Chapter Text
Sherlock knew that something was wrong as soon as he left the taxi. He couldn’t quite pinpoint it, not from that distance, but still, something was distinctly…off. As he approached the door of his flat, it became obvious that Mycroft was up there; the sky was dark, and a light was on in his flat. John was beside him, and Mrs. Hudson didn’t tend to let clients on up without either of them being home. If Mycroft wasn’t so damn neurotic there would have been other clues: mud from around Pall Mall and the Diogenes Club, the scent of hair cream, the disgusting stink of bureaucracy. As it was, the light and the clear signs that there hadn’t been a break-in were all that Sherlock had to go by.
“Something wrong?” asked John, bemused at Sherlock’s pensive expression. He had been able to read Sherlock’s face for an age now, and this furrowed eyebrow, eyes drawn together, and slight grimace of the mouth were all indicators of either frustration or confusion. After what they’d just been through, John figured it was probably some combination of the two.
“Mycroft,” said Sherlock, indicating the lit window with his head.
John’s mouth formed a silent ‘o’ as Sherlock approached the door, and the cabbie cleared his throat. “Yeah, sorry about the mess,” said John, tipping him about 200%. He did one of those little smiles without the teeth that everyone except Sherlock could tell was completely fake; the cabbie obviously could, because he rolled his eyes and tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.
By the time John reached the door, Sherlock had already gone through and was halfway up the stairs. “Mycroft!” he cried in his booming baritone, “This is my flat, you know as well as anyone that it’s illegal for you to just barge in here and—damn.”
“What?” asked John, taking the steps two at a time, confused at Sherlock’s obvious bewilderment, and eager to see who—or what—could have startled Sherlock enough to cut him off in the middle of berating Mycroft.
Instead of just Mycroft’s brown-haired head, there were two heads: one brown-haired, which was, of course Mycroft, and one blond, which belonged to a man that John didn’t recognize in the slightest.
“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, “allow me to introduce you to Mr. Bond. He is one of my...” he paused. “…associates, if you will, and you will be working with him on a case.”
“What case?” demanded Sherlock, and although John could not see his face, one only had to listen to his tone of voice to see a scathing eye roll. “You haven’t told me about any case, Mycroft, and who is to say that I’d take the case even if I had been—“ Sherlock was cut off for the second time in as many minutes.
“You will take the case,” said Mycroft sternly, tapping his umbrella against his foot. “It’s a matter of national importance.”
The sentence sounded eerily familiar to John.
“The last time you said that,” said Sherlock, “you weren’t exactly pleased with the result.”
Mr. Bond, Mycroft’s associate, seemed suspiciously mum to John. He hadn’t said a word. Perhaps he, like most people, was a bit put off by Sherlock, or maybe he was just one of those silent-but-deadly types. He certainly looked, to John, at least, as if he could kill you in about three seconds with nothing but his bare hands. It wasn’t exactly his build—he was certainly no rugby player—but more in his self-contained attitude: the way his eyes darted around the room, not nervously, but more as if he was evaluating the circumstances. John knew that look well, having seen in more than once in his best friend’s clear blue eyes.
“You can’t just bully me into this, Mycroft,” said Sherlock. John’s attention snapped back to the two brothers.
“You know that I can,” said Mycroft, “ although I really would prefer not to. Just cooperate, for heaven’s sake.”
John decided that he was getting uncomfortable standing in his own sitting room wearing a coat while a complete stranger sat in his chair. Sherlock unbuttoned his thick Belstaff and threw it on the sofa, unlooping his scarf in a swift, practiced movement. He jammed his hands into his pockets, which for John was a sure sign of readiness to give in.
“I’ll think about it,” said Sherlock.
“Excellent,” said Mycroft. “Mr. Bond…?”
Mr. Bond withdrew an envelope from inside his suit coat and handed it to Sherlock. “I suppose I don’t need to tell you that the contents of this envelope are highly confidential, now do I?” He stood and left the room, and Mycroft quickly followed suit, bidding Sherlock good day on the way out and leaving the two friends utterly bewildered and completely intrigued.