Mycroft was in his bed, sleeping, which he preferred to do at three in the morning. A tap on his window woke him. He thought hazily about what or who could be tapping on the window, but ignored the thought as he began to drift back to sleep.


Mycroft glared at the window. His phone buzzed. He read the text. Mycroft, get your lazy arse out of bed. This is important.

Mycroft didn't even roll over. He simply shot back I'm sure you can figure out how to get in here without me having to get up.

And the person did. With a forceful elbow, the intruder knocked the glass pane out of the window. It shattered upon hitting the floors. "Whoops," Sherlock said, sticking a long leg through the window. "Well, I'm sure you have people to clean that up for you."

"What in God's name do you want, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, shielding his eyes when his brother flipped on the lights.

"Undo the restrictions you've put on my internet access," Sherlock demanded.

"What?" Mycroft blinked.

"I know it was you, Mycroft. Just undo it. Now."

"Sherlock, you were 'trolling' a highly confidential government website. I think a little restriction would do you some good."

"I'll just sit at the end of your bed until you're ready to change it…"

"Ugh…" Mycroft shot off a text to who Sherlock guessed was his personal assistant. "There. Go. Have your unchecked internet romp."

"I would hate to think what would happen if an actual intruder came here in the middle of the night…"

"You are an actual intruder. Go, before I call the National Guard."

Mycroft was trying to put together a disassembled tracking device that one of his operatives had found in an important government official's home. If he could get it up and running, he could use the signal to figure out which enemy nation had been trying to spy on the official. His hand slipped on the miniature screwdriver, and an important piece of the device flew across the room.

Mycroft stared at the little microchip for a few moments before he put his tools away. "Oh well," he muttered. "Probably not important…"

He should have known something was about to happen. First, Sherlock always tried to play a prank on him when he had been in the armchair for too long. Second, Sherlock had been awfully quiet for the past hour. Third, there was giggling behind him.

But Mycroft was so comfortable and content with his book and blanket, and the house was so cold, and he didn't have shoes or socks on…

Something wet dropped on his head. A bowl of water. The sound of feet bounding away, as seven-year-old Sherlock cackled like a demon.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled, throwing the bowl to the floor. "I'm going to stomp on you! Come back here!"

John and Sherlock had an incredibly comfortable couch. That was their first mistake. The second mistake had been inviting Mycroft in when he had only stopped by to hand off some documents to Sherlock.

The third mistake had been allowing Sherlock to assist John in preparing breakfast. John had ambled off to the bathroom for only a moment when the fire alarm started going off. Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at the smoke stack wafting out of the kitchen. "Sherlock?" he wondered loudly.

"It's under control!" Sherlock assured him.

"What have you done?" Mycroft asked.

"It's an experiment!" Sherlock yelled.

John came running in, after hearing the alarm. "What the hell are you doing? The curtains are on fire!" he cried.

Mycroft thought that perhaps he should try to locate the fire extinguisher, but he didn't want to chance spilling his very full cup of tea.

Mycroft sank slowly into his steaming bath. He'd just gotten done with a 36-hour shift, trying to keep a certain government secret under wraps, and he was so happy to be in his luxurious garden tub.

After a few minutes of soaking, he reached for the soap, only to realize that he had used the remainder of it at his last bath some three days ago. There was another bar of soap in the cabinet under the sink. It was two feet from the tub, just out of his arm's reach.

"I'll just sleep in here," Mycroft decided, laying his head against a bath pillow.

It was so nice to be able to eat a nice, leisurely lunch at his favorite bistro. It wasn't often that Mycroft had a lunch that wasn't in a car or at his desk. He relished these moments, and occasionally overindulged, but no one needed to know about that.

Just as he was about to pick up his Panino, a big spider flew over his shoulder and landed in his soup. With an undignified shriek, Mycroft jumped up, knocking over the small table in his haste.

He heard snickering behind him, and turned angrily to see Sherlock and John sitting behind him. Sherlock was closing the lid on a jar and smirking. "I told you that'd get him up."