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.
Mycroft's Missing Umbrella
Sherlock stopped so abruptly that John, who was still half asleep and therefore not at his best, cannoned right into him.
"Sherlock! A little warning next time please," John mumbled and pressed against Sherlock's back to see around him, "What's wrong?"
"That's Mycroft's umbrella," Sherlock stated, staring at said object where it was lying across the sink. He peeled John off him, reluctantly because it was John and Sherlock liked it when John was touching him, leaning his partner considerately on the doorjamb and whisking around the flat, examining the floors, windows and doors.
"Everything is exactly as it should be – no one has entered the flat – there's not a trace…" Sherlock muttered, running his hands through his hair in distress. This was a nightmare – if just anyone could walk in and out of the flat undetected at any time they liked then how could he keep John safe from all the people that had reason to hurt them. Sherlock had some pretty serious enemies, Moriarty aside, and all of them would love to hurt John, just for the mere sport of it… and Mrs Hudson had no defence against them either, though Sherlock had put electronic countermeasures in her flat to keep her safe, but what if they'd failed too…
He cannoned into a sturdy object and warm hands wrapped around his wrists, tugging them gently away from where they'd been tearing at his hair. John's warmth and scent enveloped him and a strong hand pushed his head onto John's good shoulder. Sherlock became aware that he was on the verge of hyperventilating. Warm hands rubbed his back and stroked through his curls and he obediently fell into a calmer breathing pattern, knowing that if he didn't he'd be a) no use to them and b) sedated by his lover the doctor.
"It's alright Sherlock, I know how the umbrella got there," John said after a long peaceful moment, speaking at just the right time: when Sherlock was calm enough to listen but just beginning to bring his brain back up to speed. His lover let Sherlock lean away, though not enough to completely break the embrace. Sherlock didn't need to ask how John knew because his lover was a good man and knew Sherlock in and out.
"Lestrade's Pet was here. Do you remember me going down to talk to Geoff and the Pet in his car about stealing Mycroft's things? And then last week there was the incident with Mycroft's car – Geoff came by to consult you over a case while we were looking at the alley for the demon's access point and you explained very gleefully about the demon that got run over and how rude Mycroft had been…" here John stopped, waiting for Sherlock to put the rest together, faith in his lover evident on his face.
"The Pet was with us at the time," Sherlock recalled the growl at the mention of Mycroft's name, "It's been stealing Mycroft's phone because he was rude to Lestrade at the Moriarty crime scene and you said that Mycroft had to apologise for the theft to stop… so now it's going to make him apologise to you as well?"
"Probably not," John grinned and let go, which Sherlock was partially disappointed about, "It's just making a point, now."
"I'll text him the location of the umbrella then," Sherlock decided and didn't add that he'd be telling his brother an apology was required to John as well. John might brush off Mycroft's attitude, but Sherlock would not. His brother was all too ready to climb on his high horse when it came to John Watson.
John made them tea and went about his morning routine as if Mycroft's umbrella had never appeared in the flat that morning and Sherlock had – for lack of a more dignified phrase – freaked out. Toast was made and consumed with jam, showers were taken and the dishes done from last night. Mycroft arrived, with his phone, which meant he'd been past the Yard first, just as the first drops of rain began to fall outside.
Sherlock's brother did not look amused, an excellent outcome as far as Sherlock was considered. He stood very stiffly in their front room and apologised to John for any offence he'd caused at their last meeting, which John accepted with grace – Sherlock could tell he was surprised, but Mycroft wouldn't have noticed because it was so subtle as to be almost invisible – and handed the umbrella back. Mycroft took his leave of them stiffly and positively stalked out of the flat.
John muffled a snicker of laughter and towed Sherlock over to the window where it was now positively teeming down with rain. The front door opened and Mycroft stepped out, unfurling his umbrella with a practiced flick of his wrist.
Sherlock didn't bother to muffle the shout of laughter as the rain fell through the punctured membranes of the umbrella, taking a quick photo with his phone at the almost lace-like pattern of teeth marks on display. Lestrade would like that photo – and so would the Pet.
End (for now…)
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