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Revenge Is A Dish Best Served With Flair

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“I don’t hate you. I just don’t like that you exist.”

Mycroft sat in the chair opposite Lord Waverley in his private room at the Diogenes Club as Sherlock moved between them. He was trying not to relish this moment, he was, but oh, these were moments he lived for. Between Sherlock, Lady Smallwood and Andrea and Her Majesty herself, he had managed to gather a small metric ton of information that would bring the downfall of Lord Waverley and ruin him socially and financially and any and all ways that mattered to him. He had made a grave error in his choice in terminology in front of the Prime Minister when it came to Mycroft’s love.

Lord Waverley held his head high. “Mind how you speak to me, Holmes. My family has had connections with the English monarchy since Edward the Elder in 900 AD.”

Sherlock shrugged. “And those connections have failed you when you insulted the favoured love of Mycroft Holmes who Queen Elizabeth II adores, because I will tell you right now she has given my brother and I her explicit permission to make your life hell, and we shall do so with great relish.” He stopped and leaned against the desk that Mycroft had in the room, looking Lord Waverley dead in the eye. Mycroft would not have taken that tack, but he had to admit, watching the man sweat in his seat was quite pleasurable to watch. “Oh, did you not know that she has a fondness for the woman you called a whore? She does. She did not take the Prime Minister’s report of the evening kindly.”

“I didn’t know,” he said quietly.

“Well, it’s too late for that now,” Sherlock said, waving his hand slightly. “It’s what happens when you open your mouth and let your inebriated mind vomit out the first thing that springs to it when your unwanted advances are rejected by a woman who has clearly done far better in life than a drunkard with, as of now, not much more than a few pennies to his name. Now, don’t worry, you aren’t destitute. You’ll live off modest means, but they are modest means that have been decided upon by people you have treated less than kindly for far too long, you penny-pinching mongrel.”

“How have--?” he began, but Sherlock shook his head.

“Should you attempt to retaliate, the truth of your liaisons with a certain dominatrix who disappeared a few years back will come to light, including some very risque photographs and video that we have been in possession of for some time and sat on out of respect which, clearly, we should not have,” he continued. “The depths of your depravity, really, should have been brought to light some time ago. Not only have you mistreated your staff but there are how many illegitimate children? Three, I believe?”

“Four,” Mycroft piped up.

“My mistake,” Sherlock said with a nod. “Don’t worry, your ‘insipid bastards,’ as you jokingly refer to them among your circle of similarly despicable cohorts, are now finding themselves quite well taken care of. They shouldn’t have any problems in the near future, I hope. Nor should your staff. All of which, by the way, are no longer in your employ and have been shuttled off to better-paying jobs with employers who will appreciate the services they offer. You will be alone in your manor house and forced to fend for yourself because only the most desperate will be sent your way now.” With that, he turned to his brother. “Am I missing anything?”

“Ms. Riley, I believe,” Mycroft said.

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock said with wide eyes. “I had the dubious distinction of meeting a Ms. Kitty Riley prior to faking my death some years ago. Thanks to her my reputation was ruined and it took a long while to repair it. She’s learned her lesson, from what I understand, but she was told she is in my debt. And know that if you try, in any way, to retaliate, I will allow Ms. Riley to do to your reputation what was done to mine with the best display of hack journalism the world has ever seen, and I can ensure you she will do so with great relish.” He waved his hand towards the exit to Mycroft’s private office. “You may take your leave.”

“All this...all this for calling his slut a whore?” Lord Waverley said incredulously.

Sherlock drew himself to his full height, stalked over to him, grabbed him by the front of his shirt and lifted him out of the chair as well as a few inches off of the floor. “I would be very careful how you refer to my future sister-in-law if you would like to keep all of your teeth,” he said in a low voice.

Lord Waverley’s eyes widened and his face blanched, and when Sherlock set him down he scurried to the door, leaving it open as he left. Mycroft got up, quietly shutting it behind him before returning to his seat. “I think that was effective, was it not?”

“I would rather have knocked a few teeth loose,” Sherlock said in a huff, taking Lord Waverley's vacated seat.

“Still, the problem is settled,” Mycroft said. “Thank you, brother mine. You did well.”

“Anything for Andrea,” he replied.

“Yes,” Mycroft said with a smile. “Anything for her.”