Mycroft Age:25
Sherlock. Where did he get off too. I tell him to do the laundry and he disappears. At least he actually took my clothes. Maybe he's actually doing the laundry. I doubt it, but maybe. When I asked him about an hour ago he was reading. He looked really into the book too. I don't know what book it was, he didn't let me see. He was really grouchy too. I wonder what's gotten into him. Maybe he's suffering with drawls. I sigh, he's left a mess. Again. I pick up his coat and shoes that sat in the middle of the hallway. Typical. I should probably go look for him. I hang his coat up and leave his shoes on the stairs, that brother of mine is going to get himself into trouble. He's probably going to get himself killed at some point, and maybe I won't be there to help him. That's an awful though Mycroft, don't think like that. It'll get you into trouble yourself.
"Sherlock." I call softly, he's got to be around here somewhere. I should probably text him, and then check his room.
Sherlock.
Where are you?
Mycroft Holmes
He doesn't answer me. Typical. I trudge up the stairs and push open his room. Big mistake. The room is a mess. Clothes are all over the floor. I don't know if they are clean or dirty. I can't tell. Books and papers are strewn all over the floor. Of course. He's spilled something on his bed, broken a vial on the floor, and covered the windows with paint. There is something wrong with that boy. What's his skull doing on the ceiling fan? That's just... Not right. He's crazy.
"Sherlock?" I poke my head into the closet. Nothing. And by nothing I mean, it's completely empty. Everything that should be in the closet is on the floor. I sigh again. This child, my brother is not right in the head. He has no sense of decency. I leave his room, still no word from Sherlock. "Sherlock?" I call again as I head downstairs. He must be doing the washing then. Why would he be doing the washing? He's so lazy he wouldn't really be doing the washing would he? I stomp down the stairs, "Sherlock?" I ease open the door and step back in surprise. Sherlock is doing the laundry. The washer is shivering and shaking as the clothing whips around and around. Sherlock is sitting on top of the washer, the same book in hand, deeply engrossed. His eyes whip back and forth across the pages, and his slender white fingers turn the pages rapidly. I smile. That boy. I start to close the door when he calls out to me,
"What do you want Mycroft?" I pause,
"I just wanted to make sure you'd done the laundry."
"You aren't my mother."
"I know."
"And clearly, I'm doing the laundry."
"I can see that."
"What book are you reading."
"It doesn't matter."
"Fine. Dinner's in an hour."
"I know the time Mycroft."
"Do you?"
"Obviously."
"You didn't answer my text."
"I'm clearly busy."
"That doesn't mean you can't just drop off the face of the Earth." Sherlock only now looks up,
"I didn't. I just found it irrelevant."
"Irrelevant to tell your brother where you are?"
"Yes." He turns back to his book, "I'll be upstairs in an hour."
"What are we having?"
"Roast. Of course."
"Explain Sherlock."
"Roast Thursdays. Plus I can smell it through the vent."
"Good work."
"You did teach me."
"I can see you're busy. I'll leave you to it."
"Thank you." I close the door behind me. I taught him everything I ever knew, and he's just as good. I might be a little bit better then him, but he'll never admit it. Roast Thursdays. How clever. I smile as I head up the stairs again. That's my brother.