Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. This is for sherlockchallenge's prompt of this month on Tumblr, "nail." After my Superwholockian soul had a Supernatural-related semi-PTSD (yes, even years later), my dear friend Sendai pointed me the right way to avoid screaming through writing. And as ever, the brilliant Chrwythyn has betaed this on the fly. All my gratitude to both!
Double Take
Anthea (again, today; they were back at A) actually liked when her boss came visiting his baby brother at the renovated 221B. Mycroft tried to persuade Sherlock to help with the problem of the day (whether it was a public or private one) and took the occasion to oversee - or pretend to himself he could - the situation. They might not be married yet, but it'd been made very clear that John and his child were part of the family, and it was obvious Mycroft daydreamed himself an old timey head of the family. In the meantime, she got to gossip with Mrs. Hudson - unless the good woman thought the Holmes boys needed a buffer - and snack on her delicious baking.
She's long perfected the art of slipping into the car just seconds before he's back. Not that Mycroft would disapprove of her chats, or could possibly be unaware of them. She'd suggest he saw a doctor if that happened. But she doesn't want to make him wait for her. That'd be impolite, for one. Out of place, for another. She knows better than that.
This time, just like every other time, she throws him a quick glance when he gets in the limo. Gauging his mood - and how successful he's likely to have been - it's immensely helpful for her. She'd be a poor assistant if she didn't keep track of her entrusted (in a way).
She really should know better, but the double-take is instinctive, together with the worry that Mrs. Hudson might have misplaced - and offered - biscuits laced with her soothers...or possibly even something stronger. But after rubbing her eyes, and subtly pinching herself, the spectacle doesn't change. Her ever put together boss is just as elegant in his suit. But now, each of his nails sports a different, bright colour. Red, green, blue, purple, yellow. The left hand is decorated in matte shades, while the right has the same colours, but with added glitter.
"Experiment," Mycroft sighs.
"What case can possibly require that?" Anthea asks, even if she really, really should shut up. If it was something she needed to know, she'd be told.
"Not my brother. Watson." At her even more shocked look, he adds, "Junior Watson. I'm taking up some of my brother's bad habits. And I'm definitely not the only one. "
She allows herself a small chuckle. "Assuming people know what you mean - or some unusual nomenclature - is not so bad, sir. And this is easily solved."
As if she didn't have remover handy for any accident, of her own or of any lady Mycroft decided to take under his wing.
"Of course. But - later." It could be simply that Mycroft didn't want to risk it while they were being driven around. As smooth as their chauffeur's style was, the imponderable was...well, imponderable.
But there the shadow of a smile on Mycroft's lips. For all his outward put-upon attitude, she'd have bet a small country's budget that he'd actually enjoyed himself with baby Watson, and she'd send more makeup her way at the first reasonable occasion.
She nodded sharply and bemoaned that she'd be summarily terminated if she dared to snatch a picture.