Sherlock Holmes sat at the kitchen table in 221B Baker Street in his usual posture. His spine was almost completely erect except for the smooth bend of his neck, allowing his sharp, crystal eyes to peer into the lens of his microscope, his hands flat on either side of it, only moving to adjust the magnitude or slide position every so often. This day's experiment consisted of the effects of hydrogen chloride and peroxide on a human esophagus; the body part in question currently presiding in Mrs. Hudson's favorite tea cup from her grandmother's set that she had used to serve him tea earlier that day. Not that he'd noticed that before. He was too focused on his own doings, as usual, to be aware of the world outside the detective's mind.
And that was why John Watson decided to take a stroll through Hyde Park on that particular afternoon in the midst of October. He sighed almost serenely as he passed beautiful, tall trees in their bright autumn colors, the sun reflecting off each leaf individually. The blogger knew too well the long hours the highly functioning sociopath could spend on an experiment, especially between cases, and this ex-soldier and doctor was well aware that the experiments themselves could prove to be hazardous.
The good doctor found a wooden bench and gazed out at the golden landscape around him, though not really seeing as he recalled such an occasion.
Not two months ago, he'd walked into the flat to find poor Mrs. Hudson passed out on the floor. When the sandy-haired man rushed to kneel at her side, feeling for a pulse, and (thankfully) finding it perfectly normal, he called out to his flat-mate, fear pumping into him like a shot of heroin, taking over his thoughts. When the man in question finally appeared from his room, he was holding the bottle of chloroform aerosol he had been working on.
Sherlock paused at the sight of his frightened partner next to his housekeeper (or landlady, or whatever. Why the woman bothered correcting him, he never knew) a look of incomprehension lining his brow. "Something wrong?" he inquired quite casually, as though he were asking how John's day had been. For someone so brilliant, he could be a right thick git, John thought.
"Wrong?" John scoffed sarcastically, standing up. "Oh, how could anything be wrong? You've only just drugged our poor landlady!" He exclaimed, his hand gesturing toward the woman who was still sprawled on the floor.
The tall, pale man lifted a dark eyebrow in mock amusement and examined her a moment from his position in the hall entrance before saying, "Clearly she walked in on my test of chloroform on the dilation of pupils." He cocked his head towards the kitchen where the eyes were covering the counter's surface.
"And how is it you aren't passed out on the floor?" John asked incredulously.
"I had a gas mask, obviously." Sherlock picked up the mask on the mantle next to his infamous skull. "Seriously, John, I know I'm the one with deductive reasoning, but you're smarter than that." He barely paused long enough to hear a huff from his friend. "I wasn't aware of her presence, surprisingly, as her voice tends to be enough to drive anyone out of their mind, or I would have halted my research in order to keep her among the awake, though I quite like her in this quiet state."
"Sherlock!" John barked. The detective seemed no less phased by this outburst at his comment, only cracking an amused smirk. Sherlock always enjoyed baiting his colleague to get a rise out of him, knowing full well that he didn't believe what he was saying. (Although, Mrs. Hudson's voice could get tiresome.) John could only roll his eyes and sigh, knowing he'd swallowed the worm, as it were. "Fine. Just help me get her onto the couch."
Yes, John thought, I'm definitely safer out at the park.
No sooner had these words crossed his mind that a sleek black car slowed to a stop by the park entrance. The passenger door opened gracefully and out stepped a lofty figure, slightly overweight with an overly serious expression on his face. As he stepped up the curb with his suit and umbrella, it was apparent this man was out of place in such a rural setting.
Mycroft. Just when I though I was away from one Holmes for a peaceful day.
The eldest Holmes slowly made his way over to the doctor in an excessively cautious manner, as if repelled by the very idea he was among so many commoners. His black umbrella noisily clicked against the sidewalk pavement as he walked as John purposely kept his face turned away from the approaching man, looking at a woman jogging in a bright pink jumper, trying to distract himself.
Mycroft stopped in front of his brother's "friend" and stared at him, waiting silently for the acknowledgement of his presence. When John finally brought his gaze over, the two looked at each other in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time, each waiting for the other to speak, a challenge of sorts rising between them to see who might break first.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson," Mycroft finally drawled out in slight defeat, growing impatient of this little game.
"Hello, Mycroft." John smiled in a forced polite way.
The "government" eyed the seat beside the man he'd come to visit. "May I?"
In answer, John moved a bit out of the way, gesturing a hand towards the vacancy, getting a curt nod in return. When Mycroft sat, the two continued to watch the other civilians going about their daily lives; joggers moving past, children playing in the distance.
"What it must be like to be ordinary," Mycroft scowled.
"You're starting to sound like Moriarty," John snipped at the cruel man.
Mycroft glowered at the smaller man, his face darkening significantly, and then suddenly regaining his composure, indifference plain on his face. "So," he began slowly in a tone as conversational as the Holmes sibling could manage, "how is my kid brother as of late?"
John glanced sideways at the official looking man. "You could always ask him yourself, you know," he bit out, irritated.
Mycroft grimaced, allowing for a moment of frustration to emit from his being. "Ever since Sherlock's… return, I have found it increasingly difficult to face him."
"You can't stay angry with him forever. He did it for us." John studied the man a moment. "It isn't his fault you wallowed in guilt for his death."
"None of that is any concern of yours," Mycroft snapped.
"It was when I thought my best friend was dead."
Quiet elapsed and moments passed without words said until finally Mycroft stood. "I'll make this brief," he said, his expression darkening further, "strange things are happening in London. My brother will undoubtedly refuse to leave at any request of mine and quite possibly yours, so I must ask you to keep him at a low profile for the time being. 'Lay low' as the phrase so eloquently states." John watched as the pompous man flicked some imaginary dirt from his shirt cuff. "Perhaps a vacation?"
"Have you actually met Sherlock? He's bored enough as it is without a case at the moment, which is awful enough, because he's liable to burn our flat to the ground with those ruddy experiments of his." John ran a hand through his sandy hair in exasperation at the mere thought. "Besides which," he continued, "what strange happenings? Or do I have to be left in the dark yet again and protect your brother?"
Mycroft shot such an icy glare down at the man that John could have sworn his own grey eyes just froze over. "Just take care of him, John," the elder Holmes stated, the slightest note of concern hovering in the air.
John watched as Mycroft strode back to the car from which he came, his umbrella spinning slightly in one hand.
So much for John's peaceful afternoon out.