Disclaimer: I own no part of Sherlock or its characters.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, and the Met.
Genre: Humor, crack(ish).
Rating: PG (Swearing. So much swearing.)
Word Count: 857
Notes: Single most ridiculous thing I have ever written ever. Can guarantee at least one person will curse my name for this. Oh god.
They are in the middle of an unusually quiet crime scene when John first hears Sherlock say it, and it causes the biggest uproar John's ever seen—bigger, even, than the fiasco with the estranged daughter and the missing hand that was less "missing" and more "appropriated by Sherlock". (And that, at the time, had been the uproar to end all uproars.)
And all it takes is four seemingly-innocuous words: "I lost The Game."
John should have realized, even before the words were out, that there was more to it than it seemed; Sherlock never loses at anything, and when he does (usually to Mycroft), he goes sulky and sullen and turns into an absolute horror to deal with.
But those four words, oh, Sherlock savors them, pronouncing each syllable with the utmost care, practically purrs them in a voice that is seductive and sly and gleeful. It's a voice that John hears in his nightmares, because it usually precedes a shitstorm.
And it does.
From behind John comes Donovan's incoherent shriek of rage; one of Anderson's underlings actually drops the box in his arms with a cry of dismay. Anderson himself turns, kicks the wall, and mutters something that sounds like, "Complete bastard!"
"Damn it, Sherlock!" Lestrade says, rounding on the detective. "How many times have I told you—"
"You have to say it, too, you know," Sherlock interrupts, looking indecently pleased with himself.
Lestrade swears. "I really do hate you."
And then he glances around and nods—and like some kind of morbid, resentful primary school class, the entire crime scene choruses, "I lost The Game."
Sherlock must see the utterly bewildered look on his flatmate's face, because before John can ask, he leans down and whispers, "I'll explain later."
The Game is juvenile and ridiculous and there's really no point in it because it's impossible to win.
Somehow, it makes sense that Sherlock likes it.
It is three months later when John begins to suspect that Sherlock loses The Game on purpose. It is the only possible explanation for the fact that since then, Sherlock has managed to lose The Game...
...just as John begins to pour himself a scalding hot cup of tea. (Damage: One burnt finger, one chipped teacup.)
...while watching Lestrade sign his divorce papers. (Damage: One ruined divorce: "—Christ! Damn. D'you think they'll still take these?" "Unlikely. Looks like you're married for a while yet." "You—John, get him out of here before I throttle him!")
...the moment John answers a phone call from Sarah. (Damage: One ruined relationship: "Oh, you complete prat!—No, not you, sorry, I'm so—Sarah? Oh—bollocks...")
...right as poor Molly begins an autopsy. (Damage: Three ruined sets of clothing, one corpse accidentally maimed post-mortem.)
...while Dimmock handcuffs an enormous thug of a criminal. (Damage: One black eye for Dimmock, one ripped shirt for Sherlock, one set of bruised knuckles for John, and one broken nose for the criminal.)
Sherlock swears up and down that he's not cheating, and he's certainly not doing it on purpose; he simply has impeccable timing.
Given that this is Sherlock, John very nearly believes it.
A week after the Ripped Shirt Incident, Mycroft strolls into the flat, his umbrella in one hand and a case file in the other. John is on his tip-toes, attempting to replace a very heavy medical text on the top shelf where it belongs, watched from the sofa by an unhelpful Sherlock, when the elder Holmes enters.
And that's when Sherlock says, "I lost The Game."
John manages a strangled, "Shit!" before the book comes down on his head.
He awakes to a mildly-concerned Sherlock and an exasperated Mycroft staring down at him.
"Really, Sherlock. You're lucky that didn't break his nose," Mycroft is saying, to which his brother merely replies, "Shut up."
"I hate you," John groans as he sits up. "You are an utter bastard, do you know that? How long was I out? And hello, Mycroft."
The detective waves a hand. "Barely a minute." His gaze sharpens intently. "You have to say it."
John glares. "No."
"Those are the rules. You have to say it."
"No!" And maybe Sherlock's childishness has rubbed off on him, or maybe he's still out of it, but for whatever reason, he looks between the brothers and blurts out, "Did Mycroft say it?"
Something sullen crosses Sherlock's face. "No. He never says it."
"Well, there you go! I'm not saying it, Sher—"
"He doesn't have to. He never loses The Game."
John blinks, glancing at Mycroft.
"Wh—How—That's not possible. Everyone loses The Game. It's impossible to win, that's the point!"
"Not necessarily," Mycroft says. "It is in the first rule, which, sadly, has long since been forgotten by the majority of Players."
"The... first rule?"
Sherlock is outright scowling by this point. "Rule One: Mycroft never loses The Game."
"What? You can't be serious. That can't possibly—"
"I assure you, Doctor Watson, it is entirely possible," the elder Holmes interjects smoothly, in that oily politician voice that drives Sherlock absolutely up the wall. "Who do you think invented The Game?"
Prompt: Taken from the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme: "Mycroft has never lost The Game. Ever."
Thank you for reading!