The cab pulls up outside a beautiful expensive manor. John gapes as he admires the structure.
"This is where your brother lives?" astounded, he turns to Sherlock in need of confirmation.
Sherlock sighs. "Yes, John, please don't be an idiot, you know Mycroft is the British government." He reaches past a flabbergasted John and fumbles with the handle. "Pay the driver, John, and do hurry up. Don't make me climb over you."
John struggles to reach his own pocket with Sherlock climbing all over his lap and eventually manages to obtain his wallet. Looking at the cabbie, the man is watching Sherlock with a look of high amusement on his face and smirks at John when they make eye contact. John flushes.
"He doesn't like his brother very much." explains John, hoping the man will just forget he ever saw the one and only Consulting Detective behave this way. Then Sherlock manages to open the door and tumbles out of the cab, landing flat on his face with a loud squawk.
"He despises his brother." elaborates John, deadpan.
He hands the driver the thirty quid he told them it will cost and hopes he might get some change back. The man counts it quickly. "That'll be an extra twenty please."
John blinks to clear his confusion. "No hang on, you said..."
The cabbie gives him a once over and glances at Sherlock who has found his feet and (thank goodness) his balance. He grins, all his teeth showing.
"My sister works for the Daily Mail."
Once John has seen him off with promises of revenge and cursing in more languages than he knew he could speak, along with both middle fingers accompanying the cab's departure, he follows Sherlock up the neat pathway and through the front door of Mycroft's home.
John remembers that first day when he met Sherlock. It took less than six hours for the man to tip his life upside down. For the better he might add. Then with ringing phones and swivelling cameras, he'd met Anthea, and then Mycroft in the warehouse. The man hadn't needed much encouragement to look smug and stare down his nose at Captain Watson. He knew that Mycroft cared about his little brother, put up with his antics and happily participated in all of the staring matches they often got into. Sherlock never saw the despair etched on the elder Holmes' face during those; Mycroft would end him if Sherlock ever found out that his brother had trouble looking into his sightless eyes.
At their first meeting, John politely informed the British Government to sod off. Three weeks ago, after his and Sherlock's first time together, Mycroft had glanced at the pair of them, smirked and had marched away cursing the apparent benefits of sentiment and his sudden need to declare war on an unsuspecting country. Sherlock was surprised his brother had taken it so well.
As they enter the building, John glances around at the designs and decorations furnishing the home. "Is this a museum?" he asks before he can stop himself. Sherlock grunts.
"No, he probably stole most of it." He wrinkles his nose. "I try not to come here too often. The stench of his power is overwhelming."
John stares at him blankly. Sherlock turns his head in his direction and raises an eyebrow. Then they both collapse, snickering at the absurdity that is Mycroft Holmes.
"Shush!" hisses Sherlock, struggling to get himself under control. "You can't giggle in his house!"
"Huh?" says John intelligently, "So you can giggle over a dead body, but not in the home of his Royal Highness?"
Sherlock reaches out for John, who grasps his hand and pulls him close. The younger man buries his face in his partner's neck to muffle his deep laughter. Just the sound of those vocal cords makes John weak at the knees. He strokes Sherlock's neck to help calm him and bites his own lip to contain his mirth.
"Does he even know we're here?" His watch tells him it's only eight in the evening. "Doesn't he work twenty four hours a day? I can't imagine him sleeping. Just pressing a big red button every now and then and drinking tea."
"No to both questions," replies Sherlock, having recovered from his laughing fit. "I didn't tell him I was coming, I know that when he gets back he will be forced to give me those files, especially if I'm irritating enough. That's why I brought you."
"Okay?" John doesn't want to have to ask what he has to do with plan.
"If he refuses, we simply have to make out in front of him, until he gives us the documents. We'll try to avoid shagging on his desk though, we don't want to have to exile ourselves to Siberia."
John's ears are ringing. He stares at Sherlock, who eventually smirks and John can't believe he didn't see through him in the first place.
"It's a joke, John."
"I hate you."
"That's not what you said last night."
Spluttering indignantly, John watches as Sherlock heads down a corridor. Running after him, he sees Sherlock is about to catch himself on a grandfather clock. "Careful!" he calls and rescues Sherlock from a bruised hip.
The blind detective pats the beautiful ornate clock and growls. "He knows he can't do that to me. The bastard."
John sighs. "It wasn't there last time then?"
Sherlock ignores that question and heads to the door at the end. "This is his office. We'll wait here. Hopefully catch him by surprise." He turns the handle, pushes the door and walks in.
And freezes.
It takes John less than a second to follow him and to gape in absolute horror at the scene in front of him.
Two people are at Mycroft's desk. Or to be more accurate, bending over it. Naked. Naked. A grey haired man is on his stomach, head bent forward and grunting as Mycroft pounds into him him mindlessly from behind.
Mayday! Shrieks a voice in John's head. Get out! Get out now! But his body has gone numb with shock. Sherlock doesn't seem to be fairing any better.
The grey haired man tips his head back whimpering and John stares at the lax and aroused face of one DI Lestrade.
Evacuate! Evacuate! Save yourself! Run! He can't move.
Mycroft's eyes open and he finally spots the two men standing opposite him him in the doorway. He somehow manages to plaster a smug look on his face in spite of his current position.
"Oh, Brother mine." John's pretty sure it wasn't supposed to come out of Mycroft's mouth as an obscene moan. Pretty sure. Help.
Beneath him, Lestrade's eyes fly open and he glances at Mycroft horrified over his shoulder. "Excuse you?" Then he spots the intruders. "Oh, hello Sherlock, John." He beams.
Gun. Back of trousers. Pull it out. Just shoot yourself. There's nothing you can do.
"You two need something?" enquires Lestrade with a hiss, shifting his hips a little. Mycroft, desperately trying to hold himself still, gasps and closes his eyes.
No, wait, don't leave Sherlock to suffer. Shoot him first, then you. His olfactory memory is perfect and Mind Palace shouldn't be tainted with this.
Next to him, Sherlock closes his eyes as if he admits to losing a battle against disbelief and covers his mouth and nose with both hands. His skin turns an unhealthy green tinge.
Mycroft runs a hand possessively aver Lestrade's back and somehow regains his composure. "I'm assuming you're here for the files? Or did you come here to- Oh, dear Lord, behave Gregory!"
John is vaguely aware that Sherlock has started breathing like Darth Vader. Shit.
Greg looks him right in the eyes and winks. The last time he saw Greg was five days ago, right before the other man's week off. He doesn't look like he's shaved since. As if to prove the terrifying theory formulating in his mind, Lestrade, eyes now on Sherlock's quaking form, turns his head towards Mycroft and says far too loudly in John's humble opinion: "Come on, Myc, four days of this and I'm still not feeling the wild times you promised me."
John tries to remember what happiness feels like. Holy Shit.
In the corner of his eye, John sees Sherlock finally turn and throw himself inelegantly out through the doorway. He would follow him, he really would, but Lestrade's brown eyes are kind of hypnotic. How is this Greg, Greg doesn't do this, Mycroft doesn't do this, holy fuck, how am I still thinking?
"See something you like, John?" baring his teeth in a nightmare of a grin. Mycroft's head snaps toward john and he snarls.
John turns and flees.
Outside, in the corridor, John finds Sherlock on the floor rocking backwards and forwards, his eyes devoid of life. He turns slightly towards John and reaches out. John pulls him into a hug. For a moment they are both silent.
"Oh God," John finally croaks. "I'll never go to the pub with Greg again. My Brain. My eyes."
"My brain." moans Sherlock. "My taste buds."
John pets his hair. "It's okay, once Greg is over the high of his testosterone, I'm sure he'll be really embarrassed about the whole thing and this incident will never be mentioned again. But now you'll never to break into his home or office again, I suppose, hey?
Sherlock grits his teeth. "I bet that was the plan; I wonder how much he payed Graham to do this."
John sighs. "We should probably move away in case, you know... They start to make... noises."
Shaking his head, Sherlock hurries to reassure him. "No, all the walls in this place are soundproof, especially the office. Mycroft can't be too careful in his line of work.
"MYCROFT! MYCROFT!"
Sherlock turns green again and glares in the direction of Lestrade's voice. "How in the world..."
"SAY MY NAME, GREGORY! SAY MY NAME!"
John briefly reconsiders his gun option. "So much for soundproof."
"FIND MY PROSTATE, GENUIS! YOU FIND THAT FUCKER RIGHT NOW!"
Sherlock's face goes from green to deathly pale in record time. "Get me out of here, John."
"YOU'RE A GENIUS! YOU'RE A GENIUS! DON'T LOSE IT! HARDER MYCROFT! SLAP THOSE GIGANTIC BALLS AGAINST MY-"
"SHUT UP!" shouts Sherlock. "For the love of God, I've learnt my lesson, now stop!" John grabs him under his armpits and hauls him away.
"FUCK ME LIKE YOU MEAN IT! I'VE BEEN MORE AROUSED BY YOUR BROTHER! I AM NOT THE FUCKING QUEEN!"
Sherlock's eyes roll in his head as he fights unconsciousness.
"THAT'S IT! JUST LIKE ANDERSON!"
Sherlock's fingers tie themselves in knots in John's jumper as he drags them all the way back to the main entrance.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Mycroft's roar is what causes Sherlock to finally slump in his boyfriend's arms. John is left feeling very alone next to a picture of the Royal family.
