9Hi! I've got to give a quick disclaimer, and then the story will start: I hereby formally declare that anything you recognize probably isn't mine, and I obviously don't own Sherlock.
Oh! Also, my mother generously donated the title of the story.
Well, as it often does, the story started with my little brother.
Most of his silly cases don't intersect with my minor position in the government (mostly because he has unwarranted distain for anything to do with me or politics), but when they do, it can lead to rather compromising situations.
In what I'm sure he considered a brilliant hunt after a few corrupt politicians' amateur assassins, my brother uncovered an agent in the middle of a similar investigation . . .
"So, why would such an unimportant pawn be paid so well by these inexperienced idiots who can obviously barely afford their own bills? . . . Oh, I see! They're not the ones paying you!"
. . . causing them both to have to go into hiding.
Sigh.
Sadly, when it does not suit him, my brother chooses not to understand the concept of "in hiding". I, knowing of this unfortunate trait, decided to hire a caretaker of sorts. Also knowing that it would be a difficult search, I began, after depositing my little brother into a flat with an absurdly tolerant old woman named Mrs. Hudson, and informing them both that he was a newlywed whose partner would show up in a day or so, to look for someone suitable to marry my little brother.
Beginning the search was difficult. I needed to single out someone who would fascinate my brother and would be fascinated by him, but not be scared of him; someone who could control him without using drugs or physical force.
The problem with this was that in the past the only people who had fascinated my brother for more than few minutes at a time were severely mentally ill serial killers, and I couldn't very well spring someone dangerous from a prison or hospital and put them in a flat in the middle of London with an unsuspecting old woman and my brother; it might cause a scandal. No. I would have to find someone subtle who had slipped through the wide cracks of law and society and could at least pretend to be normal enough to not kill anyone for a few months.
The logical first step was to go through the city's supply of mental health patients, weeding out the dangerous, romantically involved, inappropriately aged, and uninteresting ones (Anthea and I also managed to cross out a great fraction of them by acknowledging that my brother would only worsen the case of a person suffering from depression). Down to a thousand or so candidates, we next threw out anyone who obviously couldn't stand living with my brother, no matter how much they were paid. Carefully looking through the records of the thirteen left, I chose three (two women and one man), who I then had . . . appointments with, in various abandoned structures.
One of the women was far too willing to accept the bribe to be anything but boringly greedy, and the other got very blubbery very quickly. I gave up hope on them immediately.
The third candidate, though . . . He was perfect for my little brother. Unfortunately, he didn't accept the job (something about not being willing to sell his freedom), so I had to resort to somewhat more questionably effective measures.
I arranged for the two to meet while my little brother was observing people in the park, the man "luckily" sitting next to him on his chosen bench. The two then engaged in a conversation which ended up sparking the candidate's interest, evidenced by the fact that during our next meeting he accepted my offer, though he still (confusingly) didn't take the money.
I drove him back to his flat to get his belongings (this took half an hour), and then introduced him to Mrs. Hudson.
"This is John Watson; he's Sherlock's husband. Oh, and by-the-by, my brother has a few thumbs in the fridge that you should watch out for. Farewell!"