With a slam of the door, Sherlock was gone. Lestrade's expression was wearied; it seemed that he had to put up with behavior like this from Sherlock all the time.

     Anderson was the one to take action. "Okay, let's get on with it!" he shouted, herding up the other forensics officers and sending them downstairs. Some rudely pushed aside you and John on their way. Normally, you would have been very angry at them, but right now you were more worried for John. He looked embarrassed. 

     "Come on, then, John," you said when Anderson's team had finally filed out. "Let's go." And you helped him on his way as he limped down the stairs.

     As the two of you exited the building, you noticed how busy it all was, as if Sherlock's presence made everyone have some new purpose. John was scanning the area for Sherlock. You shook your head at him sympathetically. 

     "He's gone," came a voice from behind; Donovan. 

     "Sherlock Holmes?" asked John.

     "Yeah," Sally said. She looked between the two of you sardonically. "He just took off. He does that."

     "Is he coming back?" John asked you.

     "Obviously not," you replied. "We'll have to go get a cab. Come along, John." [Come along, Pond. *]

     You guided him out of the crime scene. He looked humiliated, and you knew that he wanted to apologize for his leg, but didn't actually want to bring it up with you. 

     Before you got very far with him, Sally called, "Hey."

     The two of you turned, and she went on. "You're not his friends," she said. "Sherlock Holmes does not have friends. So who are you?"

     John grimaced. "I'm- I'm nobody. I only just met him."

     "And you?" Sally asked, aiming her inquiry toward you.

     "I'm the same. Dr. Watson here is my friend," you stated matter-of-factly. 

     "So neither of you are actually much connected to him?" She asked for confirmation. You nodded. "Bit of advice, then," Donovan said. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

     "Why?" John asked, ready to defend Sherlock. You stared at him, appalled. Obviously he was forming some sort of trust with Holmes, which insulted you, especially when it had taken you so long  to become John's friend(... more or less). 

     "He's not paid or anything," Sally explained. "He likes it, to be here. He gets off on it. In fact, the weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? Once day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there." 

     You gave a strained smile. "Oh?"

     She nodded. "And you, Miss. You're almost just the same. You especially should distance yourself from that psychopath. You'll get stuck like that."

     You shook your head slowly, smiling with no humor. Her comment struck a little close to home. 

     "He's a psychopath!" Sally insisted. "Psychopath's get bored."

     "So do I," you replied menacingly, earning a stare from the disparaged woman. You winked to shake up her nerves a bit more.

     "Donovan!" Lestrade called from across the street.

     "Coming!" she called back. She turned to go without another look at you and your friend, but left the parting words, "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!"

     You and John started to leave again, and you noticed his grave expression. For goodness' sake, you sighed. He really is becoming quite attached to Sherlock.

     You walked with John, your eyes on the ground as the lines in the cement passed. They did good to distract you, but then, suddenly, you heard a telephone ringing. You looked to the side to see a telephone box ringing. It was outdated, possibly from the 50s, and a shade of blue that matched Sherlock's scarf and your phone. [It's the TARDISSSSSS] John and you ignored the phone and kept walking. It stopped ringing as soon as you passed.

     "Peculiar," you muttered thoughtfully. But the two of you moved on to a busier part of the road. John tried to hail a taxi, but it drove right past him. You tried as well, to no avail.

     "Something's up, isn't it?" John asked you. You didn't answer, but knew  he was right. Moving a bit down the road, you two heard a phone started ringing again. John glanced behind you into a cramped convenience store, where a payphone was clearly the source of the noise. Someone reached to answer it, but a millisecond before their hand reached the phone, it stopped.

     "Can't be a coincidence," you said to John. "Someone is trying to contact us."

     John frowned. "But, that can't- No, that's stupid. That's impossible."

     You raised an eyebrow to him. "Would I really be so presumptuous as to bring attention to something 'stupid and impossible'?"

     " Okay, sorry. But..." he trailed off as you took off ahead to a nearby payphone. This one newer than the one before, possibly put into use in the late eighties or nineties, with a satisfying red coat of paint.  Reminded you of Molly's lipstick the night before.

     Right on cue, the phone rang loudly, and you stepped into the booth. You answered the phone. "Hello?"

     A sharp, cold voice spoke. "There is a security camera at the top right corner of the building opposite you. See it?"

     You squint to see, and make out in the darkness a camera. "I do. Who's speaking?"

     "Watch," was all the voice said. The camera slowly turned away from the booth.

     At this point, John had reached the phone booth. He stepped in beside you, but you offered no explanation of what had happened so far.

     "On the footbridge to your left is another camera," the voice said. "See it?"

     You looked accordingly and saw the camera, pointing it out to John, who stared.

     "And finally, on the top of the streetlamp two along, on your right." Just like before, the camera looked away.

     "Why is it doing that?" John whispered. You shook your head in bewilderment. A black limo pulled up by the phone box.

     "You and your companion get into the car," the cold voice ordered. "I'd make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

     You started to laugh as the phone went dead. "Come on, John." You opened the door for him and the two of you stepped out.

     Out of the limo climbed a sharply-dressed man, who opened a door for the two of you. You gave John a helpless shrug. "What can we do?" you asked helplessly, smiling. "Let's go."

     Still confused, he followed you in. In the limousine was a pretty brunette on her phone.

     "...Hello," said John. She looked up with a pleasant smile. "Hi," she said, as the limo pulled away. She looked back down at her phone and started typing away.

     John tried again. "So, what's your name?"

     "Anthea." The woman was still typing.

     "That's not her real name," you said to John. 

     "Obviously!" She giggled.

{=+=}

     Sometime later, "Anthea" was leading you and John out of the car and into a creepy deserted warehouse. In front of you all was a tall rusted door. She beckoned toward the door, so you barged right in. John limped in pursuit.

     It was empty except for a man sitting in a chair with two similar chairs opposite him. He wore a fancy suit which looked quite strange in comparison to his dull surroundings. He was looking through a notebook and did not look up as you two walked in. 

     "Have a seat, Dr. Watson and Miss (L/N)," he said. It was the same sophisticated voice from the phone. John stood his ground, but you stepped forward and plopped into a seat easily. You crossed your legs and relaxed, looking quite comfortable. A few seconds of silence passed by.

     "You know," you said, "We've both got phones. I mean, it must have been exciting, the show you put on to get us here, but a bit unnecessary." A few more seconds of silence.

     Then, for the first time, the man looked up. He inspected the two of you with a cold, calculating gaze. "When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet."

      "No need for poetry," you said, rolling our eyes. You also noted as the man looked at you, that this man had the same bright green irises that Sherlock did occasionally, when they weren't a warm gray or sharp blue or some mixture of more than one color. 

     "Neither of you seem very afraid," the man commented. You looked back at John, who was trying to seem at ease, but you could tell he was very put off and even a bit angry.

     "You don't seem very frightening," John replied stiffly.

     "The bravery of the soldier.... Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" remarked the man. "I refer to both of you when I say this, of course." He lay down the notebook in his lap. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

     "I don't have one," said John. You sucked your teeth and chirped, "Only just met him yesterday, the two of us."

     "Since then, you've moved in with him, and are now solving crimes together," growled the green-eyed fellow. In a more calm voice, he added, "Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

     You sat up, dropping the comfortable and relaxed act. "Who are you?"

     "An interested party."

     "Family, then," you said, sitting back in your chair. The man across from you looked alarmed, which confirmed your suspicions. 

     "At the very least, not friends," John muttered. 

     The other man smiled wistfully. "No, not really. You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I'm the closest thing Sherlock Holmes is capable of having to a friend."

     "I don't make very many friends either, besides my dear Watson," you said. "But I know that you aren't exactly on good terms with Sherlock Holmes. Explain."

     Sherlock's sibling, cousin, perhaps even young uncle, you decided, pursed his lips. "I'm his enemy."

     John held back a laugh. "An enemy?"

     "In his mind, certainly. If you asked him, he'd say his archenemy. He can never resist a touch of the dramatic."

     "Unlike you?" You asked sarcastically. At the same time, John sneered, "Well, thank goodness you're above all that."

     Suddenly, both yours and John's phones buzzed. John pulled out his and looked at the screen.

     You narrowed the man down to either Sherlock's sibling or cousin. He said with a cold tone, "I hope I'm not distracting you."

      "Not at all," you said for John. The man only gave you an annoyed look. "Do you plan to continue your association with my- with Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, exasperated.

     You smiled. Nobody would say "my cousin" when mentioning someone of such a relation. However, "my brother" was as common in conversation as any other title in immediate family. So, that was it. This man was a Mr. Holmes, Sherlock's brother.

     While you were thinking, John answered Mr. Holmes's inquiry, though it wasn't, admittedly, very much of an answer. He said, "Far as I remember- though I could be wrong- I think that's none of your business."

     "Let me get to the point," said Sherlock's brother. "I'll make you two an offer. I will pay a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis, to... ease your way."

     John readjusted his cane, regarding Mr. Holmes with suspicion. "Why?"

     "Because neither of you are very rich people."

     "True. But in exchange for what?" you asked.

     "Information." Seeing your suspicious reaction, he went on," Nothing indiscreet or that you'd be uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

     "Why?"

     Mr. Holmes revealed the wintriest smile. "I worry about him. Constantly."

     Ignoring the obvious signs of stress arising in Mr. Holmes's eyes, you muttered, "How nice of you."

     "I would prefer, for various reasons, that my concern went unmentioned. We have a difficult relationship."

     You knew what your answer was to the elder Holmes brother's question, but looked at John, waiting for his reaction. John only looked at Mr. Holmes stonily. Then his and your phone beeped again, and he pulled it out to look.

     Watson scanned the text. "No," he said, still looking at the phone.

     "I haven't mentioned a figure."

    "Don't bother," John sighed.

     "....You're very loyal, very quickly."

     John narrowed his eyes. "No, just not interested."

     Mr. Holmes was silent for a moment. He glanced at you briefly, then picked up his notepad. "Trust issues, according to this," he muttered.

     "What is that?" John voice suddenly lost its edge. 

     "Can if be that you've chosen to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?"

     "Who says I trust him?" John objected, making you smirk.

     Mr. Holmes gave a mockingly helpless shrug. John angrily turned on his heels to head for the door.

     "People have already told you to steer clear of Sherlock, but I can see from your left hand that that won't happen," the man blurted before John could even touch the door handle. John turned. "My what?"

     Mr. Holmes stood. "Show me." John made his way slowly over to the Holmes brother and held out his left hand. Holmes reached out to touch it, but John pulled back. Holmes gave him an expectant look that said Really? and reached for his hand again. (A/N: Okay idk if this reaction seems awkward to you uys but when I saw this part in the actual episode I got super angry that Mycroft was making short of John's discomfort. Idk, because it's an insecurity and Mycroft just plays off of it like it's nothing. Like, I got really, really mad. So that's what you're going to do.)

     This made you stand up. "Piss off," you snarled. 

     The Holmes brother seemed rather surprised. "Oh dear," he said, mockingly. "Miss (L/N) is quite fond of you, Doctor. Protective." 

     You glowered at the man.

     Mr. Holmes took a step back while John shot you a look of protest and a bit of surprise, which you ignored. "I didn't take you to an aggressive person."

     "You'd be surprised what a psychopath does when she gets bored," you retorted coldly.

     "Yes, but you're not a psychopath, are you?" remarked Mr. Holmes gravely. "You're a sociopath. One reason to find the relationship you soon may form with my brother... concerning."    Holmes turned back to John. "Your therapist things you're haunted by memories of your military service. Sack her, because she's got it the wrong way round. You've been under extreme stress this whole time, but your hand is perfectly steady. Not haunted by the war, then. You miss it." A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes. "Well, welcome back."

     John was shocked. Holmes said, in his silence as well as yours, "Watson, you can return to the limousine now. I should like a word with your associate."

     "(Y/N)?" 

     "Go ahead," you told him quietly. "I'll be there in just a sec."

     John hesitantly turned to go, paused, then continued. You waited until you could hear his cane no longer, then turned to Holmes.

     "A number of things," you began. "First, I accept your offer.  Second, I know you're Sherlock's brother. Third, yes, I'm not a complete idiot like everyone else save it for you and your brother, blah blah blah, wonderful observation. "

    The man narrowed his eyes. "I should mention that my name is Mycroft Holmes, since you already seem aware of my relation to Sherlock. Mention me to him and there will be consequences." He inspected you with cold, calculating eyes. "You seem to know a lot about me. Shall I tell you what I know of you?"

     You narrowed your eyes.

     "You were born on (birth date). Your family passed when you were three, having been randomly targeted by a serial killer. You were spared, somehow, and when you were discovered wailing among the dead bodies, the police were called. Matters were settled, you had no family besides an Aunt who wasn't available, so you were adopted to a family of three. You took on your adoptive father's surname. He was kind to you, but your mother... not so much. Over the years, she got worse and worse, until her husband died, and that was what pushed her toward the edge. You had to defend yourself and your adoptive older sister. So one day, when your mother came home with the stench of alcohol on her breath and a malicious intent..."

     You clenched your jaw, remembering the experience. You were only nine. Your sister was twelve, but she wasn't strong or brave enough to fight back. "I did what I had to do," you murmured.

     "You killed her. But you aren't at fault," Mycroft said quietly. "I understand that she was abusive-"

     "I don't need your pity," you snapped. "Just stay away from my friends."

     "You're so much like Sherlock," Mycroft murmured wistfully. "He took drugs to alleviate his boredom, you know. Didn't end very well."

     "...." You folded your arms. Mycroft cleared his throat. "I know how to contact you; I have your number. Obviously. I will text you eventually, though you should know I prefer to call. Give me the promised information about my brother and I will send you money at regular intervals, as I said." 

     "Yeah, whatever, chap," you said with a smirk. "I'll keep in touch." You turned to leave, but as you opened the door, you turned back to Mycroft one final time and said, "You know, it's adorable how much you care for him. I personally don't like your brother much, but I understand how one could grow attached to a loved one. John's my friend, nothing more, but I will protect him, whatever it takes."

     Mycroft looked to the floor thoughtfully. "And I'll protect my brother, Miss (L/N). At all costs."

     You left.