"Your brother's upstairs," Mrs. Hudson told Sherlock Holmes as they bumped into each other, one returning, the other heading out.

I knew that already, he would've told her, except, thanks to John Watson, he's learned some manners. Not all, but some. "You're too kind," he says instead, meaning the tea that she made his odious brother, and stalked upstairs. "What now," he grumped, whatever was left of his post-case adrenaline rush now leaching out of his system like air from a punctured balloon.

Mycroft was looking altogether smug and self-satisfied as he sat in Sherlock's seat, tea and saucer in hand. The tea had just cooled, and Sherlock inwardly cursed the second law of thermodynamics. "Find a new flatmate," he said succinctly, his voice crisp and clear, in spite of the noise Sherlock was now making with his violin.

The curly-haired man glared at his flat-haired (And balding! he added triumphantly to his inner voice) older brother, not ceasing in almost literally sawing at his Stradivarius. "Why?" he said, feeling his lower lip pulling upward into a pout.

His unfortunately-not-as-fat-as-he-used-to-be older brother raised an eyebrow. "You know why. If you can't afford to pay, we would love to have you back-"

"No, absolutely not," Sherlock interrupted. There were numerous reasons why he would never go back home, one very large one sitting across from him. "I found John, no reason why I shouldn't find another."

Mycroft scoffed, his tea cup now empty. "I believe it was Mike Stamford who introduced the two of you," he said, "how many long-suffering people do you think he knows, hm?"

Sherlock glared at him, before an idea came to mind. He jumped out of his seat, almost but not quite flinging the violin and bow behind the skull, and shoved his arms back into his coat. "Try not to eat all the biscuits," he sneered, "wouldn't want to regain whatever pounds you've lost."

The British Government made a face. "Try not to antagonize Stamford too much," he called out as Sherlock went down the stairs two and three at a time, "he's got a heart condition!"

"La'erz!" the consulting detective threw over his shoulder before bounding back out. He had a flatmate to catch.