AN: Any and all mistakes are due to me because while my beta is wise, I am not and sometimes ignore her wisdom.

Praise Jaharra and present her with fandom cookies!

Siblings

The next few days were relatively peaceful. Sherlock spent most of her time trying to connect the cases, refusing to eat or sleep like a reasonable person, forcing John to make snarky comments about feeding off the energy of the universe.

Shifts at the clinic were as generic as they came, but were almost constantly interrupted by texts from Sherlock.

I ate a grape. I hope you're happy. -SH

We do not have grapes. I'm afraid even I do not know what I ate. I may need to visit you soon. -SH

I'm coloring in the cock on the wall. -SH

It really is not your colour. - SH

Finished investigating extended Haywire family. Nothing. -SH

I may set fire to the tablecloth. -SH

I know we don't have a tablecloth. -SH

The rug will do. -SH

Don't ask what I've been using your red jumper as. -SH

Also not your colour. -SH

John suspected the texts were as much for her to know Sherlock was safe as they were a way for Sherlock to distract herself from her constant frustration. They had the added benefit of brightening John's day as well, if the texts about her jumper and the cock were excluded. It was also nice to have the chance to reassure Sherlock that Moriarty had not shown up at the clinic disguised as an old man with the intent of kidnapping her, again.

You touch a single one of any of my jumpers and I'll cut one leg off all your suit bottoms. -JW

Which is everything you own. -JW

The constant barrage of texts ceased when John had only twenty minutes left in her shift.

The clock ticked by slowly as John counted the seconds. The average text was sent at least every seven minutes. Sherlock was already over the limit by three. If she did not text in the next two, John was going to skip out early. Sarah would be furious, but John would never forgive herself if she was not there to keep Sherlock from being at the receiving end of Moriarty's threats.

The Blob is here. Bring a taser. -SH

John was relieved but had to groan aloud. Skipping out early seemed like the only option or Sherlock really would set fire to the rug and her jumper.

When John returned home she could see it was too late. A bucket was sitting in the middle of the living room, a small suspicious string of smoke spiraling towards the ceiling. John coughed and flapped the air away from her nose.

"Why does it smell like burnt hair?" She asked aloud but Sherlock was too busy glaring at her brother from her chair to answer, a wooden clip plugging the end of her nose.

Mycroft sat in John's chair, his umbrella resting between two of his fingers, twirling next to his side. He did not turn to speak to John, simply stared forward, uncaring, as if on a beach in the Bahamas, unaffected by anything the petty little universe could waft his way.

"Forgive my dear sister," Mycroft called, offering his usual politician's smile when John came into view to peek into the can. "She tried to smoke me out. Needless to say, it did not work."

The pile of black ash had an unnatural green tint to it and John backed away, shuffling towards Sherlock who proffered a second wooden clip.

Mycroft sighed dramatically, one manicured eyebrow raised towards Sherlock. "Oh, sister mine, whenever will you learn to control your emotions? You are above your hormones, are you not?"

"Oh, brother mine," Sherlock snapped, not deterred by the sound of her stuffed up voice. "Whenever will you learn not to eat an entire bundt cake for breakfast? You are above your fat arse, are you not?"

This game was not new. Mycroft would say something sexist to get a rise out of his sibling and Sherlock would snap at the bait, usually with something regarding Mycroft's very calculated appearance, and the two would stare at each other -arguing on a level John could not begin to understand.

"Harry and I used to wrestle when we were mad," John said and received matching sibling glares for her comment. She raised her hands and retreated to the windows, content to leave them to it until they were ready to drag themselves down to her earthly level.

Opening all the windows did little to alleviate the smell, but the extra lighting did throw shadows on the wall that made the cock nearly disappear. That was an added bonus.

"I won't do it!" Sherlock finally yelled, breaking the silence, ripping her nose clip off and tossing it aside. Her nose coiled at the smell but she was clearly trying hard not to show it. "I am already working on a case, Cakey. I don't have time for your petty, personal whims."

"Joan-"

"No." Sherlock threw out her hands, physically blocking John's body with nothing more than her fingers. "Don't drag her into this."

"Into what?" John asked, contemplating removing her nose clip. It was pinching.

"One of my-" Mycroft paused, seeming to contemplate the perfect word, "-colleges, shall we say? Has made himself rather a nuisance. Something of a hypocrite if I am being frank. He is actively trying to rewrite measures taken to prevent those of a certain lifestyle from being discriminated against when making purchases at their local shops."

"A homophobic homosexual wants to allow people to throw queers out of their establishments for holding hands or existing or the like," Sherlock clarified.

"Well that's not good," John said but Sherlock threw up a hand to prevent her from expressing any more sentiment.

"And what, pray tell, dear brother, do you get out of all this that allows you the liberty of picking a political side?"

Mycroft nodded. "If these horrific actions-" Sherlock snorted "-are stopped in time, I may receive some funding for one my smaller projects."

"We're calling an MI6 mission to inner Russia small now, are we?"

Mycroft ignored his sister and turned to John. "What I get does not change the fact that this man should be stopped before he does irreparable damage."

"What would you like us to do?" John asked, ignoring Sherlock's wounded glare.

Mycroft smiled something closer to a human smile and looked back at Sherlock, communicating through their minds once again.

"You are disgusting," Sherlock growled and fidgeted in her chair, her fingers scraping along her arm rests. "Just because John is well endowed, does not mean you should stare at her breasts."

"What?" John squeaked and looked down. They both ignored her. Her tits were really not that big.

"Yes, John," Sherlock huffed, "We can all see perfectly well that you are a C cup. You would require a lot more work in order to look like an attractive man."

"Exactly," Mycroft agreed.

"I what now?" John hated this part of the conversation, where they were both talking like she was actually following.

Sherlock huffed, gracefully bowing down to her level of intelligence in order to explain it all. "I am to seduce this man dressed as a man myself and you are to snap the pictures."

"You're going to… dress like a man." John was not sure she'd seen that disguise before.

Sherlock ignored her. "Just because my breasts hardly exist doesn't mean you have the right to pull me from my work."

John looked at Sherlock's chest, a blue silk blouse draped under her suit. It was hardly fair to say her breasts did not exist. There was a supple, gentle curve to them, enough to pull the fabric from her chest before it dipped into her slim stomach.

Sherlock continued, "You should just sleep with him and have it done. If you look at him the way you look at blackberry scones, I'm sure you'll have it over with within the hour."

Mycroft ignored her, tapping away with his umbrella. "I considered hiring a PI but I'm afraid they may be tempted to be bought out. Unlike-" Sherlock huffed in a breath but Mycroft charged on past her, "Joan." Mycroft turned back to her. "I trust you will prevent my dear sister from giving in to her wily ways?"

"Goodbye, Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled, throwing herself from her chair and untucking her shirt, ripping buttons from their holes at lightning speed. Undressing was always her surefire way of making her brother disappear.

"You can send the jpegs directly to me," Mycroft said while rising. He nodded at each of them. "Good day, Sherlock, Joan."

Sherlock threw a book at the door as it closed behind him, blouse flapping in the breeze. "I have better things to do and he knows it."

"We'd be helping people," John reminded her, picking the book back up.

"We'd be helping feed his pastry addiction!"

"Sherlock," John warned.

"Fine!" she spat and flopped onto the sofa, throwing her arms over her face and chest.

John let her pout and perused the docket left in her chair by Mycroft all about the Right Honorable David Brone MP.

Sherlock lifted her head long enough to add, "But if one joke is made about him not being honorable after all, I will refuse!"