Sherlock texts him only when he absolutely needs to. It is such a rare occurrence that when his brother does text him, a certain part of him alarms in an old habit. Though ever since the good doctor, John Watson, moved into 221B, Sherlock has been more fond of harassing him with nonsensical texts just so he could entertain himself during the few hours of John’s absence from their shared flat. So when the calls comes, and the caller ID reads just plain “Sherlock Holmes” on the screen, he ignores the fact that he has been attending an entirely too important meeting with state heads for hours now, and leaves the room without so much as a node. “Sherlock,” he says hurriedly, and there is a long stretch of silence before Sherlock finally answers, “Mycroft.” “What have you done now?” Mycroft asks, striding out of the earshot of agents near-by in the corridor. “Nothing.” “But why—“ Then he stops, and suddenly understands what has finally forced his proud brother to resort to this. Anything less of a threat of John’s permanent absence in his life, Sherlock wouldn’t have called him like this; he would have texted. And there is such a lack of the usual mocking tone his brother takes on when he is in a lighter mood when he finally says, “…John.” “I will take care of things,” Mycroft says with finality and there is a pause, a hesitant intake of breath and then the line goes dead. He does not go back to the meeting that he has organized and planned for months, and asks Andrea to bring out the car and take him to the warehouse where he first met John Watson all those months ago, and he suddenly tastes a mixture of the blind hope and suspicion that he felt when he held the doctor’s steady hand; the strong blue-grey eyes locked with his own, for a split of seconds, before a contempt took over his features and his hand was taken away from his hold. It does not take more than an hour or so, for his people to arrange the similarly impromptu meeting with John. The difference is that John Watson is no longer the wary, disoriented victim of his whims with bubbling anger under the surface. The man that comes bounding out of his car is a solider, knife-sharp energy and solid determination; he makes beeline for where he stands and Mycroft stubbornly keeps his standing only out years of training instead of backing out. “What now, Mycroft? What now?!”
Re: reprompt M/J Dark!John? 1A/?
So when the calls comes, and the caller ID reads just plain “Sherlock Holmes” on the screen, he ignores the fact that he has been attending an entirely too important meeting with state heads for hours now, and leaves the room without so much as a node.
“Sherlock,” he says hurriedly, and there is a long stretch of silence before Sherlock finally answers, “Mycroft.”
“What have you done now?” Mycroft asks, striding out of the earshot of agents near-by in the corridor.
“Nothing.”
“But why—“
Then he stops, and suddenly understands what has finally forced his proud brother to resort to this. Anything less of a threat of John’s permanent absence in his life, Sherlock wouldn’t have called him like this; he would have texted. And there is such a lack of the usual mocking tone his brother takes on when he is in a lighter mood when he finally says, “…John.”
“I will take care of things,” Mycroft says with finality and there is a pause, a hesitant intake of breath and then the line goes dead.
He does not go back to the meeting that he has organized and planned for months, and asks Andrea to bring out the car and take him to the warehouse where he first met John Watson all those months ago, and he suddenly tastes a mixture of the blind hope and suspicion that he felt when he held the doctor’s steady hand; the strong blue-grey eyes locked with his own, for a split of seconds, before a contempt took over his features and his hand was taken away from his hold.
It does not take more than an hour or so, for his people to arrange the similarly impromptu meeting with John. The difference is that John Watson is no longer the wary, disoriented victim of his whims with bubbling anger under the surface. The man that comes bounding out of his car is a solider, knife-sharp energy and solid determination; he makes beeline for where he stands and Mycroft stubbornly keeps his standing only out years of training instead of backing out.
“What now, Mycroft? What now?!”