Korean Elections
Mycroft opened the door to 221B with his own copy of the key – not that Sherlock, John or Mrs. Hudson suspected it – and silently surveyed the empty living room.
He pulled his pocket watch out of his waistcoat and clicked it open. Odd. It was past six and according to his calculations, his brother and the army doctor should have already been back. Maybe they got stuck in the traffic, even if he had done everything possible to prevent another war and not worsen the condition of London traffic more than necessary.
He yawned and put the watch back in the pocket where it belonged, then he put down his umbrella and raincoat on the armrest of the comfy chair that faced the door. He walked once around the room, taking in every odd detail, everything that had changed since the last time he had been there. He picked up a book that his brother had discarded and left on the floor and settled himself on the armchair to wait.
After half a dozen pages he yawned again, he had stayed up all night because of those bloody Korean election. He sighed, because his internal clock was set on Seoul's time zone. And it was late for him.
Surely he should start worrying by now that they hadn't arrived home?
He managed to get to the end of the chapter regarding the way bees communicated, then his eyes felt heavy, and he let the book slip through his fingers to the floor.
The soft thump almost woke him up, but then he shifted in the chair to find a more comfortable position and dozed off.
Half an hour later Sherlock opened the door, followed by John. They were both giggling about something Sherlock had said on their way back, and it took Holmes a couple of seconds to notice his brother, snoring in his chair.
"Someone is in my chair," he commented, examining his brother from a safe distance.
John giggled because he thought 'Goldilocks', but was careful to keep his voice low as not to wake the other man up.
"John, can you fetch me a blanket?" asked Sherlock, stretching out a hand in wait.
The doctor reached behind one of the pillows of the sofa and retrieved an old tartan blanket that Mrs. Hudson had lent them months before, he gave it to Sherlock and watched in silence as the world's only consulting detective tucked the blanket carefully around his brother.
"Stupid Mycroft," he mumbled to himself as he undid his brother's shoes and removed them. "Almost starving himself and not sleeping enough for those stupid Korean elections." He shook his head and then turned towards John, who had a stupid grin on his face.
"Let's go and get ourselves some Chinese," Sherlock proposed, "and let's get some extra sweet and sour chicken for Mycroft."