"Leave me," Sherlock grouched as he carefully lowered himself onto the plush silk-covered sitting-room sofa at Linwood. "I can sit down and get up without help, for pity's sake."
Mycroft raised his eyebrows for a second. Although he hadn't made any overt moves to physically assist Sherlock into the house and onto the sofa, he'd kept a very close eye on the process. "Really?" he said. "Because the way you just moved your right leg seems to indicate soft tissue damage in your knee, probably from a fall yesterday, no doubt due to overestimating your own recovery process. Am I correct?"
"When are you not?" Sherlock muttered, exhaling.
"Dizzy spell?"
"Overbalanced," was the miffed reply. Mycroft knew that there was a large chance that this was, in fact, a euphemism for 'tripped.' Sherlock, wincing a little, raised his legs onto the sofa, and Mycroft clucked his tongue.
"Sherlock, you have never, ever been permitted to put your feet on the sofa while you're wearing shoes," he scolded. "If this was not acceptable when you were four, what on earth makes you think it's acceptable now?"
"I'd supposed you were less needlessly fastidious than Mummy," Sherlock mumbled as Mycroft unlaced his shoes and took them off for him, placing them in a neat pair beside the sofa leg. "And since you're determined to hover over me as if I'm some sort of invalid, I'd be grateful for tea."
Mycroft sighed. "This may come as a complete surprise to you," he said, "but the purpose of my taking an extremely inconvenient two-week hiatus from what I can assure you was a very important period at the office was not, in fact, to provide you with a constant supply of hot tea."
"In that case, I'll get my own." Sherlock started to rise again, grimacing; Mycroft honestly could not tell if he was exaggerating or genuinely in pain. He rolled his eyes.
"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, you needn't look so put-upon."
"What?" Sherlock protested. "Either I have to get up and make it myself or I have to go without for two weeks. Which do you prefer?"
"I'm certain you can wait another five minutes without dying of dehydration. Otherwise, you might find yourself in danger from quite another quarter. There have been quite enough murders recently without adding your own to the list," Mycroft said darkly.
Sherlock smirked at the empty threat.
"And speaking of which, here's your cheque." Mycroft pulled the small rectangle of white paper out of his breast-pocket and held it out to him.
"My what?" Sherlock took it in his hand and stared at it for a few seconds in silence. "Well, that's generous of La Tremoille," he said at last. "I certainly wasn't expecting a financial bonus. Considering it's possible that Adelaide Bartlett is going to spend the rest of her life in prison."
"I doubt it. She's clearly not sane."
In the week since the case had been cracked open, Adelaide's mental state had deteriorated further; the last he'd heard, she had been heavily medicated. "I suspect that she's had manifest mental health issues for a long time, and her husband's eccentricities may have distracted other people from noticing her own. Anyhow, La Tremoille always insisted you'd be paid for the quality of your investigative work, not the decision of the jury. It seems that for all his flaws, he's a man of his word."
"In that case, I can't possibly accept it." Sherlock held it back out to him between two fingers. "You know I don't work for money. And I certainly don't accept payment for work not delivered. You can split it between yourself, John and Lestrade. Or you can tear it up, for all I care."
He watched in some amusement as Mycroft folded the cheque and put it back in his pocket. Mycroft wasn't greedy, but he wasn't going to throw away a cheque with five figures on it, either.
"For God's sake, Mycroft," he said petulantly. "If you're not going to hurry up with the tea, get Stephen to do it. It's clear from the state of this room alone that he's living here on at least a part time basis. I've no doubt he's skulking around the back kitchen somewhere, pretending to not exist. Absurd. If John were looking after me I wouldn't even have to ask, let alone twice..."
Mycroft sighed heavily. "It may surprise you to learn that Stephen is not currently here. I'll go for it myself," he said longsufferingly. "You're maddening. As for John, I'm sure I don't know how on earth he's tolerated you all this time."
Sherlock did not reply in words, but the answer hovered between them all the same: neither do I.
A/N- I'm overwhelmed by how many people have been following this. THANK YOU! :D The next in the series is On The Sixth Day. It's available now on my profile.