Mycroft Holmes was rudely awakened by his head smacking against his desk. He shook his head and looked at the date on the computer screen. It was Thursday. Thursday was definitely past his bedtime. A brief knock at the door and Anthea appeared with coffee and a plate of sandwiches. Bacon by the smell of them. Mycroft sighed inwardly, he wouldn't be surprised if she and Sherlock were not secretly in league with one another. Trying to sabotage his diet. He tried to remember when he last ate something. He prodded himself in his non-existent gut and resigned himself to a bite of sandwich.
Inevitably the moment he had his mouth full, his phone rang. Unable to swallow a whole sandwich in one go, he opted to spit it out onto the plate. He was very glad Sherlock was not there to pass comment.
"Mycroft Holmes." He listened briefly. Hung up and then brought his fist smashing down on the desk so hard that his coffee spilled most of itself into the saucer. Anthea immediately appeared with paper towels to clear up the mess.
"Bloody Sherlock." Another crash of fist on desk. "Anthea. Tell them to bring the car. We have to go to Scotland Yard. Again." Mycroft went to change his shirt, muttering something about skewering his brother to death as he went.
...
Unsurprisingly Sherlock was not the slightest bit apologetic when Mycroft arrived. He said it was perfectly reasonable to be moving Cadavers from St. Bart's to Baker Street in a taxi and it was all Inspector LeStrade's fault anyways. The Inspector it seems should have arranged for transport of the body and didn't. So Sherlock used his initiative. Mycroft signed the papers handed to him by a very white looking desk sergeant who had obviously never seen a security clearance as high as Mycrfot's before.
"This is absolutely the last time Sherlock."
"You said that the last time. And the time before that."
"I mean it this time."
"You said that too."
"Look you little pain in the arse..." Mycroft suddenly slammed his brother against the wall. Sherlock knew it was pointless to struggle. As much as he hated to admit it, his elder brother was not only bigger, but also considerably stronger. "I have had enough of this. The next time you fuck up I am going to leave you to rot in whatever cell they see fit to throw you in. Are we clear?" Sherlock could count on one hand the number of times Mycroft had used that word. Every time it was because of something Sherlock had done. Sherlock would have smiled smugly but for the fact he could feel his lips turning blue.
"Mycroft. You're choking me!" He rasped. But his brother's cold eyes just glared at him, a faint pink suffusing his pale cheeks.
"And?" There really was nothing in those Icy blue eyes to suggest their owner was currently throttling his baby brother.
"What in the name of hell is going on here?" Hands gripped Mycroft's shoulders and he released his grip on Sherlock.
"I'm merely strangling my brother. I thought you of all people would understand, Inspector." But Greg LeStrade did not respond. He merely crashed to the floor, unconscious.
