Chapter 2:

Mycroft's Day Off

A half stone.

Half. A bloody. Stone.

Mycroft Holmes stepped off the scale, resisting the urge to kick it in a bout of childish frustration and disgust. He resumed his seat on the crisp butcher paper that covered the padded examination table while his doctor silently recorded his measurements into his file. "And you've been following the meal plan your dietitian drew up for you?" he asked after a moment, pausing in his writing to roll his wrist. Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes and nodded. "Religiously," he said a little too defensively. "And the exercise routine as well."

Dr. Bell continued to roll his wrist as he flipped back a few pages to check something in the file. He was a phenomenal doctor, and had been serving as Mycroft's personal physician for as long as he could remember. He was getting on in years though, as evidence by the wrist rolling (arthritis flaring up), the cane that hung on the back of the doorknob of the examination room, and the unmistakable increase in the thickness of his spectacles since the last time Mycroft had been in to see him.

"Honestly Mycroft, I don't think you've got anything to really worry about," Dr. Bell offered consolingly. "Considering the fact that it's been a few months since your last visit – and given the time of season – it's perfectly normal to gain a little around the middle for a bit. You're still healthy, everything's in working order, and your blood pressure is actually normal …for once…"

Mycroft scowled and resisted the urge to cross his arms defensively over his stomach. "Well, if that's all for today…"

"Have you tried, perhaps, buddy dieting with Sherlock?"

A nearly imperceptible tick worked the length of Mycroft's jaw and the paper beneath him crumpled as his hands clenched unconsciously on the edge of the table. "Shirley," he managed with a wry grin after a beat of tense silence, "seems to have inherited mother's unfortunate overly-active thyroid; dieting has never really been…an issue of concern for him." He grimaced, unable to disguise his contempt with Sherlock's miraculous metabolism, the reason that the man could go days without eating or sleeping and then binge on half-spoiled leftovers from Dr. Watson, and yet never gain more than a few ounces. As boys, Sherlock's slight frame earned him permanent favoritism with the school bullies, while Mycroft's slightly burlier build made him a shoe-in for rugby squads and distinguished him above and apart from his brother. Now as men, Sherlock was still as bony and smart-mouthed as ever, but Mycroft had gone soft and – as evidence by the new scale reading – pudgy. He would rather sell government secrets than admit it, but when it came to confronting his weight struggles, he was envious of his brother. Well, his indifference, to be more precise.

"I just thought," continued Dr. Bell, "that perhaps if you had someone motivating you along your journey – "

Mycroft scoffed. "'Motivating'? I'm sorry doctor, my brother is many things to me – 'motivating' does not happen to fall into his repertoire." He stood to shimmy back into his trousers and suit shirt, annoyed that he had cleared his calendar for this disappointing well visit as opposed to bunkering down for the day to finish sorting out a financial spat with French combative trading records. If Sherlock brought it up, he would chalk up the weight gain to stress over a recent handling of a covert information gathering ops in the Middle East.

"As per usual, excellent job Dr. Bell. Thank you." Mycroft procured a rather large wad of notes from his jacket pocket and pressed them into the old man's hand. He chuckled and pocketed the cash, shaking his head. "Honestly Mycroft, you don't have to bribe me – I'm sure you could just have someone look into his file if you're - "

Mycroft waved a hand dismissively. "No no, I'm not going to bother checking in on Sherlock this time; last time Mother sent me to get a copy of his records, she nearly had a heart attack. I think it was right after the case with the Turkish mob boss…"

Dr. Bell nodded sympathetically. "Oh yes, he was rather done in after that one. I remember: 3 cracked ribs, whole right hand smashed up, sprained ankle, broken collar bone, and I lost count of how many stitches…You know, there are easier and much more-" he patted his breast pocket where he had put the bills " -inexpensive ways to check in on your brother, Mycroft."

Mycroft pretended to be extra intent on the alignment of his coat buttons. And this is why I have a therapist. "It's just not the Holmes' way," he replied dryly. "But there's a specialist in Geneva I can put you in touch with who could help you with that hand. He's top of the field for replacement joint treatments."

Dr. Bell smiled and rotated his wrist absentmindedly. "Probably about time I got the damned thing looked at; it's slowing down my work. Never really had a problem with it before, but recently…" He trailed off, sighing wearily. "But thank you, Mycroft. Just go ahead and email the details for this Geneva contact of yours to my secretary."

"Certaintly."

He left the office quickly after that, trying to avoid being awkwardly chatted up by the doctor's matronly receptionist. It was sleeting, and even his umbrella and upturned collar Armani trenchcoat weren't enough to keep dry. He didn't usually like troubling the drivers in inconvenient weather if he could help it, but he really did need to get a move on that business with France… His thickly gloved hands fumbled in the depths of his pocket for his phone, which he had silenced prior to his meeting with Dr. Bell. Unsurprisingly, there were at least 20 missed alerts. Half of them were just calls from Mother, a few emails from a contact in Parliament regarding impending legislature, a text from Dr. Watson requesting permission to lobotomize his brother ("Don't worry," it read "Will not use anesthesia."), and a single text from Sherlock:

Calling in a favor – come at once.

SH

Mycroft sighed irritably as the familiar black car sloshed up alongside the curb. A tall, thin, extremely red-haired young woman wearing a parka inspired Burberry came around from the other side to open the door for him, and to hand him off a Styrofoam cup of tea. "Peppermint," she said in a crisp Scottish accent. "Plain." The heat felt pleasant as it thawed through Mycroft's weather stiffened gloves, and he waited a good long while for the warmth to reach his fingers while he sat in silence with the new P.A. Looking out the window, he realized the driver was headed towards the Diogenes Club. "Sorry, not today," he called to up front. "Need to stop off at Baker Street."

"221B?" inquired the driver, and with a start, Mycroft realized that he was new too. Young, like the P.A., but he looked nervous and terribly …well… inexperienced; he practically radiated anxiety. Must be the holiday staffers, Mycroft rationalized. "I need to stop in on the little brother," he explained. "Shouldn't take long, but I'll go ahead and call another car when I'm done."

Mycroft passed the untouched tea back to the P.A. as they pulled up alongside the curb in front of Speedy's. He pulled out another wad of notes from his breast pocket. "Here," he said, splitting it between the girl and the driver. "Happy Holidays."

He turned up his collar again before hurrying up the steps of 221B, where a small notecard was plastered to the door from the sleet. John, it read, in an all-too familiar scribble, heat is out. Don't worry – the Queen is coming to visit. SH.

Mycroft was seething as Mrs. Hudson ushered him into the foyer, going on about her hip and blathering away while she took his coat. "…probably just the weather, but the blasted thing has been creaky as hell. I was worried I was going to have to spend Christmas in bed this year! Luckily, Sherlock still had some of that, uhm, herbal remedy lying around…He's upstairs waiting for you, by the way. Got a case in the works or something or other – client wearing the most peculiar get up chatting with him now. I suppose you're here to help him? Him and John are still fighting, so I don't suppose he'll be on for tea…but I'll go ahead and get a pot on for you three. It's too chilly otherwise – damn heat is out. Go on up, I'll bring it in a bit." Mycroft started the climb up the second flight and was in the process of granting Dr. Watson a textual blessing of consent for that lobotomy when Mrs. Hudson called up, "Oh, and mind the angel! Those boys and their jokes…"

Mycroft looked up from his screen, expecting some kind of tacky cupidesque décor, but the only thing on the landing was a pile of flickering Christmas lights. He shook his head sadly as he knocked on the door to the flat, making a mental note to recommend Dr. Bell to Mrs. Hudson; the strain of boarding Sherlock was obviously proving too much for her health.