Mycroft's Two Cents

Sherlock lounged in the chair facing Mycroft's desk with the indifference of a recalcitrant student facing down a loathed headmaster.

"Brother, have you lost your mind?" There was no need to question how Mycroft had found out about Sherlock's little deal with John Watson. He had spies everywhere that reported directly to him at all hours of the day and night.

"Hardly, Mycroft. I simply arranged to get what I wanted."

Mycroft Holmes' thin lips tightened until they were nearly nonexistent.

"You're going to track down a criminal with your newest illicit lover. What happens when that extorter decides to turn his money-grubbing eye towards you?"

"Hardly a sound business practice for an extorter to choose me as a target. It doesn't matters to me if people talk; they do little else."

"You may care when you're thrown into prison for your indiscreet and indecent behavior."

Sherlock scoffed, knowing Mycroft dangled enough nobles by their purse-strings to ensure Sherlock would never see time in prison no matter what he did.

"And you wonder why I worry constantly." The man looked sadly down at the little empty plate still perched on the edge of his desk from tea.

"Biscuits will only serve to pad your backside, Mycroft," Sherlock lashed out impertinently.

"You're no better than the malefactor for whom you're searching, extorting intimacies from the victim," Mycroft shot back.

The bright side to this conversation was that after Sherlock stormed out, Mycroft was free to ring for a servant to bring another slice of cake.