A/N: OKay, so I said I was going to post Sunday evening. However, last night my friends and I made a last minute decision to go see 'The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug' at 7:50 p.m. and it was THE BEST DECISION EVER. Great movie. I got home extremely late, however, since the theatre we went to is about forty-five minutes away from my house, one way. But here's this finally. More to come.

25 Days of Christmas

Chapter 14

14 December, 2013

"Sherlock. You're looking... dishevelled."
Sherlock's head snapped up, focusing on his brother. Mycroft stood in the doorway, arms crossed and umbrella in hand. One brow was arched, and John recognised that look in his eyes. It was the same look Sherlock made when he was deducing. For a split second, the blue of Mycroft's irides dimmed with something that seemed like worry.
"Dishevelled doesn't quite do it, I don't think," John said from his place at the table, looking up from his keyboard at the older Holmes. But when his eyes trailed over to Sherlock, he started to rethink his comment. Dishevelled actually covered it quite well.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock suddenly snapped, sounding a trifle hoarse.
Mycroft's brow lowered slightly. "Gregory Lestrade has been texting me incessantly." There was a pause.
"Okay..." John said with a frown.
"I came to figure out why."
"Well have you read any of them?"
Mycroft made a face. "I've been busy."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and John scoffed. "That might have helped you out a bit."
"Figured you were smarter," Sherlock offered. John and Mycroft exchanged looks.
'He's a bit ill," John mouthed while Sherlock wasn't paying attention. Mycroft nodded slowly, frown growing obvious across his normally controlled face.
"Figured you were more competent. Your people have to come to me with their problems now?"
"Lestrade has a case and John won't let me take it on," Sherlock huffed, turning his nose in the air in a very Mycroft-like manner.
"And why not?" Mycroft asked, even though he could quite obviously tell why.
"John says I'm 'ill'," the younger Holmes huffed, raising his hands just enough to make the air quotes around 'ill'. They promptly fell into his lap afterwards. "You can't have come all this way just for that. Why are you really here?"
"I'm here because of what you did at the Diogenes Club last week."

There was a moment of silence while Sherlock thought. He had done a lot of things in the past week and his mind felt foggy. "Ah," he said finally with a smile. "I'll bet that was a nice surprise."
Mycroft frowned out of genuine annoyance this time. "It was not, actually, though you certainly seem to think so."
"I do."
John groaned into his hand, running it through his greying hair (he remembered a time before he had met Sherlock when it hadn't been). "What did you do?"
"All in good time, John," Sherlock croaked. "I simply caused a fiasco so I could pilfer something dear to him."
John tilted his head curiously, turning his head to Mycroft. "And what would that be?"
Mycroft sighed. "He took my cello." For an instant his voice rose slightly, almost whining. John's face scrunched a bit.

"...I didn't know you played..." the doctor remarked, though after he thought about it, it made sense.
"I haven't in a long time," Mycroft admitted, suddenly sounding tired.
"A little too long," Sherlock murmured to himself of the sofa, not realising the other two could hear him. Mycroft hummed a little in agreement. John felt a pang in his chest, though he wasn't quite sure of the cause.

Mycroft stood in the doorway maybe ten minutes more, arguing with his brother over the whereabouts of his cello. A few witty remarks were made. Mycroft was careful to give his brother ample time to think of responses to them, though they weren't quite as well thought out as usual. Nor were they as scathing. John followed him down the stairs as he left. They were both mutually silent until Mycroft reached out for the doorknob.

"Thanks for that," he said.
Mycroft paused. "For what?"
"Just... that. Whatever it was."
Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement. "You should take him to a doctor."
"I am a doctor."
"I mean another doctor."
John felt a hot, red feeling surge through him. "What's wrong with me?"
The elder Holmes regarded him steadily. "I know you have no idea what he has."
"Even if I don't, what makes you think someone else will?"
Mycroft opened his mouth, shut it again.
"Mycroft, I appreciate the concern, I do, but it's under control. He's actually a lot better. Mainly because he's sleeping roughly eighteen hours a day," he added under his breath.
"Really?" There was surprise in Mycroft's voice.
"I know."
With a nod, Mycroft opened the door and walked out. John was just shutting it when Mycroft turned back, regarding the doctor steadily through the crack in the wood. There was an awkward pause, but John understood the meaning behind it. After a moment, Mycroft lowered his hand from the door, and John closed it carefully.

"My nose itches - were you two talking about me?" Sherlock called as soon as he heard John climbing the stairs.
"Not at all," John lied through his teeth.
Sherlock snorted. "Then what were you doing, snogging him?" He grinned impishly once John was back in the room.
"Ha ha." John walked over to his friend and brushed the curls from his forehead. His skin was a little flushed, cheeks glowing a rosy pink. For a moment, John just stood there, staring at the little nebulae in his friend's eyes, hand resting gently on his head. Sherlock stared back intently, and it was not at all awkward. Things were like that between the two. There was a long moment of comfortable silence before either of them moved.
John didn't know what in the world made him say what left his mouth next. "I'd rather put my mouth on another Holmes." And with that, he placed his lips on Sherlock's forehead. He swore his friend got a little warmer after that.

themoreyouknow

irides: plural of iris, also irises; the coloured part of your eye