Usual disclaimer applies; x-posted to Watson's woes lj comm.

The First Time Mr. M. Holmes Promised Something to Dr. J. Watson.

The dessert over, Mycroft leaned back in his chair. The two gentlemen before him were the two whom he trusted most completely. They had come to London on business, which had gone off splendidly - as was Sherlock's habit.

Now the ball was in Mycroft's court, but despite the awful amount of work Sherlock had presented him with, he spared an evening for a celebrative dinner.

For old times' sake, he made an effort not to keep his silence the whole evening. Although it had to be admitted, Dr. Watson had a way for making the most convoluted conversation feel easy and unforced. They joked a lot, even he; it felt like a dare, laughing in the Diogenes club. Laughing, now.

There was a lull, and Mycroft poured more wine.

'...Such bright lads they are,' Watson said affectionately. 'Billy loves algebra.'

'That's why I chose him as a page,' said Sherlock. 'I taught him in my spare time.'

'And Flimsy is going to be a seaman and see the world.'

'Flimsy?'

'He's name is Thomas, but Flimsy he is.'

'He's got a brother - ?'

'Paul,' Sherlock smirked. 'He kept pawing off your specimens, remember?'

'Well, you kept buying them! He'll be a surgeon one day, I swear.'

Sherlock cocked his head to one side. 'Gerry likes music.'

'That's an understatement – he's mad about it. He even has a concertina, did you know? And Robby - that little mite -'

'In that awful cap.'

'Robbie will dig up mummies.'

'Where?' Mycroft asked despite himself. Watson shrugged.

'I suggested Egypt.'

'He'd do better as a clerk,' Sherlock muttered. 'He really has a head on his shoulders.'

'And Andrew...'

'Yes, Andrew...'

The two conspirators looked at each other. Andrew was obviously a tough nut.

'He's got a niece.'

'And a nephew.'

'And he's allergic to cats.'

'That's hardly a salient point, Watson.'

'Well, you think of something.'

Sherlock glowered into his napkin.

'For heaven's sake!' Watson burst out, turning to Mycroft with a pleading expression. 'He's hardly sixteen!'

Mycroft sighed. He was not all-powerful, but there were only so many Baker Street Irregulars. Perhaps he could help.

After all, Sherlock would not accept any other prize for his service.

'I see...' he said ponderously. 'And what's your thing?'

Sherlock opened his mouth indignantly, but Dr. Watson beat him to it.

'Mine is simple,' he said with a small smile. 'I am old.'

Just like that … Yes, of course; they were all old. It would be their thing, and nobody else's.

'Rubbish,' Sherlock said stubbornly.

'Simple, no... elementary - yes,' said Mycroft, raising his glass in salute. 'I would commend your choice of a talent, Doctor, save that mine is humility.'

Watson grinned, satisfied by his unspoken promise, and they all laughed.

Because summer was already waning, the summer of the year 1914.