Mycroft's day off
Boz1310
Warning: I do not own Sherlock or anything like that. It rightfully belongs to Moftiss and Sir. Doyle.
Word count: 862
This is quite a short fic, but honestly I just got really bored one day, picked up a pen and this is the result. Mycroft is an interesting character and I wanted to explore a more humourous side of him.
Without further ado, enjoy! ~~~
"Can I get you a painkiller sir?" 'Anthea' asked kindly- taking her eyes off of her prize possession of a phone and glancing at her boss, who had the appearance and expression of a man who had been slowly and painfully crushed by steam roller. Mycroft Holmes suppressed a groan of pain. It felt as though someone was taking a jackhammer to his temple. He needed an Advil-pronto. Why was it him who inherited the migraine problems of the family?
"I'm alright Anthea, thank you." He murmured, wishing someone would already put him out of his misery. As if reading his rather dismal thoughts, his P.A. said,
"If it helps sir, you'll happy to know that Al Qaeda will not be attacking the Pentagon anytime soon." Mycroft gave her a tense grin as the car stopped. Grabbing his umbrella, he walked up to 221B Baker Street and knocked sharply and impatiently on the door. Then, it started to rain. The light drizzle changed quickly into a heavy shower. Mycroft sighed through his chattering teeth. It just wasn't his day.
John Watson awoke to a loud and infernal noise. No, not the sound of his flat mate's Stradivarius or gunshots at that poor wall, although he could recall quite a few nights when that had actually happened- but the sound of someone pounding on the door. Groggily getting up, he checked his bedside clock- 2:40 in the bloody morning. Who the bloody hell was it? Storming downstairs, he yanked the door open. If it was Sherlock, he was going to-
"Hello, Dr. Watson." The other Holmes smiled tiredly. "May I come in?" John nodded dumbly. Mycroft never ceased to amaze him. How could one be so polite at 2 in the morning? Clearly, he was no average citizen of London- but then again, John already knew that. Mycroft sat down demurely and massaged his temples.
"Tea?" John asked. Being the PTSD ex army doctor he was, once awakened there was no point in trying to fall asleep again. As he set the kettle to a boil, Mycroft muttered something. It was unclear and pathetic sounding which surprised the doctor. He was not used to Mycroft speaking in such a manner. Mycroft was just a bundle of surprises that morning.
"Something dark and strong please."
After a few minutes, both of them sat down, each with a mug of Pekoe in hand.
"Where's Sherlock?" Mycroft demanded, taking long sip of the black tea. John shrugged sheepishly.
"Either sleeping… or chasing a serial killer?" he guessed. Mycroft sighed disapprovingly. "But certainly not getting the milk, which was what I had specifically told him to do."
"Some help you are. You're supposed to be his doctor!" his voice raised irritably. "Doctor him!" Watson just stared dumbly at the man in black. Was the 'Government' finally losing his marbles? With a brother like Sherlock, he was surprised he hadn't done so a lot earlier.
"I'm his flat mate, not his bloody keeper." He tried to explain, but alas with no avail.
"Many would beg to differ."
"Yes, they would, wouldn't they." The doctor sighed. He was seriously considering on getting a giant "I'm not gay!" sticker to stick on his forehead. God knows, he could really use one. But then, he would probably also have to get a "But it's all fine!" sticker to appease his sister. "Too much work" he decided. Mycroft regained his stature.
"I'm sorry Dr. Watson. I'm having a killer of a migraine right now."
John nodded sympathetically. "Anything I can help you with?" Mycroft sighed.
"You can take your gun and put a bullet in my brain." He moaned into his hands. "I just want to die." John tsked.
"Yeah, anything legal I can do to help?" Mycroft stared at him with a glare. "If you really want that, I can call up Sherlock. I think he'd be okay with doing that."
"Hilarious, doctor."
"Maybe you oughta take a day off." John suggested. "Go fishing, move to Canada." He refilled his glass- and Mycroft's.
"I wish I could, doctor." He smiled, almost pitifully. "But you see I simply do not have the time. The riots are getting more serious in Northern Africa, the Taliban are getting smarter and I've only just managed to smother the secret affairs of our PM." He cried, shaking his head. Then he said in his "I'm-very-serious" voice. "You didn't hear any of that." John nodded nervously. Then he leaned in. "John, I was wondering… if you could convince Sherlock to… attend the family dinner this coming Sunday. Mummy is so sad and father is dying of liver cancer, and I-I would be oh so appreciative."
"I'll try my best." John said. "But no promises."
The next day John received a text.
Thanks to you, I'm fishing- in Canada
MH
Author's Note: Yay Canadian Pride! Beavers and Mounties! I'm Canadian, if it isn't obvious. I mean I think only Canadians write about Canada in their fanfics.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed that! Hopefully, I will be able to post up so more Sherlock stuff this week. As usual, please feel free to review and comment on how I did. Also feel free to leave messages about grammatical errors, if there are any.
BOZ1310
April 29, 2013