Chapter Text
Thunder rolled across the sky, which hung heavy with night. The rain sang a symphony on the roof and against the window panes, and it was only punctuated by the sharp flashes of abrupt lightning, gone before they were truly seen. Inside, in a comfortable little study, a fire roared so that the entire room was a haze of smoke and shimmering air. The dark profile of Sherlock Holmes could be seen before the flames.
There was only so much of his long frame that could be tucked in the leather-clad armchair, so his legs jutted out before him while he propped his chin up on steepled fingers.
He watched in fascination as the air danced and shivered before his eyes, humming along to the chaotic melody outside.
Then there was a flash of waistcoat, expensive shoes, and an umbrella. Sherlock groaned, raising his eyes to find his elder brother staring down at him.
“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” Sherlock snarled. A slow, almost dangerous smile spread across Mycroft’s face. One only used when Mycroft was particularly annoyed with Sherlock. The younger rolled his eyes.
“You’re hallucinating. Brother, dear,” Mycroft replied slowly in that diplomatic voice he was using now that helped him weasel his way up the ladder of British government.
“No. I’m in my mind palace. One would think they could have privacy in their own mind,” Sherlock retorted, turning his head away to look at the gorgeous, licking flames of the fire. They danced for him.
“And yet here I am.”
“Yes.”
The pair trailed into silence, Mycroft watching Sherlock stare at the flames. Finally, Mycroft shifted position, looking down at his hands, which were propped on his umbrella. “What did you take, Sherlock?”
Sighing, Sherlock turned his head away from the dancers in the fire to look up at the image of his brother. “Who says I took anything?”
“Your eyes, your hairline, sleeve, chest and speech,” The elder responded, not missing a beat. Sherlock furrowed his brow in annoyance.
“Am I really so obvious?” He asked despondently.
“Only to people who are looking for it,” Mycroft replied matter-of-factly. The other sibling huffed in exasperation, glaring up at his brother.
“Well, you should stop looking for it. It’s none of your business what I do. But if you really want to know what I took… It was cocaine.” He smirked up at Mycroft from his chair. “In fact, I’ve been upping the dosages recently. I am not typically inclined to use this word, but it feels, quite frankly, magical.” Sherlock relaxed further into his seat, closing his eyes. The melody of the storm came back into focus and Sherlock hummed along.
“Tchaikovsky?” Mycroft asked.
“No. Bach. Can’t you hear it?”
“All I hear is a storm raging.”
Sherlock smiled to himself. “I always did like rain.”