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A hair telling a tale

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If Sherlock was asked for just one word to describe his brother and offered two second for the task, he would say "Clean."

Not a hair out of place, polished shoes, straightened tie, perfectly cleaned and pressed suit, ever present (and probably merely opened) umbrella by his side.

Yes, that would be it. At the first glance, everything seemed as it should, just... just neat. But at they sit at the table in Speedy's Cafe, regarding each other over the surface of it with blank expressions, Sherlock couldn't help, but thought that something was wrong. He even shared his observations with John, who was the only one to try and make a polite conversation, but the doctor only elbowed him in the arm. Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms across his chest and plastered his piercing eyes to his brother's silhouette once again.

When the little gathering met its end, Sherlock stood up as the first one, but instead of doing the usual - just turning around and leaving - he laid his hand on Mycroft's shoulder.

The older Holmes just narrowed his eyes at the gesture, while John almost knocked out his cup, his own eyes widening in horror.

Later, the great detective explained. "I worked out what was giving me that weird feeling. There was a hair on Mycroft's shoulder. A hair!" so obviously he had to acquire it in order to get to know exactly whose hair it was and how did it get there.

John just stared blankly at him from his place on the sofa, caught somewhere in between a facepalm and roll of eyes.

"And you are to help me to examine it."


"Tonight, yes, obviously tonight, John."

"Isn't it just Mycroft's hair? People tend to lose hair at some point, you know, especially men."

"No. Wrong colour, wrong length, everything wrong."

This time the doctor did roll his eyes, "So what are you going to do with it? Extract DNA and look for a match in a database?"

"If necessary. Now, do come over, John, I need you to..."

John stood up with a sigh, but instead of complying, he turned towards the coat hanger. "I've got a date, Sherlock, and it is not only more important, but I am pretty sure that also far more interesting, than finding out you brother got himself a cat, or something like that."

"A cat...?" Sherlock muttered absently, leaving his flatmate with the expression that the rest of his utterance had been completely ignored. "No, it can't be a cat, the hair is too thick..."

"Well then, I don't know, a fox perhaps?" The doctor joked, pulling on his coat. When the detective only frowned in answer, obviously oblivious to the meaning behind the words, he huffed in a poor attempt not to laugh. This time Sherlock glared over at him, clearly still not getting the reference and John just flashed a triumphant smile. A step ahead of Holmes, at least this one time.

"I'm going then. Good luck with your research, the supper is on the table, Mrs. Hudson downstairs and my phone turned OFF!" John exited the flat, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.

Phone turned off, phone turned off, phone turned off...

Holmes grabbed his own mobile and slowly scrolled through the call history. Indeed, when he last time had attempted to get through to his brother, his phone seemed to be turned off.

Mycroft Holmes was the government, he did not just turn his phone off.

Something was telling Sherlock the two facts were connected, so they had to be. He just had to think harder.

Who would his dear brother turn his phone off for? A colleague? No, he didn't have colleagues... A meeting? No... A travel on a plane? It wasn't necessary anymore... The Queen? No... A romantic interest? Sherlock snorted involuntarily.

He glanced at the screen again. The same evening, ten minutes later, he had tried to call DI Lestrade receiving no answer from him as well.

Hmmm... That had to be a coinci-

Sherlock's eyes trailed from the phone to the hair he was holding in the other hand. Then back. Then back again.

He finally understood.




Greg flopped down into an armchair, groaning and then rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hand. He met Mycroft's questioning gaze with a resigned sigh. "Please tell me that at least your day was fine."

"It was quite alright, Gregory," the politician answered, settling down his expensive fountain pen and offering his full attention to the man at the other end of the desk. "Asking about yours does not seem necessary," he added.

"Sherlock." Lestrade gave the answer, as if the one word could explain everything. It did, partly, but Mycroft remained silent, letting Greg continue. "He eventually found out about, you know, you and me," the silver-haired man said and tilted his head back a little.

"And?" Mycroft prompted after a moment, even though he knew the answer himself.

"And it's been hell," Greg huffed. "But it's not because of us, apparently, no, that would be too easy."

Holmes quirked a curious eyebrow.

"He didn't seem angry that I screw you or another way around," The detective raised his hands in a defensive gesture before he could get interrupted. "His words, not mine! Well, anyway. He was happy about that actually, because you would have less free time to get on his nerves, his words again."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, yes, it sounded very much Sherlock-like.

"Instead, he insisted on why had we been hiding it from him for so long, and more importantly, how."

"No one had been hiding anything from anyone." Mycroft interjected.

"I know right, I told him that! But it's your brother we're talking about, if he thinks he knows something, no one can prove him otherwise." Lestrade sighed again and straightened in the armchair, this time a shadow of smile lingering in the corners of his lips. "And you just wouldn't believe how he got to know about this."

"Oh, wouldn't I?"

"Nope." This time Greg grinned. "Apparently it was you, who had spilled the beans."

"Me?" The politician seemed honestly surprised.

"Yup. You had a hair on your suit."

"A hair?"

"Well, my hair." The policeman chuckled, seeing the other man raise his eyes to heavens.

"I think it is the time to find my brother a case, don't you, Gregory?"