A/N - Do I know anything about British politics? Nope. Do I know anything about traditions from centuries before that might cause Mycroft to dress up in a ceremonial costume? Nope. Is that gonna stop me from making something up to match the fantastic photograph you may view to your computer screen's right? Absolutely not. All blame is to be assigned to violist0419 . She showed me the picture, this story's existence is entirely HER FAULT!
It was an unfortunate fact of Mycroft's job that sometimes, ceremony and tradition from centuries before stuck around, apparently for the sole purpose of annoying him.
As Sherlock puts it, I am the British government, he thought as he tugged on the frankly ridiculous bright red jacket. I could abolish these occasions completely. He knew why he didn't; it was good policy to allow traditions to continue. It promoted nationalism, kept everyone happy and all that. And besides, he didn't have to do much. He wasn't publicly known as "The Government," merely as one of the numerous politicians holding small government offices, and appearances like today's were important for keeping up that facade. Very few of the people who would be in attendance knew who he really was - the rest would overlook him entirely - but those few would benefit from knowing that somewhere in the crowd of wigs and formal red jackets was the man who controlled them all.
He pulled on the long, curly brown wig, picked up the short scepter, and left the room.
Outside the meeting hall a crowd of dressed up politicians mingled, waiting until they were called to order to take their seats. Mycroft walked toward the doors as quickly as he could without drawing attention, preferring to take a seat rather than mix with the masses. He avoided eye contact with the surrounding people as he walked, and was therefore taken by surprise by a deep voice from beside him.
"Nice outfit, Mycroft," Sherlock said.
Mycroft looked up to his face. "Hello, brother dear," he said, smiling pleasantly even as annoyance rose up in him. His eyes flashed to the left, checking for Sherlock's constantly looming shadow, Dr. Watson.
Sherlock must have caught the glance, because the next thing he said was, "John's waiting outside. The security's rather tight on this place today."
"Yes, well, it is meant to keep people out."
"It's not doing a very good job." Sherlock lowered his voice to say, "There's going to be a murder."
"How unfortunate. Of whom?" Mycroft already had a good idea of who would be murdered, and an idea of who had hired the killer, but it hadn't been important enough for him to look into further.
"I haven't ruled out all the possibilities yet. Not you," Sherlock said.
Mycroft inclined his head in a gesture that managed to include gratitude and 'obviously'. "And do you know the identity of the killer?"
Sherlock hesitated. "No," he admitted. "But I know who hired him."
"As do I," Mycroft said with a smile. "Now, if you'll excuse me-" he broke off, looking over Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock turned his head to see. "I really should tighten the security," Mycroft noted.
Amid the crowd of politicians, a concerned looking John Watson was hurrying towards them, his mouth a grim line and his forehead a mess of worried creases. He appeared at Sherlock's shoulder, first looking up at him, then at Mycroft.
His eyes visibly widened at the long curling wig, and jumped down in a quick head-to-tie scan of the entire ridiculous outfit. His worry lines had mostly vanished into an expression of suppressed amusement, and his mouth twitched at the corner. Mycroft sighed and glanced aside to relieve the building pressure of not rolling his eyes.
Mycroft's brother had turned to his companion. "What happened, John?"
Dr. Watson's eyes snapped up from Mycroft's gaudy embroidering to Sherlock's piercing blues. "Jameson disappeared. He went around the corner, and when I followed him, he was gone."
"Was there any way he could have gotten in here?" Sherlock asked.
John shook his head. "No windows, no air vents, no hiding places. It was empty."
"Right. John, as we discussed in the cab," he said, nodding. John nodded affirmatively.
"I thought you said you didn't know the identity of the killer?" Mycroft inquired.
"It was just confirmed," Sherlock said shortly. He turned on his heels and stalked off. Mycroft could almost hear his long coat snap dramatically behind him.
John was still standing there, looking a little uncertain. "Aren't you going to follow him?" Mycroft asked.
"No," John said. "No, he told me to stay with you, and keep an eye on the next target. He'll text me."
Mycroft nodded. That sounded right.
John's eyes shifted on the crowd. His hands swung nervously at his sides. "So - do you lot always dress up like this?"
"Only once a year," Mycroft said. "Pity it isn't less." The crowd around the door began to shift toward it like it was being sucked up by a vacuum. "Ah, they're allowing entrance. How kind." The sarcastic edge to his voice bordered on bitter, but he nevertheless led the way to a row of seats on a balcony inside the hall.
"Take the third seat down from me," Mycroft said to John under his breath. "He's absent." Mycroft took his seat, laying the scepter across his lap and folding his hands across it.
He didn't look to see that John had sat down, but a few minutes later the man to his left leaned over slightly to ask, "Do you know who that man is in the blue jumper?"
"No, but I've been assured he has complete security access," Mycroft said smoothly.
"He must be a stand in for Murphy. I heard he's deathly ill," the man concluded, and kept to himself thereafter.
The proceedings began, and it wasn't long before Mycroft had taken out his phone so he could both achieve something and relieve the tedium of the speeches. He never stopped paying attention for an instant, however, and tucked the phone away a few minutes before he was called on to speak.
He left his seat and walked down the short flight of stairs to where everyone could see him. He noticed John Watson, who had previously been glancing around the room and checking his phone every five seconds, only making the barest attempt to listen to the proceedings, straighten up and pay attention when Mycroft took to the floor. He needn't have bothered. The speech had taken Mycroft all of five minutes to write, and would take ten to deliver, not a minute of it anything to interest Dr. Watson.
Mycroft began speaking, pacing in a short area of the room and gesturing with the hand holding the scepter. Politicians in the crowd nodded along or murmured responses to his remarks on tariffs or treaties or executive policy. Above him, John pulled his phone out of his pocket and surreptitiously snapped a picture, only to be glared at by Mycroft an instant later.
That was why he was paying attention. He must have thought Mucroft looked like an idiot. But Mucroft was never bothered by what his brother's friend thought of him; in any case, he was too bothered by having to wear the outfit to begin with to be additionally bothered by John Watson.
He finished speaking, accepted some polite applause, and returned to his seat. Twenty minutes later, Dr. Watson jumped up and squeezed past the knees of a row of disgruntled politicians. Mycroft chose that moment to text his brother: 3876520. It was the security override for the lockdown that would be initiated any moment now.
Ten minutes later, a gunshot rang out not far from the conference hall where they were gathered. In ten more minutes, a phone call came in from Security informing them that the shooter had been captured and nobody was hurt. The meeting continued for two more hours in the same way it had gone for the first, before finally concluding and allowing them all to leave.
xxxxx
Sherlock and John walked down the front steps and out the gate to the street. Sherlock was smiling with satisfaction, and John with relief. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, clicking the button to turn it on. He had a text message, but the first thing he saw was the photo he'd taken of Mycroft. He had to chuckle out loud.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
John shook his head. "Just this picture of Mycroft," he said, angling the phone so Sherlock could see. Sherlock smirked.
"You should put that on your blog."
"If he ever saw it, he'd kill me."
Sherlock brushed aside his worries. "Mycroft doesn't read your blog."
He raised his hand to flag down a passing cab, and they climbed in.
xxxxx
Mycroft stood in the living area of 221B Baker Street, his hands folded and resting atop his umbrella. He had just stopped speaking in time for Sherlock to snap back, clearly upset. Mycroft regarded him stonily. He followed Sherlock's pacing around the room with only his eyes, until something pinned to the wall in the background caught and held his gaze.
"Sherlock," he said, cutting off his brother, "why do you have that picture?"
Sherlock glanced behind himself. "Oh, yes, that one. John took it last month. I thought I'd send it to Mummy for a Christmas card."
"Shouldn't you send one of you and John instead?" Mycroft asked tersely.
"Oh, no, this one's too good to waste. I've put it up here in the meantime so everyone can get a good look at it." Mycroft glowered. "Lestrade's reaction was priceless," Sherlock continued. "I think he stared at it for a full minute before he started laughing. Mrs. Hudson enjoyed it to, do you think I should send it to her on a card as well?"
Sherlock's smile was as intense as Mycroft's frown.
"That photograph was unauthorized. Technically, it's illegal," Mycroft said. "You might want to get rid of it before you incriminate any more of your friends, Sherlock."
"Of course," Sherlock said, suddenly serious. He turned and tore it off the wall.
He held the slightly crumpled page out to Mycroft, his face still straight and serious, but his eyes undeniably bright and triumphant. Mycroft took it from him and smoothly folded it into quarters, sliding it into a jacket pocket.
"You're lucky John didn't put it on his blog," Sherlock said as Mycroft went for the door. "I wanted him to."
Mycroft slammed the door shut behind himself. Sherlock grinned, twining his fingers in his favorite position under his chin. He had that photo saved on several hard drives, as well as in paper copies. Nothing would keep it from the Christmas cards, or anywhere else.