Prompt: A scene through a window, from Stutly Constable

Mycroft Holmes did not deviate from his routine.

He certainly did not go traipsing around London at 9 o'clock in the evening when he ought to have been sitting peacefully at home with a brandy after a good dinner at the Diogenes.

Yet after months of fruitless waiting, he found himself with no other recourse than to go in search of the answers he was looking for. Whether he would get them remained to be seen, since he felt rather like a voyeur, looking through windows and spying on people. Like his brother, he supposed, who did this sort of…legwork for a living.

If it wasn't for his brother, he would not be forced to these lengths. But then Sherlock had never proven the easiest charge, and in fact, would have denied he was a charge to be looked after. But it was second nature for Mycroft; at seven years older, and, as their father had said, "seven years older in body but more like twenty years older in spirit!" he had been a responsible elder brother from the start. He would have looked after Sherlock even had his mother not asked that he do so.

But Sherlock proved so remarkably obtuse that doing so was almost absurdly difficult. He disappeared for months at a time, sometimes on an investigation, more often because he did not want to subject himself to what he called "Mycroft's lectures" and more often still because he was simply bored and refused to leave his rooms. During the periods in between, he was so annoyingly present Mycroft found his routine interrupted to a highly unpleasant degree, as Sherlock appeared at the Diogenes, at his flat in Pall Mall, and once at Whitehall itself, where he made a nuisance of himself to the Commissioner of Scotland Yard.

Sherlock would not have counted that visit as one to Mycroft, since he had not intended to see Mycroft at all, and had, in fact, gone with the express purpose of making himself a nuisance to the Commissioner of Scotland Yard. Still, Mycroft did not know whether to be exasperated or worried about him most of the time.

Because when Sherlock did appear, he was far too thin for Mycroft's liking. His brother explained this as not liking the food his landlady at Montague Street prepared; Mycroft, who knew of his brother's strange appetites and refusal of food when caught up in some experiment or investigation or another, suspected that without someone to insist as their mother had done, Sherlock was simply forgetting to eat. Though it could certainly be that the landlady truly was a terrible cook; he suspected she was. Montague Street was no very good address, and Mycroft had secretly stationed men there the first two weeks of Sherlock's arrival in London, until they'd returned ashen-faced, refusing to go back. The reports they had given him were of drafty, too-small rooms, and far too few clients calling for Sherlock to make any sort of living as a detective.

Consulting detective, Mycroft reminded himself. Sherlock was so touchy about that; Mycroft had once called him a private detective, simply so he would begin to expound on the differences and forget that he had refused dinner and begin to eat in his distraction.

In any case, Mycroft had calculated how long Sherlock could last without a drastic change, and the date had come and gone with only a note from Sherlock with a new address - 221b Baker Street - to explain himself.

That was the last time Mycroft had heard from him, and now, months later, he finally was taking matters into his own hands.

He had been patient, he thought. Sherlock's note had been terse, saying only that he was sharing rooms with a doctor he had been introduced to at St. Bart's (what he was doing at St. Bart's was best left to the imagination; Mycroft dearly wished to avoid another visit from a dean of medicine wondering why their medical cadavers were being used in amateur experiments), and that the address was much better for his purposes than Montague Street. Mycroft had been rather shocked; he doubted there was anyone on Earth who could live with Sherlock for long. He certainly had not been able to, though he admitted he was unusually solitary by nature. He had wondered how long it would be before Sherlock was left alone, having to pay rent he could not afford, and only grew more surprised as the months passed and he heard nothing of the sort. Or of any sort. Mycroft knew he was unlike other men in the degree to which he abhorred socializing, but if his brother had a fellow-lodger he would have liked to meet the fellow.

He had done his research, of course. Dr. John H. Watson as, on paper, as solidly English as they came. Medical school at Bart's, a stint in Her Majesty's Army, wounded at Maiwand and invalided home. He had not been about to let his brother live with a man who he knew nothing about, and now could have told anyone anything they wished to know about Dr. Watson.

Except for all the important things. Exactly what kind of man he was could be suggested by the files in his records, but not confirmed. Dutiful, intelligent, somewhat adventurous, these were things Mycroft could read in the papers but there had to have been more. Else Sherlock would have been driven mad within days living with such a dull fellow, and before that Dr. Watson himself would have run screaming from Sherlock and all his eccentricities.

No, there had to be something more to this fellow, which would have been obvious had Mycroft met him in person, but Sherlock was so far refusing to do so much as call on Mycroft himself, let alone bring his fellow lodger in for an introduction. He had not even sent a telegram in months, as if even a few words would tell Mycroft more than he wished.

So Mycroft, finally fed up, had called for his brougham for the first time, fended off staff anxiously worrying that he had to be ill for such an event to occur, and headed to Baker Street.

The gas lamps bathed the street in a soft glow which, combined with the moonlight and the surprising lack of London's normal fog on this summer's night, made it easy to see. He had the driver slow in front of number 221 and craned his neck to see into the first floor flat.

The lights in what must have been the sitting room were also lit, framing the dark figure in the window so Mycroft could see him easily. Even better, the window was open, and while he was too far to make out individual words, he could easily hear the hum of two men's voices. Conversation, rather than arguing (he certainly would have heard that). Perhaps, Mycroft thought, Sherlock and his fellow lodger were actually finding each other's company pleasant. He supposed all things truly were possible, if unlikely. Though that still led to the question of what, exactly, was it about Dr. Watson that made such a thing possible. Sherlock respected few men and befriended fewer. If Dr. Watson was to be the rare exception, there must be a reason.

The tall figure in the window (surely his brother) moved and a second, shorter figure took his place, puffing on a cigarette. This must be Dr. Watson, though at this distance Mycroft could make no deductions about him, other than that he seemed not at all tense, despite what living with Sherlock on a daily basis could be like. Patient, then, had to be added to the list of traits Mycroft had already determined about him.

His train of thought was then interrupted by a sound that was so utterly shocking it stopped him in his tracks. The strains of a violin. Mycroft knew his brother was a talented musician, though he had not played that Mycroft could hear in many, many years. Which is why it was so surprising to hear it now. No one ever heard Sherlock play. He played purely for himself, and had always refused any entreaties to entertain at dinner or for relatives, even as a child. Even those who lived with him, and therefore could not avoid it, rarely heard him actually play, for more often than not he would simply scrape the bow against the strings as he thought through a problem.

But what was coming through the window was a performance, the likes of which Mycroft had not heard in years. Straight from one piece to another, Sherlock played continually for nearly an hour, sometimes visible in the window, the violin at his shoulder. When he was finished, the distinct sound of applause carried through the window. Dr. Watson was an appreciative audience.

Mycroft smiled to himself and told his driver to return to Pall Mall. He had found his answers, and it no longer mattered that he had not met Dr. Watson.

He would, someday.