Sherlock Holmes sat in the rear seat of a large black London taxi, on the way to his brother's home for the first time in, well, forever, without being summoned. He had a self-satisfied smile on his face, and a confident air, ready to best Mycroft Holmes at last.
Mycroft Holmes, AKA the British Government, sat in his study, sipping a very good scotch and daydreaming about cake, when he heard the sound of footsteps outside the study door. His sweet dreams were immediately replaced by sour anticipations as his brother made his way into the room and took a set in an armchair across from his elder brother.
"Hello, little brother. To what do I owe the, uh, pleasure?"
"Surely, you know what time of year it is, brother mine. I've come to offer my suggestion on an appropriate gift for our parents' anniversary!"
"You never offer suggestions, Sherlock. You always leave it to me, promising to pay half, and you never do!"
"You always take it out of my portion of the family trust, Mycroft, so stop complaining. I have an idea for this year, something different, rather then sending them scampering about the globe."
"I thought you liked them better when they were on the other side of the world, brother. But go on, as my first suggestion for a romantic anniversary getaway wasn't met with much enthusiasm on their part."
"And just where were you planning to pack them off to this year, anyway?"
"Well, when I asked Mummy how she felt about Patagonia, she said that, not being Patagonian, she didn't have feelings one way or another. She said she preferred Italy."
"Didn't she make us promise that we wouldn't send them to Italy anymore? Something about the pasta being too fattening?"
"Yes, well, that's when Papa interrupted, saying he liked a woman with a bit of meat on her bones. Then the giggling started. Followed by other noises, indicating that they had forgotten that they were on speakerphone, or simply didn't care! How we got through our childhood without psychological scars is beyond me, Sherlock!"
"Without scars? You're joking, right?"
"Anyway, the snogging stopped long enough for her to ask what was in Patagonia. I said it was the gateway to Antarctica. She still didn't seem impressed. I told her there were penguins. She loves penguins, I thought. It turns out the only thing she loves about penguins is the way you pronounce the word! Papa kept repeating 'pen-wings' and 'peng-lings', and Mummy once again commenced to giggle. She found it adorable! I told her they have lots of sheep, too, and she pointed out that she could see plenty of good old English sheep just down the road. Her interest seemed to perk up a bit when I said they had gauchos down there, rugged cowboy types. That's when Papa cut short the conversation." Mycroft ended with a shrug. "So, I guess it's Italy again."
"Not so fast, brother mine. You haven't even heard my suggestion."
"Is it better than Italy, Sherlock?"
"Of course. What is Mummy always nagging us about, Mycroft? What would make her very happy?"
"You know what makes her happy. The exact opposite of what makes us happy. She wants to spend time with us. 'Her boys!' " Mycroft's lip curled as he spoke. "What have you got up your sleeve, Sherlock?"
"Nothing but a pleasant weekend in the country with our doting parents! Imagine the fun! Family dinners. We can play 'Operation', and 'Cluedo" just as we did as children. Mummy will bake scones, and I can help Papa with his bees. Just like the good old days."
"There were no good old days, you insufferable git! And it only got worse when you went through your pirate phase." The older Holmes winced at the memory of the wooden cutlass wielded by his younger brother, and the many times he was forced to walk the plank while his mother looked on in amusement.
"Yes, and you told me that all pirates had been sentenced to death by hanging, Mycroft!"
"Well, if you were playing the game, why shouldn't I, little brother?"
"Mycroft, I awoke one morning with a noose around my neck, attached to the overhead light fixture. I didn't sleep properly for weeks after!"
"You deserved it! You're just lucky that I calculated that the fixture wouldn't support your body weight."
"I was six, Mycroft, and you were a sod awful big brother!" Sherlock said rather heatedly, but Mycroft was lost in a happy reverie, muttering, "Perhaps there were some good times, after all." But it didn't take him long to come back to his senses. "So, what is your angle, Sherlock? Why do you, all of a sudden, want to spend time with the parents?"
"I want them to get to know my girlfriend," the detective said rather calmly, but Mycroft could tell he was serious by the way his lips curled when he used the term "girlfriend."
"Ah, this is a new development, I take it. You have finally succumbed to Dr. Hooper's charms, eh?"
"What makes you think it's Molly, brother? I know lots of women."
"Yes, dear brother. But the problem is that they also know you! Dr. Hooper is the only woman I can think of who has managed to tolerate you after having been acquainted with you for more than twenty-four hours. That, in and of itself, should be enough on which to build a relationship. But you have shown no inclination toward the opposite sex, saving for that insufferable Adler woman, since your University days. Your indulgence in matters of the flesh almost rivalled your indulgence in drugs at one point. I've often wondered if you fought to conquer the wrong addiction, Sherlock. Perhaps you should have traded the drug den for the bordello? So, what changed your mind?"
"She cried."
Mycroft heaved his shoulders. "Do you expect me to believe that, in all these years, you have never made that unfortunate woman weep before now?"
"A few errant tears, perhaps, due to my harsh words. But this was different. Great heaving sobs, Mycroft, and each one felt like a heavy blow to my chest. All this time, trying to keep her safe, trying to convince the world, and myself, that she meant nothing to me. All this to keep her out of harm's way, to allow her to be happy. And she was miserable! And, truth be told, I, too, was miserable. So I decided to make us both happy. I will protect her, Mycroft, and so will you. Or I'll tell Mummy."
"Of course, little brother. She will be as safe as the Queen. I guarantee it."
"But tell me something, Mycroft. Has your Anthea ever cried like that? Because of you?"
"Don't be ridiculous, brother mine. But I will tell you, in strictest confidence, that Anthea has me cry on occasion!" Mycroft rolled his eyes upwards, and shook his head.
"Then, elder brother, perhaps it's about time you did something about her, too."
"Not to change the subject, but when would you like to make this little foray into the countryside, Sherlock?"
"I was thinking not this weekend coming up, but perhaps the next. I need to clear it with Molly, and we should alert the parents to our plans, yes?"
"I should call Mummy right away then. Make sure they have no conflicting engagements, like line dancing forays, or darts tournaments," Mycroft said, picking up his mobile and pressing a button.
"Mycroft, why are you calling? Has somebody died? Has somebody shot your brother again?"
"Calm yourself, Mummy. No one had died, and Sherlock is remarkably bullet free at present. He's right here with me, as a matter of fact." There was a brief pause as the woman at the other end of the conversation spoke. "No, Mummy, I quite understand your reticence about going to Patagonia. And Antarctica. That is what I'm calling about, in fact. Sherlock would like us to spend a weekend at the cottage with you and Papa. Yes, that's right. The family, all together for a change, and it's not even Christmas."
"Yes, Mummy, I agree, that's simply adorable." Mycroft once again rolled his eyes, something he did frequently when speaking to his mother.
"No, Mummy, I will not ask him to say 'penguins'. You may ask him yourself when we drive down. And, I should tell you that Sherlock will be bringing his girlfriend."
"No, Mummy, I would not be so cruel to lie to you about such a thing. Molly Hooper is a lovely woman, Sherlock doesn't deserve her. But, then again, a lot of successful relationships are rather meritoriously one sided, don't you think? Look at you and Papa!"
"No, Mummy, I steadfastly refuse to make a pronouncement about which one of you doesn't deserve the other. I'll leave you to work that one out for yourself!"
The conversation was winding down, and the consulting detective was more than happy that he had taken no part in it. He could tell that the final goodbyes were soon to come, but his brother seemed to go a bit pale.
"Yes, Mummy, I heard you. But why, may I ask, do you want me to invite Anthea?"
Sherlock could tell from his brother's reaction to his mother's response that the cat was out of the bag, as far as Mycroft's relationship with his personal assistant was concerned, and he listened to the tone of surrender in his elder brother's voice as he responded, "Of course, Mummy, I'm sure she would like to get to know you better, too." Goodbyes were then exchanged, and Sherlock refilled his brothers glass with his rather excellent scotch.
"So, Anthea will be joining us, it appears," the detective said, smirking.
"This is all your fault, you prat. We could have just sent them to Italy! And next year is a big anniversary, their fiftieth! How do we top this one?"
"I've already got that worked out, Uncle Mycroft!" Sherlock said with a sly wink. "In fact, I'm going home to work on next year's gift right now." The detective rose slowly from his chair, smiling at his brother. "Perhaps you should give Anthea a call, brother. You look like you're in need of a good cry." And with that, he made his way to the door, whistling as he walked away.