Soooo, this is my first posted fanfic. I've been writing and exchanging stories with friends since I was 12, and they've been nagging me increasingly as it draws to the decade mark to post. Apparently it's a coming of age thing.

Please don't flame. I would love criticism, suggestions, etc.

I'm writing for the amusement of myself, my lover, and my friends. Hoping someone out there will enjoy this.

Dedicated to all my favorite fanfiction writers and the stories that inspire us all.

"Anytime you people take me somewhere, I hate it. I'm glad you're not my travel agent."

"Doctor Watson, could you kindly shut up." Mycroft redirected his attention to the maid standing in the foyer of the heavily fortified rural mansion, threatening them with a bat. "You, look. It's right on the board, there, that a doctor is coming."

He gestured with his umbrella at the out-of-place wipe board that covered most of a side table. "He's here to see you and one of the other guests."

She didn't lower the crude weapon. "He's a surgeon, and you're a slimy politician. If you're going to try to lie, at least do it well."

Unnoticed, Watson smiled softly. Whoever the maid in the blue uniform was, she reminded him.

Mycroft sighed and pulled a length of wide, blue ribbon out of his pocket. "Let us in, Dear."

As soon as the ribbon came out, she lowered the bat, expression confused but more placid. "He can't come in."

"He's with me, Dear."

"Okay." She placed the bat near the wipe board.

"Can you take us to him?"

"Who?"

"Him."

The back of Watson's neck started crawling.

The maid uncertainly nodded, concernedly frowning. "I think I know who you mean…"

Watson got an incidental tour of the house as she lead them through various living spaces, up a back flight of stairs, and down a long hallway, stopping every once in a while to stare at a door before moving on. It was a fancy place, like most of Mycroft's usual haunts. It looked like an old manor. Finally, she paused in front of the right door. Why this one was correct was a mystery.

She knocked twice before calling, "Someone's here for you, Sir. I know one of them is strange."

"I know."

Watson stiffened.

The door swung open, and Sherlock locked eyes with him, resigned.

"You fucking jackass!"

Pushing past the maid, John tackled him and started pummeling his chest.

The maid broke it up surprisingly fast with a few well-placed jabs on John's torso. "Don't touch him!" she spat, defensively standing in front of Sherlock. He patted her shoulder absentmindedly.

Mycroft chose that moment to explain. "He didn't have any choice. After the affair with Mr. Moriarty-"

"I thought you were dead!" Watson spat. "I buried you!"

"Please, John. You're better than this."

"You know why it had to be like this."

John suddenly shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and turned his head away. "I should have expected it. I did, I had a feeling you were alive, you're too smart to get forced into killing yourself, I expected you to turn up. I did. But two years? Two years, you let me-" He broke it off with a hiss, trying to find something to glare at.

Mycroft was casually wandering around the spacious bedroom. "Still having trouble sleeping, little brother?"

"Yes."

"If I could have sent you a message, I would have. I tried. The only successful opportunity I had was just after it all occurred and then it was too soon."

"People had to see you mourn or they would have known something was wrong."

"Would you like some tea?" the maid offered, coming through a doorway that lead to a bathroom with a hamper of dirty clothes.

"Yes, May, thank you, and some light food." Sherlock continued to gaze at Watson. "The green room should do."

"Tea and snacks in the green room, yessir," she nodded to herself, heading out the door.

"It's Sherlock."

"Oh! Thanks!"

Mycroft regarded the doctor with a calm, slightly apologetic expression. "You'll be here for a short time. Pick a room. All necessities will be supplied to you, including a medical kit."

"Are you sick?" John demanded, apprehensive.

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not dying, John. It's not a soap opera, I'm not coming back into your life just to off it for real. You should already know who needs the medical attention."

He turned his head to Mycroft, who raised an eyebrow. "You have your own doctors, so it's someone here. The maid?"

"Yes."

Backtracking, he scowled. "Wait, I can't just stay here. Susan will be worried sick-"

Mycroft coolly waved him off. "I've sent her a message. You were called in for an emergency at the surgery, someone in a car accident, and when you wake up, having fallen asleep in a cot after a long shift, there will be another note saying there were more complications and you were needed again."

"Manipulative bastards."

They quietly went downstairs, John glaring at the Holmes brothers, and went into another elegant room. Soon after, the maid came in, arranging trays of pastries, sandwiches, and snacks around a tea set.

Sherlock was the first to speak. "I did try to send a note. On a parakeet, addressed to you, saying 'I am alive. Unable to visit.'"

Before John could respond, the maid slapped Sherlock's shoulder with a napkin, scowling as she handed it to him. "Is that where my right bird went?"

"I made it up to you."

"A sparrow is not a pet bird. I know a wild bird when I see one."

"Just because one is drab and the other was blue," he muttered, sipping his tea.

"All my things are blue, and that thing is obviously wild."

"You kept it, so we're even."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I need to be leaving. I'll be back to collect John in two days."

While the maid quickly slipped out with the two extra cup sets she'd brought, Sherlock faux-grinned up at his brother. "Did you bring me any treats?"

"I brought you John."

"Very well." Sherlock went back to his tea.

"Can I have my phone back?"

"No."

"There's no phones allowed in here," Sherlock informed him.

John frowned. "I have no say in all this, do I?"

"No," they echoed.