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Mycroft Holmes
Mycroft Holmes is a man of habit.  He wakes, more or less, at around the same time every day, in bed at one of his two residences, or occasionally in a hotel, if he's been forced to actually leave the country instead of simply taking care of affairs from home.  He wakes in one of his several sets of silk pyjamas, spends ten minutes or so lazing in bed, before rising to make himself a cup of tea and check with his PA regarding the news of the day, and any appointments which he may have forgotten about.  He has never, previous to this morning, woken up in 221B Baker Street.  Or indeed his brother's bed in 221B Baker Street.  Particularly not with his brother draped over him like a corpse, snoring into his stomach.

All those, however, are things which possibly, conceivably might have happened in the past.  He and Sherlock had occasionally been known to fall asleep in the same bed as boys, before Sherlock decided he hated him.

Waking up with legs approximately 3.5 inches shorter than what he's accustomed to is not something which could ever have possibly occurred previously.  Shorter, and-- as is evident the moment he shifts, blinking awake-- more muscled.  His entire body is more muscled, actually, and when he levers himself up on one shoulder, he sucks in a breath at the unexpected twinge that speaks to nerve damage.  Mycroft closes his eyes.  Sherlock continues snoring.

The answer is obvious.  Impossible, of course, but evidence cannot be denied.  He can all but feel the adrenaline released into his system as he opens his eyes and looks down at his own chest.  Leaner.  Skin with an undertone more yellow than pink.  Sparse, fair hair on the chest and down the torso.  Tartan flannel pyjama bottoms.

John Watson is an adrenaline junkie, but not, apparently, in circumstances such as these, and Mycroft can feel the queasy knotting in his throat, a physical reaction to nerves and the beginnings of something strangely like panic he himself rarely experiences.

Mycroft lifts a hand-- John Watson's hand; small, blunt-fingered, it takes him a moment to manipulate it quite the way he wants to-- and prods Sherlock violently in the shoulder. 

'Sherlock.'
 
 
Mycroft Holmes
It's 7:16 when Mycroft Holmes shows up at 221B Baker Street to fetch his date.  He's calling it a date in his head more because it amuses him than because it bears any resemblance to the reality of the situation.  Sherlock is out at the moment-- Mycroft wanted to make sure of that before he got there.  Not that he couldn't have picked up John with Sherlock present, but it makes things so much easier when there's not the possibility of his brother physically preventing John from leaving with him.  Mycroft wouldn't put it past him.

The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, greets him with a surprised-- but genuine-- smile.  'Mr. Holmes!  Don't often see you 'round here.'

He'd made a point to make a good impression on Martha Hudson when his brother first moved in to 221B, and he follows it up now with a chivalrous kiss to the knuckles and a wry 'Oh, you know how my brother is.' 

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head with weary fondness.  One hand is propped up on her bad hip, and Mycroft makes a note to tell Sherlock that he really ought to try not to antagonise her quite so much.  'Do I ever.  He's not--'

'In right now, I know,' Mycroft smoothly cuts over her.  'I'm here for Dr. Watson.  I can see my own way up.' 

And so he does, carrying with him the suit he's brought for John.  It's bespoke, Mycroft had it commissioned himself.  This is a proper society gala, after all, with all the absurd trappings that go along with that, and, frankly, nothing in John's wardrobe quite measures up.  He won't like being provided for, Mycroft knows, but he'll deal.

Seating himself on the couch, Mycroft drapes the clothes-bag over a chair, and crosses one ankle over the opposite knee, idly tapping a rhythm on the grip of his umbrella and surveying the room.  He doesn't bother announcing himself; John will realise he's here eventually.