Characters: Mycroft, John, Sherlock
Prompt: 100. Under the Influence
Word Count: ~440
Rating: R for language
Summary: From a prompt at the sherlockbbc_fic kinkmeme:
John returns home to be faced by Mycroft who's strecthing out on the sofa, smoking. When he asks what's wroing, Mycroft says, "Whatever. I'm fed up."
Author's Notes/Disclaimer: Silly little ficlet. The characters aren't mine. No offense meant to the actual Canadian High Commissioner.
John and Sherlock entered the flat in reasonably high spirits. Sherlock had managed not to alienate the entire police force while still remaining entertained and John had managed not to get shot at even once. It was an average, uncomplicated night, which is why, when they stumbled into the living room, giggling tiredly about something morbid, they were surprised to find someone stretched out on their sofa, smoking a cigarette.
“Mycroft?” John croaked, incredulous.
Sherlock ran his eyes over his brother’s prone form, taking in every small detail and trying to assimilate them into a working theory.
“Mmm.” Mycroft answered, waving his hand indistinctly at them.
“Mycroft, what’s wrong?” John asked, stepping forward tentatively.
“Whatever. I'm fed up.” Mycroft dropped his vaguely gesticulating arm to his chest and then craned his neck forward to take a drag of the cigarette without moving his hand again.
“The Canadian ambassador’s spiked your tea again, hasn’t she?” Sherlock deduced, nonplussed as always. “And those are my cigarettes.”
“The Canadian-?” John turned to Sherlock, “I thought you quit!”
“I have quit!” Sherlock grumped, “Doesn’t mean those aren’t my cigarettes.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch.” Mycroft rolled his eyes.
“You’re really, really high.” John offered his medical opinion.
“Couldn’t go hoooome.” Mycroft wailed in a curiously posh fashion, struggling to lift his head up to emphasize his point. “Security… something. Breach. Risk. I don’t fucking know. I need a fag.”
“You’ve got one.” John pointed out.
“Oh,” Mycroft looked down with some difficultly, surprised at the cigarette which was at that moment depositing a line of ash on his incredibly expensive suit, “So I have.”
“I’m going to bed.” Sherlock announced, “Don’t bother me until he’s stopped being an imbecile.” And with that, he stalked out of the room.
“You- D’you think,” Mycroft swallowed thickly, “I’m an imbecile?”
“I think you’re off your tits. It’s not deadly, is it?”
“Wasn’t last time.” Mycroft mumbled, staring intently at John’s trousers.
“Right. Well, I’m tired. I think I’m gonna go to bed.”
“Splendid idea. Help me up, would you?”
“No,” John shook his head, laughing slightly, “No, I meant alone. I’m going to my bed. You can stay here, that’s fine.”
Mycroft blinked slowly at John, and then frowned. “You don’t like me?”
“No! No, of course I like you, it’s just…” John hesitated, “I snore! Yes. Horrible, loud snores.”
“Me too!” Mycroft announced happily, struggling to sit up, “We’re perfect for each other!”
John sighed and closed his eyes, shoulders slumped in defeat. “Wonderful.”
Mycroft stubbed the cigarette out on the carpet and stood up, wobbling until John steadied him. “Smashing.” Mycroft grinned towards the floor.
That is all for now ♥