Coping

Chapter 9

Much to Sherlock's surprise, Moriarty had yet to bother him. Though the boy probably had a plan to dramatically demolish him or something like that, he had yet to even speak to Sherlock. Not one word had been said between the two of them in their almost three months at the same school. It should have been suspicious, but Sherlock was glad to be able to avoid the menace.

It was the first day of the holiday break. John would be returning home to his grandmother, but Sherlock would be at Wilhams, most likely snowed in, stuck with Mycroft and his boyfriend on Christmas Day. In all honesty, spending the holidays with Moriarty sounded appealing.

"Sherlock, it's snowing! It's actually snowing!" John called from the window.

Sherlock groaned and flipped onto his stomach. "Incredible. Now, will you kindly leave me alone?"

John did not listen. "Sherlock, I mean, the ground is white! There are actual snowflakes falling to the ground!"

Sherlock sighed loudly and sat up a fraction of an inch. "Is this surprising to you? You have seen snow before. Why are you so happy? Actually, no, I don't care. Be quiet and leave me alone," he huffed as he slammed his face back into his pillow.

Despite Sherlock's annoyed morning attitude, John neither stopped smiling nor stopped speaking. "No, I just really love the snow. I don't know - I guess it just makes it feel like Christmas, you know?" All that came in response from sherlock was a grunt. "It's eleven o'clock in the morning, Sherlock. You should really get up. I think your brother wants to talk to you."

"Then he can ruddy well come and find me." Sherlock said as he stomped his way to the bathroom. "I'll be in the shower. Don't bother me." And he slammed the door. John sighed; this was almost always how Sherlock acted in the morning, but after a shower he tended to settle down.

Sure enough, once Sherlock was out of the shower, he stood in the doorway and faced in the general direction of where John was sitting with his laptop. "He wants me to go to his room?" He asked shortly.

Surprised, John looked up. "Er, year. I think that's what he said." He didn't metion Sherlock's change of heart so as not to risk him getting stubborn and refusing again to meet with his brother. Sherlock stalked out of their room and shut the door loudly behind him.

---

Mycroft sat at his desk, tapping viciously at his mobile. It vibrated in his hand and he frowned at the reply, set the phone on the table, and let out a frustrated noise. Sherlock was refusing to reply to him and Mummy was asking over and over again if the boys would make it home for Christmas. Although he always replied with the same answer ("I'm afraid that's unlikely. It looks as if we are snowed in.") she kept asking questions. And then there was Sebastian Moran. He kept texting him - from unknown telephone numbers - cryptic messages. They were written in verse. Oh, how Mycroft hated poetry.

"Is everything alright over there?" Asked Greg from his bed, not actually looking up from his iPad until after several moments had passed without a reply. He lifted his head to see Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed and his breathing deep. This was how Mycroft attempted to compose himself when he was frustrated. "Well, if you need me, I'm right here," He offered.

Still no reply.

Mycroft could not deal with Gregory as a destraction at that moment. Sherlock was supposed to arrive soon and he still was not entirely sure what he was going to say to him, and he needed to think. Ignoring Gregory was the only choice he had right now, so of course his brain told him to speak. "Thank you, Gregory. I'm fine," he said, internally cursing himself for acknowledging his boyfriend. His eyes stayed shut. He knew what was going to happen next.