Ginger with a Chance of Freckles - Part 3
Title: Ginger with a chance of Freckles
Summary: "Why did you never tell me about your brother Martin?" demanded John gesturing to the exhausted pilot sleeping on their sofa.
"I talk about him all the time," snapped Sherlock, "I even named the skull after my little brother."
Life, love and sibling rivalries of three unique brothers: Mycroft, Sherlock and Sherringford “I-go-by-Martin-Crieff-now” Holmes.
Genre: Humour/Romance
Words: 2418
Rating: PG - 13
Pairings: John/Sherlock, Mycroft/Anthea, Martin/Molly
Chapter 3: Big Brother and Even Bigger Brother
The “travelling lemon” was squished beyond repair but there was a pleasant citrus aroma slowly spreading through the living room, helping to mask the smell of half cooked eyeballs. Sherlock was nonchalantly making Martin coffee - “I want coffee too, John,” - whilst the pilot fussed over his sodden hat.
Martin was indeed ginger - very ginger - and if John looked closely enough he could almost see faint freckles adorning the pilot’s pale features. Personality wise, John could not believe that Martin Crieff was related to Sherlock Holmes. They were polar opposites in every respect: where Sherlock was cool and confident, Martin was bumbling and unsure. Even having spent only half an hour with the man, John realised Martin had a deep yearning for the approval that Sherlock and Mycroft simply expected as their due.
Sherlock busied himself preparing coffee and biscuits in the kitchen, whilst John chatted amiably with Martin. The detective seemed perfectly content to this particular domestic chore on this occasion despite being absolutely terrible at domesticity when only John was around. It didn’t take a consulting detective see Sherlock’s poorly disguised affection for Martin.
However their peaceful domestic arrangement fell apart when Mycroft Holmes let himself into the flat, unannounced, and strolled straight into the living room as if he owned the place.
“Martin,” said Mycroft sounding for the first time in John’s hearing, genuinely happy to see another human being. The feeling wasn’t mutual: Martin looked less than impressed by his eldest brother’s presence.
“I know Sherlock hasn’t bothered feeding you,” continued Mycroft without acknowledging anyone else’s presence, “I’ve got a tabled booked for us at the Ivy; I know how much you like the truffles.”
John stared inquisitively at the fumbling pilot who looked like he wanted to retort but couldn’t find the courage to do so.
“I don’t like the truffles anymore,” snapped Martin after several seconds of incoherent grumbling noises.
“Well, I know that you still cannot resist their Peach Melba,” replied Mycroft jovially.
To John’s surprise, Mycroft calmly stepped passed Sherlock and pulled Martin to his feet. In a gesture both efficient and tender, Mycroft straighten out his brother’s uniform and produced from his leather briefcase a new pilot’s cap - much more tastefully decorated than the original.
“I bought you a present, as congratulations on becoming an airline captain,” said Mycroft softly.
Martin’s face instantly changed from disgruntled sibling to utterly adoring younger brother.
“It’s brilliant,” he said beaming.
“Put it on and we’ll go to dinner,” suggested Mycroft indulgently.
“Don’t do it!” snapped Sherlock suddenly lurching out of the kitchen with Martin’s coffee in one hand and a knife in the other, “you’ll never get away from him again. You’ll have to stay with Mycroft for the next three days.”
Sherlock made the idea sound like an extended sentence in Guantanamo Bay but John thought dinner at a posh restaurant and living in a luxurious London townhouse was worth paying the price of Mycroft’s company.
“No -,” said Martin sounding rather unsure, “I’ll make my way back to Baker Street afterwards...”
“Now, Martin,” said Mycroft, sounding very much like a stern father, “As you can see, Sherlock and John do not have much room in their flat. You don’t want to be a burden to them, do you?”
“Stop manipulating him,” snarled Sherlock, “Sherry is old enough to stay where he wants and he wants to stay with me.”
“And sleep on your...sofa?” asked Mycroft gesturing delicately to the well worn and much stained couch.
“In my bed, it’s a double,” snapped Sherlock immediately.
Mycroft’s expression changed from mild distain to what John could only describe as a cultured sneer.
“Your room,” replied Mycroft tapping his umbrella against the closed door, “is currently covered with plastic bags full of human remains,”
John really didn’t want to know how Mycroft discovered this particular fact without even setting foot behind the firmly shut door to Sherlock’s room, though he did make a mental note to check the entire flat for hidden cameras once Mycroft was safely out of the building.
“I am going to move them,” hissed Sherlock through gritted teeth.
Martin, the smallest Holmes, was clutching his new pilot’s hat and looking decidedly distressed as he gazed from one brother to the other. John felt a twinge of sympathy for the young man caught in the middle of this embittered feud. When an unstoppable force meets an unmoveable object, there isn’t much room for anyone trapped in middle.
“Look guys - seriously if you’re going to argue I’ll go back and stay at the Holiday Inn,” stuttered Martin.
“No!” snapped both Sherlock and Mycroft in unison. Martin curled back like a frightened hedgehog at their outburst causing identical expression of regret to blossom across his brothers’ features.
“You’re hardly ever here, Martin,” said Mycroft soothingly, “I just want to spend some time with you.”
“I’ve already made you coffee,” said Sherlock gently holding out the cup of steaming brown liquid.
With the combined force of the two cleverest minds in the country bearing down on him, Martin whimpered and sat back down the sofa.
“Why don’t we all go to dinner at the Ivy?” suggested Mycroft, diplomatically, “John? It would save you the hassle of cooking,”
“Oh now you decided to acknowledge my existence,” replied John sarcastically, “I feel honoured.”
“No-one is going to dinner with you,” snapped Sherlock, suddenly reverting back to his usual acrid personality, “John is going to make beef casserole for us.”
John glared at Sherlock and wondered just when the detective had started presuming John’s domestic services were wholly for his benefit. John did make a lot of meals which Sherlock just happened to end up eating but he didn’t cook for Sherlock.
“You know Mycroft’s right - I would like to eat at the Ivy. If you don’t want to come Sherlock, you can microwave some eyeballs for dinner.”
Without another word, John grabbed his coat and headed out to the luxurious black Rolls-Royce waiting silently outside the front door. A uniformed chauffeur diffidently opened the passenger door for him.
“Well, there are definitely perks to having Martin Crieff around,” thought John as he settled into the polished leather seats, “Mycroft would never kidnapped me in such a nice car!”
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