The Ice Breaker

Mycroft looked down at the phone in his hand, but there was no mistake about it: John Watson had just hung up on him, after a more impassioned telling-off than he’d given Mycroft in a very long time.

“Your brother was about forty-five minutes from respiratory arrest,” John had shouted, and in his voice all the worry and strain of that emergency were still plain for Mycroft to hear.

Such a simple case on the face of it, Mycroft thought, and yet, if not for John Watson, it would have been Sherlock’s last. How many times had he said that over the years? More often than he could count. And surely without the Doctor’s steadying influence on him Sherlock would have self-destructed long before this. Without John, Mycroft was convinced, the man he couldn’t stop thinking of as his little brother would not be alive today. Thank you, John, he thought, even as he despised himself for the approach to sentimentalism.

Mycroft valued no one more than his wild, intractable brother. Sherlock valued no one more than John Watson. John didn’t always trust that Mycroft kept Sherlock’s best interests in mind, but Mycroft harbored no such doubts about John, although initially the Doctor had been a real puzzle to him: A man who not only trusted Sherlock—Sherlock Holmes, for God’s sake—almost at once, but had proven time and again that he would do anything for him. Forgive him anything. Sherlock had never inspired that kind of loyalty in his life until he met John Watson, and now he had a whole cadre of ardent friends and defenders, most of whom he took no notice of. In his first thirty-four years on earth Sherlock met exactly one person not an immediate relative with the quality required to appreciate him, and over the next six he had attracted a small army of others. Or rather, John attracted them to Sherlock. John was the common denominator. No one other than his parents and brother had ever loved Sherlock, and yet there was John, Mr. Normal Average, drawn to him immediately, openly delighted by his brilliance, eager to share his adventures, and on balance tolerant of his drama.

What was it in John that responded to Sherlock? John was no different than anyone else when it came to matching Sherlock’s mind, but in his own quiet, subtle way he was an exceptional man, far above the common run in intelligence, more adventuresome, tougher, and braver. Certainly he was entirely unafraid of Mycroft, a fact Mycroft found by turns annoying, inconvenient, and very nearly admirable. If Sherlock augmented his every human trait to a higher key, John was only a half-tone behind. Mediocrity understands nothing better than itself, but talent knows genius at once, Mycroft thought: It was John’s own exceptionalism which drew him to Sherlock.

Sherlock, in turn, was drawn to John. Mycroft admitted \to an ignoble and entirely non-utilitarian envy of Sherlock’s attachment to him, because their friendship was in most ways closer than the bond between the brothers. John, in contrast, often appeared dismayed by the ongoing fraternal strife. Years ago, before Mycroft had fully taken John’s measure, he had made the tactical mistake of appealing to John’s influence with Sherlock by trying to persuade them to abandon a case whose pursuit risked becoming awkward to some of Mycroft’s associates. John, in his understated way, had declined to help Mycroft on the grounds that Sherlock didn’t listen to him any more than he did to Mycroft, although they both knew that to be untrue. What he really meant was that he simply wouldn’t work against his friend. “You have more power over him than anyone on this earth,” Mycroft had told him, because he couldn’t conceive of a man having the power to influence the intransigent Sherlock and refusing to use it. John’s answer had surprised him: “Has it ever occurred to you,” he said, “that he listens to me because I don’t think of that as having power over him?” And then John Watson had turned and walked away.

It was neither the first nor the last time that John defied Mycroft, but whereas Sherlock fought his brother out of resentment, competition, and sheer bloody-mindedness, when John opposed him he did so on principle, and that made him a much bigger problem for Mycroft. Far more troublesome, and a much tougher opponent. In his circles Mycroft encountered very, very few men of real principle. Nearly everyone he met operated, tacitly or not, on the principle that there were no principles: They were men who worshipped the triumvirate of pragmatism, expediency, and the path of least resistance. The kind of men Mycroft could manage. The kind of men John Watson despised.

Sherlock had changed in a very subtle way since John came along, Mycroft reflected. It was difficult for him to identify, but he believed that it was less something his brother had gained than something he’d…resurrected. Mycroft remembered—and it astonished him still, after all these years—the first time he saw Sherlock glance at John with affection. The expression came and went in a fraction of a second and John never noticed—and Sherlock certainly hadn’t realized he was doing it—but affection, for God’s sake. Mycroft successfully hid his astonishment then, but the impact of that intercepted glance hadn’t faded. Mycroft had seen that gleam of affection in his brother’s eye since, as well. Affection and pride, of all things.

He’d done his best to warn Sherlock against the attachment, with no more success on that subject than on any other. Considerably less, in fact. “Remember Redbeard,” he’d warned at one point. Sherlock had either not recognized or had dismissed as invalid Mycroft’s parallel between John and the beloved pet of Sherlock’s childhood, and on reflection Mycroft wondered whether, in the context of this most recent demonstration of John’s worth, he might, just possibly, not have been quite fair to John when he made the association.

Whether the parallel was sound or not, Sherlock rose to John’s defense as resolutely as John to his, most recently during today’s truncated phone call. “You know how much John hates anything to do with Delaram,” he’d snapped. Mycroft did know that, but how? The information had not come from John. He and Mycroft shared the common aim of keeping Sherlock whole, but they had never established much above civility between themselves. Cordiality would be overstating things. Even if Mycroft had permitted more, John was not a man to maintain dual loyalties. Mycroft did know that Delaram was a sore point, but he had so many details of which to keep track, and John was generally not one of his priorities.

He unlocked a drawer, withdrew a very thick file, and opened it on the desk. He turned to the section containing John’s service record first. Delaram. The second-biggest firefight in Afghanistan in 2009. Twelve British and coalition troops died in the ambush, along with an accounted-for 124 Taliban fighters. John Watson had personally rescued four badly-injured soldiers by dragging them, under heavy small arms and RPG fire, from their ruined armored vehicles to the relative safety of the coalition’s defensive line. He’d been returning for the fourth soldier when he received the injury that ended his military career and very nearly his life, yet he still managed to retrieve the man and had nearly reached shelter before being overcome by his injury. Doctor Watson received an honorable medical discharge, spent the next four months in hospital and physical therapy, and was awarded the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross by Her Majesty in a palace ceremony on January 16, 2010.

Mycroft looked up from the file. Except for the trauma of being nearly killed, which Mycroft conceded, he didn’t see anything in John’s service record that would account for his aversion to discussing Delaram. He turned over a few more pages of the file. Ah: Three of the four soldiers John rescued later committed suicide, and the fourth was permanently disabled by a brain injury suffered during the battle. That brought things into a little clearer focus. John Watson cared. He would naturally be troubled by the fact that his efforts later came to nought–not for himself, but for his wounded comrades. Then, too, it was at Delaram that John received his career-ending injury, and Mycroft firmly believed that part of Sherlock’s initial appeal to John was that he supplied something like the danger and excitement that John had enjoyed about the war.

John’s military record ended there, of course, so Mycroft turned to the session notes of John’s therapist. He smiled: confirmation. The suicides had upset John extremely. He’d spoken of them to the therapist on no fewer than…four occasions. Mycroft skimmed through a great deal of vapouring about the point of it all—why save those men if they were just going to die anyway—bitterness about the loss of his military career, and the stubborn insistence that given half a chance he’d do the same thing again. Intellectually John knew that he was blameless for the suicides. Emotionally he was on shakier ground, but the therapist noted that her advice was that if John was already intellectually certain, only time would cement that certainty into an emotional conviction, as well. Mycroft sniffed.

It also appeared from the therapist’s notes that John’s other, still greater regret about Delaram was his utter helplessness to save his good friend, one “Danny.” Mycroft frowned. Danny who? He leafed forward and back through the notes without finding a reference to a surname. Well, he’d come back to that.

What caught his attention next was the therapist’s professionally dispassionate account suddenly giving way to a candid expression of surprise: “Threw his CGC medal into the Thames.” Underlined. Three exclamation points. Boxed. The Conspicuous Gallantry Cross. Britain’s second-highest military honor behind only the Victoria Cross. Mycroft was not nearly as surprised as the therapist had been. He could perfectly well imagine John Watson, patriot though he was, pitching that medal into the river, because more than a patriot John was a man of principle and integrity. He’d proved it the first time Mycroft met him and innumerable times since. If John believed that he didn’t deserve that medal, or if he believed that accepting it was a betrayal of his values, there was nothing else he could have done. He would never publicly dishonour the service he loved by refusing the medal, but he would uphold his own sense of honour by privately discarding something that he felt he didn’t deserve, a symbol of what he believed was his failure as a doctor, and, knowing John, his failure as a friend.

Mycroft read on. John reported experiencing recurring nightmares about the soldier’s death at the time of the sessions in early 2010, but since that was when the sessions stopped—when John met Sherlock—Mycroft had no way of knowing whether the death still troubled John to the same extent. According to Sherlock, however, Delaram in general troubled him, so Mycroft thought it likely.

It occurred to Mycroft then that restoring John’s medal to him might be a satisfactory way to thank the doctor for his care of Sherlock. And yet there was no question of Mycroft personally approaching him, even if the thing could be found, which he very much doubted, it having been dropped into the water from Blackfriar’s Bridge. The mere fact of Mycroft having that knowledge was a grievous breach of John’s privacy, Mycroft supposed; certainly John would see it that way. If, on the other hand, the original medal was said to have been serendipitously found, and if it came from someone with whom John shared a better connection, it was just possible that he might be persuaded to keep it this time, and to…what? What did Mycroft want him to do? Forgive himself? Find ‘inner peace’? It didn’t really matter, Mycroft decided, what John did, nor whether he kept the medal. He would make sure that the medal was returned to John because he was grateful for the life of his little brother. If John kept the trinket and cheered up a bit in consequence, well, there was nothing Mycroft could do about that.

Now the question became, who would he designate to deliver the medal? Sherlock he dismissed at once as a candidate. In fact, he would have to take pains to ensure that the medal would survive Sherlock’s very close scrutiny. Mycroft returned to the friend John had lost during the battle. Danny. A quick search of the military records produced the names of the twelve men who had died that day, only one of which was named Daniel. Daniel Kelly Mornington.

Mycroft scribbled a note and summoned Anthea. “Get me everything you can find on this man and his family, if he had one. Have it in five.”

Four and a half minutes later she returned and passed him a manila cover. “Lord Foxcroft is here for his three o’clock,” she noted.

Mycroft didn’t look up from the folder. “Busy,” he said with a dismissive flick of his hand.

She didn’t move.

Mycroft sighed. “Tell him I’m on an important call. Pick someone he’s afraid of. Tell him it’s the Earl, or something.” She glided out and he looked over the file, skipping Mornington’s service record and focusing on his widow, Jane. Living in South Croydon, never remarried, no children. Mycroft scribbled another note and recalled Anthea.

“I want to see this woman at her home tomorrow afternoon. Preferably at five p.m. And get David at the Palace on the phone immediately.”

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