*Bad blood*
by: WhiteGloves
A.N: ahh another twist here and there :)
Thank you and enjoy!
221B was as everybody remembers it from its dark door with golden plate, brass Victorian knocker and white wall. The street was quite empty, except a visible dark sedan parked opposite main door. It was already common for the residents of the street to see unusual vehicle in front of the said building for as everyone knows— this is the spot of the great sleuth, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Mrs. Hudson, the landlady and quite liked by many, is then seen coming out from the Speedy's Café to return inside her building, carrying a box of scones meant for her favorite tenants upstairs. Leading up, the ambiance of morning is still felt in the large sitting room of the second floor, complete with fireplace and only too familiar tangle tree wall paper with a vandal of a smiling face in yellow spray paint. The occupants were already awake and eating breakfast with utensils on plate in their little table amidst the clutter about them, but what was made to be a promising day of peace was easily broken by a single word like a ripple to a once tranquil river.
"No." It was dry and very deeply uttered.
"It's not a matter of choice, brothermine, and as you know I can be persuasive." Came the gentle retort with an edge to its tone.
"Mycroft, which word in the dictionary is strong enough to make that stubborn head of yours understand— let alone knock my answer in your forehead? I said no."
"But you are giving me no choice, Sherlock—"
"I've heard that one before."
"We have a situation." Mycroft said through gritted teeth, with his thin eyebrows forming a line as he stood in the middle of the flat with the kitchen behind him, "National security as well as our international interest is at risk. There are other immediate concern I need to attend with this being a priority. We are dealing with cyberattacks left to right, the government is in chaos over the referendum— I am late for a cabinet meeting and we are talking in circles when you know you'll interfere anyway—for godsake, just assure me you'll do as I say!"
Sherlock finally raised his eyes from the newspaper he was holding from the breakfast table he and John were sharing. It was top of the morning with the consulting detective still on his robes, while his older brother had graced 221B with his presence, yet again, in quite a foul mood Sherlock hasn't seen on him since the White House' unprecedented house call, wearing his familiar conventional gray three-piece suit, too polished black shoes and blue umbrella tie that goes with the typical frown on his ever cynical face.
"When did I ever do as you said?" Sherlock asked sarcastically as he sipped on his tea.
Mycroft rolled his eyes, "To be exact—28 years ago when I taught you how to tune your first violin."
"I didn't think you were such a sportsman." Sherlock jeered.
"If you two would stop flirting, I can finish some real work here. Rosy's sleeping." John interrupted as he cut on his bacon, and raised his eyes on the telly where he already muted the reporter in front of a precinct, "Of course, I'm not expecting any quiet morning but hey, who doesn't raise their hopes up around here?" he looked at the brothers innocently to find they had ignored him and was glaring at each other.
"I'm not having this, Sherlock. I can't let you be reckless or I'm telling you, you won't even survive."
"You wouldn't have to worry about me surviving if you just stop sending me to places where I can die!"
"What are you talking about—you don't even have to leave London for that. And I worry about you dying every day!" Mycroft corrected with some asperity.
"Oh, please." Sherlock muttered with less enthusiasm, "You'd leave me in South East if you think that's good for the country."
"Can I?" Mycroft feigned innocence, putting a hand on his chest pocket as his mobile phone vibrated, "Honestly, Sherlock, you think getting rid of you is easy but you always put up a good fight—hello, yes? This is me." He quietly walked out of the room, leaving his younger brother making faces at him and cutting his bacon grudgingly.
John watched him with sympathy. Having a bossy older brother was never easy.
"Why don't you just say yes to finish all this crap?" he suggested, "You're not going to listen to him anyways so just nod your head, make him happy."
"Nothing makes Mycroft happy." Sherlock said, acting horrified at the thought and then smirking when he's done. "He wants me to jump on his jet plane, fly to Russia and find the hacking agency the government thinks has been meddling with international roller coasters—"
"Yeah, I heard him the first time—"
"Deal with a number of anti-government agents, not to mention tough securities! Espionage, John!" Sherlock said it as if it was enough explanation, "In Russia!"
"Bit exciting, isn't it?" John shrugged.
"Yes!" Sherlock raised hands and made a gesture of triumph in the air. Then he settled down quietly as if nothing happened. "But I won't do it because it's Mycroft who's asking."
"Rule of the thumb." John sighed as he finished his meal and wiped his mouth, "You'd do it for free if it was Greg asking though."
"Poor bloke doesn't have an idea of the power he's got on me." Sherlock cheered, then his expression turned sour. "My brother's a real pain in the arse if I let him boss me around today he'll never let me hear the end of it."
"You never hear the end of him anyway." John snickered, "Best let him get the response he wants so we can have some peace around here."
"Do you hear yourself? You put shame in Mrs. Hudson's reputation."
"Come on, you can be nice sometimes—he is your brother."
"I never asked him to be my brother."
"Well, he is who you got so suck it up and get him out of this building before I kick you both outside."
Sherlock stared at John like he was the vilest thing he had seen. "John Watson, you're sleeping on the couch."
"That doesn't sound right." John gave the consulting detective a narrowed look.
"Nothing today is right with Mycroft beginning the day." Sherlock muttered as he turned on his food, he looked behind him with a frown, the same moment they hear Mycroft's approaching footsteps, "You hear blood is thicker than water? Get real how messy blood can be and only water can cleanse it."
Mycroft step back right in with a slight crease on his eyebrows. "Where's the remote?"
"Wonderful," Sherlock flashed John a sour smile as the doctor pointed at the couch and the older Holmes bent down to get it. "We didn't invite him to breakfast but he's aiming to stay till lunch and get cozy with the couch."
But Mycroft ignored him as he turned the volume of the television. John noticed his solemn expression while he crossed his arms and heard a reporter's over voice on a clip of police officers in front of a station, pulling on a tall man wearing a black cap with hands cuffed—
"—arrested for carrying firearms in a public place—he's now believed to be part of a terrorist cell that was recently responsible for another attack—"
Sherlock also saw his older brother's expression and watched the arrest with a narrowed look. "And I thought someone's crying Operation London Bridge—"
"Not funny, Sherlock!" John hissed heatedly while Mycroft put both hands on his hips looking with such intent on the screen that did not escape the consulting detective's attention.
"Mycroft—?"
"Mycroft!" cried the tall man on the screen all of a sudden that had three pairs of eyes watch it wide-eyed and held their breaths. The man was now dragged inside the police mobile and he was crying statements on the camera, "He's my brother—he'll help me, someone call him! Mycroft! Mycroft Holmes!"
Silence fell in the whole vicinity, and then Mycroft's phone began incessantly ringing. John's phone too, and then Sherlock's. The younger Holmes was the only one left not responding as he stared at the telly quite struck at what he saw. And then without warning, turned to his older brother who looked back at him with a raised eyebrow as he said—
"Why's he so desperate to have you?"
Mycroft gave him such an exasperated glare before leaving the room. Sherlock, not wasting time, stood up after wiping his mouth with the napkin, eyes still on the television for a moment, then ran to his room to change his clothes. John watched him go and said an abrupt goodbye to a very inquisitive mortician, and they were off.
Interlude
-TBC