It isn't every day you acquire a flatmate who's tagged for grade three government surveillance. Also, feisty!Sherlock is a wonderful creature.

These characters are not and will not, sadly, ever be any possession of mine. They are the original creative property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and are currently being leased to the lovely Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: Tried to dial it back to the short and sweet. I'd also like to restate the indispensable nature of reviews.

4. Mycroft

When he first met Sherlock, John resolved himself to the fact that they would never have anything in common. John was neat, Sherlock was habitually messy (although his appearance was always impeccable; John had yet to puzzle that one out). John was polite, Sherlock very often careened right over the boundary of what one might normally call "rude". John was empathetic, Sherlock was apathetic. John was a giver, Sherlock was unconsciously a bit of a taker (unbeknownst to John, Sherlock was making slight progress on this front).

But there was one thing, just one thing, where they both stood on completely equal footing. John realized this when Sherlock burst through the door one day, his hands braced against either side of the frame, and declared in a dull growl:

"I loathe my sibling."

John smiled, intuitively tossing Sherlock an open box of nicotine patches. "Don't worry. So do I."

It had taken John an embarrassing amount of time to see this common streak, mostly because it was almost impossible to picture Sherlock with a brother. It seemed so...normal. An arch-enemy was much more believable, and probably more likely. But when he stopped and thought about it, he realized the commonality had actually been at work for some time. It was one of 221B's unspoken rules:

No. 42: It is not acceptable to use John's cell phone to text street contacts (he'd answered enough awkward phone calls from "reformed" drug dealers while out with Sarah).

No. 57: No storing body parts above the middle shelf of the fridge, as preserved articles on the top have a tendency to drip.

No. 73: Neither tenant may mention the other's sibling.

While this was the only rule both flatmates faithfully adhered to, it was by no means bulletproof. Whether Sherlock and John liked it or not, their families had ways of asserting their continued existence. Harry imposed herself through her sporadic inebriated phone calls and all too common legal difficulties. Mycroft imposed himself through Sherlock's cases at every opportunity.

The need to avoid these unwanted intrusions bound both men in a sort of mutually-pitying camaraderie. It had occurred to Sherlock more than once that this single thread of similarity was responsible for bringing them together in the first place.

Two grown men, each with considerable resources available, strike out in search of a flatshare. Why?

Because they both want to forget that they have families.

Before long, the flatmates found themselves running interference for one another. Without Sherlock's asking, John would field a call from Mycroft or begin a job that he'd somehow maneuvered them into taking. On days when Sherlock was in a particularly childish mood, John would answer the door while he pretended not to be at home. Of course, Mycroft could tell that Sherlock was in the house the moment he laid eyes on John, but he usually didn't have the motivation or patience to attempt a rush on the flat.

That always struck John in the oddest of ways: the world's only consulting detective slinking off to his room to hide from his big brother.

Sherlock thought it only fair to reciprocate these favors. He learned to shut off John's phone when it buzzed Harry's number at all hours of the night (apparently, the woman was unaware that John ever slept). When Harry got herself into trouble, and Sherlock could always tell when this was the case, he very unassumingly passed money to John to help clear up the problem. At first, John had resolutely refused this charity, but his rather modest paycheck went on to save them the rent more than once.

Sherlock was definitely more useful when it came to large sums of immediately available money, but John was just as useful when it came to a constant supply. Consequently, he learned to accept Sherlock's "gifts" just as inconspicuously as they were offered.

Unfortunately, there was one misfortune from which Sherlock was incapable of sparing John, no matter how dearly he wished it. And that was the fact that their apartment was riddled with enough surveillance equipment to trump the MI6 Building.

What was perhaps even more unfortunate was the fact that Sherlock had forgotten to mention this to John until he found a lens in the DVD player.

"Sherlock, is that…a camera?"

"Hm? What?"

"Here, in the TV set. There's a lens. Look."

"Oh, yes, I suppose there is. Odd. I doubt I missed it on my last sweep. Mycroft must've placed it there recently."

"Mycroft?"

"Obviously. Or is there someone else you have in mind who would covertly place surveillance equipment in our flat?"

"Surveill…Sherlock, we're under bloody surveillance?"

"Yes. Level three and active, I believe. Did I forget to mention?"

Admittedly, this had demanded a bit of an adjustment on John's part. For the first few weeks cohabiting with Sherlock, he'd gone around in perpetual fear of sleeping in anything but full clothing. When he became particularly paranoid, he even found himself changing behind his door.

He knew Mycroft had no legitimate reason to keep cameras in his room, but then, there was also no reason for that damn fool umbrella. If John could count on the Holmeses for one thing, it was their unpredictability.

Although he had little experience with it, Sherlock did his utmost to make up for the…uniqueness of their living arrangements. At John's vehement requests, he carried out his usual bug searches with more diligence and regularity (ironic, as this was the one point in his life that he had almost nothing to hide; no cocaine, no nothing, just John). He gave John a list of key phrases not to say while on the landline, many including references to criminals and drugs, in order to decrease the likelihood that the call would be studied.

John thought it said quite a lot about their lives when he was unsurprised to receive a government-level signal scrambler for Christmas.

Although John wasn't aware of it at the time, Sherlock meant the last one as a bit of a joke. He took John's discomfort quite seriously, but was also convinced that there wasn't much to it. Mycroft's interest had always been in Sherlock's affairs, not John's. The flat was a hot spot because Sherlock lived there. Common areas and devices, such as the main room and the phone, would naturally be sources of concern, but John himself really had nothing to fear.

Or so Sherlock thought. That particular theory would be one of the many that failed him.

It was one of those rare occasions that Sherlock was fetching John's phone. As his hand fished in John's coat pocket, he stopped.

John looked up from his laptop. "Sherlock? What's up?"

Sherlock pulled his hand out quickly, tossing the phone to John. "Nothing."

Later that night, long after John's footsteps had faded up the stairs, Sherlock grabbed his coat and spread it out on the ground, pulling open every pocket and flipping open every corner.

There were a total of three tracking devices. Sherlock tore apart the closet, searching John's trainers, jackets, boots. Every single article of clothing was lojacked.

In relatively little time, John's cellphone was lying in pieces on the kitchen counter. Sherlock straightened, staring in disbelief at the recording device that was pinched between his tweezers.

When had Mycroft gotten hold of John's phone?

FAILURE, FAILURE, FAILURE.

It felt like an alarm inside Sherlock's head. How had he missed something this obvious? How the hell had he not known? It actually caused him physical discomfort, thinking of earnest John, sacrificing John, honest John, slid under the microscope of a poor excuse for humanity like Mycroft.

Sherlock had never understood the usefulness of the term "violated". Now, he felt as though he could write an entire anthology on the subject. He had always viewed his brother's attempts at interference as nothing more than superficial annoyances. Now, it felt as though Mycroft had declared war on his heart.

Brilliant. Now he was using words like heart.

This had to stop.

When Mycroft arrived in his office the next morning, it was to find Sherlock reclining in his chair, feet propped on the desk. Mycroft didn't question how he'd gotten in or why he was there. Both brothers knew each other well enough for the conversation to be sufficiently short.

"On the off chance that I have yet to achieve this, I'll make myself perfectly clear. John is off limits. You will not tap John's cell. You will not bug John's room. You will not lojack John's clothes. You may do the aforementioned things to me whenever you please, if that's what you need to get your juvenile glimmer of satisfaction, but you will not do them to John."

"And why should I do that?"

"Because he's got a life, you meddling bastard. And plenty of it has nothing to do with me. So do yourself a favor and stay out of his business, before I make it my business to keep you out of it. Have I expressed my terms plainly?"

"Yes, I believe you have."

"Excellent. Goodbye, Mycroft. I hope you have a lovely day."

When Sherlock returned to the flat at noon, John showed little to no surprise at his absence or sudden reappearance. What he couldn't quite figure, though, was why Sherlock seemed so happy. He was actually smiling.

"Oh, it's nothing," said Sherlock when John asked about it. He watched as John put away his lunch, pulled on his coat, laced his shoes into perfect knots. Slipped a perfectly reconstructed cellphone into his pocket.

No one would be tracking John. No one would be listening to John. It was absolutely charming to think about. Of course, this meant that even Sherlock couldn't locate him if he wanted to, but Sherlock discovered he was just fine with that. So long as John was free. So long as some part of John was still untouched, still completely and totally him.

Sherlock found that he was growing increasingly protective of this piece of John.

This was the first time John had been completely unaware of a problem that was caused, and fixed, by Sherlock. And Sherlock had never felt so satisfied.

A/N: Only about a week or two of writing, and this series has already succeeded in completely draining me. In order to avoid any jumping of the shark (unless, of course, that's already happened), I'm going to take a break from regular updates until a new idea gives me plenty of juice. Although I can't guarantee they'll all get used, topic suggestions never hurt anybody. Thank you for reading!