John Watson looked down at the letter and rubbed his forehead. There was nothing he could do. A sob story, sure, but he couldn't help. He sat the letter on the arm of his chair and fetched a paper and pen from the desk.
"Since when does the American government contact us on paper?" Sherlock asked. He'd seen the seal, clearly.
"Since they ask for help," John replied, settling back in his chair to write a response. He propped the paper up on his laptop, waiting for the words to permeate Sherlock's concentration.
"A case?" Sherlock asked. He finally looked up from his microscope, which contained a particularly interesting liver sample. Of course it would be a case. Since when could any government fend for themselves these days?
"No," John said. Sherlock sighed slightly in disappointment and returned to his experiment. "Actually, they asked me to take in some orphans. Apparently I'm some distant uncle, and the only available relation."
"Hardly available," Sherlock snorted, "Imagine. Children here." John ignored him and continued writing. He was right, of course. Their flat was covered in lab equipment, dismembered body parts, and the ever-present threat of cocaine. Any children coming here would undoubtedly be scarred by the experience.
John had planned to post the letter the next day on his way to the surgery. It was tucked into the pocket of his coat as he sat and ate his toast. He was painfully aware of the envelope, and the story kept going over in his mind. But there was nothing he could do.
There was a knock on the door.
Sherlock swore and slammed the Petri dish hard onto the table. The bags under his eyes said he'd not slept the night before.
"Mycroft? Or a client?" John asked carefully. Sherlock nodded ambiguously, but it was clear from his sneer that it was the former at the door. He clearly didn't want to be disturbed, and Mycroft was a disturbance of the worst kind.
John got up and opened the door when Sherlock didn't move. Mycroft stood with his umbrella, smiling thinly and stepping inside. John turned and attempted to return to his toast, content to let the brothers argue. But, to his surprise, Mycroft addressed him.
"No doubt you've gotten the plea from the Americans, and you've penned your letter of refusal," he began.
"And now Britain is here to urge us to reconsider?" Sherlock said acidly, jumping in before John could respond.
"Well, yes," Mycroft said, looking mildly at Sherlock. "Have you deleted information concerning the Baudelaire fires?"
"A string of badly planned arsons across America. Linked to several possible organizations. Boring." Sherlock leaned against the table, arms crossed, scowling at Mycroft.
"Brother dear, you should sleep when you're not on a case," Mycroft said with a sarcastic smile. "The largest fire orphaned three children: Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire. Since then, they've been dogged by an assassin intent on taking their fortune and their lives. The orphans have been shuffled between guardians, who are invariably too stupid to recognize danger."
"Put them in a home," Sherlock snapped as he returned to his microscope and the more average liver sample, "Customs can catch the assassin. Boring." He emphasized the word, clear on his answer.
"It does seem rather simple," John interjected, trying to add strength to Sherlock's nasty refusal, "Place them with someone who's not stupid."
There was a silence as Mycroft studied his hands, which gripped the handle of his umbrella. The clock ticked uncomfortably as he assembled what argument he'd use next.
"Sherlock, John," he said, uncharacteristically quietly, "I've met these children. They're precocious, even by our standards. In the wrong hands, any one of them could be a match for you." There was a pause. "I can't imagine these minds under Moriarty's control. It wouldn't be hard for him to get a hold of them; no one wants the trouble they bring. They're young enough to be impressionable. You can imagine the results."
Sherlock looked up from his microscope to glare at Mycroft. A silent minute passed.
"How old?" Sherlock asked in a clipped tone.
"Fifteen, twelve, and six. In three years, Violet comes of age and can legally care for her siblings."
"What?" John asked incredulously, looking over at Sherlock, "You're not seriously considering this? We can't keep children here, especially not three of them! I'm at the surgery, you're on cases—there's a bloody head in the fridge, for god's sake!"
The brothers ignored John. He fumed silently, hating being the slowest person in the room.
"Three years?" Sherlock confirmed.
"And not a second more. They can take care of themselves."
"Sherlock, no," John said, being as stern as he possibly could. "This is out of the question."
There was a tense silence as John glared at Sherlock, and Sherlock looked calculatingly at Mycroft.
"When will they arrive?" Sherlock said, rubbing his temples.
"Two days," Mycroft said, relief creeping into his voice, "I'll have them set up at the local schools in a week—they're walking distance, no worries about transportation. And you two will receive a monthly stipend from the government, equal to the cost of care of three children. They need daily meals, even if you neglect that need." He eyed Sherlock, who missed the jibe.
"And I guess my opinion doesn't matter at all," John said hotly.
"No, it really doesn't," Sherlock said carelessly, waving a hand in his direction.
Without another word, John got up and stormed out, shoving past Mycroft and slamming the door behind him.
"What did I say?" Sherlock said in mild surprise.
"Ignore him. He'll come around. You're doing me a huge favor, you know," Mycroft said.
"I'm trying to forget that fact," Sherlock said.
"The children will be here in two days, at ten. Prepare John for it. And please do clean the flat," Mycroft said, eyeing the liver samples that were still in Sherlock's hands.
Sherlock nodded and returned to the microscope. Mycroft let himself out and Sherlock allowed himself to let out a breath. He put his head in his hands and wondered what he'd just agreed to.