“I knew it.”
Mycroft tensed for a moment, before he stuck the meringue-covered spoon into his mouth. “You require a collar. With a bell.” He grumbled. “You’ve resorted to spying on me through the kitchen-door window, have you? Pathetic.”
“Now correct me if I’m wrong, brother dear, but I’m almost positive Mummy put you on a diet.” The sly brunette purred (ignoring Mycroft’s earlier jab). Walking right up to the table, Sherlock plopped down in the seat across from his older brother.
The eldest Holmes son straightened in his chair, set down his spoon, and laced his hands together in front of him on the table.
“Negotiations, I presume?” Mycroft sighed. “Dull.”
His eyes flickered quickly over his little brother’s face. Sherlock hated when he did that. As much as it pained him to admit it, Mycroft was older and smarter, and could deduce a person’s persona, desires, and tells… much faster than him.
“Relatively cheap this time.” Sherlock began. “I just want information.”
Mycroft observed his sibling calmly for a moment, before his eyes shifted from curious, to bemused. “Ah. The new student, is it? James Moriarty.”
“You kn-” Sherlock stopped himself. ‘Of course Mycroft knew. No point in asking that question.’ “We’ve had a few… words.” He said. “I need a file, a report, pictures, anything you have.”
His elder scoffed. “And what makes you think I know anything of the boy?”
“You knew who I was talking about before I even mentioned his name. Obviously there’s something in Jim’s past or family line that is of some interest, some importance, or you would ignore him like you do with every other child in my class.”
Mycroft quirked his brow. “You have no proof I ignore ‘every other child’ in your class.”
“Name one, other than John.” Sherlock shot quickly.
To his secret delight, Mycroft smiled. “Well done.” Sherlock stiffled the inconvenient feeling of gratitude toward his older brother’s praise, and listened as he continued, “I’ll give you what I have on Jim and his family. After supper, to ensure you don’t breathe a word. Naturally.”
Pushing back his chair, Mycroft stood and snuck another small spoon-tip of meringue, before depositing the utensil in the sink on his way out.