Chapter Text
John checked the time again, noting that only three minutes had passed since he’d last checked it, though it had been forty-seven since he’d first sat down in the office. He resisted the urge to get up and demand to know if Mycroft was planning on seeing him any time today. John had even taken the initiative to schedule an appointment, nevermind that Mycroft had never shown him the same courtesy in all the years they’d known each other. The least the man could do was bloody well make an appearance.
Instead of voicing his annoyance, he smoothed down his suit for what felt like the hundredth time. While any other day he might have already left in a huff, today was not the day to risk alienating Mycroft Holmes. A big, dopey grin slipped onto his face at that thought. He could hardly believe he was actually doing this! He couldn’t wait to get home and tell Sherlock. Or, at least, stand there and let Sherlock read the entire event from his person.
Mycroft naturally chose that moment to finally grace him with his presence. John quickly wiped the look from his face. This was a serious matter, after all. So serious.
His lips twitched.
“Hello, John. Do forgive my late arrival,” Mycroft said, as he walked to his desk. Sitting down, he continued, “A problem arose that required my attention.”
“Not a problem. It’s fine. Completely fine. I know you’re a busy man and I’m…fine with that,” John said, ending rather awkwardly.
If he was honest with himself, he was perhaps just a tad nervous about this meeting. He cleared his throat and gave the other man an uncomfortable smile.
Mycroft’s brows drew together and he scanned John in much the same manner as Sherlock did when the detective thought he might have been drugged by someone other than him. Which occurred far more often than John preferred to think about. John didn’t voice how much Mycroft looked like his brother right then, no matter how tempting it was. He wasn’t entirely certain of how he’d take it.
Sherlock, he knew, would have sulked on the sofa for a week at the comparison.
His expression clearing, Mycroft gave him a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes, though John imagined he was a good enough actor to force it to if he’d wanted. He wondered if that meant Mycroft felt he could be honest with him, or if he just thought he wasn’t worth the effort.
“How refreshing to speak with someone that understands the constraints caused by my … position.”
The “unlike others we could name” went unspoken, but was still loud enough that John felt safe replying to it anyway.
“Well, one of us has to be the understanding one. We wouldn’t be able to investigate half the cases we do if no one was around to smooth ruffled feathers.”
Mycroft “hmmed.”
John had the distinct impression that the other Alpha was thinking of how he’d simply call up whoever was standing in Sherlock’s way and kindly explain to them that they would be allowing his brother to flounce around deducing things to his heart’s content, thank you very much.
“I’ve come to ask you something. Something important,” John said, deciding that enough pleasantries had been seen to to satisfy Mycroft’s Traditionalist’s views of civility.
John kept up the polite smile, though. He was a little frightened of what might happen if he allowed it to drop. John had some sort of mad hope that maybe if he kept up the pretense, Mycroft might not remember that he was the same bloke who’d once chinned him and gotten away with it. Not that John hadn’t deserved to get away with it. Mycroft had told Sherlock he should have just married him off to some rich politician when he’d come of age and been done with it. Actually, John probably should have chinned him twice.
In his defense, Mycroft had sincerely apologized to Sherlock later that week, something which John hadn’t thought the man physically capable of – surely he’d get some sort of terrible bowel movement if he even tried to form the words, “I’m sorry.”
Mycroft had then cornered John and told him if he ever laid hands on his person again, he’d make him disappear so thoroughly there’d be no record of him ever existing in the first place. John had told him to fuck off.
Probably not his best idea, now that he was sitting in front of the man about to ask him if he liked him enough to allow him to marry his brother.
“Mycroft. Sir,” Mycroft frowned. John hurriedly switched back, “Mycroft, I, John Hamish Watson, would like to formally request permission from the Head of the Holmes family to marry a Submissive under your protection by the name of Sherlock Holmes.” The words were stiff and official-sounding, having been memorized at the same time his parents had given him “The Talk.”
“The Talk” being that while other Doms were fine so long as they were of age, Subs were off limits without his or her Head’s permission beforehand, lest John wanted to be charged with sub-rape. Seeing how Traditionalist views on sex and marriage were still going strong in the twenty-first century, permission was rarely given to anyone that wasn’t already engaged. Sometimes not even then.
Considering that Sub/Sub sex was considered something of a taboo by most Traditionalists, a group which made up over seventy-percent of the population, there were many Subs that came to the honeymoon as nothing more than curious. Well, unless they were able to sneak around behind their family’s back. Or, really, really determined. The amount of paperwork required to circumvent the Head of Family’s approval, for every single sex partner, was said to take months to get through. Longer if you were “lucky” enough to get one of the many Tradtionalists that were bound to populate the Office of Submissive Affairs.
All of it was said to be for the benefit of the Sub, of course.
John approved of the general principle of the system, if not the way it was set-up. Too many Subs throughout history had been raped while zoned by piece of shit Doms. Too many people had claimed the Sub had agreed to it – as if a Sub in sub-zone was even aware they were allowed to say no. Add marriage into the mix and you had the potential for a life-long disaster for some poor bastard.
Making certain people weren’t in the zone before allowing something potentially terrible to happen to them was ok in John’s book. It’s just the fact that this responsibility had fallen to other non-Subs is what irked him more than a little.
Non-Subs like Mycroft Holmes, who was looking at John as if he’d just asked him if he’d like to put on some jeans and head down to the local pub.
“No.”
“Excuse me? Could you repeat that?” John said, not quite believing his ears.
Mycroft’s lips thinned, causing John to feel like a particularly annoying yapping dog.
“I said ‘no.’ You do not have my permission.”
The words were cold. Final. John was no longer sitting across from the man he’d known for years - the doting, albeit terrifying, older brother who would allow entire governments to collapse before allowing anything to happen to Sherlock. Now he was sitting across from Mycroft Holmes, the Ice Man, the British Government, who for whatever reason didn’t approve of John. At all, if his expression was anything to go by.
John wondered if it was too late to apologize for punching him.
“But…Why?” John asked, his voice rising on the last word. He loved Sherlock. Mycroft could see that. The man bloody well saw everything else.
“It is my understanding that as Head of Family I’m not required to give you a reason.” John spluttered and Mycroft continued before he could really start protesting. “However, if you truly desire to know, it is because it is my duty to find Sherlock a husband that can properly take care of him. As it stands, you can barely pay your share of the rent.”
“Because I’m with Sherlock!” John shouted. He knew a BS excuse when he heard it. “I don’t have time to hold down a regular job, because I’m too busy keeping your brother happy and out of trouble and you bloody well know it!”
John just barely reeled himself back in time before he attempted to zone Mycroft. He wasn’t certain who’d win that particular battle but the possibility of blood ending up on the walls either way was too high for comfort. Things never turned out well when two people with strikingly similar Control Levels decided to battle wills.
Mycroft’s eyebrows rose in response to his outburst. John heard the door opening behind him and turned to find Anthea glaring at him. Taking the hint that he was about to get shot, John continued in a quieter tone, “So … what? You’re denying me because I don’t pay both of our rents, is that it? Buy his clothing? Give cash to his homeless network?”
Mycroft waved Anthea away. She left with one last scowl in John’s direction.
“Don’t be absurd. I am more than happy to take care of Sherlock’s current financial needs,” Mycroft said, sounding mildly insulted. Yes, definitely the doting big brother, John thought with a snort. “However, there will come a time when I am no longer around to perform this duty. I would like to believe that my brother is in capable hands when that day comes.”
There was silence after that, and John felt a sense of absolute calmness come over him. It was the same feeling he got when faced with crazed bombers and Sherlock’s temper tantrums. Right, if that’s the way Mycroft wanted to play it, then that’s how Mycroft would lose.
Standing up, John held out a hand towards the other Dom. Mycroft blinked at it, before reaching over his desk to shake.
John nodded. “Thank you for seeing me today.”
“You’re quite welcome,” Mycroft returned. There was an air of curiosity about him, as if John was a pet that had just done an unexpected trick.
John started walking towards the door. He was half way to it when he turned around and said, “I will be back.”
After a pause, Mycroft inclined his head. “I look forward to it.”
Mycroft’s gaze held a challenge. John returned it with a look of his own. He would get Mycroft’s permission, and he would marry Sherlock and spend the rest of his life showing the man just how much he loved him. John knew this was going to happen. He wouldn’t be able to live with anything less.