"Sir?" Mycroft looked up from the relatively small stack of paperwork on his desk(which most people would estimate costing over $100,000). The eldest Holmes boy looked up, a growing sense of anticipation and exasperation suddenly forming in his gut.
"Yes, my dear?" He asked, his apprehension thankfully not seeping into his tone.
"Erm... You've been sent a card and... 8 bouquets of flowers. "
Mycroft sighed. "He went so far as to send 8? He's outdone himself this year."
The assistant looked up at the mention of a male. "Him, sir?" What /man/ would send Mycroft this many flowers, or any flowers, really, on today of all days?
"Yes, of course."
*:.｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:* ((super gay transition emoticon~))
"£300, Sherlock!?"
The consulting detective didn't even bother opening a single eye to acknowledge the outburst of disbelief.
"What about £300, John?" He asked, bored.
"I just found a receipt for £300 worth of flowers on the table. Who did you send flowers to?" John was curious, Sherlock wasn't exactly the flower-giving type.
"Why does it matter, John? Are you jealous?"
"No, Sherlock, you bastard. I was just curious. You don't strike me as the type of person to give a surprise flower delivery. I know your love life isn't any of my-"
Sherlock started laughing, finally giving John the courtesy of opening his eyes and looking at the person who was addressing him. "Have you considered, John, the possibility of it being for a case? Or that today is Mothers' Day?"
A feeling of 'oh, duh. I'm so stupid.' Washed over John. "Oh. Your mother. I should have known that. I didn't realize the date."
"No, not for my mother. Though your ignorance of the holiday is excusable due to your lack of reason to aw knowledge it. You and your mother have all but disowned each other at this point."
John frowned, otherwise ignoring that last bit. "If not for your mother then who?"
"Mycroft."
"Oh, okay."
After a few moments John fully processed that. "Wait, what!?"
*:.｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*
"Bring them in, I suppose. Have them moved behind my desk." Mycroft instructed, ill-amused by the idea if his workplace looking like a florists.
The bouquets, pink, purple, white, red, green, and yellow flowers bundle together in vases,were brought in one-by-one courtesy of a smirking deliveryman. Mycroft ignored him after taking the pink floral envelope containing the card that accompanied the flowers and tucked it away in an inside pocket. "Careful, that is mahogany!" He snapped when the deliveryman stumbled and near spilt water on the dark wood of his desk.
Once the clumsy oaf was gone and the commotion caused by the arrival of so many flowers died down, Mycroft was able to get back to work for a whole ten minutes before being interrupted by a violent bout of sneezing.
*:.｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*
"This year I took special care with his gift." Sherlock informed John lazily. "He'd allergic to carnations and I instructed the florist to hide one in one of the bouquets.
John, though he thought Mycroft was a stuck-up bastard, couldn't help but feel sorry for the elder Holmes. "Sherlock, that was probably unnecessary."
"As was sending the flowers." Sherlock agreed, melting back into the couch and his mind palace.
Sensing the end of the conversation, John went upstairs to take a nap.
*:.｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*
Mycroft, unwilling to move the flowers himself and not wishing to off-throw the work flow in his division of the government building, was sneezing on and off all day. When he finally made it home(ordering the flowers to be distributed to women on the street), he set his umbrella in the stand near the door, sat down with a cup of tea, and opened the envelope. Inside was a card and a paper. He looked at the card first.
The cover was decorated with hand-drawn pansies, lilies, and daffodils, all painted with water color by hand. So detailed were the flowers that it could almost be a photo with the colors edited.
Most people would think a card hand-made with such care would be especially meaningful, but Mycroft knew Sherlock must just have been bored recently and created the card in his free time.
Opening the card, Mycroft could clearly imagine the card read aloud in Sherlock's teasing voice.
'Happy Mother's Day, /Mycroft/. Perhaps you should try raising a child of your own and compare him or her to the way your attempt at parenthood over me resulted. Lestrade fancies you, maybe he'd agree to help your pompous ass father a child.'
Mycroft inwardly rolled his eyes at the near-illegible scrawl and contrasting elegant dignities on the inside of the card.
He set the card down and examined the accompanying paper. It was a drawing o two penguins, one resembling Lestrade and another with a stronger resemblance to Mycroft. Between them was a fluffy mass that he figured was a lazy representation of a young penguin chick. The bottom-right corner captioned "The love of a family and adoration of friends is much more important than wealth and privilege." In careful script handwriting.
Mycroft chuckled at the ironic intention of the joke, knowing Sherlock found quote detestable but amusing due to the wealth and privilege part.
On the back of the paper wa another quote, this one less carefully written. "I come from a family where gravy is considered a beverage."
Mycroft had absolutely no clue what the hell he was supposed to take from that, as not one of his relatives believed gravy should be treated as a beverage. He wrote it off as Sherlock writing it there to screw with him. He shook his head and placed the card on the mantle, drawing leaning against it, next to a collection of Mothers' Day cards from years past whose quality varied from cheap and store-bought with cheesy messages and no personalization whatsoever to beautiful hand-made gifts like this years.
The collection attracted quite a few questions from visitors to Mycroft's home, but he kept them there nonetheless.