this trouble to threaten Mycroft, or rather Lord Salisbury, was even more worrying.

“Er – I think we should try to escape using the vents in the ceiling,” muttered John. He felt an icy shiver slither its way down his neck as he looked into Mycroft’s unwavering reptilian gaze.

Mycroft’s ominous smile never faltered as he looked back patiently at John.

“I think we should start stacking chairs then?” suggest Mycroft.

John nodded silently and made a strong mental note never to get too close Mycroft’s umbrella.

It took three stacked chairs and several bullet ridden cushions from the sofa for John to reach the opening of the ventilation shaft. Although, Mycroft was the taller of the two, John decided this was not the right time to suggest that Mycroft should perform some legwork. Instead he perched precariously on the cushions and pushed open the cast iron grid separating them from freedom.

John hauled himself diagonally through the square opening and clambered into the metal shaft. The tunnel was wide enough for a grown man to crawl about on hands and knees but it was stiflingly hot and terribly claustrophobic. John had been stuck in worse places but he doubted Mycroft Holmes would be able to stomach this until he remember just how proficiently the last rouge special agent had been dispatched by a flick of Mycroft’s wrists.

John turned back to call out to Mycroft but as he looked down through the iron grid, he saw Mycroft straightening up from a crouched position, slipping something indiscernible into his breast pocket.

What was the infernal man up to?

“You can come up now, I can see another opening just metres away,” called John after Mycroft had resumed his original position.

“That will be the opening to the Violet Suite,” replied Mycroft calmly,

John watched with bated breath as the other man climbed up the hazardously stacked pile of furniture and finally reached up to open the iron covering.

He scouted back to give Mycroft a hand, but after his companion’s head and shoulders emerged through the square opening, Mycroft suddenly stopped short.

“Come on, Mycroft,” snapped John. He was afraid that the office bound bureaucrat had abruptly baulked at the conditions inside the shaft.

“John...” said Mycroft softly but his tone was belied with an underlying currently of dark menace,

“What?”

“I’m stuck,” replied Mycroft.

Not even Mycroft’s most menacing glare could stop John from taking a picture of the most dangerous man in Britain wedged in a ventilator shaft.

This was definitely going on Facebook!