Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, and I never will. Unless by some freak-of-nature occurrence that I meet Mofftiss and they love me so much that they give me the rights to the show. I can dream, right?
John had only ever been in Mycroft's office once, but it looked exactly the same as it had done before. Still the same shade of cream on the walls and expensive looking furnishing dotted around the room. Only this time, Sherlock was sat in his brother's menacing looking chair, facing John with a leering smile and look of trouble causing in his eyes. It was not a face the army doctor liked to see on the consulting detective. Especially when a government official would be on the receiving end of, well, whatever this was.
"Why are we here, Sherlock?" John almost whined, jumbling the tin and papers that he had in his hands. "And why do I always seem to be carrying everything..."
"I've told you plenty of times John, you just didn't listen. As for carrying things, you've never asked me to carry anything before." Sherlock said, his eyes flashing towards the oak door.
"It's not my fault you didn't realise I'd left the flat before you started talking." John stated. He was in no mood to play games today. Sherlock looked at John, eyes rolling in exasperation. The detective slapped his hands onto the hard wood of the desk, pushing himself upwards and spinning around to face away from the army doctor.
"I need something from Mycroft. Something he would never dream of giving to me. I intend to get it."
"And how exactly do you think you're going to get it?" John said, perplexed. Sherlock strode around the desk towards John, placing his hands on the army doctor's shoulders and looking into his eyes.
"Through the means of oppressive exaction." John's eyebrows shot up, the motion causing his entire forehead to travel upwards rather comically.
"Blackmail?" John said incredulously. "Do you really think you can get Mycroft to co-operate by using blackmail?"
"I don't think," Sherlock spat, taking his hands off his blogger's shoulders and swirling around, "I know I can get Mycroft to co-operate." Anything with which John was about to reply with was rapidly drowned out by the sound of slow clapping from behind him.
"My my, Sherlock. Do you really think you can extort money from me?" Mycroft asked, amused. He closed the door behind himself and placed his umbrella against the coat rack by the door. The older Holmes brother pursed his lips, giving John a quick smile which ended up looking like a grimace. John nodded back and looked at Sherlock, waiting for his response.
"Not money, no." Sherlock said, smirking.
"Well I don't have much else to offer you dear brother, you may as well go home." He meandered past his guests and desk, taking a seat on his chair. He swivelled to face Sherlock, "Well then, off you pop." Sherlock sneered at Mycroft's light tone, he won't be happy in a minute, he thought eagerly.
"Oh no, I wouldn't dream of it." Sherlock said, walking around the desk and plonking himself on one of the two chairs that sat facing it. "In fact, I think I might even help myself to a slice of this wonderful looking cake." He said, reaching for the tin that John had in his hands. Mycroft's face froze as the tin was opened, an incredible smell reached the government official's nostrils.
It was just a simple Victoria Sponge, but to Mycroft, it was so much more. The delicate sponge was tinged with just the perfect amount lemon juice, giving it a subtle but almost tangy aroma. In between those beautiful sandwiches of soft cake lied something glorious. Something so glorious, that if Mycroft had uttered any words, a sailor would blush at the language. The silkiest strawberry jam Mycroft had ever seen; the burgundy red of the filling was a strong contrast against the pale yellow sponge, and the outstanding perfume of the strawberry filling was...Just. So. Overpowering. Mycroft turned white, his face stricken at the God-like offering that was just inches away from his now trembling hands.
"W...What have you got there?" Mycroft stuttered out, trying to compose himself.
"Oh nothing much," Sherlock said, taking a hefty slice out and pretending to marvel at it, "just a Victoria Sponge that Mrs Hudson baked for us... came out of the oven just under an hour ago. In fact..." he squeezed the sponge slowly, "it's still a little warm. Fancy some John?" he said abruptly, turning to his partner who had taken a seat some minutes before. Sherlock raised a meaningful eyebrow at the army doctor whilst Mycroft was gazing at the cake.
"Yes please, Sherlock." John said, trying to hide his obvious distaste in Sherlock's plan.
"Here you go." He dumped the slice into John's hands, getting jam all over them in the process. John's head shot up to Sherlock's face in alarm and annoyance.
"Sherlock!" he whispered heatedly.
"Shut up." Sherlock mouthed in urgency. He looked at Mycroft who did some sort of internal shake and looked up at the consulting detective with a pleasant smile.
"What do you want Sherlock?" Mycroft said, his voice strained. Sherlock looked up at his brother and feigned apology.
"Oh Mycroft, how rude of me, would you like some too?" Mycroft gulped and looked down towards the beacon of hope that sat on Sherlock's lap. Mycroft coughed, as if he were trying to clear his throat of emotion.
"Well, only if there is some spare of course." Mycroft said, his voice thick with contained excitement. He instantly reached to the edge of the desk where a china plate rested – presumably left over from his last slice of cake.
"Of course, there will always be spare cake for you. In fact, where John comes from, it's compulsory that there should be too much cake, just to ensure everyone gets some." Sherlock said in a sweet tone, nudging John's foot with his own.
"Yes, yes of course. There's always got to be... cake." John said dubiously.
"Really?" Mycroft said, not really interested in the answer, but at the wad of cake that was being directed at him. "Where do you come from then?" There it is, almost there, almost... THERE! Mycroft thought as the deliciously sensual cake met the china plate and soon his hungered hands.
"I uh-" John stuttered.
"He's from Bakewell," Sherlock improvised, "home of the famous tart actually!" Sherlock said. But Mycroft wasn't listening. The enticement of the cake was too strong. The sponge was even better than he had originally thought; it was so soft and springy, baked with such precision that even Mycroft, somewhat of a cake expert, was astounded. He lifted the cake up to his mouth, just inches away from consuming the breath-taking dessert. But a hand on his arm brought him back down to earth.
"Have you been listening to a word I just said, Mycroft?" Sherlock said, holding Mycroft's arm.
"I... what?" Mycroft said, blinking at his brother.
"I said, if you take one bite of that cake you can give me the co-ordinates to the missile planning site, yes?" Sherlock's eyes gleamed as he released his brother's arm.
"…I have no idea what you're talking about." Mycroft said, hands slowly falling down and despair filling him as the cake moved further and further away from his yearning mouth.
"I have my contacts brother, and you have yours. Now, the co-ordinates?" Sherlock said expectantly.
"I don't know what you've found out Sherlock, but obviously your contacts aren't of a very high calibre."
"My contacts are the best in London. I think it best that you tell me dear brother, or I will be forced to go to 'Plan B'." Sherlock said, smirk growing bigger. Mycroft stared at his brother for a moment, before understanding what this statement meant. His eyes grew wide in apparent horror.
"You wouldn't!" He cried out
"Oh yes, Mycroft, I would." Sherlock sneered. John looked from one Holmes brother to the other, confusion evident on his face.
"Sorry, but am I the only person here who hasn't got a clue what's going on?" John said, handing Sherlock the uneaten cake. The detective took the sponge and slammed it into the tin, placing container tersely on the floor. He stood up abruptly, brushing his hands together to get rid of the crumbs.
"Sherlock. No." Mycroft uttered, panic obvious on his features. He nearly dropped the china plate, complete with uneaten cake on his desk. He stood up, setting the plate down as gently as he could with his quivering hands.
"Mycroft. Yes." Sherlock leered, almost skipping to the back of the office and standing by the bookcase. He reached a slender hand up to the right section of the bookcase and the third shelf from the top and placed it on a dark green, almost black, leather book. He had often stared at this book when he visited his brother's office, knowing there was something else behind it. The spine of the hardback was worn and crooked, noticeably being used often. But Sherlock knew it was not for the joy of reading, since his brother was definitely not one for enjoying the subject of 'The Fine Art of Algebraic Equations". The last thing that the detective had noticed was the dust. There was a fine layer on the edge of all the shelves apart from a few places where Mycroft would take a book out to study. The cleanest part of the shelf lied in front of this book; he fingered the top of the emerald book, ready to pull down.
"Sherlock…" Mycroft whispered, knowing full well that it was too late to stop his brother. There was only one thing he could do to stop his secret coming to light. He reached for the concealed revolver under his desk.
Sherlock grinned, almost manically at the leather-bound book. He yanked it downwards, and an audible click was heard around the room.
THWACK!
The consulting detective swirled around to see John lying on the floor, very much unconscious, and a panting Mycroft stood above him, revolver raised high in the air.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted, running towards the fallen army doctor.
"It was the only way." Mycroft said plainly, lowering his arm.
"Just a blow to the back of his head" Sherlock muttered to himself, a small sigh of relief escaping his mouth.
"See. Harmless." Mycroft said, tucking the revolver into his jacket and looking up towards the bookcase in dismay.
"But needless. There was no need to… to…" Sherlock paused, looking at his brother. Mycroft was staring straight past Sherlock with a sort of, lost puppy dog expression on his face. The consulting detective whipped his head around and froze. The right hand side of the bookcase had moved to the left, producing an entrance and stairs leading downwards. Sherlock grabbed a pillow from a nearby chair, turning John over as quickly and safely as possible and placing it under his head. Before Mycroft could do anything, Sherlock had sprinted to the bookcase and disappeared down the passageway.
Mycroft sank down into the velvet padded chair in front of the window, staring sightlessly at the bookcase, wondering if he should follow Sherlock or just sit here and let the events play out. He decided the latter, since that would avoid the most confrontation, something Mycroft was not too fond of with his brother.
"Oh dear God, Mycroft." Sherlock said to himself, looking around the room.
The consulting detective had jogged down the stone stairs, reaching the bottom in record time. Sherlock's nimble hands quickly found a light switch, and hesitantly, flicked it on.
And now, there he stood in Mycroft's 'secret chamber' in all its… glory? That was certainly a word for it. Sherlock's eyes widened uncharacteristically as he took in his surroundings in the warmly lit room. It was tastefully decorated in chocolate browns, coffee tans and milky creams, with expensive dark leather armchairs dotted around. By these armchairs, there were tables with luxurious boxes containing lavish cigars and ashtrays to rival that of Buckingham Palace. There was also a large fireplace with a few embers still glowing from the last time Mycroft had visited the room – apparently only several hours ago. But Sherlock was looking past all of these luxuries and was only focused on one thing.
Huge glass cases containing racks inside filled the room. They enclosed one thing, and one thing only. Umbrellas. There were umbrellas… everywhere. And not just placed haphazardly, but in some sort of actual order! There were brolly's in every single shade, of every single colour. Sherlock observed to his left, a case of blue umbrellas with so many different shades; some were cerulean, azure, cobalt and sapphire coloured, and they were categorised into… types of… handle. The lines of umbrellas were in order from dark shades of blue to light, from dark coloured handles to pale and from curved handles to straight. Sherlock whipped his head around to the right, fear encasing his heart. There were glass cases full of reds, yellows, oranges, greens, pinks, purples, browns, greys. There were even shades of black! Sherlock felt… sick. He had not expected this, not at all… he backed away, back hitting a glass case – this one full of yellow coloured umbrellas, from very pale to dark mustard colours. He jumped backwards in shock, hitting yet another glass case, this one full of red umbrellas. A cold sweat broke out on Sherlock's forehead, trickling down the side of his face and sticking the detective's curls to his neck and forehead.
"Oh G..God" Sherlock gasped, turning very green, very much like the glass case of umbrella's opposite him. He bolted from the room, knocking a table over in the process. Bursting from the bookcase, he stared at Mycroft for a few moments wild eyed, chest heaving rapidly and mouth hanging open in shock. Mycroft stared at his younger brother, knowing full well of the thought processes running through Sherlock's fevered mind.
"Did you not suspect?" Mycroft started. Sherlock clung to the bookcase, trying to stop his unstable body from sinking to the ground. He didn't say anything for a moment.
"…Well yes, but I never thought…" the consulting detective didn't finish.
"That it had gotten this… out of hand? Neither I, dear brother. But here we are..." Mycroft said, running his hand down an umbrella he must have fetched earlier. Sherlock froze, the sight of the curved wooden handle and dark waterproof fabric mesmerising him. He opened and closed his mouth, trying to form words.
"I've got to get out of here" Sherlock managed. He started towards his fallen companion when something long stopped his path. He looked down at the obstruction. Sherlock's mouth moved slightly, the word 'Pooky' recognisable on his pink lips. Sherlock looked left at his brother, eyes glazing over.
"Don't worry dear brother, I'll have someone bring him back for you. Go home, rest. You look like you need it." Mycroft purred. He gripped Sherlock's shoulders carefully and directed him towards the door, opening it and unceremoniously shoved him out. He slammed the door and turned, eyeing the fallen army doctor with slight distaste. Reaching into his suit pocket, he pulled out his phone. He pressed a few buttons and held it to his ear, smirking to himself.
"The plan worked…. No he won't be coming back anytime soon… I need you to collect Dr Watson and drop him back at 221B before he wakes up. He doesn't need to remember any of this… yes thank you, Anthea." He ended the call and tucked the phone back into his pocket, smirking to himself. He stepped over John, walked around his desk and sank into his chair comfortably.
Only a few minutes later, the door opened revealing two well-built men dressed in black. Mycroft nodded to the men, who copied the action back in acknowledgement. Dr Watson was taken away swiftly, leaving Mycroft to stew in his own excitement and greed. He had won! AGAIN! "Oh Mycroft, you pulled it off you sly dog!" he sang quietly to himself. Looking downwards, Mycroft's eyes suddenly opened wide in astonishment.
The slice of Victoria Sponge that Sherlock had given him was sat on the desk! His hands flung out of their own accord, hungrily grabbing the china plate and cake and pulling it close. Mycroft stared at it for a moment. "No more interruptions now, it's just you and me." And then he ate it. It was wonderful; he would even go so far as to say it was glorious. The strawberry jam was Mrs Hudson's homemade, that much was obvious – but the sponge! Oh God it was just magnificent. Absolutely magnificent! He practically inhaled the whole slice and licked the plate clean of crumbs and jam. But he wasn't satisfied enough… he needed more. Mycroft looked around his office, trying to see if there was anything edible.
Then he froze, almost squealing in delight when he looked around the room for the fifth time and noticed something different. The tin that Sherlock had brought with him was on the floor. The tin… with the rest of the cake! He jumped up from his seat, bolted around the desk and dove down with an unseen speed, nearly knocking everything off of his desk. Gripping the tin tightly he straightened up suddenly, an emotionless mask covering his features; the Government official coughed a little, as if he was trying and cover up his weakness for the sweet creation he held in his hands. Walking deliberately slow around his desk, complete with a professional look on his face, he sat down unhurriedly, gently placing the tin on the surface in front of him. He cracked open one side, peering through the shadow. An assault of aroma's virtually smashed Mycroft in the face, and the outline of the cake was visible. It was there. It was all there! A manic grin crept up on Mycroft's face.
"I win… I've won again! Today" he paused, "is a good day."
Prompt from IzzyDelta: A whole room with racks and racks of umbrellas every single shade of every single colour categorised by type of handle.
(We discussed my previous fic 'The Addiction' and thought that a fic should be written when Sherlock and Mycroft are both adults.)
Hope you enjoyed it, please review! Peace out, Holmies.