A month after he was released from rehab, Mycroft took Sherlock out to dinner.
It wasn't his idea, but the doctors had insisted that patients be kept under mild surveillance for their first couple months out of the hospital, when they were most likely to relapse.
Most things involving Sherlock's care-appointments, food, paying bills- Mycroft could just send an intern to take care of. After all, he had almost two thousand people working under him these days. However, when it came to actually interacting with Sherlock, no one else would touch the situation with a ten-foot-pole.
So he picked his brother up from the hostel he was staying at, and rolled his eyes when he got in the car.
"I told you to wear something nice." He grumbled. Sherlock cast a distainful look at Mycroft's clean, dark suit.
"This is nice." He gestured to his own outfit. He was wearing Converse sneakers, a bright blue blazer and pants combo and a corduroy overcoat. "I have no interest in what you consider fashion, you know that."
Mycroft rolled his eyes and mumbled something that sounded like "You look like Doctor Who."
Sherlock scoffed, but he buttoned up his coat and took sneaking peeks at his brothers all black attire anyway.
The two rode in silence to the restaurant, a posh little Italian place Mycroft's assistant had raved about. They were seated and as soon as the hostess left, Sherlock mumbled "That man is a criminal."
Mycroft sighed. "Please, not this again."
Sherlock leaned across the table.
"But it's so obvious. He's always looking over his shoulder, like he's used to being watched. I'd say he was a solider, but no military man's hands are that shaky. He almost dropped that women's risotto."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the end of Sherlock's speech. Ever since he'd been hanging out with ex-junkies and ex-dealers, his younger brother's deductions had been more and more about how everyone was a guilty bastard.
"Do you want applause?" He said sarcastically. Sherlock didn't pick up on it, observing the room as he drummed his fingers on the table.
"I'm thinking about opening my own business." He said suddenly. Mycroft started choking on the complimentary bread sticks they'd been given.
"What?" He gasped two glasses of water and much undignified hacking later. Sherlock responded as if he hadn't even noticed the little episode. He probably hadn't.
"I'm going to be a detective." He said, his eyes still scanning the room, picking out idiosyncrasies and patterns all around them. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
"You want to be a private detective? Sherlock, the only people who hire private detectives are those in troubled marriages trying to catch their partner cheating." He couldn't imagine his brother being satisfied with that kind of work. Sherlock shifted in his seat, thinking for a moment.
"Well, then I'll hire myself out to the police. I can help with the interesting cases."
Mycroft smirked and set down his water.
"You want to he some sort of...consulting detective? That's not a real job."
"Not until someone makes it one." Sherlock said testily. Mycroft sighed.
"You can't just go around making up jobs, especially if you want to start your own business."
"You think I'll crash and burn." Sherlock said, a hint of amusement in his voice. Mycroft scoffed.
"I know you will."
The words, cruel and loud, escaped his mouth before he could stop himself. Mycroft openly cringed as Sherlock's smirk vanished. He raised an eyebrow, the minuscule movement the only sign of the terrible offense he felt. Mycroft palmed his forehead and groped for his glass of wine.
"Sher, I didn't mean-"
"Don't. Call me. That." The rage was barely concealed in Sherlock's voice as he stood and pushed in his chair. "I have to go. Good night."
Mycroft stood up and walked briskly after his brother.
"Sherlock!" He called into the street as darkness enveloped them. He could just make out the outline of his brother whirling around to face him on the sidewalk. His eyes were firey.
"I am not six years old anymore, Mycroft." He spat. "I don't need you running my life! If I want to do crack or solves crimes or blow up the bloody Tower of London, I will!"
Mycroft bit his lip, glancing up as rain started to drizzle down on them.
"Sherlock, you deserve..." He faded off as the rain got heavier.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and grinned sarcastically as his wet hair plastered his face.
"I deserve a fancy job as a government puppet like you? Mycroft, when was the last time you actually did something for yourself, not because it'd get you a favor?"
Mycroft opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. Finally he held out his right hand and popped his umbrella open with the left.
"Sherlock, It's pouring. Let me walk you to my car."
Sherlock looked hard at his brother's hand for a moment.
Then he turned on his heel and ran in the opposite direction.
Mycroft reluctantly curled his hand into a fist and shoved it in his pocket. A flash of lightning made his eyes black out for a moment.
Just a second, but when his vision cleared, Sherlock was gone.
So Sherlock decided he and his brother were better on opposite sides.