Fic: Invisible Bonds - Chapter 1 (2/?)
Title: Invisible Bonds - Chapter 1
Length: 3,204 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and purely platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OCs are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to non_canonical for her friendship, brilliant advice and Brit picking, to daluci for being a top-notch beta, and to folha5eca and 99everafter for making sure my Chinese dialog/culture/references are correct! :D
Special thanks go out to abundantlyqueer. If it wasn't for her encouragement, I wouldn't be writing at all.
Notes: This is the second story in the Fallen series. One should read Fallen first, otherwise this probably won't make much sense. ;) This is also a WIP, but I'm VERY committed to finishing it and intend to post a new chapter every week if not more often. 20,000+ words written so far!
Invisible Bonds - Chapter 1
Well, it was bound to happen at some point. Honestly, John’s a bit surprised that it’s taken this long for Sherlock to get so excited over a case that he just dashed off without telling John he’d left, let alone where he might be off to. And so, with a sigh of infinite patience, John consults the inner compass he now carries within himself at all times, the arrow within it always pointing to one thing. Sherlock.
It’s dark and blustery, spring coming in like a lion, it seems, after all, but thankfully it isn’t raining. Not yet at least.
Famous last words. The sky rumbles disagreeably before letting down upon London, rain pouring onto the good doctor and everyone else unfortunate enough to be caught out unawares. Brollies are pulled out and opened, leaving John one of the few to continue on tromping through the wet. He considers ducking beneath the awning of a nearby shop to wait it out, but he would really rather not. It sadly takes Sherlock very little time to get himself into trouble, and the sooner that John can catch up with him, the better.
The phone in his pocket chirps. Ducking under a shop front, John pulls it out and stares at the text message there.
We’re out of milk. Pick some up on the way home. SH
He sighs and rolls his eyes, angling himself north and east. There’s a Tesco on Oxford Street that’s roughly on the way home. He can stop off there. He’s pondering milk and Sherlock and groceries they might need, so it takes a few moments before John realizes that he’s being paced, followed, by a large black car. Once he stops to look, the car pulls over and a door opens, a man in a black suit and umbrella rising from the depths to stand in front of him. “Dr. John Watson, there is a request for your presence by my employer.”
Staring down a man that is six foot two when you are a mere five foot six, and sopping wet to boot, is no easy feat, but John makes the effort nonetheless. “Oh? And just who is your employer, exactly?” It really wouldn’t do for him to get into trouble for a change. Lord knows if Sherlock would even realize. He’d probably just put out a notice for a new flatmate needed after a week or two.
“Dr. Watson, I would really rather not resort to force, but if I must…” The cell phone in John’s pocket begins to ring, cutting the man off in mid-threat. John reaches for it and turns it on, all without looking, raising it to his ear as he continues to stare down the man in front of him, the solider determining just where to hit, how hard and how fast. A cultured, elegant, and unexpectedly familiar voice speaks to him.
“Dr. Watson. I see that you are feeling disinclined to come with my associate, but I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to indulge me for a brief moment. We have much to discuss, you and I…”
Mycroft. John’s ocean blue eyes continue to stare into the dark brown gaze of the man before him warily. “Do we? And what exactly might that be?” It really wouldn’t do to give in too quickly. Mycroft would find that suspicious. And he has every reason to be concerned by this intervention. If for some reason Mycroft found John’s presence in Sherlock’s life… worrisome. Well, it wouldn’t be beyond the man to take such matters into his own hands. And John can’t help but remember how Mycroft had a fancy for ‘collecting’ magical creatures in his youth, whether they liked it or not. John might be able to use his angelic powers to protect Sherlock, but so far they don’t seem to extend to protecting himself.
“We have a certain individual in common. I really don’t like to make threats, but it’s certainly not beneath my abilities to do so. Be reasonable, Dr. Watson. After all, it’s just a friendly little chat…”
John holds pat for another few moments before thumbing his phone off without responding and nodding to the man before him. The back passenger door is opened for him and slipping in John finds himself sitting next to a lovely young woman. He blatantly stares at her, assessing by her demeanor that she is also an employee of Mycroft. Her hair is dark brown, her makeup meticulous, and currently she is holding a device, which seems to occupy the entirety of her attention. In comparison, John feels rather like a drowned rat in both appearance and water content. He’s currently dripping onto the upholstery and making small puddles. Without even looking at him, the woman shifts ever so slightly away, so as not to be tainted by his wet and shabby appearance.
It isn’t until John stares at her and offers a “hello” that she finally glances up at him, offering him an utterly insincere smile as she replies, “Hello there.” Despite the fact that she doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to him, John can’t help but feel a deep scrutiny of his person, his gaze shifting to study the interior of the vehicle, looking for tiny cameras or other devices which might be spying on him. But of course there’s no way of seeing or telling such things, so instead John turns his head back to the woman.
“I’m John. What’s your name?”
She doesn’t even lift her gaze, fingers still flying over the small device as she replies dryly, “Yes, I know. You can call me…” and she takes a moment to consider her options before offering, “Anthea.”
“Anthea. I’m guessing that’s not your real name.”
“Of course not.” Turning her head to him, ‘Anthea’ studies him quite seriously for a moment, blinking slowly before turning her attention back to her device. “John Hamish Watson. You should know better. A true name holds power.” The voice and words are half threat, half promise.
He fidgets in his seat uncomfortably, looking forward again, his hands flexing on his knees. John can’t quite tell what it is about the woman that makes him so uneasy. A sensation that she is something far more than she seems, but when he reaches out with his senses he can feel nothing unusual about her. No power, no signature indicating a supernatural nature. She appears to be wholly human. “Right. Of course.”
He stares out of the dark, tinted windows, watching the streets and buildings pass by. Of course, John Hamish Watson isn’t really his name. Even John is merely a simplified human word that stands for his name. His true name, well, like most angels it is beyond the comprehension and understanding of most humans. Just as the face of God would be so immense as to immolate anyone who looked upon it, so would an angel’s true name cause the rupturing of the tender vessel that heard it and leave the victim deaf and dumb. But since he is neither man nor angel any more, John has no idea what his true name might be.
The car pulls into a large warehouse where a man stands casually with an umbrella at his side, waiting for them. Anthea turns to John with a look that simply says, ‘get out’, so John gets out.
He walks toward the standing figure, Mycroft gesturing to a chair and noting, “Have a seat, Dr. Watson.” Even if he was still limping, John would ignore both the chair and the offer. As it is, he simply walks past the chair to stand five feet before Mycroft, still dripping slightly where he stands. His gaze doesn’t waver past the man to the angel standing beside him, though he belatedly realizes that there was no Guardian Angel in the car with him and Anthea.
“No thanks, I prefer to stand.” Glancing about himself, John asks, “Was the whole cloak and dagger scenario really necessary? You could have just offered to meet me for tea.”
“Mmmmm, yes, well, when one is wishing to avoid the notice of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to take certain precautions.” He shifts his weight as he studies John, nodding appreciatively as Anthea approaches him and hands him a file. Flipping it open, he studies the text there, but John can tell it is more of a dramatic device than a necessity, his eyes barely skimming over the text.
“You seem to have developed a keen interest in my brother. A devotion, one might say.”
His phone buzzes again. John studies Mycroft for a moment before reaching for it and reading the message there.
Come home if convenient. Need tea. Bring milk. SH
“Might one?” John asks absently as he thumbs the message away and returns his phone to his pocket once more.
“I think so. The question here is, why? Not that I mean any disrespect to you or Sherlock, but he has never been the sort to ingratiate himself to anyone, and certainly has never had quite so devoted a partner.”
“Flatmate,” John corrects.
“Even more so then. If you were in an intimate relationship with him, that might possibly explain your puppy dog like behavior. As it is, the very fact that you’re still living with him after two months is quite… remarkable. One might go so far as to say unheard of. But the fact that you go on cases with him and are virtually glued to his side is questionable. You are a soldier and a doctor, useful skills yes, but hardly essential for his needs. There must be something else that makes you valuable to him, that makes you useful. And there is the question of what, exactly, do you get out of the arrangement.”
“Did it ever occur to you that we might just enjoy one another’s company?”
Mycroft’s soft, sardonic laugh makes his sentiments on that point quite clear.
His phone buzzes again and John sighs, reaching into his pocket once more to check his message as Mycroft asks dryly, “So sorry, am I interrupting something?”
“No, no, not a thing,” John mumbles as he flicks his phone to life again.
Come home even if not convenient. Pick up tea as well as milk. SH
He sighs and slips the phone into his pocket once more, offering Mycroft a patently fake polite smile as he asks, “You were saying?”
Shifting the file in his hands under his arm, Mycroft stares directly into John’s eyes and asks bluntly, “What exactly are your intentions toward my brother?”
“Well, I haven’t gone and purchased a ring yet, if that’s what you’re wondering…”
Mycroft does not crack a smile at the small joke, his expression shifting from genial to sober and deadly serious. “You met Sherlock only two months ago, seemingly through a very convenient coincidence. And before the day was done you killed a man in cold blood to save him. That either means that you have his best interests at heart, for no discernible reason, or that you wish to ingratiate yourself to him in order to, what? Gain something from him? Use him? Claim his life for yourself?” He steps closer to John, purpose in his movement, his hand reaching out.
“Don’t.” Instinctively John draws back, his right shoulder turning toward Mycroft in a naturally defensive gesture. It’s a common stance for one used to fighting; he makes himself a smaller target. But more importantly, he moves his left shoulder out of Mycroft’s range. After all he hasn’t forgotten that Sherlock’s brother is just as remarkable as his younger sibling - a powerful Sensitive. Just how powerful John does not know. Not enough, it would seem, to be able to tell what he is just standing there. But will he be able to sense what John is if he touches him? Touches his shoulder? Will he sense his power the way Eshu did? John can’t take that chance.
Mycroft gives John a disapproving look, the sort one gives small children when they are being unreasonable. “Anthea?” he inquires mildly.
She was so still and quiet, John had nearly forgotten she was there. Anthea steps forward, still staring at the device in her hands, fingers dancing over it as she speaks. “His intentions are good. Honorable. He does not mean Sherlock harm.” The woman glances up at John, staring at him with eyes that glow like a cat’s in the darkness. Her nose wrinkles slightly as she studies him with a gaze far too intense and direct to be human, as if she were looking through John. “In fact, I would say that he actively wishes to protect Sherlock, to keep him from harm.”
One elegant brow lifts, the answer reassuring but insufficient for a man of Mycroft’s power and connections. “Ever the soldier then, in search of something to protect and fight for?”
John startles at both their words, frowning, his mouth opening to contradict Mycroft before closing again, his attention shifting to Anthea. She hides her true nature well. She looks human, feels human, his Sensitivity giving him nothing to work on. But the way her eyes glow in the darkness, her words, betray that Anthea is anything but human. He stares back at her hard and reaches out with his power, his shoulder thrumming slightly, before he finally sees her. “You’re a Changeling.”
His eyes meet Mycroft’s, catching the tiny hint of surprise before it is masterfully hidden once again, a smug smile touching the elder Holmes’ lips. “Oh, very good John! I suspected that you were a Sensitive, but I didn’t realize how skilled you were.” His hand drops away and abruptly John realizes it was a test. One way, or the other, Mycroft was going to have his answer about what made John special. “Anthea is very good at masking her true nature. I’m surprised that you can see past her defenses. Few can, though she does tend to lack the more usual human social skills. But in this age of Aspergers and autism, who really even notices such things any more?”
Lifting his chin fractionally, John inquires coolly, “Are you satisfied then?”
“Hardly, but then a man in my position rarely is. So many compromises to make. So many favors to garner. But I am patient and willing to wait for what I want, unlike my brother.” Studying John for a moment, Mycroft notes, “The police never did find the bullet. I assume Sherlock did away with that. What did you do with the gun?” He doesn’t bother to ask how John got it. That is irrelevant.
“I don’t have it any more.” Hard to have something that never actually existed.
“Mmmmmm. Good. And a pity. Anthea?” The woman turns and heads back to the car, drawing out a case and returning, holding it out. Unsnapping it, Mycroft draws out a SIG Sauer, efficiently ejecting the magazine to check it before snapping it back into place and then clicking the safety off before pointing it directly at John’s forehead.
The two men stare at each other steadily. John doesn’t so much as flinch in reaction. Mycroft’s lips quirk in approval. Flipping the gun in his hand expertly, Sherlock’s brother clicks the safety back into place and offers the weapon to John, butt first.
“Here. On the off-chance you find that you need to use one again for Sherlock’s protection. It’s unregistered, untraceable. I do recommend you dispose of it after you use it, though. Best not to take chances with such things, and I can always supply you with another if need be.” He hands John both the weapon and an extra clip. “I’m sure you’ll use it with discretion. Try to keep it out of Sherlock’s hands, though. He does tend to be a tad… frivolous with such toys.”
“Toys?” John’s expression is dubious, but he takes the proffered weapon and tucks it carefully into the small of his back.
“Mmmmm, yes. I blame Mummy for not giving him that chemistry set when he was younger. Perhaps if he had had an unfortunate accident at an early age it would have taught him something about restraint and consequences…”
“Are we done?”
Mycroft offers John an indulgent smile. “For the moment. But I’m sure we’ll talk again soon, John.” His head tilts slightly to one side as he muses, “I think perhaps I understand why Sherlock keeps you around.”
John stares at Mycroft uncomfortably, not liking the idea that Sherlock just ‘keeps’ him around because he’s useful. He glares. Mycroft smiles. After a long, awkward moment, John huffs and turns around to leave, but that smooth, cultured voice brings him to a halt.
“Oh yes, one more thing,” Mycroft adds, as if he had not been testing John’s patience, but had only just remembered. “I don’t suppose you would consider reporting on Sherlock’s activities in exchange for a generous monetary compensation?”
John turns, frowning fiercely, but Mycroft simply smiles at him mildly, noting, “As you might have guessed, I worry about him. Constantly. Having someone of your background looking after him is something of a comfort, but I do like to keep tabs on him personally.” His expression shifts subtly, transforming from benign concern to disturbing determination as his smile takes on a more sinister edge. “It would be far less intrusive and unpleasant than placing cameras at your residence. Possibly more reliable too, seeing as Sherlock seems to have a knack for finding the devices I have had placed in the past” And, as if John would require some sort of encouragement to accept his preposterous deal, Mycroft adds, “I do realize that you haven’t managed to find a position yet and your financial reserves are rather… low. This would certainly alleviate concerns in that regard.”
“You don’t suppose correctly.”
“Really? But I haven’t even mentioned a figure yet.” John’s expression remains resolute as Mycroft studies him with a small secretive smile. “Mmmm. Pity. I was hoping that in your attachment to Sherlock you would realize that I was his ally and not his enemy.”
“That would not, in fact, be my reason for declining your offer.”
“Ohhh? Interesting. You are very loyal to someone you barely know. And believe me, two months is not nearly long enough to ‘know’ my brother.”
Indeed it is not, but John isn’t about to mention that he has known Sherlock all his life. Instead he scowls slightly, because Watson tells him that’s the appropriate reaction to have for some reason.
Twirling his umbrella, Mycroft’s features compose themselves once more into a friendly façade before he turns and strolls away nonchalantly, calling over his shoulder, “It would seem that you have chosen a side… just make sure it’s the right one, hmmmm? It would be a pity if the attachment you seem to have for Sherlock was not valued or reciprocated.”
John watches as Mycroft disappears behind a stack of crates before turning to look at Anthea, who has come up behind him. Her voice sounds puzzled as she notes, “I’m to take you home…” Perhaps she was hoping that she would get to kill and devour him instead?
“Right. I’ll need to make a stop on the way, though…”
Length: 3,204 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and purely platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OCs are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to non_canonical for her friendship, brilliant advice and Brit picking, to daluci for being a top-notch beta, and to folha5eca and 99everafter for making sure my Chinese dialog/culture/references are correct! :D
Special thanks go out to abundantlyqueer. If it wasn't for her encouragement, I wouldn't be writing at all.
Notes: This is the second story in the Fallen series. One should read Fallen first, otherwise this probably won't make much sense. ;) This is also a WIP, but I'm VERY committed to finishing it and intend to post a new chapter every week if not more often. 20,000+ words written so far!
Invisible Bonds - Chapter 1
Well, it was bound to happen at some point. Honestly, John’s a bit surprised that it’s taken this long for Sherlock to get so excited over a case that he just dashed off without telling John he’d left, let alone where he might be off to. And so, with a sigh of infinite patience, John consults the inner compass he now carries within himself at all times, the arrow within it always pointing to one thing. Sherlock.
It’s dark and blustery, spring coming in like a lion, it seems, after all, but thankfully it isn’t raining. Not yet at least.
Famous last words. The sky rumbles disagreeably before letting down upon London, rain pouring onto the good doctor and everyone else unfortunate enough to be caught out unawares. Brollies are pulled out and opened, leaving John one of the few to continue on tromping through the wet. He considers ducking beneath the awning of a nearby shop to wait it out, but he would really rather not. It sadly takes Sherlock very little time to get himself into trouble, and the sooner that John can catch up with him, the better.
The phone in his pocket chirps. Ducking under a shop front, John pulls it out and stares at the text message there.
We’re out of milk. Pick some up on the way home. SH
He sighs and rolls his eyes, angling himself north and east. There’s a Tesco on Oxford Street that’s roughly on the way home. He can stop off there. He’s pondering milk and Sherlock and groceries they might need, so it takes a few moments before John realizes that he’s being paced, followed, by a large black car. Once he stops to look, the car pulls over and a door opens, a man in a black suit and umbrella rising from the depths to stand in front of him. “Dr. John Watson, there is a request for your presence by my employer.”
Staring down a man that is six foot two when you are a mere five foot six, and sopping wet to boot, is no easy feat, but John makes the effort nonetheless. “Oh? And just who is your employer, exactly?” It really wouldn’t do for him to get into trouble for a change. Lord knows if Sherlock would even realize. He’d probably just put out a notice for a new flatmate needed after a week or two.
“Dr. Watson, I would really rather not resort to force, but if I must…” The cell phone in John’s pocket begins to ring, cutting the man off in mid-threat. John reaches for it and turns it on, all without looking, raising it to his ear as he continues to stare down the man in front of him, the solider determining just where to hit, how hard and how fast. A cultured, elegant, and unexpectedly familiar voice speaks to him.
“Dr. Watson. I see that you are feeling disinclined to come with my associate, but I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to indulge me for a brief moment. We have much to discuss, you and I…”
Mycroft. John’s ocean blue eyes continue to stare into the dark brown gaze of the man before him warily. “Do we? And what exactly might that be?” It really wouldn’t do to give in too quickly. Mycroft would find that suspicious. And he has every reason to be concerned by this intervention. If for some reason Mycroft found John’s presence in Sherlock’s life… worrisome. Well, it wouldn’t be beyond the man to take such matters into his own hands. And John can’t help but remember how Mycroft had a fancy for ‘collecting’ magical creatures in his youth, whether they liked it or not. John might be able to use his angelic powers to protect Sherlock, but so far they don’t seem to extend to protecting himself.
“We have a certain individual in common. I really don’t like to make threats, but it’s certainly not beneath my abilities to do so. Be reasonable, Dr. Watson. After all, it’s just a friendly little chat…”
John holds pat for another few moments before thumbing his phone off without responding and nodding to the man before him. The back passenger door is opened for him and slipping in John finds himself sitting next to a lovely young woman. He blatantly stares at her, assessing by her demeanor that she is also an employee of Mycroft. Her hair is dark brown, her makeup meticulous, and currently she is holding a device, which seems to occupy the entirety of her attention. In comparison, John feels rather like a drowned rat in both appearance and water content. He’s currently dripping onto the upholstery and making small puddles. Without even looking at him, the woman shifts ever so slightly away, so as not to be tainted by his wet and shabby appearance.
It isn’t until John stares at her and offers a “hello” that she finally glances up at him, offering him an utterly insincere smile as she replies, “Hello there.” Despite the fact that she doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to him, John can’t help but feel a deep scrutiny of his person, his gaze shifting to study the interior of the vehicle, looking for tiny cameras or other devices which might be spying on him. But of course there’s no way of seeing or telling such things, so instead John turns his head back to the woman.
“I’m John. What’s your name?”
She doesn’t even lift her gaze, fingers still flying over the small device as she replies dryly, “Yes, I know. You can call me…” and she takes a moment to consider her options before offering, “Anthea.”
“Anthea. I’m guessing that’s not your real name.”
“Of course not.” Turning her head to him, ‘Anthea’ studies him quite seriously for a moment, blinking slowly before turning her attention back to her device. “John Hamish Watson. You should know better. A true name holds power.” The voice and words are half threat, half promise.
He fidgets in his seat uncomfortably, looking forward again, his hands flexing on his knees. John can’t quite tell what it is about the woman that makes him so uneasy. A sensation that she is something far more than she seems, but when he reaches out with his senses he can feel nothing unusual about her. No power, no signature indicating a supernatural nature. She appears to be wholly human. “Right. Of course.”
He stares out of the dark, tinted windows, watching the streets and buildings pass by. Of course, John Hamish Watson isn’t really his name. Even John is merely a simplified human word that stands for his name. His true name, well, like most angels it is beyond the comprehension and understanding of most humans. Just as the face of God would be so immense as to immolate anyone who looked upon it, so would an angel’s true name cause the rupturing of the tender vessel that heard it and leave the victim deaf and dumb. But since he is neither man nor angel any more, John has no idea what his true name might be.
The car pulls into a large warehouse where a man stands casually with an umbrella at his side, waiting for them. Anthea turns to John with a look that simply says, ‘get out’, so John gets out.
He walks toward the standing figure, Mycroft gesturing to a chair and noting, “Have a seat, Dr. Watson.” Even if he was still limping, John would ignore both the chair and the offer. As it is, he simply walks past the chair to stand five feet before Mycroft, still dripping slightly where he stands. His gaze doesn’t waver past the man to the angel standing beside him, though he belatedly realizes that there was no Guardian Angel in the car with him and Anthea.
“No thanks, I prefer to stand.” Glancing about himself, John asks, “Was the whole cloak and dagger scenario really necessary? You could have just offered to meet me for tea.”
“Mmmmm, yes, well, when one is wishing to avoid the notice of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to take certain precautions.” He shifts his weight as he studies John, nodding appreciatively as Anthea approaches him and hands him a file. Flipping it open, he studies the text there, but John can tell it is more of a dramatic device than a necessity, his eyes barely skimming over the text.
“You seem to have developed a keen interest in my brother. A devotion, one might say.”
His phone buzzes again. John studies Mycroft for a moment before reaching for it and reading the message there.
Come home if convenient. Need tea. Bring milk. SH
“Might one?” John asks absently as he thumbs the message away and returns his phone to his pocket once more.
“I think so. The question here is, why? Not that I mean any disrespect to you or Sherlock, but he has never been the sort to ingratiate himself to anyone, and certainly has never had quite so devoted a partner.”
“Flatmate,” John corrects.
“Even more so then. If you were in an intimate relationship with him, that might possibly explain your puppy dog like behavior. As it is, the very fact that you’re still living with him after two months is quite… remarkable. One might go so far as to say unheard of. But the fact that you go on cases with him and are virtually glued to his side is questionable. You are a soldier and a doctor, useful skills yes, but hardly essential for his needs. There must be something else that makes you valuable to him, that makes you useful. And there is the question of what, exactly, do you get out of the arrangement.”
“Did it ever occur to you that we might just enjoy one another’s company?”
Mycroft’s soft, sardonic laugh makes his sentiments on that point quite clear.
His phone buzzes again and John sighs, reaching into his pocket once more to check his message as Mycroft asks dryly, “So sorry, am I interrupting something?”
“No, no, not a thing,” John mumbles as he flicks his phone to life again.
Come home even if not convenient. Pick up tea as well as milk. SH
He sighs and slips the phone into his pocket once more, offering Mycroft a patently fake polite smile as he asks, “You were saying?”
Shifting the file in his hands under his arm, Mycroft stares directly into John’s eyes and asks bluntly, “What exactly are your intentions toward my brother?”
“Well, I haven’t gone and purchased a ring yet, if that’s what you’re wondering…”
Mycroft does not crack a smile at the small joke, his expression shifting from genial to sober and deadly serious. “You met Sherlock only two months ago, seemingly through a very convenient coincidence. And before the day was done you killed a man in cold blood to save him. That either means that you have his best interests at heart, for no discernible reason, or that you wish to ingratiate yourself to him in order to, what? Gain something from him? Use him? Claim his life for yourself?” He steps closer to John, purpose in his movement, his hand reaching out.
“Don’t.” Instinctively John draws back, his right shoulder turning toward Mycroft in a naturally defensive gesture. It’s a common stance for one used to fighting; he makes himself a smaller target. But more importantly, he moves his left shoulder out of Mycroft’s range. After all he hasn’t forgotten that Sherlock’s brother is just as remarkable as his younger sibling - a powerful Sensitive. Just how powerful John does not know. Not enough, it would seem, to be able to tell what he is just standing there. But will he be able to sense what John is if he touches him? Touches his shoulder? Will he sense his power the way Eshu did? John can’t take that chance.
Mycroft gives John a disapproving look, the sort one gives small children when they are being unreasonable. “Anthea?” he inquires mildly.
She was so still and quiet, John had nearly forgotten she was there. Anthea steps forward, still staring at the device in her hands, fingers dancing over it as she speaks. “His intentions are good. Honorable. He does not mean Sherlock harm.” The woman glances up at John, staring at him with eyes that glow like a cat’s in the darkness. Her nose wrinkles slightly as she studies him with a gaze far too intense and direct to be human, as if she were looking through John. “In fact, I would say that he actively wishes to protect Sherlock, to keep him from harm.”
One elegant brow lifts, the answer reassuring but insufficient for a man of Mycroft’s power and connections. “Ever the soldier then, in search of something to protect and fight for?”
John startles at both their words, frowning, his mouth opening to contradict Mycroft before closing again, his attention shifting to Anthea. She hides her true nature well. She looks human, feels human, his Sensitivity giving him nothing to work on. But the way her eyes glow in the darkness, her words, betray that Anthea is anything but human. He stares back at her hard and reaches out with his power, his shoulder thrumming slightly, before he finally sees her. “You’re a Changeling.”
His eyes meet Mycroft’s, catching the tiny hint of surprise before it is masterfully hidden once again, a smug smile touching the elder Holmes’ lips. “Oh, very good John! I suspected that you were a Sensitive, but I didn’t realize how skilled you were.” His hand drops away and abruptly John realizes it was a test. One way, or the other, Mycroft was going to have his answer about what made John special. “Anthea is very good at masking her true nature. I’m surprised that you can see past her defenses. Few can, though she does tend to lack the more usual human social skills. But in this age of Aspergers and autism, who really even notices such things any more?”
Lifting his chin fractionally, John inquires coolly, “Are you satisfied then?”
“Hardly, but then a man in my position rarely is. So many compromises to make. So many favors to garner. But I am patient and willing to wait for what I want, unlike my brother.” Studying John for a moment, Mycroft notes, “The police never did find the bullet. I assume Sherlock did away with that. What did you do with the gun?” He doesn’t bother to ask how John got it. That is irrelevant.
“I don’t have it any more.” Hard to have something that never actually existed.
“Mmmmmm. Good. And a pity. Anthea?” The woman turns and heads back to the car, drawing out a case and returning, holding it out. Unsnapping it, Mycroft draws out a SIG Sauer, efficiently ejecting the magazine to check it before snapping it back into place and then clicking the safety off before pointing it directly at John’s forehead.
The two men stare at each other steadily. John doesn’t so much as flinch in reaction. Mycroft’s lips quirk in approval. Flipping the gun in his hand expertly, Sherlock’s brother clicks the safety back into place and offers the weapon to John, butt first.
“Here. On the off-chance you find that you need to use one again for Sherlock’s protection. It’s unregistered, untraceable. I do recommend you dispose of it after you use it, though. Best not to take chances with such things, and I can always supply you with another if need be.” He hands John both the weapon and an extra clip. “I’m sure you’ll use it with discretion. Try to keep it out of Sherlock’s hands, though. He does tend to be a tad… frivolous with such toys.”
“Toys?” John’s expression is dubious, but he takes the proffered weapon and tucks it carefully into the small of his back.
“Mmmmm, yes. I blame Mummy for not giving him that chemistry set when he was younger. Perhaps if he had had an unfortunate accident at an early age it would have taught him something about restraint and consequences…”
“Are we done?”
Mycroft offers John an indulgent smile. “For the moment. But I’m sure we’ll talk again soon, John.” His head tilts slightly to one side as he muses, “I think perhaps I understand why Sherlock keeps you around.”
John stares at Mycroft uncomfortably, not liking the idea that Sherlock just ‘keeps’ him around because he’s useful. He glares. Mycroft smiles. After a long, awkward moment, John huffs and turns around to leave, but that smooth, cultured voice brings him to a halt.
“Oh yes, one more thing,” Mycroft adds, as if he had not been testing John’s patience, but had only just remembered. “I don’t suppose you would consider reporting on Sherlock’s activities in exchange for a generous monetary compensation?”
John turns, frowning fiercely, but Mycroft simply smiles at him mildly, noting, “As you might have guessed, I worry about him. Constantly. Having someone of your background looking after him is something of a comfort, but I do like to keep tabs on him personally.” His expression shifts subtly, transforming from benign concern to disturbing determination as his smile takes on a more sinister edge. “It would be far less intrusive and unpleasant than placing cameras at your residence. Possibly more reliable too, seeing as Sherlock seems to have a knack for finding the devices I have had placed in the past” And, as if John would require some sort of encouragement to accept his preposterous deal, Mycroft adds, “I do realize that you haven’t managed to find a position yet and your financial reserves are rather… low. This would certainly alleviate concerns in that regard.”
“You don’t suppose correctly.”
“Really? But I haven’t even mentioned a figure yet.” John’s expression remains resolute as Mycroft studies him with a small secretive smile. “Mmmm. Pity. I was hoping that in your attachment to Sherlock you would realize that I was his ally and not his enemy.”
“That would not, in fact, be my reason for declining your offer.”
“Ohhh? Interesting. You are very loyal to someone you barely know. And believe me, two months is not nearly long enough to ‘know’ my brother.”
Indeed it is not, but John isn’t about to mention that he has known Sherlock all his life. Instead he scowls slightly, because Watson tells him that’s the appropriate reaction to have for some reason.
Twirling his umbrella, Mycroft’s features compose themselves once more into a friendly façade before he turns and strolls away nonchalantly, calling over his shoulder, “It would seem that you have chosen a side… just make sure it’s the right one, hmmmm? It would be a pity if the attachment you seem to have for Sherlock was not valued or reciprocated.”
John watches as Mycroft disappears behind a stack of crates before turning to look at Anthea, who has come up behind him. Her voice sounds puzzled as she notes, “I’m to take you home…” Perhaps she was hoping that she would get to kill and devour him instead?
“Right. I’ll need to make a stop on the way, though…”