Another chapter! I'm on a bit of a roll at the moment.

Their bed seemed to be especially comfy the afternoon after they'd gotten back from the fortnight long stint in the hospital. He was still tired and rather battered despite the few hours of sleep he'd managed since they'd been discharged and he'd dragged Sherlock to bed back in 221B Baker Street.

His own bed was good. It seemed like forever since he'd last slept in it and even longer since he'd actually managed to stay undisturbed in it for longer than a few hours. He was incredibly comfy, despite the weight pushing him down. Warm, cosy and sleepy.

"Is there something you're not telling me my darling brother."

That voice didn't sound right, nor the words, for Sherlock. Too high pitched and the use of brother was wrong. It registered in his mind that the voice was one he'd grown up with, his sister's voice and he fell out of bed taking his human limpet with him. Their injuries disagreed with this action.

He stared at her incomprehensively. "What are you doing here so early?"

She seemed amused and the fact that he was laying on the floor tangled up in duvet with a sleepy topless Sherlock blinking up from where he'd positioned himself on John's chest. She frowned a little at the state of them both with the numerous bandages they still wore but chose to ignore it.

"Firstly it's not early but late afternoon and secondly you haven't been returning my calls so I came to visit. Your landlady let me in."

He grumbled various profanities which were aimed at the wonderful Mrs Hudson as he untangled himself from duvet and detective. The only thing that made him feel a little better was the concerned comment from his partner as he started to get dressed.

"Should I hide the alcohol?"

ooo

Harry was sat at the kitchen looking an interesting mixture of smug and rather concerned by the various unfinished and abandoned experiments littering the room. There were an assortment of chemicals littering the working surfaces, broken up by the odd appliance and body part.

"Is that really a hand?"

If she'd only noticed the hand then things were going well. There were a lot worse things in the kitchen for her to notice or smell, especially after a fortnight of neglect. He was pretty sure that most of the chemicals were labelled incorrectly.

"Yes. Would you like some tea?"

She nodded and he filled the kettle for three cups. Sherlock would want his caffeine fix.

"I'll get you the milk. Is it in the fridge?"

She of course didn't wait for his reply and was already going to open the fridge door. At least the wasn't anythi...bugger. The head. The severed head was still in the fridge. After a few days he'd gotten used to it but he expected others would be horrified.

The small scream and slamming of the door proved his theory.

"There is a head. There is a head in your fridge. Why is there a head in your fridge?"

"It's an experiment." Floated from the other room. Sherlock must have gotten up then.

He nodded and replied "Something to do with saliva. You get used to it. Sherlock this thing is starting to decompose, I think you need a new one." He'd tried to be comforting but there was still alarm on her face.

"You get used to severed heads?"

"Takes a while but yes. Now, can you pass the milk?"

And life went on in 221B Baker Street despite an unexpected guest.

ooo

"Hot Fuzz! Hot Fuzz!"

"Harry calm down." They'd spent most of the day watching movies, even Sherlock had joined them after a bit of protest and his laptop and both of their phones being threatened.

The door bell rang as Harry over ruled them all, despite being the only one who didn't actually live there, and slipped Hot Fuzz in the DVD player. The person at the door was certainly a surprise.

There stood in their doorway, bottle of wine in hand and with the ever present umbrella was one Mycroft Holmes. He could hear Sherlock's cries to slam the door but the man already had his foot positioned to block it. He did have to wonder how many times his partner had done that to his brother, not that he could blame him really. Mycroft was creepy.

The man flounced into the living room, plonking himself in the only remaining chair. He watched as he and Sherlock exchanged barbed words and Harry watched on in not so well hidden curiosity. He didn't really follow most of the conversation.

Mycroft ended up staying and he spent the next movie glaring at the man as Harry polished off the bottle of wine by herself. The man must have known that she was there and an alcoholic and yet he still brought it.

Despite the presence of their older and less than welcome siblings the night was surprisingly pleasant. Harry was pissed and fast asleep in the chair. Sherlock was curled up with him on the sofa, they'd even found a blanket. Mycroft was surprisingly quiet.

In fact too quiet. He'd been very quiet slumped in the last chair since he'd passed round the drinks earlier in the evening. Drinks that Sherlock had assisted in making. Drinks that he'd been left alone with. And now they had an unconscious Mycroft.

"What did you put in his drink?"

The man was trying to look innocent. With all those dark curls and wide eyes he almost managed it. Almost.

A sharp poke to the ribs was enough to entice an answer from his rather reluctant partner. "Rohypnol."

It was so quiet he nearly didn't hear it. "Rohypnol? As in the date rape drug?"

There was a nod and another failed look of innocence.

"Where did you even get it? Actually don't tell me. I don't want to know." He really truly didn't. It was bad enough that he kept finding random packets of illegal substances all around the flat. He really didn't need to know anything more than the fact Sherlock was clean despite the rather condemning evidence.

It did however leave them with a rather difficult situation. Harry could sleep it off on the sofa but there wasn't any room for Mycroft to stay, not that he was particularly welcome anyway. And John was already sharing his bed with one Holmes, he certainly didn't want a second.

It took only one phone call and ten minutes for the situation to be sorted. There was a car outside. The black one the man used for kidnapping John and his assistant in the back seat. It took a bit of manoeuvring to get the man into the car but minutes later he was gone.

John turned back into the house to find a pair of curious eyes following him.

"You put something in his back pocket."

He nodded. There was no point denying it. "I just left him a note for in the morning."

"What? What?" The man was practically bouncing on his arm filled with glee. It wasn't right for a thirty something year old to be so pleased and child like at pranking their brother.

"It reads 'If you've got my sister pregnant you're paying the upkeep. JW'"

Delight filled his partner's eyes. "The drugs will have affected his memory. He won't know if he actually slept with your sister. That's brilliant!"

John just nodded and led him up to bed. "And it's revenge for him bringing the wine."

ooo

The following morning he was woken by a phone beeping. One of them had received a message. He reached over for the phone. Sherlock's but he'd gotten so used to using it that it barely made a difference. It was probably sent to both phones anyway to ensure that at least one of them received it.

He almost chuckled as he read the message.

Mummy will not be pleased to hear you drugged me. MH

He actually did start to laugh. There sat pinned to the bed by the weight of his partner he had to admit he was rather content. Not exactly domestic but domestic was boring and he didn't think he'd be able to stick boring for long ever again.

The phone beeped again.

Any upkeep will be dependent on a DNA test. MH

He couldn't suppress the laughter that bubbled up, waking Sherlock up in the process. He showed the man the messages and they were both rolling about the bed in amusement.

When Mrs Hudson winked at them asking if they'd had a good night he forced himself to suppress the snicker.

Poor Mycroft.

But he really did deserve it.

This came into my head a while ago and I really couldn't resist writing it. I can totally see Sherlock doing this.