Oh heavens. This is my first Sherlock fic, and I'm so nervous. To be honest, the rest of you have set the bar pretty high. I hope this will do.

I'm coming over.
SH

I know.

MH

"Sir, he's here," Anthea walks through the door of Mycroft Holme's office. She doesn't look up from her Blackberry.

An aggravated Sherlock Holmes stomps in after the redheaded assistant. His hair is windblown, his cheeks flushed and his scarf is slightly askew around his neck.

Mycroft looks up from his papers as though surprised, but pleasantly so. He gives a friendly smile and says, "Yes, thank you."

Sherlock's frown deepens at his brother's flawlessly deliberate niceties, but he remains unmoving behind the armchair across the desk.

Anthea begins to leave and Mycroft stands pristinely, straightening one of the pencils on his desk.

"Oh, and Anthea, could you please send that package I requested," the oldest Holme's says. His voice is calm and slow but rings with authority.

Anthea nods and types a few more words on her phone, then walks out, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock has yet to move from his spot.

Mycroft walks around from his desk and shifts the one painting on his wall. Suddenly, he stops, like he just remembered something. He turns his eyes to his brother. "Hello, Sherlock. How may I help you?"

"Stop the act, Mycroft. You know why I'm here." His voice spits acid.

Mycroft's upper lip twitches revealingly. Well, not really. Mycroft Holmes does not do anything on impulse or on accident. Heavens no, everything Mycroft does is perfectly calculated and executed. So that little smile (if you can call it that) was completely on purpose, and they both know it.

"Why no, I'm afraid I don't. Why don't you remind me, little brother?"

Sherlock's jaw tightens. If Sherlock were a man of less self-control, Mycroft Holmes would be staring up at him from the floor, sporting a satisfying bloody nose.

"You kidnapped my flat mate," he growls, lips barely moving.

"Kidnap is such a strong word. And really, there was no struggle involved. He was more than willing," Mycroft smiles innocently.

Sherlock huffs impatiently.

"Oh, come now, Sherlock. Don't fret. He didn't take the money. I'm sure he already told you that."

"This isn't just your usual over-protectiveness, Mycroft. What do you want with him?"

"I simply wanted to make sure he was trustworthy."

"Cut the crap, Mycroft," Sherlock snaps, but even then it's only a few decibels over his normal volume.

Mycroft sighs, suddenly bored with the entire encounter. "Honestly, Sherlock, if you have something to say, just come out and say it. I have things to do," he gestures minutely to the documents waiting on his desk.

For once, Sherlock listens to his older brother. "You're trying to steal John."

Mycroft laughs, two short chuckles, but says nothing more.

"Mycroft, I swear, if you…" Sherlock doesn't finish his sentence. 34 years knowing that man and he still doesn't know how to threaten him.

Mycroft sighs again and returns to his desk, sitting down carefully. "Sherlock, please. I can assure you I'm not trying to 'steal' anything from you. You are always so dramatic." Mycroft sits back in his chair and rests his hands on his suit. To an outsider, he might resemble an Italian Don. To Sherlock, he was the devil incarnate.

To Mycroft, it means the conversation is over. Sherlock bites the corner of his lips, but then turns to leave, opening the door.

"You know, Sherlock, for a soldier, John has such soft hands."

The resulting force of the slamming door is enough to tilt the painting on the wall. Mycroft looks at the slanting portrait, and allows himself to smile as he reflects on the conversation that has just passed.

Stealing! Ha! That would imply John Watson belonged to Sherlock in the first place.

The beginning of a mediocre attempt at a story. If you have read it and not completely regretted it after the first few sentences, then thank you. If by some divine miracle, you have enjoyed the story so far, then review so I know it.

My goodness, I am a pro at modesty.