Mycroft's house is a lavish, multi-storey affair in Belgravia, a gift bestowed upon him by their parents after his graduation from Cambridge a few years back. Sherlock hates it for all the same reasons he hates the Holmes manor. Too clean, everything orderly and proper, useless knicknacks and vapid works of art lining the shelves and cluttering up the walls. Its sterile, museum-like atmosphere is made all the worse for the fact that Mycroft hardly ever ventures into any rooms beyond his study and bedroom. One can practically smell the scent of the showrooms where every piece of furniture was purchased, pristine and unused as they day they were packed through the door.
By some underhanded flex of Mycroft's political clout John has been granted the remainder of the holidays off, something the medical student protested until he was assured another junior doctor would be recruited to cover his absence. He still doesn't seem entirely enthused by the idea of abandoning his colleagues as they're dropped off at their destination by one of Mycroft's towncars. It's the busiest season of the year, he'd explained, and he should be there for the learning experience if nothing else.
Once inside the house, however, his displeasure quickly evaporates.
"Bloody hell," he mutters in awe as they step into the lavish entryway. Sherlock just scowls and repositions the strap of his bag on his shoulder. Beside him John's carrying a suitcase and an old school satchel - Mycroft had assured him he'd need nothing more than a few articles of clothing, but he'd chosen to bring his own toiletries and bedthings regardless.
"This place is revolting," Sherlock bemoans, making a disgusted face toward the ornate mirror to their left. His reflection is a perfect study in contradiction - paint-stained hoodie, tangled hair and frayed jeans starkly out of place amidst the overbearing display of wealth surrounding them. John, at the very least, looks a tad less improper. Though his sensible trousers and woollen jumper do give him a bit of an air of a lost country farmer. What a bloody pair they make, Sherlock thinks irritably. Ugh, this whole holiday is going to be awful.
His annoyance only kicks up a notch at the sound of a shrill voice from the hallway.
"Sherlock's here!"
"Oh for the love of-" Sherlock starts, but cuts himself off in favour of making an unsuccessful attempt to hide behind John as Enola skids around a corner into view. She's dressed in her school uniform, still, a grey dress with white stockings (likely just got off for the holidays) and to Sherlock's deep consternation is clutching a fat, white rabbit in her arms.
"You brought that thing?" He ducks his head around John's torso to glare at the animal and gives his sister a disgusted look for good measure.
"He's not a thing, he's a rabbit." Enola stops short at the edge of the hardwood where the floor turns to cobblestone and huffs at her brother. "And his name is Bluebell." She flashes John a bright grin. "Hallo, John!"
"Cheers, Enola," John greets with an answering smile, then shifts his gaze to the oversized rodent in her arms. "That's quite a handsome rabbit you've got there."
Enola beams up at the older man while Sherlock screws his face up in betrayed revulsion. For god's sake, John, just because she's a child doesn't mean everyone's required to humour her every stupid whim! How the hell did she even convince Mycroft to let that bloody thing in his house anyway?
He's just opening his mouth to ask her exactly that (expletives and all) when another voice drifting in from the direction of the sitting area interrupts his train of thought.
"Enola? Where did you run off to now?"
Enola turns her head to look behind her, where a girl around Sherlock's age is just stepping round the corner into the hall with a vaguely irritated expression on her face. Sherlock's still half behind John - his failed bid to escape the notice of his sister - and ends up frozen in place as he goes to take a step sideways to a more dignified position. Bloody hell…
Long, dark hair cascading over slim shoulders, a perfect hourglass figure (how bloody thin is that waist? has to be something like 24 inches around...), with lips painted a deep blood red and her ears adorned with sapphire gemstones which highlight the deep blue of her eyes. Frankly… gorgeous. And apparently of immense interest to certain parts of his anatomy, despite all vehement protests of the logic centres of his brain telling him it's just a girl, for god's sake. He finds himself unwillingly transfixed.
The girl glances up, catches sight of him with a bemused tilt of her head, and it's all Sherlock can do not to turn tail and bolt right back out into the street. There's a faint stirring somewhere below his belt line, the feel of hot blood rushing to his cheeks... what the hell is his body doing!? Oh good lord, is this... is he... attracted to her?
No. No no no no he does not do 'attraction'. He's a bloody sociopath, completely asexual, doesn't care about romance or physical beauty or any of the disgusting preoccupations of the human-
"Oh, you must be John and Sherlock," the girl says with a sudden smile, and Sherlock's thoughts skitter out of alignment as he tries and fails to wipe the look of alarmed terror off his face in response to his body's unexpected reaction to the sound of his name said in her dulcet voice.
John glances back toward his friend, raises an eyebrow slightly in confusion for what must be a ridiculous expression frozen on Sherlock's features, and turns back to the girl. "That'd be us, yeah." He takes a step forward and extends a hand, leaving Sherlock exposed alone in the middle of the entryway like a spooked deer. "John Watson."
They grasp hands in greeting. Sherlock finds himself beating down a jolt of irrational jealousy for John's ability to touch her so casually.
"Irene Adler," she says brightly. "From the next house over. Mr Holmes asked me to look after his sister for the afternoon… not really much of a nanny I'm afraid, though. Sort of making things up as I go along."
"That's alright, you're much better than Sherlock!" Enola pipes up. "He's awful with children," she adds matter-of-factly with a sour look towards her brother. Sherlock shoots her a glare, his distress over Irene's looks briefly pushed aside by annoyance.
"That's because you're an awful child," he snaps. Irene snickers a bit, and Sherlock's distracted again by the sight of one of her soft, pale hands rising to cover her mouth in amusement. Then she looks in his direction, twinkling gaze tracking up and down his form, and for perhaps the first time in his life Sherlock finds himself a bit embarrassed for the sorry state of his clothes and hair.
Irene doesn't seem to mind his unkempt appearance, though. In fact her mouth quirks up in what for all the world looks like an appreciative smirk. She flicks her stare upwards and Sherlock's brain seems to short itself out for a moment as their eyes meet.
John breaks the ensuing awkward silence by reaching out to pat Bluebell on the head. Enola grins up at him ecstatically.
"Mycroft let me bring his whole hutch and set it up in the garden!" she exclaims happily. "Wanna see it?"
"'Course I do," John assures with a smile. He sets his things down next to the wall and flashes a resigned sort of shrug back in Sherlock's direction as the demonic harpy masquerading as a little girl drags him off by the hand.
Sherlock glares after the two of them. Then quite abruptly realises he's been left alone with Irene.
… oh christ.
"You've gone a bit red, dear, is something the matter?" Despite the questioning tone of her voice Irene's expression's shifted into a mischievous smile. She saunters the few steps to bring herself within a scant few feet of him, her dark skirt swaying with the movement of her hips. Sherlock's whole body goes rigid as he tries desperately to avoid looking down towards the low neckline of her blouse. His eyes dart southwards for a split-second anyway and Irene's smirk deepens.
"Haven't seen you around the district, do you go to one of the all-boys' schools?" She arranges her shoulders in such a way as to make her chest bulge forwards slightly. Sherlock clears his throat with a slight glare for his stupid body's betrayal and takes a step back, forcing his eyes up to her face once more. Tells himself the vague tightening of his jeans in response to the scent of her perfume is all in his head. The quickening of his pulse just a reaction to her being far too close to him.
"I don't go to school."
"No? A dropout, then? You look a bit street-rough." She raises her eyebrows suggestively. "You know, I've got a thing for bad boys. Love that sense of danger."
Sherlock attempts to say something like well that's completely moronic but all he manages in the way of speech is an incomprehensible jumble of nonsense. It dawns on him that he's backed all the way up to the door, now, hounded by Irene's insistent encroachment upon his personal space. The fact that he doesn't seem to mind when her fingers reach up to fiddle with the zip on his sweatshirt sets his thoughts splintering in shards of alarmed confusion again. Good lord what is wrong with him!?
Beside them the other half of the double-entry door opens with a loud click. Sherlock glances sideways to find Mycroft stepping over the threshold looking dapper in his usual crisp suit, brolly in hand. Oh thank god. He's never been more relieved to see his big brother in his life.
Irene takes a quick step back away from Sherlock and expertly arranges her features into a saccharine smile. "Welcome back, Mr Holmes!"
"Miss Adler," Mycroft intones politely. He glances over to his little brother still pressed up against the door like a cornered cat, raises a questioning eyebrow. Sherlock just fixes him with a wide-eyed glare. Mycroft lowers his brow and looks back to Irene. "I see you've already met my brother."
Irene beams sweetly up at him, then looks back to Sherlock with a not-quite-innocent smirk. "Oh yes, we were just getting… acquainted."
Mycroft's eyes flit between the two of them a few times - taking in Irene's expression, Sherlock's posture, a million other minuscule details. After a second's pause he clears his throat and addresses Irene.
"Miss Adler, if you would be so kind as to collect Enola for me? I'd like a word with her before I return to the office."
Irene smiles sweetly. "Of course, sir." She shoots Sherlock a small wink, then turns to head toward the garden entrance. She sets a deliberate sway to her hips as she walks that Sherlock (to his intense dismay) finds oddly mesmerising. He stares after her and doesn't notice when Mycroft's expression shifts into something resembling subtle amusement.
"Gratifying to see you getting on with members of your own age group, for a change," the older man intones in a sarcastic voice once Irene's backside finally disappears round the corner at the end of the hall. Sherlock startles out of the trance she'd somehow trapped him in and fixes his brother with a look of outrage.
"S-she infringed on my personal space!"
"Did she? Hm." Mycroft pulls his mobile out of the lapel pocket of his coat and regards the screen blandly, not the least bit perturbed. "Well, if I'm not mistaken I believe she may fancy you."
"Fancies m-? What the hell is that supposed to mean!?" Sherlock sputters. He's feeling very defensive about the whole issue and he's not entirely sure why. What would a girl fancy him for? It has to be a trick. Is this all some sort of massive prank, orchestrated by his fat git of a brother? Is John in on the joke, is that why he left the two of them alone together? Does Enola have something to do with it?
Mycroft stows his mobile back in his suit pocket and glances over to his brother with a droll lift of his browline. "Don't be alarmed, it's to do with sex."
Sherlock bristles. "Sex doesn't alarm me!"
"How would you know?"
Sherlock opens his mouth, then shuts it again, then opens it, a flustered glare on his face as he fails to come up with a witty retort to what is (he's forced to admit) an entirely justified question. Mycroft watches the display bemusedly for a moment before gracing his little brother with an indulgent, almost exasperated smile.
"Sherlock, you're nearly seventeen," he points out in a tone just this side of utterly patronising. "It's perfectly natural for a boy your age to-"
Oh dear lord this is verging on a conversation Sherlock absolutely doesn't want to have. Especially not with Mycroft, of all bloody people. He shakes his head violently and takes a step away from his brother, expression a picture of horrified disgust.
"No! God no, just… ugh, no no no shut the hell up." His mobile vibrates in his pocket with an email alert - oh thank all the gods he doesn't believe in, a bloody distraction. With almost manic haste he whips the device out of his jeans pocket and navigates to the message.
It's from New Scotland Yard. An answer to the email he'd sent earlier in the day.
"I need to find John," he announces to his brother, and without waiting for a reply sidesteps around the older man to stalk off down the hall.
Behind him he can feel Mycroft's amused gaze boring holes in the back of his head. He ignores it. Better things to think about. Pink phones and mysterious bombers and messages from the police and a whole slew of things that have absolutely nothing to do with his brother or sex or bloody-minded girls.
A flash of Irene's face in his mind at the mere thought of female humans. Sherlock grits his teeth and determinedly shoves the image out of his mental space. He does not care about girls. At all. Never has and never will.
… no matter how pretty they are. Ugh no fuck's sake shut up you idiot!
Sherlock's face settles into a furious scowl.
Sodding hormones.