I've recently gotten into BBC's Sherlock and have fallen head over heels with Benedict Cumberbatch and Sherlock Holmes. Yeah, I've recently purchased a cheap addition of the entire works of Sherlock Holmes. Love love love... Haha. Well, I felt I should punch something out before my school started and this was an idea I had a vague outline of the moment I saw the restaurant scene with Sherlock and Watson in the first episode. Yeah, you all know what I mean. :P
Well, this fic takes place between the second and third episode. Happy reading!
No actual slash, but there're - uh - explicit topics and implied slash. This story is unbeta'd. It was short anyway, and I wasn't sure if my beta liked this series, so I didn't want to be a bother.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters.
Sherlock and Mycroft's Wonderful Sitcom
It was a sunny day in London when Mycroft Holmes dropped by to visit his younger brother "just to check up" on him, he had said. He was seated in an armchair, umbrella in hand, dressed in his usual suit and seemed to be completely absorbed in a minute speck of dust that had landed on his collar.
Sherlock, on the other hand, was up and about. There were no cases for him to work through today, causing him to delve into an experiment he had been putting off for some time. He was currently focused on measuring the relationship between physical activity directly before death and rigor mortis onset in amphibians. He wanted to try this experiment on humans but he remembered that it would be considered "cruel and unusual punishment," much to the dismay of his scientific mind. His current subjects were several unfortunate frogs he had procured from the nearest petshop. He was thinking of perhaps working up the evolutionary chain to chimpanzees if he could. As he was examining the healthy state of the frog in his hands he was already considering a zookeeper had helped several years before who might be nice enough to give him at least a pair of primates.
Dr. John Watson was nowhere in sight as he was working at the local surgery, therefore leaving Sherlock to deal with his pesky brother's existence alone. When Mycroft first appeared, he had shut and bolted the door in the governmental official's face to keep him out. The act was in vain, as about three minutes later Mycroft entered the room slightly annoyed, but a bit triumphant.
The consulting detective did his best to ignore his brother as he pondered for a way to make his frogs active enough for his experiment.
"Why don't you try poisoning them with strychnine?" Mycroft said suddenly, twirling the handle of his umbrella in place. "It will induce convulsions. Your frogs will be quite active before they die." Sherlock's mouth twitched with irritation. He just thought of the very same thing and found the coincidence absolutely distasteful.
The elder brother sighed and reclined back in the squishy armchair for several seconds before speaking again.
"You should get laid, Sherlock," he commented like one would comment about the weather.
Three emotions rose up in the consulting detective at once (1) disgust, because his brother was speaking to him, (2) shock, because his brother was talking about sex, and (3) horror, because his brother was talking about sex. In this flurry of feelings, he had nearly dropped his frog.
"What did you say?" Sherlock asked, looking at Mycroft, who looked quite happy that he had finally gotten his attention.
There had been only one time when copulation came up in a lengthy conversation between them, and it had been when Mycroft was attempting to speak to him about the "birds and the bees" and where babies came from. All Sherlock had taken away from that uncomfortable talk was that yes, babies do not come from storks (which he had already known) and he still had no idea what was the bloody purpose of that useless metaphor. Birds and bees were in no way related to the secondary reproductive organs of the male and female human being and the act of sex. They were completely different!
"You should get laid, as the Americans say. Have sex, fish in someone's pond, stick your hoo hoo dilly in someone's cha cha, back up your car in another's garage, get all up in someone's junk. There's lots of metaphors for it. They're quite creative, actually, if not silly," his older brother added. Sherlock stared, mentally forcing himself to lock his jaw in place to keep from gaping at how ridiculous the situation had become.
"You work far too much," Mycroft said, glancing at him. "And when you're not working you hole yourself up in your flat like some sort of ghastly creature that can't stand the daylight. You're not a vampire, Sherlock, you're a man and you're in dire need of a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend, whatever the case may be. And a social life."
"As appealing as those things sound, Mycroft," Sherlock retorted sarcastically, "I'm not interested."
"But you're a fairly good-looking young man gifted with brains and an admirable reputation, there's no reason for you to have not lost your vir-"
"Why are you so suddenly interested in my love life, Mycroft?" The consulting detective interrupted him before he could say the word, which perked his brother's interest a bit. "It's not as if you have one either."
"I do, actually," Mycroft said with a rather proud air about him. "And we're quite active."
Sherlock gagged, nearly doubling over as he dropped his frog. His partially digested breakfast threatened to rise from his stomach.
The elder brother smiled.
"You're disgusting," Sherlock spat, snatching up his green amphibian and throwing it back in the box with the others. He stalked to the couch on the other side of the room and flopped onto it, far too disturbed about this new, unwelcome aspect of his brother to continue with his work. He had his back to the government official, his knees to his chest and his arms folded like a petulant child.
"Sherlock," Mycroft spoke again. "There's this girl who works for me that I think you would like. Her name is Ann and she's quite intelligent, very witty - "
"Why are you intent on forcing a partner on me?" Sherlock said, having to partially shout to be heard across the room.
"Because I'm concerned for you."
The younger brother snorted. "Your 'concern' is unneccessary."
"I only want you to be happy."
"Then leave me alone!" Sherlock said, twisting his head to yell at his brother. "I'll have you know I've been having copious sex with John for the past three months. We've been having sex so much I now have the flexibility of a yoga master. We've even copulated in the very chair you're sitting in at this very moment. There! Are you happy now?"
Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "Sherlock, you know that I know you're lying, but must we bring your only friend into this as well?"
The consulting detective remained silent, he laid his head on the couch arm and huffed.
"Well, I'm afraid I must leave now," Mycroft said, getting up. "Plenty of things to do today."
Sherlock did not move from his spot, did not speak, but he was content to have his brother out of his room at last. He sighed happily when he heard Mycroft shuffle out and close the door. The consulting detective swung his legs off the couch and sat up. It was then did he notice something Mycroft had written on his door in a bright, thick, red sharpie.
Infuriated to no end, Sherlock snatched up his revolver from his desk and shot at the horrible word.
His brother was a prick.
I originally intended for this to be a oneshot, but I'm actually planning on posting another chapter because my mind kept working on a couple notions I wasn't aware of. Obviously I don't pay attention to how my brain operates. O_o Weird. But I'm not entirely sure. If I manage to write another chapter I'll take this fic off the complete status.
But anyway, thanks for reading!
- Am I review worthy?