A/N: I'm the queen of crazy plots, it seems. Still not British, a detective, or legally insane.
I haven't been very good with multi-post pieces, so keeping my fingers crossed. -csf
1.
Sherlock stands imperiously by the window, basking in the soft afternoon sunlight that fills 221B with that quintessential essence of home. The soft glow mapping out the slim contours of the elegant man, a sharp contrast to the clipped gestures and nearly snarled upper lip of the detective. As John makes his way in, he doesn't need to be the world's only consulting detective to infer the presence of the older Holmes brother. Mycroft and Sherlock's rivalry is definitely present and going strong, John decides, laying down his shoulder bag, the one he always takes to work, and placidly enquiring 'anyone put the kettle on yet' even though he's fairly sure none of the two geniuses would produce edible tea.
'Doctor Watson', the three piece suit cladded Holmes identifies as a polite gesture. Welcome home, the stake smile further seems to add; in sarcasm, presumably.
'That's me, well done!' John returns cheerfully. Not because he's feeling particularly jolly, but John gets his kicks out of annoying the stuck up brother almost as much as Sherlock. In fact, the homely detective smirks at John's ease.
Of course such open manoeuvres spark the beginning of a war, or perhaps Mycroft just takes John as his new attention target for a bit of a respite from his baby brother.
'And how is the old lady with the knee operation faring, doctor Watson?'
Well, that's hardly fair. John can't help be curious on how Mycroft could possibly know about old Mrs Donnely at the surgery, and he makes a mental note to double check for spy cameras anyway.
Sherlock offers the solution easily: 'The creases on John's right shirt sleeve, from where he supported the old bag's arm and a whiff of age hardened liquorice sweets identify the pensioner status and height of her patient, for which John would immediately volunteer his help back to the cab outside. The pattern of low velocity mud splatters predominantly on John's right shoe indicate a difficulty in mobility from the person he's accompanying. A man would be more likely to wear rubber soles, rather then the kitten heels that are so aerodynamic for that pattern of spatter velocity. Could be a hip replacement but a knee surgery is more likely given by the means of transportation, she could hardly have climbed up inside a mini van cab if her hip was just recently replaced by titanium alloy.'
John nods, impressed, but points out fairly: 'She had difficulties climbing into a mini van cab with her knee so swollen anyway, if you must know. However, she's recovering well and she has a niece who is a constant support and comes around—'
'Yes, John, whatever, we don't care', Sherlock interrupts, aloof.
John squints at him – manners, Sherlock! – shakes his head, and gives his full attention to the kettle. It's always been a bit of a mindful moment; tea making in the morning to face the day, tea at break times to refocus, tea as a welcome home moment, tea before bedtime, tea if it rains hard outside, tea if Sherlock is in a stroppy mood, and tea as a fixer all. If the human body is approximately 70% water, John's must nearly all be tea.
'You will be my first man, Sherlock', Mycroft says abruptly, as if there had been no pause in whatever conversation they were having prior to the new arrival.
'I couldn't possibly leave—'
'London? You haven't a substantial case on, brother.'
Well, Mycroft would know. Probably deduced it out of the worn down creases in his baby brother's armchair seat at an increased rate of 87% from last Wednesday at 3pm, John thinks, bitterly. Both brothers are quite capable of the deduction thing, but somehow Mycroft's deductions just come across as stuck up and grating to John. He wonders why; if it's because Sherlock occasionally gets a detail wrong and it's humbling and humanising; whereas Mycroft doesn't, and still he won't put his gift to use for the good of humanity. Wasted talent, as far as John is concerned. It's as if John would stop addressing the medical needs of someone collapsing at a nearby restaurant table because John was being too lazy, didn't bother, there wasn't a pay-off, or he just wanted to finish his meal as the manager called out "is there a doctor in the house" yet again.
Back in 221B, the fraternal battle of wits carries on, and John pours out the boiling water in the awaiting mugs.
Sherlock looks around the living room, clearly fishing for inspiration. Whatever his real reasons for denying his brother's request, he won't address them directly.
'I couldn't possibly leave John.'
'Take him with you, if you insist. He can be my second man. Unless you aren't up to handling the matter on your own, perhaps?'
John glances over his shoulder. 'Oi!'
It's true he can't deduce like a genius, but he's got his own talents.
Sherlock snarls audibly to his brother's words, but refrains the conversation from being about John. 'You can't possibly afford me.'
Mycroft shrugs. His vest follows complacently and lands back in confused wrinkles, as if it had never done that before.
'You owe me. Let's say you're paying back old favours.'
That finally ticks off the detective.
'If you think I owe you this much—!'
'Let's nor pretend you wouldn't enjoy.'
'If it's that great, why won't you do it?'
Mycroft shivers visibly. John hurries to hand the Ice Man a warm cup of tea. The older Holmes looks down at the vulgar mug with disdain and sighs. He drinks the tea, of course, there is nothing wrong with John's tea, no matter the vessel. John can make miracles with low grade tea leaves and boiling water.
'I'm not a field agent, Sherlock. Neither is my enemy, so we both agreed to delegate.'
'Isn't it silly to choose a challenge for an honour duel that neither of the two of you actually performs?' Sherlock points out, witty.
'There's a long tradition on the subject. King Edward himself—'
'Fine! Objection withdrawn', the detective cuts, hurriedly. Mycroft gloats without a single shift in his facial muscles, as only he can.
John finds himself introducing his two cents as he hands Sherlock another cup of fragrant tea: 'Not silly at all if you don't trust the other man's going to play fair. What's this challenge you are so generous with, Mycroft?'
The detective looks down at the offer as if finding all manners of support in it. Emboldened he answers, snarky:
'A scavenger hunt, John. Not your regular type of scavenger hunt, of course.'
'I don't have a regular type of scavenger hunt', John points out. His input is immediately dismissed.
'This scavenger hunt is far more unusual and full of unexpected dangers. There's a start point, but the trophies to collect and the area to hunt are only revealed by stages. Essentially it's also a race. The first team of first and second men reaching the end of the race with the trophies is acknowledged the winning team, and Mycroft rejoices in his success without lifting a fat finger.'
John ponders the information while sipping a gulp of his own tea. 'Does Mycroft's rival have his own two persons team too?'
'Yes', Mycroft answers himself, 'we are both far too busy to go gallivanting about so to defend our honour.'
The former soldier tries not how think of that order of priorities.
'How do you know only two people support each side?'
'It's old school. Very old school. No phones, no internet, no ordering things to be delivered for you, no more contact with the outside world than reading the newspaper and leaving messages to your side. You don't know if you're ahead until you win it. Or lose it.'
'What if we get other people on the team, that's hardly fair.'
'We'll be monitoring your progress, logically', Mycroft promises. Somehow the promise is a dark one. John is momentarily derailed by thoughts of Mycroft Holmes and a shadowy figure moving small tin figures of soldiers over a table map of England, as the men progress in real time on the ground as shown by rows of old teldvisions with grainy live images of cctv.
'What sort of collectables are we talking about?' Sherlock cuts in.
Mycroft looks blasé as he states: 'Oh, we both have foregone decision making onto a trusted assistant. They will coordinate that. Anthea will do that for us. I imagine expensive bottles of perfume from Paris and first editions of Dostoyevsky from Moscow.'
'Wait, this is an international thing?' John interrupts. That mental image of a table in a shadowy room as just expanded to the size of the carpet.
Sherlock and Mycroft both look at him as if he's just said something silly. 'Of course', both brothers reply at once.
Unison at last, John remarks bitterly to himself.
'Well, good luck with that. I'll be busy at work.' He takes a swig of his own tea. That seems to rattle Mycroft the most. He's losing John's attention. He chews on the inside of his cheek for a fraction of a second.
'Consider yourself in line for a paid leave from work, John', Mycroft declares, at once.
'And I wouldn't go into danger without a new gun. Let's make it a legal gun, this time, it makes for a change, shall we?'
'Is that your price, doctor?'
'I'll let you know the maker and model.' John grins his sunshine grin.
'Don't bother', Mycroft waves his hand. 'It would be my pleasure to guess. It's nice doing business with you, John. And you, Sherlock, can I tempt you with a new violin?'
Sherlock's expression sours at once. He'll keep the musical instrument he's had since a child, it's much too precious for him. 'You'll owe me a favour, Mycroft', he declares.
'A tiny favour.'
'A small one.'
'Only if you win for me.'
'Naturally.'
'I knew you'd give in.'
'Oh really?'
'Of course, you were just waiting for John to come home.'
'Your deduction is flawed.'
'Oh is it? I seriously doubt that. I'll have Anthea send you the details. The hunt starts at midnight tonight. Don't. Be. Late.'
'I'm never late. Don't you have a Middle East mess to sooth over? Or is that the middle of a Eton mess?'
Mycroft's expression darkens. 'Indeed I do. Keep in touch, Sherlock. Don't get yourself killed, John.'
Sherlock's eyes narrow, as the doctor puts on a brave effort of a laugh, it sounds fake even to his own ears.
The infamous umbrella precedes the behind-the-scenes man as he exits the flat, bathed in rose tinged sunset light now.
John lowers his tea mug and asks to the dregs at the bottom. 'He was kidding when he said killed, right?'
Sherlock snaps his mercurial eyes John's way.
'I'll ensure you get that new gun before midnight tonight. We'll smuggle it internationally if we have to.'
'Good. And we don't – I don't know – have to go it handcuffed together or wearing silly costumes, right?'
The detective's face is incredulous. 'How ridiculous do you take my brother to be? No, don't answer that! It's really not necessary! I'm sure body cams and microchips are all he'll be insisting on, John.'
'Sherlock...'
'Fine, I was kidding. Mycroft suggested deerstalker hats for the both of us, I had already refused before you came in.'
'Ah, that's alright then.'
'We're wearing matching coats, though.'
'Not a chance, mate.'
'Humpft.'
.
TBC
