Hello again, readers. Please enjoy this next installment of the Experiment series. :)

The sweet strains of the violin soared through the flat as John nibbled at his breakfast. The morning sun streamed through the windows and the doctor sipped his sweetened tea, crunching on buttered wheat toast and scooping fluffy eggs‒courtesy of Mrs. Hudson‒into his mouth. Sherlock was before him at the music stand, playing Vivaldi and Bach and Beethoven as it suited him. There hadn't been a case in a few days and they were still in that quiet hush of time where Sherlock had come down from his energetic solve-high but wasn't yet climbing (or shooting) the walls with boredom. It was calm, quiet, peaceful, and not a bit hateful.

Sherlock stopped playing mid trill as the measured pace of footsteps thumped up the stairs. He caught John's gaze and sighed long and loud as Mycroft strolled into the flat in his usual smart three-piece suit, complete with black umbrella and a manila folder.

"To what do we owe the pleasure, dear brother?" Sherlock's voice was a half step below venomous and Mycroft smiled primly.

"Hi Mycroft." John said through a mouthful of toast and egg. "Tea's in the kitchen if you want any."

"He doesn't." Sherlock growled.

Mycroft looked faintly appalled at John's table manners. "No, thank you, John. I shan't be long."

"Pity." Sherlock muttered.

"If you can tear yourself away from domestic bliss, I have a case you might find…entertaining."

"Not interested." Sherlock sank into his chair with a flourish of blue dressing gown and nestled his violin to his chest, plucking at the strings just to annoy his brother.

"You don't know a thing about it."

"I know I'm not interested."

John grinned into his mug, almost able to feel Mycroft draw himself up in a huff.

"You have nothing else on." Mycroft said.

"You don't know that."

"Please. I know what food John buys every week from Tesco in his mad attempts to get you to eat like a human being."

"Then you have entirely too much time on your hands." John piped.

Mycroft was silent for a moment, then spoke to Sherlock. "I'd hate to have to order you."

Sherlock laughed. "I'd like to see you try."

"I wouldn't need to." Mycroft's voice was impossibly smug. "I could just tell Mrs. Hudson you're being disobedient."

Clarity burst though John's mind like a fist through a plate glass window, sending shards of confusion and panic and humiliation all over his consciousness. Mycroft bloody knew about Mrs. Hudson's discipline? He knew she took him and his own brother over her knee to spank them for various infractions‒Oh God, had he watched?!

Sherlock said nothing and John turned around in his chair. "You too, Doctor?" Mycroft was grinning. "I imagine you don't get it as much as this one‒"

"Leave it!" Sherlock snapped.

"‒but then maybe you enjoy it for other reasons?" Mycroft was grinning, clearly baiting them both now that he had found a sore spot to poke. John stood up, his face flushing at the implication that he was getting off on her smacking him.

"Oi, that's uncalled for‒and untrue!"

"Get out, Mycroft."

"Tut, tut, Sherlock. I should tell her you're being rude‒that always used to get you spankings in the parlor. Perhaps John would like to join you? I could say he was being rude too‒ "

Sherlock stood up, the violin forgotten, a savage look on his face. "At least I was toilet trained before the age of five!" He hissed.

John snickered maliciously and Mycroft straightened, looking down his nose at both of them. He opened his mouth to say something scathing John was sure, when Mrs. Hudson popped through the doorway in the world's worst (or best) timing.

"Good morning loves!" She set a loaf of bread on the counter top. "I noticed you were low, dears, so when I was at the shops I took the initiative. Hello Mikey!" She said cheerily.

"Mycroft." He muttered.

"What brings you here? Visiting your brother? That's sweet."

"Yes." Mycroft's voice was dripping with syrupy sarcasm. "Lovely as it was, I must be off."

"Oh, so soon?"

"Yes." Sherlock said. "Busy, busy, lots of people to spy on and cakes to eat. He must be off."

Mycroft gave Sherlock a look that John supposed was probably that last thing lots of prisoners saw before being shut away for the rest of their lives. He left without a word, taking his umbrella and the folder with.

"He seemed to be in a bit of a state." Mrs. Hudson absently poured a cup of tea and fixed it with milk, bringing it into the sitting room and setting it down in front of Sherlock.

"A bit of a bee in his bonnet?" Sherlock suggested, sipping the tea.

"More like a brother." John mumbled. They grinned at each other and Mrs. Hudson set the bread receipt down on the counter and picked a dish from the drying board, wiping it down and putting in the cabinet.

"Boys." She came into the sitting room. "Can I ask a favor?"

"Of course." John turned to her. "What do you need?"

"I'm having a new refrigerator delivered this week‒tomorrow even, maybe. Would one of you be around to help me get it situated and moved in?"

"Sure." John spoke without hesitation. "Sure, we'd be glad to. Do you want to put your food and things in our fridge for now?"

"Oh that would be lovely. Thank you, dears. I'll bring them up later." She squeezed his hand and puttered back down the steps. Sherlock lifted the violin to his chin again and John popped the last of the toast crust in his mouth as the sweet notes filled the air once more.

Sherlock stared at the severed eyeball two days later, angling the welding torch towards the pupil. The gelatinous fluid inside slowly melted and dripped down the optic nerve and Sherlock sighed. Bored. He reasoned he could drip the fluid into some hydrochloric acid and log the results, but the idea didn't hold much appeal. He'd done a similar experiment with keratin and sulfuric acid a few weeks ago, and he didn't feel like putting on his goggles and gloves. John would shout if he didn't and then they would argue and the whole idea was becoming more trouble than it was worth.

He turned off the torch and dropped the remains of the eye into a beaker and opened the refrigerator. It was crammed full of food. He wrinkled his nose at the heads that were made of cabbage instead of flesh and bone. His box of ears must have gotten shoved to the back and he closed the door sullenly. Bored.

His phone chimed‒mildly interesting‒and he picked it up.

The fridge is here, come down and help. ‒JW

Hm. Boring. He made a face but went down the steps to Mrs. Hudson's open door, immediately going into the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson was off to the side, her face twisted in a worried 'I hope nothing goes wrong' expression. John was behind the shiny new gleaming stainless steel refrigerator, swearing and muttering in a voice muffled by the sheer size of the appliance. The room had a scent of plastic and fresh electricity about it and Sherlock stood there for a moment, watching John struggle to shove the thing back and into place. He glanced up and saw Sherlock standing there.

"Yeah‒anytime you want to jump in and help!" He nearly shouted.

"You seem to be doing just fine." Sherlock said.

John glared at him and the detective trotted over, putting his shoulder into it and shoving. Between the two of them, they managed to get it plugged in and flush against the wall without much more fuss and swearing.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands in delight as the motor inside hummed softly to life before falling quiet. The digital display above the ice cube dispenser flashed teal and beeped. "Oh thank you, boys!" She pulled them each into a hug. "Of course," she glanced up at the ceiling, indicating their flat, "if it's not too much trouble…"

"Sherlock and I will be happy to move your food back down."

"No we won't." Sherlock groused as they went up the steps. "You will be happy to move her food."

"Sherlock, you're not doing anything else. When I left for the shops this morning you were laying on the floor."

"That was this morning." He grumbled. "The criminal classes are dull and pedestrian today."

"Chin up. Maybe someone will snap and kill their crazy arse of a flatmate later today."

"I can only hope‒" Sherlock started to speak, then at John's grin he backtracked, "oh, haha, John. You couldn't kill me."

"Yes I could." John said confidently. He pushed back into their flat and opened up their fridge. "I definitely could and you know it. I wouldn't though, because best friends don't kill each other." He pulled a container of hairy fingers off the shelf and frowned down at them. "No matter how badly they want to some days…" he muttered. He pushed it back inside and reached for Mrs. Hudson's leftovers.

Best friends. Sherlock rolled the words over in his head. John had said it before but the novelty of it was still new and fuzzy and cozy. Sentiment, that hated emotion that he had never been able to quite stamp out. He found he didn't want to stamp it out when John was around. He made it…pleasing.

"Best friends don't smack each other either." He added with a grin.

John laughed. "Yeah. That too." He passed over a container of carrots and Sherlock piled her items into a bag without another word of complaint.

Later that night, while he was staring at the bits of eyeball corroding in the beaker, a plan popped into Sherlock's head that was so brilliant it had him running to his bedroom and throwing open his wardrobe and flinging aside the sacred sock index without a thought. On the south side of the city, there was an underground laboratory. Not many people knew about it, but Sherlock knew from his homeless network that more than a couple drums of super acids were stored in there. His heart thudded in his chest at the thought. Super acids. Government regulated acids strong enough to corrode steel and iron in the time it took him to snap his fingers.

He was bored beyond belief, and he knew how Mrs. Hudson felt about him shooting her walls. He was hardly eager to relive the wallpaper replacement incident, but so far she had been a lot less vocal on how she felt about acids. He vaguely remembered her getting perturbed about the bomb‒but acids? She had no rules on acids! He dug around in his drawer. He still had Mycroft's ID from when they went to Baskerville. The fat git hadn't even asked for it back. Sherlock grinned, pulling out the laminated card in its black leather folio. Perfect. He flipped it open and looked at the stoic photo of his brother. Could he pretend to be Mycroft for an evening? He'd have to shower after, just to get the aura off, but he could easily do it again.

There was a lot more to it than just faking being Mycroft though. There were cameras. Security personnel. He had the blueprints of the inside of the labs, so he knew where to go once he was through the door, but getting through the door was going to be a challenge. He didn't think he could do it alone, and that's what best friends were for.

tbc...