A/N: Apologies for bad writing ethic, and thank you very, very much for the comments.


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2. f4 exf4

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"One day," Mycroft says, "It won't be enough."

Mycroft is a busybody. Sherlock's room is littered with paper and messily scribbled diagrams, rough sketches of his thoughts. There is no visible floor to speak of, which, given the expanse of Sherlock's room, explains both Mycroft's concern and his position at the doorway. Sherlock's newfound passion is fast turning into an obsession, falling hard and fast and worry-inducing because the crash will be inevitable, spectacular and intolerable. So while Mycroft takes it upon himself to caution Sherlock of appropriate distance from his experiments, he happens to stand in the optimal position for Sherlock to slam the door shut with maximum theatrical effect.

Which Sherlock does. The loose papers near the door whirl up and flutter down from the force of his resentment; Sherlock snatches one and viciously tears it apart. He chucks the pieces towards the door.

Mycroft is right, of course. Mycroft has played chess before. Nothing will be enough for the both of them, not chess, not the violin, not ruling the world. (It is so childish a ambition that he could almost mock Mycroft for it - almost, because with Mycroft, success was a distinct possibility.)

On the other hand, Sherlock has a pattern refusing deletion in his mind, and chess is a good enough distraction as any.

"There are more possible chess games than there are atoms in the known universe, Mycroft," he replies tersely, crossing the room to reach a fresh stack of paper. Pencils, where did he put the pencils?

"You and I both know chess doesn't work that way."

It is a particularly unwelcome facet of their relationship: Mycroft can always be counted on to deviate from the instructed purpose of his visit (playing the message boy; his original purpose is always to pry) and therefore infuriate Sherlock with detestably accurate remarks.

Sherlock takes a sheet of paper and scars slow, deliberate lines across its surface. He would open the door just to slam it in Mycroft's face, but that would require effort, so he slides the paper under the door instead.

"Really, Sherlock," he hears Mycroft sigh as he deciphers the writing. "Such language does so upset Mummy."

Sherlock says it out loud, this time.

Mycroft sensibly ignores this. "If I may remind you of the date, you will find that next week you are expected to receive your gifts amiably and without offending Mummy's guests. Please actually make an effort to do so."

"Ha," Sherlock says flatly. "Goodbye."

When Mycroft leaves, Sherlock retrieves thirty-two more squares of paper from the stack. He shades each one meticulously, a full rich coat of silver-black graphite arranged tenderly on the carpeting. He watches as his chessboard floor gleams and begins, and he smiles.