You and Sherlock

The Other Holmes

A few minutes later found you stuffed uncomfortably in the backseat of the car. On your left, an attractive young woman typed away at her BlackBerry, studiously ignoring you and John. On your right, John sat stiffly, his cane awkwardly squeezed between your thigh and his.

"Er... Hello," John said eventually to the woman beside you.

The woman looked up and flashed him a radiant smile before turning immediately back to her phone. 

"Hi,"

"What's your name, then?"

"Er..." the woman paused for a moment. "Anthea,"

"Is that your real name?" John asked. You rolled your eyes. 

"No," You interjected for the woman and she smiled at you. John nodded and then twisted away to look out the window.

Evidently unable to contain himself in the deafening silence, John turned back after several seconds.

"I'm John,"

"Yes, I know," Not-Anthea replied coolly. Of course she knew. You don't just magically control CCTV cameras and get people in cars without knowing their names, you thought. 

"Any point in asking where I'm going?" John asked. You sighed through your nose. Why would there be? 

"None at all..." Not-Anthea confirmed, smiling blandly at John and turning back to her phone. "...John."

"Okay." John shifted uncomfortably in his seat again and you resisted the urge to sigh again. 

It was a while later when the car finally pulled into an almost-empty warehouse. A reed-thin man with an unfortunately burgeoning stomach stood in the direct center, leaning nonchalantly on an umbrella. He was wearing a crisp suit, and you thought you recognized him from somewhere. The man in the suit watched you and John get out of the car. In front of the man was a straight-backed armless chair facing him. And his identity was on the tip of your tongue; you knew him from somewhere. Cursing yourself and your subpar memory, you wracked your brains as you and John slowly approached the man. 

"Have a seat John," The man said, and then it hit you. The dramatic stance, the theatrics of this whole excursion, the over-exaggerated put-togetherness, the crisp, cold voice. This was a Holmes. In your mind, you saw the very same climbing up and down the stairs of 221B Baker Street. You could hear his and Sherlock's voice from your tiny flat. Mycroft Holmes. And on the rare occasion that Sherlock mentioned him, it was always with the manner of a petulant five-year-old. You'd yet to officially meet Mycroft Holmes, but you'd seen him a few times by now. John continued limping forward.

"You know, I've got a phone," John told him conversationally, his tone unruffled and mild as he glanced about the warehouse. 

"I mean, very clever and all that, but er ... you could just phone me. On my phone." John continued pointedly. You snickered softly and Mycroft shot you an analyzing glare, but then looked back to John sternly when John sauntered past the chair and instead stopped a few feet away from the man.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place," Mycroft replied coolly before shooting a glance at John's cane. "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down." His tone had been passably civil -- on par with your expectations of a Holmes -- but by his last two words, he'd lost all semblance of civility.

"I don't wanna sit down." John's voice still retained its calm and firm nature and you felt a brief admiration for that, especially when Mycroft looked at him curiously.

"You don't seem very afraid." Mycroft seemed almost mystified by this, and you had to agree with him there. Before realizing that he was a Holmes, you'd been a little off-put by the whole strange situation.