The Case of the Meddling Siblings [BBC Sherlock - Johnlock]

1.2

"God, they're indecently happy about people being murdered," Harry said, standing just inside the doorway of Mycroft's spy headquarters and yawning. The room was small, but not cozy -- a single table with two chairs sat in the middle of walls of screens on all sides, just a meter or so away in any direction. A high, dark ceiling and a lack of lighting other than a few dim sconces (to avoid glare on the screens? she wondered) completed the room's ominous feel. The only concession to comfort was a thick Oriental carpet, which Harry dug her bare toes into as she watched John and Sherlock from several angles on various monitors, listening to their surround sound conversation.

Mycroft turned to look at her over his shoulder and arched an eyebrow. "How well do you know your brother?"

"Yeah, all right -- guess I've known he was a morbid bugger ever since he signed up to dissect dead bodies in med school," she said, cracking a grin. "The army and Sherlock Holmes haven't made matters any better, though."

She stood a long moment, contemplating the strange man who was her host. He wasn't as much of a blighter as Sherlock was -- at least not in any obvious ways, like saying horrible things to your face -- but he seemed to be at least as cold and calculating. And even though he claimed to be looking out for her little brother, she didn't necessarily believe it. Which was part of why she was still here, despite the weirdness of the whole situation -- to watch out for John's best interests.

Also kipping in a far nicer bed than she would have managed to find of her own accord.

And, okay, she was hardly about to pass up the chance to observe up close the wacky hijinks of her brother and his bizarre live-in detective. If John's blog was entertaining, how much better would this be?

She shuffled over and slouched into a chair next to Mycroft, trying not to feel self-conscious of her disheveled t-shirt and shorts she sported next to his impeccable suit. No point in letting him intimidate her, though. She put her feet up on the table and ignored his disapproving glance.

"How did you sleep?"

"Oh, I slept terrifically well," she lied cheerfully, hoping he wasn't as observant as his brother. Her eyes couldn't look that good at this point, but she didn't feel like talking about it. "Your guest bed is very comfortable." That much was true -- and hey, if she was going to spend a night tossing and turning with occasional bonus bouts of crying, might as well be a cushy one. "Sorry I'm late to the party."

Mycroft shook his head. "It's not a concern. You haven't missed much -- they're only a half hour outside the city."

She nodded. "Good. Oh, and cheers for the breakfast waiting for me this morning. Very in keeping with the 'posh hotel' vibe you've got going on here. What is that you do, anyway, that supports this sort of lifestyle, and all of this?" She tried to sound casual as she waved at the wall of monitors, and to not let her desperate curiosity seep through into her voice.

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. It reminded her of Sherlock's smile, when he was talking to Harry -- when he was talking to most people who weren't John, or Mrs. Hudson. "I occupy a minor role in the British government. A rather boring one, I'm afraid, that leaves me too much time to think about my wayward brother."

"Ah," she said, a bit skeptical. "Well, I admit I got peckish in the middle of the night and went exploring... why are all the doors around here shut and locked?"

Mycroft tilted his head and stared at her a long moment. "It cuts down on dust."

She stared back. "Uh-huh."

She swung her feet back down to the floor. Gathering her hair into a haphazard bun, she grabbed a pen from the table in front of Mycroft and shoved it through her locks, holding them in place. Mycroft shot her a look of something approaching horror. "What?" she frowned. "You weren't using it. Okay, so tell me about this setup. How are you pulling off this Creepster-Vision thing?"