Back in Mycroft's ever-pristine office, Sherlock read the front page headline of a newspaper titled "SKELETON MYSTERY". Upon finishing the article, he folded down the newspaper with a loud crinkling - he knew his brother found this annoying - to reveal Mycroft sitting behind his nearly empty desk a short distance away, immaculate suit and tie nothing like the thick Serbian uniform that he had worn only a few days ago. He looked precisely the level of annoyed that Sherlock had desired. He read a thick file, so full of papers that it was a wonder Mycroft held it together. Mycroft paused, laying down the file. "You have been busy, haven't you?" The question was dripping with sarcasm.
Sherlock tossed the newspaper casually to one side, again to annoy his brother; Mycroft would have to pick it up later, as he allowed no one into his office while he was not present. He glared at Mycroft. Sherlock was reclined flat on his back in a barber's chair while a man was shaving the ragged stubble from his face with a straight razor, dangerously close to creating the next crime for Scotland Yard to attempt to solve. Sherlock's hair was cut back to its normal length, but it was wet and straight, his appearance strange without his signature curls framing it.
"Quite the busy little bee," Mycroft continued with a chuckle.
"Moriarty's network," Sherlock said lazily, somehow managing to simply emanate sarcasm at the same time. "It took me two years to dismantle it."
"And you're confident you have?" Mycroft attempted to hide his surprise, but gave up when Sherlock smirked. There was no hiding his few emotions from his little brother.
"The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle." Sherlock's voice was confident and arrogant as ever.
"Yes. You got yourself in deep there," Mycroft paused as he checked his file for the right name, "with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme."
"Colossal." It was nearly impossible to tell if he was still being sarcastic or was now serious.
"Anyway, you're safe now," Mycroft said, almost reassuringly. The big brother habit never seemed to fade, popping up in every conversation.
Sherlock hummed doubtfully. He was never safe; he had enemies everywhere.
"A small 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss," Mycroft sighed.
"What for?"
"For wading in." At that, Sherlock raised a hand, signaling for the man still bent over him to stop. The man stepped back a bit. "In case you'd forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu," Mycroft finished.
Grunting at the pains in his sides, bruised muscles complaining, Sherlock stood and glared venomously at his older brother. If looks could kill, Mycroft would be pushing up the pitiful daisies planted outside his office.
"'Wading in'?" Sherlock's voice took on a deep, violent quality, bringing a dragon to mind. "You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp."
Mycroft frowned indignantly. "I got you out."
Sherlock tilted his head like a bird of prey. "No," he growled, "I got me out. Why didn't you intervene sooner?"
"Well, I couldn't risk giving myself away, could I?" He was obviously making up excuses. "It would have ruined everything."
"You were enjoying it."
"Nonsense," Mycroft scoffed.
Sherlock nodded, his suspicions confirmed. "Definitely enjoying it."
"Listen," Mycroft said, leaning forward. "Do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going 'under cover,' smuggling my way into their ranks like that?" He grimaced. "The noise; the people." At the last word, he sat back in his seat, his face a mask of disgust.
Groaning softly, Sherlock painfully sank back to lie down in the chair again. The barber dutifully resumed his work. After a moment of silence, Sherlock spoke. "I didn't know you spoke Serbian."
"I didn't," Mycroft said, "but the language has a Slavic root, frequent Turkish and German loan words. Took me a couple of hours," he said with a shrug.
"Hmm." Sherlock smirked. "You're slipping."
"Middle age, brother mine." Mycroft's smile was tight, forced. "Comes to us all."
The office door opened then, ending the sibling's traditional banter. Anthea held a familiar dark suit and white shirt on a hanger, clear and pristine, just like everything else in the office. Sherlock took the outfit from her, and, walking into a connected bathroom, began humming a tune.
When he came out, Sherlock's hair was dried and curly again. He tucked his shirt into his trousers as he walked to a large mirror on the wall and looked at himself. Mycroft and Anthea stood nearby, watching.
"I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Is that quite clear?"
Pretending to ignore him, Sherlock said, "What do you think of this shirt?"
"Sherlock!" Mycroft was already exasperated, but Sherlock spoke before Mycroft could properly reprimand him.
"I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft." Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, before crossing the room to look out the floor to ceiling windows that lit the place with the usual grey light of the city. "Just put me back in London," he continued. "I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart."
Anthea, not allowing Sherlock to be distracted, said, "One of our men died getting this information. All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there's going to be a terror strike on London – a big one."
Sherlock slipped on his suit jacket, shrugging his shoulders to make it settle onto his thin frame. His inquiries continued. "And what about John Watson?"
Anthea threw an exasperated glance at Mycroft, signaling that there was nothing more she could do to attempt to keep him on track. Mycroft sighed and gave his brother what he wanted.
"John?"
"Mhm." Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Have you seen him?"
"Oh, yes," Mycroft responded sarcastically. "We meet up every Friday for fish and chips!" He gestured to Anthea, who obediently handed Sherlock a folder. Sherlock eagerly flipped it open as Mycroft continued.
"I've kept a weather eye on him, of course," he said as he adopted the pompous big-brother expression that Sherlock knew so well; chin up, eyes flicking down to the file and then smugly back up to Sherlock's hopeful expression.
But Sherlock had his eyes glued to the file, not even glancing at his older brother. He stared at the two black and white photos of John tucked in the file next to the printed report.
Mycroft said something, but it took Sherlock a moment to register it. "You haven't been in touch at all, to prepare him?"
"No," Sherlock said distractedly.
He examined one picture of John. He has a mustache now, he thought. Out loud, he only said "Well, we'll have to get rid of that."
"We?" Mycroft startled at the interruption of his precious silence.
"He looks ancient," Sherlock said, as if the point was obvious. "I can't be seen to be wandering around with an old man." He closed the file and plopped it onto the desk with an air of finality.
Sherlock smiled and straightened his jacket, circling his shoulders to make it settle. "I think I'll surprise John. He'll be delighted!" Sherlock was all smiles in his certainty.
Mycroft only offered him a cynical smile. "You think so?"
Sherlock began to frown, thrown off by his brother's reaction, but still enthusiastic, even though he would never admit to this rush of emotions he was feeling. "Hmm. I'll pop into Baker Street." His voice took on a sarcastic tone. "Who knows - jump out of a cake!"
Mycroft's face softened for a moment. He frowned as he said, "Baker Street? He isn't there any more."
Sherlock stopped in his tracks on his way out the door. Mycroft only continued, either unaware or uncaring of his younger brother's distress.
"Why would he be? It's been two years. He's got on with his life."
Sherlock spun on his heel, putting on a smile. "What life? I've been away."
Mycroft looked like he was trying to figure out how to roll his eyes without actually moving them, and making very good progress.
Sherlock shrugged. "Where's he going to be tonight?"
"How should I know?"
Sherlock gave his brother an exasperated look. "You always know."
Mycroft sighed and gave in. "He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion… though I prefer the 2001," he finished smugly, as if Sherlock cared, or didn't already know which wines he ordered at some stupid restaurant.
"I think maybe I'll just… drop by."
"You know, it is just possible that you won't be welcome."
That stopped Sherlock again. "No it isn't. Now, where is it?"
"Where's what?" Mycroft asked innocently.
Again came the exasperated look. "You know what."
Suddenly Anthea appeared in the doorway, holding the familiar coat. She held it up as Sherlock grinned, sliding his arms into the sleeves like hugging an old friend. Anthea reached up and popped the collar, saying, "Welcome back, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock smiled. "Thank you…" He turned to look at Mycroft, smirking. "...blud."
Mycroft only rolled his eyes.
