A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity. Proverbs 17:17

Sherlock paced angrily back and forth, and I watched the fiery proceedings from my place leaning against the wall, arms crossed. The intruders had quite gone, taking our subject of interrogation with them, leaving as suddenly as they came. We were alone in the room.

"He was talking to us, Mycroft!" he snapped sharply at his phone.

Although I couldn't hear the reply exactly, I could hear the calm, cocky tone.

"I don't need your help!" spat Sherlock. "You gave me this case - now stay out of it." he said fiercely.

A longer interval of silence during which the detective listened with a resigned expression of annoyance.

"Don't you dare. This is my case and-" he broke off suddenly and looked at his phone. He growled and muttered a curse as he stomped sulkily out the door.

"What did he say?" I asked curtly, following closely behind him.

"Doesn't - matter," he hissed. I could see he was in no mind to talk. As I hadn't eaten anything yet that day since the warm milk disaster, and was hungry, he agreed to let me go and have lunch. Since he apparently couldn't find anything better to do at the moment, he joined me at my table. Of course, he didn't have anything.

I ate quietly. He pouted.

We went on like that for some time until he brightened a bit and said not without some lingering resentment, "Well, at least Mycroft is making use of himself."

"What'd he say?" I asked lightly between bites.

"Among other things," said my friend with a still unhappy look, "He took it upon himself to do his own interrogation and retrieve the papers - since he is already quite sure who has them." said he with a measured, dramatic inflection.

"He does?" I asked through a mouthful. "Who?"

"He didn't give me any more details," Sherlock grumbled. "All he intimated to me was that he was reasonably sure of the identity of the perpetrator based on the research they had been doing against an individual who had a similar business style."

"Well that's hardly comforting," I said dryly. I pushed away my now empty plate, which Sherlock took as the signal to go. He got up from the table and I followed him.

"Mycroft, despite his rampant shortcomings, knows his work." he replied, with a strange perverted pride.

"Let's hope so," I returned flatly as we left the small restaurant. "But if he recovers the documents, you won't have a case anymore." I pointed out. I hailed a cab, and soon we were seated inside, heading back to the flat.

"No no - he may have stolen the privilege of regaining the papers," said the detective with a haughty air, "but he knows as well as I do that there's more going on here than just the burglary." He continued in a certain tone, "Mycroft doesn't tolerate disloyalty or corruption in his domain. And it's clear enough that Cornwall is most likely involved in some criminal activity, or if nothing else a bad case of dishonesty. Brother dearest won't relinquish those papers once he has them." His tone was decisive.

"Alright," said I, "so then now all we have to do is find out what Cornwall has been up to?"

"In essence, yes," Sherlock replied. "Cornwall's true occupations and the circumstances of Savage's death are all we need concern ourselves with now."

"Okay, where do we start?" I asked with some interest.

"For now, we must wait." returned my friend with some reluctance. "It would be unwise to proceed," he said with an assured tone, "before Mycroft has the documents safe in hand. I have a hunch that those papers, who has them, and the they are found will have an important bearing on how we ought to exert ourselves."

It was only a matter of hours later that results showed themselves.

We were both going about the flat in our usual way when experiencing a lull in a case - Sherlock meditating in whatever strange position suited him, and I attempting to be productive and rest a bit - when his sharp-featured face snapped with painful quickness towards his mobile, which had started to ring. He ended the call immediately and sent a text instead. The reply was almost instantaneous. He was quickly on his feet and calling for me to follow, which I heeded.

At the street there was a black car waiting for us. I rolled my eyes, and followed Sherlock into the vehicle.

"So, where're we headed?" I asked a bit satirically.

"The usual place." replied he, looking abstractedly out the window, apparently lost in thought.

"So does he normally kidnap you too, or is that just me?" I asked drily after a pause.

Sherlock looked at me, vaguely amused.

"Not anymore." said he in a smiling tone. "I made myself irritating enough to make him regret it."

I snorted acerbically. "Is that his usual policy? Abduct and interrogate?" I asked in a caustic tone. "Or is he just incapable of courtesy?"

He smirked. "Both."

It wasn't too long before the Diogenes club was in sight. The sleek car slowed and pulled to the curb.

"Oh." I said, moderately surprised.

"Hmm?" my friend asked absently, looking eager to exit the vehicle.

"Usually he likes to pretend to be intimidating and take me to a power plant or abandoned warehouse or something equally ridiculous." I answered laconically.

"I know. But of the law-abiding ones, you're the only one he opts to treat that way." he returned as he exited the cab. "I'm afraid that as long as you refuse to be intimidated by him, he'll keep on trying." he answered with a slight smile.

"Wonderful," I replied, unhappy with his prediction.

Upstairs, Sherlock's seemingly-omniscient brother was waiting for us with an unnerving smile that I ignored pointedly.

"Where is it?" the detective asked unceremoniously.

"Patience, brother," Mycroft replied infuriatingly. He gestured us to the two chairs in the room. "Have a seat," he said smoothly.

It was only after both of us had grudgingly complied (which took a few minutes, owing to the stubborn refusal on the part of both I and my friend) that the British government began to debrief us.

"The man," he began in his usual lecturing style, "who organized the little -" he paused and smiled mockingly at us, "- heist, is a businessperson called Walter Fleming. We have been watching him for some time, but we cannot catch him within the law and cannot yet justify removing him without it." He paused and directed a look at me that I am sure was purposely designed to be creepy.

I smiled, then gestured for him to continue.

He continued, unruffled. "He used to be a member of the Moriarty syndicate," I glanced at Sherlock but he seemed absorbed by his brother's narrative, " but when he saw an opportunity to brake off and start his own - business, he jumped at the chance." He grinned odiously. "He specializes in blackmail. While we could not fully take him - or his little organization - down, we were able to liberate a large number of files."

He handed Sherlock a file with a somewhat thick stack of legal-sized papers inside.

"This, I believe, is the file that ought to be missing." I looked at him curiously after he uttered the pointed phrase.

"What do you mean by, 'ought to be'?" I asked quickly. Sherlock's face shared my sentiment. Mycroft only gestured toward the file, then leaned back, crossing his arms in an attitude of anticipation. Sherlock opened the file and picked up the very first leaf that was printed on a different paper than the rest. He examined it for a few seconds before asking shortly, "A receipt?"

His brother nodded, ever smiling.

"And the date," continued the younger Holmes, "is from several years ago." he said it in a mystified but eager tone. He perused the document once more before laying it back down on top of the stack, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

"Bought from a certain Culverton Smith." he finished. I thought the name sounded familiar, but I couldn't remember anything distinct so I kept silent.

"And the thief?" asked Sherlock, businesslike. "What did you get out of him?"

"There was an - incident." said Mycroft, his tone having annoyance. "But I don't think he had anything of use to say. He was nothing more than a hired hand." His voice carried a distinct air of dimissal.

"He told me, before you so thoughtlessly interrupted," said Sherlock in a needling tone, "that his accomplice was dead. Surely that could use elaboration?"

"I should think not." said the politician reprovingly. "There are many, many explanations for such a commonplace thing as a criminal meeting his end." he said eerily. "Keep in mind that we are not in possession of all his dossiers," remonstrated the elder Holmes, "and most of his - materials that he acquired in very recent times were not recovered." I didn't think that was very important information since we had the file we were after, but Sherlock nodded solemnly, and rose from his seat. I followed suit.

Sherlock was walking out the door, tucking the file in his arm without a word when Mycroft called after us, "Keep in touch."

"Of course, brother of mine." replied my friend without turning around, irony tinging his voice as we quitted the elder Holmes' presence.

A/N: OH MY GOSH I AM SO SORRY I HAVEN'T UPDATED IN SO LONG. If there was anyone ever interested in this fic, they've probably abandoned me now... To anyone that still cares, I AM SO SORRY! :(

In other things, I hope that Mycroft is in-character. He's a strange one, but he has a very unique aura and I hope I captured that.

Once again, if you have anything you noticed that I can improve on, leave me a message below. Anything at all. Literally anything that you can criticize me on. I love reviewers. I will spare them when I am supreme ruler.

Or just talk to me. Tell me what you think in general. I love reviews. Did I mention that I love reviews? Is the plot making sense? Is it boring? Do the characters come alive, or are they 2 dimensional? Give me feedback! Please!

Glad to be back! ^^