Title: Brother Mine
Series: Part of the A Matter of Professional Integrity universe
Author: sorion
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Genre: Mycroft POV, Friendship, Romance
Warning: PRE- & POST-REICHENBACH; SPOILERS FOR SEASON 1 & 2
Word count: ~4,500
Rating: PG
Summary: Mycroft isn't sure what to make of the army doctor when he first enters Sherlock's life. He is soon to learn. (Series 1&2 plus my fic A Matter of Professional Integrity from Mycroft's POV. It would help if you read that fic, first.)

Brother Mine

Mycroft first sees a certain army doctor when he shakes hands with his brother by means of the ever-useful CCTV of London in front of what will be their potential home. (He first hears of him one day before that, only minutes after the first meeting of the two men has taken place.)

Well, Sherlock's home. He has no delusions whatsoever that this cohabitation will be a short one. They always are.

If he was a betting kind of fellow, he would have his money on less than a week. Surely, it would take a medical man no longer to see that Sherlock does not a pleasant companion make. Most certainly not with a case looming in the not so distant future. Four apparent suicides and Gregory Lestrade at his wits' end. Indeed, Lestrade appears to be on his way to involve Sherlock in it, Mycroft is being informed.

Mycroft sighs and leans back in his chair. A week might have been an overtly optimistic estimate.

But then something extraordinary happens. His brother leaves the house, taking the army doctor with him.

Involuntarily, Mycroft leans forward again, and his eyes widen slightly. (No more than slightly. He does have some self-control.) He presses a button and a beautiful brunette enters his office.

"Yes, sir."

"Anthea, I will be needing the full detail on Captain John Watson after all."

Anthea nods. "The full detail?"

"Yes. And a car."

Mycroft leafs through a small notebook in the back of the car Anthea has readied for him. It is the same type of car that John Watson will encounter very soon.

When he comes across the note on post-traumatic stress disorder, his lip twitches, and he allows a small chuckle. If he knows his brother – and he does – Sherlock wouldn't have taken the good doctor along if that diagnosis had indeed been true. Oh, no, quite the contrary. Mycroft knows that Sherlock does not have the patience to deal with someone's post-traumatic stress on the best of days, most certainly not when he is on a case. (Mycroft knows that, because he himself is no different.)

The only conclusion: the psychotherapist who has diagnosed and is now treating John Watson is wrong. Sherlock is right.

They arrive at a warehouse where soon he will have company, so he forces down the smirk that threatens to widen. An army doctor wounded in Afghanistan… and he does not suffer from post-traumatic stress? How unusual. Intriguing.

"I could be wrong, but... I think that's none of your business."

Mycroft feels more intrigued by the second. Here stands this man – after having been abducted by someone who can control the security feeds of the city at will, owns expensive cars with bullet-proof and tinted glass, and then facing said unknown but undoubtedly dangerous someone – and he is steady as a rock. More than that, he is… almost playful, certainly cheeky. At the doctor's "You don't seem very frightening," earlier, Mycroft absolutely could not help but laugh, delighted. Sherlock must have seen the same thing that is being unveiled in front of Mycroft's very eyes, right now.

"It could be," is his neutral answer. It is a double-edged comment. (Mycroft's comments usually are.) On the one hand, he wants to know if his brother can be trusted with this individual; on the other, even an untrustworthy spy is useful for some limited amount of time.

"It really couldn't."

Expected, at this point. Then again, the good doctor doesn't know who he is dealing with, nor does he know about the recompense Mycroft is willing to pay. Time to let him see a part of who exactly is in front of him, then.

Mycroft pulls out his handy little notebook (which he has more for the dramatic flair than anything else; he knows both the address and the psychological profile by heart, by now – but people tend to be more afraid of the written facts than the known ones) and pretends to read Sherlock Holmes' address.

Ah. So this warrants a reaction, however brief. Interesting. Even more interesting is that as Mycroft moves from the address to the offer he has for John, John's interest in return wanes, and he is once more the steady soldier doctor.

Mycroft will have to go further, then. "Trust issues… it says here," he says, consciously sounding vaguely distracted, making sure John knows that his intel reaches further than someone's who might just have been watching closely. And, yet again, the doctor does not waver.

Mycroft allows a bit of flair to enter his little speech as he gives John the last bit of information for the time being: namely the one that Mycroft is not merely watching and has access to a number of sources… but that – much like Sherlock – he is capable of reading beneath layers that not even John himself is aware of.

"You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it." And Mycroft has no doubt whatsoever that his analysis is correct. John is not going to walk away, is not going to betray his brother, is not going to be bought. "Welcome back."

He also knows that the new text message is from the same person as the ones before. He thinks that another little warning would not go amiss: "Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson." But, hopefully, John has realised that – even though he might have already made that choice – there is one to make.

The good doctor could be needed. Mycroft hears rumours, as he always does, but this time, the rumours are as loud as they are unspecific. Like the first rolling sound of an approaching earthquake, far beneath the surface. Mycroft can already see some of the visible ripples caused by the shift of the tectonic plates, and he knows that what lies beneath could potentially be enormous.

And Sherlock has the habit of stepping into puddles, whether or not they are rippled by somebody else. Sooner or later, the force below will take notice of him.

John will watch, should he decide to stay. Mycroft isn't sure what he thinks of that. Someone so loyal could be an asset… or a weakness.

His phone beeps and he reads the message Anthea has sent him.

He retrieved something from his home. Returning to Baker Street, now.

He pushes another button and holds the phone to his ear. "Parker."

"Sir."

"Is the weapon still in the bedside drawer?"

"No, sir."

"Good," Mycroft says, almost absently, and nods. "Good." He ends the call.

Once Mycroft sees Sherlock and his unlikely new friend at the crime scene (that is very much a rippling puddle, Mycroft knows), he is quite aware that Doctor Watson will not be going anywhere.

"Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade three, active."

At first, Mycroft thinks that Sherlock's new friend might make him slightly more open to social interactions. He should have known better, but that doesn't keep him from keeping a close eye on both detective and doctor.

His brother is still as… intransigent as ever, frustrating the patron saint of patience that is his flatmate, but even from the reports and surveillance images alone, Mycroft can tell that Sherlock is changing. Or perhaps changing is the wrong expression… Sherlock appears to be slowly growing into the man he could be, giving his doctor a purpose in return.

The unlikeliest of friends they may have started out as, Mycroft can't help but envy the symbiosis they have created together.

And then the earthquake finally shows its face and offers a name to go with it.

Things start unravelling, now that the hide and seek part of Moriarty's game is over, and Mycroft has to learn that he has grievously underestimated his brother's adversary. Unconnected crimes suddenly show connections, boundaries between countries as insignificant as a line in ink on a map, and in the middle sits the spider. The spider that lures his brilliant little brother onto the waver-thin threads to dance.

Mycroft knows that, if he is to protect Sherlock, he needs to take out Moriarty. And he is close, so very close. Moriarty is captured and brought in… the order to have him eliminated awaits being signed… and Mycroft realises too late that while his brother still attempts to dance on the threads, he himself is already stuck in the web, letting the spider feed on whatever it likes. Mycroft never notices that with every passing day, he loses importance in the game, is being removed from it, is being emptied from the inside out.

He still believes that he is doing the right thing when he orders the spider to be released…

He is a fool. Useless like the dead and hollow remains of a fly stuck in the net, leaving his brother – his brilliant, amazing, emotionally untested baby brother – unprotected.

When the brave soldier doctor confronts Mycroft, it is already too late.

"I'm sorry. Tell him, would you?" He has no illusions that John will oblige; he knows that his being sorry will not be relayed and will not change a thing. The web is about to collapse. Soon. He can feel it. He knows from the intel, he knows from the orders going around, from the chess pieces being set into place… he knows from the tabloids that are getting ready to… take down Sherlock.

He has failed his brother. His only brother. His falling star that he has sworn to protect from brightening the night's sky only to burn out and crash. He thought he had succeeded. When he pulled back Sherlock's swirling mind from the abyss of drugs. When he saw the truest friend enter Sherlock's life.
He has failed his brother.

Mycroft has seen the depth of loyalty and – dare he say it – love his brother has for his friend.

He can see two outcomes: one with his brother dead and one with his brother dead to the world, and he doesn't know which is worse. He prepares for both.

Then the news hits, and Mycroft still doesn't know which is true, but he knows which is worse.

He doesn't dare speak the words; after all, his employees all spy on people for money. His thoughts, however, are loud.

'If you are the brother I've known all his life, you are not dead. Please, do not prove me wrong.'

Even his thoughts are demanding; he can only imagine what the words in John Watson's head must sound like.

Mycroft never cries. It's a very un-Holmes thing to do. He does not cry at the funeral; he does not cry when John tells him in great, painful detail about the hurt, fear and tears that accompanied Sherlock's voice in his last message; he does not cry when he returns home to an empty house.

But when the lock of a door clicks behind him as it closes, and he turns so very slowly… and then can see Sherlock stand there – pale but unharmed – he never even notices them fall. His mouth forms one word, "Sherlock," but no sound can be heard, too tight the hold on his chest. Such an inane platitude, is it not? People claiming that their heart – nothing but a muscle to transport blood – is something of a psychosomatic seismograph for emotion. And yet… he can feel the weight lifting off it, while at the same time something wraps around it, making him feel it.

Sherlock replies with, "I need your help," without hesitation, the only outward sign to prove just how shaken his little brother truly is.

Mycroft rubs his face when his vision blurs and only then notices the tears that are flowing freely. He takes a calming breath and the few steps necessary to engulf his falling star that will now shine some more with his arms.

Sherlock, unsteady and so very un-Sherlock, eventually leans into the secure hold. His voice is firm but sounds like he is choking, "Take care of John. Please?"

Mycroft pushes Sherlock away enough to frame his face. "You impossible young man," he says, quoting their mother, and making Sherlock's lips twitch for the barest of moments.

"Please," Sherlock repeats. "I fear he might…"

"Of course." He doesn't have to ask what Sherlock worries about, nor what he is planning. It is obvious that extreme measures such as the ones his brother has taken are only warranted by one thing: sentiment. Sherlock must have feared for John's life, and he will now disappear to secure it.

Mycroft lets his hands fall to his sides and straightens. "And will you be in need of funds, intelligence and contacts?"

Sherlock mirrors his brother's stance. "Please," he confirms. His eyes wander for a second before they land on Mycroft's again. "And… should John approach you… you must make him understand that secrecy is of utmost importance."

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow. "You expect him to see through your ruse?"

Sherlock averts his eyes, quite consciously, this time. "I…" he doesn't finish the sentence. "Mere wishful thinking, perhaps."

"You understand that I will not risk telling him."

Sherlock's eyes snap back. "Of course not! I want him safe, not exposed!" He swallows and regains his composure. "I'm only saying… that should he suspect something… it would be safer to not have him start investigating. Whether or not these attempts would lead anywhere is beside the point, but people could take notice."

Mycroft nods, once, calmly. "I will take care of John. For as long as it takes." He does not say that it is the least he can – and must – do.

Sherlock disappears as quickly and without a trace as he arrived, leaving behind a purpose for Mycroft once more.

Mycroft allows himself a brief moment to contemplate if Sherlock will always be the purpose of his life in some way. It is a very brief moment, however, and utterly redundant. He has work to do. A country doesn't run itself. His brother, unfortunately, does.

Mycroft's lips twitch into a smirk before he can stop it. Perhaps not entirely unfortunate, even though it would not do at all to let Sherlock ever hear that thought.

Sherlock never mentions John in the sporadic messages he sends, but Mycroft knows him well enough to read the worry between the lines. Accordingly, he answers with similar undertones to let him know that John is as well as can be expected of a man who has lost everything.

Mycroft wonders if Sherlock is even aware of the fact that he means as much to John as John means to him. On other days, it becomes clear that Sherlock is very much aware; he is also aware that while John might be able to survive with the pain of the loss, Sherlock himself would not have fared as well.

Nevertheless, Mycroft is more relieved than he would have expected when he receives the message that John appears to be on his way over. Determined is the word used by his agent to describe the doctor's expression and stride. Determined but unarmed. (The doctor has every reason to be angry, after all. It is better to be safe than sorry.)

Mycroft greets the man and at first still feels the need to feign ignorance for at least long enough to determine whether John merely has an empty hope or has already begun to form a deduction and would not be deterred from further investigations.

"John. You don't…" He doesn't what? Doesn't understand? Doesn't know what he's risking? Doesn't… have to speak anymore because Mycroft can already tell that John's are not unfounded ideas? Fortunately, he does not have to finish his sentence.

"Yes! I bloody well do, Mycroft Holmes! Because, just like him, you knew! You're a bloody Holmes. You knew. Don't try to tell me you didn't!"

Mycroft is almost impressed by John's elaborations. It takes a lot to see through one of Sherlock's schemes, even if one knows him as well as John and has been as close to the happenings.

But what finally convinces him that John might not have the confirmation but at the very least has very strong suspicions, is the firm and cold tone he uses to finish his angry monologue:

"I'm a doctor. I can tell if a man's dead or not!"

Mycroft smiles. He is sure it's not a large, happy smile, but more of a private one that John surely recognises. He sends a message on his phone, deciding that letting Sherlock know sooner rather than later is easier for everyone involved.

The look on the good doctor's face when Mycroft finally confirms that, "He is… as safe as he can be, at the moment," causes a similar tightening of the chest as he has experienced less than two weeks before.

Dear John. Dear loyal, unwavering and loving John. Much more loyal than Mycroft himself, though their goal concerning Sherlock might be the same.

If there is one thing Mycroft is certain of, it is that if John had been in his position, would have had Moriarty in prison with the looming threat of a supposed code or information, John would never have betrayed Sherlock in exchange for it. John would not have compromised, would not have prioritised. John would not have failed Sherlock.

John follows the truth of his heart, not a government's strategy. And Sherlock, with a strategic mind of his own, does not need another strategist, he needs a heart.

And Mycroft is very glad that Sherlock will have such a steady one to return to.

When finally the painful period is over, Mycroft arrives at 221B in the morning after Sherlock's return with something that can almost be called a spring in his step. Even his umbrella is swinging slightly.

He nods at DI Lestrade just as he exits the front door. The man returns the nod, a myriad of emotions flittering over his expressive face. Exhaustion, certainly. Relief. Happiness. Redemption.

Mycroft can relate.

Lestrade grins at him, then enters his car and drives off.

Mycroft doesn't bother with the doorbell, assuming correctly that it is not functional, nor with knocking. He does have a key, after all.

He enters the living room and gives a perfunctory knock on the doorframe with the handle of his umbrella. "Good morning," he announces his presence (again, perfunctory, since his brother and John are sitting right there and could see him enter and have probably heard him long before that).

John's answering, "Good morning," sounds content enough, and even Sherlock's, "Mycroft," isn't as dismissive as it can be (and usually is).

All it takes is a brief look at both their hair, rumpled features, slight tilt of stance from lying one-sided, another look at the couch cushions that are in just a little more disarray… and Mycroft deduces correctly that John was not the only one who might have suffered from Sherlock's absence.

Sherlock's narrowing of his eyes tells Mycroft that his little brother knows very well that the joint couch sleeping arrangements did not go unnoticed.

Mycroft graciously does not mention it. Instead he presents a folder with a flourish. "Your legal documents, dear brother. They are now up to date with your current… state of animation."

Sherlock huffs but takes the folder and puts it on the coffee table, not particularly interested in the details.

John shifts in his seat by the desk. "What about the allegations, the charges?"

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow. "They have of course been taken care of before his return. As you well know."

"I just wanted to make sure that the legal stuff is taken care of, as well. A public pardon in the media isn't exactly legally binding."

Mycroft smiles slightly, approving. "I can assure you that I… am very legally binding."

John snorts in amusement and holds up his hands. "Just checking."

"As you should. Sherlock certainly doesn't bother with such details."

"What for?" Sherlock asks with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You have people specifically assigned to me, and I have no interest in bureaucracy."

John smirks slightly. "So aren't you dealing with the bureaucracy because you don't want to or because you never had to?"

Mycroft can almost feel how he disappears from the men's perception as the two share a look that visibly excludes the rest of the world.

Sherlock returns the smirk. "Therein lies the question."

John chuckles and the moment is over. He raises his eyebrows at Mycroft. "You can't teach a duckling how to swim by keeping him on land, you know."

Sherlock huffs. "I resent being compared to a duckling."

Mycroft's answering smile is one he has almost missed having a reason to smile and is wavering between annoyance and something resembling fondness. "I see the recent developments have not dampened the particular brand of humour you two share."

And then Mycroft is, once again, surprised by John Watson.

"Don't even try to pretend you're not happy to see that." The expression on his face is one of mild amusement, but it is also very firm. It says that the soldier has seen and recognised his ally's tactics, even approves of them, but is not by any means fooled by them.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Mycroft replies with a similar expression of his own, adding just enough sarcasm to his voice that Sherlock may interpret the words as he wishes. "Well," he says, straightens and breathes in a sharp, finalising breath. "I believe that is quite enough bureaucracy for one simple resurrection." He slightly inclines his head. "I will be seeing you both, soon."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and John smirks. Mycroft's promises will always sound like a threat in equal amounts, and it is reassuring to know at least two people who take it as intended.

Before seeing Sherlock and John interact, Mycroft has not been entirely certain that the dynamic of their friendship had not been damaged during Sherlock's deception. Well, that is one worry less. God knows that Sherlock causes enough of those on a regular basis even witha loyal friend by his side.

Perhaps the absence has been even strengthening in a way. Mycroft is much like his brother in that he needs only seconds to analyse a situation. The sleeping arrangements on the couch notwithstanding, there are also the looks to consider. The short, confirming looks that assure both men that the other is still there, is not a mirage. Or the slight tilt of a body towards the other, even when he is only across half a room. A natural pull.

That pull has been there from the beginning, of course. Mycroft is well aware that even a soldier would not become a killer within a day for just anybody he meets; and his brother has never been known to accommodate anyone, much less someone he considers below his intellect.

And yet… even that extraordinary pull has managed to become stronger still. Mycroft would worry about how much his brother… cares… if he didn't know that he was in particularly capable hands.

There is now only one niggling worry left. John is a man of relationships. What would happen if John were to realise that as much as he loves Sherlock, those feelings are not the feelings for a… lover? John has shown that he craves such feelings, possibly a family, even.

What of Sherlock, then? Mycroft doesn't worry that his brother would ever be truly abandoned, but there are various types of abandonment. Types whose definition the emotional layouts of Sherlock and John might not agree on.

Faith. Maybe it is time for… faith. It has served Sherlock (and John, naturally) unexpectedly well. If Sherlock decides to dabble in that kind of uncertainty, may it be that Mycroft has no choice but to endorse it?

That uncertainty, thankfully, doesn't last long. Mycroft is woken in the early hours of the morning with somewhat alarming news on their mother and decides to deliver the message to his brother himself. He of course has a reason for that – after all, he could just call him. But it has been a while since their last meeting, and Sherlock is so very unwilling to keep up familial obligations, as it were.

One step into the living room and Mycroft hesitates. Something is… different. He already knows that the sleeping arrangements have become more… marital, though he has yet to see any conclusive evidence that sleeping has not been all taking place in the now shared bedroom.

Mycroft does know that John and Sherlock have already found a different intimacy between them. Increased closeness. Kissing, perhaps. Something along those lines, though the most recent images his intelligence has provided him with does paint a clear picture about the kissing. The activity leaves such telling marks. As does sharing a bed (and not a couch).

He has thought about how Sherlock's less than sexual nature might remain at this stage, and John has appeared encouragingly content in the CCTV footage. Mycroft has been frustratingly unable to deduce what would be happening next in their dynamic, without placing surveillance directly in the flat (something he knows better than to do… again).

Nevertheless, he knows now.

Sherlock has succumbed to a sexual development. How very interesting.

Mycroft makes his way towards the bedroom. Images run through his head involuntarily. Nothing untoward, just Sherlock and John leaving their very first crime scene. Laughter. Small smiles, excluding everyone. Everyone including Mycroft, naturally.

Mycroft hasn't always approved of it. Has even, on occasion, allowed a brief flash of jealousy. Now he is at ease with it. He almost feels as if he has had a hand in creating the connection. (Which, truth to be told, he has had. Neither John nor Sherlock need to know everything he has done or chosen not to do, however.) His brother's honest and true laugh. Such a rare thing.

He opens the door and stands still for a second, taking in the scene. Sherlock lies curled up in the arms of his doctor, his left ear undoubtedly listening to a steady heartbeat. Also undoubtedly, both of them are aware of their visitor, and though they must be aware of his identity by now (at the very least Sherlock is), John's hands tighten ever so slightly. Protective.

Goodness. Such sentiment. His brother actually looks… happy, for lack of a better word in a limited linguistic framework of the likes of the English language.

Mycroft lifts his umbrella to knock on the doorframe. He smiles just a fraction of a second before wood meets wood, still watching the resting couple, and tilts his head. On second thought, happy might just be the right word, after all.

END

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