Chapter Eight

Mycroft looked down at the scene, disgust and frustration warring at the sight. The two men had been discovered by MI-5 agents after Mycroft had uncovered enough evidence to determine the location of their hideout.

Unfortunately, Calvin Phillips and Guillermo Gomez were in no condition to talk. Their employer had gotten to them first and she had clearly been extremely displeased. Both men were dead. Guillermo had been the first, throat slit from behind, quick and clean while Calvin had been shot in the forehead with a .22. It was methodical and very professional. The bodies had been carefully arranged and the scene painstakingly cleaned to where the only evidence available was the bullet in Calvin Phillip's head, the evidence of the type of knife used and the likely height of the murderer, 5"6'. Not tall but it verified that it was likely a woman.

He put out feelers with his agents in the hopes of finding a likely suspect but reports were suspiciously silent. He called for his car. This problem was rapidly becoming a major headache for him. Even though Joan had acquiesced to all of the restrictions for the past week placed on her by the physician assigned to her and his rules, he knew that it would only be a matter of time before she rebelled.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, the elder Holmes left the sealed scene at the semi-detached and made his way home. For all that he was gifted in the art of deduction, his skills lay more in predicting future events based on patterns of evidence rather than evaluating criminal past acts. That was more his brother's skill.

What he could determine was that this unknown enemy was dangerous and Watson's death was highly likely. This could not be allowed to happen. He..cared greatly for her. So few people attempted to converse with him, accepting the nature of his job and respecting his privacy while accepting him as a person.

His car pulled up to the curb and he stepped out, fatigue making his steps heavy. It was rather late but he was unsurprised to see several lights on. The past several days, Joan had taken to perusing the library to ease her boredom. Confinement did not suit her but, Mycroft mused, neither did death. He would rather she be unhappy and alive than happy and dead.

He had taken the liberty of limiting access to her blog after finding that the lewd picture had been posted with the same threat. The IP address had been a false trail leading to the computer of a child who was barely out of primary school. The woman doing this was taunting them, attempting to torture Watson and, by default, him.

The feel of people inside his home was nothing new to Holmes, having always had someone working tending the kitchen, cleaning, et cetera but having a guest was something different. The fact that it was Joan Watson was definitely different. He felt more at peace with her near.

He made to walk past the library near his study to give her her privacy but curiosity made him go in just to check. There, on one of the plush armchairs was Joan, asleep, legs tucked under her and a leather tome resting on her swollen abdomen. It was a rather domestic and endearing scene had it not been for the injuries marring her.

The bruising on her face was a vivid contrast to the blond hair that was loose around her head. She was healing but very slowly. The sling helping her shoulder to rest was skewed and Mycroft knew she was going to regret falling asleep in this position. He almost stepped back to summon Ming Na but he quickly changed his mind. It felt...private.

He moved closer, noticing how at peace she seemed, her breathing even and calm. The pale blue pajamas and dressing gown his PA had obtained only served to make her seem more vulnerable. The thin top clung to each curve, accentuating her pregnancy while the bathrobe was overly large and seemed to dwarf the woman. He almost wondered if Anthea had done it on purpose to instill a protective streak.

He pulled the book away from her, ensuring he was quiet and placed a marker and put it on the small table next to her chair. Joan shifted and sighed, her eyelids fluttering and opening despite how careful he'd been. She smiled at him in greeting, a tired one but a pleased one that made his heart speed up slightly.

But then, just as quickly, the familiar frown took over. "What are you doing up at-" She glanced at the grandfather clock over his shoulder. "3am?"

Mycroft felt rather caught out, like a child that had been caught doing something they shouldn't be. "Work kept me rather late." He raised a brow. "But shouldn't you be resting at this time as well?" Mycroft admonished.

Joan rolled her eyes, wincing as she shifted to get up from her curled position. "Couldn't sleep." Grimacing, the petit blonde finally stood, wrapping her dressing tighter around her. "I'm not used to doing nothing." She mumbled under her breath, knowing that he would hear her.

Mycroft moved closer, giving her a wry look. "It may feel like nothing but you are doing quite a bit. You are healing from your injuries and growing another human being."

Joan paced, adjusting the sling on her left and frowning. "I know. It's just-" She sat next to him and sighed. "-I miss work and my friends." She sat next to him.

"Come on, I think it's time for both of us to head to bed." He attempted to usher her towards the stairs but she refused to budge, eyeing him critically.

"When was the last time you ate? Or even slept properly?"

Thinking back, Mycroft honestly couldn't remember. He hesitated and Joan seized on it. "I want to talk to you anyway. We can talk while you eat something."

He followed meekly into the spotless and rarely used kitchen. It was more of an appendix than a well used room in his home. The rare instances it was used was for a spot of tea or toast in the mornings. Joan walked up to the refrigerator and peered in, the corners of her lips turning down. "What is it with Holmeses and refrigerators? They're meant to store food."

She sighed and reached in with her good arm, pulling out some brown eggs, butter and milk. "Guess it's eggs and toast since you use yours as a decorative piece."

"I could call for Sophia." He didn't like the thought of her working.

Joan fixed him with a glare that made him sit on one of the stools at the kitchen island bar. "You are not calling that poor woman in the middle of the night. I can manage. Why don't you have anything in there anyway? I've had food brought to me since I've been here."

"I tend to be out and don't really spend a lot of time here." Mycroft watched her struggle with the sling to handle the simple task of preparing the food and he could see when she was about to simply remove the device.

"I'm sure I can manage much better with two hands." He slid up and took the tools from her and was pleased when she admitted defeat and took his abandoned seat.

"Any news on the two men who broke into my flat?" He didn't fail to notice the phrasing she used, neglecting to bring up her attack. Tipping the eggs into the skillet, he thought about how to answer her. If he told her they were no longer a threat, which they weren't considering they were dead, she would demand to leave. If he lied, then she may discover the truth and would leave as well. Both actions weren't acceptable options but then, there was the original instigator still out there that could affect her decision.

The difficulty with that was that there wasn't enough to go on to take this person down and, as a result, Joan's enforced imprisonment was without an end in sight. He had originally planned on her remaining with him for a few days but it was rapidly looking more like a longtime solution to prevent him from being stretched too thin.

"We are still trying to resolve the threat." He said carefully as he scooped the eggs onto two plates, quickly adding buttered toast and handing a plate to Joan.

Joan's face fell and he could see the disappointment. He didn't appreciate the foreign feeling of guilt that wormed it's way into his chest. "What I meant to say is that we found the two assailants but have been unsuccessful at finding their benefactor. This person is very determined and very dangerous."

Joan nodded, a strand of blond hair hair falling over her good eye and Mycroft didn't understand the urge he had to tuck that bit of hair behind her ear, to try and make Joan happy again. Was this what Sherlock felt for her? Was this twisting sensation around his heart what he had felt when he had seen her in danger and it had forced him to leave her to keep her safe?

Over the past few days, he had indulged this feeling when he would come home late, simply watching her as she slept and recovered. Joan was so strong but so very fragile.

"I understand."

She leaned back rubbing her stomach and Mycroft could see the frustration in her eyes even as she attempted to hide it. Joan Watson was a poor actress. It was a rare and beautiful thing, even though he knew it annoyed her, to be able to read someone so easily.

He saw Ming Na about to enter and gave a subtle shake of his head to let her know they were fine, focusing on Joan who was picking at the food.

"I understand. I just-oh!" Joan dropped her fork, gasping and her hand holding her bump. Mycroft stopped eating, worry and fear grasping at him.

"What? What is it?" He was about to summon the nurse when he saw her face. She was smiling, the stress and disappointment melting away.

"Oh, no. I'm fine. It was-I just felt the baby kick." She laughed shakily and rubbed her bump. "I guess the little guy wanted to give an opinion."

His hand itched to touch to see if he could feel as well, but mostly to ensure that she was fine.

"You need to eat, Mycroft."

He was not interested in the food right now.

"Look, I was wondering about my job and my friends. I haven't heard from anyone nor have I been able to contact them and I need to find out if I even still have a job." She pushed away the uneaten food and sighed.

"I know that Sean is probably worried about me. Not to mention Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade."

Mycroft twitched at the name of her fellow doctor that had taken an interest in her. Fortunately, Joan wasn't looking and missed his lapse of control. It would have made things so much simpler if he was behind everything. As it was, he would have to be creative to remove Dr. Phillips from the picture without her knowledge. Joan was at a very fragile time and it was best to surround her with trustworthy individuals.

Leaning forward, she rested her forehead on her good hand. "I haven't even been to see Mrs. Hudson since I moved out. What kind of friend am I?"

Taking her hand, Mycroft held it in between his two. "You are a friend who is going through a difficult time. I'm confident that Martha Hudson is willing to forgive you as long as you allow her to fuss over you and feed you up."

Joan looked up and smiled, her blue eyes bright. "Thank you, Mycroft. You're a good friend."

It was as if he'd been punched. He knew he was Joan's friend on some level. Had he hoped for more? Without even realizing it? Did he want more?

He watched as the blond collected the plates, frowning at his half eaten food and placed them in the sink with a yawn. He knew the Sherlock and Joan had only had one night. Was it enough to constitute a relationship? Was it enough to label her off-limits even though Joan didn't know the truth? Would she have continued to be with Sherlock had he not had to resort to the extreme solution of staging his suicide? He couldn't even begin to guess at possible outcomes. Watson had surprised him at every turn in regards to how she responded and reacted with people.

He felt guilty at the knowledge that, yes, he did want more with Joan than a passing friendship. He allowed Joan the illusion of caring for him as she shuffled him up the stairs and to his room with stern instructions to rest. He made sure to text the nurse to ensure that Joan was following her own advice and laid down, wondering about possibilities.