Chapter Ten: A Little Experiment

After two straight weeks on a case, the last thing Sherlock wanted to see upon returning home was his brother. He said nothing as he entered the main room, trudging past the man sitting stiffly at the end of the sofa. He didn't even flick a look as he went into the kitchen. Not only was this the easiest way for Sherlock to get the cup of tea he desperately needed, but it had the added benefit of annoying Mycroft, which was always a good thing.

Some minutes later, he came back to the lounge, settling himself in his chair and trying to ignore what was probably a bruised rib. Taking a grateful sip of his tea, he picked up a nearby paper and perused the headlines. It took a full three minutes before Mycroft became frustrated enough to break the silence.

"I don't have all day, Sherlock. One of us has an actual job."

Behind the paper, Sherlock rolled his eyes. He certainly wasn't falling for such easy bait. He knew what Mycroft wanted. He simply wasn't inclined to give it away easily. So, in lieu of a reply, he swiftly flipped the page and kept reading.

At long last, there was a put-upon sigh followed by "Well? Did you find anything?"

"Did you?" Sherlock countered, not bothering to lower his paper.

"I'm not the one who disappeared for a fortnight."

"No," he said, flicking the paper down to stare haughtily at his opponent, "but you are the one who lost Moriarty's body. Have you managed to locate that or have you been too busy with your actual job? And while we are discussing it, how exactly does one lose a dead body? It's not like he could have gotten up off the slab and walked out."

"You did."

An unwilling smile cracked the corner of the consulting detective's mouth. "Yes, but I didn't put a bullet in my brain. Moriarty did. He is most assuredly dead."

"Have you considered it might have been a trick? He's an exceedingly clever man. Perhaps, he outwitted you. We both know you're not the smart one."

"And yet, I didn't lose the body, did I?" Sherlock replied, flipping the paper back up.

Another frustrated sigh sounded. "This is tedious. I'm tired of wasting valuable resources on someone with the temperament and maturity of a five-year-old. I have men watching you for a reason, my superiors granted you a pardon on the condition that you solve the case—"

"Which I was working on."

"—And yet you walked away without the slightest bit of protection or warning."

"They would have slowed me down."

"You didn't even take John with you."

"He's busy with Mary and the baby. I sent him a text."

"I'm your brother. You should have sent me one!"

Sherlock shrugged, not caring if it could be seen or not. "You didn't rate a text."

"And your new flatmate? Did she 'rate a text'?"

It was clearly time to stop annoying Mycroft. Sherlock put away the paper and steepling his fingers, he said, "Moriarty's network has been effectively dismantled."

"So you said when you initially returned to London."

"I needed to make sure."

"Is that all you were doing?"

"Whoever has the body took it to cast doubt on Moriarty's death. They're using him to mask their own activities."

Mycroft's smirk deepened. "It pains me greatly to quote the youth of this country, but 'Duh!'" He shifted until he was on the edge of his seat. "Do you know who's behind it?"

"No," Sherlock swiftly replied, "but I have my suspicions, which is more than I had two weeks ago."

"Since when do you care a jot about suspicions? You observe and make deductions based on those observations. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?"

It was Sherlock's turn to smirk. "Skills like mine cannot be taught, only fine-tuned. This is why I am needed, from time to time, to do your actual job for you."

"Damn it, Sherlock. What do you know? Tell me what you bloody well uncovered!"

There was something primitively satisfying in breaking through Mycroft's icy exterior. Even as a child, he'd been able to rein his emotions with the rigidity which could be seldom replicated. It was as much Mycroft's innate skill as observation was Sherlock's.

Having successfully managed his task, Sherlock decided to throw the frustrated man a bone. "Moriarty and I had a lot in common, more than anyone ever knew."

"Yes, indeed, including a romantic connection to a certain pathologist. Really, Sherlock, when will you learn not to let sentiment rule you?"

The consulting detective let a Cheshire cat grin spread over his face, knowing this was an ace Mycroft had been wanting to play. "I'm not sure what's more pathetic, that you actually believe I have 'romantic' anything for anyone or that all it took was a chaste kiss on the cheek to convince you. Has it occurred to you I might have had an ulterior motive for my actions? I needed to find the camera you hid. And," he said as he picked up his tea cup again, "my plan worked spectacularly. Who knew you were so quixotic? Perhaps the next time Molly has one of those insipid 'chick flicks' nights of hers, she can invite you over. You can braid each other's hair, eat ice cream, and talk about your cinematic crushes. I know how you favor a good, broad-shouldered chap."

Instead of his brother's expression falling into incredulity and mortification, Sherlock was surprised to see Mycroft sporting full fledge grin. That, experience had taught him, never boded well.

Mycroft chuckled and slid back in his seat, tapping his fingers happily along the arm of the sofa. "You weren't even aware of the camera until I tipped you off. Has it occurred to you that I might have had a reason to hide the camera and send you the texts?"

The events of that evening zipped through Sherlock's brain like a film on fast-forward. Damn. Double damn. It had been a trap, one he'd idiotically fallen into. You stupid sod! Keeping his expression neutral, Sherlock was determined to remain in control here. He tsked good-naturedly. "Really, Mycroft, is your life that boring?"

"I knew something was off the second my men reported your pathologist was staying with you. You should have given her over to my care. Her safety would have been assured. Yet, one conversation and she has moved in to your flat—even though she'll be nothing more than a distraction to your work. At first, of course, I assumed it had to do with your perpetual need to alleviate loneliness. After all, John is gone, and Mrs. Hudson has never been enough for you. And it's not like you can afford another trip to a drug den right now."

"You know a lot about loneliness, don't you?" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft chuckled again. "You've taken her on cases with you before and you're often in her company for your experiments. She even proved useful in your little public death illusion, but this time, it's different. I was curious to see how different; so I decided to conduct a little experiment."

"Nothing happened. You saw that for yourself."

"Oh something happened all right."

"What?"

"You kissed her."

"Yes, to ascertain the position of the camera."

"You could have accomplished that a million other ways. Why go to the trouble of kissing her? You know of her little infatuation with you. Inflaming her passions in that regard could only prove troublesome now that she's living with you—unless you wanted her passions inflamed. Perhaps she had already inflamed yours?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It was nothing more than a means to an end. Perhaps your past interludes have colored your perception on this subject."

"Perhaps your virginity is soon to be a thing of the past."

Sherlock's smirk returned. "Don't you know? It already is. It made a few of the papers. According to my former fiancée, I'm quite the randy fellow."

Mycroft laughed, a sharp, piercing sound Sherlock had never liked. "Is that why you let her print that garbage about you? To finally rid yourself of your maidenly nickname? Perhaps you should have taken Ms. Adler up on her offer to help you with that. Or is it now your plan to allow Molly Hooper that honor? How … sweet."

A spark of fear ricocheted up Sherlock's spine. He ignored it in favor of yawning widely. "You're grasping at straws, and I've better uses of my time. If that's all, you can show yourself out." He reclaimed his paper. "As you can see, I'm busy."

"Tell me what I wish to know, and I will be glad to do so."

"Any finite conclusions I have made you already know. Conceivably, you could use that actual job of yours to do a little digging on your own. Or, better yet, find that missing body. All those resources at your fingertips and even someone like you should be able to succeed."

Mycroft snickered. "My God! You really do like her, don't you? I can smell your fear from here."

"Fear of what?"

"Fear that my assertions about your new flatmate are right, brother dear."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "Leave the observations and experimentation to the professionals, Mycroft. You're wasting your time."

"Why are you in such a hurry for me to leave?" There was a pause as he seemed to consider this. "Ahh … I see. She's coming home, isn't she? The last thing you want is for me to see the two of you together in person. You fear you might give something away?"

"There's nothing to give away."

"Sure about that?"

Unfortunately, before he could answer, the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs reached him. Molly. He'd know her shuffle anywhere. Not now. I haven't gotten rid of him yet.

But there was nothing to be done for it. Both men turned to watch the door. She entered moments later.

"Molly," Sherlock said calmly, hating how much the sight of her sent a surge of pleasure coursing through his veins. He'd missed her. He could admit that to himself, if to no one else. Knowing Mycroft was watching, he forced himself to relax back in his chair when in reality he wanted nothing more to shoot to his feet. "You're early. Your shift ends an hour from now."

"You said you were coming home. I missed you. It's been ages." She held up a bag of take away. "I brought dinner."

"He sent you a text announcing his return? How quaint," Mycroft called out.

"Well," Molly said, frowning in what looked like confusion, "I'm his flatmate and friend."

"I texted John as well, Mycroft," Sherlock said. He turned to Molly. "Don't upset yourself. Jealousy has never looked well on him."

"Sherlock didn't want me to worry. That's all. He didn't mean to leave you out, I'm sure," Molly added hastily.

Sherlock winced at that, but stayed silent.

"Yes," Mycroft said, "Sherlock has long been known for his compassion and care of other's feelings. It is one of the pillars of his character." He gestured towards the plastic bag she was holding. "And you brought dinner for the two of you. How," He turned to deliver a meaningful look to Sherlock before finishing his sentence, "romantic."

Molly colored at his words and seemed all the more confused. "I-I-I'll just go get plates." She got halfway across the lounge before she said, "Mycroft, I have extra if you'd like to join us."

With a smug smile, Mycroft said, "I'd be delighted."

It was at times like this that Sherlock wished his pathologist was a little less polite. Honestly, it was her biggest flaw. This, of course, was a flaw he ritually took advantage of, but he preferred being the only one doing that. Molly returned from the kitchen carrying a twin plates filed with curried chicken, rice and vegetables, which she delivered to both men. Sherlock took his without comment, setting the plate on his lap and not bothering to issue a thank you. He hoped Mycroft took special note of that. The elder Mr. Holmes, who no doubt never ate so casually, seemed taken aback by the idea that he was expected to consume a meal while seated on a sofa. With a stiff thanks, he accepted the plate and fork from Molly, but held it formally in the air away from him, as if unsure how to proceed.

Sherlock snorted gleefully at his brother's discomfort and tucked into his food. After days of little to no sustenance of any import, the spicy food was welcome. When he noticed Molly coming back with her own plate out of the corner of his eye, he didn't bother looking up. No use giving Mycroft any ammunition. Molly, after a quick perusal of the room, leaned against the wall and began to eat.

"Mycroft, how have you been?" she asked, cheerfully.

"Busy," Mycroft curtly replied, distastefully picking at his food with his fork. "Do human beings actually consume this?"

Molly blushed furiously. "Oh, sorry! Would you rather have something else? I could—"

"Move."

Sherlock spoke without thought. It was more on instinct than anything else. Both Mycroft and Molly jumped at the severity of his tone. Turning to glare at his brother, Sherlock left no doubt to whom he was speaking when he reissued his order.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft asked, still holding his plate with the aplomb of someone who'd been asked to juggle running chainsaws.

"You're in Molly's seat."

After a brief glance at the woman near the wall, Mycroft gave a small, uncomfortable laugh. "There's an empty chair right next to you. She can sit there."

"You're in her spot. Move." There was something infinitely satisfying in this, and Sherlock was determined to see it through. Hopefully, if he was rude enough, Mycroft would take this as an invitation to leave. The quicker, the better.

Molly tried to intervene. "Sherlock, it's fine. He can stay as he is. I don't mind standing. I was sitting at my desk the last few hours anyway, doing paperwork."

Sherlock ignored this, knowing she was merely being polite again. Mycroft could be here for the next twelve hours, and Molly would never complain. She'd just stand there acting like it was OK. It wasn't OK. Mycroft was being rude to her. That would never be OK.

"You have three choices, brother: Move to the other end of the sofa, move to this seat," Sherlock pointed at the empty seat beside himself. "Or, best of all, leave."

Mycroft rose, handing his plate over to Molly. ""Thank you for your hospitality, but I believe it is time I was on my way," he said.

Sherlock smiled.

"Are you sure I can't get you something else?" Molly asked.

"No." Mycroft pinned his brother with a meaningful stare. "I got what I came for."

And, just like that, Sherlock's smile fell away.

Damn.