Hi to the very few people who read my stories. I'm temporarily back writing, and I'm also trying to pick up my old works but gosh it's so hard. Allow me to skip to a new story first.
Here is one of the moments when Mycroft cares for his little brother. (Well a bit too much in this one though.) Each story can be a one-shot, for the first story, it is based on the movie The Abominable Wife.
All was dark, dark enough so no one would really have the desire to take a glimpse of what was happening inside the room. It was a room full of smell—delicious yet sickening smell, yes, it all smelled too amazing, that was the main problem, if only they all had a smell of vomit, Mycroft thought.
And so it was when Mycroft began with his second plate of muffin that his little brother came in. Ah, finally, he thought. After all these days.
"Sherlock," he greeted, "Doctor Watson,"
He tried not to lay his eyes only on Sherlock, who now seemed to be amused and satisfied with the view before his eyes—mountainous of pastries and cakes, all kinds of sweets, biscuits, puddings…all surrounding his older brother.
"You look…" a look of concern and disbelief couldn't be hidden in the corner of John's eyes, "well, sir,"
"Really, I'd rather thought I look enormous." Mycroft mused to himself, while helping himself with a sip of wine.
"Well now you've mentioned it, this level of consumption is incredibly injurious to your health. You heart—"
He knew. Of course he knew. Yet Sherlock did as well, and that was what pained him the most. He quickly put on the casual expression and went on to explain all about this "game" the Holmes played. Just to delight Sherlock, he added at the end of the sentence inwardly.
"A bet!" John shouted out in shock, obviously a natural reaction a normal person would have. Mycroft chuckled in his heart bitterly.
"I understand your disapproval, Watson," Sherlock hurried to complete the explanation, and he really did take pleasure in it. Although he rarely showed a notable smile or content expression, Mycroft could tell he was enjoying himself with the progress he'd put his older brother in.
"You're gambling with your own life?" John couldn't help but speak up again.
"Why not? It's so much more exciting than gambling with others'." Yes, no lies in that, if you define "exciting".
His mind flashed back to several conversations he had with Sherlock years ago.
Sherlock was 15. He was at the typical age when teenage boys could eat extra large cheese burgers three meals a day but still wouldn't put on any excessive weight. In fact, the Holmes brothers had always been the slim ones, until one particular afternoon, when Sherlock came back from his middle school and interrupted Mycroft's works.
"School was boring as hell," he complained, and tossed a piece of paper to Mycroft. "Since when did they start to—argh never mind. Bored!"
He didn't even bother to finish his sentence and then threw himself to a nearest couch. Mycroft sighed and took over the sheet.
"Seriously, papa didn't send you to a kindergarten?" He joked, "A report card that includes your health test result? Very interesting. Oh, or is this some new way to save the paper usage?"
Almost immediately, Sherlock bounced up from his lying position. "Am I taller than you now?"
"Math, brother, math. Or at least, see for yourself," Mycroft snorted, "Shorter and lighter than me, still, little man. Got a lot to catch up."
Sherlock now adjusted himself to a proper sitting position, as if ready for some important refutations. "Why the bloody hell would I want to catch up with your weight? Imagine, everything you consume will eventually become fat that stores inside your body—hang on, how much do you weigh now?" Sherlock finished all these in just seconds.
Mycroft glanced over the number provided by the paper again. "5.8 kg heavier than you."
When he looked up to his younger brother again, he was met with a complicated look, with confusion and (wait, was that detestation?) disgust all written on his face. "My dear, brother, is that really what we're going to be like when we get old?"
Mycroft felt rather offended. "Excuse me, Sherlock? Might I remind you, according to that unnecessary BMI scale, we're both underweight—"
Sherlock shook his head in a way he always did when he found some remarks degrading or idiotic. "For God's sake I've always thought Mycroft Holmes would come up with some valid argument and yet—you call yourself underweight?" He grabbed the paper back and narrowed his eyes at the same time, scanning Mycroft all over from head to toes. "Have you put on weight?"
Mycroft then realized that since the day on, whatever number he told Sherlock, he would just try to make the difference between their weight bigger. It was either Mycroft getting fatter or Sherlock getting thinner that would come to his satisfaction, the same result. And bitterly he pondered through the two possibilities, he just couldn't let the latter happen.
He was already telling Sherlock everything he needed to know and was waiting for his promise to do the "legwork". Sherlock however, turned and held back. "On one condition,"
Mycroft could almost expect what his little brother was going to say, still he sat back and waited until the words came out from him.
"Have another plum pudding,"
"There's one on the way,"
"Two years eleven months and four days," Sherlock let the estimation flowed through as it usually did for the past few visits to Mycroft, and he soon headed for the door without bidding good-bye. John was left taken aback, mouth half-open, Mycroft could see he wanted to argue more; but as he found that the proud detective had already picked up his pace, he quickly followed behind, leaving Mycroft uttering these words:
"It's getting exciting now," he said, one could not simply hear the fake entertained feeling through this his voice. "tick-tock, tick-tock."