Title: With A Tilt Of The Head

Author: Still Waters

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.

Summary: Anthea knew that she was witnessing the first of many meetings to come between John Watson and Mycroft Holmes. From the moment he had tilted his head, it was obvious that John wasn't going anywhere: he was already more than "associated" with Sherlock – he was part of him.

Written: Draft: 3/26/13. Edited 4/1/13, 4/4/13.

Notes: Another ASiP scene study because I just can't get enough of the wealth of character detail in that first meeting between John and Mycroft. While rewatching that scene, I found myself focusing on the powerfully unspoken significance of John's head tilt after Mycroft's "you tell me", suddenly needing to explore that moment further. This piece was the result. Dialogue quoted from the episode does not belong to me. As always, I truly hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading and for your continued support. I cherish every response.

Anthea was no stranger to Mycroft Holmes's 'interrogation loosely disguised as bribery' sessions with people who had the misfortune of being newly associated with Sherlock. In fact, she had been part of so many of them that she comfortably fell into her routine of settling into the backseat and bringing up the camera feeds on her mobile as soon as John Watson stepped out of the car. Mr. Holmes was a man who believed there was no such thing as having too much information. Once the isolated locations for these face-to-face meetings were chosen, a security team placed discreet cameras to capture the full exchange: multiple angles' worth of information to be held for later review and, if necessary, leverage. The man was meticulous in far more than dress and diction; the level of detail he pulled from those tapes regarding a person's deepest, hidden self was…..impressive.

And people thought they had to watch out for Sherlock.

She chose an angle that gave her a full look at John's face; watched him walk right up to Mr. Holmes and greet him with a flippant comment about his chosen method of communication. Like everyone else who had ever been in his position, John was certainly wary, but his assessing glances around the warehouse were controlled; rationed so as not to broadcast that wariness. And his tone wasn't the shakily sharp, desperate sarcasm used by people on the edge of panic; that sad, transparent attempt at appearing tough and in control. No, John was initiating contact with Mr. Holmes at his most mysteriously omniscient with the same calm, muted sarcasm he had used to speak with her in the car: the sort of almost jarringly out of place, 'worn down until it became as natural as breathing' sarcasm used by people who dealt with stressful life and death scenarios on a regular basis.

Like a soldier.

And a doctor.

Mr. Holmes, of course, brought it up straight away. "You don't seem very afraid."

John didn't hesitate in his response. "You don't seem very frightening." No bravado, no obviously calculated or weakly executed attempt at control. Just honest, calmly stated truth.

Interesting.

The conversation continued: questions and answers, smoke and mirrors, more sarcasm-edged barbs, until Mr. Holmes got to the meeting's purpose - an attack cloaked in mild delivery and nonchalant brolly examination. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

This was where everyone faltered, self-preservation sending them into either stuttering uncertainty or shocked silence as the eye of the oncoming storm was suddenly thrust upon them and they found themselves trapped within the full focus of Mycroft Holmes's unspoken, but undeniable, threat.

Not this one, though. John looked down and to his left as he began to respond, "I may be wrong, but I think…." His eyes snapped up to meet Mr. Holmes's in something that managed to be both emphasis and subtle, undeniable challenge. "…..that's none of your business."

Mr. Holmes's "it could be" was as mildly spoken and unsettling in its implications as ever.

John's eyes never wavered, holding that threat firmly in his sight and returning fire: his "it really couldn't", voice dropped low and dangerous within the deceptively mild calm of practiced control, a clear threat of his own. And the way it was presented – steady eye contact in a restrained shake of the head, facial features set along with the rest of his body in competent stillness – told Anthea's experienced eye that he not only meant it, but could deliver on it.

Very interesting.

These meetings were never interesting; in fact, they were almost mind-numbingly boring in their routine. Mr. Holmes was very good at what he did. Sherlock didn't exactly have the sort of manner that made people want to stick around for any length of time, yet Mr. Holmes was relentless in arranging these clandestine information-gathering sessions with any new face associated with his younger brother. Those faces were swiftly assessed for threat and worth, then summarily broken before Mycroft Holmes's finely honed brand of omniscient manipulation until they both revealed whatever Sherlock was currently working on and dismissed any idea - if they'd ever had one in the first place - of long-term ties with the younger Holmes. The only one who had not only chosen to stay in Sherlock's orbit after going through Mr. Holmes's interrogation, but also had what passed for the government official's approval, was Detective Inspector Lestrade. It had been five years since that one, where the meeting place had echoed with an outright affronted refusal of money, a firm belief that keeping Sherlock occupied intellectually would not only help Sherlock, but the people of London as a whole, and a grudging acknowledgement that Mr. Holmes had access to help Sherlock might need; support that Lestrade couldn't necessarily provide on his own.

Lestrade's negotiation of Mr. Holmes's terms to a point where both Mr. Holmes's needs and Lestrade's own moral principles were satisfied had been an unexpectedly impressive surprise.

John, though…John stood right in front of Mr. Holmes and not only challenged him, but threatened him in turn. Made it known, in no uncertain terms, with calm, sparse words and even sparser body language, that his life and his choices were none of Mr. Holmes's concern, and that should he persist in making them so, there would be consequences. That he was not one to be manipulated or cowed by calculated performance.

No one had ever stood up to Mycroft Holmes like that before.

Anthea wasn't surprised when John refused the money; a lot of people still had morals. She wasn't surprised when Mr. Holmes pulled out the contents of John's therapy notes, nor when John was suitably thrown by the betrayal of confidence, stripped bare and vulnerable in the face of a powerful stranger's relentless attack on his privacy and control.

What did surprise her was when John not only fought back – his "are we done?" interruption masking discomfort with mildly delivered, yet firm, warning - but won.

Because right there, in the breath following Mr. Holmes's cool ultimatum - "you tell me" - it happened: the response that brought John from interesting to game changing.

He didn't give in to the insecurities, the raw vulnerability that had shadowed his face with the calculated power play of the man patiently waiting for him to break. No, John stood his ground, still and silent as he considered those words, acknowledging his situation within the intricacy of Mr. Holmes's approach. Then, eye contact never wavering, he tilted his head to the left and, with the subtlest of shifts, everything changed. The challenge was back, steady eyes – defiance overtaking hurt - calmly assessing the stranger doing his best to unbalance and threaten him. Wariness and vulnerability were nothing but a memory, dismissed by the quiet arrival of a muted, experienced confidence only seen in the eyes of those who knew this game well. A small ghost of a smile quirked his lips, the movement so sparse Anthea couldn't be sure that the muscles had actually shifted at all, and the unwaveringly focused eyes went from assessment to identification. It was as if John recognized something beyond Mr. Holmes's crafted exterior and highly calculated actions; read some deeper, hidden truth, something that somehow made Mr. Holmes less threatening.

And it was with that understanding, that silent, 'shades of Holmesian' analysis, that John looked down and to the left, made a final decision – a nod without the actual movement – and not only turned his back on the most powerful man in the British government, but began walking away from Mycroft Holmes at his most dangerous.

Anthea knew then that she was witnessing the first of many meetings to come between John and Mr. Holmes. From the moment he had tilted his head, it was obvious that John wasn't going anywhere: he was already more than "associated" with Sherlock – he was part of him. Because, until today, there had only been one person who recovered from Mr. Holmes's analytical attacks quickly enough to turn vulnerability and anger into an assessment-based counterattack of his own. Who looked at Mycroft Holmes with defiant challenge and sarcasm in the face of his powerfully connected, very real threats. Who stood his ground, rolled his eyes, and pushed right back against the face of the British Government with an unspoken 'bring it on.'

Now there were two: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.