Disclaimer: don't own...

Based on the word cut. Probably a oneshot. Comments and suggestions always welcome! :)

Well-prepared

"John, I would appreciate if you wouldn't stare at me as if I had just grown a set of horns."

John was still blocking his way out of the bathroom, mouth agape and positively staring. "Why would you…" he gestured at the mass of now loose curls, spread all over the sink and part of the floor.

"I've explained to you before, it's for that case Lestrade texted me about."

"The one in Cambridge."

"Yes, the one in Cambridge, remarkably observant, John. I need to –"

"Good lord," the beginning of a giggle. God no, not a giggle, "looking like this," the giggle was definitely coming through now, "you could infiltrate in high school if you wanted to!" John managed to utter before giving in to hilarity, using the doorframe for support.

Sherlock haughtily raised one eyebrow and drew a hand through his hair, still black, but so short there was only a hint of curls left. He opened his mouth to deliver a sharp and witty retort, but seeing John helplessly giggling that ridiculous parody of laughter, while holding himself upright against the door, he couldn't help the corners of his mouth from moving slightly upward.

Damnit.

This, Sherlock decided, was going to be a long day.

And of course, Mycroft would show up. Of course he would.

The older Holmes opened the front door just as Sherlock raced down the stairs. Sherlock rolled his eyes, waiting for the inevitable comment. All he heard was a sharp intake of breath.

Mycroft made sure to keep his expression neutral, a slight scowl perhaps, for good measure, but not showing, carefully not showing.

He had forgotten – how could he have forgotten! – that beneath all the hair, the curls, and the burning blue eyes, his younger brother was, simply was, their father; the cheekbones, chin, nose, ears. It was, he mused, a good thing Sherlock wasn't carrying the violin. That would have been too much.

All that was missing was the ever-present expression of bitter disappointment. Thank God.

He realized he was still staring when Sherlock shot him a confused look, for once unable to read his older brother's expression.

Mycroft blinked it away and raised his chin slightly. "I have a case for you."

Sherlock's usual 'you're-Mycroft-so-that's-a-no' expression replaced the confused look from mere seconds ago.

"I can't, Lestrade's waiting."

"Of course he is," Mycroft commented. He earned himself another death glare with that.

Lestrade stopped digging in the mess of files and folders – when had his desk started to look like Sherlock's living room? – when the lanky detective burst into his office, energy oozing out of every bit of him, barely-contained glee in his eyes.

"You're late!"

"I'm well-prepared, not late, Lestrade. Now, give me details, give me work."

Lestrade smiled, looked the man over appreciatively, and handed him the file he had finally located – right drawer, left stack, bottom file, of course –.

"Cambridge chem student, name is Charlie Milverton." Sherlock flipped through the file, drinking in all the information. "Nasty blackmailer, but we've got nothing to go on. Need to get close to him."

Sherlock nodded, "I'll be Thomas Escott. My classes start tomorrow." A grin spread on his face while reading over the file, flitting through photographs of Charlie's girlfriend.

Lestrade frowned. "Be nice, Sherlock, no collateral damage."

"Can't promise that," Sherlock murmered, not looking up from the file while scribbling something unreadable next to a photograph of a handsome student that sent a polished smile to the camera, "sorry."

He then looked up, catching Lestrade in the act of staring at his hair in fascination. He sent him a glower: Don't you dare.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows: I didn't say anything.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, fixing the DI with one of his signature stares, the type that seemed to go right through you. Lestrade didn't so much as flinch, sending Sherlock an amused glare.

"Fine, off you go."

The stare turned into a smile, and Sherlock-who's-that-12-year-old-Holmes darted out of the room, leaving a mass of papers, folders and a grinning Lestrade in his wake.

Thanks for reading! And Sidney, thanks for beta-ing :)