24. The Only Way - Sherlock BBC

BBC Sherlock fanfiction. Because Mycroft wanted the prompt.

24. The Only Way

Mycroft has memories of his mother telling him that “the only way to do things right is to do them yourself”.

Which explained quite a lot, when you thought about it.

He always thought the way things are run are generally inefficient, but didn't try to do anything about them until University, where he campaigned until he became president of the Student Union. Once at the top (or least as high as he could get at that particular point in time), he had realised that being in power wasn't all it was cracked up to be. People blamed you for things you had no control over, people didn't actually listen to you and that, despite the title, you didn't have any real power over what you were supposed to. And he had no real interest in constantly being under the eyes of others, especially with the latest diet not working quite as well as he had hoped.

On the other hand, he had been in the States for a week.

He had known it was risky to leave the UK at such a time, but the CIA had needed him again. The university fee debacle had happened whilst he was gone and now it was done. There was nothing he could do, really. He had repeatedly told the people “in power” to talk to him about such things because the students nowadays had instant informational systems (though not quite an instant as his) which meant they would revolt immediately. Which they had. And then things had got even uglier. Well, at least it hadn't been quite as bad as the time he had taken a week's holiday.

Blair should really have learned to listen to him.

Maybe he could syphon off some money from the MPs and make some more grants up. Yes. Onto the To-Do list it went.

And what now?

His assistant walked in, typing furiously into her PDA but with her secretary smile, “Mr Holmes, your meeting with the Columbian Vice President has been postponed because his wife is ill. You have the afternoon off, shall I make the arrangements?”

Now this was why he had hired her. So very competent.

“If you would, Theresa. Also, some tea please.”

She looked up and smiled one of her rare genuine smiles, “Right away, sir.”

So he had the afternoon off. Excellent.

He clicked back into the London CCTV system. He wondered what Sherlock was up to.

The cameras showed him that he hadn't left the house in days, so either very deep in thought or bored.

Ah, judging by the look on the face of the woman next door as she left to do her mid-week shop, he was still very much bored. Her husband threw a dirty glance in the direction of 221b. Sherlock had clearly been torturing that violin again. How he wished Mummy had let him take violin lessons instead of piano.

Da-dum.

The internal messaging service. He thought he had turned off the noise it made. How odd.

His assistant came back with a cup of tea, one sugar, a splash of milk. Perfect. She had even written a note reminding him he had asked her to not bring a biscuit with tea anymore.

Quite right, quite right, he had to look good.

But back to work. The message was from the head of MI5. He had a case he wanted Mycroft's opinion on. Suspicious illnesses in soldiers in Afghanistan.

He sipped his tea.

Maybe he would stop by Baker Street later on and see if his little brother was up for it. It was bound to tug at Watson's heartstrings, who might tug at Sherlock's.

Yes, that could be interesting.

He wrote it down in his notebook, just in case he forgot – which was unlikely, but one could never be too sure.

He hadn't seen Watson leaving 221b very often either. He would have to check the tapes from the lift in Ms Sawyer's building to be sure, but he was almost certain they had broken up.

Which would make life easier for Sherlock, he knew, which was probably the reason for the split, even if Watson didn't want to admit that to himself quite yet.

He put the teacup back on its saucer and was contemplating asking for another one when his other assistant opened the door and popped her head in, “Mr Holmes, your car is here.”

“Ah, thank you, Jennifer. I will be right there.”

Coat, keys, scarf, umbrella, phone, notebook.

Everything was there.

“Good afternoon, ladies, I shall be back on Monday. Do try to make sure war doesn't break out, won't you?”

“Yes, Mr Holmes!” Came the simultaneous reply.

Excellent. Sometimes he wondered whether they knew how much he appreciated them.

Maybe he should send them flowers.

The shiny black car was waiting for him, as it always did, just outside the building.

The chauffeur nodded to him as he held the door open for him, “Mr Holmes.”

“David. An excellent day to you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Waiting for him inside the car was just the man he wanted to see.

“Hullo.”

“If you wanted me to come to your office,” said Lestrade, uncrossing his arms, “you could have just called.”