It was 7 in the morning and the flats on Baker Street were quiet and peaceful. The only notable sounds were the few cars passing by on the street and the rain falling steadily onto the pavement. A few people hurried down the street, most of them running late for meetings, the rest simply trying to get out the rain for a bit.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary that morning, not until precisely 7:02, when the sound of gunshots emanated from 221B, the flat of none other than the infamous Sherlock Holmes. He had draped himself over an armchair and fired the pistol in his hand at the wall.
A short man with light brown hair plodded into the room. He yawned and reached to scratch the back of his head. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" he asked with a touch of concern.
"You know very well what I'm doing, John. This wouldn't be the first time," Sherlock responded, shooting another bullet at the wall. John shook his head sleepily and walked away.
John Watson was used to Sherlock's unusual behavior, especially when Sherlock found himself to be bored. They had been flatmates for far too long for John to be unaware of it. He looked around the kitchen and called out, "Would you like a cup of tea, Sherlock?"
Sherlock turned and looked at Watson, considering the offer for a moment before replying, "Sure, why not," and firing once more at the wall.
The door flew open and Mrs. Hudson entered. She glared sternly at Sherlock and said, "You ought to put that gun away. You're ruining my wall- and I'd just had it fixed from the last time!"
"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied sarcastically. Nevertheless, he lowered the gun. He didn't really want Mrs. Hudson to be upset, but she should know better than to fix the wall so soon. What else was he supposed to do when he was bored?
"Thank you, dear," she said.
"Mrs. Hudson! Care for a cup of tea?" John asked graciously.
"No, thanks, I should be going now. Behave yourselves," she smiled. As soon as the door closed behind her, Sherlock raised the gun.
"Sherlock, really!" interjected John. Couldn't Sherlock wait just one minute before resuming his reckless entertainment?
"Fine," Sherlock said as he placed the gun on the table. John swiftly grabbed the gun and placed it out of reach. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sipped his tea.
The two sat in silence for several minutes. "Any new clients?" Sherlock asked. John shook his head and turned his attention to the window. Drops of water raced down the glass, pooling momentarily at the bottom before steadily dripping onto the sidewalk below. More raindrops would smash into the window and a new race would start. Sherlock noticed that John was very distracted and followed his gaze to the window. He sighed- it was a waste of time watching the rain. There were many more important things to do.
Sherlock sipped his tea and began to wonder why Inspector Lestrade hadn't called them with a case that the police were too foolish to solve or why no new clients had called yet informing them of some mysterious problem that surely only Sherlock Holmes could make sense of. Had they missed a call in the middle of the night? His clear blue-sometimes-greenish eyes swept over to the phone. No, they hadn't missed a call. Impossible. He glanced at John's laptop. Had they received an email? It was nearly 8; something had to be amiss out there, right?
"John, turn on the news."
"Why can't you do it?"
"Because I just... Please John, don't be difficult."
John sighed and turned on the television and found the news. "...war is in progress. The Americans are-"
"Is there any other news?" Sherlock asked.
John flipped through various talk shows and commercials and finally found another channel with news. Sherlock perked up as the broadcaster announced (after giving a full weather report of rain and possible sunshine later in the week) that there was "breaking news this morning."
"Turn it up!" Sherlock said.
"Last night the police stopped a robbery of a local corner shop. The thieves will be unnamed until further investigation has been done. Also, early this morning around 4, police were called when someone claimed to have heard gunshots. There were no casualties in the area and it was determined to have been a car backfiring."
Sherlock turned to John and said, "Are they sure it was a car? Perhaps we should go make sure they didn't miss anything."
"No, Sherlock. There's no need for us to be involved in this one." Sherlock frowned.
"In other news, a cat was stuck in a tree! Stay tuned to hear the story of the brave man who rescued it."
"Ugh..." Sherlock groaned.
"What is it?"
"I'm bored!"
"Here, Sherlock, watch something."
The two spent the next couple of hours mindlessly watching the telly. Well, mostly. They consumed an incredible amount of tea as Sherlock yelled at the characters, telling them how unintelligent they were being. Finally, John glanced over at Sherlock who was concentrated on the telly. "Sherlock?" Sherlock did not respond; he did not even notice John's presence. "Sherlock?! SHERLOCK!"
Sherlock turned his attention to John at long last. "Yes, John?"
"Finally! Do you want to go find some lunch?"
"Oh, I suppose..." Sherlock responded, sullenly turning off the television.
"Excellent. How about the cafe?"
"We always go there."
"Well, yes. We're regular customers. It means we'll get decent service."
Sherlock mulled this over and nodded. He remained sprawled across the chair and stared at John.
"Well? Grab your coat and let's be off!" John exclaimed impatiently. With a sigh, Sherlock stood and retrieved his coat and scarf. John leaned against the door.
Suddenly, the door swung open and John lost his balance. His arms spun wildly as he started to fall forward. Catching himself on the back of an armchair he whirled around to face the door.
"Oh, terribly sorry. I didn't intend to startle you; I didn't expect anyone to be standing in front of the door," a well-dressed man apologized. He leaned on his umbrella and waited for John to respond. John, however, was gaping at him in shock. He half-heartedly pointed for emphasis, but the accompanying words did not follow. His mouth flapped open like a fish out of water. Frowning, he lowered his arm and closed his mouth.
"All right, I'm ready to go, John," Sherlock called as he approached the doorway. He was focused on pulling on his gloves and didn't see the man by the door.
"Uh, Sherlock..." John said weakly.
"Hm? What is- Oh... Mycroft."
"Hello, Sherlock."
"Any government secrets you want to share? Secret missions? A case, perhaps?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, no. Can't I just drop in and visit my brother?"
"No," Sherlock replied curtly. John was uncomfortable with the tension in the room and examined his shoes.
" Fine. Figure it out, Sherlock. Why am I here?" Mycroft said sarcastically.
Sherlock observed his brother for a moment, taking note of the condition of his clothes, shoes, and of his body language and tired expression. Mycroft was wearing his usual work attire and his shoes were scuffed, which was unusual; he appeared stressed based on how he held himself up and his expression indicated that he was overworked.
"So, you're here on business, but not the usual business. No, someone sent you to check up on me. It seems you have additional responsibilities because of my line of work. That, and you're concerned about me. You probably volunteered to check on me because it was your 'responsibility'," Sherlock smiled.
"You're right, I am here to check on you; you have an irritating tendency to get into trouble and to stick your nose where it doesn't belong. It doesn't appear that you are out of line today, though. Sorry for the trouble."
Sherlock glared for a moment and then pushed past his brother. He called over his shoulder, "Come on, John! I haven't got all day!" and stormed out of the building.
Mycroft followed them to the cafe and observed them while he nonchalantly sipped a cup of tea and ate a slice of cake. Just one slice couldn't hurt, right? His presence, however, upset Sherlock and turned lunch into a long ordeal ending with John frantically apologizing to the waitress between angry glances at Sherlock.
It was half past one when John and Sherlock finally returned to their flat. John collapsed into a chair, releasing a long sigh. Sherlock, on the other hand, began pacing, his shoes rhythmically hitting the floorboards as he walked.
"What are you thinking about?" John asked.
"Nothing that concerns you," Sherlock replied.
John shook his head and decided it didn't matter. That is, until, Sherlock's pounding footsteps and constant muttering started to drive him mad. At last, he shouted, "Sherlock! Stop pacing! We're not even on a case- what do you have to think about?"
Sherlock halted and spun on his heels to face him. "I have plenty of things to think about. At this time, I am first, figuring out precisely what Mycroft was doing here and for whom, and second, why we have no cases. Surely someone has been murdered? Injured? Stolen from? They need us, John."
"Sherlock, he's your brother. I'm fairly certain he was here because he cares about you, whether or not either of you would ever admit it."
"Yes, yes, but there has to be another reason. He wouldn't just-"
John interrupted saying, "There doesn't have to be another reason. You're overthinking this."
"Fine. Let's say you're right. Why, then, did he follow us to the cafe, after being assured that we aren't part of any dangerous cases today?"
"I don't know, Sherlock. But wouldn't it just be easier to just ask him?" John asked. He started to regret those words. A simple solution for Sherlock? The idea was mockable.
"Ha! Like he would tell me anything," Sherlock scoffed.
"What's your solution, then?"
"I haven't gotten that far yet!" Sherlock shouted. John smiled to himself. He'd figured as much.
"As for the cases, Sherlock, there are people who have full-time jobs investigating cases like those. They know what they're doing and don't always need your help."
"But they'll miss something! Some detail they find insignificant! It could change the whole outcome of the case!"
John stared at Sherlock and shrugged, not knowing what else he could say to change Sherlock's mind. Not that it mattered.
"I say we go find Lestrade," Sherlock stated.
"Sherlock, no! If he needed your help, he would ring."
"Fine. Let's follow Mycroft, then."
"What? Why?" John exclaimed.
Sherlock sighed and looked pointedly at John. "Because, John, we need to figure out what he was up to today."
"I don't think-"
"You really should think more, then. He was up to something. I'm sure of it," Sherlock interrupted. He resumed pacing, his hands clasped behind his back. John heaved a sigh and slowly rose to his feet.
"All right, Sherlock. Let's find Mycroft. Where do you propose we start?"
Sherlock paused and then said, "Well, it's the middle of the day; he should still be at work. Of course, that presents a problem: he could be anywhere depending on what he was supposed to do today. It could be extremely difficult to find him, but not, however, impossible."
"How is that not impossible?" John replied incredulously.
"John, John, John... Don't you know me at all?" Sherlock smirked.
About an hour later, they were outside of a tall building. A shiny black car was parked by the curb. John was uneasy with snooping on Mycroft but knew he would lose any argument against it.
Sherlock noticed footprints on the sidewalk. They were barely noticeable but were outlined in dirt- whoever left them had walked through a mud puddle on their way. He found the dry remains of the puddle a couple feet away in an uneven stretch of concrete.
"These are the footprints of a man... A man in a hurry. And he went-"
"Excellent sleuthing, Sherlock. But honestly, what are you doing here?" Mycroft interrupted from behind them.
"Oh, um, Mycroft... Hello!" John mumbled uneasily.
Mycroft acknowledged John with a curt nod and returned his attention to Sherlock, who was attempting to discern information from Mycroft's appearance once more.
"I was," Sherlock paused, searching for the right word, "Investigating."
"Spying on me?"
"Well, yes, I suppose you could put it that way, but really it has little to do with spying," Sherlock replied, narrowing his eyes. John interested himself with the cars driving by, not wanting to be involved in this.
"I see. May I ask you why?"
"You may, but I cannot guarantee you a satisfactory response," Sherlock answered.
Mycroft glared. "Perhaps I could be of assistance if you told me what you are, ahem, investigating."
"I was doing just fine without your help, Mycroft," Sherlock said. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock and considered elbowing him but decided on a better plan and cleared his throat. Mycroft and Sherlock faced John, briefly suspending their conversation to listen to him.
"Sherlock wanted to know your reasons for your visit today."
Astonished, Mycroft stared at Sherlock; Sherlock glared at John disapprovingly. Completely unapologetic, John crossed his arms and waited for an answer. When one didn't surface, he asked, "Well?"
"I told you! I was checking up on you!" Mycroft sputtered.
Regaining his composure, Sherlock argued, "But there has to be another reason! Who told you to check on me?"
"No one told me to do anything, Sherlock. All right? I wanted to check on you!"
"Why?" Sherlock shouted.
"Because I care about you, Sherlock! Get that through your thick skull!"
"I'm not thick, Mycroft," Sherlock replied bitterly.
Mycroft sighed and said, "I know that, Sherlock. Now if you'll excuse me, I have things to do."
John smiled triumphantly at Sherlock. "It's just what I told you, isn't it Sherlock?"
"For once," Sherlock answered. John's smile faltered a bit.
When they returned to their flat, Sherlock was in a foul mood. He lowered himself into a chair and thought with his hands in front of his mouth, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, almost in a prayerful posture as he glared over his fingertips.
John knew better than to check the refrigerator for food and he headed out. He had offered to bring back something for Sherlock, but Sherlock ignored him. Sherlock hadn't moved by the time John returned. With a pitied glance at Sherlock, John checked his blog.
It was dark by the time Sherlock stood. He didn't take any notice of John and he picked up his violin and began to play as he enjoyed doing. After an hour or so, Sherlock carefully set down his violin.
"Good night, Sherlock," John said, retreating to his bedroom.
"Good night, John," Sherlock answered quietly. Despite the city lights hiding the stars, Sherlock gazed out at the dark sky, still lost in thought and hoping for a more exciting day to come.