Morning all, much overdue update for you here. I've written it on my phone in the early hours as I couldn't sleep so please let me know if it doesn't make a lot of sense... along with any formatting issues etc :) thank you all for your continued support, who knows I may even do a couple of bonus chapters once it's all done and dusted because you've been so good to me.
X is for Xylitol
It took Toby's claws in his skull to get any real movement out of Sherlock, and that only happened when the cat heard cupboards being rummaged in, a sound that is inexorably linked to food. The detective sat bolt upright, flinging his phone under Mycroft's beautiful mahogany coffee table, which meant that the only sensible thing to do was to wedge himself half under said table to find it, and get royally stuck. This was how Mycroft found his little brother, arse in the air, head under the table, swearing like a fish wife at the small electronic contraption that had dared to rip itself from his grasp. Mycroft blinked twice and headed back into the kitchen, this would be a two shot (of espresso) problem; one shot for dealing with Sherlock hungover, and the other for Sherlock's general presence. He prepared his coffee, making sure not to tread on the cat devouring his rather delicious looking smoked salmon that was supposed to be tomorrow's lunch, and trying to block out the increasingly louder and more Shakespearean profanities coming from the lounge. He sighed to himself, this was what sentiment got you, a cat that lives on the other side of the city eating your lunch while your brother finds creative ways to mock your very existence. He took his mug of black nectar into his study, and shut the door for ten minutes peace.
It was only after Sherlock ran out of insults that he realised just how stuck he was. He couldn't move in any direction, and his phone was an inch away from his finger tips. He was in purgatory, not quite hell, but not far from it, and to rub salt into his wounded pride he would have to wait for Mycroft to go through his irritating morning ritual, and be subjected to some form of torture before he was freed from his wooden prison. He knew down to the second how long it took for his brother to make his coffee, drink the coffee, decide whether to have breakfast (he never did) and then watch the news for 8 minutes before remembering how droll the outside world is. This morning, however, Mycroft opted for a laborious full English breakfast, which he ate all of while watching one of his favourite films, one that he knew Sherlock couldn't stand. It was petty, but nothing less than expected from either party. Once the horror that was the Lion King was over, Mycroft took hold of Sherlock's left foot and yanked the curly haired man-child out from within his furniture. Reunited with his phone, Sherlock had no intention of following his mother's orders, and instead began sorting through his inbox and clearing out the spam he inevitably received every day. That wasn't to say he deleted cases of low value or people trying to sell him watches, it was the deluge of emails he got from one Philip Anderson.
"I'm sure Molly will be pleased to know you value your correspondence with that Anderson more highly than texting her." Mycroft drawled, going to make his brother a coffee, ignoring the two finger salute he received in response to his jibe.
Once back in the kitchen he started the soothing ritual of preparing the coffee, something only he was allowed to do in his own house, as the last time Sherlock had touched it he'd managed to blow every fuse in his house and the one next door, leaving them both coffee deprived and very bad company. He was sifting through the cupboard looking for the sugar, when he came across some artificial sweeter that he'd bought on a whim during his last diet. It appeared the stuff was all he had, so he put two heaped teaspoons into his brother's coffee for good measure, put the mug down in front of him and promptly excused himself to shower and dress.
Sherlock mumbled some syllables, that could be construed as a thank you, without looking up from his phone. He'd found a 6 not far from here that had potential. He had to check the plum tree in the garden and ask the neighbours about a heron, but otherwise he thought he had it solved. He would go alone, in light of his colleague's nuptials, and see how it worked. He took a mouthful of his coffee and promptly spat it back out again- some into the mug, but mostly over Mycroft's expensive carpet and television. He was not, however, furious at a misguided prank, as one thing the two never compromised on was their caffeine delivery method. No, this abomination, this coffee to end all coffees was sacrilege, and he must destroy the foul substance that contaminated his morning fix.
He knew his brother did not have sugar in his coffee, so he figured it must be something to do with the sugar or sugar replacement that had been added to his cup, and sure enough he found the Xylitol at the back of the third cupboard, and proceeded to smash it to pieces with the wooden mallet otherwise used for tenderising meat. When Mycroft found his brother sat at the dining table, mallet beside him, sipping a cup of tea amongst a carnage of plastic and sweeter granules, he was given yet another reason for why he didn't invite his brother round more often. He took a quick photo on his phone as proof when mummy claimed he was making it up just so he didn't have to socialise.