After reading all the rumours about the Duchess of Cambridge looking at pink baby clothes and requesting pink items for her baby shower and the subsequent speculations in the tabloids that the new heir to the throne would be a girl, which was followed by some rather studious revisions to the Order of Succession law — which very nearly didn’t get passed in time, — only to have the baby be a new little prince after all, I couldn’t help but see a certain person’s hand in all of this…
A Succession of Events
By J.H. Watson
(~ 875 words)
Dr. John Watson accepted a glass of whiskey from a totally silent staff member of the Diogenes Club. The unsolicited scotch meant Mycroft Holmes wanted something from John Watson. John sipped his scotch and found it an extremely expensive, very old, and probably very rare single malt whiskey. Correction, Mycroft Holmes wanted something very big from John Watson.
Mycroft Holmes sat across from Dr. Watson speaking softly into his mobile phone, and it says a great deal about the man that, even though his CV would state Mycroft “held a minor position in the government,” he was talking with a Vice-Premier of China. Mycroft finished his call and slipped the phone into his suit breast pocket before offering a crocodile smile to John.
Mycroft said “I have need of someone who can pass for an army doctor.”
“I am an army doctor,” John replied.
“Then it should be a piece of cake for you.”
“What exactly should be a piece of cake?”
John’s therapist had put the phrase “trust issues” in her evaluation case notes. Mycroft knew this. John knew that Mycroft knew. It pretty much summed up their relationship.
“How’s the drink?”
“Excellent. Which is why I want to know exactly what you want me to do and why you need someone who can pass for an army doctor.”
Mycroft simply offered another smile. “There will be a car waiting for you when you leave here,” he began. There was always a car; sleek, black, sophisticated, expensive, like a first-class British brolly. It might even be the same one that had picked John up off of Gower Street and brought him to the Diogenes Club.
Mycroft’s phone must have vibrated because he stopped and pulled it out of his pocket with the faintest crease to his brow. He glanced at it and made a mild face of displeasure, setting the phone on the table beside him. Mycroft continued, “In the car you will find a uniform, identification, a phone, and everything else you will need.”
“Need for what exactly?” John asked.