AN: This is another prompt from Jokergirl4ever! Hope you like it. This plot bunny got away from me and I hope it's good. Sherlock actually talks in this one! Any constructive comments are loved!
John stares at the closet door, chewing on his bottom lip, wondering if maybe he made a mistake. It's been nearly an hour now and neither Holmes has made a peep. He would chance opening the door if he thought he could keep them in there once it was open but just getting them in there had been hard. Clearing his throat he takes a step toward the door. It's their fault they are in there, his mother's voice floats in his mind reminding him of the times she shoved Harry and him in the closet, for being so nasty to each other. Though he never made as many jabs at Harry's weight as Sherlock does to Mycroft, mainly because she responded with actual jabs.
"You still alive in there?" he calls out. Neither Holmes answers him and he groans lowly. Maybe it's not working how it should because Mycroft and Sherlock are adults, not children. Then again, when it was him he couldn't get out of the closet quick enough, he would have said anything to get out of it.
"I'm doing this for your own good," he says to the door, "for both of you."
His hands are clenching, his heart is pounding uncomfortably in his chest. He knows that he is just a fad, an experiment for the two brothers. An add-on that can be removed or replaced. And one day he won't be there to temper words said without thought. Like what happened today. The gentle playing over jam and toast devolved so quickly it left his head spinning. They need to get back to where they were, an understanding needs to be found again. Several minutes pass in silence and John feels his certainty shatter. Slowly, he takes the last two steps to the door, moves the chair he placed in front of it to keep it shut and opens the door, just a crack. When it isn't pushed against him he chances looking in. Like his own memories of the closet, the items normally cluttering the closet are still in there to add to the imposingness of the situation. To help encourage the ones inside to apologize or as Harry like to say; appease the one controlling the door. Mycroft is glaring at the head of a mop that is inches from his face while Sherlock is ignoring everything. John pulls the door the rest of the way open.
"Did you two at least talk?" he asks them. Mycroft transfers his glare from the mop to John.
"Really, Doctor Watson," John flinches at that, "This was a childish idea. Whatever did you hope to achieve?"
John shrugs his shoulders listlessly, unwilling to explain it and feeling small under the other's scrutiny. Mycroft sighs and leaves the closet. Once the oldest Holmes is out, Sherlock blinks out of what was likely his mind palace and without sparing a glance at John, sweeps out of the closet. Not knowing what to do the shorter blond trails after them to the living room.
"I'm going to assume you two didn't talk so, would you like a cuppa?"
"Astounding assumption, Doctor Watson. And no, I do not want tea."
"That's enough, Mycroft," Sherlock whispers.
"I don't think it is, brother dear. He locked us in a closet. He confiscated my phone and blackberry! I could have gotten a call from work!"
"He was just doing what he always does."
It's strange to see Mycroft being the one soothed. Though Sherlock isn't talking with the same cold apathy his brother normally talks in he is using a tone that John hasn't heard since the beginning. Mycroft says something too low for John to hear that has Sherlock shaking his head.
"Childish or not, John was trying to help. And in his own way conducting an experiment."
"And what pray tell would that be?"
"If we would react like he did. Apologize to each other under the weight of his mother's scrutiny or in this case John's, not meaning what he said until he had time to think about what he said away from his sister who took John's willingness to apologize first as a confession of wrongdoing and acted like most children her age. It failed, of course. We've never behaved as we should."
Sherlock gives Mycroft a little smile, the one he gives before kissing the redhead.
"Fancy way of saying he meddled where he had no business meddling," Mycroft grumps, John tries to smile.
"Sometimes meddling is neces-"
"Not with us," Mycroft interrupts forcefully, "While there are times I wish my brother was a little more serious, we are not like you. And to try and force us into behaving like you think we should-"
"Mycroft!"
The scolding in Sherlock's tone shocks both Mycroft and John.
"It's… it's fine Sherlock. He's allowed to express when he thinks I've been a bit not good," he soothes. He thinks he said it calmly, without a quiver in his voice. And he starts to back away, muttering about making himself a cuppa. Making tea, after all, is a soothing action, a methodical practice that helps him calm down. It's as he places the kettle on the stove that arms wrap around his waist and lips are pressed to his neck. He leans into the frame of the person holding him, noting the padding that separates Mycroft from the skin and bones of Sherlock.
"I have been told that I was out of line…"
"You weren't."
"I was. You react so well to us- you roll with the punches, I believe the saying is, that I forget you aren't a Holmes."
Another kiss is pressed to his neck.
"We both are still displeased with the way you chose to voice concern, John, you must understand that."
With that one little word, the use of his first name instead of his title, all the tension that had been building eases from him. Mycroft makes a curious little hum behind him.
"So sensitive and yet so determined not to show it at the oddest of times."
"I want a turn, Mycroft, you can't hog him like you do the biscuits."
Mycroft pulls back and the two begin to bicker. John hears them mention his jumpers and rolls his eyes fondly. The kettle begins to whistle and he pulls it off the stove. He turns around, spots three cups waiting for him quite innocently waiting to be filled, and with a playful sigh and shake of his head, John prepares three cups of tea.
"We may say cruel things to each other but… we don't mean them. You won't be forced to choose between us," Mycroft says later, his finger buried in John's short blond hair. The doctor is resting against his chest, half asleep. Sherlock scoffs from his place snuggled into John's back.
"That isn't what he fear," Sherlock says, "He's scared that by adding him to our relationship we've become unstable, unbalanced. That he will be what breaks us. Or that we will get bored with our doctor and drop him. Stupid, really. Almost Anderson level thinking."
Mycroft tightens his grip, making John squirm unhappily.
"Only if he continues to shove us in closets," he jokes, massaging John's scalp.