Something I've written, but I don't know where it's going?
Water splashed down on him, as he vigorously brushed his teeth. He was in a definite hurry, so he’d taken his toothbrush into the shower. It wasn’t as if he had a terribly leaky apartment.
Well, yes, he did have that, too, but it hadn’t yet gone as far as to give him torrential downpours in his bathroom. At least, not yet. Never say never.
He tried to focus on the task in hand, while his brain wanted to go over the puzzle he was working on. Not a crossword or a sudoku, mind, that wasn’t his style of thing entirely. It was a puzzle involving dead bodies.
So technically, he wasn’t a part of the Serious Crime department anymore, but that didn’t stop him. It hadn’t stopped him when he wasn’t a part of the Serious Crime department, yet. He’d always known that puzzling these things over were in his blood. The way his dad ran on cooking oil, and his mum on knitting yarn.
Which is how he brushed his teeth and rinsed his hair while thinking about cracked-open skulls and blood on the pavement.
He turned off the tap and beat the curtain out of his way, scrabbling for a towel in a fog of his own creation. Suddenly, a fluffy fabric was pressed into his hand, and a sardonic voice intoned, “Here you are.”
“Jesus!” he said, dropping his toothbrush. “You know I hate it when you do that.”
“Happily, I am no Messiah,” said Mycroft Holmes primly, leaning against the frame of the bathroom door.
“You have even less sense about personal space than Sherlock did,” fumed Lestrade, hastily towelling himself off. “Do you actually do this to everyone, or is this some form of punishment solely reserved for me?”
Something flashed across Mycroft’s brow, but Lestrade couldn’t tell exactly what, as the fog hadn’t quite lifted yet. “I know not to do it to John Watson,” admitted Mycroft, “if only because he’d be able to decapitate me before I could get a word in edgeways.”
“I’ll have to ask him for some tips, then,” Lestrade said, drying the space between his toes.
“He might talk to you,” said Mycroft, somewhat sourly.
“Still not spoken to him, have you,” remarked Lestrade, more as an observation than an actual question, while putting on some pants. “You know, if you actually told him how things stood…”
“There’s hardly anything more pointless than that,” Mycroft cut in. “I wouldn’t be able to start an explanation before he’d punch me.” He sighed. “In any case, that’s not why I’m here.”
“Yes, enlighten me,” said Lestrade, struggling to get his still slightly damp feet into his socks. “I can’t believe you’d be here just to ogle me.”
Again, something flashed across Mycroft’s brow. Lestrade frowned. What was this flashing brow thing going on with Mycroft? That was relatively more suspicious than the usual things going on with Mycroft. Was it new, or had he only just started seeing it? Was it something Mycroft was aware of, or was it beyond his control? Could it be an alien had taken over Mycroft’s body, and Mycroft’s consciousness was trapped inside, and the flashing of the eyebrows was the only way he could signal this to the world at large?
Mycroft frowned at him. “Are you alright?”
Lestrade blinked, realising he had been staring at Mycroft’s forehead, his trousers halfway up his thighs. “Er, I just desperately need some coffee.”
