AN – Okay, let me just start off by apologising. It's been like weeks since I've last updated… my excuse? School has been kicking my arse, to be honest. I have an argumentative research paper due tomorrow as well as an impromptu speech, but I figured I couldn't keep you guys waiting any longer. This will be the final chapter for this fic, but I still have a couple more Sherlock requests to get too! :) Hope you all have a fine night!
It had been weeks since the rheumatic fever incident. Mycroft Holmes was asleep his office, head on his desk and Sherlock watched him from the office's entrance. It was funny seeing him like that, eyes closed, probably drooling on the mouse pad. "Hmm," Sherlock thought to himself, "looks as if he's having a dream."
Mycroft snored lightly in his sleep and it sounded as if he actually mumbled something. Sherlock smirked. Definitely a dream.
"Oh, Myc, that's wonderful news! You'll be able to go back to school by Wednesday." Mrs. Holmes exclaimed, clapping her hands together.
Mycroft sat at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of tea and munching on a piece of toast, looking glum. "I can hardly wait." he responded, enthusiastically.
Sherlock grinned behind his cuppa. "That's right, you have to go back to school." His small hands held the cup of tea firmly.
"Mycroft," their mother scolded playfully, "don't look so disappointed." Arms akimbo, she studied his face. "You excel in all your classes and get perfect marks."
"Just because a student makes good marks doesn't mean they enjoy going to school." Mycroft buttered another piece of whole wheat bread.
Sherlock nodded in agreement. "I don't like going to school either."
"Hush, now! See what you've gotten your brother thinking?"
Mycroft sighed. "That's not my fault. He does have a brain of his own, I'm fairly certain. Although sometimes I do wonder…"
It was a nice enough memory for Mycroft, which was most likely why he was dreaming of it. He grunted in his sleep and continued dreaming with Sherlock watching only six feet away.
As his younger brother turned to go, he nearly ran into Anthea.
"Oh, so sorry, Mister Holmes." she apologised, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear.
"Quite alright, Anthea." He murmured.
They stared at each other in silence.
"Did you need something?" he asked, blocking the door.
She nodded. "Um, yes. I was going to inform Mister Holmes that—"
"He's asleep." Sherlock cut her off abruptly.
"He's…?"
"Must've been a long night."
"Hmm… yes, I suppose it was." Anthea blinked.
"Well, I'll come back later." Sherlock grabbed her by the wrist as she turned to go. Anthea's head whipped around and she glanced at his tight grip on her, then back to study his face.
He looked at her calmly. "I know you're in love with my brother."
"Excuse me?" Anthea snapped, trying to break free of his grip.
"I shook your hand a few weeks ago, if you'd recall. That was me being polite and courteous, as well as taking your pulse in a less obvious way. After conversating with my brother, your pulse was elevated and during the conversation, I watched your pupils dilate. Anthea, your love for my brother is plain as the nose on his face."
Anthea was shell-shocked at this sudden accusation and to her dismay, felt her cheeks getting hot.
Sherlock smiled. "Oh, please, don't get flustered on my account."
"You're finished then? Can I go?" She asked, embarrassed, nervously adjusting her skirt.
"Yes, by all means." As she turned to leave, Sherlock caught her wrist in his hand once again and leaned in to whisper in her ear. "He has a soft spot for dark chocolate, if you were wondering."