Sherlock made his way up the creaky stairs and slightly pushed open the door to his flat. No movement could be seen through the slim crevice, except for the curtains gently swaying. He opened the door fully now but still no sight of his short friend. His glasz eyes swept across the room, calculating every minutia of the furniture, his desk, and stopped upon his old velvet chair.
There was a deep depression on the seat, and it was still warm. Sherlock sniffed the air once. "Yes, he was definitely here recently. Must be out." He allowed a rare smile to break his stoicism- one only a privileged few ever saw.
For all his deductive prowess, though, the sleuth missed one glaring detail: a rather portly man in a waistcoat was sitting idly in the kitchen, legs crossed, enjoying a cup of tea. If there was anything the Diogenes Club had taught the man, it was the art of silence. However, after three minutes, he decided to make his appearance known and stood up.
Sherlock whipped his head back, looking utterly disgruntled by his folly. Mycroft excelled at secrecy. After all, it was his job. The hard-eyed aristocrat continued smugly, "You are certainly an astute one, dear brother. May I interest you in a cup of tea? Perhaps some biscuits?" He sounded disgustingly polite, but Sherlock knew better.
"Politicians", he muttered.
“Believe it or not, I am in the possession of some scruples.”
“Where’d you steal those?”, Sherlock quipped, determined to win. It was always a competition. Though, it was comforting knowing that after two years, their relationship hadn’t changed a bit.
"Good heavens, must you always be so difficult?", Mycroft said, pinching the bridge of his aquiline nose. He was wearing the expression he usually reserved for his brother- disapproving, patronizing, and a touch exasperated.
"Must you feel that you are so entitled to my home that you can show up unannounced?", Sherlock replied, equally as pompous.
"Correction: this residency is merely rented. You do not own it. Besides, John is the sole occupant.”
Sherlock was quiet; he was only ever so with company when a.) he was in his mind palace or b.) when he had nothing else to say. In this case, it was woefully the latter.
Leaning on his umbrella, Mycroft gave a triumphant smile. He knew he had won.
Bothered, Sherlock plopped down on the couch and asked the inevitable "What do you want, Mycroft?" He was on the verge of playing his violin in a dissonant and unpleasant manner to drive away his brother.
Mycroft said in a low voice, "Oh, I think you know exactly." The words hung ominously and palpably in the air.
Sherlock's face changed from concealed petulance to remorse. Suddenly, his mind became submerged in throes of all that had happened in the past two years. It was certainly no respite. Subverting Moriarty’s network consumed most of his time and was not a particularly facile endeavor; it seemed that his web extended farther than expected. When Sherlock was atop Saint...