"I'm not a client," Mycroft protested.

"Then leave," Sherlock answered nonchalantly, still not looking at his brother.

The words hit Mycroft in his gut, hurting in a way he didn't know he could still hurt. He looked at his brother, observing his hardened expression. Mycroft's gaze then turned to Dr. Watson, whose lips were quirkiness up in a small, amused smile. Then he turned his head to the doorway, to see the landlady's gleeful expression, her enjoyment caused by his utter humiliation.

Mycroft experienced an instant flashback to the night before: the invasion, the scare, the mocking comments by both his brother and Watson. The rest of his night was spent slumped at his office desk, after having escaped his unprotected home.

He took a step towards the chair, and then stopped in his tracks. Why? Why give in, and play their game? To what end?

Mycroft had a serious situation to settle. He needed people who would actually work together with him, not ones who would waste time and resources to extract petty revenge. The duo in this room clearly weren't capable of doing that right now.

What about Sherlock? Doesn't he deserve an explanation? Mycroft's Guilty Conscience continued nagging.

I did this for him, to protect him. He has no idea what he is getting himself into. The Voice of Reason was winning.

Perhaps, in an alternate universe, Mycroft would have played along. He might have told the story. (Would he have told the truth about Redbeard, when no doubt John's judgemental eyes would be on him constantly? Who knows?) He might have even planned out some strategy with them, and let himself be convinced to go along. Sherlock would no doubt want something flashy, perhaps even pirate-related, and John would jump in eagerly.

In this universe, however, Mycroft wouldn't. Not only because of the incompetence of the two men, who would let a whole night pass without addressing the situation, only to break him further. But also, if he dare to admit, because he had had enough.

Constantly watching over his brother, being expected to bail him out, no matter the cost, and never getting as much as a thank you. Having his brother's friends constantly questioning his brotherly devotion, while at the same time calling upon him in times of crisis. Then there was the scorn, the criticism, and some more humiliation on the side. (Reptile, anyone?)

So Mycroft stood still in front of the blasted client chair. Putting on his iciest, most reptilian smile, he said coldly, "Thank you. I will."

And he left.