A/N: Hello wonderful people! I'm not sure where this came from. I had the first bit and the last bit echoing through my head for days, and then when I got writing the rest just sort of happened. (I love it when that happens.) I really ought to be studying for exams for the next week, so updates'll be spotty to nonexistent until then. Allons-y!
The room is in tableau. A steel filing cabinet, a window (firmly shut), an avant garde painting were sketched into the scene in broad strokes of mauve and grey; they serve only to draw one's eye to the main piece.
A desk. On it, a bottle of champagne that cost more than the GDP of several small African nations, cork removed. Beside it, a small tumbler filled to the brim with the amber liquid. A small indulgence for a very important man after a very long day.
In the centre of the desk, placed carefully so its sides are perfectly parallel to the lines of the desk, lies a manilla folder. It is mis-labeled 'Punch Card Procedures'. On top of it, a neat pile of papers entitled 'Surveillance Report'. The top sheet lies askew and upside down a few centimetres away, where it has slipped from the frozen fingers of the man who had been reading it.
When Mycroft Holmes had been a small child, he had had a tendency to shut down and become unresponsive to any and all external stimuli. Not all the time, you understand. When he learned something new and important, something that he would have to think hard about to assimilate it into his mental picture of the world, something he would have to apply to all vague chains of logic swirling through his mind, it would happen. Or when one of his predictions went badly wrong, he would have to pause and re-evaluate all the deductions that had brought him to the erroneous conclusion, and pick out which were faulty, and why, and how he could avoid errors of this sort in the future.
His physical needs would simply fade away and become irrelevant. He had, the day he realized that adults were quite often wrong, stood on one foot in the upstairs bathroom for several hours simply reveling in the possibilities. And when his father had explained the concept of government to him one morning over the breakfast table, well, he hadn't noticed at all when his mother finally took the sandwich out of his hand and the plate from beneath his nose.
It wasn't until he was six that he realized other people were unsettled by this habit. His mother was always accommodating, and his father never deigned to notice such things. But one day, when he was sitting a tree in the garden reading On The Origin of Species (and it hadn't been an easy task, getting a book that size up into the tree with him), he overheard a maid complaining to a gardener about how "that boy just wasn't right".
The maid had been fired three days later for raiding the liquor cabinet, of course, and the gardener four days following that in an obviously unrelated incident. But ever after, Mycroft had suppressed his habit, waiting until he was sure he was alone before retreating into his own mind. His mother never said anything about it, but he could tell she was relieved. At the age of eight, he began periodically putting himself on diets, and then taking himself off of them, just to heighten his physical awareness. He spent less of his thinking time alone and unmoving, and more of it climbing trees in the garden, or walking around town.
It had all worked. There was so little now that could trigger his mental retreat that it had been years since he had frozen up and forgotten himself. Not since his father's death ten years ago had he reverted to his old behavior.
The abandoned page lay face-up, and if anyone was in the office with Mycroft, they could easily read what was written on it.
19.38 23/01: Sherlock Holmes ran out of 221 Baker Street, and hailed a cab. John Watson followed a few seconds later, bringing Holmes his coat. Both seemed pleased by this. Watson kissed Holmes goodbye, and then returned to 221 Baker Street. Holmes got in a cab, and proceeded to...
When Mycroft was seven, he was introduced to his new little brother. He was surprised at the emotions it raised in him, particularly one for which he did not have a name. When Sherlock had been put to bed, Mycroft went to the library, and found a large book on psychology so as to better analyze that which he felt. The term protectiveness, he decided, fit the best. And so he decided that he would be the best big brother there ever had been. He would watch little Sherlock, and help him grow up, and teach him everything he would ever need to know.
Perhaps, if his little brother had been anyone besides Sherlock, this plan would have gone quite well indeed.
By the time Sherlock had reached his first birthday, he could insult people in English, French, Arabic, Latin, and German. He did not hesitate to use all of these skills at every possible opportunity. While the staff had whispered amongst themselves when Mycroft was small about how he was strange and abnormal, they had always done this out of his earshot. Now, no one hesitated to mutter under their breath about how Sherlock was 'strange' and 'unfortunate' and 'unsettling', even while the toddler was close enough to hear every word perfectly.
Sherlock, of course, heard their words, and marked them. It had caused him to develop a thick skin, and an incredibly independent attitude. He would accept words of praise or guidance from their mummy only on rare occasions, and Mycroft had all but given up on making his life easier in any way that would require Sherlock to accept him.
Sherlock would never realize this, of course, but it was hard for Mycroft to watch his little brother forging his path all on his own. He knew Sherlock was lonely sometimes, even if Sherlock would never tell him. They were similar enough that Mycroft could see the signs. Still, he tried to make Sherlock's life easier in the ways he could manage. When Carl Powers had tried to get everyone in the Fifth form to gang up on Sherlock, Mycroft had ensured that he was framed for stealing some test papers, and was swiftly booted from their private school.
When Mycroft was twenty four and Sherlock was seventeen, Mycroft bought him a house near Cambridge so he would have somewhere to stay during university. Sherlock set fire to it, and got a room in a tiny flat that he shared with several other students. It was then that Mycroft gave up on them every having an amicable relationship, but he still held out hope that Sherlock would find a friend somewhere in his life.
Sebastian had raised some hopes, but they had been quickly dashed when Sherlock realized what a brainless fool he was, and cut the banker out of his life. Mycroft was ambivalent about that decision; on one hand, Sebastian was a useless idiot. But then, it was hard to see Sherlock drop the one person he might have started to care about.
DI Lestrade was a welcome addition into Sherlock's life. He had helped get the Mycroft's brother off of drugs, which was an automatic recommendation. And he consulted Sherlock, and put up with his dramatic behavior, and Mycroft could have settled for that.
Then Sherlock met Mrs. Hudson, and helped her out for what Mycroft might have called 'the goodness of his heart', except he knew Sherlock better than that. But he thought Sherlock might have been starting to make friends, and he was glad that he could have someone in his life whose presence he didn't simply tolerate.
And then, of course, there was John Watson.
Mycroft thought about John, and wondered. Were their signs he should have seen? He had asked the man about his intentions upon their first meeting, of course, but that was simply a tactic to get him off balance. He hadn't actually meant any of it. And, to be perfectly honest, he had never expected Sherlock to show romantic feelings for anyone. He had sexual experience, sure, but that had just been for experience. Mycroft could know this for sure because he had done the same thing in University.
Perhaps that was it. He knew they weren't shagging, he would have deduced it in an instant from his surveillance footage. Perhaps it was just that John happened to be the first person that Sherlock could really form an emotional connection with. Because he obviously hadn't been seeking out any sort of romantic arrangement, it would take someone he had to spend time with for other reasons, so he would have time to develop an undeniable connection. For example, someone he was forced to flatshare with.
Mycroft had a sudden thought, and pulled his laptop out of the desk drawer. He swept the papers aside (carefully, of course), and booted up the computer. He routed through some on the surveillance files of Scotland Yard, until he found the one he was looking for from a few months ago.
There wasn't any audio, but Sally Donovan was clearly yelling at Sherlock. She was facing the camera, and Mycroft frowned as she clearly mouthed the word "Freak!" at him.
John Watson then entered the frame, and although his back was turned, from the shaking of his shoulders and the expression on Donovan's face it was readily apparent that he was very displeased with her. But Mycroft wasn't really looking at the pair of them. He was looking at his brother, in the other corner of the shot. Sherlock had gone a little stiff when Sally had been berating him, and he looked rather falsely unconcerned. But when John had finally stepped in, a small smile had spread across his face, and he had relaxed, sneaking the odd glance at the doctor. In anyone else, Mycroft would have called these sure signs of romantic attachment. But he had dismissed them as mere friendship. In retrospect, he had been allowing his preconceptions to cloud his vision. He must be sure to not do so again.
Mycroft leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers. So his brother had finally decided to let someone into his life. Mycroft wasn't going to object, and there were many, many worse people he could have chosen than Doctor John Watson. He would have to send them some sort of congratulatory gift, if only to annoy them. He would get his assistant on that as soon as possible; he knew exactly what to give them.
He downed the drink, before pouring himself another in celebration. He allowed himself a few minutes to revel in exactly how much easier these developments were going to make his life, before returning to work. You didn't get to be the most powerful man in the western hemisphere by taking breaks, after all.
John dashed up the seventeen steps to the flat, and swung open the door.
"I'm home!" he called, unnecessarily.
Sherlock sat on the sofa, glaring at a package sitting on the coffee table. John hung up his coat, and then walked over to give Sherlock a kiss. Sherlock returned it, but without much enthusiasm. Clearly, the mysterious package was thoroughly irritating him.
"What's this, then?" John asked, sitting down beside Sherlock.
"It's from Mycroft." Sherlock said. "It's supposedly to congratulate us."
John raised his eyebrows. "Congratulate us? What are we supposed to have done?"
Sherlock gave him his best 'don't be an idiot' expression. "On pursuing a romantic relationship, John. I suspect he's quite pleased."
John grimaced. "Really? Is that normal?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft doesn't care all that much about what's normal, John."
John swallowed. "Right. Can I open it?"
"It's addressed to you."
"I- really? Okay, then. Will it explode?"
"I doubt it, as it's clearly an umbrella. You can tell by the shape of the case."
John did a double take. "Wait. Your brother wants to congratulate us on having... whatever we're having by giving me an umbrella? His trademark? Isn't that kind of weird?"
"Again, John. Mycroft doesn't actually care about what's normal."
"One thing you two share, then." John said. He grabbed the case, and snapped it open. Inside, there lay a very expensive looking black umbrella. He pulled it out and opened it up.
"It's really quite nice, Sherlock. Except the handle's rather odd."
"That's because it's actually a sword."
John nearly dropped it. "What?"
Sherlock took it from John, and pressed a button on the handle. The fabric of the umbrella pulled away, and Sherlock slid it off. He was left holding a frankly dangerous looking rapier, which he returned to John.
John practically grabbed it from his hands. He stood up, and started posturing wildly among the flat. He cut through the air with wild slashes, while Sherlock watched him, amused.
"Your form is frankly terrible." Sherlock said, from his safe vantage point of the couch.
"Don't worry about that." John replied. "I will most definitely learn." He turned, and brandished the sword at the skull.
"Excuse me," he asked it, "But you wouldn't happen to have six fingers on your right hand?"
"I can assure you, he didn't." Sherlock said. "And we really should get rid of it. We don't want to encourage my insufferable brother."
John looked as though Sherlock had tried to hit him. He held the sword behind his back, as if to shield it.
"You get rid of the sword and I will sleep upstairs for a month."
Sherlock's horrified expression decided it.
Three months later, on the first rainy day of the year, Lestrade and company responded to one of Sherlock's phone calls only to find John holding three would-be burglars at sword point in an abandoned parking lot.
Mycroft saved the surveillance footage on his computer in an unlabeled folder, and emailed it to Sherlock for his next birthday.