Author: Sherlocked Gallifreyan PM
Sherlock sneaks into Mycroft's house and messes with a few things. Pointless little one-shot.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Family - Mycroft H. & Sherlock H. - Words: 449 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 6 - Published: 12-09-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8781490
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N I don't own the Holmes brothers. Honestly, I don't know why I wrote this. I guess it's what happens when I get bored: I write pointless stuff. Anywho… Enjoy. Please review. I do love reading your comments, and I am quite open to suggestions.
The moment Mycroft Holmes entered his mansion-home, he knew something was wrong. The wrinkles in the rug were different. The picture of his mother was crooked. Placing his umbrella in its customary place behind the door, Mycroft drew his gun and crept into the sitting room.
Several chairs were shifted around slightly, and the piano bench had been moved from in front of the piano to beside the coffee table. There were several crumbs and a small coffee stain on the table.
The closet door was slightly ajar. Heart thumping, Mycroft brought his gun to bear on the door. He cautiously approached the door and flung it open, aiming at the dangerous…blankets.
He laughed nervously and closed the door, making sure it clicked shut. The mysterious intruder didn't seem to be in the sitting room.
Mycroft moved into the kitchen. Nothing had been touched. He scowled. The intruder had messed with things in every room. Why change his m.o. in the kitchen?
The remaining rooms of the ground floor were searched, but to no avail. The cellar door was still locked. The rug in front of it was untouched, and the key under the rug was still there. Mycroft shook his head and looked around. He wasn't a nervous man, but the idea of an invisible intruder who moved things around but took nothing scared him.
He slowly climbed the grand staircase and checked the rooms leading to his own room. The blankets were rumpled slightly, the pillows moved. And judging by the faint imprint in the plush chair next to the window, the intruder was tall and thin. Even before he saw the deliberately crookedly-folded letter propped on his night table, Mycroft had a sneaking suspicion he knew the intruder. Sure enough, in Sherlock's handwriting, Mycroft's name was scrawled across the front.
Mycroft sat on his bed to read the note.
Hello, brother dear! I do hope you don't mind that I stopped by. The door was open, and I invited myself in. Nice…mansion, My. It's very big. I took the liberty of looking around. Oh, I might have moved a few things. Sherlock.
Annoyed, Mycroft shook his head. "Sherlock," he sighed. Typical Sherlock, though. Barging in like he owned the world. Mycroft folded the letter and put it back on the table. He was going to be busy, fixing all the things Sherlock moved. With a heavy sigh, Mycroft trudged down the stairs.