John usually doesn't do things like this, considering that he's a doctor and not a babysitter damn it. It was his day off for crying out loud and he definitely had better things to do. But still, here he was on his way to Mycroft's house to watch over his little brother while Mycroft attended to some pressing matters.
Mycroft and him weren't exactly close friends but they were far from being just acquaintances either. They had known each other for a while now, just under a year in fact, but Mycroft was a busy man, thus making lunch dates very few and far apart. He knew enough about Mycroft to call him a good friend, but John had found this request to be quite outlandish and perhaps a little presumptuous.
He doesn't know why he's complaining, though. In fact, if John were being honest he wouldn't say he was doing this out of the kindness of his heart. John was well aware of Mycroft's financial success and if John could make a quick and reasonable fee for just watching a kid for a few hours, then why not? To be fair, this wasn't the only reason John was friends with Mycroft but it didn't hurt either.
There was no shame in this fact, however, because Mycroft knew why John was doing it and he didn't care either way. As long as John carried out the dubious task. Anyone with half a brain knew to steer clear of Mycroft's infamous little brother. John has never met Mycroft's brother in person, but he's certainly gathered enough information about him by colleagues him and Mycroft share.
His name was Sherlock which was, just like Mycroft, a rather silly name if you asked John. It made John want to question who on Earth would name their children Mycroft and Sherlock. But it wasn't his place to ask, or complain for that matter. John didn't have to do this and no one had twisted his arm. This was on his own volition.
John arrived at the front of Mycroft's house a few moments later and he did not have to double check to see if he had the right address. He wouldn't go so far as to call it a mansion, but it was pretty darn close and it put John's tiny apartment to shame ten times over. And then some. John couldn't even begin to imagine how much this made a dent in Mycroft's bank account, if it made one at all.
He makes his way up the big path, taking long strides to cover the distance in half the time. John gets to the front door, giving the impressive archway a once over before ringing the bell to make his presence known. He stands there for a long moment just waiting, rocking on his heels and back again. It's a big place and John doesn't hold anything against Mycroft for taking a considerable amount of time to answer the door.
"Ah! John Watson," Mycroft greets when he's opened the door and there is a faint smile of familiarity, or maybe the look is astute. "Please, do come in."
"I'm not late am I?" John inquires, getting ready to apologize if he is, but Mycroft shakes his head lightly.
"Right on time actually," Mycroft clarifies, shutting the door behind them. "Was the place difficult to find?"
"Not at all. I just got a late start this morning," John tells him with a nervous chuckle as he looks around.
"I can imagine so," Mycroft comments. "Excuse me a moment, would you?"
Mycroft walks past John to stand at the foot a big staircase, resting a hand on the banister while he plants the other on his hip.
"Sherlock! I say, Sherlock!" Mycroft calls out, letting his voice carry up the stairs. There is no initial response and this Mycroft to become cross. "Sherlock get your narrow behind to the foyer this instant!"
Which was a nice way of saying, get your scrawny ass down here right now or else. John has to cringe a little at that outburst, wondering how Mycroft can raise his voice at his little brother with such contempt. There is still no response, even to this threat, but there is a faint shuffle of feet that can be heard coming down the hall upstairs.
A head of wild curls emerges at the top of the stairs and John's jaw literally drops at the sight of the kid because, by all rights, he's not a kid. Not entirely, at least. John had expected many things, even the worst, but he was almost certain Sherlock was a child going by the things people have told him. This, however, was not the case.
"For god's sake, show some manners and come greet our guest!" Mycroft calls up to him. He turns sideways, mouthing the word sorry to John.
Sherlock sighs heavily as if it really pains him to do so and lazily takes his time descending the stairs. He grips onto the wooden railing, letting his hand run down the smooth polished surface. Each heavy foot fall results in Sherlock's curls bouncing slightly and his head bobbles around, presenting the appearance of being too lazy to have any posture to speak of.
"And would it kill you to stand up straight?" Mycroft remarks rhetorically.
Sherlock doesn't react to this, in fact his posture slackens even more, going so far as to stick his tongue at Mycroft with a pinched expression. It's in this moment when John realizes what a brat Sherlock is and why everyone had referred to him as a child because he certainly acted like one.
Sherlock seemed to be in his mid-teens, possibly fourteen or maybe even fifteen, going by the light acne and petulant attitude towards his brother. He was easily taller than John, though, seeming to have hit a growth spurt earlier on, thus making him appear older.
But the boy, despite his childish demeanor, was absolutely breathtaking in every sense of the word. From his bright blue eyes all the way down to his long, pale legs that stemmed from his shorts. Sherlock was the embodiment of sin itself and if it were up to John, he would most definitely have his way with Sherlock right now on those stairs in front of Mycroft's disapproving scowl of contempt.
When the boy finally reaches the base of the stairs he goes out of his way to step around Mycroft with his nose turned up, and, oh what a brat he is. John is able to make more accurate assessments now that Sherlock is on ground level with him and the mere presence of the boy is staggering as it is overpowering.
"What's so important that you had to call me all the way down here?" Sherlock comments in a snotty tone, rolling his eyes.
And, oh god, does that make John's blood boil in the best way possible. The very attitude of this boy is enough to send him climbing up the walls.
"Don't pretend that you aren't aware," Mycroft accuses knowingly, scowling ever so slightly. "I told you last night."
"You know I don't listen to a word you say," Sherlock points out and it's an obvious lie meant to rattle Mycroft's cage. His irises drift over towards John, becoming vaguely curious of the older man. "To what do I owe the dubious thrill?"
"As you should already know, I'm going to a very important meeting today," Mycroft informs as he goes on to introduce John to shift the focus of the conversation. "This is Mr. Watson. He'll be looking after you in Mrs. Hudson's absence."
Sherlock's bright gaze flicks over to the blonde man again, giving him an apathetic once over as if he's deducing him quietly. This soon changes when Sherlock gives John a sly little smile, hinting at a plot or scheme in the making. John squirms slightly, feeling put on the spot by Sherlock's sudden keen interest on him.
"Well, you certainly are an improvement," Sherlock observes suggestively, referring to John as he stares at him more thoroughly. "Are you not going to introduce us more properly, Mycroft?"
"Sherlock, this is John Watson. He's a friend of mine. John Watson this is my... pretentious little brother, Sherlock" Mycroft bites out, casting a stern gaze at Sherlock that goes ignores for the most part.
"It certainly is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Watson," Sherlock purrs, slinking up to John almost in a lewd manner as he gnaws on his thumbnail to emulate innocence.
"And it's nice to meet you-"
"Very stimulating," Sherlock adds, cutting off John's sentence.
"Sherlock, behave yourself now," Mycroft warns, gaining him a scornful look from the rambunctious teen.
"You'll have to excuse Mycroft. He's quite the stick in the mud. A real prude," Sherlock says, raising his voice on the last sentence to get a reaction. "Never lets me have any fun."
"Yes, poor Sherlock... Always playing martyrdom," Mycroft mocks with a bored tone, turning to John instead. "If you need to contact me you have my number. Don't hesitate to do so either. Though I'd prefer it if you text rather than call."
"Thank you, but I'm sure we'll be quite fine," John assures with a well-practiced smile even though his cringing internally.
"Let's hope so," Mycroft remarks with a weary look, grabbing his umbrella from the coat rack near the door. "By all means, make yourself at home and don't hesitate to take a look around. I should be back by eight. I have to get going now."
Mycroft spared a look down at his watch and quirked his eyebrows in surprise, rushing out the door with another word. The front door clicked shut and John was left there, standing alone in silence with Sherlock who began to walk around him in a circle as if to study him more thoroughly. It unhinged John a little but he let Sherlock satisfy his curiosity.
"So, is there anything I should know about? Anything that you're not supposed to do in particular or..?" John offers, trying to start a conversation.
The questions make Sherlock stop in mid stride as he was about to come around to John's front. Sherlock places his hands upon his hips and steps around John, brushing against the older man fleetingly. John shivers at the contact, letting his eyes rake along the backs of Sherlock's exposed calves, all the way up to his taut little butt barely concealed within his shorts.
Oh, the things John would do to this boy if he were a few years older. How glorious this boy would look in the throes of passion as John scraped his blunt nails down the expanse of Sherlock's undoubtedly pale back, leaving vague welts in their wake. John would enjoy making this brat suffer in the most pleasurable way possible.
"Do you think I'd really tell you if I wasn't supposed to do something?" Sherlock presses, basking in his perpetual arrogance.
"Honesty is the best policy," John states, willing himself to concentrate on other things. Sherlock seems to consider this.
"Suppose you're right," Sherlock agrees, mulling it over for a moment longer before dropping his hands down off of his hips. "But I honestly can't remember half the things I'm not allowed to do. You see, I've lost count."
"I guess it doesn't matter either way. As long as you don't burn the place down," John chuckles lightly, trying for a joke.
"Can't make any promises," Sherlock retorts with a wicked grin, and oh how his lips curve just a shade of sinful.
Sherlock's lips are in a perfect bow shape, almost reminiscent of those sappy hearts people receive on Valentine's day, and it gets John's pulse pounding. It's unfair how gorgeous this boy is and the fact that he's only fifteen makes it even more ludicrous. John unconsciously lips his dry lips, wondering what it would feel like to claim those lips as his own and what it would sound like if he were to bite them tenderly.
John smiles nervously, feeling himself be drawn in by the boy's uncanny ability to seduce a man with a suggestive gesture or comment. He walks further into the house, past Sherlock and into what he assumes to be the family room. There's plenty of antique furniture lying around as well as a fireplace and John is definitely impressed by how well off Mycroft is, if not a little jealous.
Sherlock undoubtedly follows John around like a lost puppy or, better yet, a shadow. He trails close behind John as the older man inspects some of the trinkets and other dull family heirlooms that Sherlock couldn't care less about. He watches as deft fingers brush against brass and silver, collecting dust on the tips before rubbing the residue away on his jumper. Sherlock is fascinated by John in a very subtle way.
"My brother must have promised you a big sum for watching me," Sherlock states aloud, snapping John out of his preoccupation with useless knick knacks. "Why else would you be here?"
"What makes you think I'm not a babysitter?" John asks, turning his attention to Sherlock once again.
"Well, considering you're a middle aged man and babysitting is a predominant occupational choice found mostly in young women, I wouldn't believe it for a moment," Sherlock rattles off stepping in close to John to invade his space.
"That maybe so, but I don't see how it's relevant," John replies, side stepping around Sherlock to avoid feeling crowded.
"Just curious..."
"About what?"
"You," Sherlock puts simply, following John as he makes his way towards a bookshelf. "Who you are, really."
"No one of consequence, I can assure you," John brushes off.
"I still want to know," Sherlock bugs and this makes John stop abruptly and turn around sharply.
"Haven't you got some things to do? Like homework or chores?" John inquires, seeing how some people can be easily annoyed by Sherlock asking questions.
"Haven't you got a job to do?" Sherlock quips and it shoots John down as he crashes and burns.
John gives him a truly irritated look and there's that smug little grin of his spreading across his face again. Sherlock's grin widens even more because he knows he's gotten under John's skin now and there he will stay until he's thoroughly enjoyed himself.
Yes... This was going to be fun indeed.