Author's Note: Please note that this is set early in the relationship between Sherlock and John; as such it pre-dates almost ALL of my other stories!

Chapter One:

"Get in." The voice was loud enough to be heard over the pouring rain, and, for once, John decided he didn't mind getting 'kidnapped' by Mycroft. But he was so soaked that he hesitated. "I'm very wet."

"Just get in. Leather dries."

Serves you right then. John clambered in, putting the two Tesco shopping bags on the floor of the Jag, between his feet. His hair was plastered down over his forehead, and his shoes actually made a squelching sound when he put them down on the carpet of the Jag. He had a wicked thought; if he was a dog, he'd give one good shake and that extortionately expensive three piece suit would be splattered from head to toe. Not for the first time, he wondered where the man got his money from.

"Doctor Watson. Surely you are aware of the British climate's vagaries. Why is it that I have never seen you with an umbrella?" The man who uttered this was clutching the handle of his own immaculately furled umbrella.

John smirked. "Well, as it seems these days I have my hands full carrying not just groceries for one, but for two, so where's the third hand to hold an umbrella going to come from? You don't expect your brother to come out and do something so useful as to keep us both dry, do you?"

That made an eyebrow rise on Mycroft's face. "Unlikely. The only other person I know less prone to using an umbrella than you is my brother. In his case, it's because he can't be bothered with remembering to take one. And, like you, he almost …relishes being unprotected against the elements."

John thought about it and realised it was true- he'd never seen Sherlock carry or use an umbrella. Odd. But then that was Sherlock. After nine months of sharing a flat with the man, he was getting used to his eccentricities- including the occasional interference of a mysterious big brother.

"So, what can I do for you, Mycroft?" He tried to keep the weariness out of his voice. He'd had a very long session at the clinic, trying to make up to Sarah for the disaster that had been their first date. Not many women he had dated managed to get tied to a chair, threatened with a particularly brutal form of execution and then rescued by Sherlock, who was not quite but almost too late. She had forgiven him in a way, but he was still working up the nerve to ask her out again. While the cheque from Sebastian Wilkes' bank had helped defray expenses, he still wanted to keep his hand in medically speaking, so was taking extra shifts at the practice.

"Always suspicious of an ulterior motive, John? Being around my brother seems to be having a negative influence on your…trust issues."

"Only when it comes to you. You are entirely too busy being a minor official of the British Government, as you put it, to be bothered with giving me a lift out of the kindness of your heart, so I am going to assume this serves another purpose. Just spit it out, will you? I'm too wet and tired to care about polite conversation."

"Very well. This is what I believe to be called a "heads up." Later this week, you will be receiving an invitation to spend a weekend in the country. I should be very grateful if you would look favourably upon it and accept. It's for the second weekend in November, from Friday afternoon through to Sunday."

Suspicion flared in John's mind. Why would Mycroft want me to spend a weekend away from Baker Street? "So, what do you intend to get up to while I am away? Is this some sort of, I don't know…plot to get Sherlock to do something for you that he wouldn't do if I was around?"

Mycroft smirked. "You really do have trust issues, don't you?" When John did not reply, the elder Holmes gave a slight shrug. "Sherlock will be getting an invitation, too. In fact, it is more important that he attends than you, but I know that he will use you as an excuse to decline it this year, so you are also invited."

The doctor digested that. "What's involved? Where? And why wouldn't he want to go?"

"Ever handled a shotgun?"

John was thrown by the non sequitur. "Once; when I was thirteen and a friend of my cousin took us both out to a farm to shoot rabbits that were destroying their vegetable garden. I seem to remember that I wasn't very good at it. It did get me interested in guns, though- and you know where that led to. Why do you ask?"

"Because the invitation is to a shooting party. In West Sussex. To be precise about the location, on a driven game shooting estate- pheasant and partridge mostly, although wild duck might be involved, too, on the Sunday morning. Sherlock used to do this sort of event on a regular basis, at least once a year even after he moved to London."

Oh, I've always been curious about that kind of shotgun. "A proper posh shoot at a big country house, the sort that happens in films and all?"

Mycroft looked at him and smiled. "Yes. I expect so."

John thought about it. This sort of event was way out of his comfort zone. Coming from a lower middle class background and raised in the industrial city of Corby, known for its steel and iron works, John had no experience with the landed gentry. Sherlock's public school accent suggested a very different trajectory, but he'd deflected every one of John's "getting to know you" type of questions very early on in their flatshare ("Tediously boring, and totally irrelevant, John. The past is dead and buried, along with my parents and their ancestors.")

"So, why are you so interested in him going?" He was being nosey, but it was worth asking.

"Because I am, too, and it would be advantageous for him to attend. So, an invitation was arranged for you as well. There's no great 'plot', doctor. It's a relatively enjoyable activity; think of it as a bit of a break from London life."

"I don't have any of the proper kit."

"That can be arranged. Most of the other guests will be in a similar position, I am sure." He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a business card. "Take this- it's my outfitter. Just go and let him sort you out. He knows exactly what is needed, and does this regularly for people who've never been. You can trust him. And it's on my account."

John looked at the address- St James' Street. "You must really want him to attend."

"I do. He used to enjoy it very much. With you there, I think he will again."

John was thinking that through when he realised that the car had stopped. Through the rain spattered window beside him, he recognised Baker Street. Then the door was opened by the chauffeur who stood with an umbrella.

"I'll give it some thought, Mycroft. No promises, though; you over-estimate my influence over Sherlock, especially if Lestrade rings with a case."