John was getting tired of this. This time Mycroft had chosen to give him his lecture in a fairly innocuous Georgian terraced house, and was fiddling idly with ornaments on the mantelpiece as he spoke.
No umbrella today, apparently. Mycroft seemed a little less self-assured without it in his hands, and John couldn't imagine why he would have abandoned it.
New Message
Sender: Sherlock.
Take a picture. SH.
Frowning, John dashed off a reply, before following Mycroft, who seemed to have despaired of making John see sense in the matter of the staples.
New message
Sender: John Mob.
What of? JW.
It was raining. Mycroft cast a calculating look down at his suit and sighed.
"Not a word, John. Not one word." He reached reluctantly down into the large bag at his side.
John remembered the next few moments less as a sequence of images, more a general sensation of pinkness. So much pink. Pink and gold. Gold swirls. On pink. Oh, and frills. Pink ones. Pink pinky pink pink pi-
"John."
John blinked. Mycroft was giving him the Look.
"Do try to be an adult, John."
Mycroft executed a perfect about face, six feet of icy dignity crowned with two feet of trifle in drag.
Suddenly, John understood.
New picture message received.
Sender: John Mob.
Title: It's just so beautiful…