What happens when there's a special government ritual and Sherlock is bored out of his wits? In this humorous and frankly pointless oneshot, Sherlock shows a mischievous side and Mycroft gets very.. unamused.
Note: Before I begin, I will say this. I know nothing of British politics or ceremonial traditions. I know nothing of what Mycroft would do on a special day, or what the British Government had been doing forever, but is that going to stop me? Apparently not. Read for your own enjoyment. Not to learn the educational values of the British Government. Please note that I had a really hard time keeping a straight face while writing this. I also made some...references. Enjoy.
~~~
"Bored," mumbled Sherlock as he shot the wall precisely five times. Mrs. Hudson infuriatingly screamed, "SHERLOCK!" as she started to make tea rapidly. "That's going to be on your rent!"
Promptly ignoring Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock slumped onto his sofa and stared at the distinct pattern of paint chips on the ceiling. Small cracks and big cracks and tiny fat cracks galore... Suddenly, in a blink of an eye, Sherlock's phone miraculously lit up with a text from Mycroft.
Urgent business to attend. Government meeting of sorts. STAY OUT OF IT.
-MH
"Hmm... You know what that means," mumbled Sherlock. "The game is on, Mrs. Hudson!" he exclaimed as he whipped on his scarf. "I'm going to pay my older brother a little visit."
—-
The room was dark, oh so dark. The only bit of light came from outdoors which was very little since it was late in the afternoon and raining. Mycroft sat concentrating with his two hands clasped together. Mind palace. Hmmm. Jumping up at an astounding and frankly alarming rate, he realized one small thing. The ritual was indeed today.
Exactly WHY he had to do this, he did not know. But every single year, he had agreed to this queer monstrosity. Absolutely no one knew of this little tradition that the government put together, Mycroft would always do it. Although, this time was different. Every year, Sherlock was blessed with a tricky case to chase. This time, it seemed as if Sherlock were bored out of his wits. He knew what that meant, and he had to act quickly.
—-
"Sherlock, dear, your brother told you not to go! Have a little respect!" said Mrs. Hudson.
"I have no suitable cases, so this will be the only way to entertain myself, if I should put it correctly," replied Sherlock.
"Oh, dear. What will we do with you?" she said with a little smile.
—-
The clothing was interesting indeed. With a large red button-down coat, it contrasted the gold and white buttons and elaborate fringe on the edges. He slipped on his purely white gloves which fit perfectly every single year. Mycroft managed to put on the big, ruffly shirt that was put underneath the colorful jacket. Amongst the elaborate-ness of his jacket and gloves, he wore white pantaloons accompanied with buckled shoes and white stockings. The final touch included a fluffy, brown wig that frankly made him look like the younger, idiotic version of Johannes Sebastian Bach.
"Hello, Jonathan," said Mycroft solemnly as he entered the room filled with other members like him, wearing fluffy wigs and pantaloons.
"Hello, Mycroft," said a small man whose face much resembled a shriveled walnut. "We have been waiting for you."
"And I have been waiting for you!" appeared a voice right out of the blue. Jumping out from the heavily embroidered couch, Mycroft caught a glimpse of curly black hair and a blue scarf, and immediately, his thoughts were, Oh no.
With a smirk, Sherlock's mischeivous side came out of him, and he quickly took out his cell phone and snapped a picture. "Goodbye, Mycroft. Now go carry on with your wibbly wobbly govermenty wovermenty... stuff."
"I am NOT amused!" yelled Mycroft.
"I never thought you'd say that, brother dear. I've been trying to get you to say that since we were children!" exclaimed Sherlock with a wink.
He bounded out the door quickly and as he did so, he sent John a text.
The game is on!
-SH
With a quick reply, John responded.
Okay, I'll be at Baker Street in a few.
-JW
—-
"Oh, hello dear! How's Mary?" asked Mrs. Hudson.
"Oh, she's great," replied John with a grin.
"That's great to he—"
"Hello John!" interrupted Sherlock's voice from the doorway.
"Uh, hi, Sherlock."
"Well, dear, that WAS awfully quick," said Mrs. Hudson.
"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock.
Opening his phone, he stared at the photo of Mycroft Holmes looking positively irritated. Trying to keep a straight face, he ultimately failed and burst out laughing.
"What is it now, Sherlock?" asked John as he walked over to look at the phone. "Oh, my god. Is that-? MRS. HUDSON!"
"What is it now? Is Sherlock showing you some sort of severed head with maggots in his nose again?"
"Please, Mrs. Hudson. Just look at this for my sake," pleaded John, who, at the moment, was stifling a giggle.
"Oh well. I guess it won't hurt to take a little pe—EEK!"
There Mycroft was, with a shocked expression on his face, a crinkled look of surprise and disgust. His penciled eyebrows were perfectly raised at the perfect moment in time. The elaborateness of the clothes was very astounding, but what was the most hilarious was the wig. The fluffy, curly, brown wig. The wig that looked like it could be straight out of an 18th century painting. The wig that played a huge part in making Mycroft look absolutely ridiculous. This photograph was the absolute perfect photograph. It looked so... un-Mycroft-y.
"Sherlock, how did he get this costume on? It looks quite dreadful," said Mrs. Hudson.
"Some little government...thing," bluntly replied Sherlock.
"Oh my god. That IS special," sighed John with a little laugh.
"Wait, there's more!" exclaimed an excited Sherlock.
Playing a short, three-second clip, Mycroft crinkled his face and screamed, "I am NOT amused!"
"Okay, that's it!" screamed John bursting into giggles.
And if someone were to stand about a block away from Baker Street they would be sure to hear the peals of laughter coming from the little flat called 221b, for the three were laughing so hard that their laughter could shatter windows.
"God help us!" yelled Mrs. Hudson.
"Indeed," sighed John. "What have we become?"
Suddenly, Sherlock's phone set off with a series of pings, followed by 'MH.'
You're in big trouble now, Sherlock.
-MH
I called mummy.
-MH
No homocide, suicide, or genocide for a week.
-MH
You're going to the country.
-MH
ON A FARM.
-MH
WITH MUMMY.
-MH
As if the phone put a curse on him, Sherlock's face suddenly turned pale-er with shock.
"No murder for a month. You're overreacting, Mycroft," whispered Sherlock under his breath.
With that, everyone's laughter ceased and ruddy faces went white as the intended mischievous pun went terribly wrong.
~~~
Alright. I have a confession to make. I looked up Mark Gatiss and it turns out that I had written this ENTIRE oneshot without knowing where the photo attached had came from. @makeashortstorylong and I made up a crazy headcanon without knowing where the photo attached had came from. After about 15 minutes on the internet, I discovered it was from a play about the army or something like that. God, what has this fandom done to our poor brains. I'm serious. Please. Hiatus... No... Anyway, thanks for reading! And also reading this frankly pointless too-long author's note! Now read Leslie's version if you haven't! I'd like to see you compare in the comments:)