BORED. Completely, undeniably, indubitably, bored. His experiments were the type that needed to sit for a bit, he was tired of writing new violin compositions, and his advertisement as a consulting detective had apparently gone either unnoticed or hadn't been taken seriously. (Idiots.) All of this led to one tragic conclusion: Sherlock Holmes was desperately going out of his mind with boredom.
He'd have to take extreme measures: time to bug Mycroft. It was risky business (getting on Mycroft's bad side) because he didn't always win their little spats. His arch-nemesis was good, Sherlock would give him that. Sherlock was better only sometimes. Normally, he would love the challenge that this implied but every loss was accompanied by so much smugness on Mycroft's part that it dampened his eagerness to engage in their battles in most situations. Today though- today he required something (anything) to stimulate his mind. So he did what only two people in the entire world have done: he walked into Mycroft's bedroom.
An enormous desk stood in the center of the room (Mycroft had taken it as a spare from his father's study.) Behind it was a high-backed wooden reclining chair that had the softest (and most expensive) looking cushions Sherlock had ever seen backing it. Further back, a bed hid, almost unperceivably in the corner, practically buried beneath its extra blankets, pillows, and cushions and across from the chest of drawers, next to the bedside table with the old oil lantern. It was exactly as he remembered it, all dark wood and silk pillows. Sleek, hard lines and soft, comfortable places to sit, lie, or recline- that was what Mycroft loved. (Also, food. The crumbs on the bedside table and the deeper indentations in the cushions and bed told him that Mycroft had been indulging himself in that particular love as well.)
Sherlock approached the desk cautiously, checking for cameras or alarm triggers because, honestly, with Mycroft, you never knew what you were facing. There was a bunch of papers on the surface, probably just work stuff. (Although not anything too important or interesting, or Mycroft would never leave it out.) He shuffled through them anyways, scanning each sheaf of paper distractedly.
Work, work, report from Sherlock's surveillance team, work, memo about the U.S. presidential election, (and really, he was going to win? Sherlock didn't care much about American politics, but really?!), more work, and oh… Oh! What was this? This was different. A letter, already opened. The envelope and the stamp told him that it was from the Middle East- Afghanistan or Iraq? – and the handwriting of the addresser said doctor all over. He pulled the actual letter from the pre-ripped envelope, unfolding it with care (he didn't need to make it any more obvious to Mycroft that he'd been there, too many hints made catching him too easy) and reading it over quickly.
A letter from a soldier… why did Mycroft have it? Wasn't it supposed to be sent to a school? There wasn't anything special about it, at least not as far as Sherlock could tell. The author of the letter was perhaps a bit above average but he was a hardly a genius. Could he be… missing something? No, definitely not. He needed more data. Sherlock wondered if Mycroft would miss the letter if he took it to experiment on, (just a few tests to collect more information, nothing too damaging.) Or rather, how long would it take for Mycroft to notice its absence, and would that give Sherlock enough time to complete his experiments. If his mental calculations were correct, he could probably manage it.
A few hours and several experiments later, Sherlock had formed a pretty good picture of the author but no clear idea as to why Mycroft had the letter…
Suddenly, he froze. He could hear footsteps – Mycroft's footsteps - coming up the stairs to his room. Quickly he placed a large tome on differentiating between different causes of anaphylactic shock on top of it and dove onto his couch, positioning himself as if he'd been lazily sprawled there. He clasped his hands, prayer-like, beneath his chin and stared pointedly at the ceiling, ignoring Mycroft's less than subtle entrance.
"Sherlock, you know that I know what you've done. Don't be childish."
Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't even move a muscle. If Mycroft hadn't known better, he would've been tempted to check if he was even alive.
"Sherlock, really. These petty arguments are beneath us."
A pause.
"Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft barked. His voice, usually so smooth and calm, took on an icy harshness like an icicle dagger. (But much deadlier.)
Sherlock finally looked away from the ceiling, glaring back at his brother.
"What is it this time Mycroft? Don't you have the American elections to busy you?"
"Sherlock, don't play dumb. We both know that it's the furthest thing from the truth. It's insulting."
"I don't mind insulting you," Sherlock muttered sullenly. Mycroft glowered.
"Give me back the letter, Sherlock, or I'll be forced to make you."
"Make me?" Sherlock scoffed. "Making threats is really not your forte brother. You should work on that." He got off the couch and walked around it until he was face to face with him. "How, exactly, do you plan on making me do anything?"
"I'll tell Mummy. It'll be your fault if she's upset." Mycroft smirked, all vainglorious and snobbish. Sherlock sighed.
"Fine, but only if you tell me why you have it."
"I'm afraid I can't do that Sherlock," he started, raising a dainty, manicured hand to forestall his brother's outburst. "However, I have a compromise. I'll allow you to write back to this soldier, this Watson man, and if you can figure out why I have his letter, I'll tell you."
"I want a copy of the letter," Sherlock stipulated.
"That's fine. Now give it back."
Sherlock spun around dramatically, his robe flapping behind him, and plucked the letter from underneath the big book, handing it off to his brother roughly. Mycroft took it delicately and refolded it on its creases, depositing it safely back in its envelope.
"I'll need your reply by tomorrow morning if you want me to send it." With this last comment, Mycroft strode from the room, gently clicking the door closed behind him.
Sherlock had, in the meantime, fished a piece of paper from the stacks piled everywhere about his room and pulled the pen he'd pickpocketed off Mycroft out of his robes sleeve. Then he lay down on his bed and began writing.
J.H.W.-
What would you like me to call you? Dr. Watson, Captain Watson, Mr. Watson? John? For now, I'll simply address you as you signed your previous letter. As for me, my name is Sherlock Holmes. You can call me Sherlock. I'm eighteen years old, but I'll be nineteen soon, and out of this hellhole of a high school. Did you like college? That's where I'm headed next. I suppose it'll be just as dull as high school, though for some reason all my classmates seem to be of the opinion that it's going to be loads better.
Now, to the crux of the matter. I hope this doesn't disappoint you terribly, but I'm not actually writing to you out of the kindness of my heart or any such sentimental nonsense as that. In fact, I've been reliably informed I don't have one. Actually, you have perked my interest. Well, not you, per se, so much as my brother. You see, he is the British government. And, for some reason, (something I'm still trying to figure out), he had your letter.
You said that the letter was supposedly sent to a high school; do you have any idea why my twenty-five year old brother got it?
On a different note, you requested hearing about London. I do live in London, so I can tell you about it, but I must warn you: my life is not what you'd qualify as "normal." It probably won't be like any of your experiences here. But, since you asked, I shall tell you what I can.
I go to a private school in London called Bartholomew's, a branch off of St. Bart's hospital. It's completely dull, nothing worth hearing about there. I also work as a consulting detective. If you don't know what that is, it's because I'm the only one in the world. Basically, when people, especially the police, can't solve something or are out of their depth, they consult me. I have some fascinating stories about some of my cases (if you're interested in that sort of stuff.)
Most of the London that I see on a daily basis is the underbelly of it. I know the criminals, the homeless people, the dark alleys, the hole-in-the-wall restaurants, and the best places to get taxis. So, if I do tell you about London, you'll have to keep in mind it'll be from a different perspective than you're probably used to hearing about. However, if this doesn't bug you, I wouldn't mind telling you about it. Writing down my thoughts might help me make connections I'd otherwise miss, you never know. (I don't miss a lot though, normally.)
England is as rainy and grey and beautiful as ever. The criminals of London have been especially boring lately, so you aren't missing much in that regard.
Lastly, you may have (or may not have, I'm banking on your multiple high positions, doctor and captain, that you have a higher than average intelligence) noticed that I am not exactly your normal teenager. That said, you needn't worry about me viewing you as a freak or a weirdo for your therapist or whatever else. Generally, I'm the one who receives those titles. If we are to be corresponding thus, please don't be so sniveling and self-conscious in the future. It's irritating.
-S.H.
***A/N:
Thanks for the awesome response! I'll try to keep this going if I keep getting support for it. I've got a few other stories running but I'm having a writers block with them so I'll be concentrating on this for now. Please review and tell me what you think of this chapter! Hope you all have a good weekend!