“Choice Words” - A Sherlock/John ficlet featuring Mycroft.
“Sherlock, you can’t. You promised Mycroft you’d behave. For once.” John’s tone was properly stern, but the Consulting Detective standing next to him could hear a trace of amusement.
That was as good as begging him to do it, as far as Sherlock was concerned.
“And haven’t I behaved admirably all evening, John?” he asked, one eyebrow raised in mock indignation.
John took a sip of his champagne and scanned the room again. Foreign dignitaries and powerful British elites as far as he could see. It had taken him twenty minutes to train himself NOT to salute everyone who was introduced to him. At the other end of the room, Mycroft was listening intently to an Italian ambassador. Without letting his eyes leave the Venetian’s face, Mycroft raised his own champagne flute back at John.
“Damn. How the hell does he do that?” John muttered.
Sherlock looked away, unimpressed. “He’s winding you up. No doubt he has people watching you. A word in his earpiece, and it looks as though he has eyes in the back -well side- of his head.”
At that Mycroft turned and greeted another man.
“Only, Sherlock,” John said uneasily, “He isn’t wearing an earpiece.”
Sherlock smiled. “No he isn’t, is he? So much for reassuring you, then.”
He took out his smartphone and started scrolling through document files. ”Ah. Yes. This is the one. Easy, and just recognizable enough. Right, John. I shall return in a few moments. Do finish my drink, if you wish.” He pushed his own glass of champagne into John’s hand, and he headed in the direction of the chamber orchestra.
“Sherlock….” John tried to call after him without drawing too much attention, but it was pointless. A tall, stern-looking Dane glanced over, looked John up and down disapprovingly, then went back to more important matters.
John downed both drinks in quick succession, placed the empty glasses on the drinks table nearby, and grabbed two more. He was probably going to need them.
He could see Sherlock smiling amiably (the fake smile, perfect) and speaking to the other musicians. A violinist stood, happily offering Sherlock his chair AND his instrument. The other musicians were setting their phones on the music stands or scrolling down the document Sherlock had sent them via bluetooth.
A few moments later, the light, bouncy strains of a much-too-familiar song began to fill the room.
“Oh, fuck, no…” John whispered.
He set an empty glass down beside him and proceeded to drain the other before setting it aside. He folded his arms across his chest, then raised one hand to his mouth, pinching his lower lip absently.
As the refrain approached, then repeated, Sherlock caught John’s eye and grinned wickedly.
John suppressed a giggle.