InsaneJournal

WHO: Sherlock Holmes & Mycroft Holmes
WHAT: Sherlock wakes up in Anna Marchant's body and decides to take advantage of his new form to get into City Hall.
WHEN: April 9th; morning
WHERE: City Hall; Mycroft's Office
RATING: PG
STATUS: Log; COMPLETE

Sherlock hadn’t known how to react when he had woken up in Anna’s body. First off, he’d not really understood how he’d broken out of jail in his sleep, and second, there were a few rather obvious inconsistencies in his form that came to his attention almost immediately. But even as he’d taken in the details about the flat that had given him some surprising insights on how she lives, it had been stepping outside of those four walls that had told him far more than he had ever expected to learn. Passing the people on the street, it wouldn’t be too much of an issue, but to come to someone that he actually had to interact with only to blink and find that there was something seemingly different standing before him had left Sherlock with a heavy burden in his gut. He’d never anticipated that it would be this difficult, and even as his instincts showed him the similarities in gait and stride, height and width, and all the various other details that he was able to pick up about a person, he had never realized just how much he had relied upon being able to glance away from all of those little things and confirm his own assumptions by the clear sight of the individual’s face until he couldn’t do that anymore. But even as he adjusted, tried to find some equilibrium in existing this way for however long it would be, he wasn’t about to let the advantage that it gave him go unused. Sherlock Holmes was restricted from entering City Hall, but nobody ever said Anna Marchant couldn’t. Striding into the building with absolutely no issues whatsoever, Sherlock did his best to keep his eyes to the ground as he went. It was too difficult, watching as the features and expressions shifted with each turn of his head, with so many people bustling about. Keeping his gaze on his feet just simplified his pathway directly to his brother’s office. Unfortunately, all he found was an empty room and an empty secretarial desk. Which meant, Sherlock realized with a dawning horror as he turned back to look at the assembled crowd, was that Mycroft was out there, somewhere, and he would have to sort him out of the rest of his employees without the aid of his brother’s familiar features. And most definitely, without the aid of that blasted umbrella he always carried. Mondays were always hectic for Mycroft and especially so following a holiday. There were meetings to attend, committees to oversee, and various other things that required his attention to keep the city running smoothly. Rarely, if ever, was he found in his office and this Monday was certainly no exception, particularly with the latest bout of insanity that had affected some of the residents of Colligo the night before. Of course, there were always people who didn't realise that his job didn't entail merely sitting about, signing papers and waiting for appointments to show up. So it really was no surprise to find a young woman waiting for him when he finally did manage to get back to his office. Flanked by a member of his security detail and one of the city council members who had stopped by to talk about what had happened to some members of the city overnight, Mycroft paused and studied the woman for a moment. She didn't look familiar - and he was quite good with faces - but that didn't mean he shouldn't know her in some capacity. "Something I can do for you, ma'am?" the member of his security detail asked, stepping forward to intercept the woman before she could get too close as was his job. Mycroft, meanwhile, turned his attention to the city council member and waited for him to finish glancing through the report he'd given him mere moments earlier. Either the woman would turn out to be there for a valid reason, and Mycroft would see her as soon as his meeting was finished, or she wouldn't and security would remove her. For the time being, until he knew one way or the other, he really wasn't paying her much mind. The voice was wrong. The actions wrong. Mycroft would never make the first move when there were other people about to do it for him. Sherlock glanced up at the man who had addressed him and frowned. No. This was just another lackey of Mycroft’s, likely his guard from the firm stance that he had and the way his was trying to assess his -- no, her, Sherlock suddenly reminded himself. To them, he likely seemed as though she were someone waiting for an appointment, so Sherlock didn’t see why he had to disappoint. -- purpose for being the building. Flashing the man a smile and trying his best not to seem as unsettled as the shift on this man’s features as he was internally, “I’m the Mayor’s ten thirty,” Sherlock said, even ounce of his ‘normal person’ effect seeping into Anna’s voice as he turned his gaze briefly towards the other two men. One of them had to be Mycroft, but government officials all did have to dress like bureaucratic clones, didn’t they? “I know I’m a bit early, but I’ve found that being a few minutes ahead of schedule is better than being a few minutes behind. I’m more than happy to wait, should it be necessary.” His ten thirty? Mycroft's brow furrowed ever so slightly at that claim. He didn't have a ten thirty. He had a ten o'clock - which was the gentlemen currently standing beside him - and he had an eleven o'clock. Of course, it was always possible she had misspoken and had meant eleven. However, he sincerely doubted that this woman was the head of the African American Equality League. Which meant that she was either severely mistaken, or she was lying. And then it hit him. The changes to certain residents in Colligo, the fact that he did not know this woman and yet she had found his office without anyone being asked (as he would have been informed if someone were asking to see him in reception), the obvious lie in an attempt to speak alone with him. The only part of the equation that wasn't measuring up was that she had yet to look at him and approach him directly, but that could always simply be good acting because the rest really did make it quite obvious to him just what was going on. Clearly, his younger brother had somehow wound up in the body of this female and was using it fully to his advantage. Thinking quickly, Mycroft cleared his throat and offered her a perfunctory smile. "Ah, yes," he spoke up. "No, that's quite all right, my dear. We were just finishing up here." With a turn of his head to the city councilman beside him, he murmured, "I'm certain you find the information more than meets your needs?" At the man's quick assurance that yes, most definitely, Mycroft smiled once more. "Splendid. Mr. Travers will show you out. If you'll excuse me." And with that, he stepped away from the other two gentlemen, opened his office door, and motioned for the woman he was now rather convinced was Sherlock to step inside. "After you, my dear. I insist." Sherlock turned his head at the voice, his eyes darting briefly between the two men in front of him before he relaxed. That was definitely Mycroft, and as he stepped forward, there was a relaxation that spread through Sherlock’s entire body as he quickly noted the outfit, making clear to take particular note of the things which made it differ from the other suits milling about this place, before flashing Mycroft a thankful, yet still altogether fake, smile for the benefit of the other two gentlemen press as he turned on his heel and stepped into the office, waiting for Mycroft to follow him inside and close the door. What Sherlock had to say needed to be done well outside of the earshot of any of Mycroft’s assembled lackeys. Once the woman was inside his office, Mycroft followed suit without any preamble. In the few seconds since he'd reached his hypothesis, he had all but verified that it must be true. It really was the only logical - or as logical as his brother suddenly being female could hope to be, at least - conclusion. So once he was inside the office as well, he wasted no time in confirming his suspicions in what might be considered a less than professional way of doing so. Ensuring the door was firmly shut as well as locked, Mycroft casually turned to the woman standing there and said in a tone that was scarcely as accommodating as it had been moments earlier, "Really, Sherlock. Lying to a public official, misrepresenting yourself in an attempt to gain access to areas where you are prohibited, and not informing the chief of police that you are no longer incarcerated as you are meant to be while an innocent woman sits in a jail cell for crimes she did not commit? This is all a bit much, even for you." “You say that like each of those things isn’t something I’ve done before,” Sherlock replied without missing a beat. It wasn’t surprising that his brother had figured him out before he’d had any time to really say his piece, but at least Mycroft was speaking to him without the words being an instant demand for him to get out. That was progress in Sherlock’s mind even if it had to be made at the expense of Anna sitting in jail for a few more hours than necessary. Turning to look back at his brother and wincing slightly at the scattered assembly of features on the man’s face, his heart aching briefly with a desire to see what he was so used to, Sherlock took a deep breath and looked his brother straight in the eye. “Besides. You weren’t going to speak to me any other way. What was I supposed to do? Let the opportunity pass?” He asked before turning and leaning against Mycroft’s desk, crossing his arms over Anna’s chest with the sort of sudden awkward difficulty that came with having parts he wasn’t used to. He couldn’t even emphasize his points in the way he was used to. “Besides, I’m not going to just let her rot. The arraignment isn’t for another hour. I’ll be back at the station before then.” Truth be told, Mycroft would have been far more irritated if the situation weren't so utterly ridiculous. Yes it was true he was still quite angry with Sherlock and he really did want to simply tell him to leave and be done with it, however seeing the way his brother was clearly struggling to express himself in a body he was not at all accustomed to being in somehow made his anger not quite as tangible as it would have been otherwise. Still. Just because he wasn't going to toss Sherlock out on his now rather dainty-looking ear didn't mean he was going to make it easy for him. Or, rather, her, as the case happened to be currently. "How very odd," he drawled as he crossed the room to his desk. "One would think you would be rather pleased to be rid of my... how did you put it? Meddlesome, overbearing ways?" Idly he rearranged a few papers, signing one with a flourish before peering back up his brother. His expression was carefully neutral as he pointed out, "You know, Sherlock, typically when someone tells you that they do not wish to speak with you, forcing the issue is scarcely going to behoove them to change their mind." “And letting it sit isn’t going to change anything either,” Sherlock said, frowning as he turned around and plopped himself down in one of the chairs in front of the desk. He looked back up at Mycroft and looked away immediately, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. This would be easier if he could just focus on his brother’s voice and picture his face the way that he remembered it being. But he was even having trouble doing that. “I know you’re mad,” Sherlock said. “But you’re not just supposed to shut down when you’re angry at me. You’re supposed to tell me why, what I did, what I said. You’re supposed to yell. You’re supposed to take my fiddly little brush off understanding of the situation for what it really is, and you’re supposed to let it go. You’re not supposed to do this. You’re...not supposed to cut me out,” Sherlock said, the words coming out in a rush, and even as Sherlock tried to restrict his voice and tone to try and hide the desperation and confusion in it, he was having a hard time managing such a thing with a voice that he wasn’t used to controlling. “You’re meddlesome, Mycroft. But it’s fine...as long as you are in the ways that I don’t mind you being.” Oh for the love of... honestly. Only Sherlock was capable of being the one to do something he shouldn't then somehow blame it on someone else entirely. Struggling not to roll his eyes at the sheer absurdity that this was all his fault for not having dared react the way his brother had intended, Mycroft instead focused not on his exasperation but rather on his anger. It helped keep him centered. Helped to remind him why he had cut his brother from his life in the first place. Was it an extreme reaction to Sherlock's typical bratty behaviour? Perhaps. However Mycroft wasn't in the least bit apologetic. Lips pressed into a thin line, he took a seat behind his desk and eyed his brother for a long moment. When Sherlock finally seemed to be through speaking, he simply said in a flat tone, "I warned you what would happen. The fact that you chose to continue to insult Ms. Potts was of your own doing. As was your decision to compromise an investigation in an attempt to gain my attention. My reaction may have been a touch extreme, and certainly unexpected on your part, but it was scarcely faulty as you would like to believe it to be. You've no one to blame but yourself, dear brother." Leaning a bit forward, palms flat against his desk, he tacked on, "Frankly, Sherlock, it's time you grew up." “What for?” Sherlock snapped, gaze shooting up to Mycroft’s as he looked at his brother, trying to place the familiar face in his mind’s eyes over the one he was confronted with. “What good is that going to do anyone? I was doing just fine until you started this whole thing! You know I don’t mean what I say in anger, Mycroft, and you know that telling me to stop saying it only makes me want to say it even more! Maybe if you stop expecting me to be you, you could move on from thinking I need to grow up and actually appreciate what I am instead! Do you think you could try that, Mycroft? Maybe for once?” Sherlock huffed before slumping back in his seat with a slight scowl on his face. “It’s not like I even know your secretary well enough to be able to tell whether she’s dull or not. Stop taking everything I say so seriously.” That was the final straw. As Sherlock continued to try to put this back off onto him, Mycroft felt his tenuous hold over his temper finally snap. While it was true that he was capable of being exceedingly cold and emotionally unavailable, was quite adept at both really, he did happen to have quite a temper on him. It just so happened that Sherlock was one of the very few capable of causing it to flare. "This is not about me, Sherlock!" he all but shouted, his anger causing each word to come out clipped and hardened. "I came to you out of concern for your involvement with a woman who very nearly was your undoing before and your response, in typical fashion, was to insult both myself as well as those I choose to associate with. And when I finally decide that I have had enough after years of verbal jabs and petulant temper tantrums, you decide to risk your life by consuming drugs in some futile attempt to get my attention and quite possibly ruin what laughable attempt you have at a career in the process! Why would I possibly appreciate such behaviour in anyone I know, much less my own brother?" Surging to his feet, Mycroft leaned forward until he was very nearly across his desk entirely. "I do not expect you to be me, Sherlock," he seethed. "I simply expect you to act your age rather than carry on like some unkempt, entirely selfish, spoiled brat!" Mycroft was yelling at him. This was better. This was much more like he was used to. Even as he felt quelled in his seat by the force of his brother’s anger, Sherlock couldn’t deny the spark of delight that rose in his chest. Now that Mycroft was getting this all out in the open, they could get to the nub of it and then put it behind them. Glancing up at his big brother, Sherlock shrugged a bit before smiling, “I was doing all right,” He said simply. “Before this. I was doing all right. Maybe I have my eccentricities and my behaviors that people don’t appreciate, but I was managing,” He said. “And besides,” Sherlock said, reaching up and adjusting his brother’s tie with a playful smile, “verbals jabs are just what we do.” Had Sherlock simply left well enough alone and said his bit, Mycroft might have let that be that. Yes, he would have still been angry but it would have been the sort of anger born from frustration that Sherlock was quite accustomed to dealing with. However the moment his brother, in that ridiculous female form, reached out and straightened his tie, Mycroft felt something inside of him shift and not, necessarily, for the better. Ever since Sherlock had been a very small boy, Mycroft had made it his job to look out for him. That certainly hadn't changed when he'd reached adulthood but, rather, had increased as his brother had become quite fascinated with drugs and other behaviours most definitely unbecoming a Holmes. Once Sherlock had gotten off the drugs and began working with the police, Mycroft had allowed him some of the freedom that came with being a contributing member of society. However he had never stopped being protective, never stopped watching out for his younger brother, and certainly never stopped caring. And no matter how much Sherlock had fought against that caring, Mycroft had remained steadfast in his dedication to ensuring his brother lived the best life he was capable of living. Now, however, he'd had enough. It was said that every man had his breaking point and, more often than not, it was something rather miniscule that caused someone to reach the end of their tether. Mycroft, for all of his ability to shut off his emotions, apparently was no different. For the instant Sherlock flashed him that smile and attempted to make light of his anger, Mycroft did something he had never once before done. He refused to rise to the bait. Jerking away from the touch, Mycroft rose to his full height and met his brother's gaze with an icy stare. Then, in an eerily quiet and composed tone, stated calmly, "I've wasted quite enough of my life with petty arguing that accomplishes nothing and you are wasting both your time as well as mine." Expression hardened, he raised his chin a notch and tacked on, "Now, you have precisely thirty seconds to leave my office before I have you arrested for trespassing and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law." No. NO. NO. The yelling was good. The yelling was progress. Why did Mycroft have to go quiet again? Sherlock felt his stomach drop as Mycroft jerked away from him, his eyes shifting up to his brother’s face, the features though shifted still showing every bit of the tightly composed rage seething behind them, as Sherlock stood, the fear and pain in his brother’s last few words flickering across his own face before he swallowed hard and stood. “No,” He said, even though there was a slight vibration in his voice. “No. No. I’m not going anywhere. You can call your guards and have them drag me out for all I care, but I am not leaving this office of my own accord because that means I’m giving up. Tell me what I did so we can fix this,” Sherlock said, his voice getting horribly quiet as he looked at his brother with a fearful, pleading look. “Please.” Ultimately, it was the 'please' that kept Mycroft from contacting security on the spot. Not quite an apology but certainly not something Sherlock said often, that singular word carried far more weight than the finest composed soliloquy could ever hope to contain. It reminded Mycroft of the days of their youth, when Sherlock couldn't understand why the other schoolchildren were so terrible toward him and would plead for an explanation that made sense - an explanation that Mycroft had scarcely been able to provide however much he'd desperately wanted to do so. The problem was, Mycroft had no easy answer available for this situation either. He could scarcely force his brother to take responsibility for his actions or see the error in his ways, and to point out such things would ensure Sherlock never did so on his own. With a shake of his head, Mycroft turned his attention to the paperwork spread out before him. "There are some things," he said slowly, looking back up at his brother, "that simply cannot be fixed by benefit of others. This, I believe, is one of them." He sighed softly and sat back a bit in his chair. "I'm very tired, Sherlock," he admitted quietly. "I have spent the entirety of my adult life doing everything within my power, utilising every connection I have made, ensuring your well-being. Yet at every single turn, I have been met with nothing but ridicule and contempt, with no attempt made on your part to see to it that my efforts were not in vain." Sitting up straight, he rested his forearms on his desk as he continued. "You are, arguably, an adult. Your decisions are your own and it is time that I realised as much." “By ignoring me?” Sherlock asked as he sat back down. His brother hadn’t called the guards to come drag him out. That was something, at least, but how long it would last, he wasn’t really sure. Mycroft could change his mind at any time. The second he said something wrong, Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if he was hauled from the room by individuals covertly summoned by the push of an under the desk button. But he could take this for what it was for as long as it lasted: a chance to at least try and pinpoint what it was that he’d screwed up to start the dominoes falling. “I didn’t mean it, you know,” Sherlock said quietly. “What I said about Ms. Potts. I don’t even know her well enough to say one way or the other, but I was just being defensive and trying to hurt you. I know the risks, Mycroft. Not...that it really matters one way or the other since what you contacted me over never even happened. I was so busy trying to get you to stop ignoring me that everything I had planned went right out the window.” Raising a hand to rake over his face, Sherlock looked back up at his brother before closing his eyes again. God, he was really starting to see why Anna got so mad at him for what he’d said about her affliction when they’d first run into each other. This was maddening, utterly and completely maddening, to watch the person he was talking to transform every time he took his eyes off of them, his knowledge that they hadn’t changed being grounded only in the understanding that nobody had walked in or out of this room in the time that he’d been sitting here. “And now, this has happened,” Sherlock said. “And I don’t think I’ll be seeing her until this is over and done with. It’s hard enough talking to you right now without feeling like my brain is about to explode. I do just want you to understand, Mycroft, that I can make my own decisions. And yes, sometimes they will be absolutely horrible ones, but they’ll be mine. And just because I...pick on you doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate you or want you around. It’s just... It’s what we do, isn’t it?” The problem with all of this was that Sherlock was right. The verbal sparring was what they did. It was how they communicated, far more often than not. And, in some ways, it was how they showed they cared. So he certainly could understand his brother’s confusion and upset at having that taken away. Particularly when Sherlock all but clung to what he considered the status quo of things in his life and very much assumed they would always be there. However Mycroft also knew that he was doing what was necessary for both of them. It wasn’t his place to continue to be his brother’s keeper. He had tried, so very, very hard, and all it had eventually done was lead to Sherlock’s untimely demise. Had he not meddled, had he not been so incredibly certain he could best Moriarty, his brother would be as alive back home as he was here and now. And that, ultimately, was what had made him make the decision he was now trying this very best to stick with. True, it had taken the insulting of Pepper before he had been willing to make that decision into an action but, really, it had been coming no matter what. Sherlock just hadn’t realised it. With a soft sigh as the topic of Irene Adler was brought up, Mycroft rested his elbows on the armrests of his chair, steepled his fingers, and placed them before his lips as he waited for his brother to finish. He supposed he should be touched that the dominatrix had been ignored simply because of him. Idly, he wondered, if he’d taken such actions back home, whether or not things might have turned out very differently. But that was neither here nor there and, while he was very grateful to know his brother had not spent an entire weekend with a woman he was certain was going to be the man’s undoing, Mycroft knew that changed nothing. Finally he spoke, several long seconds after Sherlock had finished. “Yes,” he agreed. “That is what we do. Or, rather, what we did.” He shook his head, sitting straight in his seat and moving his hands to his desk. His gaze remained fixated on the feminine features his brother currently wore, his expression clouded. “I had no intention of keeping your number blocked forever, you know,” he finally admitted. “That was merely a way of ensuring that I did not speak with you until I’d had time to consider all of the options available.” He paused, a glimmer of something equal to sorrow crossing his face before the typical stoic expression he wore was once again prominent. “However, you must realise you cannot have it both ways. You cannot expect me to arrive at your whim to assist you in whatever debacle you’ve gotten yourself into yet continue to be incensed when I take measures to prevent such a debacle in the future. It was all well and good in our younger years, perhaps, but that time has passed.” Then he paused, head tilting slightly as curiosity finally got the better of him. “And although I certainly don’t mean to change the subject, I really must ask. What is it like, being unable to rely on facial recognition? Prosopagnosia really is a rather fascinating disorder but very little is known about it.” Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about Mycroft expressing that idea that that was what they did. Sherlock didn’t like change. There were few alterations in his life that he had ever taken to positively, particularly when it came to things that had been set and fixed for such a long time, so as he stared across the desk at his brother, he tried to take in what Mycroft was saying without having such a negative knee-jerk reaction to it. “I didn’t know that,” Sherlock admitted after a moment to Mycroft’s comment about not intending to block his number forever. “You’d never reacted like that before. Quiet furious I’m used to. I don’t like it, but I know what it means. But when you added in ignoring that that, Mycroft, I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t know where it was going, and John wouldn’t let me use his damn phone so I had to go to extremes,” Sherlock said, looking up at Mycroft with a sigh. “It’s not like I hurt anybody.” Nobody other than himself. He had disappointed a great many people who had relied on him and embarrassed himself in front of those that he had come to call colleagues in this place. He had definitely earned himself at the very least a suspension from his work with the police force, and he would likely have to sit through yet another tedious intervention on behalf of his family and friends who were concerned about his addiction issues. And he only had himself to blame for all of that. “And I don’t...” Sherlock started before stopping in the middle of that sentence as he realized he was about to lie. He did expect Mycroft to still come to his aid when he screwed up seriously. It wasn’t a conscious expectation, but it was one that had been ingrained in him, that if he made a serious mistake that his big brother would be there to try and sort it out at the end of the day come hell or high water, and as Sherlock blinked at Mycroft, he frowned. “All right. Maybe I expect it...a little. But I like the debacle, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, the playful smile not really looking quite right on features that weren’t his own. “I just don’t like cleaning up after myself.” The smile was gone, though, at Mycroft’s last question. It wasn’t surprising that his brother had noticed and puzzled it out without any experimentation. Mycroft was always much better with people than he was. Mustering up a sheepish smile, Sherlock raised a hand to scrub over his face as he laughed, “I think I owe Anna a rather huge apology. This is much more maddening than I imagined it would be.” Although there was still much more to discuss, if he were being entirely honest with himself at least, Mycroft really had had quite enough for the time being. He'd explained to his brother where he stood and what his decision was going to be. He has reassured him, in their unique way, that he didn't despise him and wasn't cutting him out of his life indefinitely. And although he knew Sherlock would never quite understand his reasons nor what had caused him to finally make the decision, Mycroft felt fairly certain he also wasn't going to do anything else ridiculously dramatic to get his attention anymore. That, alone, was progress and he would take what he could get in that regard. So rather than returning to what was truly the topic of conversation, Mycroft instead gave his brother a thin smile and replied mildly, "I believe you will owe her far more than a mere apology if you do not see to it that she is released from jail for poor decision-making on your part." Which, in short, meant that he really did feel it was time for Sherlock to go take responsibility for his actions. Or, at the very least, leave his office. What his brother did beyond that was not under his control... as much as he despised admitting such a thing, even to himself. Turning his attention to the pile of paperwork before him, Mycroft glanced up a moment later as something else occurred to him. "Oh, and Sherlock," he drawled in a somewhat pointed tone. "You might want to be careful with your claims that no one was harmed by your actions. I do believe the young girl who was abducted would likely disagree, considering she spent the entire evening with her step-uncle after watching the man murder her mother in cold blood." His reasons for saying such a thing were two-fold. Not only did it assure Sherlock that the case had been taken care of without the girl's life being forfeit, it also told his brother that he had been on the right track with who was to blame all along. Not that Sherlock needed such clarification, really, but Mycroft knew that not knowing would likely bother his brother much more than he would ever let on. Besides. It was a chance for Mycroft to show off his own deductive abilities. He might not require nor desire as much praise for them as Sherlock did but it certainly helped, every so often, to remind those around him that he was most assuredly capable in his own right. Checking the time, Sherlock realized just how long they had been talking. If he wanted to get back to the station in time for them to realize just what sort of switch had occurred during the night, he was going to have to leave now. Standing from the chair that he’d been sitting in, Sherlock paused at Mycroft’s next statement, a smile spreading across his face at realizing he had definitely been on the right track. A family job, an inside job, presumably arranged by the father to rid himself of a meddlesome wife and claim his child without any complications. He would have gotten away with it, too, if the police had been left on their own. It wasn’t difficult to realize when Mycroft had stuck his own nose into things. “You really need to get used to doing some leg work, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as he turned from the door with a smile on his face. “Together, we could get twice as much done.” Mycroft couldn’t help but snort in faint amusement, his own smile a small one but nevertheless sincere. “Oh come now, Sherlock,” he replied in a mild tone. “You know as well as I that such an arrangement would hardly be suitable.” He shook his head slightly. “No, it’s best for all involved that I remain in my current line of work and leave the consulting with law enforcement to you.” Another pause before he added, as though in passing, “Besides, I see no reason to do any sort of leg work when the case was easily deduced from the comfort of my own home, over a lovely dinner with Ms. Potts.” As though he hadn’t just alluded to the fact that he had apparently taken part in a meal with his assistant that was hardly considered professional, he signed another piece of paper with flourish then raised his attention back to the feminine form in the doorway. “Now go,” he insisted, although the earlier anger was long since gone from his voice. Instead it almost contained a bit of teasing. “And Sherlock? Do try to remember that the courtroom setting is not a place to show off your talents. I can’t say the man on the bench will be keen on granting your release if you point out his many, varied flaws and secrets.” Hardly suitable, perhaps, but Sherlock couldn’t help but think that maybe if they actually had to figure out how to work together they might be able to work past some of the issues that still existed between them. Then Mycroft had to open his mouth and remind Sherlock just why he wasn’t too eager to work with his brother. It would just give Mycroft more opportunities to remind Sherlock just how much smarter he was than him. “Only because I had already pointed out several of the tell-tale signs to the authorities,” Sherlock said, eyeing his brother for a long moment before shaking his head and turning to leave. He was stopped by his brother’s last statement, though, turning back to look at Mycroft and flashing him a playful smile, “I’ll remember, dear brother. As long as he doesn’t see any reason to challenge me. If he does, I’m afraid all bets will be off,” He said, waving to Mycroft before turning on his heel and heading out of the office. Hopefully, he still had time to get back to the police station without basically having to barge into court proceedings which had already begun. He imagined nobody would be too delighted with him if he cut it that close, and considering the negative impression he’d already made, he didn’t need to be reinforcing that.