A.N. This was written for andbreathe, so as usual, it's all her fault. Thank you all who reviewed, followed, or favourited. It was very awesome, reading them. They made me grin like a moron (which I am).

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Now leave me alone so I can cry about it.

Mycroft was sat on his desk chair, thinking hard. Octavian had jumped up onto his lap, and was now sat, in a dignified manner, if a fluffy black cat can be dignified. Mycroft wanted to get Sherlock back for Octavian. Sherlock had wanted the cat to be irritating, a hindrance when Mycroft was working. It hadn't worked out like that, but Sherlock had tried to make Mycroft's birthday, which was usually a bad day, even worse. So Mycroft sat behind his desk, plotting for his brother's birthday.

Of course, he didn't want to be too evil. He was the reasonable Holmes brother. He was the clever one. He would not risk looking heartless just to irritate his younger brother. He wasn't that type of person.

"Sir, your breakfast has arrived. Shall I have them bring it in?" Mrs Perkins voice startled Mycroft out of his thoughts. He looked up at his secretary, and replied "Yes, thank you, Mrs Perkins. That would be good."

She made a discreet hand gesture to somebody who, Mycroft presumed, had breakfast. A young man with a tray walked in. He was wearing a name tag reading Mr Charles Laddock, and he staring at the floor as if it was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. Ah, Mycroft thought. Obviously a new person, probably quite low in the proverbial ranks. This should be interesting.

Mr Laddock was almost at his destination of Mycroft's desk, and risked a glance upwards. And then, for the first time, he clapped eyes on what appeared to be the angriest cat of all time.

And it was glaring right at him.

He stumbled, attempting valiantly to stay upright. He nearly managed it too. But when he was almost upright, a feral growl distracted him.

He stumbled and fell, precipitating a large plateful of scrambled eggs and toast directly onto Mycroft Holmes, and Mycroft Holmes' demon cat. His instinct was to exit, running preferably, but his body was still falling. The attempted fleeing only made his body move faster, so when his head collided with the hard wood of Mycroft's desk, he was knocked unconsious immediately.

Mycroft and Mrs Perkins were frozen in place. Octavian meowed grumpily, and jumped off Mycroft's lap. The cat's movement unfroze the room, and Mycroft stood up.

Unsurprisingly, he wasn't as impressive a figure when covered with scrambled eggs. There was egg all over his torso, face and hair. He also had a piece of toast lodged in his blazer pocket, like a strange, bread-y hankerchief.

Not very impressive at all.

Walking round his desk, Mycroft walked over to the prone figure on the floor and nudged him with a previously spotless shoe. No reaction.

Octavian jumped neatly onto the desk, and began to eat the scrambled eggs that were scattered over it's no-longer-pristine surface.

Mrs Perkins caught Mycroft's eye, and started to laugh uncontrollably. Mycroft stared at her, bemused. Then he suddenly saw the funny side, and began to laugh.

And that was when Sherlock walked in. And obviously, the scene must have looked odd.

Mycroft, covered in scrambled eggs, standing over a body, laughing his head off, accompanied by a hysterical secretary, and a fluffy, black-with-lumps-of-scrambled-egg cat.

Sherlock did the first thing that came to mind.

He took out his phone, and he took a picture.

Then he sent the photo to everybody on his contact list. John, Mummy, Father, Lestrade, and several others, including everybody whose phones he had hacked into. Half of the people in London had just been sent a photo of "The Government" in a scene so ridiculous it looked like it had been faked.

Octavian chose this moment to walk over, and scratch Sherlock's leg. "Ow!" Sherlock yelped, and dropped his phone. Which turned out to be a bad move. Octavian promptly urinated on it, then sat down and looked at Sherlock. He looked smug.

Mycroft found himself appreciating just how clever his cat really was.

"Did you want something Sherlock?" said Mycroft coolly.

"What?" Sherlock was confused.

"I assume there was a purpose to your visit. You were never one for family bonding."

"Never mind." Sherlock turned and limped out. Mycroft and Mrs Perkins started laughing again, but Mycroft stopped short when he remembered that he was covered in scrambled egg. And his mood plummeted further when he realised that half of London knew it.

Mrs Perkins looked worried. "Sir? Are you okay?" He became aware that he had been staring at her for several minutes.

"Yes, yes. I'm fine. I will be leaving shortly. Send a cleaning crew up here please. Send a medical team also. Mr Laddock will need it. Thank you." He waved his hand vaguely.

But before leaving, he walked through to a private room, and opened a wardrobe. Inside, there was a row of identical suits. Mycroft brushed the congealing egg out of his hair and changed his suit and shoes. There were some things that one just didn't do, and walking through this building whilst covered in scrambled eggs was one of those.

"The driver is ready for you when you wish to leave, sir." Mrs Perkins voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Thank you, Mrs Perkins." Mycroft inclined his head to her, and walked out, his polished shoes stepping neatly around the scattered scrambled egg and the unconscious body of Charles Laddock.

When he was seated inside one of the black cars, he had a thought. It made him smile a slightly malicious smile. It also made the driver look concerned. Mycroft Holmes was known for many things, but smiling for no apparent reason was not one of them.

Who cares about reasonable? Thought Mycroft. Who cares about "Not too evil"? Revenge will be sweet indeed.