Royalty

Chapter 2: You Can Imagine The Christmas Dinners

The next day, we were paid a visit by Mycroft "definitely a minor position in the British Government" Holmes.

And if it's just a minor position he holds, I'll eat Sherlock's hat.

I hadn't met Mycroft yet, and I'm still unsure of whether it was a pleasure or not.

I heard the unfamiliar tread on the stairs and looked at Sherlock. "Who's that?" He listened for a moment, then rolled his eyes.

"My brother." He stood with an air of great reluctance and opened the door just before his brother entered the room. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

"May I come in?"

"No."

"Sherlock!" I reprimanded him from my seat at the table. He sighed.

"Fine." He opened the door to let Mycroft come in. My first impression of him was a strange mix of Minerva Mcgonagall and Mary Poppins (the original, of course).

Just by looking at him, I could see how important he was, but his expression betrayed absolutely nothing.

Sherlock grabbed his violin and sat down in his chair. "Astra, Mycroft, Mycroft, Astra."

" ... Yes." Mycroft looked less than pleased to meet me. Then again, he mostly looked less than pleased in general. His eyes flicked to meet mine, and his expression suggested he's used to people looking away from him when he makes eye contact. But I held his gaze.

He looked away with a sigh, taking John's chair. I carefully took my coffee and sat at Sherlock's desk.

"What do you want?" he repeated, idly plucking the strings on his violin.

"There's an extremely important case I need your help on."

"You need help? Please."

"I don't have the time to spare for this."

"Well, neither do I. If that's all --"

"Sherlock," both Mycroft and I said at the same time. Mycroft spared me another glance, but then continued. "This is serious. Take this."

"I'm just too busy, can't help it --"

"Sherlock, you don't have a single case. Not one, hence the wall," I said, gesturing at the happily mutilated smiley face. Sherlock shot me a glare.

Mycroft smiled slightly, and I have never seen a smile look quite so condescending. "There you are. You really do have to take this, Sherlock."

"What for?"

"Sherlock," I said again. "Come on."

"Why can't you handle it yourself?"

I heard loud footsteps coming up the stairs. "There's John," I muttered. Mycroft's eyes flicked to me again. John burst through the door.

"John," Sherlock acknowledged.

"I saw - on the telly. You both okay?" John asked, his breathing labored slightly.

"Oh, yeah. Gas leak."

"Apparently," I added. John nodded and one hand went up to his neck. "How was the sofa?"

"It was the lilo, Astra," Sherlock cut in.

"Sofa," Mycroft and I countered at the same time. Sherlock glanced at John again.

"Yes, of course," he said with an air of reluctance.

"How - nevermind." Sherlock looked back at Mycroft.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Why can't you do it yourself?"

"No - I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time, not with the Korean elections so --" he stopped suddenly, and my eyes flicked back to him. " -- well. You don't need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this requires ... legwork." His tone suggested that legwork was the most heinous sin of them all.

Sherlock absently plucked another string on his violin. "How's the diet?"

"Fine. Sherlock, take this case, it is of national importance." Mycroft stood, attempting to hand the manilla folder he was holding to Sherlock. Sherlock pointedly ignored him. Mycroft's eyes narrowed, but he sighed and instead handed the folder to me. I set down my coffee and took the folder. Mycroft now directed his words to John and I.

"Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends and fiance. A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea station this morning with his head smashed in."

"Jumped in front of a train?" John asked. I frowned.

"That -- seems the logical explanation," Mycroft granted.

"But?" John asked.

"But?" Mycroft asked curiously.

"Well -- you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident." Mycroft, Sherlock, and I all smirked.

"The MOD is working on a new missile defense system, the Bruce-Partington program, it's called. The plans were on a memory stick."

"That wasn't very clever," John noted. Both Sherlock and I smirked, and Mycroft's condescending smile took over again.

"It's not the only copy. But it is missing. And secret."

"Top secret?" I asked.

"Very," Mycroft affirmed, putting a lot of emphasis on the word. "We think West must have taken the memory stick. And we can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." He looked back at Sherlock. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

Sherlock raised his violin into position to play. "I'd like to see you try."

Mycroft sighed. "Goodbye, John. Astra. See you very soon." I gave a nod of acknowledgement, looking back down at the folder in my hands.

As Mycroft went to grab his coat Sherlock started playing a repetitively annoying sequence of notes and didn't stop until Mycroft was out the door.

I stood and grabbed his bow from him before he could add his finishing dramatic flourish.

"Hey!"

"Go on the case and you get the bow back." He stood up and tried to grab the bow back. I moved it out of his grasp.

"Give me my bow back."

"Go on the case!"

"Girls, calm down," John interceded. "Astra, give him his bow back before he bursts a blood vessel."

I sighed and held out the bow. Sherlock snatched it back. "Thank you."

John wasn't done. "Sherlock, why wouldn't you go on the case?"

"Why should I?" I looked back at John.

"Can I take the bow back?"

"No. Sherlock, unless the biggest case of your life shows up in the next hour, you're figuring out this missile program nonsense."

Sherlock's phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket pocket. "Sherlock Holmes. Of course. How could I refuse?" He hung up.

"Who was that?"

"Lestrade! I've been summoned. Are you coming?"

"If you want us to," I shrugged.

"Of course." He gave John a pointed look. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

I snorted and followed Sherlock and John out the door, grabbing my overcoat.