The sun teased its warm rays into the living room, shining light on the aftermath of the night before.
"Yoo hoo!", Mrs. Hudson's voice called out before stepping over the threshold. She couldn't help beaming as she surveyed the scene: John and Sherlock sleeping together on the couch, a blanket sloppily draped over them. Pillows and clothes strewn across the room, bags forgotten on the floor, and a now-dry rag draped over the back of the couch. "Finally" she said, before tip-toeing down the stairs.
Hours passed before John's eyes blearily opened, Sherlock still passed out, nearly on top of him. It was a luxury to wake up after 5, naturally and not to the sounds of gunfire. His ease vanished almost as quickly as it came however, as he recognized another presence in the room.
John swore under his breath, realizing too late that his gun was in his bag, on the other side of the room. He gently tried to extricate himself from Sherlock's grip. He was half-way to standing up before…
"Good morning, Doctor Watson"
"What the fuck, Mycroft?" John stood up, turning towards Sherlock's armchair, where the older brother sat. Mycroft stayed silent, eyes pointedly moving downwards. Shit. John hastily pulled on his boxers, still dangling off the coffee table. The older man hummed in amusement, before fixing John with a glare that had stopped greater men in their tracks.
"I'm sure I don't need to remind you of the great reach I have under the auspices of the British government. I am provided the…resources to do as I see fit. Though I may not show it, I care for my brother deeply. He loves as a child does, with the wholeness of his being. If you break his heart…" Mycroft stopped suddenly, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head. "I'll rip out yours", tone never changing.
John stared at him defiantly, refusing to let the cold sensation of fear settle in. Before he could say a word in retaliation, Mycroft turned on his heels and strode out.
But just before he reached the door, Mycroft stopped. "Oh, and welcome home, Doctor Watson".