Chapter Text
“You are fat.”
Mycroft sighed and lifted his eyes from his book to see his brother standing in the doorway of the library.
“Thank you, Sherlock. Whenever I am quietly enjoying my unseemly sense of self-worth with a good book and a small amount of fine whisky, I can always rely on you to remind me of the sad reality of my life.”
“Someone must. You consumed two custards after dinner.”
“And I forsook the cheese so the scales remain nicely balanced.”
“When you become too rotund to rise from your bed, do not expect me to tend to your hygiene or personal excretory needs.”
Both brothers shuddered at that particular mental image and Sherlock had the good sense to realize some ground should never again be trod.
“Might I ask the reason for your sudden concern for my welfare, brother? And bring me my journal so I might scribe the event since, I am certain, it is a singular on in my life.”
It was never a good thing when Sherlock didn’t answer a question immediately. If he did not even have a ridiculous insult to hurl to cover his intentions, those intentions were serious, indeed.
“I… I may have accidentally overheard your conversation with your physician this afternoon.”
Ah. Well, that was a question unfortunately answered.
“And your accidental eavesdropping must have informed you that the small issues to which I might be subject are of infinitesimal importance and not worthy of your heartfelt descriptions of my waistline.”
“Father died of similar infinitesimal issues, if you recall.”
“Very well. If I promise not to expire today, may I continue to enjoy my evening? If you recall from your crass violation of my privacy, I was advised to seek relaxation and reduction of stress whenever possible.”
“You have not walked a distance greater than from your bedchamber to the breakfast table in years. I would say the vast majority of your life can be described as relaxing.”
“For physical relaxation, perhaps; however, tonight I am attempting to give my mind some ease, something I know well you understand.”
If anything, Sherlock understood that need far too well, but had a heartbreaking time finding such for himself. The mechanisms Mycroft had learned to channel and control his incomparable mind had never been ones that Sherlock could master and his younger brother suffered for it terribly, at times.
“I will concede the point, though, it shall be for naught if your internals decide to stage a coup for their gross abuse and leave you calling for a hot water bottle to soothe the ache in your distended belly.”
“Exactly how much of a coup could be prompted by a single, plain custard added to my meal? I rather believe that, after years of brokering what can only be termed devilish deals within the finance, commerce and governmental arenas, my internals would require something far more potent to foment an uprising. Surely one of Cook’s trifles or a healthy serving of ginger cake, at minimum.”
Sherlock stormed out of the library and Mycroft said a small thank you to whatever gods might be watching over him to give him this bit of peace. His brother was a good boy, in a relative sense, but he did try one’s patience to a…
“Here. You will come with me.”
Mycroft nearly dropped his whisky as Sherlock shoved into his hands a coat, scarf, hat and walking stick.
“Whatever are you talking about, brother dear. I am going nowhere.”
“Wrong. You are coming with me to tonight’s lecture at the Royal Geographical Society. It is certain to be dreary, however, there are occasions when items of interest are discussed and it will do you good to actually be seen in public and eradicate the rumors that I murdered you and encased your body behind a brick wall in the cellar.”
“Oh, are those going around again? Dear me, it has been a long time then. Very well, I shall make certain to visit the tobacconist in a day or two and exonerate you from any impending charges of fratricide.”
“No, you will come with me tonight. You will take a cab to the tobacconist and that will not provide any exercise to your bulk besides the jiggling it will endure from roughness of the streets. We will walk. Besides, there will be many in attendance tonight who are as dull, dry and portly as you, so you should feel quite the brother in arms. Or brother in pheasant and pastries, which is really more appropriate.”
Every time Mycroft tried to set aside his outerwear, Sherlock pushed it back towards him and barring tossing the lot into the fire, Mycroft saw only two options. Holding his outerwear in his lap until Sherlock became sufficiently bored and went away or donning said outerwear and accompanying his brother for the lecture. As Sherlock’s hair-trigger boredom never seemed to manifest when he was laying siege to obtain his wants, the first option was handily eliminated. That left option number two. Physical exertion… was there anything more odious…
“Very well. Since I have little doubt you will continue your pestiferous ways until I accede to your demands, I might as well save myself the energy required for further bickering and apply it to a more useful purpose.”
“You will likely need it immediately as our destination exceeds a two minute stroll from our door. Come, I do not wish to be late and have to sit amongst the wheezers, harrumphers and snorers.”
“What a delightful picture you paint, brother. Verily, this shall be a bracing evening.”
Donning his coat, Mycroft pointedly made no notice of the fact it had grown a bit tighter than the norm. He was not a slim man. Had never been one, not from birth, but he had, perhaps, allowed himself to settle into patterns that were not the kindest for one’s waistline. Sherlock’s worries about his health were slightly off-point, however. Grandfather also had similar issues and he did not share his and father’s propensity to fatten. And, Grandfather lived to quite a ripe, old age.
Father’s situation was different. The stresses of his sire’s life ultimately consumed him and that was the true thrust of the conversation with his physician. His waistline would not drag him to his grave, but the time, attention and effort expended on his various ‘projects’ and lack of external physical and mental relaxation, or stimulation for that matter, could easily do it and in a very distressing timeframe. Hence, tonight’s attempt at a restful evening, when previously he had planned on devoting the hours to a study of documents he had recently received on a certain area of the Slavic region that was engaging in discussions of a most interesting nature. He had tried to follow doctor’s orders, but, of course, Sherlock had different ideas…
__________
“Good lord, Sherlock, how much farther are we to go?”
“You have every inch of London memorized, brother, so your question is nothing but petulance and agitated custard.”
“We have been walking for a fortnight.”
“Untrue, for Cook prepares your favorite roast chicken on Thursdays and I have no memory of consuming two chickens while we have been walking.”
Horrid boy. Did he not notice the… people? And horses. The various urchins running hither and yon. He could be filling his lungs with the scent of his own library right now instead of the pungency of this accursed street. And all for a lecture that would surely hold no interest for him. In fact…
“Sherlock, for what reason are you even desiring to attend this presentation? You have little interest in anything beyond the confines of your scientific research.”
“True, but, though it is certainly not their intent, the buffoons who trample across the unexplored regions of the world occasionally learn something of scientific interest. Supposedly, this particular buffoon has some experience with poisons used by the native population of the area he desecrated with his presence.”
Poisons. Yes, that rather did explain everything. If the gentleman giving the lecture possessed a severed head or two for display, Sherlock’s night would truly be made.
“I see. And you are hopeful that he brought with him to England samples of said poisons.”
“I did not say that. However, if samples do exist, then it would be my duty to see them analyzed with the most advanced of scientific techniques, which only I possess.”
“Naturally. Well, I do hope you use a gentle hand with your persuasions as I hear these explorer types are rather… vigorous and possessed of no reticence about making their arguments through fisticuffs rather than discourse.”
Sherlock slid his narrowed gaze towards his brother and seethed at the slight, pleased smile on Mycroft’s face.
“I am well-practiced in boxing, as you know, and will happily take up fists if it helps to advance science.”
“Of course, of course. And lo! Our journey’s terminus looms. I shall begin handing out wager slips in case we are provided with another entertainment this evening besides an oration on the topic of insects and heat.”
Sherlock decided if an altercation did erupt, he immediately would throw his brother into the fray. At the very least, Mycroft could sit on his opponent while he convinced him to turn over any relevant toxicological samples. His brother had to be useful for something in this world besides the hurling around of hot air…
__________
Mycroft had to admit he recognized a number of the faces in the crowd and, further, that the crowd was somewhat a substantial one. From the scraps of conversation he overheard, the speaker was a rather noted example of the breed and the anticipation level of the audience certainly supported that fact. Perhaps, by some immeasurable miracle, the night would not be as onerous as he had predicted.
“Well, Sherlock… you are yet to transform into a mummy, so I shall assume the audience is not as dry and dull as you had expected.”
“I hydrated to excess before we departed.”
“A remarkable bit of forethought. And am I to know what is the actual topic of tonight’s gathering?”
Sherlock huffed and rose to obtain a small leaflet to hand to Mycroft who found his curiosity completely unresolved.
“This says nothing.”
“Oh, is the page blank?”
“We are to hear a lecture on… adventure.”
“Were you spoken to by a spirit? Did the ghost of the vanished ink impart unto you its wisdom?”
“Sherlock, if this is to be some outlandish teller of tales…”
“In truth, I do not know, however, I do know there was some excitement when it was learned your tale-teller was returning to London. Apparently, he is… colorful.”
“Oh, dear heavens…”
“I am prepared to ignore this attribute if he provides substantive data and I do plan to ask questions.”
That, in itself, could be worth the effort of their ordeal across London. Sherlock’s ability to discombobulate another human into a quivering mass of bluster was a thing to behold.
“Lestrade… you are certain he is English? Smacks of the French, if you ask me.”
“That should be better for you, as I know you enjoy French cuisine and if he disappoints with his lecture, you can use the tub of butter you carry in your pocket to make a nice sauce for his Gallic flesh and pass the evening as you would normally when you have your late-evening snack about which you continue to assume I know nothing.”
Of course Sherlock knew about his post-dinner nibble. If not, he would have no reason to hide the biscuits, bread and jam from Sherlock’s long and thieving fingers.
“Cannibalism… that would certainly be something of interest to our fellow attendees. I have never been called upon to entertain such an august body, however, I will endeavor to do my best.”
Sherlock gave his brother a glare, mostly because Mycroft was smugly proud of his retort and raced to deliver his own in return, when tonight’s moderator approached the lectern to begin his introduction of the guest of honor. Good. This would give him copious time to think of something truly scathing…
For his part, Mycroft settled back in his seat and prepared, frankly, to drift quickly into his own thoughts. He had met a few of this sort before, truth be told, as they were occasionally useful sources of information relevant to governmental interests, and found them either to be oddly bookish and uninspiring or brash and boorish, none of which sparked a mote of his interest. He could turn attention again to the proceedings when the inquiry portion of the evening began and Sherlock was let loose from his chain. At that point…
Now, this was interesting…
Mycroft took a long look as the man of the hour took position to speak and did it again, for good measure. Though he was always extremely careful to give no indication of his preferences, he had known from a very young age that his attraction was for men and despite it burning inside him with the weakest of flames, that fire was warming quite interestingly at the moment for this Lestrade was stunning…
“What is wrong with you? You appear as if you are going to suffer a heart attack and I assure you I will not take time to summon your physician until I am well and truly sure I have wrung from this simian’s clutches all possible information relevant to my interests.”
Waving off his brother’s nonsense, Mycroft ran his eyes once again over the strong form of the speaker. Lean hips and full shoulders accentuated by the regalia one expected from an explorer of the deepest jungles. A complexion heavily touched by the rays of the tropical sun. And his hair… the silver that accentuated his walking stick in no way compared to the vibrant hue of the man’s lustrous hair. Not young, which actually enhanced the appeal, but still radiating a virility that further stoked the small pile of embers that were heating his core.
With any luck, the man would demonstrate a profound intellectual flaccidity and do it quickly so he would not have to investigate this feeling any more deeply. It was… bothersome. Juvenile and distracting. And… oh. This was distressing. Mr. Lestrade’s voice was positively obscene…