The young man shivered slightly as a cold tingle crawled up his spine. His sheet and blanket had been kicked to the end of the bed only an hour or two after he had slid, exhausted, under them. Now his thin, lanky frame, clothed only in a pair of pants, lay exposed to the creeping chill of the night air. His figure shuddered a second time, and he instinctively folded his knees up closer to his chest in an effort to retain what precious heat his flesh still held.
The man was only half awake and vaguely aware of his body's tremors. The splayed fingers on the hand of his outstretched arm groped for warmth on the other side of the bed and, when returning with only the frigidity of empty space, curled into a fist. He scolded himself for making the gesture, knowing there was nothing, or no one, there.
Sometimes being alone was rather...lonely.
A barely audible sound, much like a vase regaining its balance on a tabletop after it's been bumped, found its way through the closed bedroom door, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. Suddenly realizing that it wasn't his calico cat prowling around in the other room, as she spent her nights outside, his senses sharpened instantaneously. He propped himself up as silently but swiftly as he could, feeling for his glasses on the bedside table, his eyes now locked on the door.
He cursed himself for not keeping a gun in his room. He found himself relying too heavily on his self-built security system, which he had believed was virtually impregnable. This thought brought him to two questions: who exactly was in his flat and how the hell did they get in?
His feet touched down on the icy hardwood floor, toes first, and he padded across the room until his hand reached the cool metal doorknob. Unarmed and heart thumping in his bare chest, the young man slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open as noiselessly as possible.
A tall shadow stood by the window near his desk, the moon just bright enough to illuminate the profile of the figure's face, which he recognized immediately. Even without the light, he would've guessed the intruder's identity by the umbrella hanging from its arm and the snobby upturned nose.
"Hello, Harrison," the figure said, his voice dark and familiar. The younger man shook his head.
"Dammit, Myc, I'm in my pants," Harrison said, running a hand through his brown curls, "What are you doing here? How did you even get it in?"
"We haven't talked for ages, you know," the man said. Harrison flicked on a lamp and narrowed his eyes at the taller man.
"You could've called, Mycroft. Instead of bloody breaking and entering in the middle of the night," he replied sharply, collapsing on to the small couch. The other man remained stiff and standing, with impeccable posture.
"I knew you wouldn't take my calls even if I did," the older one said, quite miffed at the other's attitude. Harrison rolled his eyes.
"Yes, brilliant deduction, worthy of our brother," he snapped, "Why are you here? I've got my own life now, what's so important that you get to barge in on it?"
"Sherlock would like you to drop by tomorrow. Said he needs to speak with you."
"Why? I haven't talked to him in years. What does he want from me?" Choosing to stay silent, Mycroft held out a business card from his pocket. The younger brother took it begrudgingly.
"Baker Street? He lives on Baker Street? Rather ordinary for him, isn't it?" he said. Mycroft again ignored his brother's questions and responded sourly.
"If I'm not mistaken, and I rarely am, I believe Sherlock misses you." Harrison was silent.
"What if I'm busy tomorrow?"
"I know you're not."
"How could you possibly know-oh, I'd forgotten-how did Sherly put it?-you are the British government? Yes, that sounds about right." Mycroft rolled his eyes and began to stride toward the front door.
"I see you two will still get along just fine."
"See yourself out then," Harrison called, heading back to his room after switching off the lamp. Mycroft stopped at the front door and chuckled before replying.
"Good night, Q."