The downstairs door to 221b swung open importantly, and then shut with a brisk snap. Jim didn't need to hear the pained creaking of the floorboards to know who had arrived.
The staircase creaked with relief as Mycroft Holmes briskly trotted, with some little importance, into the flat swinging his umbrella dangerously. Any notion that Jim had of trying to rush his way out, as he tried with Mrs. Hudson dried up when he saw that pendulum-like swinging of the sharp metal tip snaking up and down, and imagined it digging into his ribs.
It sickened him.
"Evening, Sherlock." Mycroft said; addressing who would be the focus of his conversation first.
"John." He added as an afterthought.
John, who was used to it by now, nodded.
Jim, by this point had run out of patience for being ignored, and he meowed prominently.
"Oh." Mycroft feigned interest to hide his disgust. "You've gotten a pest—I mean pet."
Jim, shocked beyond words, thought twice about sinking his claws into the smug Holmes' expensive trousers.
"Ignore him." Sherlock said. Jim imagined a dagger tearing into his heart, and Sherlock wrenching it around with a sickening twist. "What have you found?"
