Author's Note: This is also another M!A (John and Sherlock must play a "prank" on Mycroft). It's a bit out of character, but I thought I'd post it anyway. Thanks!

By the way, I would love to start taking short prompts in the reviews or my PM box. I can't exactly say how fast they'll get out, but I'll try my hardest. :D

Throughout the cab ride to Mycroft's, Sherlock and John couldn't halt their repartee about the plan. It was going to be exciting and the two men knew this fact well. Although the practical joke was very foolish and trivial, Sherlock had never repaid his big (in all senses) brother for stealing his shoes as a child.

Mycroft's butler answered the door when the pair arrived. "This is the residence of Mr. Holmes," the servant stated promptly, "how may I assist you?"

"Yes, yes, we understand this is Mycroft's living space. I need to see him," said Sherlock, whose jitters were being released by scrunching his toes while they were inside his shoes.

"I will have to speak with him before-" he commenced, though Sherlock had shoved past him with John on his heels.

After two flights of stairs, three hallways to the left, one to the right, and a room was journeyed through, they arrived at where the violinist had guessed his brother's location perfectly.

"How did you get in here?" Mycroft asked, the corner of his eyes crinkled, while he stood up, fixing his suit placement as he did so.

Sherlock shot John a quick glance to reassure him of the plan, placed his hands in his pockets as if to seem casual, and sighed sarcastically. "The door was open. Where's the washroom?" he asked, though he knew the entire arrangement of the intricate and expensive flat by heart. The blueprint of it sat merely in the corner of his desk drawer.

"When you come up from the stairs, it's the second door to the right," responded the dieting man.

The violinist nodded curtly, turned, and headed for a room that wasn't quite the bathroom.

John started a conversation that would end up perceiving quite oddly. "That case you had us working on a week ago?" the doctor asked, while Mycroft responded with a muffled 'mhmm' as he sat down once more. "Well, whilst we did research on it, we stumbled upon countless websites with depictions and fictional works about ourselves as a couple. We became quite vexed. They call these happenings 'Johnlock'. Apparently, the phrase, per se, is a combination of both of our names."

During the time that John explained terms such as 'shipping', 'OTP', and 'fandom' to Mycroft while telling an utterly false story, Sherlock rushed upstairs to his brother's room and inaugurated his labor.

First, he slid off his coat- a coat that had contained all umbrellas they could possibly find and fit inside. Immediately following the violinist popping open one of them and placing them equally around the king sized mattress, he scribbled 'Harsh luck is never fun, is it Mycroft? Perhaps you ought to end carrying umbrellas with you when it's sunlit.' onto a card and placed it on the dresser. Prior to his exit, Sherlock made a spur-of-the-moment decision.

Six minute later, the violinist was assembling in the cab, twenty-three left shoes somehow fitting into his coat, shooting John a text saying that he was clear.

Two minutes later the doctor glided into the seat next to Sherlock and the cab retraced their route.

One minute later and the men were tearing between their laughter.

"Oh, how I wish I could view his reaction!" cried Sherlock, body heaving up and down rhythmically with his chuckles.

"I'm sure we'll see him very soon," responded John with a immoral smirk.