Sherlock wriggled his toes into the plush rug and grinned to himself. Mycroft thought he could intimidate him into taking one of his boring cases? Well, he'd show him. His men might have brought clothing for him, but he couldn't force him to put them on.

He only wished John were here to see it.

He had only the barest moment to consider whether John would be more likely to be offended or amused when the man himself came walking around the corner, his brow crinkled in the semblance of polite confusion that he did so well. "Are you wearing any pants?"

"No."

Their eyes met, and there it was … that irresistible, contagious giggle that Sherlock could never help but match.

"What are we doing here, Sherlock? I mean, seriously, what?"

"I don't know. Visiting the Queen?"

And then Mycroft walked in and they were in giggles again, and it was glorious. It didn't matter that a part of him knew that he really should be properly clothed to show at least some respect for the Queen and the years of tradition and blah, blah, blah, but if John wasn't insulted by it—John with his strong moral compass and his deep sense of duty—how wrong could Sherlock be?

John's face paled, though, when he saw Mycroft's companion, and for a moment, Sherlock was afraid he'd gone too far. Mocking his brother was one thing, but maybe mentioning the Queen here in Buckingham Palace was too much?

But no. John was staring at Mycroft's companion. "David?"

"John?" The (upper-class, well-dressed, boring) man's face lit up as he stepped forward to shake John's hand. "It's been ages, old man. What are you doing here?"

"We were just wondering the same thing ourselves," John said. "I don't know anything except that it's been a while since I was on a helicopter and this is the last place I expected to be today. I'd say I would have dressed better, but, well," he gestured toward Sherlock with a suppressed smile. "It's so seldom I get to be the better-dressed one."

The man, David, looked his way with the kind of polite expression that meant he was far too well-bred to comment, but he offered his hand anyway. "David Brandon. You must be Sherlock Holmes?"

"I must be," said Sherlock. "Obviously you already know my colleague."

"Oh, but this … I thought Mycroft had said your assistant's name was Watson?"

"Colleague," Sherlock stressed, "Also friend and flatmate."

John gave Mycroft a dirty look, but he said mildly enough, "I use Watson professionally, David. It was my mother's name, you remember?"

David blinked. "Of course, I'd forgotten. But John, aren't you in the army anymore? I remember Grandfather saying you'd been hurt, but…"

"Shot, actually," John said, his voice crisp as it always was when someone asked. "Just enough nerve damage to disqualify me from performing surgery and send me home. I've been working with Sherlock for months now. I'm surprised you hadn't heard."

"Obviously Grandfather doesn't tell me as much as I thought," David said. "Usually the family grapevine is better than that."

John smiled and gave a small shrug. "I wouldn't really know. I've been out of the loop for years."

Just then, Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's elbow and, to his frustration, dragged him aside. Didn't he know how utterly fascinating this was? He didn't want to miss a nuance in this meeting between John and his cousin, but Mycroft was busy hissing "Put on your clothes," and it was distracting, infuriating. Why must he always interfere in Sherlock's life?

"Give me one reason I should," he hissed back.

It was a treat to see the effort it took for Mycroft to rein in his temper. Sherlock so seldom had this good an opportunity to mess with him. A part of him did know that this was probably not really the proper place, but that was what made it so delicious! The last thing Mycroft would want would be to embarrass himself here of all places and, well, how could Sherlock resist?

He was all ready to be as difficult as possible—up to and including walking away with or without his sheet—when Mycroft said, "You might think of John, brother dear. He might facilitate your childish behaviour, but do you really wish to embarrass him in front of his cousin?"

As much as he hated to admit it, that was actually a masterstroke on Mycroft's part. Sherlock would be willing to embarrass Mycroft anytime, anywhere, for as long as he possibly could, but John? That was another story. Oh, he might not normally trouble himself over John's blushes when out and about on a normal case—John was so unflappable most of the time, it was always entertaining seeing him squirm with embarrassment. But this?

Hmm. He looked at his friend. John had been entirely unfussed about his sheet when he arrived, and if it were just a matter of tormenting Mycroft with it, Sherlock had no doubt that John would have happily (more or less) sat back to watch the sibling rivalry in action.

Since his cousin had arrived, though … John's shoulders had gotten tense, and he was sending sidelong glances their way as he chatted with the other man. He didn't look embarrassed, but he did look uncomfortable.

Sherlock blinked, thinking. If he backed down now, would Mycroft understand he was doing so for John's sake? Probably, but wouldn't that be a tactical error, since it would only confirm Mycroft's hypothesis that he could force Sherlock to 'behave' by making John uncomfortable so that he would continue to do so in the future? Yet, Sherlock did not, in fact, want John to be uncomfortable.

More importantly, he knew (now) of John's family history. He still didn't talk of them often, but Sherlock knew his friend tried to strike a careful balance between keeping in touch and not giving away too much detail. He wasn't ashamed of his accomplishments, he had told Sherlock months ago, quite the contrary, but some of his sillier relatives did have a hard time appreciating people who dressed and spoke like John did. It didn't matter that he usually made a point of wearing a nice suit for the occasional family gathering, or that he had no doubts about his own self-worth … deep down, John knew that appearances mattered to some people. Being blindsided like this—at Buckingham Palace, while wearing his casual clothes still dirty from tramping around in the mud after a boomerang—would be hard enough for him. If you added in Sherlock's extreme casual wear of the finest Egyptian cotton percale?

Somehow, he really didn't want to make John uncomfortable.

"You did this on purpose," he snarled to Mycroft.

"That's what politicians do, brother. They use whatever means they have to make things happen. All I did was facilitate a meeting between two cousins who haven't seen each other in a while. You're the one who embarrassed himself by arriving dressed like a ghost. Now, will you put your clothes on? If you do, I'll endeavour to distract David so that you don't miss any more of the fascinating reunion with John than you must … and that you wouldn't have missed at all had you shown the proper respect in the first place."

Sherlock just sneered at him as he took the pile of clothes out of his hands and stormed toward the nearest door.

#

John didn't know what Mycroft had said to Sherlock, but for once he was almost grateful that the older Holmes had carried the day. As entertaining as it was to watch the two brothers snipe at each other, there was a time and place for it, and (even though he would never say so to Sherlock) Buckingham Palace was not it. Especially not in front of David.

It was ironic, really, that he would see David again for the first time in over a year here in the palace. David had always been one of his favourite cousins, but they so seldom had anything to talk about. Once they'd been past the pet frog and football stage, their interests had diverged too much. John had wanted medicine and the army, and David had been more interested in following his father's traditional footsteps. And, well, he was in line for the title, while John would need to make his own way. That had made sense, but it hadn't left them with much to talk about once the immediate family gossip had been covered.

Watching Sherlock and Mycroft arguing from the corner of his eye, he wondered if Mycroft had deliberately set up this meeting solely so he could force Sherlock's behaviour. John knew Mycroft was aware of his and David's familial connection, so he could have arranged a meeting at any time, had he been so inclined, but he saved it for today, for this case. There had to be a reason.

Really, he wondered if the sole reason Mycroft had had him flown in by helicopter was because he didn't want John to miss this. Maybe the poor hiker's death had worried him because it took John out of the city just as he arranged the meeting between long-distant cousins.

He saw David watching the Holmeses too and grinned. "Sometimes watching Sherlock and his brother makes me feel so much better about my relationship with Harry," he said.

"They do seem unusually acrimonious, don't they? You know them well, then?"

"Sherlock, yes," John said, "Or as well as anybody. I mostly only know Mycroft from his visits with his brother—or when he wants to talk about him. Do you know, we met the first time because he kidnapped me to find out my intentions?"

"He … what?" David looked utterly shocked.

John couldn't hide his grin. "Oh, yes. Nothing violent, mind you, but it was the day we met to look at the flatshare—Mycroft had his people pick me up so he could be oblique and threatening. Not that I knew he was Sherlock's brother at the time—but he introduced himself as Sherlock's archenemy, which should tell you everything you need to know about their relationship."

"I'm speechless," David said. He looked as if he weren't sure that John was serious, or how he should take this news, but the glances he was giving Mycroft now were weighted with a hint of disapproval.

"It was nothing," John said. "Now that I know them better, well … they have one of the worst sibling relationships I've ever seen, but ultimately, it was just Mycroft looking out for his brother. Can't really complain about that."

David still looked utterly flummoxed. "But … he kidnapped you?"

John shrugged. "It was very civilized, and frankly, riding in the car was something of a relief. I was still using a cane then, and after this one commanding officer I had—not to mention the Taliban—it wasn't that big a deal. If anything, the adrenalin rush did me good. Long since water under the bridge." He took another look at his cousin who was oh-so-politely not quite staring at Mycroft, heading their way. "Really, David, it's fine. Isn't it, Mycroft?"

"What's that, John?" he asked, his lips still tight from whatever he and Sherlock had been discussing.

"I was just telling my cousin about our first meeting," John said blithely.

"You … oh." Mycroft blinked, thrown off balance in a way that Sherlock in a sheet hadn't managed to do, and John only regretted his friend wasn't there to witness it. Apparently Mycroft hadn't actually expected John to talk to David, assuming that the location and their lack of regular communication would keep John discreet.

"Did you really kidnap my cousin, Mycroft?"

"Kidnap is such a strong word, David. I merely extended an invitation."

John nodded, and said helpfully, "An invitation reinforced by manipulating the CCTV cameras and ringing every public phone I walked past. Really, it made me feel like I was in combat again, quite refreshing."

"What was this?" Sherlock was at his shoulder now and without turning his head, John could see that he looked his usual elegant self. "We were just discussing Mycroft's invitation to me the night of the Pink Lady case."

John could see Sherlock's entire demeanour brighten. "Oh yes, the first time he kidnapped you. Lucky for me, you weren't frightened off by such ridiculous tactics since you saved my life just a few hours later."

"Well, he didn't know me then," John said, a forgiving note to his voice. "And as I said to David, he did save me all that extra walking on my bad leg."

"Yes," Mycroft said smoothly, "That was after Sherlock had abandoned you at a crime scene, wasn't it?"

"He took off after a lead, yes," John said, unflustered. "My leg would have just slowed him down. He didn't have a chance to cure my limp until later that evening."

David was watching the three of them raptly. "This really is fascinating," he finally said, "But we do have a rather tight schedule."

"Of course," Mycroft agreed. "You and John can catch up some other time. I'm sure he has any number of amusing stories about my brother."

"And you, Mycroft," said John. "But by all means. I'm sure you didn't bring us here just so I could catch up with my cousin. If it was important enough to have me flown in, I imagine it's somewhat pressing?"

Mycroft nodded and the four of them moved back to the sitting area, where one of the staff had brought a tea tray. John tried not to catch Sherlock's eye—they were both on the edge of the giggles again. Sherlock looked beyond delighted that John had yanked Mycroft's chain in front of his colleague for a change. (Because, really, how often did Sherlock get to see Mycroft with one of his equals? He was usually surrounded by underlings, not colleagues. John was actually happy that Mycroft had set this up because—serious though he might be about his work, David had always had a wonderful sense of humour. The idea of the straight-laced Mycroft Holmes making a habit of kidnapping people would be just the thing to appeal to him.)

"I'll be mother," Mycroft said, reaching for the teapot.

"There's our whole childhood in a nutshell," responded Sherlock and, taking his cup of (really excellent) tea, John met David's eyes and giggled.

He really couldn't help himself.

#

There were more giggles in the cab on the way back to Baker Street. Not only had Sherlock stolen an ashtray, but that had actually been fun. Mycroft had obviously not expected David to be anything other than shocked at Sherlock's behaviour, and the fact that he had actually been amused? A rare, tactical error on Mycroft's part. But then, his sense of humour had always been stunted, thought Sherlock. He spent so much time worrying about what looked right, what was correct, he seldom let himself relax enough to truly laugh.

The same could be said of him, Sherlock supposed, except it was no longer quite true. How had he never realized what a difference a true friend would make? But then, he supposed, he had never had one. Wasn't there some kind of aphorism about not missing something you'd never had?

He had been glad to see that John and his cousin had been relaxed enough to laugh, though. After the first shock for both of them, they had seemed happy to see each other. Another misjudgement on Mycroft's part, that. He had assumed that, because they weren't in touch, that John and his cousin didn't get along, when in fact it was simply that they were both busy.

The look on Mycroft's face when John told David about that first kidnapping! Oh, Sherlock would carefully file that away for future reference. Really, John had deserved the ashtray. Who would have guessed he would actually tease Mycroft Holmes inside Buckingham Palace? It was unprecedented and wholly delightful.

It had been interesting, really, to watch his brother talk to John. There had been a slight shift in their relationship since Mycroft had learned John's grandfather was an Earl. It wasn't something that affected John at all, not really, but Mycroft had an annoyingly inbred respect for titles and the mental shift from "ex-army doctor" to "grandson of an earl" had altered his attitude toward John.

Not that Sherlock objected. Even though John's demeanour had not changed since the revelations in July, Mycroft's kidnappings had become more genteel—usually involving tea rather than empty warehouses. He still interfered in their lives, but was less inclined to trod heavy-footed over John's life.

Fascinating, really. It wasn't a matter of Mycroft toadying to the upper class—the Holmes family had never needed to, nor had they ever done so. Both Sherlock and his brother knew that it was the inside of the man that marked quality, not the outer demeanour. Neither of them were fooled by appearances (or not often), but apparently Mycroft put more stock into bloodlines than Sherlock had realized.

Or perhaps it was his realization that John was closely connected to someone (other than Sherlock) who could wield real power on his behalf, and so Mycroft was mending fences.

Still, the entire meeting had gone swimmingly, so far as Sherlock was concerned. It would almost be a pleasure to retrieve the Woman's phone in return for having seen Mycroft look utterly flummoxed.

#

"Are we there?" John asked, looking around with trepidation.

"Close enough," Sherlock said, getting out and paying the cab. "I need you to hit me."

"What?"

"Hit me. Didn't you hear me?" He was surprised he needed to ask twice. John usually looked like he would love to hit him.

"I always hear 'hit me' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext," he said, looking around nervously, as if afraid someone was watching.

"Oh, for goodness…" Sherlock muttered, just before hauling off and punching John in the jaw. That should do it, he thought, and felt a sense of smugness at how easy John was to manipulate when John punched him back.

The tackle, though, took him by surprise.

"You forget, Sherlock, I was in the army."

"You were a doctor!" Sherlock said, struggling against John's headlock.

"I had bad days," John told him fiercely.

Sherlock didn't want this to descend into a brawl, but he really had things to do. Before he could act, though, a voice came across the mews. "Oi! What's going on over there? Do I need to call the police?"

Ah, that worked. John immediately released him and Sherlock straightened, pulling his jacket straight as John said, "No, we're sorry. It was just a misunderstanding…"

His voice trailed off though as he saw the speaker, which sharpened Sherlock's attention. Why would John look so nervous?

"John Brandon? Whatever are you doing here?"

#