Spoilers: Spoilers for "Step Nine," 2.01.
Disclaimer: It's not mine, but it's getting closer to Christmas. Maybe then…?
A/N: I have a soft spot for brothers, lol. This fic will probably be rendered AU when Mycroft next appears on the show, but when this little plot bunny hopped along, I couldn't resist. :) Many thanks to my very dear friend, Noelani618, for helping to inspire the title!
As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace, and his many blessings.
I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!
"Your collection included, amongst other things, a real shrunken head, what appeared to be an authentic Picasso, and an entire series of books on homemade bomb building." -Mycroft Holmes, Step Nine, 2.01.
Fine Art
Mycroft Holmes had not expected to see his brother again for quite some time.
The email he'd received had been surprising enough - a brusque note from Sherlock informing him that he and Joan had indeed made it safely back to New York. (Mycroft suspected it had been sent at Joan's instance.)
Now, three months later, it came as even more of a shock to find Sherlock standing in his living room once again, luggage in hand.
Sherlock made himself at home immediately - since, in his words, it had been his home for over a decade. He still sounded rather put out about that, actually, but otherwise it was shaping up to be a fairly innocuous visit, which was something of a first.
Mycroft made the afternoon tea, and inquired about the case which had brought Sherlock back to London; he'd also asked Sherlock to pass along his regards to Joan, who had remained in New York, apparently heading up an investigation of her own.
Sherlock explained the specifics of that case as well, describing their list of possible suspects and espousing various theories. He was evidently still in the habit of pacing, because he did so as he talked…at least, until he passed a certain piece of artwork, a painting that had been given a definite place of pride.
Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and spun around, his jaw clenched as he pointed accusingly at the wall. "That's my Picasso! My Picasso!"
Mycroft shrugged. "Destroying it would have been a terrible waste, wouldn't you agree? I made certain it was spared. To be honest, I'm rather surprised that never occurred to you. Surely it wouldn't have been that difficult to deduce."
Sherlock sputtered indignantly, his face turning quite an interesting shade of purple, and Mycroft merely raised his cup to his lips and took another sip of tea.
Hm, yes, this visit was going quite well. Quite well indeed.
Fin
A/N: I hope you enjoyed the fic and please let me know what you think!
Take care and God bless!
Ani-maniac494 :)