It Was Easier for Richelieu
The title for this…I don’t even know.
Title: It Was Easier for Richelieu
Characters: John, Mycroft, Sherlock
Pairing: Mycroft/John (gen)
Word Count: 400-500
Rating: PG
Warnings: Implied drug use
Summary: Written for this prompt on the kinkmeme: Mycroft is sitting at his desk, working on paperwork. John is curled up at his feet, his head resting in Mycroft's lap. Mycroft pets John until he falls asleep. Your challenge? Write a plausible scenario for this without slashing the two.
"Crayons are good," John said, helpfully.
"Yes, they are." Mycroft's eyes never left the sensitive memo on his desk.
"They squiggle, though." John turned his head, creasing the material of Mycroft's trouser leg, expression bordering on wistful. "There are bits."
"Mmhmm." Putting a hand on the doctor's forehead, Mycroft pushed slightly, glancing a look at the doctor's face. No change there - mouth still slack and drooling, eyes still dilated.
He was going to kill his brother.
Then possibly dig him up, reanimate him, and kill him again.
"I warned you," Mycroft chastised, relaxing his fingers and allowing John's head to loll onto his lap. "I told you, any unlabeled container is fair game."
"Mmm. Like Monopoly."
"...yes. Exactly."
“Harry always cheated."
"I know."
"There are llamas under your chair."
"Just ignore them and they'll go away."
John made a small content noise and burrowed his face deeper into the man's thigh. Mycroft sighed impatiently and rested his hand upon John's hair, patting lightly.
"Ah, Sherlock," he said cheerfully, not looking up as the detective stalked in and slammed the door behind him. "Nice of you to join us."
"All right, Mycroft, where have you taken him this time?” Sherlock snarled. “I swear, every time I turn around..." He trailed off as he caught sight of John, kneeled by Mycroft's feet, head tilted dangerously close to his groin.
The detective's eyes narrowed. "I see. Am I interrupting something?"
"Oh, nothing important. Your friend is simply coming down from a rather nasty high, caused by what appears to be a mixture of marijuana and LSD. But," he continued, his trained eye expertly catching the minute twitch of guilt across Sherlock's face, "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
Sherlock frowned and huffed. "I told him. I warned him before I went out--"
"Apparently not well enough." Mycroft's tone took a sharp edge. "While you were out gallivanting, Dr. Watson was stumbling down York Terrace, licking streetlamps and barking at pigeons."
"They had poison barbs," John mumbled sleepily. "Long necks. Nasty puce colour."
"Ssh."
"Well." Sherlock responded coldly. "Thank you for watching over him and for once again not informing me of his whereabouts. Not that I would be worried or anything; I mean, it's not as though John hasn't been kidnapped twice already--oh, wait, he has, so I'd appreciate if you keep me in the know next time."
There was a soft snore, and both brothers glanced over to John. He was out cold.
"You have to admit," Sherlock said, with a slight sneer, "The diabolical cat-petting does cement your image as a deranged criminal mastermind."
"Hilarious, Sherlock." Mycroft gently tilted the doctor's head and noted the thick line of drool down his trouser leg. "You're paying for the dry-cleaning.”
Title: It Was Easier for Richelieu
Characters: John, Mycroft, Sherlock
Pairing: Mycroft/John (gen)
Word Count: 400-500
Rating: PG
Warnings: Implied drug use
Summary: Written for this prompt on the kinkmeme: Mycroft is sitting at his desk, working on paperwork. John is curled up at his feet, his head resting in Mycroft's lap. Mycroft pets John until he falls asleep. Your challenge? Write a plausible scenario for this without slashing the two.
"Crayons are good," John said, helpfully.
"Yes, they are." Mycroft's eyes never left the sensitive memo on his desk.
"They squiggle, though." John turned his head, creasing the material of Mycroft's trouser leg, expression bordering on wistful. "There are bits."
"Mmhmm." Putting a hand on the doctor's forehead, Mycroft pushed slightly, glancing a look at the doctor's face. No change there - mouth still slack and drooling, eyes still dilated.
He was going to kill his brother.
Then possibly dig him up, reanimate him, and kill him again.
"I warned you," Mycroft chastised, relaxing his fingers and allowing John's head to loll onto his lap. "I told you, any unlabeled container is fair game."
"Mmm. Like Monopoly."
"...yes. Exactly."
“Harry always cheated."
"I know."
"There are llamas under your chair."
"Just ignore them and they'll go away."
John made a small content noise and burrowed his face deeper into the man's thigh. Mycroft sighed impatiently and rested his hand upon John's hair, patting lightly.
"Ah, Sherlock," he said cheerfully, not looking up as the detective stalked in and slammed the door behind him. "Nice of you to join us."
"All right, Mycroft, where have you taken him this time?” Sherlock snarled. “I swear, every time I turn around..." He trailed off as he caught sight of John, kneeled by Mycroft's feet, head tilted dangerously close to his groin.
The detective's eyes narrowed. "I see. Am I interrupting something?"
"Oh, nothing important. Your friend is simply coming down from a rather nasty high, caused by what appears to be a mixture of marijuana and LSD. But," he continued, his trained eye expertly catching the minute twitch of guilt across Sherlock's face, "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
Sherlock frowned and huffed. "I told him. I warned him before I went out--"
"Apparently not well enough." Mycroft's tone took a sharp edge. "While you were out gallivanting, Dr. Watson was stumbling down York Terrace, licking streetlamps and barking at pigeons."
"They had poison barbs," John mumbled sleepily. "Long necks. Nasty puce colour."
"Ssh."
"Well." Sherlock responded coldly. "Thank you for watching over him and for once again not informing me of his whereabouts. Not that I would be worried or anything; I mean, it's not as though John hasn't been kidnapped twice already--oh, wait, he has, so I'd appreciate if you keep me in the know next time."
There was a soft snore, and both brothers glanced over to John. He was out cold.
"You have to admit," Sherlock said, with a slight sneer, "The diabolical cat-petting does cement your image as a deranged criminal mastermind."
"Hilarious, Sherlock." Mycroft gently tilted the doctor's head and noted the thick line of drool down his trouser leg. "You're paying for the dry-cleaning.”