AN: Hello all! Welcome to my new AU Sherlock story! I've missed you all, really. Sorry that it isn't the CoD sequel you all seem to be patiently waiting for, but this was just one of those ideas that wouldn't let me go. I have yet another AU in the works, but I haven't hammered out enough of that one yet to start posting it. Anyway, I'm hoping to update this story at least once a week, if I can, so keep your eyes peeled! Thanks for reading!

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or any of the characters herein. I bow before the talented Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat for the privilege of borrowing their characters for a bit of fun. Thank you, gentlemen, for sharing them with the world.

Chapter 1 - Conundrums of a Different Color

With World War 3 over and done with, the Persian Land Conflict in full swing, Mycroft Holmes, head of Defense for the Afro-European Coalition, had more things to worry about than keeping an eye on his wayward little brother. Hell, even without the miniature land war currently ravaging the New Persian Empire he would have had more than enough to occupy himself. However, his brother's safety took precedence over matters of state, regardless of what his bosses thought.

The door of his office swung open to admit his personal assistant, laden with his morning tray of tea and a plate of fried eggs and toast. She placed the tray precisely in the middle of his desk blotter, then pulled her datalet out from under her arm. With a tap of her stylus, no doubt pulling up her morning report.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes," she said demurely. "A new possible treaty has been put forth by the Ru-Asian Alliance in regards to the Persian Conflict. I have taken the liberty of forwarding it to your business email account. The Austro-Pacific Collective has sent us a peace-offering in the form of several documents explaining their new research into Cybernetic technology. The American Legion has also sent us several documents, though more in the spirit of scientific curiosity than the interest of peace. I took the liberty of forwarding one of them to your business account as well as Research and Development, because it pertains to new breakthroughs in Genetic Manipulation."

Mycroft held up a hand to pause her speech. "Genetic Manipulation?"

"Yes, Sir. The American Legion boasts some new successes in their now in-progress 'Super Soldier' initiative." She wrinkled her nose at the unoriginal project title. "There are currently seven new ten-man units of 'Gen-A', or Genetically Anomalous, soldiers being deployed to Afghanistan to join in the conflict."

"Interesting." He tapped a finger against his chin, then nodded decisively. "Make sure you keep up to date on that. Message our Ambassador in South America if you must."

Nodding in answer, she made a quick note on her screen, then continued, "That concludes the international part of my report. In regards to the Homefront, I have only two things of note to be mentioned, both of which unfortunately pertain to your brother."

Sighing in exasperation, Mr Holmes shook his head slightly and motioned for her to continue.

"The first, Sir, is that Master Holmes has finally managed to solve our present spy problem. Provost Marshal Gregson has arrested twelve New Persian and Ru-Asian operatives in London, Sussex, and Cambridge. He does, however, assure us that the case is not so much 'solved' as it is 'curbed for the time being'."

"Make a note to send him fruit basket, and remember to sign it 'Sincerely - The Commonwealth'."

Her smirk of understanding made the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement. She continued, "Yes, Sir. The second note is of a more personal nature. Your brother's Defender has vowed never to work with him again."

Groaning softly, Mycroft reached up with one hand to massage his temples. "That is the fourth man this month."

"Yes, Sir. I should also warn you, because of Mr Stinton's rather large mouth, none of the other agents in our employ wish to take the position."

"Hell."

"Indeed, Sir."

In lieu of cursing, he lifted his fork and stabbed dolefully at his eggs. If there was one thing Mycroft hated, it was a problem without a quick resolution. Sherlock, in this case, was the problem, and there was no chance of a solution at all. How could you possibly solve a problem in the form of your own, dear brother?

"Send our four most competent and least friendly agents to watch over my brother's flat, and tell all the Provost Marshals that they shall have to live without Sherlock's expertise. That should provide us at least a good month before a decision can be made."

"Yes, Sir. Shall I authorise the use of physical force?"

"God, yes. Just tell them not to do any permanent damage?"

"I doubt they would anyway, Sir. Most of the men would rather die than suffer any fate you might have in mind for them if they did." Tapping on her screen, she made another note and then inserted the stylus back into the casing of her datalet. "In closing, Sir, I have chosen the name of Elizabeth for today. With your permission, my I take my leave?"

"Thank you, Elizabeth, yes. Consider yourself dismissed."

With a short bow of deference, the newly dubbed 'Elizabeth' turned on her heel and exited the office without a backward glance. Mycroft took a sip of tea and a bite of his breakfast, then switched on his own datalet to get down to the business of making peace. Sherlock would have to wait, for now.

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

The business of making peace is not really one of Mycroft's strong suits. He much prefers forcing peace through subterfuge, if he can help it, because simply writing up a treaty often leaves too much to others' interpretation. He's the kind of man who likes to hold all the decks, let alone the cards, and who pays off the dealers under the table to pass him all the best tips on his opponents.

This is the major reason that he has next to no control over his little brother. Sherlock Holmes is not the sort of man to be controlled by such mediocre things as subterfuge. He simply does not do things like 'emotional blackmail' or 'forced rehabilitation'. Trying to control Sherlock is like trying to tame a bear while dressed in a salmon suit; it just gets you mauled in the end.

The agents of England's Homefront are well aware of this. All of them, even in one-on-one interviews with Mycroft Holmes himself, have refused to take on the vacant position of Defender. None of them, even under the threat of emotional, physical, and mental blackmail and abuse, will budge on this issue.

It took Mycroft nearly a year to go through all of them, some of them multiple times, and he had even gone through the ranks of the Provosts in order to find someone, anyone, who will accept the position. He found himself completely unsuccessful in the endeavor (though not in the subsequent cultivation of a stomach ulcer). With despair setting in, he had resigned himself from ever finding someone to take on the moniker of Defender and save his younger brother from the self-destructive spiral the man had been on since birth.

It is the knowledge of this desperation that sends his loyal PA out to snatch up a young doctor by the name of Mike Stamford, and bring him and a fat manila folder back to the office. 'Anthea' (as she had dubbed herself for the week) had assured her boss that Dr Stamford was considered 'tolerable in small doses' by the younger Holmes, and had in his possession a personal file that might in fact be the answer to the 'Sherlock Conundrum'. Mycroft could only hope that it was true.

Dr Stamford was a pudgy, congenial sort of person with moderate intelligence. Mycroft had a small file constructed on the man when Sherlock had first been known to speak to him. It held no disparaging remarks, and there was nothing in his past or present that involved illicit activities. Mr Holmes was, therefore, just desperate and willing enough to listen to any advice the man might have had on a possible Defender for his brother.

Rosalie had to give the doctor a firm shove to the back when they entered the office. Stamford looked much like a mouse caught by a starving cat, and Mycroft did nothing at all to change that. He waited until the office door swung shut behind his assistant before speaking.

"Dr Stamford, I hear you are described as 'tolerable' by one, Sherlock Holmes. That is high praise coming from him."

Mike nodded in a nervous way and fiddled with the edge of the fat manilla folder in his hands. "Thank you, Mr Holmes. I didn't know Sherlock actually liked me."

"Do not be fooled, Doctor. Sherlock does not 'like' anyone."

"Oh. Of course. Yes."

Mycroft took a moment to pour himself and his guest a cup of tea. "You are aware, of course, that my brother has been without a Defnder for nearly a year?"

"Yes, Mr Holmes, Sir." Mike took a careful sip of tea, even though his hand shook considerably. "It was one of the reasons I answered the memorandum in the departmental newsletter."

"You have a possible candidate in mind?"

"Yes, Sir." The manila folder was carefully placed on the desk between them. "My hospital, as you probably know, has been accepting new hires this week. I had the pleasure of meeting one of those who were rejected at a corporate event run by my wife's firm. She works with another secretary by the name of Harriet Watson. Nice girl, if she could stay off the bottle." Mike's smile quivered under Mycroft's 'get-to-the-point' gaze. "Well, her brother is a veteran, recently returned from Afghanistan if you can believe it. Wounded, poor man. She brought him as her date to the event, you see."

In spite of his company's nearly inane chatter, Mycroft felt a modicum of interest in the folder. Flipping it open to find a rather long resume, he asked, "Why would I be interested in a man who was rejected for a position in the hospital?"

"Well, as you can see he wasn't rejected because of his résumé. The hospital board rejected him because he's an American Gen-A soldier."

One of Mycroft's perfectly manicured eyebrows rose up in surprise. He held up a hand for silence, and turned his attention to the folder before him. Ever since his PA had first brought the American project to his attention, he had been overwhelmed with both curiosity and a twinge of horror. Here in his hands was proof positive that the Americans had been successful in their endeavour to play God.

The man's CV was, indeed, impressive. There was a full list of commendations, from certificates to medals, for bravery, courage, and duty. His job description was listed as 'Combat Medic', and following it was a number of military ratings (all exemplary) in various medical particulars, including surgery and general practise. It was the final page that listed the man's genetic manipulations that captured Mycroft's focus.

When he finished reading, Mr Holmes asked, "You said you have personally met the man?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And?"

Stamford dithered for a moment, twiddling his thumbs in thought, before offering, "Well, he's a quiet sort of person, John is. Actually, I've had lunch with him a few times. He's not nearly as intelligent as Sherlock, of course, but then again who is, eh? Smart enough though, and he speaks well when he speaks at all."

"Why do you think he might be suitable for the position of Sherlock's Defender?"

Frowning, the doctor was silent in thought for a long moment. Finally, he ventured, "John's the sort of bloke you can't help but like, trust even. Also, he's a Gen-A, so of course you know Sherlock's going to be interested in observing him at least. Not to mention, trying to shock John is nearly impossible. He takes everything in stride. In fact, John might be the most patient person I have ever had the pleasure to meet, and if there's one thing that people need when dealing with Sherlock it's patience." Mike was quiet for a further second before shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know, Sir, but something just tells me that John will be good for Sherlock."

The doctor seemed so sincere, Mycroft actually felt a twinge of hope spring up in his mind. "Well, Dr Stamford, I thank you for your input. I wonder, would you mind telling my assistant where she might find this 'Dr John Watson'?"

"Certainly, Mr Holmes, Sir."

"Thank you. You may go."

While Stamford nervously tripped his way out the door, Mycroft hefted the folder in his hands and began to leaf through it again. When the office door opened, he did not even bother waiting until his assistant was all the way inside before ordering, "Anthea, fetch this Dr Watson here immediately."

The door closed behind her without further comment, and he turned his attention to his datalet. Within half an hour, he had several glowing recommendations from Watson's former teachers, his superior officers, his therapist, and several of his brothers-in-arms. Texting Anthea to make sure Watson was presentable, and therefore buying himself a bit of time, he set to reading.

Between the obvious embellishments, Watson was revealed to be a very down-to-earth sort of person with a stubborn streak that would make a donkey weep with pride. There was a formidable temper hidden beneath an almost saint-like patience, and a protective instinct towards those deemed in his charge. It was the therapist's notes that caught his eye in the end; they mentioned trust issues and the possibility that he might suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

His office door opened once again to reveal the man in question, and Mycroft clasped his hands together over the file in contemplation. John Watson was barely average height for an Englishman, perhaps 5'7", with cropped ash-blonde hair and skin tanned to the color of freshly baked bread. Dark blue eyes reminiscent of those of a snow leopard were set in an expressive face, which some might have been considered 'boyishly handsome'.

He wore an ill-fitting business suit of a nondescript shade of brown, a plain blue tie, and dress shoes that might have seen better days. Mycroft didn't even want to guess what the man deemed as a wardrobe if this was the sort of thing he wore to potential job interviews. At least his stance, a military sharp parade rest, proclaimed a hint of the training beneath the department store fabric.

"Doctor Watson, I presume." Mycroft stood to his full height before offering the seat before his desk with a wave of his hand. "I am Mycroft Holmes, Head of Defense for England's Homefront and the Military of the Afro-European Coalition. Please, be seated."

Doctor Watson inclined his head respectfully before sitting stiffly in the chair that was indicated. Once Mycroft had settled himself, the doctor said softly, "You know, most people just would have called me, instead of, how did she put it, 'insisting on my cooperation'."

The man's accent was soft, barely noticeable, but whether that was by design or simply schooling, Mycroft did not truly care. Allowing one of his eyebrows to raise, he otherwise ignored the words and instead stated, "I have been reliably informed by a gentleman by the name of Doctor Mike Stamford that you are in need of employment."

"Ok."

When John spoke no further, Mycroft continued, "It is most unfortunate that the local hospitals and surgeries are reluctant to hire an American Veteran with," Mycroft sniffed and lifted up his datalet, "Post traumatic stress disorder, trust issues, and a myriad of genetic manipulations."

Dr Watson's dark eyes darted to the upturned screen and back to Mycroft's paler ones. A muscle in his strong jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth. "Nice to know someone's been talking to my therapist."

"Indeed." Laying his screen down flat again, Mycroft elegantly clasped his hands together before him. "I wish to tell you, frankly, that none of these things matter to me, although your genetic make-up is, shall we say, rather intriguing."

The doctor's head tilted to the side, but he did not speak.

"What matters to me, Doctor Watson, is your service record and training." Nodding his head towards the folder still before him, Mycroft settled a pleasant look over his features. "There is an occupation open here in which I feel you may, in fact, be well-qualified for."

Surprised, Watson's eyes widened and his eyebrows lifted. Then, his expression shifted into one of cautious interest. "What sort of 'occupation'?"

"Defender for my younger brother, Master Sherlock Holmes."

"I've never heard of that before." Watson was looking at him almost side-long now, as if debating whether to flee the room.

Mycroft gave him a sardonic smile, "My brother occupies a position of his own design, wherein he is free to follow his own pursuits under the guise of consulting with the Homefront Provosts. Occasionally he also performs tasks for me, but such times are few and far between. As both of these undertakings usually involve threats to his physical well-being, I created the special post in order to secure him a personal bodyguard."

After a moment of contemplation, the doctor licked his lips and asked, "What exactly does this post entail?"

Mycroft settled back in his chair, "You would take up lodgings within my brother's flat, and attempt to keep him safe from the various threats to his health and well-being that occur with alarming frequency during his daily life. Even when he is not on a case with the Provosts, there are still very real criminal threats to his person. You may also be required to act as a field medic depending on the situation. Finally, you would be responsible for typing up a weekly report and a case-length report of Sherlock's activities."

"So, basically, I'd be a live-in, military-trained babysitter?"

Mycroft was saved from having to rebut that statement by Sherlock himself, who chose that very moment to burst into the room. The younger man nearly flew to the desk and slammed his hands against the mahogany. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Mycroft? How many times have I explained to you that I do not need a bloody nanny?"

God, but Mycroft could have wept as Sherlock began to rant and rave about his independence. He could practically feel the hope drain away as Sherlock did nothing more than be his usual, abrasive self. As he attempted to throw an apologetic glance at his once-potential hire, he resigned himself to possibly forcing Sherlock into a home for the mentally ill.

To his surprise, John Watson was looking up at Sherlock with an odd sort of expression that seemed to be a mix of surprise, awe, confusion, disbelief, and possibly (Could it be?) interest. When Sherlock finally acknowledge that there was someone else besides his brother in the room, he paused just long enough to rake his gaze over the other man before continuing his speech. Finally, as Sherlock seemed to wind down, Watson shifted a bit in his seat and tapped his battered datalet against the desk once for attention.

"Should I just go?"

As soon as Sherlock's attention actually focused on the American, Mycroft mentally threw up his arms in vexation. He knew the look in his younger brother's eyes, and it boded very ill for the soldier. The last glimmer of hope died away as Sherlock opened his unstoppable, unfiltered mouth.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

The doctor looked slightly taken aback, "What?"

"Where did you serve, you imbecile? Everything about you practically screams military, and judging by the faint tan lines around your wrists and neck you've been abroad recently. There are only two countries to which soldiers are deployed these days, therefore, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. How did you..."

"Now let's talk about this," Sherlock lifted the man's datalet from his hands and spun it around deftly. "What should we discuss first? The fact that it's a hand-me-down since you've only just returned from combat, the inscription on the back, or that its previous owner is a drunk?"

Mycroft closed his eyes in embarrassment. Now Sherlock would take the man apart, insult him beyond belief, and then Watson would surely run. Nothing like a little brother to ruin your day.

"Let's start with the inscription, shall we? Three x's means three kisses, so obviously it was given to 'Harry' by 'Clara' as a gift of the romantic persuasion. They must have broken up at this point, seeing as Harry has just given it to you. If she had broken it off he would have kept it, people are sentimental like that, so obviously he left her. Now perhaps I should mention the scuff marks around the power connection? You never see those kind of scratches on a sober man's phone, and you never see a drunk's without them."

A smug grin on his face, Sherlock tossed the datalet back into Dr Watson's hands and clapped once. Mycroft opened his eyes and gave an almost pleading look at his guest. Both Holmes brothers momentarily held their breath.

"That," Watson stared at the screen in his hands for a full thirty seconds before raising his eyes to meet Sherlock's, "was extraordinary."

Mycroft's mouth fell open at the same time that Sherlock uttered a confused, "What?"

"It was extraordinary. I mean, nobody told you about Harry's drinking habits?"

"No," Sherlock swallowed suddenly, "no one told me anything about you."

"Jesus."

In order to maintain some sense of decorum, Mycroft quietly closed his mouth and cast his gaze between the two men now staring at one another. Sherlock cleared his throat softly, "You know, 'extraordinary' isn't what people usually say."

"What do they say?" John asked.

A nervous sort of expression appeared on Sherlock's face, "Piss off."

Shock was not a strong enough word to describe the way Mycroft felt when John Watson grinned at that, and Sherlock's response to said expression was an almost shy smirk. Watson rose out of his seat and fixed his gaze on the elder Holmes brother, "There are worse jobs out there, I guess."

Both brothers looked completely taken aback, but Mycroft managed to pull himself together and stand up himself. "You can start tomorrow if that is convenient? I shall have Anthea text you the address of your new lodgings tonight."

Nodding, John reached out a hand to Sherlock, who stared at the offered appendage in confusion before shaking it firmly. The Holmes men stared at the soldier's back as he walked to the office door. Just before he exited, the doctor glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock.

"By the way, Harry is short for Harriet."

The door shut, thankfully, before Mycroft turned to see the completely stunned look on his brother's face. It wouldn't do to have the rest of the office see their boss laughing as if all his Christmases had just come early. Sherlock didn't even seem to register the sound.