Part 7
Mycroft entered the office first, a bit unnerved by the whole of events that had happened and doing his best not to show it. One of his men had been taken away for not just lying about his heritage, being a werewolf, and for allowing in not only a dangerous werewolf (one who had tried to kill Sir Henry yesterday) and who had given false information when he was formerly blackmailed by Moriarty and his men.
Mycroft hadn’t seen it. Anthea hadn’t seen it. It had shaken him, as well as made him wonder about many of the stances he took. Sherlock said—Sherlock HAD said that Mycroft was far too old-fashioned for his own good, far too busy looking at larger pictures instead of the details, and that despite his extra seven years and greater intelligence about people, Mycroft didn’t understand others, most of which being the ones Sherlock tended to keep company with.

That included John Watson, who he had allowed to be tortured, abused, psychologically scarred, and abandoned, all because he’d been in a coma when Sherlock had gone after Moriarty and, despite Mycroft attempts to help, he’d not come back.

Mycroft shook off the morose thoughts, attempting to focus on the here and now. He need to go over the paperwork again, in case the blackmailed man (werewolf, he reminded himself) had tried to mess with something to give the Stapletons and edge, though with Mr. Stapleton apparently dead and Mrs. Stapleton facing attempted murder charges, as well as falling under the law of dangerous wolves for when they attacked their own kind (war, defense of their Human, and self-defense was the only time it wasn’t admissible in court), probably meant that nothing would come of this, but he needed to make sure.

Sir Henry didn’t come in, stopping to talk to a hunched over man who also entered the room with him. “Sorry, Barrymore’s under the weather after the attack, I had to get a replacement. You don’t mind?”

“Not at all, Sir Henry,” Mycroft said with a smile, looking over the man. He appeared shorter then he looked, possibly from a lack of good posture, and had slicked back, graying hair, as well looking far too thin. Mycroft guessed he’d been jobless for a long while, or at least away from money, and smelled of cigarettes. He shuffled a bit, getting some of the paperwork as Sir Henry before heading over to the other side of the desk while Mycroft looked down at it. He disliked that the man was only slightly in his peripheral vision, but it couldn’t be helped. He had to deal with all of this before there were any more problems, and in truth, the man was just someone—

He noticed the man’s change in stance with a frown before looking up, barely registering Anthea’s gasp and the sound of the very expensive Blackberry hitting the carpeted floor.

“Really, Mycroft, you’ve lost weight and brainpower,” Sherlock said from where he stood next to Sir Henry’s desk, looking very annoyed for someone who should be dead, “Perhaps you should fall off your diet and get all of that back.”

--

There were many things that were unexpected in Sherlock’s life, both good and ill. He’d learned long ago that he was not often surprised, and currently the only two people to continually surprise or cause him worry were John and Mycroft, though some would argue that John didn’t count as ‘people’.

The truth still remained that John had been the first besides his brother to really surprise him. Lestrade was close, but Sherlock wasn’t too surprised by his call to duty as much as he was by his warmth towards Sherlock at all. The fact that he’d come to help him when Sherlock had allowed everyone to think him dead, as well as obviously showed concern for both him and John, had surprised him a little until he realized that Lestrade thought of Sherlock as one of ‘his own’. No matter what the situation was, Lestrade was fiercely loyal and not about to let anyone hurt one of his men or anyone who worked for him. He was a sort of surrogate father to his underlings…which probably meant he either felt Sherlock and Anderson’s constant sniping of each other was either sibling rivalry of some sort or funny. Or both.

But the fact remained that Lestrade only mildly surprised him, but had his reasons. Mycroft was a bit of a mystery to Sherlock and always had been, possibly due to the age gap. John was fiercely loyal, as any wolf was, but also just a mystery of reliance and steadfast devotion coupled with the fact that despite various mental and physical aliments, he’d always defend those who were his friends or owners.

However, what he hadn’t expected of Mycroft, upon his revelation that Sherlock wasn’t dead, was to stand as his assistant looked on with an amazing amount of shock in her face (she actually dropped her Blackberry, meaning it wasn’t attached to her hands like some thought) to slowly touch Sherlock’s arm before falling forward. Despite his current dislike of Mycroft, Sherlock wasn’t about to let him hurt himself, and was able to catch him before he hit the desk.

Mycroft had lost weight, but not in a good way, and some part of Sherlock was pleased while another was vaguely aware it was probably due to grief and stress. That didn’t make up for the fact that John had suffered a great deal because Mycroft was predictable enough when it came to Sherlock, but it did make Sherlock feel a bit guilty for his choice of announcement.

He managed to get Mycroft back to the chair he’d been sitting at, the paperwork scattered about as Mycroft’s assistant quickly bent to pick up her phone and the scattered paper as Mycroft slowly woke, blinking as he looked at Sherlock, who finally sighed.

“I suppose I should apologize for causing you such a fright, brother mine, but I felt it was necessary.”

“You…” Mycroft paused, composing himself. “It should be a thousand apologies, for what you put me through. Mummy was unhappy to hear the news.”

“So I gathered,” Sherlock said simply, “If you ever find yourself needing to disappear and be presumed dead, I’ll deal with her then, and it will be all the apology needed.” He sat back on his heels, some of the papers crinkling under the shifted movement. “You should apologize to John a thousand times, however. Last I heard, your presence was enough to cause him nightmares that nearly destroyed the bed and added to his collection of scars.” Mycroft managed to look a bit put out, though not with the suggestion. Sherlock knew him well enough to tell when he felt he’d made far too many bad decisions. He’d seen the same look in his eyes during other points when things had not worked out well…Serbia was a prime example. Mycroft had lost a great deal of sleep over that area of the world during the nineties, and while Sherlock had been out and doing…other things…Mycroft’s attempt to keep some parts of the world sane were always taken as his own deficiencies. This would only add to them – Mycroft would tell himself that he should’ve known Sherlock was alive, should’ve guessed, or at least not been as hasty to put John into that particular hell and simply abandon him, not after the money he’d spent buying up the wolf.

“If it will help, I’ll give him that many and perhaps more,” Mycroft said finally, looking Sherlock over and frowning. At one point during this conversation, Sir Henry had guided Mycroft’s assistant out the door and the two brothers were alone. “You don’t look well, even for a dead man.”

“Neither do you,” Sherlock admitted, “and it was necessary. Moriarty couldn’t have set all that up without you noticing unless you had him as a pet terrorist or had someone in your organization. Because I couldn’t take the chance, I couldn’t contact you or anyone else. Besides, you normally over-react when I’m in danger. Moriarty would’ve known that after the pool incident. Had he survived, and you not reacted as you did--.”

“I understand the logic,” Mycroft told him, looking away then back before touching his arm. “That doesn’t stop it from hurting. I thought you dead, brother. I thought I’d failed to protect you, and took it out on an innocent. I dislike such things. We’ve never had the same connection, not since I made a mess of things with that Trevor fellow.”

Victor Trevor had been the only friend Sherlock had in uni, a better friend then Sebastian or just about anyone else. He’d taken Sherlock antisocial behavior in stride and actually been there for Sherlock. When Sherlock had started taking drugs, Trevor had also taken that in stride but also attempted to keep him from using too much or becoming an addict. The revelation that Trevor’s father was a drug-dealer had meant Mycroft, in an attempt to keep his little brother safe, had paid Trevor off to leave him alone.

What had hurt Sherlock was that Trevor took the money. What hurt even more was that, because of the lack of contact or friends, Trevor had overdosed on the drugs his father was giving out. If it was symbolic or not, Sherlock never knew, though he did know it had only added to his own addiction and had caused his relationship with Mycroft to become a very difficult one. Mycroft felt this justified his worries – Trevor had the access and was a user, meaning he’d introduce more to Sherlock and hurt him – while Sherlock had seen this as Mycroft trying to control his life – something he’d hated to the point of not even speaking to Mummy unless it was the holidays. The fact that Mycroft had given Trevor money (he’d given Sebastian money as well, but Sherlock had expected him to take it) only hurt all the more, and the revelation he’d taken it had caused Sherlock to become so far removed from others in society that it worried the few people who knew him a great deal.

John had been the best thing Mycroft had done for Sherlock in a while, getting him a wolf that was not only wanted by so many for his unique talents, but also one that was fiercely loyal and protective, as well as steadying and willing to give Sherlock the care he needed. Despite all that he’d gone through, Mycroft was certain that high-end breeders would want John to sire at least two litters or more, especially considering his genetics probably allowed for a bit more of a resistance to silver. But beyond that, John took care of Sherlock, stood up to Mycroft, and would take on anything that came up against him or his owner. Such traits, along with obvious above-average intelligence and resolve, made him a good choice for a sire of any werewolf dogs.

“I’ll apologize to him,” Mycroft finally said, slowly standing with Sherlock. “I didn’t meant to do him harm…though you are right. I want to care for you, and always end up overcompensating, I suppose.”

“I don’t make it easy,” Sherlock admitted, earning a small smile from Mycroft. He knew it took a lot, or at least that Sherlock had changed due to his time abroad. He was still pale, but that didn’t stop the few tan lines from showing up, saying he’d been in sunnier countries, but had been back long enough to lose most of the tanlines, or at least back in countries without the same amount of sunlight. His hair was cut shorter now, though still retaining the curls, and Mycroft detected at least one white hair hidden in his mass of darkness, deeper circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and various other, smaller points that told Mycroft he’d been harried, hurt, and learned more about himself then Mycroft thought possible.

“No,” Mycroft said, touching his arm again before throwing away all protocol and instead hugging him close, glad when he felt Sherlock’s return hug. “You really don’t, brother mine.”

--

Despite his attempted insistence to returning to London, Sherlock admitted to wanting a ‘small bit of quiet’ while he and Sir Henry worked out information on who got John and such. John, who had been recovering, seemed determined to look both paler then he should or hide his face against either Sir Henry or Sherlock’s shoulder after Mycroft apologized. It was typical werewolf behavior of one who was uncertain or worried and who was a bit more wolf then human, and Mycroft managed to pet him gently, earning a shy glance, before he left.

When they got back to the office, Mycroft called up John’s old file, the one that he’d consulted before actually buying the wolf for his brother. It was to the point, but the added bonus of having Mycroft’s contacts meant that he could look further into John’s past then most.

John Watson, of a line of sheepdogs and well-known army pack wolves, was a champion sheepdog who had been given to the military after he’d shown aptitude in learning skills and an interest in being a medical wolf. He’d been a good soldier and, despite his injury, was still one that many others were looking for. His record in the Army was good, his medical skills were normal but overly qualified, and he’d protected his pack members and humans when needed. In short, he was loyal and dependable, able to take a bullet and still take down his attacker, and would defend those who owned him to the death.

He was also, Mycroft had learned from unofficial reports, a wolf who was very stubborn while being loyal. If he disagreed with something, he’d show it or say it to the owner, no matter what. The recent case with Garrideb showed him to be self-sacrificing and able to organize for others to escape, even if at the cost of his own welfare.

All of those were admirable traits for a Human, let alone a wolf. The fact that he could stand up to his master was what had gotten Mycroft to buy him for Sherlock. The added benefit of him coming from a line known for being loyal was a plus.

What had confused Mycroft was the notice about John’s sibling, a female named Harriet who was a known show-dog but notorious for being possessive of her owner, Clara, and for her owner in turn not allowing her out unless there was a shoot or such. The reasoning seemed to be drink and a general stubbornness, as well as the fact that Harriet was one of the few wolves who disliked the opposite sex. Like humans, there were a variety of wereanimals that were homosexual or even transgender, but it was a far fewer number then those reported for Humans. Some saw this as nature rejecting homosexuality, while others saw it as pressure for breeding over adoption. That did cause some problems with LGBT and werewolf rights groups, but like many other groups it was one of the smaller groupings that made up the greater whole, like fetishes or other odd practices.

Still, it hadn’t hurt to look into John’s life, and found it very odd. He’d been a wonderful dog but also gained little support from his home-pack: his parents had been show-dogs as well and not happy to have such a plain wolf for a son, despite his numerous (and they were numerous – his parents may have forgotten him, but the owners and some of the other wolves didn’t) awards. Still, he did a wonderful job when put to doing something, throwing himself to the task, and it honestly amazed Mycroft that he’d not thought through what he’d do with John should anything like the coma happen. He’d been glad that Sherlock took John in, especially after being horrible to him for that week, and then the minute Sherlock was gone and he had custody of the poor wolf, Mycroft had put him through a painful experimental procedure.

He pulled himself out of the memories, turning back to the information and what he could find about John’s information and past before there was a polite knock on the door. He looked up, putting the items away as Anthea opened the door, allowing in a nervous looking young man, one of the many new employees who had come in due to some reason or another. Mycroft recalled his name was Munroe, only because he’d carried around a cigarette case that, due to his agitation last time they met, he’d left in Mycroft’s office and had to come to get it. The two had talked about older styles of clothing, Munroe admitting that he enjoyed the style and a lot of the steampunk genre had influenced him getting some of the items. He’d only been recently married, and that had gotten him both a bit more rattled in the ‘I have met my life-partner and cannot believe my luck’ sort of way, but recently he’d also been a bit worried as well.

“Mr. Munroe,” Mycroft said with a smile, giving him his full attention, “how can I help you?”

--

Her name was Elsie, and she had moved to England, she said, because she needed a change of pace. She was a widower, her husband having died in a car crash, and someone who helped Grant with various environmental things – she was an engineer of alternative energy sources, and was helping to get UV panels tested for days when it wasn’t sunny or for countries with little sunlight. She’d originally come from the United States, specifically from New Mexico, and found most of the area outside of it, especially England, to be so different that there was never a dull moment.

They’d known and worked with each other a year before Grant proposed. She’d said it was too fast, but he’d never loved anyone like her, and even time away was painful. She finally said they’d try living together for two years…her last marriage had been rushed, and his death still hurt her. He agreed, and they moved in together.

Then she’d asked to borrow money for something. He wouldn’t have blinked had it not been for the sum. That was enough, really, for a plane ticket back to the U.S.

Because he loved her, he gave it to her without asking any questions. She didn’t leave, at least, but seemed a bit anxious despite trying to hide everything.

Then a woman, someone who looked like she was part wolf and raised on a reservation, therefore uncollared, moved in nearby and the news made her even more anxious. Anxious enough to sneak out in the middle of the night twice, and lie to him about it the next day when he asked. Anxious enough to be making all the classic excuses that he’d heard those who were either being blackmailed or in an affair would make.

Anxious enough that Grant had gone to Mycroft Holmes for answers.

--

When he looked back on it, Mycroft was well aware he was letting the news of his brother’s sudden return to life affect him. Sherlock and John were still at Baskerville Hall, and the few reports he’d gotten was that Sherlock was dealing with the legal aspects, or at least helping Sir Henry with it, while both were helping John recover. Still, the information from Grant Munroe had the rather horrible implications, and the fact that Elsie had been in an area full of half-wolves, the name that many non-collared werewolves had for those who had a parent that was human, possibly meant she’d married one who was still alive, or who’s family member had found her and was blackmailing her. He’d run his thoughts off Anthea, who had agreed that it seemed the most logical solution, especially with the little information they had.

With Munroe being so worried, Mycroft had almost offered to go home with him, so they could at least be witnesses in case anything happened, but he’d insisted on seeing if his girlfriend was at least feeling a bit better. Mycroft had allowed it, wanting to check in on his brother, not quite thinking on anything.

So the call during the middle of the night, that Munroe’s girlfriend had left to the apartment and was not about to let him in for some reason, made him angry enough to say that Mycroft had to come to be witness, or at least make sure no one got killed. Mycroft had gotten there in record time, Anthea by his side, and found Mr. Munroe yelling at his girlfriend, who was standing in front of a door as if to protect whatever was in there. Upon seeing Mycroft, though, Munroe quickly pushed her aside, though obviously was not being as rough as he could, and lead the other two in. The uncollared werewolf woman was also there, looking ready to protect a certain door, but Mycroft’s simple comment that they probably didn’t want to get the police now made her finally move as Munroe opened the door, pausing just inside as Mycroft and Anthea made their way around him and into the room.

In the small bed was a young girl, sitting in her nightgown and with the characteristics of a young half-wolf, as well as no signs of having a collar. Mycroft blinked, looking at the young girl as she stared back at the intruders, quiet and simply observing them, before he heard Munroe turn to Elise, asking in a hushed voice for an explanation.

Mycroft had it, even as she spoke. She’d fallen in love and been shunned for taking a werewolf, even an uncollared one, as a husband. She’d had a half-wolf daughter, and because of how some wolves acted, she’d found herself a job and a stable home before she called for her daughter and a confidant who was a full wolf…but that stable home also involved someone in politics. Politics in a country with one of the lowest populations of uncollared werewolves, who had a history of trying to find silver and gold mines so it could fight shapeshifters, and who’s head of government, even if it was unofficial, had just sent a werewolf to be either killed or cured in the name of tormenting him for going into a coma and letting Mycroft’s brother fall off a cliff while facing a man who’s nature had been downplayed by someone in his pay and who Mycroft hadn’t detected.

Elise couldn’t know all that Mycroft had done, because Munroe didn’t. That didn’t stop it from being true. That didn’t stop her from fearing what would happen to her daughter, and how much she didn’t want to see her collared and sold as a slave. Nor did that help her even believe that Munroe would accept a half-wolf…the girls’ own maternal grandparents wouldn’t, and few of Elsie’s old friends would either.
Mycroft slowly looked back at Grant Munroe as he turned and walked over to the bed. The girl was perhaps four and quiet for that age, but watched him curiously as he finally knelt before her and held out his arms. “Hello,” he said, “I’m hoping to be your new daddy. Would you like that?”

The girl broke into a grin and nodded as Elsie, already crying, let out a gasp of disbelief and relief as Munroe picked up the little girl, kissing the top of her head and heading over to Elsie. “We’ll need a bigger place, then. And we should talk, I think. But for now, maybe we should get some sleep, or at least think on what needs to be said, right? I’m not going to let her be collared, love. I’d never do that.”

Mycroft and Anthea left, Mycroft noting the family seemed either too emotionally exhausted to really fall asleep right now, and it wasn’t until they were near the car that he finally said, “My dear, could you please do something for me?”

“Sir?”

“If I ever seem a bit too preoccupied, or come to a conclusion without looking at all the facts…kindly say one of two words. Either ‘John’ or ‘Norbury’ will do.”

She looked up at him, then finally nodded. “Of course sir.”

Part 8