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What Mycroft Did?

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He was only going to be five minutes, he was not going to be late for his meeting. He had a government to run, and people to manipulate, favours to ask. In those five minutes, all hell broke loose.

What happened next was something close to a living hell for the four men, who had the misfortune of be standing in the kitchen of 221 B Baker Street when Sherlock decided to add whatever the hell compound it was to his latest experiment. The flat didn't explode, but John spent the next five hours cleaning with the help of the British Government and a Detective Inspector. Sherlock complained loudly that he was bored and everyone informed him that he was a lazy git. For his part, Sherlock said they were distracting him and sulked, disappearing into his Mind Palace. So much for the government running smoothly, thought Mycroft bitterly as he cleaned in a bespoke suit. 




A few weeks after the incident, John came down with the worst flu he'd experienced in years. The same symptoms happened to the others. It was nothing, they reasoned, because living with Sherlock could give you anything. Mycroft himself didn't relate the sickness to the “incident” until one evening Sherlock brought up the blasted experiment, which according to him was ruined due to Mycroft's arrival.

For a moment Mycroft said nothing, but a small question began to form in his head, but logically, it wasn’t possible.  He was sick with the flu, a bad flu, but the flu.  Sherlock couldn’t mess with biology could he?

“What did you DO brother mine?”  Mycroft waited a moment, mentally counted to 30 before Sherlock answered him.  Maybe John had a point, Sherlock was an overgrown man-child.

“I did nothing Mycroft. I simply added the compound too soon, its effects should rectify themselves in a matter of months.”

“A matter of mon-months? I ask again what did you do?”

“It's nothing to concern yourself with. Piss. Off.”

“I am ill. I do not know why I am ill, the only reason I ask you what you did now, is because something went wrong with your experiment. So, brother mine I ask again, what do you mean?” Mycroft glared at Sherlock hoping that he would get the answer he was looking for.

“Deduce it, and before you do PISS OFF!”

Had Mycroft stayed where he was for ten seconds longer, he would have seen Sherlock race to the bathroom to become re-acquainted with the toilet. A half hour later, Mycroft would meet John, to determine what might be the cause of their discomfort. Fortunately, John was with Greg, about to share a pint.

“Dr. Watson, Detective Inspector, a word before you drink?"

“No.” Neither man looked up nor reacted much to Mycroft's presence. He sighed. “Has Sherlock done anything recently that might lead you both to wonder what he has done to you?

“What has he done now?” Growled Greg.

“Did he make the flat explode this time? So help me I will kill him, I will shoot him!” John jumped to his feet and made for the door, only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

“No he did not but he is hiding something. I believe it is what is making us ill.” Mycroft glanced their way. “My car, is outside.” Reluctantly both men followed the minor government official to his car, and joined him inside for a ride back to Baker Street to find Sherlock.

Once there, the smell of coffee and cake from Mrs. Hudson's flat sent all three men scrambling up the stairs in an effort to get to the bathroom. The door to the flat was locked.

“Sherlock! Sherlock open the door you mad bastard!” Bang, Bang.

“Sherlock- Sher- the do-or!” Pound, pound.

“I dropped... key-sss”

“Brother! D-oo-r!” Pound, Bang!

With a click the door was unlocked and Sherlock was shoved unceremoniously out of the way. The three men made a dash for the bathroom. None of them made it. Sherlock walked towards them, sniffed and looked at the kitchen table, where another experiment was underway.

“My experiment had best not be ruined.”

“Shut up Sherlock!” John glared at him.

“Brother mine, you will tell us why we are ill. I know you worked it out. So. Tell. Us. Why” Mycroft gripped his umbrella tight.

“We are all pregnant, and I blame Mycroft.” With that Sherlock dropped to the sofa and sulked. No one moved.