The Fever
It was a quiet night on Baker Street. John was sitting in his chair, reading a new book that Sherlock hadn't yet spoiled by deducing every detail from the cover. Sherlock was studying something with his microscope in the kitchen, pausing every now and then to make notes. Mrs. Hudson was downstairs baking, so the flat smelled like pie.
"Do you think Mycroft might be a werewolf?" John asked, looking up from his book toward the window and cocking his head slightly.
"Whatever you're reading that put such an idiotic thought in your head, burn it," Sherlock answered without missing a beat.
"I'm serious-"
"That makes it worse, not better."
"Haven't you noticed he's never around on nights the moon is full?"
"He-" Sherlock stopped and finally looked up from his microscope, his brow furrowed in thought.
"He doesn't kidnap me. He doesn't stop by. He doesn't even text. Nothing when the moon is full," John said.
He was right…
If Sherlock ticked back his mental calendar, he couldn't find a single instance in years that he'd seen Mycroft on the night of a full moon…
Such as tonight…
John and Sherlock's eyes met, a spark of excitement and intrigue shooting between them. They were down the stairs and out the door before Mrs. Hudson had a chance to even pop her head out.
It wasn't hard to sneak onto Mycroft's property – Sherlock knew all the holes from times his brother tried to forcibly detox him there. They found a surprising number of cars parked in the drive and the distant sound of music floated over the grounds.
Was Mycroft having a party?
John looked at him questioningly, but all Sherlock could do was shrug. He'd seen no clues to suggest that his brother throwing parties every full moon…
Wiggling through some dense shrubbery, the two carefully peered into a window.
John gasped at the sight and, for once, Sherlock couldn't blame him. Not even he had seen this coming. He wished John had been right in his werewolf theory. Anything would be better than this… This… Disco monstrosity.
"Stay, stay, stay, stay, stayin' aliiiiiive'-"
Mycroft's assistant, clad in a pair of horrifyingly green bellbottoms and a shirt that was tied up under her breasts was doing the Bump with- Was that Moriarty?! It was! In a purple suit with gold chains, no less. Lestrade was to their left - jiving all around in tight shirt that was patterned for inducing seizures.
Sherlock was horrified into silence as Stayin' Alive finished and Dancing Queen started up. It wasn't the intensity of the Hustle going on that burned itself into a corner of his mind palace. No, it was the sight of his brother, in the center of it all, dressed in a white leisure suit with an obscene amount of chest hair on display, pointing and gyrating.
"Dear God," John whispered. "He's… glorious…"
"No, John! Don't get pulled in! You must fortify your mind against the disco fever!"
But it was too late, John was already electric sliding through the window, joining Mycroft's dancing minions.
"Nooooooo!"
Sherlock jerked upright on the couch, breathing heavily, one hand still outstretched toward the boogying John. The realization that it had only been a dream had him bonelessly flopping back down in relief. He was busily gathering every scrap of the nightmare for deletion when John came in, carrying bags from the store.
"Alright there?" He asked. "You look a little pale. Well, paler."
"Fine. Fine," Sherlock said, sitting up. "John… how do you feel about… disco?"
John made a face as he walked toward the kitchen. "Hate it. Why?"
"Just making sure…"