Magic One Shots (Sherlock BBC Fic)
AN – this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.
Warning – slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.
Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.
The Case of the Missing Pen
Mycroft Holmes scrutinised his desk carefully, then gave up, closed his eyes and patted his hands over the surface hopefully.
Nothing.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he took a moment, then muttered imprecations under his breath.
"Anthea!" he called and waited as his assistant stepped into the room, her eyes glued to the ever present Blackberry, "If you would be so kind as to find my pen?" he asked, strain evident in his voice.
The beautiful woman – and she was, there was no denying it – gave him an incredulous look and picked the pen up off the table, putting it in his hand.
"If you're going to start channelling your brother's eccentricities, sir, I will have to reconsider my employment," she informed him and stepped back out of the room, presumably to research psychiatrists and behavioural experts. This was the fifteenth time today that Mycroft had lost his pen – Anthea had always found it lying in apparently plain sight on his desk.
Gripping the offending implement in one hand, Mycroft picked up his mobile with another and called the one man in London he didn't want to be beholden to. Being in Sherlock's debt was bad enough, but things were getting ridiculous now.
"Hello?" the voice on the other end of the line sounded perfectly ordinary, which was one of the things Mycroft found so galling about dealing with this man. He appeared to be perfectly normal, just another average man in an average world. There was absolutely nothing to indicate that you were dealing with the most dangerous man in the UK, bar none.
"I need your help," Mycroft spoke through gritted teeth, "May I come to your flat?"
There was a startled pause and a voice in the background, asking who was on the phone and what was wrong.
"Certainly," came the reply and they hung up, Mycroft heading for the door of his office, his right hand clenched tightly around what felt like nothing at all.
221B Baker Street was not the most salubrious sounding address, but his brother seemed to find it adequate to his needs, despite the trust fund that would have allowed him to buy not only the building his flat resided in, but the whole 200 block. Sherlock was glaring down at the street from his front window as Mycroft stepped out of the ubiquitous black car – really, who did they think they were fooling, there might as well have been flashing lights and a sign on the damn thing – but he was used to his little brothers sulks and ignored it as a matter of course.
Mrs Hudson let him in, beaming at him in her usual way, twittering on about how nice it was to see him visiting his own brother. Mycroft made pleasant chat with her – it wouldn't do to be rude – and wondered if she was as deluded about Sherlock's difficult nature as she appeared to be. John had left the front door open for him and Sherlock was now sulking on the couch, having flung himself there dramatically as Mycroft climbed the stairs. John was standing in the doorway leading into the kitchen, hands folded neatly in front of him.
"Hello Mycroft," the Mage of London said politely, "How can we help?"
"I cannot find my pen," it was ridiculously embarrassing to have to say it, especially when Sherlock scoffed and waved a hand at him.
"It's in your hand, Mycroft," his little brother's voice was dripping with disdain and Mycroft jumped, looking down to see the pen in his clenched hand once more.
"That's the problem," Mycroft looked up, the weight and feel of the pen disappearing at once, "Everyone else can see it, but I cannot. In fact the moment my attention is taken from the pen, I lose it once more. My assistant is threatening to resign and is researching psychiatrists as we speak!"
John frowned at him and gestured to Sherlock, who got up and came to his flatmates side at once. John shunted the taller man behind him and Mycroft recognised the move with a shock. John was protecting his brother from something – from Mycroft in fact.
"Have you signed anything important recently?" John asked and Mycroft shook his head at once, exasperation clearly on his features.
"How can I have – I cannot find my pen," the last statement was perhaps a little louder than necessary, but frustration was beginning to wear on him.
John nodded, tilted his head and then pulled a pen out of apparent thin air. He clicked the top once and then began to write in the air, blowing softly now and then in Mycroft's direction. He paused once or twice to gauge the effects this writing-in-air was having and Mycroft stood still, scowling in dislike at having Magic aimed at him.
After about ten minutes of this – ten minutes of John writing increasingly more complex things in the air while Sherlock practically snuggled up behind his lover and buried his face in the mans neck, sniffing avidly – there was a soft pop and Mycroft's pen dropped into his hand.
"The Egyptian treaty!" Mycroft exclaimed, "I signed it first thing this morning!"
How he'd forgotten such an important document was beyond comprehension – obviously someone had spelled the document to make him forget, which had leaked over to the pen that he'd used when signing it – and he examined the instrument in his hand before putting it down with a click on Sherlock's coffee table.
"Thank you, Dr Watson," Mycroft said sincerely. As deplorable as he found magic and its practice, he couldn't deny that his brother's partner had done him a service.
"I'll handle the magic side of things, Mycroft. I know how this was done and who did it," John replied as if Sherlock wasn't kissing his neck, spooned up behind him, "Have a nice day, what's left of it."
Mycroft nodded and left before he got a better glimpse of his little brother's intimate life than either of them wished.
It wasn't until he was back in his office that he realised that he now owed the Mage of London a favour.
End (for now…)
More? Let me know…
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