To the outside world the two men having breakfast in the leather bound Gentleman's Club looked like old friends. The elder of the two, with reddish brown hair and a dark pinstriped suit, was gently drinking a Bloody Mary as though the noise of his sips were about to bring on a aneurism. The younger was eating what was apparently a slice of toast someone had turned the volume up on.
The conversation however was clearly not friendly, nor was the way the younger man kept looking meaningfully at a stainless steel potato masher which was perched on the arm of his chair.
"Will you please eat that quietly you little shit?"
"No Mycroft, I will not."
"For the love of God Sherlock, nothing happened. You must have seen the state John was in when he got back to Baker Street?"
"A state that was caused by you! And since when have you called him John?"
"Since... Never mind." He tried to push the thought of his hand resting on the Doctor's warm, firm thigh very far to the back of his head.
"Since you took him back to your sumptuous Docklands apartment and had him on the Dining table?"
To his credit the attendant who had just brought a fresh pot of coffee didn't even blink whilst Sherlock shouted that at his brother.
"Sherlock, nothing happened. I do wish you would believe me."
"I've spent thirty five years not believing you why should I start now?"
"Just look at the obvious. Do I look like a man who spent last night in the arms of a delectable war veteran?" Sherlock considered this for a moment. The thing he found most annoying about Mycroft, and it was a fairly extensive list of things that it was top of, was that he could not, nor had he ever, been able to look at his brother and tell anything about him. So he punted.
"No, you look like a man who drank too much, didn't get what he wanted and ate a Kebab with too much Chilli sauce on the way home."
"Well done. Regrettably it seems Doctor Watson is not interested. In fact as I recall he does seem rather friendly with that woman who runs the surgery he works at. What a shame. After all you did see him first."
Whatever reaction Mycroft had been expecting it had not been the fleeting look of heartbreak on his brother's face. It was most unnerving. This expression was quickly replaced with the more familiar look of undiluted hatred Sherlock had mastered aged four months.
"I really hate you." He stood up making as much noise as he could manage, smiling evilly as Mycroft rubbed his temples. "Stop taking things away from me."
And he stormed out, coat flapping behind him, like a disgruntled Raven.
Mycroft noticed Sherlock had left his potato masher behind, which was a shame, as now Mycroft would just have to make sure he returned it to Baker Street, when Sherlock was out of course. And of course when the Doctor was in.