Disclaimer: Perhaps, you have deduced that neither Sherlock nor Doctor Who belong to a mere mortal such as myself.
Notes: Little snippets of dialogue from this have been plaguing me for a while now, so I finally decided to write it out. Mostly inspired by multiple re-watches of all 6 episodes of Sherlock and Martin Freeman's many wonderful facial expressions. Whilst writing this, I realized that Mycroft has sneakily become my favorite Sherlock character. Don't know how that happened. And fyi, there's a hint of implied John/Sherlock if you squint.
...
When You Have Eliminated the Impossible
...
It was raining. Drizzling, really. An umbrella was more of a burden than a blessing in this weather. And, yet, he kept it with him - using it as a walking stick, tapping out a rhythm on the ground with the sharp end.
He'd been waiting for hours. He was not accustomed to waiting. Fortunately, his chosen career path required him to wait for very few things. He had the power or the connections to attain virtually anything he wanted in an instant. Oh, his job certainly necessitated patience, but that was acceptable. In that case, it was more like a game - a very long game of chess. Something was always happening: moves had to be made, strategies had to be re-imagined. It was slow, perhaps, but the the anticipation, the tension created while he waited for his opposition to make a move was always well worth it. He was always thinking, always trying to stay a step (or two or three) ahead.
But there was none of that in this. This was painful, agonizing, unproductive waiting. He'd done everything he could do, and now he was waiting for one person (or rather, a pair of persons). His baby brother was the one of the relatively few people of whom he could not maintain control. More often than not, he had to use indirect means in order to goad Sherlock into doing his bidding.
Sherlock just loved to subvert his authority. It was a game they had been playing since they were children. Perhaps, it was a result of their age difference, but their fights never involved fists. Theirs were always silent power plays. A narrowing of the eyes, a twitch of the lips carried more meaning than a bloody nose or bruised fist ever could.
He usually relished those games with his brother, but he had no time for that now. He had called (because he loathed those awful text messages his brother insisted on sending him) Sherlock over two and a half hours ago. He needed a favor and though he had said very little about his current predicament, Sherlock had clearly understood the gravity of the situation. Why Sherlock had decided now would be the time to gain the upper hand in their little power struggle, he didn't know.
Mycroft Holmes didn't like waiting. Waiting was dull.
He expressed his frustrations by grinding some leaves into the damp pavement with the sharp point on the end of his umbrella. He looked up to the sky. The clouds were thickening and darkening, sending out an ominous message. If his brother made him wait much longer he would actually have to use his umbrella for its true purpose.
At that moment, the screen of his mobile phone lit up in his coat pocket. It was a message from Sherlock, no doubt. No one else would have the audacity to text him.
En route.
- SH
He exhaled sharply through his nose. At last. Sherlock had left him waiting for quite long enough.
He stood a bit longer. It was still drizzling, but it was starting to pick up. He took a few steps backward so as to stand under the archway leading to the abandoned building where he had asked Sherlock to meet him. It was an old building, made of stone. He was sure it had been beautiful once, but now it had weeds growing through the cracks in the floors and vines climbing up the walls. There had been a few attempts at petitions to restore it, but nothing much had come of them. Very few people afforded even a passing glance at the building anymore, which made it a perfect covert meeting place.
He watched as a black taxi turned the corner onto the street. There wasn't much traffic in this part of town, so he assumed the taxi's passengers were his brother and Dr. Watson. He made sure there was no trace of boredom left in his face and instead affixed it with his best tight-lipped, passive-aggressive smile.
Less than a minute later, his assumption was proven correct. In one smooth, graceful action, Sherlock opened the cab door and stood on his feet by the curb. On the other side of the cab, Dr. Watson was clumsily clambering off his seat and onto the pavement, reaching back in the cab to retrieve his dropped mobile phone before closing the door with a resounding slam. Sherlock easily closed his door and waved off the cabbie. As the cab pulled away from the curb, he quirked his eyebrows in response to Dr. Watson's actions, and in turn, Dr. Watson shot him an affronted look.
"Damn cabbie was trying to make a pass at you…" Mycroft heard Dr. Watson mumble as the pair marched toward him.
"Didn't notice," Sherlock replied offhandedly before turning to look directly at Mycroft. "He's here?"
"I certainly hope so," Mycroft said, indignant. "He was here three hours ago when I first called you. Let's hope he hasn't wandered off in the meantime. You know he has even less patience than you do."
Sherlock sniffed at this.
"I'm sure he is. It's not as if he doesn't have enough time of all things."
Dr. Watson was looking back and forth between the two of them during this exchange, his interest piqued.
"Time is precious, Sherlock, even to those who have infinite amounts of it." Mycroft could feel his irritation with his younger brother rising, but they'd had enough of these verbal spars that he wouldn't show it. "Please, go find him before you waste any more of my time."
"Fine." Sherlock brushed past Mycroft's shoulder as he walked through the stone archway and towards the building. He turned around just before reaching the courtyard. "Are you coming, John?"
Dr. Watson, who appeared to have been lost in his own thoughts, looked up at the mention of his name.
"Yeah, go ahead, Sherlock. I'm going to stay behind and have a chat with Mycroft for a bit."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but didn't say anything. He turned back around and continued walking towards the building. Mycroft, too, was surprised at this. It wasn't often that his brother's flatmate chose to talk to him.
Dr. Watson turned to look at him, but didn't say anything just yet.
"I don't know if I'm just having an off day, but it seems like you and Sherlock are being more vague and mysterious than usual," he said at last. "And that's saying something for you two."
Mycroft tilted his head and bestowed upon Dr. Watson another of his tight-lipped smiles. Spending so much time with Sherlock seemed to be having an effect on him. He was becoming gradually more perceptive.
"What has he told you?" Mycroft asked.
"Told me?" Dr. Watson parroted back at him, looking uncertain.
So, nothing. Naturally. He didn't know why he expected anything else.
Mycroft heaved a sigh. Now, he realized why Sherlock hadn't put up more of a fuss when Dr. Watson had decided to stay back. His brother had left the explanation to him.
"What's this really about?" Dr. Watson looked concerned now. His voice was tinged with irritation. "All Sherlock's done is ask me my opinion on the existence of aliens. Nothing else. And I can't imagine that has anything to do with this."
"Ah." Mycroft looked down at his feet and tapped his umbrella sharply on the ground, curving his lips into a wry smile as he looked back up at his brother's flatmate.
A few more seconds passed before Mycroft began to see comprehension dawn on Dr. Watson's face.
Dr. Watson turned away to look out over the street, blinking rapidly. He turned back to face Mycroft, wearing an incredulous expression.
"You're serious." It was a statement.
Mycroft let him have some time to compose himself.
"All right," Dr. Watson said, condemning himself to whatever was waiting in the derelict building before him. "Let's get this over with."
He started walking through the archway, and Mycroft followed behind him.
"Is there anything else I need to know?" Dr. Watson asked as they walked over the uneven, cracked cobblestones of the courtyard.
"Quite a few things, but I suppose you should know that the man you are about to meet is a bit…eccentric."
"Eccentric? Compared to Sherlock, eccentric is tame."
"Oh, I think you'll be surprised."
Mycroft could tell that Dr. Watson didn't like the sound of that. It had been a while since he had witnessed someone meeting the Doctor for the first time, and he had to admit to himself: he was looking forward to it. Though, since Dr. Watson was accustomed to being around Sherlock, Mycroft felt as if the meeting probably wouldn't be as interesting as it could be.
At last they reached the front of the building. Mycroft pushed open the doors and stepped into the small entrance hall. Dr. Watson hadn't followed him. He was still standing just in front of the doors and appeared to be gathering himself before he, too, stepped into the entrance hall.
As they made their way across the hall, they could hear Sherlock's voice coming from a room to the left.
"It looks a bit different than the last time I saw it."
And another man's voice, excited: "Oh, yes. She remodels herself every now and then. Just like me."
Mycroft and Dr. Watson rounded the corner and entered the room. It was large and bare and dusty. A few pieces of broken furniture were pushed into one of the corners. Two, large chandeliers hung on either end of the room, both with old, threadbare, white sheets covering them. And in the very center of the room, obviously out of place, stood a bright blue police box.
Whatever Dr. Watson had been expecting, it was certainly not an excitable man with a bow tie and cheek bones almost as impossible as Sherlock's. He looked like an eight year old playing dress-up as an Oxford professor.
"Hello," the man said, walking towards Dr. Watson with a large smile on his face. "You must be John. Sherlock's just been telling me about you."
Sherlock sniffed at looked away, towards the corner with the broken furniture at this remark.
"I'm the Doctor," the man introduced himself as he came to a halt in front of Dr. Watson.
"Oh. Yes. It's nice to meet you, Doctor…" Dr. Watson said, awkwardly holding his hand out for the other man to shake.
Amused, Mycroft watched John's reaction as the Doctor completely bypassed Dr. Watson's hand and, instead, chose to grip his face and give him a big kiss on the cheek. Thinking nothing of it, the Doctor then gave a cheery wave to Mycroft and turned back to Sherlock, who had also been watching the whole exchange with no small amount of amusement.
Dr. Watson, who was just starting to recover from the shock of being kissed by a strange man, met Mycroft's eyes.
"You were right when you said I'd be surprised," he mumbled, rubbing his recently kissed cheek. "That is not the kind of eccentric I'm used to."
"Didn't think so."
Mycroft walked over towards the Doctor and Sherlock, intending to make sure everything was going smoothly. Dr. Watson blinked, shook his head a bit and then followed.
As Mycroft, Sherlock, and the Doctor were discussing various details of the case, Dr. Watson leaned against the blue police box, one hand in the pocket of his jacket, trying and failing to keep up with the conversation.
"Mycroft said there were aliens," Dr. Watson said loudly.
"Yes," Sherlock replied to him, not looking up from a strange map.
"I thought they would be here."
Mycroft realized that Dr. Watson hadn't fully grasped the situation. The Doctor looked amused.
"Well, they are here. You're looking at him," the Doctor said.
"What?" Dr. Watson responded intelligently.
The Doctor looked at Mycroft, then at Sherlock, then back to Dr. Watson.
"Should have known the Holmes' brothers wouldn't tell you everything. Never matter. Come with me!" The Doctor grabbed Dr. Watson's arm and dragged him into the police box.
Wary of another 'kiss' situation, Dr. Watson shouted out: "I don't think we can both fit…in…there." He let his words die out as he realized that the strange blue box was, well, bigger on the inside.
"It's called the T.A.R.D.I.S!" the Doctor was saying as he showed Dr. Watson around the control room.
Outside the T.A.R.D.I.S., Mycroft and Sherlock shared a smirk before they realized that they were only supposed to get along in the direst of circumstances (and this wasn't one of those times) and quickly looked away from each other.
Dr. Watson poked his head back out of the doors, looking around.
"And you fly this thing around?" he asked, turning back to the Doctor.
"Through all of time and space," the Doctor confirmed.
"I'm not sure I believe all this." Dr. Watson looked slightly overwhelmed.
Sherlock snapped his head up to look at him.
"How often have I said to you, John, that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?* You've seen the the T.A.R.D.I.S. with your own eyes. Do you really think we're capable of that technology at this point in humanity?"
"He's quite right, you know," said the Doctor, choosing that moment to impose himself on the conversation. "It's why I like the Holmes brothers so much - and, yes, I mean both of you! They use logic to open their minds rather than to box themselves into a world of things that don't exist."
Dr. Watson smiled at that. Mycroft frowned, though not quite so much as his brother.
"So, if you're a time-traveling alien, why do you need us?" Dr. Watson asked.
The Doctor shrugged.
"Even aliens need a good consulting detective every now and then."
"I almost had to consult with you on one of my more recent cases," Sherlock said to the Doctor. "There was a tricky situation where I thought I had encountered an alien dog."
Mycroft furrowed his brow, realizing exactly which case Sherlock was talking about. He had yet to reclaim his I.D. badge from his brother - not that it mattered; he was sure Sherlock had duplicates.
"Really? I've seen a few alien dogs in my day. On one planet, there are dogs with no noses," the Doctor said matter-of-factly.
"Doesn't that almost defeat the purpose of a dog?" inquired Dr. Watson.
"Oh, no, no. You see, these dogs…" The Doctor's voice trailed off as he and John ventured further into the T.A.R.D.I.S.
Mycroft and Sherlock were, once again, left outside together. They were silent. Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest and looking his brother up and down, inspecting him.
"Will you be able to help him?" Mycroft asked after a while.
"I don't see why not. He was just explaining the case to me before you and John walked in. He's taking us to Victorian London. Should be interesting."
"Yes, well, don't have too much fun," Mycroft sneered. "You don't want the detectives then thinking you're a possible murder suspect, too."
"Humph."
At that moment, the Doctor poked his head out of the T.A.R.D.I.S.
"Are you ready to go, Sherlock?"
"Yes, I'm ready," he said, sparing Mycroft one last glance. "Where is John?"
"I should think he's gone to see the library," the Doctor replied. "He was a bit confused when I told him there was a library in the pool."
Sherlock walked past the Doctor and into the T.A.R.D.I.S.'s control room. The Doctor smiled, and just before closing the door, he turned to Mycroft with a smile.
"Not to worry, Mycroft! I'll bring your brother and Dr. Watson back safely."
"I wasn't worried, Doctor. I have the utmost faith in you."
The Doctor smiled again, though this time he looked quite sad.
"It's possible that your faith is misplaced."
"No more misplaced than if I had left it with anyone else."
The Doctor glanced at Mycroft one last time before shutting the door.
Moments later he heard the familiar humming and whirring of the T.A.R.D.I.S. as it was about to depart.
It was a while after the T.A.R.D.I.S. had disappeared before Mycroft moved from his place in the barren, dusty room. He sometimes wished that he could go along with the Doctor, too, but he knew that he would come to regret it if he did. The Doctor was almost as difficult to deal with as Sherlock. Even in something as big as the T.A.R.D.I.S., he knew he couldn't stay in a confined space with both of them for very long.
Mycroft walked back out of the room, back through the entrance hall, back through the courtyard, and back to the archway.
The light drizzle from earlier had turned into a thick, heavy rain. From under the arch, he looked out on the dreary London afternoon. For everyone else in London, it was just that: another rainy day. They hadn't had any encounters with aliens or time travel or impossible younger brothers.
This foray with the Doctor had taken longer than he had intended it. He was going to have to work hard to make up for his loss of time. He took a deep breath through his nose, opened his umbrella, and stepped back into reality.
…
Notes²: I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! You may have noticed that many of Mycroft's thoughts in this seem rather Sherlock-y. It is my headcanon that Mycroft and Sherlock are very similar, but the fact that Mycroft pretends to fit in with 'normal people' and Sherlock couldn't care less is what makes all the difference. And it might also seem weird that Mycroft always refers to John as 'Dr. Watson', but this is in Mycroft's POV and it seemed like a very Mycroft thing to do.
* = Quote lifted out of ACD's The Sign of Four