I'm the Dancing Queen - And Honey, You Should See Me In A Crown
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," smiled Mycroft, passing her the tiny plate upon which had perched a few considerable slices of Battenburg cake a few minutes ago. Mrs. Hudson smiled back and graciously took the crockery, although a small sigh indicated that she was a bit disgruntled at being used as a housekeeper. Again.
"Yes, now you've cleared poor Mrs. Hudson's cupboards of anything sweet, can you please leave?" drawled Sherlock. He stood next to the big window in nothing but his pyjamas and shiny silken dressing gown, arms folded, the very picture of irritation.
"Sherlock!" admonished Mrs. Hudson fondly as she picked up the other assorted teacups and saucers to place on her tray.
"It is perfectly fine, Mrs. Hudson," said Mycroft with slightly forced manners. "I know when I'm not wanted." She regarded him with pursed lips for a few moments, then walked briskly downstairs to wash up.
"Til the next time, brother mine," chuckled Mycroft as he rose to his feet. Sherlock didn't reply, and childishly turned his back on the sibling who had "dropped by".
He didn't see the telltale brushing of his brother's hand beneath the desk.
"Mr. Holmes?"
Mycroft looked up from the report he'd been reading disinterestedly and saw "Anthea" at the door. She was smirking.
"Yes?" he replied.
"Its your brother, sir," she grinned. "I thought you may want to take a look at this."
Mycroft's apathetic expression momentarily turned to confusion. He got up and followed "Anthea" to a little area just outside his office where a small laptop was sat on a desk in front of a bank of CCTV monitors. "Anthea" sat on a black swivel chair and clicked on a video thumbnail. After a few seconds, a video of Sherlock flooded the screen.
A small FM stereo was situated on the coffee table, partially obscured by the top of the desk. And what his brother was doing was quite remarkable.
"You can dance, you can ji-ive! Havin' the time of your li-i-ife - ooh ooh ooh!"
Mycroft's jaw dropped. An awful, awful falsetto singing an awful, awrful song was being emitted by the tinny speakers, a far cry from the bass that was the usual fare whenever Sherlock made a sound. It made Mycroft wince, then suppress a smile.
Suddenly, Sherlocks legs came into view as he leapt into shot, with pointed ballet toes. He pirouetted and started doing ridiculous disco dancing.
"See that girl, watch that scene, digin' the Dancing Queen! Ah ah!"
Sherlock continued to prance around like a complete fool, pratting around the lounge and finally tripping over the coffee table and sending the stereo flying. He shrieked in pain and annoyance as the batteries flew out of the stereo. The clip ended.
Mycroft and "Anthea" were in tears of mirth. Mycroft was doubled over with a hand on the desk to stop him from sinking to the floor. Shaking with the diaphragm convulsions, he grabbed the laptop from his assisstant and did the only respectable thing.
"Victim is in his late fifties, happily married for at least twenty five years, has two or three children including one estranged son. He worked as a florist - no, a gardener for most of his life but was considering a change in profession-"
Sherlock's phone rang shrilly, cutting him off mid-deduction. He frowned, held up a finger to indicate to the room he'd need a minute, and checked the caller ID.
"John, what is it? I'm on a case," he snapped.
"Sh-Sherlock!" John choked. He sounded like he was being strangled.
Sherlock's stomach dropped. "John-"
"Just- just listen!" John laughed. Oh. Laughter. He's about to send me a link to another cat video again. "I'm putting you on loudspeaker!"
There was a dull thud as John set the phone down. Sherlock pinched his brow. "John, if you are about to play me another inane YouTube video over the phone because fatherhood has really made you inconcievably dull -"
"Just listen. I think you'll like this one. Hang on, is Lestrade there?"
"Yes."
"Sally?"
"Yes John, and they really won't care as we are standing over a dead-"
"Put yourself on loudspeaker."
With a long-suffering sigh, Sherlock did as his friend asked. "Done."
"Greg, Sally!" said John's tinny voice. "Get a loada this!"
Sherlock's stomach plummetted again and his face went bright red as his worst nightmare filtered through the mobile's speakers
"You can dance, you can ji-ive! Having the time of your li-i-ife!..."