"Holbrook." Sherlock's expression changed to one of disbelief for a moment, before reverting back to the mask he reserved for Mycroft. "What a surprise."
"This isn't your brother, so who is it, Sherlock? Another friend?"
"I don't have friends, remember. Really, John, you don't see it?" John sighed.
"See what?"
"I would think it'd be fairly obvious, even to you… the suit, John, the suit!" Sherlock threw up his arms, startling his best friend. With a wild expression that John knew could only mean trouble, the world's only consulting detective jumped onto the sofa cushion, gaining several feet in height.
"What does that even mean, Sherlock?"
"Look at the suit. Really look at it. Do you see the creases? You should, because you've been noticing creases since our friend Billy deduced you. Now. Where are the creases? The suit is perfectly ironed, except in one place: the sleeve. Why the sleeve? Nicotine habit, patches, to be exact. Once a smoker, as the slightly rasping voice tells us. But he's stopped. Moved on the patches, perhaps because of the horrors of smoking in London- or he's in hiding and can't be caught. His suit is old, but clearly once fashionable, and according to the silhouette, I'd say its of London origin. Twenty years old, at least. Now, look at his face. High cheekbones, middling hairline. Slight curls, but beginning to straighten with age. He examined the room completely in the seconds he's been here, so analytically minded. Possibly a mathematician, more likely a writer- the stiff fingers, and statistically more likely. Too much time at the computer. Conclusion: recently returned to London after a long time away, in hiding because of something he wrote, but came to Baker Street to live. Disappeared twenty years ago, but comes back now. Why? Neighbor to 221B, so if past experience is anything to go on, either an assassin or curious. The latter, in this case. My, the years have treated you well, brother dear." Sherlock jumped his feet around to face his brother, smirking.
"Wait, but… there's another one of you?" John's eyebrows rose higher than Sherlock had thought possible.
"Do lower your brows, John. Unless you want to look more incredulous than you already do."
"But…"
"Hello, Doctor Watson. I don't believe we've been introduced…" The man previously in shadow stepped further into the room, giving John a terrible fright. His face seemed like a mix of Mycroft's and Sherlock's, and his hair was indeed a wavy version of Sherlock's curls. With blue eyes that stunned, and a wide mouth, the man seemed ageless, but the creases around his eyes showed that he must have been over 40, at least. As a shocked John realized, there was no way around it: another Holmes brother stood in his former flat.
"Spare us, Holbrook," Sherlock sighed, his mouth pressed thin. "I don't do introductions."
"You really should learn, my dear brother."
"Nope," Sherlock answered cheerfully, popping the 'p'. "No, thanks!" Holbrook frowned. And Sherlock's smile broadened. "So good to see you, Holbrook, and so nice of you to pop by… laters!" And the detective flopped back onto the sofa, closing his eyes.
"Sherlock. I'm not here to deal with your childish games."
"Hm." Sherlock refused to lift his eyelids. "That's what Mycroft said." John watched in shocked silence as his friend ignored yet another brother.
"Mycroft, dear brother, is why I'm here," Holbrook whispered dramatically. "Now, cease your ridiculous toying, and listen."