As John arrived at 221B Baker Street, he heard some shouting from inside. It was the day after Sherlock had almost been exiled and after some reassurance from the detective that nobody was in immediate danger, he and Mary had come back to their home. Of course, the added security provided by Mr. British Government had also helped. And the fact that his wife could make a kill shot at 50 feet probably didn't hurt. The shouting also, as strange as it may seems, contributed to a feeling of some normalcy. He entered the building with the keys he still had from his time living there. As he was starting up the stairs, Mrs Hudson's came out from her flat:
"Oh John, dear. The noise! The neighbours! Please, tell them to be a little less loud." She implored
"Hello Mrs Hudson. You know I'll try. They're fighting with Mycroft? Any idea why?" asked John,
"Oh dear. I try not to pry, you know with the government and everything… It reminds me from my time with my husband. Best when I didn't know, you see…"
"Well… I'll go and see what has them in a pickle, then." Replied John, even if he wondered if one had actually ever seen Mycroft in a pickle. The man had ice in his vein, probably kept to below freezing temperature by his made-to-measure suit. As a matter of fact, the screaming was only produced by one of the Holmes brothers.
"Thank you John."
John came up and stairs and entered Sherlock's flat. There, Mycroft stood, his ever-present umbrella in his hands as he was arguing with his brother, if one could call dismissive answers arguments.
"Mycroft! How do you want me to find your leak if you don't give me the files?!" Sherlock was pacing and gesticulating in the main room, which barest wall was now ornate with different items relating to Moriarty and the video. While dressed, it was evident that the detective had not slept much in the previous night.
"Don't tell me that you didn't save a copy. I assume that there is still something left from your pirate phase." Mycroft dismissively answered his brother.
"I was four!"
"And much more autonomous, it seems. You're slipping Sherlock…"
Sherlock, who'd still been pacing across the room in his agitation, suddenly stopped. His behaviour relaxed and he seemed back to his usual cold demeanour.
"I have a copy."
"I gather you want for me to express absolute admiration for that. I'm the smart one Sherlock, not one of your dim-witted adoring fans." Replied Mycroft as he turned to greet the army doctor. "Oh hello John."
John greeted him silently, reigning in any comment about "dim-witted fans". If there was one person next to whom Sherlock was a cuddly teddy bear, it was his brother. The blogger couldn't fathom how one of the MI6 hitmen hadn't yet put a bullet into the head of the older Holmes brother. Maybe the reason for it was that Mycroft always stayed behind his desk, so appalled he was by leg work. Or perhaps, the possibility of being taken down by maybe-not-so-friendly fire might also enter into account for it. After all, in the field…
"Ah, hello John. Don't take off your coat, we're leaving." Said the younger Holmes, going to the rack and putting on his trademark coat.
"What? Hmm, Ok, let's go." Said John, interrupted in his thoughts about how aware was Mycroft of the very probable possibility of being taken down by his own men in an accident if he ever thought of getting from behind his desk.