A/N: This an Otherwise AU story and will not make much sense if you haven't read "If It Were Otherwise". It's chronologically the second in the series (which now has 3 parts).

If John hadn't felt it himself – if he hadn't known Sherlock so well – he would have missed it, the tiny flash of surprise that never made it past the pleasant smile on his partner's face. He felt it only as the barest tensing of fingers as they left his, Sherlock pulling away to greet Irene warmly, brushing a kiss against each of her cheeks.

He should have been used to it by now, but he doubted he'd ever stop marvelling at Sherlock's ability to mask his reactions. John had probably given them both away – but then again, it could be argued that Sherlock had known Irene was coming and simply hadn't bothered telling his partner.

He was saved from finding a cutting comment to make at the faint, gloating smirk that just touched Mycroft's eyes by Olivia barrelling into his legs, locking her arms around his knees and turning her bright grin his way. Any irritation he had over his partner being tricked vanished as he scooped his niece into his arms, dissolving her into shrieks of laughter as he tickled her. He stopped when Aaron, on Irene's hip, looked alarmed, and shifted Olivia to face him, her small cheeks flushed, her hazel eyes bright.

"Hello, lizard," he said, and she pressed an enthusiastic kiss against his cheek.

"'Lo, Uncle John," she replied, squirming to get more comfortable. "I made dinner!"

"Did you?" John asked.

"She was very helpful with the dessert, evidently," Mycroft said, and John couldn't resist a smirk. He wondered if Mycroft had ever cooked anything for himself – or if he'd even know where to start.

Probably thinks tea just makes itself, John thought. Sherlock, at least, could make his own tea or coffee – quite expertly, too – and John had to admit that his partner was rather proficient in the kitchen when he got it in his head to be.

"Well then," he told his niece, "I'm going to eat all of it."

"And everyone else?" Sherlock asked, arching a dark eyebrow.

"You can have some if you behave," John replied, grinning at the faintly irritated sigh his partner gave. He knew Sherlock would pick up on the warning there – John didn't want a row about Irene's unexpected presence at dinner. If Sherlock hadn't even known she was in London, then Mycroft had a reason for bringing her here, and for the deception.

He had a reason for everything he did, John knew.

Unfortunately, that reason was sometimes nothing more than annoying his baby brother.

If that was the case, he decided, he'd have some quiet words with his brother-in-law. Later. On his own.

Right now, he was determined to make the best of it – it wouldn't be difficult, given the enticing smells wafting from the direction of the kitchen. Sherlock could probably be counted to on to behave, at least through dinner. Not, John thought, repressing a wry smile, because he was there, but because Irene was. It occurred to him to be jealous of the way her presence held Sherlock in check – but if he was honest with himself, she was the reason he wasn't berating Mycroft, either.

That and his niece, who was wriggling out of his arms and snagging his hand, tugging him into the sprawling flat. John managed to get his jacket off in time to pitch it back to Sherlock, who caught it with an affronted glare, underlain by a warning to not dare leave him. John shrugged, flashing a smile over his shoulder.

He was putty in his niece's hands, and always had been.

If that knowledge had escaped Mycroft's notice, John would have eaten any hat he could get his hands on.

It could have been any family dinner – any family that managed to contain Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes anyway – the casual banter and good natured discussion at the table veiling whatever reason Mycroft (or Angela, John supposed) had for bringing them all there. There were the usual barbs between the brothers, but nothing that would force John to intervene, and Sherlock was attentive to David's quiet conversation and to Olivia's remarkably articulate toddler prattle.

He didn't even protest when Irene saddled him with Aaron so she could eat undisturbed, backing his chair up slightly to avoid baby hands in the food or getting hold of the silverware. Had it just been them, John would have taken a picture of the faintly uncomfortable, stoic look Sherlock wore while Aaron squirmed in his arms, pushing himself up on tiny legs to plant a palm smack on Sherlock's face.

The washing up Angela had roped Sherlock into would probably keep the brothers from clashing before the children went to bed; John nonetheless kept a sharp ear open while reading Olivia her requisite bedtime story and tucking her up with a kiss and a cuddle.

He was surprised they'd waited for him – if this was Sherlock's business, he didn't play much of a role, and certainly had no say in making decisions that weren't medical. Sherlock typically went out of his way to protect John from being involved, and the quick flash of grey eyes his way when he entered the living room and accepted a drink from Mycroft told him that his partner definitely wanted to keep it that way now.

Well, he thought. Nothing for it. I'm here, aren't I?

"So, what's all this about then?" he asked. Sherlock and Mycroft met each other's gaze, both of them sighing softly, and John couldn't resist a grin, seeing a similar smile twitch on Irene's lips as she adjusted her hold on her sleeping son.

"Denied you all that dancing around, haven't I?" John asked, grin stretching when Sherlock gave him a slow, pointed look.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean," his partner drawled.

"Must be my mistake," John replied. "Of course neither of you would sidle around whatever it is, trading posh insults and snobbish snide comments until you finally wound your way to the point."

"I can say with full confidence that I've never 'sidled' anywhere in my life," Mycroft sniffed, disdain for the word dripping in his voice.

"Well, that's certainly true," Sherlock muttered against the rim of his glass.

"You on the other hand…" Mycroft murmured.

"Why bother when you've got people to do it for you?" Sherlock countered.

"Christ, I should have known you'd both find a way to do this anyhow," John sighed. "Mycroft, get to it. Why are we here?"

"Must there be some ulterior motive in having a pleasant family dinner?" Mycroft enquired, all feigned innocence that made John roll his eyes. That, he decided, had to be genetic, because Sherlock looked exactly the same when he tried it.

"Should I point out that, strictly speaking, Irene isn't family?" John asked.

"I would imagine my brother contends his top employees are like family," Mycroft replied. John cast a look at Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows in a sort of facial shrug, giving a faint nod.

"Fine," John conceded, taking a seat next to his partner, resisting the urge to cover one of Sherlock's knees possessively. His actions would be read loud and clear by everyone – and, he noted, Angela was sitting across from her husband, not beside him. It struck John less as a statement of disagreement and more as strategy to divide and conquer.

"But," he said, "we all know that's bollocks–"

"Language," Sherlock murmured.

"He's three months old, and sleeping," Irene replied. "It's not going to make an impression."

"If this were a nice family dinner, we'd both have known Irene was coming," John continued, pinning Mycroft with his best captain's glare. It seemed to slide right by. Pity. It worked so well on Sherlock.

"How so?"

"Because she would have told Sherlock if she was coming to London. Or, if not him, then me."

"You're very confident in her reactions," Mycroft commented.

"I am, aren't I? And you're bloody well doing it again. Mycroft. Why are we here?"

"Very well," Mycroft sighed, putting his drink aside, fingertips lingering against the rim of the glass. "If you insist."

"I think you'll find he's very good at that," Sherlock murmured. John resisted throwing a glare Sherlock's way, keeping his gaze fixed on Mycroft so as not to let his brother-in-law weasel his way out of the question.

"We have a… problem," Mycroft said, slowly.

"Only one?" Sherlock asked. "That must be a nice change of pace for you." This time, John did shoot him a warning glare, which was – unsurprisingly – ignored. He half wondered if the brothers kept a running tally of points and would declare a victor at the end of their lives.

He frankly wouldn't have put it past them.

"One that requires some… unconventional solutions."

"You mean hiring an international criminal organization to do your dirty work for you," Sherlock said, swirling his glass with what John knew was feigned indifference.

"I wouldn't have put it quite so bluntly," Mycroft snapped.

"No, you wouldn't," Sherlock murmured. John was about to interject again when Angela saved him by clearing her throat softly, and he felt a moment's envy that she could bring them both to heel – with faintly abashed expressions – so easily.

"Mycroft, you have a whole government at your disposal, and a rather large – if somewhat unwieldy – one. Including your wife, whom, I might add, has significant skills in dealing with problematic people."

"I never said this was a person," Mycroft pointed out.

"If it's you, it's political, and if it's political, it's a person. You don't need me to sort it out."

"Your firm, Sherlock. And, as a matter of fact, we do. This needs to be dealt with discreetly. Without any ties back to the government."

"I tie back to the government," Sherlock said. "Through you."

"If that were true, we'd all be in prison," Mycroft replied.

"What do you want me to do, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped. "Secure this person an expensive island property? Or commercial real estate in the City? Some gaudy modern mansion, perhaps?"

"I believe he already has all the real estate he requires," Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, this is serious."

"Yes, Mycroft, you always think it is."

John cast a glance at Angela, who raised an eyebrow in return but shifted slightly in her seat, the movement catching her husband's attention.

"He's a very prominent figure. Well connected. A lot of people owe him."

"Owe him what?"

"Favours," Mycroft said with a slight shrug. "Money. Loyalty. Information. Whatever he can command. Whatever he wants."

"How do you know I don't?"

"Because you're more careful than most," Mycroft said and John arched an eyebrow, wondering what it cost Sherlock's brother to admit that.

"As are you," Sherlock pointed out.

"Indeed. Unfortunately, my rather large and unwieldy government contains many people who aren't. Your – enterprise, on the other hand… There is something to be said about being in business for yourself, I suppose. Your people are remarkably adept at maintaining a healthy distance between your company and the law."

"Ah, the police," Sherlock said, sitting back against the couch cushions. "You should have said."

"I'm afraid not," Mycroft sighed. "That would be easy, as they do fall under the purview of the government. Someone with similar reach and influence, but without those pesky dictates such as procedures and rules."

"Get to the point, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "I haven't got all evening."

"I rather think you do," his brother demurred, but shook his head and held up a hand when Sherlock drew a breath for a retort. "Yes, yes, all right. Sherlock, you must understand, this is a matter of extreme delicacy."

"It won't be a matter of anything without a name, Mycroft."

"Very well." Mycroft paused, pursing his lips. "Charles Augustus Magnussen."

It meant nothing to John, but the sharp reaction from his partner was evidence that it meant something to Sherlock. He glanced at Irene, seeing mild shock reflected on her features, and pressed his lips together against a question when she gave a small shake of her head.

"No," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock–"

"No, Mycroft!" Sherlock spat, pushing himself to his feet. "This isn't negotiable! How dare you? How dare you bring my people here and put my business at risk – and John! You dare bring my personal life into this? Do you have any idea the lengths to which I've gone– No. John, we're leaving."

"What?" John asked.

"Sherlock–" Mycroft tried again.

"You ambush me like this?" Sherlock snarled. "No, Mycroft! Come on, John. Now!"

Baffled, John managed to put his drink aside and stood, casting a questioning glance at Irene, whose expression told him she had no more answers than he did.

"We think he has access to–" Mycroft began.

"I don't want to know!" Sherlock said, long legs carrying him from the room, John hurrying to keep up, aware that Mycroft was behind them. "Don't try, Mycroft, because I am not listening!"

"Surely you must see–"

"What I see is me being manipulated into putting my entire business – my entire life – at risk – and you having the gall to drag John into it!"

"He does work for you," Mycroft pointed out, arching an eyebrow coolly.

"As a physician, not as a business associate," Sherlock snapped. "Whatever you've done to garner his attention, keep me out of it! I am not being pulled down with you, Mycroft!"

"The situation is not what you're thinking–"

"I'm not thinking anything because I'm not listening," Sherlock said, pulling the door open and shuffling a bewildered John out in front of him. "Good night, Mycroft." John heard the faint intake of breath behind him but Sherlock cut his brother off, snapping the door shut, one hand on John's back propelling him toward the lift.

"Sherlock, what–" John tried, the hand on his upper back pushing him relentlessly forward.

"Not here," Sherlock replied, voice as clipped as the curt shake of his head.

"But–"

"Not here, John," his partner said, jostling them both into the lift, the smooth slide of the doors and the quiet gleam of polished wood at odds with John's confusion and the thunder in his partner's expression.

He waited until they got to the car, but even here he was hushed, Sherlock casting a warning glare at the dark panel of glass that made John start. Never in all the time he'd known his partner had Sherlock ever even hinted at doubting Gerald's loyalty.

"You have to tell me what's going on," John murmured, keeping his voice low, a tone that could sound like anything if it was picked up from the front of the car.

"When we get home," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock–"

"When we get home, John," Sherlock repeated, voice still quiet, but underlain by cold iron.

"No one's going to hear us in here," John pointed out.

"His is not a name spoken lightly," Sherlock replied. "And not one I'd like even accidentally overheard coming from my lips. When we're at home, John, and safe. Not before."