Sherlock: Toy Truck
Hey there, Fang here. Next Sherlock fic, up, and though I am a John Lover to the core, this one doesn't feature much of him though it does focus on him. Enjoy!
"Why, my dear brother. I would have thought that you would still be out in this dreadful weather, in that rediculously long coat of yours still on the scent of the case." Mycroft's airy, more than slightly snobby voice echoed from the stairwell to the flat.
Sherlock tensed up even more, if it was humanly possible. As he stepped into the decidedly filty (according to his own much more refined tastes) flat, Mycroft noted his stiff-as-a-poker back, his hands folded tightly in his lap, and his intense, firm gaze upon the closed eyes of the unconscious man lying on the setee. A bandage lay on the man's forehead, recently applied. Mycroft clicked his tongue in disapproval.
"Broken another one of your things, have we, Sherlock?"
Sherlock's hands, already twisting and turning violently in his lap, stopped suddenly at his remark.
"What was it this time? Oh yes...sending John after the criminal, saying you would be right behind him, and then what seemed to be utterly forgetting him in leu of some interesting bits of gravel that of course in some way pertained to the case."
"Mycroft, get out."
"Worked out well for John, I see."
"Mycroft. Get. Out."
"Did you intend on him coming home in one piece, as you always do?"
"I swear-"
"Only this time you don't have Mummy to berate you about it, and ask you not to do it again." Mycroft continued conversationally, not seeming to hear Sherlock. He ambled over to the smiley face that had been bullet-pocked into the wall to observe casually. "But then again, you've always treated your belongings with such care, Sherlock. Always playing with them roughly, experimenting, seeing how much pressure they could take... until they broke."
He could almost taste the hate and disgust radiating from his younger brother. But the prescense of John next to him kept him in check, if only for the moment. Mycroft continued as if he couldn't sense the mood in the air.
"Remember that hideous yellow toy truck that Mummy forced on you, despite your best, and I must say unconvincing, protests? You said that it had no purpose, but eventually you found one for it. I still remember you taking it apart, piece by piece, just to see how it worked and if you could put it back together."
He turned to face Sherlock, who still sat stony-faced in the chair he had placed next to the sofa. His hands had clenched up into balled fists which sat on his lap.
"Do you remember what happened to that truck, Sherlock?" he asked amicably. Sherlock's eye barely twitched.
Mycroft ran his finger upon the mantlepiece of the fire place, looking at the inconspicuous dust motes only the highly trained eye could see.
"You dismantled it too well, Sherlock, right down to taking the plastic casings off of the metal frames and the screws out of the windows holding them in place. There was nothing left to put back together."
Sherlock's eyes flickered to his face, burning rage flaring up in their blue depths. Mycroft met his gaze calmly and without emotion.
"What remained of the pieces was trashed as soon as you could gather them up. Not that I blame you, though. Your fun with them had come to an end. There was no reason to keep them around." his monotone voice echoed throughout the deafening quiet of the room.
Time stopped, just as sound did, except for the punctuations of John's quiet breathing.
When Sherlock finally spoke, his words dripped from his mouth like acid. "Mycroft. If you have something to say, then bloody well say it."
Mycroft's next words came right behind him, barely breathed into his ear.
"John is not invulnerable, Sherlock. Careful, or I will have to set in motion the funeral plans I have drawn up."
Sherlock stared straight ahead, virtually unresponsive.
With that, Mycroft swung up his umbrella he had leaned against the wall next to the stairwell, and left.
~*~
Author's Comments:
Well, there you are. I really enjoy writing Mycroft, as somehow he's much easier to write than John or Sherlock. Aaaand that's why I've been avoiding dialogue fics, woohoo! I'll write one eventually, once I think I can write that level of humor and wit!
I was considering doing a follow up to this one, as it is quite short, with Sherlock and John talking some things out. Mostly focused on Sherlock's opinion of John. Nothing romantic (of course, as these two are brothers to the core). I will...maybe...if I feel up to it...and if I actually drag myself away from playing Skyrim...
Please review, as I love them and I love coming to my inbox after 8 hours and going "HOLY CRAP LOOK AT ALL THE STUFF" and then dancing in my room for a few minutes until my mother dearest comes up and tells me to stop stomping around like an elephant.
And THAT, dear readers, is how my life goes.
Thank you!
-Fang