A/N:

If anyone is reading this, please help me, the Sherlock Fandom is eating my brain and I no longer make sense to myself.

Apologies for two reasons.

First I know I'm supposed to be finishing my other stories, but my hands have betrayed me. They wrote this story without my consent. That being said, I confess I have rewatched A Study In Pink, and it opened my eyes to a whole new side of Mycroft's character. I can't believe I didn't see it before.

Second, I have never written crack fiction before, and I deeply apologize to the world for what I've done, and I hope never to repeat the experience. Remember, kids, crack!fic is whack!fic.

Now if you'll all excuse me, I must check myself into a rehab somewhere.

Regards,

Jane Martin

Cleaning the flat was always an adventure. One never knew just what lay beneath all of Sherlock Holmes' papers, boxes, clothes, test tubes, beakers, and whatever else he managed to throw all over the common room they shared. John, however, did his best to keep up with the man's untidiness (generally by throwing it all into Sherlock's room).

This day's cleaning, however, revealed an interesting box. It was a large, but light, rectangular box, wrapped in plain brown paper. The postmark read January 2; the return address belonged to M. Holmes. "Sherlock? There's a box here from your brother."

There was a huff from the chair where Sherlock sat, idly tuning his violin. "Throw it away, I can't think of what to do with it."

This was a shock, and immediately piqued John's interest. Normally, Sherlock would throw a professional tantrum if John even threatened to throw anything away. "Why don't you start by opening it?"

"Because it's from Mycroft." Sherlock spat the name out as if it physically pained him. "Obviously."

"Oh, you never know, it could be useful." John sat across from him, holding the box out. He met Sherlock's gaze, shaking the box in front of him slightly, suggesting he take it.

Finally, after precisely twenty seconds of his flat mate's silent needling, waving the stupid box back and forth while wagging his eyebrows, Sherlock snapped, "John. I am not opening the present."

John blinked. "Present?"

Sherlock's eyes widened ever so slightly as he realized his Freudian slip. He sighed dramatically, sinking further into the chair, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. "My brother does this every year. I keep telling him to leave it be, but he continues to pester me about it."

"What, is your birthday coming up?"

Anothe sigh. "My birthday was in January."

"What! And I missed it!" John jumped up to his feet. "Sherlock, why didn't you tell me? I feel terrible!"

"John," Sherlock smiled, "I never told you because I don't celebrate my birthday."

John blinked again. "You don't? Then why..." he trailed off, pointing to the box in his hand.

"He does it to torment me," the melodramatic young man practically moaned. Then he snorted, imitating what was supposed to be Mycroft's voice in a high-pitched, nasally whine, "'Happy birthday, baby brother mine." With more than extra emphasis on the baby.

John sat down again, chuckling. "You do know why he does things like this."

A statement. Not a question. "Of course I know," Sherlock huffed irritably. "He's an insufferable-"

"It's because he loves you."

Sherlock's eyes bulged at the thought. "That is completely impossible."

"Why is it?"

"Mycroft is incapable of that kind of emotion. Both of us have completely purged our minds to avoid those kinds of distractions. Now the man is made entirely of snide spite, anger, and annoyance. There's just no way!"

"No, it's the truth. I can see it." He continued, leaning forward, "Look, as an elder sibling, I know exactly what I'm talking about. Take me and Harry. Yes, I disapprove of Harry's drinking, and yes we both get into it constantly, and yes there are times when I annoy the absolute piss out of her, and yes there are times when we go for months without speaking to one another, but when it comes right down to it, she is my sister. And, God help me, I love her."

Sherlock steepled his fingers together, pondering this odd outburst of warmth practically rolling off of the smaller man in front of him. "I thought, to convey affection, one would seek to avoid annoying the other?" he asked, a bit coldly.

"Normally, yes. But it's different with siblings." He laughed, "Especially with siblings. Siblings..." he fumbled a bit, trying to put it into words. "Siblings know pretty much everything about you. They know just the perfect way to... to push your buttons. Get you irritated. But we don't do it to be mean, we do it just to have a bit of fun. Because we can't get away with it with anyone else."

Sherlock stared at him, almost sheepishly. Of course. It made perfect sense, now. Suddenly the surveillance teams, the unexpected visits, the once-in-a-while letter, constantly checking in with John and commenting on his blog (always the same comment, "Good to hear from you both. Tell Sherlock I said hello. -MH")- they were not just attempts to control Sherlock's life. All of Mycroft's actions suddenly... weren't quite so annoying.

John offered the box again; long fingers slowly extended and grasped it. Sherlock turned the box over and over, studying it. The package weighs approximately one-point-four kilograms, the box is cardboard, fine quality, bought in a department store- plain brown paper encases it perfectly- he's wrapped it himself, of course, just to spite me- slight spot of blood from a paper cut on the lower left corner. Serves him right. He lifted it up by his ear and shook it slightly. No detectable movement. Oh, very well done, Mycroft.

"What do you think it is?" John asked.

"That's the problem with his gifts. He wraps them in such a way that I cannot definitely determine what could be inside. Knowing him, probably something cute. He seems to labor under the delusion that I am five years old, and a girl." He sneered, putting it aside.

"Oh, come on, you spent all that time analyzing it and you won't even open it?" John complained. "Give him a chance, maybe he's got you something nice."

It was pointless to argue. John was going to have his way whether Sherlock liked it or not. Irritably, he tore the paper and opened the box.

John peeked inside. He coughed delicately, hiding a bout of laughter. After choking for nearly a minute while Sherlock glared in the box, fuming, he finally managed "That... um. Wow. Yeah, your brother's a twat."

"It is decided. I shall take up a life of crime, starting with the incredibly slow, excruciatingly painful, and wonderfully satisfying murder of Mycroft Holmes."

Now John was no longer trying to conceal his laughter. "That is. The best. Gag gift. Ever," he managed to laugh out, emphasizing each syllable with a pointed finger directed at the wretched thing.

"Gag gift?"

"Oh, come on, Sherlock, he's not seriously expecting you to wear that thing! It's just a joke!" But slowly, John realized his friend had absolutely no idea what he meant. "My God, you really aren't normal, are you?"

"He bought this with his own money as a joke."

"Yes!"

"I don't understand, why would anyone do such a thing?"

"Sherlock, this is one of those things that siblings do!" John explained patiently, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's just to annoy you, irritate you, get you worked up! And it worked perfectly!"

"It did not."

"Yes it did. You just threatened to kill him over it!"

"I suppose that's what siblings do, as well?" Sherlock sniffed.

"Yes! You're learning so much today! Well done!" John clapped. Sherlock threw the box aside and slumped back in his chair, looking so positively miserable John finally relented. "Since I didn't even know it was your birthday, I'll tell you what I'll do. I am going to help you get revenge. Consider that my present to you."

Sherlock sat up a little straighter, pondering this offer. "How?" he eventually asked.

"When is his birthday?"

April the seventeenth dawned just as April the sixteenth had, and just as April the eighteenth would. The only difference on the seventeenth was that the British Government decided he would sleep in an extra twenty minutes because, well, one's birthday only comes once a year.

Mycroft's arm lazily drifted to his alarm clock, and his fingers found the familiar snooze button without any help from his eyes. Sighing contentedly, he burrowed himself deeper under his blankets.

Downstairs, however... well, it was good he could not see what was downstairs at the moment.

"Sherlock, what about the alarms for this place?" John whispered as he shifted his heavy backpack to a more comfortable position on his shoulder.

"I already disarmed them. I don't even know why he bothers, I'm just going to sneak in anyway."

"Well, common house burglars aren't nearly as clever as you are."

Sherlock paused. "Thank you, John." He resumed picking the lock on the window, smiling warmly when it easily opened. (And because it was nice to have a little pick-me-up from John once in a while. If that man only knew what an absolute treasure he was.) Unfolding his long legs, he stepped inside smoothly, turning to help John clamber over the windowsill. "Right. Now, what was the plan you had for revenge?"

"Right. Well, to put it simply..." John hesitated for just a fraction of a second. "Have you ever heard the phrase 'kill him with kindness'?"

"I've heard it- oh. Oh." He stared at this marvelous human being before him, this wonderfully devious creature, in an almost reverent awe.

"Good. Now, first thing we do, is breakfast. He's on a diet, so we have to make him something he can't normally have, and something he can't resist." He opened his backpack to reveal flour, eggs, chocolate, sugar, and several other ingredients. "Where's the kitchen?"

"You are a positively wicked man." Sherlock glowed as he showed the way, both men walking on tiptoes.

Twenty minutes later, the alarm clock sounded again, and the lazy arm drifted again to where it rested on his bedside table, shutting it off with a resounding click that he hoped would teach it a lesson. Mycroft sat up slowly, and felt every year creep up his back as he did so as he dangled his legs off the side of the bed. He yawned expansively, indelicately, the sort of yawn that leaves the jaw feeling dislocated, and scratched a bit at his hair. The extra twenty minutes was definitely worth it. Moving to his window, he opened it smoothly, and sniffed the morning air-

and sniffed-

and remembered that the morning air does not normally smell like chocolate scones.

Sherlock.

"No." Mycroft dashed to his closet and pulled on a dressing gown, muttering a long string of no's along the way. He yanked open his bedroom door, only to find the most frightening sight waiting for him.

Sherlock. Smiling. Wearing the... the birthday gift.

"Good morning, my dear brother!" Sherlock bellowed, and grasped him in an iron tight hug that squeezed the air out of him.

All thought left Mycroft. Reason completely failed him. What the hell was Sherlock doing? "Oh God, you've relapsed again," he gasped.

Sherlock held his elder brother at arms length. "Oh, of course I haven't! I merely wanted to come and wish you a happy birthday! And because you have the whole day off, I'm spending it with you!"

Mycroft blinked. "How much money do you need?"

"I'm not here for money, Mycroft."

"No you may not have a cigarette."

"I have a patch on, I don't need one."

"I don't have a case for you to solve Sherlock, go have your mental breakdown in front of that Lestrade fellow, there's a good chap."

"Mycroft. I am here to make sure your birthday is a very happy one! Because I" his face twitched ever so slightly, he couldn't help it, "love you!"

It was worth the humiliation, it was worth every degrading act upon the earth, to see the mystified, horrified look on Mycroft's face. Sherlock quickly pulled out his phone and turned on the camera. "Smile!" he sang as he took a picture of the both of them. "Now, come on, the scones should be done! I do hope you're hungry, I made your favorite!" He dashed off down the hallway, obviously meaning for Mycroft to follow, but the older Holmes found that his feet were nailed to the floor. Sherlock came back, wrapped his arm around Mycroft's shoulders, and practically dragged him down the hallway with him, humming some inanely annoying tune. Mycroft hadn't the heart to tell him to shut up.

It was a trick. It had to be. Something- someone- was making him do all this- the twitch in his face revealed it already.

In the kitchen, the aroma of scones hung heavy in the air as John pulled them out of the oven. He very carefully avoided eye contact until he had placed them down on the counter to cool, and managed to squeak out a "'Morning, Mycroft," before dissolving into a fit of smothered giggles. "Happy birthday!" was forced out as well.

The bewildered man was placed in a chair as his brother grabbed for the scones. They tumbled delicately onto a plate, long fingers deftly gripping them long enough for transfer but not long enough to cause any harm. While he was busy with that, however, Mycroft studied the true mastermind. Doctor Watson was a more cunning man than he originally thought, and he certainly held a remarkable amount of sway over Sherlock's actions. But where he and Sherlock would be grinning wickedly and gloating, this man laughed in fun. He was enjoying every moment of this.

As he had enjoyed it before.

"This was not your idea." Mycroft told Sherlock.

A statement. Not a question. Sherlock laughed and dropped the 'ridiculously lovely' facade. "Some of it was. But I must confess, John is more than partially to blame for this whole thing."

Mycroft reached forward, plucking at the... the thing he bought for Sherlock. "He was more than partially to blame for this as well." He picked up a scone and nibbled on it.

Sherlock's jaw dropped, and he found himself utterly at a loss for words. He turned slowly to face his best friend- his worst friend- this- John. The smaller man made brief eye contact before he collapsed in a laughing heap at the table.

Mycroft slid the plate of scones closer to his younger brother, who took one and ate it automatically. "You know, I am certainly looking forward to spending a day with you, brother mine." (He at least had the decency to leave out the baby.) "There is a concert playing today, I'll see if I can get us three tickets."