Disclaimer: No, I don't own "The Cape" or "Sherlock." If you don't believe me, I'm sure there's someone with a "minor position" in the Government who will attest to that.
'Get in the car, now. –MH,' the text read.
Dr. John Watson scowled at the black car that was idling on the curb outside his home. Huffing, he opened the passenger door and slid inside.
"Would you tell Mycroft that I don't have time for a kidnapping when my wife is due to deliver our baby in the next few days?" he asked the young brunette woman sitting opposite him. He was surprised when she made eye-contact with him, rather than staring at the device in her hands.
"You must be John," she smiled.
"I am. Are you the new Anthea?" the doctor inquired. "His new assistant," he clarified, when she looked confused.
"Oh. No. I'm Jamie," she extended the hand that was not holding the tablet to shake his.
"Pleased to meet you. So, where are we off to this time? Diogenes? Buckingham Palace?"
"Baker Street," she replied.
"Why are you here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked without opening his eyes. The consulting detective was lying on his back on his sofa, trying to calculate the quickest way to get his brother out of his flat. He didn't bother to look up when John and Jamie arrived moments later.
"I'm here to tell you that I'm getting married," Mycroft replied.
"What? To whom—Graham, Gary—John, what's his name?" Sherlock called out.
"Greg," John answered his friend, wondering, not for the first time, why Sherlock had deleted all but the first letter of Lestrade's first name. "Lestrade," John added for Mycroft's benefit.
"No, I'm not engaged to the Detective Inspector," Mycroft answered, wondering where his brother had gotten that idea.
"To whom then?" Sherlock demanded.
"To me," the woman stepped forward. "I'm Jamie Fleming. It's nice to meet you, Sherlock. I've heard so much about you."
"None of it good," Sherlock said absently. He sat up and scrutinized her as John offered his congratulations to the couple. "You're American," he began.
"British-American, my parents emigrated shortly before I was born."
"How'd you meet Mycroft, then?" John asked.
"It was while Sherlock was dismantling Moriarty's network," the elder Holmes supplied. "There was a faction in America—"
"Palm City to be precise," his brother interjected.
"And Jamie recognized Sherlock when she saw him on the surveillance cameras. This was, you understand, before his name had been cleared."
"Surveillance cameras?" John asked. "What is it you do for a living, Jamie?"
"Actually, I'm a blogger," she replied.
"What, like me?" the doctor asked.
"I doubt that." Not that she'd spent much time visiting Dr. Watson's blog, but it was probably a far cry from Orwell Is Watching.
"Oh dear god, there's two of them!" Sherlock moaned. "Don't you see, John? She does the same thing in America that Mycroft does here."
"Well, I wouldn't say the same—I don't hold a position in the American government—"
"Splitting hairs," Sherlock opined.
"Anyway, to make a long story short, Mycroft explained to me that Sherlock had been framed and that it was important that nothing about his trip to America or being alive make its way to my blog."
"So that's another person who knew you were alive when I didn't," John glared at Sherlock.
"Oh come on, it's not like I told her! How was I supposed to know there were two of him?!" the consulting detective gestured to his interfering older brother.
"You know, my best friend faked his death, too," Jamie interjected before things could continue to escalate.
"Is that so? And how long did it take you to forgive him?" John asked, remembering how Sherlock had manipulated him into accepting his apology.
"Oh, I didn't have to; we actually became friends after he went into hiding. But I don't know how well his wife is going to take the news when she finds out." At a nod from Mycroft, she took a seat in the chair facing two armchairs. The significance of her sitting in the chair reserved for clients was not lost on anyone. "The truth is we didn't just come here to make the announcement."
"You have a case for us," Sherlock tried not to get his hopes up. Odds were that whatever problem was troubling his future sister-in-law would turn out to be ridiculously simple and boring. "Is it regarding this friend of yours?"
"Let's say it concerns him in a roundabout way. It has to do with why he faked his death. But I should back up. My father is Peter Fleming, the CEO of ARK Corporation."
"And what, he's missing? He's been wrongfully accused of a crime? His life is in danger?" Sherlock asked.
"I want you to prove he's a murderer," Jamie enunciated clearly, her brown eyes locked on the detective's mercurial ones.
Before she could launch into an explanation, footsteps sounded on the stairs leading up to 221B.
"That'll be our landlady, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock informed Jamie. "Something tells me you'll get along famously."
"We'll send you both invitations to the wedding, of course," Mycroft said as he and his fiancée prepared to leave.
"That's funny. You didn't come to my wedding," John pointed out.
"I'll make it to your next one," the government official assured him.
"There ISN'T GOING TO BE A NEXT ONE!" John exclaimed. He rounded on Sherlock, who had made a vocalization to go with the expression of doubt on his face. "You started this."
"John, you can't know that you're going to 'grow old' with Mary. The number of marriages that survive the strain of having children—"
"Just SHUT UP. You are not going to 'deduce' how long my marriage is going to last!"
"It was lovely to meet you," Jamie held out her hand to the other blogger, ignoring the tension in the room.
"Likewise, we'll be in touch," he replied, forcing himself to calm down as he saw her out.
"Well," John addressed his former flatmate once the happy couple had left. In his best imitation of Johnny Galecki, he quipped, "Their children will be smart and terrifying."
"Not to mention fat," Sherlock responded.
"That's not fair, Sherlock. Jamie looks like she's done modelling work."
"Hm, she couldn't have, though, not while trying to hide from her father."
"Something troubling you?" John asked, noting his friend's pensive expression.
"I just…Mycroft never seemed to be the marrying type. He thinks of other people as beneath him and emotion as vulnerability. And yet he's prepared to commit the rest of his life to this woman—this blogger. It doesn't fit."
"It's not that odd. You did say they were cut from the same cloth," John mused. Then he shared a look with his best friend. "Okay, it's hard for me to wrap my head around, too. But at the end of the day, the important thing is that she makes your brother happy. Which means…" he prompted Sherlock.
"I'll try not to hold it against her."
Author's Note: Having updated it, am reposting this story. I apologize for any inconvenience.
By show of reviews, how many of you have seen all three of the referenced TV shows?
(This story has not been "Brit-picked," but that's never stopped me before.)
I trust everyone understood John's reference to Sherlock's comment on his blog about the next wedding.
Cape fan? More interested in Peter Fleming than in seeing him pay his debt to society? Check out my latest fic: "THE WIZARD OF KOZ."