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Summary
"Just come home, James. You’re already late.” Home, is it now? This flat he has occupied for a little over a year, now. Yes, Mycroft supposed.
Still. It hardly resembles that of two college boys surviving academia. Mycroft looks from the island to the sitting space. Neat. Everything in order. A pie in the making. A flower in a glass on the windowsill. Sherlock with dough-smudged fingertips, on speakerphone asking James to come home...