Chapter Text
Rule 10: I will not interrogate enemies in the inner sanctum—a small hotel well outside my borders will work just as well.
“Bit of a step down from your usual places, isn’t it?” Sherlock Holmes, all long limbs and huge hands and feet, like a puppy, eyed the cheerful and cozy furnishings of the bed and breakfast with distaste. Floral prints, overstuffed armchairs, and Hummel figurines abounded, and he was quite sure he could smell freshly-made scones from downstairs. In other words, it was disgustingly cute.
“I’m not inclined to waste my superiors’ money on my sixteen-year-old brother.” Mycroft Holmes, aged twenty-three, gripped the handle of his brand-new umbrella. “Where are they, Sherlock?”
“Don’t you think that the British government can afford to switch to CD-ROMs and stop using floppy disks?” Sherlock was sprawled out on the overstuffed sofa, using his rolled-up Harrow bluer and jumper as a pillow. Occasionally, he would toss his boater hat into the air and catch it.
“Sherlock, that disk has some very sensitive information that is about to get transferred and I don’t need to explain to my superiors that a teenager destroyed or leaked the information while trying to use it to store his pornography!”
Sherlock looked insulted. “Oh, please! It was bright orange! Anyone could see it!” His voice went up an octave and cracked. With a look of self-disgust, he coughed, made a few noises to ensure that his voice had settled, and said, “You really should start smoking again; you’ve gained a whole stone in the last ten weeks.”
“If you give me the disk now, I won’t tell our parents what you get up to at school. I’m sure they would be very interested to know exactly why you left the school orchestra after the Christmas concert.” Mycroft’s smile was bland, but had the promise of shark-like viciousness behind it.
“Damn. I was hoping to drag this out until after sport.” Reluctantly, Sherlock sat up and pulled the orange floppy out of his back pocket. His trousers had fit perfectly six weeks ago and now they were already too short in the ankle, exposing his socks. He handed his brother the disk, saying, “Everything’s in apple-pie order, exactly as you left it. Can I go now?”
“If you would apply yourself, you could be in university right now,” Mycroft said smoothly. He received a two-fingered salute in response and sighed. Perhaps it was a good thing he had no intention of having his name in the history books; he didn’t think he could bear it if the rest of the world knew how he was almost destroyed by a bored teenager.