Fic: My Brother's Keeper (Chapter 2)

[sherlocksscarf]

Author note: Part 4 of the "No Heart For Me Like Yours" series. This story is a sequel to my two earlier fics, "Always The Last To Know” and “Completely Amazing," and a companion piece to my earlier fic, "Song of Sherlock," and contains some dialogue from that fic. This is a different take on that story, told from Mycroft’s POV. This is definitely not a standalone piece – it would probably make more sense to read the rest of the series first, as they tell how John and Sherlock got to this point.

Warnings: Sherlock/John. Preslash/Slash.

Trigger warnings: References to previous abusive relationship, non-con, sexual assault.

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

oOoOo

Mycroft was impressed with John Watson. Very few people showed the control and strength that the former army doctor displayed. His seemingly endless patience with Sherlock’s quirks was extraordinary. He walked the perfect line between tolerating Sherlock’s eccentric behavior and holding Sherlock accountable for his actions.

Although it might not be readily apparent to the average observer, Sherlock’s deep regard for John was as obvious as daylight to Mycroft, who knew his little brother very well. In the time John had lived with his brother, Mycroft had watched Sherlock go from appearing completely oblivious to the feelings of others to actually considering the wellbeing of someone other than himself.

The thrill of facing danger with a steadfast partner by his side seemed to have mercifully replaced the thrill of cocaine. Sherlock had been clean for several years before he met John, but the constant threat of a relapse hung over him like a cloud until the little army doctor arrived. Now Mycroft seldom saw signs of Sherlock battling his old addiction, and when he did have “danger nights,” John was the best ally that one could wish for.

The attachment between Sherlock and John was much stronger than either of them seemed to realise.  Mycroft watched with interest as John went through a string of doomed relationships, which all seemed to end due to a certain consulting detective “unconscious” manipulations. He watched Sherlock’s studied nonchalance each time John met a new woman, and the way that his demands on John’s time escalated until the preordained breakup.

Mycroft observed it all with amusement, anticipating the inevitable conclusion. He had long since had his surveillance team install two types of monitoring equipment in 221B Baker Street. The first set were small, discreet cameras and microphones, carefully hidden. Sherlock found and disabled them all.

These were merely a distraction from the second set of surveillance equipment, which were so tiny and well-hidden that they were virtually undetectable. Sherlock’s confidence in having found and destroyed the more conventional devices caused him to relax his vigilance before he found the more sophisticated cameras and microphones.

Mycroft was not a monster, however. He hired a discreet surveillance staff to monitor Sherlock’s activities, establishing firmly that the only activity to be reported to him would need to fall within certain parameters. Even then, Mycroft wanted only summaries of the questionable activity unless he requested a full transcript or viewing of the footage. He actually did value his brother’s privacy, despite what Sherlock might think.

So when Anthea came to Mycroft with the news that Sherlock and John had finally taken their relationship into the realm of the physical, he did not request details. He simply made a point of arriving at the flat early the following morning for a chat with Sherlock and his doctor.

oOoOo

Sherlock, clad in his blue silk dressing gown, ambled into the sitting room, to spot Mycroft seated calmly in John’s preferred armchair, idly swinging his umbrella by his side. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and he leaped forward.

“What the hell are you doing here, Mycroft?”

“I gather congratulations are in order, brother dear. Please allow me to be the first to offer them.” Mycroft pointedly glanced at the purple shirt on the floor by the sofa, and the plaid one dangling from the horn of the cow skull on the wall.

Sherlock whirled to close the sliding doors dividing the sitting room and the kitchen, then spun back to glare at his older sibling.

“What. Do you. Want.”

“I’m simply concerned for your welfare, little brother. Why do you always think the worst of my intentions?”

“Oh, I don’t know…perhaps because whatever devious activities I can imagine for you to engage in, they pale next to your actual, hideously invasive machinations?” Sherlock sneered.

“I merely look out for your safety, Sherlock. If you were more open with me, I would have no need to resort to such tactics.”

Sherlock snatched up his violin and flounced onto the sofa, plucking moodily at the strings. Then he suddenly froze, obviously listening to the sounds of John putting on the kettle in the kitchen.

“I’m as open with you as I have any intention of being, Mycroft,” he hissed softly. “My private life is my own.”

“And do you plan on sharing the details of your past with Doctor Watson, Sherlock?” When Sherlock’s eyes blazed at him, Mycroft continued, “The circumstances surrounding your dropping out of university, for example?”

“You are even further over the line than usual, Mycroft, and that’s truly terrifying to imagine.”

“Sherlock, I only have your happiness in mind. If you would just tell me the details…”

The sliding doors opened suddenly, revealing John Watson, clad only in a pair of dark grey boxer briefs. Mycroft, glancing over John’s remarkably attractive form (why the devil does he hide under those ridiculous jumpers?), felt a sudden pang of envy for Sherlock. He covered it by flicking imaginary lint from his immaculate trouser leg, then looked back up at John.

“Ah, Doctor Watson. You’re looking…fit…this morning.” His eyebrows rose toward his receding hairline as he glanced over John’s body.

“Erm…yes. Good morning, Mycroft. I wasn’t expecting guests. Excuse me for a moment.” John turned back to return to Sherlock’s bedroom, when Mycroft’s voice stopped him cold.

“Then you’ll probably be needing this, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft stood, and used the tip of his umbrella to fastidiously retrieve the shirt that dangled from the horn of the cow skull. He extended it toward John.

“Undressed in a bit of a rush last night, I see.” He regarded John with a searching, steely gaze.

John flushed brilliantly, and seizing the shirt from the umbrella tip, stalked from the room.

Mycroft turned back toward Sherlock, still hunched moodily on the sofa.

“As I was saying, brother mine, I am always happy to punish those who hurt you. If you ever choose to share the identity of the one who hurt you enough to make you run from Cambridge, I can make it my business to make him regret it.” He stepped toward the door, then looked back at Sherlock.

“And of course, it goes without saying that if John ever hurts you, I can make him regret it, as well.”

“Get. Out.” hissed Sherlock, silvery eyes shooting daggers at his older brother.

Before Mycroft could reply, John returned, more completely attired in rumpled jeans and the rescued shirt.

“I’ll be talking to you soon, Sherlock.” Mycroft turned to John. “Doctor Watson. Walk me out, will you?”

In the foyer, Mycroft turned to John, looking him up and down with narrowed eyes.

“I suppose congratulations are in order. I can’t say I haven’t been expecting this. I wonder if you know what you are getting into, Doctor Watson?”

“For God’s sake, Mycroft. Call me John,” snapped the doctor.

“Certainly, John. My apologies.” Mycroft adjusted his tie, then fixed him with a piercing gaze. “How much has Sherlock told you about his…romantic past?”

John stiffened.

“Sherlock will tell me what he thinks I need to know, Mycroft. You need to stay out of our relationship. It’s between Sherlock and me, and is none of your business.”

Mycroft pursed his mouth into a wintry little smile. “Quite right, John. Well, if you decide that you need further…information, you know how to reach me.”

He turned, umbrella swinging, and swept out to the sleek, black car that waited at the kerb.

Anthea looked up as he settled into his seat.

“Where to, sir?”

“Back to the office, my dear. I want the surveillance status on my brother and Doctor Watson upgraded to Grade 4.” Mycroft hesitated, then added, “I’d like you to read all transcripts of the audio yourself, and alert me to any…sensitive details. Particularly any reference to past sexual partners.”

“Certainly, sir.” Her cool expression was all business. Anthea was truly a find – Mycroft had never had a better assistant. He sighed and turned his thoughts to the net that he was closing in on Moriarty. He felt certain that the consulting criminal would not elude Mycroft’s team for much longer.

oOoOo

Chapter 3