Chapter Text
“We should plant a tracking device in the memory-stick,” John says as he covers Sherlock with a blanket salvaged from the dresser, fussing about this way and that.
Mycroft smiles sourly, humming politely.
They’re back in Baker Street, after spending weeks there during Sherlock’s most crucial period of recovery. Sherlock had just been released earlier that day after his second hospitalization.
“I see all those hours watching those hateful Bond films weren’t a waste after all,” Sherlock says, his voice weak but mischievous. “Great idea, John.”
John smiles, nodding proudly at Sherlock’s encouraging words.
“Yes, wonderful idea, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft says with a condescending smile as he pulls a small box from his inner suit pocket. He opens it up to reveal four identical memory sticks. “Whatever would we do without you.”
John frowns and huffs, leaving the room shaking his head. “Gits.”
Mycroft looks at Sherlock, raising a critical eyebrow. Sherlock’s eyes are half-closed; he’s exhausted from the effort of travel and climbing up the stairs to 221B, so no response comes. Mycroft turns his eyes down the hall from Sherlock’s room, watching John making tea, quietly claiming his place back in a home he’d left a lifetime ago.
That Sherlock would allow John back in his life after being shot by his wife is the gravest of failures in Mycroft’s book. If the elder Holmes brother had his way, Mr. and Mrs. would have silently and efficiently disappeared off of the British Isles a long time ago.
Regrettably, Sherlock has a way of convincing (threatening) his older brother when he’s determined, especially in matters relating to John Watson. Additionally, Mycroft is not a monster, and to the best of his rather expansive knowledge, the baby she is carrying is real and is 50% Watson.
Mycroft is willing to acquiesce a bit longer, lest the emotional turmoil slow Sherlock’s recovery. He’s making his own plans for Mary Watson in the meantime.
If John Watson thinks his loving wife will fall for the ruse of a tracking device in a memory-stick, he’s rather hopeless. Better safe than sorry, though, he supposes. Mrs. Watson had recently proven to be unexpected when surprised. After all, Mycroft and Sherlock had learned their lesson from their dealings with Irene Adler; even the most cunning minds - when threatened, caged - can become absent. The memory-stick will be the last thing on her mind if she truly panics, and might prove to be surprisingly useful.
Mary will up and leave abruptly sooner or later. Her kind always does, whether of their own volition or otherwise. Sherlock will heroically chase her in the name of the vow he had foolishly made to keep them safe and - Mycroft chuckles bitterly - happy. He’ll send her back to their beloved John.
Sherlock can't seem to grasp the concept of willingly leaving John Watson behind; he never imagines a day might come where he’ll need to save the Watsons from themselves, from hurting each other. A marriage full of lies and half-truths is hard enough. It's no better when one person is an ex-assassin and the other a deceptively unassuming soldier attached to a consulting detective by the hip.
Judging by the little Mycroft knows about the Watsons, he doubts they’ll survive the mess they’ve been so diligently creating.
“Leave him alone, Mycroft,” Sherlock whispers, practically asleep. “He’s worried enough as it is.”
Mycroft sighs, foregoing a response for the time being. John Watson has every right to be worried. Mycroft certainly is.
Mycroft’s phone pings one afternoon, during a particularly tense day.
“FLIGHT. -SH”
Well, he thinks, that didn’t take long.
A few seconds later another one arrives: “Drugged me. Left a letter. 24/7 surv on J&R. -SH”
Another: “Do NOT harm her. She’s not dangerous. -SH”
“I’m not sure you understand the meaning of dangerous. MH”
“I’ll see what I can do. MH”
“See that you do. -SH”
Mycroft puts his phone down with a sigh. This will not end well.