Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock or Benedict Cumberbatch, unfortunately.
Mycroft Holmes sat in his office, a cup of tea and a slice of Battenburg cake on the mahogany desk in front of him. He heaved a slow sigh. What a rare moment it was, for the office to be completely silent and peaceful, and for him to be completely free of paperwork, and responsibilities.
Well, almost.
It was almost ironical how the phone chose to ring at the exact moment Mycroft put the delicious slice of cake in his mouth. He rolled his eyes subconsciously, placed the cake back down on the delicate china side plate, and picked up the phone.
"Mycroft Holmes speaking," he said dryly.
"Mycroft," said the voice Mycroft least expected it to be, for Sherlock did not ring. He preferred to text.
Something must be wrong.
"Yes, brother," he said, automatically straightening. "What has happened?"
"I need money," Sherlock said, and Mycroft could detect a slight, and highly unusual, stutter in his voice. "Moriarty - he's got me. If I do not commit suicide, he'll do something to John. I can tell. I've arranged for Molly to help with the body, and I've looked at the hospital books, and there will be a laundry truck arriving outside the hospital. Everything is planned, but I just need money, since I cannot be trusted with the money Mother left me," he added sourly.
Mycroft winced, "of course, Sherlock. I'll send someone to meet you. Where and when would be convenient to you?"
"We can't meet in public. I would have just jumped off a roof, remember? I think people would be slightly put out if I turned up across town half an hour later," he said sarcastically, but continued, "transfer the money to John's bank. I stole his card. He'll be none the wise. I can't see him rushing to the bank after he's watched me fall to my death." Mycroft could sense the emotion in Sherlock's voice.
"Of course, brother. But," Mycroft said quickly, before Sherlock could hang up, "be careful. I will cover for you the best I can. This is my fault. You're my brother, and I- I..."
"I know, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Be- stay on your diet, it's working, albeit painfully slow."
This was the closest the Holmes brothers would ever come to expressing their feelings for each other, but it suited both fine. Sherlock hung up, and Mycroft set the phone down on the table. He sighed.
Suddenly, his appetite vanished. Even Battenburg cake didn't seem appealing.