Sherlock: One Shots & Headcanons

My, You're Sher Fighting Hard: One Shot

"Brother mine." Mycroft noted that his younger was playing 'Waltz for John and Mary' from the music sheet on the stand.

Sherlock Holmes turned his curly head. The violin music ceased as he took his last bow off the instrument. As he was doing this, he couldn't help but slide it across the strings to make a loud, unpleasent screeching noise. To his satisfaction, the elder Holmes brother grimaced.

"You shouldn't have done it." Mycroft said after his face relaxed into its regular resting bitch expression. Sherlock, ever the stubborn bull, rolled his eyes.

"Do you have any idea of the concequences?" Mycroft asked coldly.

"The concequences of you annoying me? You do that every day." Sherlock started twiddling with his bow.

Mycroft's jaw tightened a little. Sherlock noticed.

"It's more serious than that, brother mine." Sherlock began putting his violin back into its case. He snorted. The corners of Mycroft's mouth turned down in annoyance.

"Oh, sure." Sherlock replied.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." Mycroft gritted through his teeth.

"Umbrella Mycroft Cake Holmes," he snapped.

Nothing rubbed him the wrong way like his little brother making fun of what he liked.

"Why you little -"

"I'm related to you. There's no worse insult than that." Sherlock retorted, even though in his heart he didn't mean it.

Mycroft held out his umbrella. This was the end of the line.

...

"Leave my flat, Mycroft!" Sherlock's baritone voice rang out faintly behind the locked door of 221b Baker Street. Dr. John Hamish Watson frowned. His arm ached slightly under the load of groceries he was carrying. Being away from Afghanistan made him softer, but he wasn't complaining.

He put the key into the lock, trying to balance his grocery bag heard a faint banging noise at regular intervals. There was the sound of scuffle and scrambling, and the odd loud crash. What on Earth were these two doing?

"Chirst! Sherlock - Mycroft - what the actual fu --"

"Ack!" Mycroft cried as he swung his umbrella at Sherlock, countered by swinging his violin bow.

The Holmes boys were swordfighting using their weapons of choice - or rather violin bow-fighting. (Or would that be umbrella fighting?)

"Get out of my flat!" roared Sherlock, hopping on the couch. He stood in defense postion, his long, hard weapon ready.

John stood in the doorway to the living room, dumbfounded and still armed with the groceries. Mycroft, oblivious to John's persence, charged at Sherlock. He was rather agile for a man who loved cake.
"Stop that, both of you!" John yelled.

The Holmes boys didn't listen. The umbrella and violin bow clanged together, making an 'X' in the air. Sherlock bared his teeth in concentration as he put pressure on it. They both tried to disable the other by knocking their weapon out their hands.

"No cheating, Will," Mycroft winced a bit. Sherlock had kicked his shin. Sherlock snarled at the use of his first name.

"John, get me my revovler!" Sherlock yelled, although he knew John had been standing there for a while.

"No!" John cried, putting the groceries down.

"You're just bluffing," Mycroft said at the same time, taking another swing at Sherlock. Sherlock dove off the couch and somersaulted past the coffee table. Mycroft missed him entirely.

He got to his feet, his elder brother advancing toward him. Someone had to intervene.

John stepped foward slowly. The Holmes brothers were locked in an intense stare, neither one moving. Sherlock's back was arched, his blue-grey eyes wide and completative with his violin bow in his hand, making him look like a large desert cat ready to pounce on its prey. Mycroft's face showed equal analytical thoughts, not unlike his usual expression, running at a million miles a second.

Just as John was about to get in between the warring pair, Sherlock charged at Mycroft. The umbrella and the bow slammed together again, renewing the battle.

"Girls! Stop fighting!" John cried.

"Mummy is so upset with you," Mycroft said, blocking his little brother's blow. Sherlock feinted left, switching the bow to his right hand.

"Don't you have cake to eat?"

"You ate it!"

"What?" Sherlock was caught off guard. Mycroft's umbrella smacked his shoulder. He winced slightly, as an old injury - one he sustained from the two years he was "dead" - throbbed.

"I trusted you with my cake, and you ate it!" Mycroft snapped.

"...wait, you mean the cake that was on the table?" John asked, his brow furrowing.

"Yes!" Mycroft replied imptiently.

"I put it on the table. I had to put some hands in the fridge." Sherlock put in.

Mycroft sighed, as if he should've been expecting that. Sherlock shot a hurt look to John. Mycroft looked betrayed.

"Whoa, I didn't eat it," John replied quickly, putting his hands up.

"Well fairies couldn't have eaten it," Sherlock muttered.

"Then who ate it?!" Mycroft yelped, hearing him.

"If you're so concerned about finding your cake, call Inspector Lestrade. He probably doesn't have anything better to do," the younger Holmes snapped.

"Whoo-whoo!" Mrs. Hudson called, walking in with a tray. On the silver tray was a lovely tea set with a stylized map of the British Isles. And there was also -

"My cake?" Mycroft asked in surprise. John's face relaxed and Sherlock nearly laughed.

"Yes, it was just sitting there on the counter so I thought you boys -- Oh! What happened in here? Were you boys fighting? Are you all right? Was it over John?" She asked looking around worriedly.

"Why would they fight over me?" John frowned.

"We're fine Mrs. Hudson. Sorry." Sherlock put his violin bow down, strangely still intact, to his relief.

"Anyway," she continued, "I found this cake sitting there on the counter all alone, so I decided to cut it up & give it to you boys at tea." She set it down on the table. Sherlock headed over to help unload the tray.

That day in 221B, there were no more fights over cake, although there was a lot of bickering between Mycroft and Sherlock.