Sometimes Mycroft wondered why he continued his career.
Much to Sherlock's unknowing knowledge, Mycroft did not always sit in his office looking at files. With his position in the government, there were always people looking for him. A month ago, a couple snipers were being pointed at him during a meeting and Mycroft was only a hair short of a bullet graze. Two weeks ago, Anthea and himself were running through the streets of London (that's right, running!) trying to escape a car stalking them down. Yesterday was the only day he could think of that was incident free, surprisingly.
So it annoyed him when Sherlock would come into his office thinking all he did was sit there and drink tea.
"Stop sending me cases, Mycroft. You can solve these yourself if you would just get up rather than drink tea."
Mycroft sipped his tea (The universe just loved making him look this way in front of his brother.).
"I know you have already solved the case. You just don't want to check your deductions yourself."
He sipped some more tea and stared at his brother without any bit of emotion. His head was spinning. There was something he was forgetting.
"Mycroft. Are you even listening?"
"Sherlock, does he look a bit.."
Sleep sounded wonderful as of right now. Now that he thinks about it, he's getting a bit drowsy.
"Mycroft, can you hear me?"
Was Dr. Watson always in the room? Sherlock's ranting had a tendency to block everyone else out. The door opened but he didn't even glance.
"Anthea, what's wrong with my brother?"
There was a clicking of heels and suddenly there was an arm around his body. He began leaning towards the person embracing him.
"Sir has a concussion."
A concussion? Why would he have a concussion? He doesn't even remember getting hit…ooooooh.
"From what?"
"He was hit in the head with a lamp."
"A lamp?"
"Long story. His memory may be bits and pieces."
"What happened?"
Mycroft was already snoring loudly as Anthea began retelling yesterday's events.