Chapter 2! Lemme know your thoughts! I would love any reviews! Sorry it's so short! I'm just ending it where I think the scenes should end.
Sherlock belongs to BBC, but the idea of the case is meh. :)
Thanks.
John sat there in the empty silence of flat 221B. Something was telling him he should go to see Sherlock's parents. To see what is going on with this case. Why Sherlock is snippier, more cautious, and more consumed then usual.
He'd had a thorough chat with his parents when they got together for a nice Christmas dinner, which actually ended in everyone getting dosed with a sleep tonic, and later, Sherlock murdering a man. But he wasn't a very nice man. He was a threat to Sherlock's family and friends, even if he rejects the fact that he has them, and so he dealt with it.
Leave Sherlock be, to solve this with his own deductive, genius mind? Or go to his parents as a concerned friend, so that he can help him to solve this strange case?
John chose the latter of the two.
Sherlock stepped inside the large, mahogany doors that led to Mycroft's study.
He was revealed, sitting patiently in his desk chair, a cup of tea in hand, and another on the tray in front of him, awaiting Sherlock. He was still as bald as he ever would be, losing more and more of his dark brown hair, and Sherlock was quite sure he'd put on a few pounds since he last saw him, no matter how hard he'd been working out.
"Hello brother." He smiled, straightening his tight gray suit, as his deep voice bellowed out as an echo in the large room, which was cluttered with old books, and papers.
"Mycroft." Sherlock gestured with a nod of his head, his arms tucked behind him.
"I'm sure you know why I am here." Sherlock grunted and swayed over towards the bookshelves, beginning to fidget with the strange knick-knacks his brother held onto. Sentiment, he thought in disgust. How low was his brother falling? Mycroft narrowed his eyes as if reading Sherlock's mind.
"Hm," He began, "the Cabin by the Creek." Mycroft nodded slowly, as Sherlock walked over to sit at the desk, in front of his brother.
"That certainly is a better case name." Sherlock sighed with a roll of his eyes.
"Well," Mycroft shrugged, "What do you plan to do?"
Sherlock's gaze moved away from the merchandise surrounding the old room, and now fixed firmly on his brother's smug expression.
"Well, I plan to go down there."
"To the crime scene?" His brother questioned wide eyes.
"No, to visit Bluebell in Baskerville." Sherlock snapped sarcastically, "Yes, the crime scene."
His brother's forehead wrinkled as he furrowed his eyebrows.
"But you haven't been down there since-" Mycroft stopped, as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.
"Don't speak of it, Mycroft." He stated hastily and glared at his older brother, as he quickly got to his feet, eager to leave the conversation.
"Sherlock." Mycroft began.
"Mycroft." Sherlock countered.
Mycroft sighed and shook his head, "It wasn't your fault, Sherlock."
Sherlock shuddered, and flinched, closing his eyes to repress the memories.
"He loved you, and so did Redbeard." Mycroft exhaled heavily and watched his younger brother for any sort of response.
"Mycroft, those short sprints you have been doing on the treadmill have not helped one bit, and the fact that sentiment is consuming your intelligence is rather insulting." Sherlock snapped, and continued to pester his brother with slander.
"Please, if you ever attempt to give me valuable advice again, you'll clean up before I get here." Sherlock finished, and headed towards the door of the study.
"And," He added, "It was my fault."
With that, he exited the study with a slam of the door, leaving his brother in a wave of pity.