Disclaimer: the characters are not mine, they belong to ACD and the BBC

A good thing

"You really are impossible, Sherlock."

All he gets in return is a set of raised eyebrows, an almost amused glint in the blue eyes, almost challenging him. "Your point?"

A weary sigh, pursed lips, and then "Sometimes I can't help the feeling that it is actually a good thing that mummy is – "

"Don't."

Sherlock's eyes are as cold as they ever were, the way his mouth turns into a grim, thin line reminds Mycroft of conversations before, before John, before Lestrade, even. Those are not pleasant memories. He winces, not visibly of course, he never shows, does he? "Sherlock…"

A curt shake of the head. Don't.

He almost expects his younger brother to bite his lip, like he used to. None of that. The thin line stays firmly in place, lips barely parting at his next words. "Get out of the flat, Mycroft."

"I didn't mean – " too late. Sherlock averts his gaze, not-focusing on a presumably fascinating point somewhere in the kitchen. God, he's actually biting his lip.

Damn, Mycroft curses himself, he's done it again.

And because there is nothing he can do, he does as he is told and leaves the flat. Careful not to slam the door, pleasant smile already in place for Mrs. Hudson, trotting up the stairs.

"Oe-oeh," she knocks on the door, but doesn't wait for Sherlock to answer. "Wasn't that your brother, dear?" The mop of curls resting on the arm of the sofa offers a mere "Hm" in response. Mrs Hudson shakes her head.

"Sherlock," she scolds, "what have you done to the table…" Tutting, she makes her way to the kitchen. "Best not to enter that kitchen Mrs Hudson, some highly toxic experiments going on there," Sherlock comments lazily.

"You," she states, her head popping out of the kitchen, "are going to clean this flat."

Sherlock gives her a disdainful look, and continues to analyze the patterns on the ceiling, formed by the debris caused by his latest slightly miscalculated experiment.

A stack of folders slowly slips down the mantelpiece, before fluttering down in an impressive heap of paper and pictures. Something starts bubbling disturbingly loud in the kitchen.

"Now listen carefully, young man, if you don't clean up this mess, then I will," she raises one finger for the dramatic effect, the man likes dramatics after all, " and we both know what will happen to the whatever it is that is burning away on that Bunsen burner."

Sherlock snaps up to attention, narrowing his eyes and looking her over. "You wouldn't dare…" She folds her arms and quirks an eyebrow. Sherlock is not the only one to master that look. She watches, amused, as the man opens his mouth as if to speak, closes it again, and blinks, in that goldfish-like fashion that looks more familiar on John than on her youngest tenant. Gosh, he looks young. He needs a haircut, too.

Sherlock gives in, huffing and muttering darkly under his breath, while starting a poor attempt at sorting out the mass of petri dishes, not-so-clean mugs, and unidentified chemicals covering the kitchen surface.

Mrs Hudson smiles a small smile of victory and continues to trot around the kitchen, rummaging in the fridge. "You really should eat more, dear, you're getting thinner every time I see you… I'll make you something for dinner, chicken and rice maybe?" "I'm not really –" "And a nice cup of tea will do you good as well; sugar?"

Once she has placed him firmly in one of the least damaged kitchen chairs, and made sure he has eaten at least two biscuits, she clasps her hands together, "now tell me about that case you were after, and that girl I keep seeing around the flat."

Her Sherlock sends her an assessing look over the rim of his teacup, then breaks into a smile, a real one, and starts talking.

About an hour later, Mrs Hudson walks down to 221A again, a new stack of Sherlock's own brew of herbal soothers in a Tesco bag. Together with the skull, obviously. He'd find that out later this evening. She smiles again, and mentally scolds at the brother of her youngest. How wrong he was.

Not that she overheard what the older Holmes has said, of course. It's just that the walls are really thin, and he didn't close the door, and she just happened to need a rest halfway up the stairs. Her hip, you know.

The boy's mother wouldn't have wanted to miss this for the world.

Thank you for reading! My first minific with Mycroft. And Mrs. Hudson! They are so much fun to write...