II

"That's the third time this month he's done that," Mycroft Holmes murmurs, snapping the cell phone shut and turning away from the window to face the curly haired man that sits in an armchair, violin poised on his shoulder, bow hovered just above the strings, "You have to tell him."

Sherlock Holmes ignores his brother, instead bringing the bow down to meet the strings, trilling out a fast, yet sorrowful tune. Mycroft sighs, running his wiry fingers through his already thinning hair. The tune continues, flipping and twirling through the air like a swallow, surging over the eldest Holmes' head and eventually out of the window.

Suddenly, Sherlock stands up, brushing down his shirt with his palms, the violin left discarded on the chair. His fingers drum again his sides, as he paces around and around the room, muttering violently under his breath.

"This is torture!" Sherlock yells suddenly, as he stops pacing, "I am so bored!"

Mycroft rolls his eyes, exasperated.

"Well, maybe you should head on back to 221B and get a case!" he hisses violently, glaring at his younger brother.

Sherlock shake his head, returning to pacing, but with added hand flourishes.

"No, no, can't do that," he mutters, "Can't have them realizing I'm alive."

Mycroft sighs heavily, bringing his fingertips together as he sits down behind the large desk in the centre of the room. There is barely a moment of silence before Sherlock is groaning, his fingers playing a frantic tune against his leg.

"Do I need to put you in the naughty corner?" Mycroft asks, not looking up from the stack of paperwork behind his desk. Sherlock stops pacing, turning back to the violin, trilling out a rather brutal number on its strings before throwing it down again in frustration.

"And just how long are you planning on staying here?" Mycroft flips a page in his stack of papers, barely glancing up at his brother.

The younger Holmes clicks at his phone, just finishing a text with the words, "JOHN, BORED, PLEASE FIND A CASE. –SH" before he remembers, flinging the mobile down on the seat to join the violin.

"As long as I have to." Sherlock mutters, continuing his pacing, back and forth, back and forth, like laps. Suddenly, he veto's to the desk, grabbing the paper from under his brother's nose, ignoring the noise of protest.

"What's this?" he asks, turning it over and around, causing Mycroft to roll his eyes.

"Are you sure you're not four years old?" he announces with a smug smile, snatching the paper away from his brothers grasp, "But if you must know, it is some very important legal documents concerning-"

"Boring," Sherlock drawls, flinging his thin body back onto the seat, nearly crushing the violin in the process. He picks at his phone for a moment before flinging it down once more, heaving a massive sigh of exasperation.

"Now really, brother," Mycroft looks up from the paperwork to glare at Sherlock, who, in turn, stares at the ceiling, shaking his head arrogantly.

"Can I just go outside?" Sherlock asks mockingly, earning him a begrudging look.

"Do you even hear yourself speak? Just a moment ago you were saying that you couldn't go back to John."

"Well that's different, isn't it?" Sherlock mocks, "I said I wanted to go out. I didn't say I wanted to go back to 221B."

"But that's what you meant, isn't it?" Sherlock glowers at his brother before sitting down in the armchair, fingers pressed to his lips, staring out the window, his pupils small, swallowed by his liquid irises.

"I can't go back," Sherlock says wistfully, obviously avoiding the question, still gazing out the glass of the window onto the street outside, "Not yet. Not until the news dies down."

Mycroft looks sadly over at his brother – so fascinated by the world, yet unable to step outside for fear of being noticed. One day, after the great 'fraudulent' detective's suicide was old news, he would be able to go back to John Watson, back to 221B Baker Street. Mycroft was sure how his brother was going to go back to consulting, but the man was Sherlock Holmes – he would find a way.