A/N: Yes, I know. I have a bunch of other stories started & I promise I will get to them – especially These Shores, but I could not get the image of Mycroft & Sherlock sitting on the dome of St. Paul's out of my head (weird little head of mine). And I'm not really sorry. This will be one that will be worked upon as the mood strikes. I hope you enjoy it & find it a least a wee bit funny:)

1. Upon the Dome

Gleaming in the early evening light, the Cathedral rose above the city, stunning and stately. A cathedral to St Paul had stood on the highest point in London for more than 1400 years. A beautiful building and a triumph of design, it had been envisioned by Britain's most famous architect, Sir Christopher Wren. It is rather doubtful he had factored in the two figures currently sitting upon the dome, surveying all of London. Of course, he might have. It may never be known for sure. The dome was often used as a meeting place for the two. The view of humanity from the top of St Paul's was relatively unimpeded, and familiar patterns could be observed and recorded. Likely subjects would be easily spotted, and an agreed upon course of action taken.

At the time our story takes place, the full colour of an autumn sunset was descending upon the city. Noisy and bustling as always, the crowded streets were perpetually full of people hurrying from offices, hurrying from shops, hurrying to the theatre district, never taking the time to stop and smell the exhaust fumes, merely hurrying.

The older of the two, (let's call him Mycroft) sat nattily dressed in a bespoke three-piece suit, shoes polished to a remarkable shine, legs crossed, holding an umbrella. He detested rain. In spite of his nefarious powers, he could never predict the amount of precipitation that might fall at any given moment. If he didn't enjoy tormenting these particular denizens as much as he did, he'd move someplace drier. His attention was currently engaged in watching a man, seemingly humble, dressed in clothes at least three years old, patched and mended, clean but faded. A cab driver, obviously living on borrowed time (aneurysm), and was currently contemplating whether or not he should take the offer presented to him by a remarkable man (surprisingly not a demon, not yet). Asked to poison random strangers in return for money, he would be able to secure a future for his children. A gentle nudge in the right direction and the cabbie's mind was made up.

The younger (he will be addressed as Sherlock) was utterly and thoroughly bored. He was always bored. It could be his seconded name. Boredom was the reason they had ended up working for the Prince of Darkness in the first place. (And hadn't they rolled their eyes at that self-proclaimed title.) Luce had always been a drama queen, but he knew where to find intriguing and interesting activities. So, tired with Heavenly duties, when Lucifer had called it quits, Sherlock had cleared out as well. So much more scope for his imagination working for the King of Hell rather than the King of Heaven.

Mummy had remained neutral, neither supporting Lucifer and his brothers nor denying them homemade baked goods when they came to call. She ended up settled in a little home away from home in Purgatory and would stay a few centuries at a time, tired of being underappreciated by TPTB. She still loved Father, but he was so medieval in his attitude about female rights.

Mycroft had followed, partly because he could see the benefits of making calculated mischief but mostly out of an odd sense of duty to Sherlock. That and Mummy had said, "Go after him and stop him from blowing up the Earth just yet. Your Father will not be pleased if he does. Remind him it's not a chemistry lab. Or at least it's not his chemistry lab."

At the moment, Sherlock, less stuffily dressed, but also in an expensive suit, two-piece with a dark purple shirt, was subtly encouraging the pedestrians on the Millennium Bridge to walk slightly more in step with one another thereby triggering sympathetic vibrations. It made it far harder for them to walk, and he found it amusing. Not gut rolling, laugh out loud funny. He rarely laughed. But entertaining enough to watch as the increased oscillations forced everyone to stagger about a bit. Perhaps one day, if it were allowed, he would force enough across at the same time, marching in sync, to cause the bridge to collapse.

"You never get tired of that do you," Mycroft sniffed. He flicked imaginary dust off of his jacket.

"No, I don't. It amuses me. So little does these days. It is so utterly boring. I rather wish something interesting, something new would happen instead of this same sameness. I need something, Mycroft. Get me something!"

Mycroft sighed. It was so very difficult and dangerous to deny Sherlock anything. It had been like that for millennia. Even though Mycroft enjoyed their little bets and games, it was getting tiresome to try and find new things to interest his brother. If he didn't, Sherlock could and would wreck a lot of havoc in a city this size. Last time he had been bored he'd allowed that Scottish fellow to take over Doctor Who. Now it was utterly unwatchable. Plot holes as big as your arm.

Casting a glance over the populace, hoping to see something or someone to tempt Sherlock, Mycroft's beady little eye was caught by a lone figure, standing on the bridge, looking through the rails. Something about him was…different. He seemed ordinary. Ordinary and uninspiring at first blush, but there was a definite…something. An itch crept into the back of Mycroft's mind, twigging his brain. What was it about this man? Focusing more intently upon him, he carefully lowered his shields and beheld his soul.

Former Army Captain, Doctor, shot in Afghanistan, sniper attack, invalided home, lost and alone, purpose taken away from him, nightmares, possibly suicidal, adrenalin kink, sexually adventurous, reputation with both sexes, but there is something else. Something I've not seen for a very long time, something different, oh my word! This could be fun and not just for Sherlock.

"Sherlock, take a look at that human male there," he nodded in the direction of the man on the bridge. "What do you see?" He was fairly certain Sherlock had never encountered one before. They were as rare as the proverbial snowball at Mummy's house.

"That little fellow? The one that looks like a hobbit?" Sherlock had been very interested in that story when it was published.

"You think everyone shorter than you looks like a hobbit. Yes, the one with the cane. Tell me what you see."

"Hmmm, invalided home from Afghanistan, shot in the shoulder, psychosomatic limp and seems to be recovering from enteric fever as well. There's a family member he is concerned about but to who he does not speak. He is verging on suicidal but not yet. He is waiting for something. And it is against his moral principles. He is very honourable, a core of strength. Oh! He is bisexual and what a reputation. Hmmm. There's something there, just below the surface. I can't quite…how intriguing. Mycroft, is he? I've only heard rumours."

"Yes, I do believe he might be. But I don't think he knows anything about it."

Sherlock's eyes sparkled. Mycroft hadn't seen him this excited for a long time. A glimmer of an idea was percolating in his brain. Turning to Sherlock, he said, "Brother dear, I have a proposition for you. I will bet you cannot corrupt that human."

A frown graced Sherlock's face. "You seem more familiar with his type than I am. I don't trust you."

"Don't be ridiculous. They can be corrupted, and when they are, they fall far further and much harder than a normal mortal. I bet you can't bring him over to our side, that you can't convert him. That he will remain moral and true to himself and his beliefs."

Sherlock, eyes narrowed in thought, continued to look in the direction of the man. "What if I do? What if I bring him over? So what?"

"What are you asking?"

"What's in it for me?"

All it took was a spark and a slight breath of wind on a powder keg. Mycroft almost (almost) grinned. He hadn't allowed himself to grin since the Plague. Now that had been fun. "If you bring him over I will help you create whatever act of mischief you desire. The bridge, a riot, fix a football match. Whatever you like."

A scoffing noise came from Sherlock's direction. "Football? Seriously? Not a chance. Rioting in combination with the bridge."

"Deal."

"What if I lose?" Sherlock's face glowed with an unholy light. It took Mycroft a moment to realize it was just because he'd lit a cigarette.

Here was an opportunity that only came around once in a long while. Mycroft had been waiting to take a vacation. There was a little villa on Rhodes he had spotted, dreamt of visiting, perhaps take a friend with him and have an honest to goodness rest. He hadn't been able to do any such thing since he had coerced Sherrinford into keeping an eye on Sherlock so he could have a nap. The two of them together had not been the best idea he'd ever had. Pompeii was never the same again. Mummy had been most upset.

"If you lose, if you cannot corrupt this man, and he stays good and true and moral, you will promise to renounce your powers for let's say a normal human lifespan."

"You want a vacation, don't you?"

Mycroft just sat straighter.

"Fine. I will renounce my infernal power, my demonic talents, but not my intelligence or powers of observation if I cannot corrupt that man on the bridge. How shall we play this? He doesn't seem the type that would simply tag along with a complete stranger without some incentive."

Mycroft looked into the distance and this time his face did break into a smile. It wasn't a nice smile. In fact, three pigeons fell out of the sky dead because of it. "The 221B protocol."

Arms crossed, Sherlock looked at Mycroft. "Really? With Mrs. Hudson and everything? You think that's necessary?"

"Look at the man, Sherlock. You will have to woo him, entice him with the thrill of danger. He will not be easily bought. Are you so sure you can do this, then? A bit rusty perhaps?"

"Don't be ridiculous. All right. Standard house rules?"

"Standard house rules."

"Pinky swear?"

"Must we?"

"Yes."

"Fine. Pinky swear." The two linked their little fingers together, and a boat sank in the Thames. Neither noticed.

Mycroft stood up. "I will get things started and be in touch." He looked at his watch. "Look for his coming, let's say by the end of January. That should give me plenty of time to set in motion an idea I have. There will be a nice little incident to keep you interested, and I promise to throw in a few surprises to keep it stimulating. You will not be bored in the least. Now I must leave you. I have an appointment with the Prime Minister. His wife is driving him batty, and it is causing all sorts of lovely ripples in Parliament." With that Mycroft opened his umbrella, placed his heels together, toes pointed out and stepped off of the dome. A nice draught caught his umbrella, and he glided gently down to Earth.

No one noticed him settle on the ground and straighten his vest before he stepped to the kerb. A long black car pulled up, the driver got out and held the door for him. It drove away and blended in with the traffic.

Sherlock took another deep drag on his cigarette before flicking it over the side of the dome. Rubbing his hands together, a feeling of anticipation filled him. He could not wait until the Game started. A small amount of frustration was there as well, having to wait until January, but it would be worth it. Until then he could set things up on his end.

And it gave him plenty of time to stock up on lube and condoms.