Mycroft’s legs were beginning to ache from sitting when his brother finally left 221B. He had been waiting for Sherlock for hours, crammed into one of the metal tables in Speedy’s –– which really was as disgusting as it looked. With a sigh of relief, Mycroft waited for his brother to leave Baker Street entirely, then stood, making his way out of the cafe and to the flat’s front door. He had to stop himself from readjusting the door knocker –– out of place as always but, for once, he didn’t want Sherlock knowing he’d come. This was a rescue mission –– a plan to rescue his brother from the drugs which his happy expression and jaunty walk indicated he’d been taking –– and Mycroft did not want to be interrupted until he was sure that 221B was devoid of all illegal substances. He crept up the staircase, knocking his hand against the bannister in case it had been hollowed out as a hiding place before entering the flat. He decided to start with the least obvious place: the bedroom. It was unlikely that Sherlock would be so stupid, but starting small was always best. Unfortunately for Mycroft, when he opened the door, there was a surprise waiting for him. He had always considered his brother the eternal virgin, not only ignorant, but terrified of sex. For once in his life, it seemed that Mycroft was wrong for, lying in his brother’s bed, was a partially unclothed –– and quite pretty, for those who were impressed by such things –– woman.
