From what Sherlock knew of people and their habits, he was pretty sure that most people would give up on trying to contact someone after the fifth time that their call was ignored. Then again, Mycroft was not like most people.
After the twelfth time he ignored a call from his brother, Sherlock was tempted to drop his mobile out a window.
When Mycroft tried fifteen times, Sherlock decided he'd rather answer the call and listen to Mycroft's grating voice than listen to his phone ring one more time.
"What do you want?" Sherlock huffed as he finally gave in and answered the call.
"Ah! So you are alive; I was beginning to wonder if maybe you'd gone and tried to kill yourself again."
Sherlock knew Mycroft was just trying to get a rise out of him, so he ignored the jibe and waited for him to get to the point of the call.
"I simply wanted you to know that I'll be stopping by to visit you tomorrow and then you're coming with me to London until Monday afternoon."
Mycroft was far too busy to want Sherlock to just come by for a visit, so Sherlock was instantly suspicious.
"Why?"
"I have to have some ulterior motive for wanting to see my little brother?"
"Yes."
Mycroft made an offended noise before responding, "Well, Father-"
"He is not my father, Mycroft!" Sherlock couldn't help interrupting and again trying, in vain, to shove this fact into Mycroft's brain.
"Father is going to be away on business this evening and won't be back until Monday. He has asked me to keep an eye on you while he is gone."
"Why is this the first I'm hearing about him going away? Isn't that the sort of thing you're supposed to tell the people who live with you?"
Mycroft's answer was pretty much exactly what Sherlock expected. "He tells me that you haven't spoken a word to him, or paid attention to anything he has said, since Tuesday evening, apparently because you are unhappy about something to do with your surname? I've also been informed that I should try to get you to eat something; Father tells me that you haven't consented to coming to any meals for since Tuesday, Sherlock. Don't you know that it's not healthy to go without food for days on end?"
It was all true, Sherlock knew. He hadn't said a word to Artair Holmes since they had a bit of a row on Monday evening. Sherlock had conceded that he would have to go to school, but he had wanted to enroll under the name Sherlock Reinhardt because, as he told Mr. Holmes, that was his name now and it had been for many years. Mr. Holmes had not taken very happily to the idea; there had been much yelling between the two of them that ended with Sherlock storming away and locking himself in his room until Thursday, when he finally left sometime around ten in the morning after Mycroft had called and threatened him with being admitted to a psychiatric facility, where they would be better suited to deal with Sherlock's particular issues, if he didn't go to school.
Sherlock found out upon arriving at the school that Artair Holmes had gone to the school on Wednesday and enrolled him, under the name of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had a feeling that Mycroft had used his government position to make this possible.
Sherlock was still mad and, though it was now Friday evening, had not spoken to the eldest Holmes nor had he paid any attention whenever the man had tried to speak to him. He hadn't realized it before Mycroft mentioned it, but now that Sherlock thought about it he realized he hadn't eaten since dinner Tuesday. That knowledge made a few other things make sense, like why he hadn't been feeling too well earlier that day.
"My body is just transport. It doesn't matter what I do to it, so long as it can still get me where I need to be. "
"Believe what you will, Sherlock, but you're going to eat something tomorrow if I have to force-feed you." Sherlock could imagine it: Mycroft sitting on him, nearly squishing him in the process, and shoving a sandwich into his face. He couldn't control the snicker that escaped him at the thought.
"You don't need to inconvenience yourself on my account, brother. I can take care of myself for a weekend." Sherlock knew it wouldn't work, but it was worth a try.
"I imagine your definition of taking care of yourself includes absolutely nothing that most people would consider healthy or good for you. No, Sherlock, I'll be there at 9 tomorrow morning to collect you."
"Fine." Sherlock hung up on his brother, ending the conversation that felt had already stretched on for far too long.
His first instinct was to run away to his home that night while Artair Holmes was gone and before Mycroft would arrive to take him to London for the weekend.
His second instinct was to stop and think about his options. He could run tonight, when Mycroft undoubtedly expected him to, or he could wait just another day or two and escape right from beneath Mycroft's nose. Sherlock couldn't deny that he wanted to be gone as soon as possible, but the idea of slipping away while he was in Mycroft's grasp was a sweet one. The opportunity to prove to his brother that he was wrong about thinking, even for a moment, that he had Sherlock securely on a tight leash was too tempting to resist.
A bit of research showed that there was a 4AM departure from London on Sunday morning that would take him to Paris where he could change trains and go to Toulouse.
So Sherlock would wait until early Sunday morning to slip away from Mycroft's home in London. Hopefully Mycroft would be sleeping by the time Sherlock would need to leave for the station.
For now, though, he had packing to do. He couldn't bring too much with him lest he risk Mycroft's suspicion, so he would have to leave most of his belongings. Fortunately for him, most of what he owned was still in his home in Toulouse.
Deciding what to pack was not a difficult process. He would bring exactly what he would take if he were truly just planning to go to London for a few days with Mycroft: his laptop, a few sets of clothes, and a few packs of cigarettes.
With his packing out of the way, Sherlock struggled to think of a way to entertain himself.
Deciding that since he had the house to himself for the night he might as well be comfortable, Sherlock did what he always liked to do when home alone; he got rid of his clothes and took the sheet from his bed to wear as a covering.
While wandering around the house in search of anything to do to entertain himself, Sherlock found absolutely nothing of interest to him. He knew that with Artair Holmes gone he could snoop through anything he wanted, but nothing really caught his eye.
His boredom was reaching a dangerous level when he happened upon the house's library. Sherlock wasn't usually one to read unless he was researching, but he really didn't have anything else to do and so reading suddenly became a lot more appealing than usual.
He collected a small pile of books, randomly plucking them off the shelves, and got as comfortable as was possible in the stiff, leather chair by the window in the library.
The book on the top of his pile was about beekeeping, and Sherlock soon found himself inexplicably fascinated.
Mycroft Holmes was used to seeing strange things. He works for the government, after all. So it should not have come as such a shock to him when he found his seventeen year old brother, wearing nothing but a sheet, sprawled upside down on a chair in the library of his family home, reading the journal of their great-great-grandmother's lover who was a pirate in his younger days.
"Hello, Mycroft."
"Good morning, Sherlock. Considering a career as a pirate, brother? Or perhaps a beekeeper?"
"Why not both?"
"I don't believe beekeeping pirates exist." Mycroft wasn't sure where this conversation was going, but he half expected an argument to break out any moment. He hated to admit it, but this was by far the most civil conversation they'd had in recent memory.
"Good. I'll invent it and be the only one in the world."
Sherlock didn't seem to be phased by the fact that he was still sitting upside down in his chair and wearing only a sheet, nor was he particularly phased by the look that Mycroft shot him that plainly stated 'You are saying stupid things. Quit it.'
"I don't doubt that you'll invent your own profession someday, Sherlock, but not today. Today, you need to go and get dressed so that we can go to London."
Sherlock's face took on a disgruntled expression, but for a few moments he seemed willing to comply before he changed his mind, clearly deciding that it was time to be difficult again. "I'm quite comfortable as I am, Mycroft; I think I'll just stay like this if you don't mind. Actually, I think I'll stay like this whether you mind or not."
"Don't be difficult. Just go put your clothing on so that we can leave." When Sherlock didn't make any motion to do as he was told, Mycroft began to get slightly frustrated. "I am not asking you to do anything difficult; all you have to do is put on clothes! Even you can't be opposed to something as necessary as wearing clothing."
"I don't like the clothes I have here! I refuse to waste my weekend by being uncomfortable the entire time."
"Then wear pyjamas." With that said, Mycroft grabbed the back of the chair his brother was in and tilted it so that Sherlock was dumped gracelessly onto the floor. "Now, Sherlock! Go on."
After rising from the floor with his usual grace, Sherlock stalked out angrily from the room, throwing one last glare over his shoulder at Mycroft as he went.
Mycroft sighed and dropped into the chair his brother had just vacated. There was something off about his brother's behavior, but Mycroft just couldn't put his finger on what it was. He was being a pain in the arse, as usual, but something about him was just different from what Mycroft had been expecting. Mycroft decided that he would have to keep a close eye on his brother over the weekend to see if he could figure out the reason for the change.
Author's Note- I know this was short, and it took forever for me to update, but it was incredibly difficult to write for some reason. Hopefully there will be more soon. Please review and tell me what you think of the story so far!
