Title: Multiple entries
Author: fanficwriter101
Pairing: gen
Fandoms: Sherlock
Disclaimer: The characters from the show aren't mine, they belong to others. No copyright infringement intended. Any characters you don't recognize are mine. Feedback would be nice, positive feedback would be nicer. Enjoy!
Category: BBC Sherlock 2010 fic
Rating: This part G - safe for all
Characters: Mycroft and John
Series: No
Spoilers: Anything from the current season might get mentioned but set before the end of the first episode.
Summary: Mycroft really does care. The book's proof of that. But John isn't convinced. Until there's a crisis and he's checking the index.
Archive: Just tell me where it's going
Additional 'stuff': I'm (fairly) sure Mycroft works for MI6. I'm also hoping (in my Sherlock universe at least) that Mycroft and John will become friendlier towards each other. Maybe, maybe not. We shall see...


John's walking back from the newsagent, Sunday papers tucked under one arm, an umbrella under the other. It's been threatening to rain and, unlike Sherlock, John pays attention to the weather forecasts and the color of the sky before he leaves the flat.

The car glides up almost silently behind him, and it's beside him before he notices it. A sleek, silver sports car, not his taste but he can tell it's expensive, an indulgence for a man, or woman, with too much money and no children - the car's neither got space for them nor upholstery that would stand up to sharp-edged toys or carelessness with food or drink.

He notices it out of the corner of his eye as it slows to match his speed almost exactly. Immediately he's on edge, brief experience of life with Sherlock a sharp reminder of his military training, eyes sweeping the street ahead and behind, checking he's not walking into an obvious trap.

A window slides down and Mycroft's face is revealed. "Get in Dr Watson."

John looked into the passenger seat, then the cramped back seats. No sign of the brunette he remembered from his last 'meeting' with Mycroft and he's relieved. Bending, he keeps back a little from the car, not quite trusting the man inside. "Where are we going?"

"I have something to show you."

John shook his head, waving the newspapers. "If I don't get these home, Sherlock'll probably find a way of destroying something else in the flat and Mrs Hudson will go mad."

Mycroft smiled, the expression making John bristle. It was a now-familiar mixture of amusement and certainty. He *knew* John would get in the car. Whether that, or something else, was the cause of his amusement would remain a secret. John wouldn't ask and he was certain Mycroft wouldn't share.

Reluctantly, tossing the papers onto the back seat, John slid into the car, buckling his seatbelt. Some soft classical music surrounded him as he pulled the door closed.

He was becoming used to, although not able to identify, the music Sherlock played but this was different. Nice, but not what he was used to. Had become used to, he corrected himself. Like a lot of things he'd grown accustomed to since he moved into 221B Baker Street, Sherlock's violin playing matched his mood. Loud angry music for times when Sherlock was frustrated or upset, softer, lighter pieces for times he was celebrating cracking a case or simply a minor breakthrough

This was clearly Mycroft's taste in music. Sitting back, listening, he watched the streets slide by as the car made its way through the light early-morning traffic. If either of them understood that the music removed the need for small talk as they sat beside each other they didn't mention it.


Pimlico...a little later

Mycroft waved a hand at a black leather couch. "Have a seat Dr Watson."

John looked around the room. A typically masculine room, almost no decoration except for a pair of pictures on the piano at the far end of the room, children, two boys, too close in age to be Sherlock and Mycroft. So, John surmised, Mycroft's children. He had seen the man's wedding ring on the wrong hand. He was divorced but still couldn't bear to completely remove the reminder of his marriage. Maybe, he guessed, because of the children. He smiled inwardly. Before Sherlock he would probably not even have noticed the ring, much less which hand it was worn on.

Mycroft was unlocking a small wall safe. "A whole month you've managed to survive living with my brother. Longer than anyone. So it's time to give you this."

Turning, he handed over a small leather-bound book, its cover cracked and worn, the once-white label covering the top third of the front cover faded but still bearing the book's title in faded blue ink: 'The care of Sherlock Holmes by Mycroft Holmes'.

Taking the volume from Mycroft, John opened it to the first page. Handwritten, the index started at A and going through to W. Each index letter had one or more sub-headings, A - Alcohol and Anorexia, D, rather worryingly he thought, listed Drugs and Dentists.

John tried not to focus on the more worrying entries, under E - Eating Disorders and Eating (Reminders to do so) while F offered First Aid (see also Injuries and Hospital) swiftly followed by N - Nightmares, Under V, John read Vegetables, Violin - quite innocuous, he thought, after the previous entries.

Mycroft paced across the room, standing at the window looking out while he gave John to opportunity to grasp the purpose of the slim volume.

John perused the hand-written entries, blue ink a little faded in places. "You wrote this...when?"

Mycroft turned, hands behind his back. "1997. Sherlock had graduated, I had found him a flat, someone to share it with and he was about to start working as a trainee forensic analyst. I thought his co-habitee deserved some kind of instruction manual for my brother. He can be a little...bewildering...if you're unused to his ways."

John chuckled softly. "Does he know...about this?" John waved the book.

Mycroft sighed. "This is the only copy. The first person I gave it to...a charming young man named...Joshua...gave it back after only three days."

"So, no, then?" John pushed. Then, against his better judgment, he had to ask: "Three days?"

Mycroft sighed again, remembering. "Apparently Sherlock found a dead pigeon in the park and brought it home. Joshua came home from...somewhere...and found Sherlock sitting in the living room plucking the unfortunate creature. There were, according to his note terminating his co-habitation, 'blood and feathers everywhere and masses of maggots'."

John grimaced and squirmed at the mental picture. "So, I can keep this."

"For as long as you remain at 221B Baker Street." Mycroft said, somewhat wearily.

John stood, sensing the meeting was at an end. "When we first met, you described yourself as Sherlock's arch enemy. Why did you lie?"

Mycroft frowned. "I wasn't certain of your...motive...for wanting to move in with Sherlock."

John wanted to laugh. "Motive? Um...homelessness?"

Mycroft nodded. "Of course, I know that now, but I'm afraid experience has caused me to be...careful."

"That's why you work for the Secret Service."

"Secret Intelligence Service." Mycroft corrected sharply.

John filed that one away for later thought.

John frowned. "You wanted to...what...scare me off?"

Mycroft nodded earnestly. "Yes. However, it would seem I was a little...hasty...in my assumptions about you."

John wanted to smile at the older Holmes' words and the *almost* contrite tone they were delivered in. "Anything that isn't in the book?"

"Oh, knowing Sherlock, I would imagine so, wouldn't you, John?"

John smiled, both at the truth of the statement and the way Mycroft had seamlessly switched to using his first name. "Knowing Sherlock, yes. Well, thank you for this." He stood and headed to the living room door.

Mycroft strode quickly, his legs longer, each stride covering more ground than John and he arrived at the door at the same time. "Sherlock and I have our...differences. But be under no illusion *Doctor Watson*. If you cause my brother to come to any harm, physical or otherwise, you *will* regret your carelessness."

The first time they met, John had been more intrigued than afraid. This time, as Mycroft invaded his personal space, he felt more scared than he had been when he lay dying in a stinking Afghan ditch.

Almost as quickly as the feeling had washed over him, it was gone as Mycroft was, once more, all charm and easy smile. "Now, we'd better get those newspapers onto your kitchen table before Sherlock destroys the flat, hmm?"

Trying to get some moisture into his throat, John nodded mutely.


A short time later, as he walked up the stairs to the flat, Mycroft's words came back to him and, as he unlocked the door, a distinctly unpleasant smell immediately entering his nostrils, he muttered: "And what if he causes me to come to any harm?"


Sherlock was lying full-length on the sofa in his blue silk pyjamas. Unlike John, who was sitting in the kitchen, reading a medical journal, he hadn't moved all evening.

Although his job at the surgery wasn't exactly cutting-edge medicine, John knew it didn't hurt to keep up with the latest techniques and drugs and he subscribed to a number of magazines which thumped through their front door on an almost daily basis.

Suddenly the room went dark. John sighed. A power cut. Great. Just when he was in the middle of an article on keyhole surgery. Getting to his feet, he fumbled in the cupboard under the sink for one of the torches they stored in various places around the flat for just such emergencies. Granted, most of the 'emergencies' were caused by Sherlock, but John was just relieved the torch hadn't been melted, exploded or dismantled.

"Sherlock, just stay there, I'll go and check the fuses, okay?"

Sherlock's indifferent expression was, thankfully, hidden by the near-blackness of the living room.

Heading downstairs, John was surprised to hear sounds of television through Mrs Hudson's door. More surprising, there was definitely light coming from under the door of her flat. John knocked and, after a couple of minutes, Mrs Hudson opened the door. "John dear, is everything all right?" It was immediately obvious that the whole house wasn't affected by the lack of electricity.

"Um...power cut, just our flat I think. Do you know where the fuse box is?"

Mrs Hudson pointed to the cupboard where John's coat was hanging on the door. "In there dear. Do you need any help?"

John hid his smile. "Oh, I think I'll manage thank you Mrs Hudson. Sorry to have bothered you."

John opened the cupboard, shone the torch around the space and quickly found the fuse box. Three red switches, each with a white sticky label stuck on them - A, B and C. The switch for B was flicked down, showing 'OFF'. Flicking it up again, John emerged from the cupboard, closed the door and headed back upstairs only to hear a loud 'thump' followed almost immediately by a muffled curse.

Taking a deep breath, John opened the door to the flat, relieved it was, once more, lit. Sherlock was lying a few feet from the sofa, a number of plastic-wrapped magazines scattered around him.

"Sherlock! I told you stay on the sofa. I was only gone two minutes!"

Crossing the room quickly, John reached down, intending to help Sherlock to his feet.

"Don't." Sherlock didn't extend his own hand, nor did he look up.

Frowning, John knelt down. "Sherlock, where are you hurt? Tell me!"

Without caring that Sherlock would resent his attention, his concern and his touch, John began to feel Sherlock's head and neck.

His voice soft, pain and embarrassment mingling, Sherlock muttered: "My left ankle."

Releasing Sherlock's neck, John moved backwards, his hands gentle, slowly easing Sherlock's pyjama leg up, seeing the slight swelling around the ankle joint. "Wriggle your toes."

Scowling, Sherlock did as John instructed. "Just help me up onto the sofa. I'm fine."

Quirking his eyebrow at Sherlock's clearly incorrect assumption, John shook his head.
"You're half-right. You are going to sit on the sofa. But you're not 'fine'. Tell me how much this hurts, scale of one to five." John's experienced fingers palpated the small bones in Sherlock's leg, foot and ankle. "One...two...OWWW!!"

John got to his feet. "I don't think anything's broken, but I can't be sure without an x-ray. I'll call an ambulance."

"No." Sherlock's sharp response was accompanied by a firm shake of his head.

Sighing crossly, John helped Sherlock onto the sofa. "Don't move. I'm a doctor, a soldier and I have a gun. If you move *at all* I'll hurt you in ways that will make your ankle feel like a paper cut. Understand?"

Not at all sure he liked this new aspect of John's behavior towards him, Sherlock nodded, in pain and still shocked at the sharp tone the unexpected threat had been delivered in.

Heading into the kitchen, John kept his back to Sherlock, bringing several small bags of frozen vegetables out of the freezer before reaching into his pocket, pulling out the small book he'd already named 'The Holmes Manual'. Flicking quickly through the pages, he ran his finger down the entries under 'H'. 'Hospital - don't take Sherlock to any hospital unless his life is in immediate danger or he's suffered a traumatic amputation. You will suffer more than he does if you do'.

Tucking the book away, John carried the peas and carrots onto the kitchen table, wrapping them in a tea towel he took from the drawer, hoping it wouldn't be coated with the remains of some hideous experiment or dangerous chemical. He laid the packs in a row in the center and folded the top over the bottom, making a frozen tube.

Walking back into the living room, he was relieved to see Sherlock still lying where he had left him. "Okay...this will be uncomfortable but it will keep the swelling down." He lifted Sherlock's ankle gently, shoving a Union Jack patterned cushion under the rapidly-swelling joint. Lifting it a second time, he wrapped the home-made ice pack around Sherlock's narrow ankle. As he lowered it, Sherlock hissed in pain. "Sorry...I'm sorry."

Sherlock looked up at John's concerned expression, frowning. "I fell. What are you sorry for?"

"Because...because I just hurt you."

Sherlock shrugged. "You had to."

John nodded. "Yes...now, lay back and I'll get you some anti-inflammatories." He piled up all but one of the remaining cushions scattered around their various items of furniture behind Sherlock's back.

As John headed to his room, Sherlock smiled a little at the doctor's medical description of something most people would have given a brand name.

Sherlock swallowed the two white pills and a mouthful of water with a grimace of distaste.

"Do you want me to put the telly on, or do you want your laptop or a book?"

Sherlock sighed. "No...thanks."

John headed back to the kitchen, sitting in the chair which gave him an oblique view of Sherlock, able to see him but not making it obvious he was watching his patient.

After almost exactly five minutes, he heard: "Bored!"

Four minutes later: "Bored John!!"

Three minutes later: "John, I'm bored!!!"

Taking his second very deep breath of the night, John got up and walked into the living room, carrying his magazine. "Telly, computer, book. Those are your choices Sherlock."

Sherlock scowled and twisted the upper part of his torso towards the back of the sofa in a petulant silent display.

"If I hear one more 'bored' Sherlock, and I'm going to go downstairs and watch TV with Mrs Hudson." John threatened. As he watched, John saw Sherlock's jaw move. "What did I just say?"

His face still turned to the leather surface, Sherlock muttered: "I didn't say it out loud. It doesn't count."

John was tempted to laugh at Sherlock's childish behavior. Instead, he sat in the armchair beside the sofa. "Why did choose the two minutes I wasn't in the flat this evening to get off the sofa?"

Sherlock turned to face John, wincing as his ankle twinged in sharp remonstration at the movement. "Because I was bored."

John groaned loudly and opened his magazine.