The game is not boding well for the Detective Inspector. He does not have the bluffing powers of Mycroft, nor the cunning of Sherlock, or the preparedness of John (who wore extra clothes and made sure to establish if socks and similar items were considered one or two). Greg squirms in his pants, his trousers already in the pile of things Mycroft ‘won’. He’s hoping that he’ll get them back by the end of the night, but by the way that Mycroft is leering at him, it’s more likely he’ll get them in the morning…or afternoon.
Mycroft is not pleased. He’s convinced he’s dying between the headaches, chills, fever, sore throat…he might as well just die and let the British Government fall around them. He tells Greg this, who merely rolls his eyes with a small, affectionate smile and offers Mycroft another spoonful of jello, the only thing he can manage to eat.
I’d probably get a lot more work done if things like this didn’t exist. But I’d be a lot more sad.
REBLOGGING FOR GENIUSBEE