Title: Endangered Species
Characters: John, Sherlock, Mycroft
Word Count: 1238, Three corresponding art fills
Rating: G
Warnings: lack of artistic ability (and laptop mice are not easy to draw with anyhow), silliness, borderline crack - in other words, my usual
Summary: Written for this prompt on the LiveJouranl sherlockbbc_fic kink meme: When Sherlock was young and very lonely, he wrote on a sheet of paper, 'I want a friend.' And then described all the things he wanted in that friend. Brave, loyal, shorter than him (because Mycroft is too damn big and he doesn't want another Mycroft!) someone who laughs with him and not at him, a doctor because doctors work with dead people, ect, ect, ect.

IMPORTANT A/N: This won't make as much sense if you don't view the artwork which happened before the fic portion of the meme fill. You can access it on my LiveJournal (the entry is unlocked) via the Homepage link on my profile, if I can't beat this site's no-link policy here. Take the spaces out of this and change "dot" to an actual dot, hope that works: http : / / kcscribbler dot livejournal .com / 443696 . html #cutid1

Mycroft Holmes had not been overly fond of John Watson for the first several months of their acquaintance, mainly because the soldier stubbornly refused to be intimidated by an amorphous political position and an umbrella. But gradually that belligerent animosity waned into sociable animosity, which was as close as they would ever get to becoming friends, John supposed. At any rate, he no longer despised Mycroft as much as he once had, only regarded him in the manner one regards a pet vampire bat – approaching with caution, staying clear of the fangs, and trying to not be caught in the same room with it after dark.

But John was also a soldier, and a strategist, and before many months had passed had already identified his tactical advantage with the elder Holmes and was proceeding to lay his plans accordingly.

"You have reconsidered my offer, then?" Mycroft inquired with mild surprise, after the initial pleasantries (or lack thereof) had been exchanged upon this occasion.

"Yes, yes I have," John answered, nodding. "I mean I believe it's only fair, if you insist upon kidnapping me off the streets anyway, to make it worth both our whiles."

A flat smile creased the older man's features. "Excellent," he purred. "I take it that you have a set of stipulations already in mind, then, Doctor Watson?"

"Mm, nothing very extravagant."

"I await your proposal with great interest."

"Do you now. Well, it's nothing too ridiculous. I think it's a reasonable solution to make me an authorized user on one of your minor credit cards," John suggested blandly. "Would be rather nice to not have to bully the cash out of your brother for replacements when he sets fire to the drapes or decides to blow up the microwave. Also, you would think the man is part cat, the way milk 'mysteriously' disappears in the flat." His fingers made air-quotes around the word mysteriously, and he saw a smile tug at Mycroft's lips. "Just enough to pay for necessities, you understand."

"Reasonable enough. And now what do I stand to gain by such an arrangement, Doctor?"

"Well, I would then be much more likely to cooperate with giving you information about your brother. His health, eating habits, activities, and so on, as well as the odd event that catches your fancy." Arms folded, the ex-soldier leaned casually against the warehouse wall with a smirk. "Also, I give my word to not send your next abduction team to the hospital? Please tell me your personal bodyguards, at least, are more capable than those two were."

Mycroft's lips curled in disgust, hand twitching on the handle of his umbrella. "Masters and Bridgehouse are, deplorably, at the bottom of the competency scale. I assure you, I am wholeheartedly behind your unnecessarily hostile reactions if it will teach the young idiots a lesson." The umbrella lifted in salute. "I accept your terms, then, Doctor; have we a bargain?"

And so it was struck, a sort of pseudo-truce between them. Naturally, John had no idea that Mycroft's credit card wouldn't work in any cash machine other than the one in the Baker Street Tube Station and the closest Tesco's; but then Mycroft had no idea that about ninety-three percent of the information John began passing to him regarding his brother's life was a lorryful of complete rubbish. Sherlock found the whole thing quite hilarious, and took great interest in second-handedly feeding his brother the most outrageous stories and colossal fabrications the two of them could come up with, giggling into their dinners, over the news every night.

After one such colossally wild anecdote had been duly fed into the information-gorge which was Mycroft's brain, the elder Holmes did finally realize he had been played by John Watson better than his brother played that infernal violin, and that Sherlock had most likely put the other man up to the whole affair from the beginning. Upon hauling John off the streets for the second time in one week and seeing from the man's unrepentant grin that his suspicions were correct, Mycroft bristled under the idea that his little twit of a brother had nothing better to do with his time than hideously corrupt the one person he had not yet managed to run off screaming.

It was with a beatific smile that he retaliated via the next morning's post, in which he mailed a naked baby picture of Sherlock to Mrs. Hudson.

When he next tried to pull John in for questioning, the man refused to get into the car both in word and rude gesture toward the driver. Two tranquilizer darts and a good deal of swearing later, the groggy physician was dumped back on his own doorstep with a commiseratory sack of groceries for his pains.

Next morning, Sherlock sent Mycroft an obese voodoo doll and a slightly squashed package of laxative-laced chocolates through his mail slot. He responded promptly by emailing the whole of Scotland Yard Sherlock's first school essay, in which the six-year-old quite seriously detailed his reasoning for wanting to be a police coroner when he grew up.

Sherlock sent him four hundred and thirty-five picture texts of various dessert items in rapid succession during a Cabinet meeting; his phone was on vibrate, and not silent.

The following day, he tried to pull John in for an attempt at peace negotiations (the ex-soldier had no idea what kind of war he was stepping into or the consequences of refusing to remain neutral between opposing sides.)

John shot out the tyres on the car before escaping over a set of low railings.

Sherlock's punishment of having to write the sentence I will not use the cat for experiments involving sharp objects or chemicalsfive hundred times was the next piece of classic Holmesian literature to make its way into the flat at 221B.

Late that night Sherlock blew up the CCTV camera in front of the corner newsstand.

And the war might have continued indefinitely, had Mycroft's next choice of blackmail potential not been opened by John instead of Sherlock. The doctor had decided at this juncture that discretion was the better part of valour, and was warily staying out of the increasingly intense sibling crossfire. But on this occasion Sherlock was lying upside down on the couch, shoulders on the cushion and legs over the back of it, mumbling and gesticulating to himself about God only knew what, and the opening of the post was left to John.

He did take the precaution of donning latex gloves before slitting open the envelope addressed in Mycroft's distinctly crablike scrawl; an unnecessary gesture, as the only item to emerge from the envelope was a paper containing a child's scribble.

[see artwork at link above]

John held the paper for a few moments, his heart going out to the lonely little boy who had penned the words years before (and also marveling at the weirdness which was an older brother with an apparently all-inclusive scrapbooking habit). Sherlock's upside-down eyes slitted at him curiously as he slid the paper back into the envelope and stuffed it into his coat pocket.

"Anything interesting?" Half hopeful, half I-am-being-polite-and-inquiring-regarding-your-boring-little-moments-do-you-see-I-am-being-polite-John?

John smiled, reaching for his phone. "Not to you, Sherlock."

"Pity." With a dramatic sigh which puffed idly at his hair, the younger Holmes closed his eyes again and was lost in his brain-world once more.

John finished adding Buy Post-its to his Notepad application and hit Save.