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John Watson growled under his breath as a big angry man knocked his groceries out of his hands. It had been one month since he had moved in with Sherlock Holmes. Some days it was wonderful, and some days John thought he would have been better off putting a bullet in his brain, and maybe Sherlock’s too while he was at it. Today had been one of the latter.
It had started the night before when Sherlock decided to conduct some sort of experiment. This involved smashing glassware on the floor at random intervals during the early hours of the morning. Needless to say, he hadn’t had the best sleep. In the morning, after Sherlock refused to do the weekly shop again, (“I don’t see how it matters to me, John,”) he had stomped off to Sainsbury’s, where it had taken him twenty minutes to check out with the condescending help of an overworked employee.
On the way home, he had been pulled off the sidewalk by a large thug with bloodshot eyes and remarkable halitosis who proceeded to shout at him about some sort of “fight club” he was a part of and then tried to punch him in the face. He knew that it was somehow Sherlock’s fault.
John cursed as his freshly-bought milk spilled into the dirt. He had only managed to send a short, gibberish-filled text to Sherlock before the thug tried to tackle him. Hopefully, Sherlock could be arsed to look at his phone before John was pummeled to death in a dirty alleyway. Just as he was gearing up to give the goon a knee to the gut, the man keeled over, unconscious. His abrupt fall revealed the source of the blow: another man had come up behind without him noticing.
“Thanks,” John panted, looking over his rescuer. Standing there was a man about his height wearing an expensive navy blue frock coat and reptile skin boots. He had messy black hair and bright green eyes.
“I’m just glad I could help,” the man grinned. “I’m Harry Potter.”
“John Watson,” he replied, offering his hand in return. Potter’s eyes lit up and his grin widened.
“Oh, yes, of course, John! Mycroft’s told me so much about you.”
“What?” John spluttered, not certain he had heard correctly.
“I’m Sherlock’s brother-in-law. Call me Harry.” John’s gaze was drawn to Harry’s right-hand ring finger on which rested a simple gold band. What.
This unthinkable revelation was interrupted by the arrival of Sherlock, who was calling John’s name like a child lost in the park.
“John? John! There you are.” Sherlock looked up from his phone as he walked over. John squinted at him suspiciously.
“Did you install a GPS tracker on my phone?”
Sherlock ignored this question entirely. “I see you’ve met Harry,” he said instead. “Good. He’s infinitely more preferable to interact with than Mycroft.” Casting his eye over the dropped and scattered groceries, Sherlock frowned. “You didn’t buy any lamb livers. How am I supposed to finish my experiment?”
It was too much. John exploded, “Buy your own bloody livers, Sherlock! Also, it would be really great if you would tell me if you’ve taken on a new case involving an underground boxing ring so that I would know to be on the lookout for great hulking men wanting to bash my head in!”
Sherlock pouted. “John, do be reasonable—”
“Reasonable!”
“It’s hardly my fault if—”
Luckily, Harry intervened before Sherlock could say anything completely irredeemable. “Honestly, Sherlock, you’re about to get yourself strangled if you keep talking much longer. Why don’t you call your DI to take care of this gentleman,” Harry gestured at the insensate man on the ground, “while John and I get to know each other? And don’t forget that you’re invited to dinner on Saturday night. John, too.”
As Sherlock scrunched his nose in distaste, Harry turned back to John. “So, pub?”
･ﾟﾟ･ ☆ ･ﾟﾟ･
After regaling Harry with several stories of Sherlock’s more galling moments, John was feeling much calmer, calm enough to indulge his curiosity about the man next to him.
“So how did you and Mycroft,” John gestured vaguely with his pint, “get together?”
Harry winced and fiddled absently with a packet of peanuts. “We didn’t so much get together as Mycroft, ah, manipulated us into a committed relationship. You know how he is.”
“No, I really don’t.”
“Yes, well,” Harry cleared his throat, “we first met through work. All very innocuous, except for a very memorable first impression. Mycroft has an unforgettable presence.”
“Yeah,” John huffed, thinking of tastefully-lit abandoned warehouses and Mycroft Holmes leaning artfully against an utterly unnecessary umbrella.
Harry continued, “I guess Mycroft saw something he liked because suddenly I was seeing him everywhere. I didn’t suspect anything at first since our positions are somewhat closely related. It stood to reason that I’d see him fairly often for business. And the transition from meetings in office buildings to conversations in cafes and restaurants was so subtle that I hardly noticed.”
John stared as Harry took a gulp of beer. “Before I knew it, we were basically dating, and I hadn’t even realized what was happening. It was only when Mycroft was introducing himself to my friends and family that I began to have an idea. They were all charmed, of course, and congratulated me on finding such a considerate boyfriend. I was so bewildered that I didn’t even contradict them.
“Then Mycroft began moving quickly. He began giving me gifts. All of them were so thoughtful and tasteful that I would have felt horrible turning them down. Then the rumors started. It seemed like everyone knew we were ‘together.’ By that time, I realized that I had half fallen in love with the man, and when Mycroft asked me to move in with him, I said yes. And then, he presented me with a certificate of our civil partnership, dated from the week before, as a move-in gift!” Harry snorted.
“Wow.” John blinked. “That sounds… completely ridiculous.”
“You'll find that anything the Holmes’ do seriously is completely ridiculous,” Harry sighed and met John’s eye. “The thing is, I can't even be angry because Mycroft really is the best thing that's ever happened to me. And he’s a wonderful husband. It's just humiliating that the most important commitment of my life was made without my conscious decision!”
“Yes, I can see how that might be—” John dropped off into a judicious silence and decided he would be better off finishing his drink.
“And it’s not as if Mycroft sees anything wrong with the entire thing. In his mind, manipulation is the basis for any worthwhile relationship. Once, before our first anniversary, I was feeling insecure about our whole thing, so I briefly considered pretending to have an affair to see how he would react.” Harry grimaced. “It seemed reasonable at the time. Anyway, Mycroft deduced what I was thinking and told me he was flattered that I would go to such lengths. Flattered!
“I just want to give you a fair warning, because even though these days Sherlock disdains the idea of being anything like Mycroft, he still sometimes imitates his older brother subconsciously. And it seems to me like you’re headed down the same road I went down with the other brother.” John gaped as Harry clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck, mate. If you ever need to vent, feel free to give me a ring. Sherlock has my number. I’ll drop by more often now that you two have properly settled in. See you at the family dinner!”
Dazed and vaguely horrified, John watched as Harry strolled out of the pub. His husband was waiting for him at the curb, leaning against an anonymously expensive black car with his ever-present brolly. Harry was greeted with an affectionate kiss and a proprietary hand at his back. A moment later and the car pulled smoothly away. If he tried hard enough, John could probably pretend that it had never been there.
･ﾟﾟ･ ☆ ･ﾟﾟ･
Mycroft Holmes smiled down at his husband smugly. Claiming Harry Potter as his husband had been one of the best decisions he had ever made, and he had made some very good decisions. After attaining the position he had worked so carefully for, Mycroft had come to the terms with the fact that he would never find anyone suitable as a partner. It would simply be too dangerous to settle for someone that did not meet his requirements. Then he had met Harry.
With brilliant clarity, he had realised that Harry might be the only person in the world that he could safely tie himself to. He had enough money and political power of his own not to be swayed or tempted by Mycroft’s influence. His position was far enough removed from his own that they would not clash over work matters. He was able to guarantee his own safety without Mycroft’s help. He was reasonably intelligent, with an easygoing temperament that would allow him to endure Mycroft’s unpredictable family and career. He was unfailingly loyal and took his commitments seriously. When would Mycroft find someone with this combination of characteristics again? Knowing the answer was “never,” he had acted accordingly.
It had only taken a little bit of manoeuvring to guarantee Harry’s lifelong place by his side. It was an undertaking he had never regretted.
“How fortunate that I happened to be in this part of town,” Mycroft murmured.
Harry rolled his eyes. “As if you weren’t planning this whole affair,” he accused. “Did you arrange for someone to beat up John Watson, too?”
“Don’t be crass, my dear. I would never do such a thing,” Mycroft sniffed. “And what did you think of the good doctor?”
“Nice bloke.” Harry grinned. “I think they’ll be good for each other.”
“Hm. One can only hope.”
Harry nudged him playfully. “They remind me of us when we had just become a couple.”
Mycroft shuddered. “Perish the thought.” He picked up his husband’s hand from where it had been resting on the seat. Turning Harry’s hand over to better observe the traces of his day, he rubbed over his unique callouses absentmindedly.
“I have a couple of hours free,” Harry whispered, his eyes crinkling conspiratorially.
“Are you asking to be whisked away, my dear?”
“Only if you would be doing the whisking.” Harry’s eyes sparkled as he beamed up at him. Mycroft was alarmingly weak to the combination.
“I believe I could arrange something,” Mycroft replied, letting their fingers intertwine.