Sherlock Holmes sat in his flat, staring across the coffee table at the uninvited, unwelcome guest. He had been hoping for a couple of hours to conduct his experiments (even as he sat there, his dismembered head was defrosting on the kitchen table) before John got home from the surgery but he doubted that would happen now that Mycroft was here. The smartly dressed man had a smug look on his face, knowing his mere presence was an irritation.

"Now tell me, what do you want?" The detective asked icily, raising an eyebrow.

Mycroft simply smiled and crossed one leg over the other gently. "We, meaning I, need your help with something. Something that only someone of your intelligence can figure out."

Sherlock shifted unnoticed in his seat. He'd always thought of himself as above such trivial emotions but apparently, even with him, flattery can get you anywhere. "And what is this … problem that you need help with?"

"Our top geniuses have been attempting to break the code but no one can seem to work it out." Inwardly smiling, Mycroft reached into his bag and pulled out the square children's toy, the base resting in the palm of his hand. "I seem to remember having one of these as a child … took all the stickers off as I recall. You always were so impatient."

"You want me to do … that?" Sherlock asked deadpanned, not believing that this was what Mycroft wanted him to do. Of all the things his brother had asked him to do, this had to be the most idiotic.

But Mycroft remained completely serious.

"A secret code was placed among the coloured squares of this children's game. We must know what that code is – National security and all." Mycroft explained in a calm voice, "But if you don't think you can do it …"

"I can do it!" Sherlock snapped, snatching the squared toy from his brother's hands, "Give me until the end of the day."

"I'll give you until tomorrow evening." Mycroft countered as he stood up straight, grabbing his brief case. As he made his way to the exit, he called a rather sarky "good luck Sherlock" over his shoulder. All Sherlock could do was glare at his elder brother as left 122B Baker Street to go god knows where. He honestly didn't care.

Slowly, his green eyed gazed drifted to the supposed mind game toy that now rested in the palm of his hand. His childhood enemy. It had been too long since their last encounter and now, all these years later, he would be victorious.

John Watson dropped his keys on the small table that rested just beyond the door of the shared flat. He laid a plastic bag on the dining table and shrugged off his coat, hanging it up before returning to the shopping bag. The place was quiet, which the war doctor found strange. His lover, Sherlock Holmes, was almost certainly among the walls of 122B Baker Street but he was never silent (not even in his sleep, much to John's annoyance).

A nauseas feeling of worry consumed him, made his stomach churn. In Sherlock's line of work, he had a lot of enemies and it wasn't unusual for 'unhappy' clients to attack the detective in their home. It wouldn't surprise him but it did make him panic.

Leaving the kitchen, the doctor skirted into the living room, half expecting the worst. Instantly, a weight was lifted from his shoulders and he let out a breathy laugh of relief. Sitting in the exact place he had been on the sofa that morning, Sherlock sat, his legs crossed like a primary school student, in his silk dressing gown. His tongue poked out the corner of his mouth in concentration as his hands twisted a coloured box in his hands.

"Is that … is that a Rubik Cube?" John asked into the quiet room, completely lost in his disbelief of the situation in front of his eyes. The infamous Sherlock Holmes was playing Rubik Cube – and losing apparently, if the multicoloured sides of the cube were anything to go by.

"Yes John, it's a Rubik Cube. Glad to see your eye sight isn't failing you." The consulting detective muttered darkly, his gaze never rising from the children's toy.

John didn't react to his lover's harsh words. He knew the detective was frustrated and that affected his interaction with other people. He was used to it by now. He simply moved to sit beside the man, watching him closely.

"I thought childish games were below you." He teased.

"They are."

A row shifted to the right.

"So why are you doing this?"

The row was shifted back to its original place.

Sherlock paused for a moment before continuing with the game. "Mycroft. He said it was to do with national security or something."

John's jaw slacked, an eyebrow raised. "And you actually believed him?"

"Not even in the slightest." He answered quickly.

"So … why are you doing this again?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just focused on twisting the movable parts on the child's game. It was then John realised why the man was doing this, despite the fact he knew it was a waste of his time. It was a pride thing. Mycroft must have said something, challenged him in someway. Probably a mental challenge, considering the concentration he was using to turn the Rubik Cube. John smiled slightly before pushing some hair out of the way and pressed a short kiss to his cheekbone. He then stood up to deal with the shopping on the kitchen table. He decided he would leave the man alone to nurse his wounded pride.

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure the detective was distracted; he pulled out his phone and made to contact the man that had put his lover in a frustrated loop with a child's mind game.

WHY IS SHERLOCK PLAYING RUBIK CUBE? JW

WHY HAVEN'T YOU ASKED HIM? MH

HE BLAMES YOU. NATIONAL SECURITY? SERIOUSLY? JW

A BELIVABLE REASON. SHERLOCK NEEDS TO OVERCOME HIS OLD CHILDHOOD STRUGGLES AND I SUPPLIED HIM WITH THE ABILITY TO DO SO. MH

SHERLOCK'S CHILDHOOD STRUGGLES IS A RUBIK CUBE? JW

MAKE SURE HE DOESN'T CHEST. MH

John shook his head and set about making a cup of coffee, making tea for Sherlock before he even bother ask. Setting the mug on the coffee table, he curled onto a corner of the settee and watched trashy television on a low volume. Although he was doing his own thing, he still found himself doing as Mycroft had instructed, watching the distracted consulting out of the corner of his eye.

Though Sherlock was silent, his frustration with the bloody game was steadily growing. He even swore his eye was twitching with irritation. It was just …

THIS DAMN GAME! In his whole 34 years on this planet, the one thing his mind could never answer, could never work out, was the damn Rubik Cube. How could a children's game defeat him so easily? He was a child prodigy, a genius. How could this game have the better hand over him?

Sherlock found himself remembering the last time he had met his enemy. He had been nine, just solved his first theft case in the schoolyard, and Mycroft had introduced them.

"This is a Rubik Cube – a children's mind game. It's the one game that everyone wants to own." Mycroft had told him, the colourful cube sitting on his palm.

"And why would I want something that everyone else has?"

Mycroft had simply smiled. "It's a difficult puzzle to work out, I admit. Hardly anybody can complete it so I thought what better way to test your intelligence."

He'd spent three full days and nights attempting the puzzle before he'd snapped and began taking the stickers off.

And now, 25 years later, he had fallen for the same old trick once again and was on the verge of repeating the whole experience. The end of his nail scraped lightly at the slightly lose corner of a sticker, tempting him.

"Sherlock, were you about to … cheat on Rubik Cube?" John's disbelieving tone snapped the consulting detective out of his thoughts causing him to jump and clutch the toy tightly.

"No! Of course not! I was just, eh … just, um …" he searched for an excuse from his mind bank but found nothing. He sighed in frustration, "It wasn't my fault! It drove me to do it!"

"I'm sure it did." John replied, causing Sherlock to shot him a glare.

"I'm not kidding Watson." He snapped, calling his lover by his last name – something he only did when he was annoyed, "This is serious. This … this game is toying with me. Driving my insane. I can't win – it's impossible."

John rolled his eyes. "Humans flying is impossible. Rubik Cube isn't. It just takes a special kind of intelligence. Pass it here."

Taking the box from his flatmate, he examined each side closely. Once done, he twisted a row, then a column, interchanging the colours on each side of the cube. Sherlock watched wide eyes, not entirely sure to believe what he was seeing or not, as the puzzle was slowly, but definitely, coming together – completed – before him.

"There, done." John stated after about five minutes and handed the game over.

"How … how did you do that? Sherlock asked, his eyes wide, not believing for a minute that the ex-military man could finish this game when he, a child prodigy, could not.

John shrugged. "I'll show you if you like, under one condition …"

"And what would that –?" Sherlock's sentence ended with a gasp as the smaller man pushed him back on his chair and straddled his waist. All thoughts of Rubik Cubes and irritating older brothers left him with one single kiss.