"I was undercover, what possible reason could you have for pulling me out?" Mycroft rolled his eyes, massaging his temples against a headache he could already feel coming. It was amazing how his brother could cause him such grief and he wasn't even in the same room with Sherlock yet.
"Brother mine," Mycroft said, schooling his features into a mask of cool indifference, "you do know how to raise an unholy racket."
"Mycroft!" Sherlock said, outraged, whirling on him. "I was in the middle of a case, I was undercover, what reason do you have to send your pets after me?" Mycroft sighed, shaking his head just a fraction of an inch. Sherlock hadn't come easily, that much was apparent and had been obvious in the first place. Mycroft's little brother disliked being fetched, always had, and it was apparent by the fresh bruise on his cheek that he had mad a fuss. Sherlock was always making a fuss.
"The last time you were undercover, little brother, your blood was swimming with morphine and other nasty little drugs."
"Last time it was necessary. This time less so, although I should think that my staying undercover would be high on a list of national priorities." Sherlock retorted. Mycroft didn't disagree. With the threat of Moriarty's return at the front of the country's collective mind, Sherlock's banishment had been repealed. There was no one better for the job than the younger Holmes, everyone agreed, and so he had been allowed back into the country, as a free man. Mycroft had had a hand in it, he would admit to that, but only because his little brother had figured out Moriarty before and because he was a national asset. Mycroft would not allow his impeccable reputation be tarnished by Sherlock's return.
And as important as Moriarty's recapture and rediscovery – they still did not know if he was even alive – was, and it was, this was more important. Mycroft shuddered to think of the consequences should the present…situation ever get out of hand. Downing Street would certainly get involved and the press would have a field day. It would be disastrous.
"Your work is important, Sherlock; you know it, I know it, God knows Parliament knows it. This takes precedence."
"And what is this, pray tell?" Sherlock demanded. "What could be so important that I am forced to halt my investigation?" Oh, Mycroft hated it when Sherlock acted righteous. It didn't suit him. "Terrorism? Nuclear warfare? Has someone important been murdered?"
"Do stop pouting, Sherlock, it's not attractive." Mycroft huffed, wishing this conversation was over. "This problem is of a familial nature."
"Family?" Sherlock parroted, already picking apart Mycroft's words, as was his fashion. "What family? Our parents are vacationing, as you well know. Unless you're referring to John and Mary, but you wouldn't do that because you don't consider them family, brother dear. Frankly, I'm surprised that I still make the roster, as the – "
"Sherlock." Mycroft said, cutting him off mid-rant. So tedious, why did Sherlock always insist upon being so very tedious? "We have a niece." That shut him up for a moment. Unfortunately, Mycroft was unable to savor it. "This is Nadya," he said, dropping a file onto the table. Sherlock paused for a moment before curiosity – predictably – got the best of him and he inched closer, flipping it open. Paper-clipped to the inside of the file was a picture of a girl with raven hair and wild eyes who did share an uncanny Holmes resemblance.
"Nadya Holmes," Sherlock read off of the page. "
"William's daughter." Mycroft confirmed. "And she's coming to England. I've already made all of the arrangements." Now, Mycroft allowed himself to smile. "Mrs. Hudson is looking forward to another Holmes staying in Baker Street." It might have been childish, but the look of revulsion on Sherlock's face made all of the hassle seem worth it, if only for a moment. "I'm sure you and our niece will get along swimmingly. Enjoy your new flat-mate, brother."