prompting part XXIII

[sherlockbbc_fic]

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It's Going To Take A Lot To Drag Me Away From You, Fill 1/?

[anonymous]

this might end up horrifically long. Um. I'll get to the point of the prompt soon, promise.

Jumbo Jet. Dear me Mr Holmes, dear me.

If Mycroft Holmes' hands shake a little, at that, if his gaze drifts and becomes fixed on something beyond others' sight, it is because he allows it. If he runs his hands across his face and bows his head, well, it is because there is no harm in indulging in a minor lapse of control, not here alone, not now. It's unlikely, in any case, that he'll have the chance again. He might as well indulge.

There's some comfort to be found, he supposes, in how small his world has become with those words. So many concerns, immediate and future, swept aside. Only one left, really. The constant, the always-there, the one that matters.

In the end, are you really so obvious?

*

"You have to call Mycroft," Sherlock declares, slumping on to the couch with absolutely no mercy for John's sense of personal space.

"What?"

Sherlock gives him the look, the you're-doing-this-on-purpose look, and huffs loudly. "An accurate deduction of the current scenario requires the documents relating to the original estate and subsequent lawsuit. Lestrade does not have sufficient clearance to obtain them for me. Ergo, you must call him."

"Why can't you-"

"Upset about his little plane," Sherlock says sharply. "Sulking. Infantile. Won't answer me, I've tried."

Now things are starting to make a bit more sense. It's funny, he's seen Sherlock throw identical hissy-fits when Mycroft was all too ready to answer his calls, to the point of pre-emptively recording and archiving the lot of them, at least until Sherlock had noticed.

"You think he's mad at you?" John thinks about cafes and umbrellas and fairytales about witness protection created solely for Sherlock's benefit, and smiles widely. It's a bit smug. Just a bit. "I really don't think that's it. Not everything revolves around you, Sherlock. He's a busy man."

Sherlock's frown deepens. "I hardly think he's likely to get more interesting calls."

John allows a bit of time for that statement to hang in the air, before putting voice to his disbelief. "The man makes 1984 look like a useful instructional booklet. I think, yes, maybe he does get some more interesting calls. I'm guessing yours isn't the only ego he has to deal with, and the other guys have the nuclear silos to back it up."

Sherlock looks back blankly. "So?"

"So... so call him back later," John splutters. "Yourself."

Sherlock huffs again, and stalks out of the room.

Twenty minutes later Lestrade calls, reluctantly admitting he's pulled a few favours, and John is putting his coat on and halfway to the door before he even hangs up.

"Sherlock!" He bellows, and in a flurry of long limbs and dark wool, they're out the door.