Tedious.
That was the only word that Sherlock would allow describe his situation at present.
There were several hundred other words he could add to better describe the situation he was in at present, but it just seemed useless to waste the time to complain-
He was in jail because he was too intelligent for some people (most people) to follow, let alone believe.
There was a consulting criminal trying to ruin every aspect of his life, apparently just to say that he could.
John Watson may or may not be dead, and Sherlock didn't have nearly enough data to prove it one way or another.
Not to mention the fact that, unsurprisingly, prison life did not suit Sherlock. There were many privileges to not being in actual prison- he could keep his clothing, he did not have to deal with inmates- but the singular room, the lack of service, the uncomfortable accommodations. The crisp, overbearing sense of stupid that seemed to leak in through the cinderblock walls.
It was an intolerable inconvenience, to be locked up here when so much was happening outside.
Mostly he disliked the simple feeling of being caged in a time of urgency. With Moriarty in such a high position, he was positively aching to get him- but he couldn't do it in here, as much as he'd try.
If Moriarty was allowed to do this, who knows what was next?
Well, that was easy. Once Sherlock is good and defamed it's only long before Moriarty finds a fitting way for him to die, leaving all that he even half-cared about in pain; Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson. He couldn't think of anyone else that he'd particularly worry about, should he die.
There was a rap on the door.
Thin metallic object Sound emanating from lowermost portion of door Two raps perfectly spaced steady hand practiced in music Quiet but not particularly hesitant confident and authoritative-
Sherlock scowled, turning his back to the door.
"Oh, just go away, Mycroft!"
The door opened in answer, and the man in question stepped in, umbrella trailing behind him. He gave Sherlock no pretense of a smile- there were no cameras here, no one watching him that needed to be impressed. He could be completely himself, whoever that was.
He sat at the edge of the bed, next to Sherlock's feet. The springs groaned under him, the thin mattress sagging impossibly with the extra added weight. Sherlock chuckled softly, which did nothing to improve the mood of his brother.
"Sherlock."
He mmm'd in answer, uninterested as ever.
Neither wanted this to be a particularly long exchange- being in the same room with no other person to act through had always been rather uncomfortable.
How are you supposed to put up a convincing mask around someone who's seen your true face?
"Are you ready for tomorrow?"
Sherlock twisted to face his brother and shot him a glare in answer.
"You shouldn't pretend to worry, Mycroft. It doesn't work on me."
"I am serious, Sherlock. You have to be ready for this. They will use your entire personality against you in order to turn the jury against you. God knows they don't need any help…"
He scoffed in reply, twisting completely to sit facing the elder Holmes. Just to better roll his eyes, of course.
"I know that any advice I do try to give you will be enacted inversely, but for God's sake, Sherlock-"
"Don't be a showoff. I know."
"You're being called up tomorrow, this may be your only chance to-"
"To prove my innocence? I think Lestrade did that well enough, don't you think? How much did you offer to pay him to sell himself like that? He's a man of honour, it'd take five- no, six- figures to sway him, how much did you buy him for?"
Sherlock's eyes were closed, and Mycroft facing away from him, but the long moment that sat between question and response was about enough for a man (or a government, even) to close his eyes, take a deep breath, and keep himself from saying what it was that he really wanted to say.
"You've been aiding Detective Constable-"
"Detective Inspector-"
"Detective Constable Lestrade for almost ten years. In those ten years you've come a long way. I would hazard a guess that he feels protective of you. I am more willing to assume, however, that as a man of honour he will drive himself to ruin protecting the truth."
"… It wasn't over six figures, was it? You could have found anyone to take his place, and for much cheaper-"
The hushed, raspy tones of someone wanting nothing more than to raise their voice.
"He testified for you because he is loyal to you, Sherlock! I would have thought that you would have gotten used to shows of loyalty by now."
Sherlock tried very hard not to breathe too deeply, too lightly, or worse- not at all.
In response, Mycroft scowled, but ultimately twisted to face Sherlock.
"This will all be over soon. I would simply rather it be on Britain's terms than just mine. Then-"
He stopped until Sherlock opened his eyes, raising an eyebrow at him. Whatever Mycroft was looking for, he must have found- he scowled again, one that crossed much more into the sigh territory than Sherlock was entirely comfortable with.
"Then I will give you the resources needed to continue your consulting business in London. Safe from Moriarty."
That got his attention- Sherlock's scowl rivaled his brother's, sitting up finally to rest his arms on his knees, glaring at Mycroft.
"Safe? Why would I want to be safe? I'm safe here! This is miserable!"
He threw himself back onto the mattress, causing the springs to creak furiously, digging into his back painfully. There was no comfort to be found in this disgusting place.
"It's safe or dead, you know that. We're tracking him, we've pried open multiple facets of his syndicate, but that just makes it much more precarious. He will be after you until he's dead, you know that."
"This isn't your game to play, Mycroft."
"It was never a game, Sherlock. Civilians have died."
He looked at his younger brother carefully, then continued, a pressing look in his eyes-
"Your Doctor-"
Sherlock's eyes spat venom at Mycroft- when he spoke, he hissed;
"- Stay out of this. This is the case of my lifetime, you cannot just take it from me at a moment's notice because you think you could do it better."
Mycroft looked at him, silent, meeting Sherlock's hard gaze, squinting slightly.
He broke first- he closed his eyes, pressing the lids closed as the muscles around his mouth stretched a deep frown onto his face. For four long seconds, he remained in this position, changing only by the degree in which his eyebrows had furrowed into each other. Sometime just before the fifth, he regained his composure, watching Sherlock with an all-too-familiar expression.
Before he could let him speak, the younger rolled his eyes.
And before he could retort, Mycroft eased himself to his feet, smoothing his trouser legs and hooking his umbrella around his wrist.
"Be careful, Sherlock."