Thursday

Holmes awoke later than usual, the port having lulled him into an unexpectedly deep slumber. 221B was empty, the remains of Watson's breakfast still on the table along with Holmes' waiting to be touched.

As he sat down, he noticed with a pinch of dismay that there was one less scone now on the table. Dismissing this feeling as ridiculous and petty, he grabbed a scone for himself, fighting down the animosity he experienced at how deliciously crumbly and sweet the pastry was. Damn her.

Deciding that today was going to be productive and not an exercise in futility and discomfiture as yesterday had apparently descended into, he attacked his latest monograph with a fervour he felt he should feel but actually, well, didn't.

In fact, in the hour and a half that he remained anchored to the desk, the one thing that retained his attention more than his writing, his research or his experiments was that blasted paper!

It lay casually on Watson's chair, just as it always did, its pages fluttering slightly from the breeze through the open window. But it mocked him. Oh, how it mocked him. It was as if it could sense his need and positively thrummed in response, calling out to him from across the room.

This was obviously preposterous. Holmes knew this. But there was no harm in throwing that god forsaken piece of rubbish in the waste bin where it belonged. Out of sight, out of mind, after all.

For half an hour, at least. And then his eyes started to dart over to the waste bin, his fingers twitching in anticipation. The feeling wasn't far removed from the expectancy he felt when he contemplated opening that morocco case; the need for fulfilment and the knowledge of the flow of relief that would follow.

It had been a long while since he had experienced that, knowing how Watson abhorred his little vice. But this was how it felt, no question. Except, it wasn't humanly possible to become addicted to a newspaper. That was also preposterous.

Nevertheless, Holmes thought it best to just be done with the whole thing entirely. Retrieving the paper from the bin, he proceeded to cast it on the smouldering fire.

A grin of smug satisfaction spread across his face as he watched the flames lick at the edges of the publication. A victory is a victory, regardless of whether the opponent happens to smoking pile of paper.

A pile of paper that is now smoking. On the fire. With possible cases inside. Something to tear him out of this dull apathy. And what if Watson saw something? What if he'd gone to the effort of scribbling things for his attention? What if he read those stupid, stupid horoscopes and has come to some rash decision? He wouldn't. Would he? He is rather inclined to those flashes of romantic fancy. He wouldn't. He won't.

He can't.

With a sudden burst of uncharacteristic hysteria (something he would vehemently deny at any given opportunity in the future), he dove for the paper, patting the still flaming parts down with his hands. It proved to be one of the few occasions where logic completely abandoned that brilliant mind, not considering that he could simply go out and purchase another one.

Once the burns had been quelled, he flipped directly to the horoscopes.

Aries – Youreconomy is looking unstable, it is time to start looking for something to ensure your future. Maybe a change of profession or living environment is on the cards.

Capricorn – You are facing a problem of great hardship. Don't try and deal with it alone, seek out the advice of a parent or sibling.

A new living environment? It couldn't be… Watson loved it here at Baker Street. Well, he certainly didn't find it disagreeable. Although it was quite a distance from his practice. And he was currently woken up at obscene hours by ghastly violin playing and strange men looming over him in bed, calling him away to chase criminals in the early hours. Or a strange man, if you insist on being technical.

Holmes pondered on this for a while as he sat cross-legged on the floor. What exactly was keeping Watson at Baker Street? He had only needed to share lodgings while he got himself back on his feet in London and he had achieved that months ago. He could easily find his own accommodation now.

Find it, certainly. Moving into it would be another matter entirely if Sherlock Holmes had anything to say about it.

Holmes read his horoscope again with a grimace. Parents were obviously not an option unless he wanted to hold a séance and he was quite aware he was losing his bearings already, acknowledging the tellings of stars and planets, before bringing the spiritual world into it as well.

Siblings, then. Sibling. Holmes let out a scoff and allowed himself some hyperbole when he muttered, "Not in a million years…"

Four hours of hair-pulling, knee-shaking, violin-strangling, wall-shooting later…

"Sherlock, what a pleasant surprise! Do come into my humble abode."

"It's good to see you haven't lost you sense of sarcasm, my dear Mycroft." Holmes mumbled as he entered the ornately decorated study of his brother's Pall Mall residence.

Mycroft sat down heavily at his desk while Sherlock remained standing, pacing in front of him.

"I would say you are distressed about something but I think that would seem rather redundant. Why don't you just come out with it?"

Of course. Mycroft was always so busy, it was such an inconvenience to be disrupted from his…sitting around.

"Come now, brother. No need to get snippy. It must be something of importance for you to come to me, I am quite prepared to help if you will only admit that you require it."

Holmes the younger glared at his brother but it had no effect, as per usual, so he gave up with a sigh, looking entirely defeated.

"I need your help. Your advice, actually…"

Three minutes and extensive explanations later…

Sherlock looked at his brother, sternly, having ceased his incessant pacing for a moment, waiting for a response. Finally, Mycroft slipped out of his trance, looking Holmes in the eye.

"Let me make sure I have this perfectly clear, brother mine. Thanks to the good doctor, you have been made aware of these 'horoscopes'. And, despite the fact that you know they defy logic and have no place within a scientific realm, you believe that they may be dictating the paths that yourself and your doctor are travelling. Thus you are irrationally panicked - don't look at me like that, Sherlock, this is quite obviously panic - that he may soon be leaving you. And, as a result of this conclusion, you want to see if I can aid you in locating some research materials and contacts that will help further your knowledge on astrology and the workings of star readings and their…merits."

"That is correct, yes."

27 seconds later…

Sherlock stormed out of the ostentatious Pall Mall residence of his pig-headed brother, the hysterical laughter pursuing him out of the door and down the road.

When newspapers advise you to seek advice from a sibling, they seemingly don't take into account your sibling being one Mycroft bloody Holmes.