The rain came fast and heavy in London. The skies darkened to a deep grey, and the sun was soon engulfed in its clouds.
The man, in a dark suit with slicked-back black hair, watched and waited carefully on the other side of 221B Baker Street. He eyed the front door critically as if psycho-analysing the small, incredibly wrapped up bundle on the step. Maybe he should press the doorbell again? Or yell and see if anyone would come out? He contemplated this, and just as he'd decided to cross the road, the door clicked open and Sherlock Holmes poked his curly head out into the street. It took him about a minute to look down, and another to send him into horror before he slammed the door again. The man on the other side of the street watched this and sighed crossly. A little word with his brother might help to persuade him to take what was on the step. So, swirling his umbrella and opening it out, Mycroft Holmes stepped out into the glittering torment of rain and over towards 221B.
The slamming of the door instantly alerted John to the fact that whoever had been on the step, Sherlock must've taken a quick dislike to. He sighed and got out of his armchair before stamping downstairs to find Sherlock leaning against the wall. His face was white with annoyance and (maybe, John couldn't tell) horror. Sherlock didn't look like he was going to tell John what to expect, so he shrugged and reached to unlock the door. As it opened onto a downpour of heavy rain, Mycroft Holmes's big nose and a small bundle which was tucked under one arm, he immediately knew he shouldn't have opened the door.
"What the-?" John couldn't stop staring as Mycroft stepped inside and closed his umbrella and the door. Sherlock just grimaced at his older brother and shook his head.
"No."
"No?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "You shouldn't know what I've come to ask."
Sherlock glared at him. "I'm not stupid," he began but was interrupted by his brother who muttered.
"I should really hope not!"
"- I saw what you are holding, so I know what you've come to ask me. By the way, before you proclaim your innocence in this by saying you merely found it on my doorstep and was kind enough to bring it in, I can prove you wrong. And I will, right now. To begin with, I can say with certainty you've been standing outside our flat for around an hour, judging by your wet coat and sodden umbrella. I would've said your hair would get unmercifully wind-swept but you must've been standing in an alleyway opposite. These simple facts and the timing mean I am right. Oh, by the way, whose is it?"
John looked bemusedly at Mycroft, whose face looked as though he'd been forced to tell another country private information about the government. "Whose is what?" he asked as Sherlock threw up his hands.
"The parcel, John, or should I say the bundle? You know how I detest them!" Sherlock added to his brother. John narrowed his eyes; Mycroft's arm was obscuring his view of whatever he was holding. He still didn't understand what the hell was going on, which was, frankly, rather annoying-
"Hate what?" he pressed, trying to see what Mycroft had.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Good God, John! The small adult! Wait, is that right? Oh yes, the man-child!"
John made a face. "You mean a baby?"
"Yes that's it, I think I deleted that information last week but whatever the case-"
"Right, so anyway," John cut in. "Why the hell do you have a baby, Mycroft?"