Sherlock paused in his note-taking when the downstairs door opened, waiting for Mrs. Hudson to enter her flat before picking up his purloined hair dryer. Instead of Mrs.
Hudson’s softer tread shuffling into her rooms, equally familiar but less welcome footsteps started up the stairs to the second floor landing.
Sherlock scowled and thumbed on the hair dryer,
unwilling to listen to his brother’s lumbering steps in the misguided but ever optimistic hope that ignoring Mycroft would make him more likely to bugger off.
Whatever busybody business for which Mycroft had come calling clearly made him uncomfortable.
He waited nearly a full thirty seconds standing in the doorway to the sitting room after saying Sherlock’s name at a normal volume before raising his voice to be heard over the hum of
the hair dryer. For him to lose his temper even to that degree over imparting news that distressed him was incredibly telling. Not government business then.
Sherlock was even more inclined to ignore him, but considering the likeliest source of Mycroft’s information it would be prudent to get it over with as soon as possible.
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