[BBC Sherlock/Skyfall Crossover] Love in Codes
Love in Codes, 13-18
Very-long-meta-like-A/N: This story (http://archiveofourown.org/works/474688) ‘Collision’ by ice_evanesco has the MOST plausible back story EVER for ‘How Greg met Sherlock and got Mycroft along with it’. The characterization is SUPERB. The dialogues even more so! The style and the word choice, every time a character speaks, I can exactly imagine him speaking like he’s in the canon BBC series. So precise.
Ok, gushing aside, I have a confession to make, on something a little obvious - I…might have depicted Mycroft as a saint in this story. I love stories where Mycroft has self-image issues and places family as priority. In my head I feel that the primary reason he’s in his current job is he wants the privileges that come with it to keep family safe. Of course, he loves the challenges of the job and the power. A bit like in part 8 of Eccentricities by Osmosis series (warning: it’s Johncroft) by exbex.
Because: 1) there is no fame, his contributions won’t be written in history, 2) the job has safety hazards, 3) he has power, sure, but he cannot abuse it (much. He abuses it mostly for Sherlock), because he has social responsibilities as ‘the government’. I have to admit I struggle with the concept of ‘for queen and country’, because it’s mostly nonexistent where I live. It’s easier to be loyal to a person than to an ideal, and to Mycroft that person is Sherlock.
So I’ve struggled with understanding why Sherlock and Mycroft ever had a fall out. What happened? Was there a turning point? Or was it gradual? Sure, I understand the gist: Mycroft is an overbearing, controlling older brother and Sherlock could not stand it, but surely he understood it’s all out of love.
Then I read ‘Collision’ and I remember: My Mum. Absolutely the same with Mycroft there in the sense that she tried to limit my freedom, she is a shadow I have to live up to, she always believes she is right, and I had felt suffocated (we love each other but I can’t stand her much when she’s preachy). Sherlock had it worst, because Mycroft meddles absolutely too much. At last, I understand Sherlock.
So in response, I wrote Drabble no. 16. It’s based on ‘Collision’ (http://archiveofourown.org/works/474688) by ice_evanesco. Go read it! It doesn’t have enough kudos and hits it deserves for its sheer brilliance.
13.
“You’re stupid.”
Mycroft looked up and saw Q, glaring at him with red-rimmed eyes, his nose scrunched. The room was dark and the rest of the patients in the corridor should be asleep by then.
“Glad to see you, too, Q,” Mycroft smiled wanly.
“I hope you’ve gotten what you set out to get,” Q couldn’t help the vehemence in his voice as he spoke bitingly, “because if you haven’t, that mission has been a colossal waste of time. Not to mention suicidal.” The younger Holmes didn’t even react when Mycroft winced minutely. “God, Mycroft, what were you thinking!? Were you even thinking?” Q ran his hand through his hair.
“I had to see that Minister face-to-face. Establish trust with him. Ensure that he won’t be replaced in the next three months so I’ll have to do this all over again. Now, that’s a waste of time,” Mycroft replied. “That he’s associated with Quantum and suspected of protecting Mr White was a bonus.”
Q glared. “And Amaranthine couldn’t have done it on your behalf? You hate legwork, Mycroft.” He’d seen through Mycroft’s excuse, of course he had.
“Anastasia,” Mycroft corrected. A had moved on to a new name quickly this time. “You know that my direct involvement in the first meeting goes a long way in establishing relations.” He was stalling. Mycroft sighed. “He’s important to you.”
Finally, they were getting to the crux of the matter. “You’re so much more important than him,” Q clasped his brother’s hand in his fingers, his knuckles white.
‘I’m thankful,’ Mycroft thought as he rubbed the other man’s skin soothingly with his thumb, ‘but I’m not enough for you.’
14.
Years ago, when Percy was six, Mummy was overwhelming and Mycroft was miles away, Sherlock grabbed his brother’s hand and practically dragged him out of the house. Percy watched as patches of sunlight danced on Sherlock’s mop of messy dark locks through the thick canopy of the woods outside the estate, his wrist secure in the curl of his older brother’s fingers.
“Where are we going?” he asked after ten minutes.
“My lab,” the elder replied simply. As though he was just saying, ‘the kitchen,’ and not ‘the secret place I haven’t shared with anyone else.’
Sherlock brought him through a magical place, an abandoned greenhouse standing at the corner of a small clearing, surrounded by old oak trees. In the inside, glass containers were scattered all over any level surfaces available, makeshift ‘beakers’ Percy had seen in scientific encyclopedias, filled with solvents of different colours and viscosity. There were even a Bunsen burner and test tubes neatly perched at a wooden rack at the corner, trinkets Sherlock might have ‘borrowed’ from the cabinet in Father’s study.
For hours, Percy was lost in Sherlock’s voice as he explained the properties of elements and his experiments with excitement the younger boy had never heard from him before.
(Between the blue of copper sulphate crystals against sunlight, and the white of the flame dancing over lead, Percy understood the world as seen from Sherlock’s eyes, and began to love Sherlock too.)
15.
“You see the boot print over here? It’s-”
“It’s the gardener’s. It doesn’t mean anything,” Anderson cut in.
Sherlock glared at the forensic. If looks could kill, the German would have been six feet under. “Thank you for the stupid, rude interruption. As I was saying-”
A phone rang.
“As I was saying, from the size of the print and the intensity of the mud,” Sherlock spoke rapidly, a vein pulsing on his temple. “It’s clear that the person who was wearing the boots when he stepped here was left-handed and heavier than the gardener. Hence-”
Greg tapped on the genius’ shoulder cautiously after everyone in the vicinity had checked their phones. John was away because Harry had something and Sherlock was always more vicious without his flatmate around [1]. “Sherlock, it’s yours.”
“Why is nobody listening?” The consulting detective let out a long-suffering sigh as he retrieved his blackberry. “Speaking,” he spoke viciously to the device.
“Mr Sherlock Holmes?” John and Greg could hear the voice from the other end from since they were standing quite close to the genius.
“Yes,” Sherlock let out an annoyed huff.
“Next of kin of Mr Mycroft Holmes?”
In the blink of an eye, Sherlock’s expression had turned sombre. “What’s happened to Mycroft?”
Greg was alarmed to find that there was a hint of anxiety in Sherlock’s voice.
“Mr Mycroft Holmes was injured,” the voice told them in a professional tone. “He’s now held in…”
Greg couldn’t hear the rest of the sentence. His heartbeats sounded too loud in his ears. He stood there, frozen. He didn’t know what to do. Sherlock looked concerned enough Greg was sure he would drop the case and go where Mycroft’s held now. Should Greg join him? He wanted to see Mycroft. But he couldn’t leave the crime scene, it’s his job. Seeing Mycroft wasn’t urgent.
“Lestrade, we’re going,” Sherlock took the choice away from him after his eyes accidentally met Greg’s eyes.
“Donovan, wrap up after you’re done,” Greg managed to leave his sergeant a command before he followed the detective consultant into a cabbie Sherlock had hauled off the street in half a second flat. The short drive to the hospital was terrible. The silence.
When Sherlock gave his name to the reception, the nurse was quick to assign someone else to direct them to the correct ward. The door was opened. There was no name on it.
Greg came to a halt when he saw that there was someone inside already, a blonde man Greg didn’t recognize, decked in what seemed to be an expensive suit, dark grey and closely fitted to accentuate his body. And it was a beautiful, muscular, strong body, matched with a stern face and arctic blue eyes that seemed to have seen too much.
Greg watched as the man talked to Mycroft in hushed tones. Who is he? A bodyguard? Where’s Mycroft’s ever-present PA? What’s his relation to Mycroft?
“For Goodness sake,” Sherlock had enough of standing behind the doorway and barged in. “Mycroft. Still alive I see.”
“Sherlock,” Greg sighed.
The older Holmes shifted his gaze away from the stranger to Sherlock and rolled his eyes. “I’m so thankful for your affection, dear brother.”
“Mycroft. I suppose I shouldn’t even ask how you’re feeling,” Greg greeted.
Mycroft was different. Greg had never seen him so weak, the bags under his eyes so pronounced. Even when Sherlock wounded him in one of his episodes, Mycroft had never looked this pale, this…breakable. This human, someone Greg should protect, not an untouchable God.
“I’m all right, actually,” Mycroft smiled ruefully as he shifted to adjust his posture. He was lying on his side, his whole upper body wrapped in bandages. “Painkillers. Do forgive me if I start to talk nonsense or become too long-winded.”
“You always talk nonsense, Mycroft,” Sherlock quipped. “And you, mister, are staring.” He shot the blonde man with arctic blue eyes a look of disdain.
The man didn’t react, didn’t even blink. “I shall be going. Good day, Mr Holmes.”
“Mr Bond,” Mycroft stated as he walked away, “Don’t over think.” [4]
The man only paused for half a beat and stalked off as soon as Mycroft finished.
Greg blinked at the display of antisocial behaviour. “Who’s that?”
“James Bond, from SIS,” Sherlock answered before Mycroft could open his mouth, “Her Majesty’s finest.”
Something flashed across the elder Holmes’ eyes. It was gone before Greg could identify it. “Why, I didn’t know you care, Sherlock.”
The consulting detective only shrugged.
Mycroft turned slightly toward Greg and smiled wanly. “Detective Inspector, I’m sorry I couldn’t drop you the call.”
“No problem,” Greg inwardly shook the weird feeling that had resulted from the realization that Mycroft could get hurt and smiled as he stepped closer. “You didn’t plan on getting hurt. Unless of course, you did.”
“For Goodness sake,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was the second time he’d said it within ten minutes. Greg wondered what had put him in a snit. “Now what I’ve ascertained that you’re still annoying, Mycroft, please do excuse me. I have other matters to attend to.”
“You do?” Greg looked up sharply. “Sally must have wrapped up by now.”
“Irrelevant,” Sherlock waved his hand. “I’ve got the leads, I’ll pursue them.”
Greg frowned. “Sherlock,” he warned.
“I promise I won’t withhold or damage any evidence, and I promise I’ll tell you everything I find out,” Sherlock said quickly in a flat tone. Not convincing.
“Please take your leave, gentlemen,” Mycroft shrugged. His eyes accidentally met Greg’s and Greg could see…loneliness there. “The drug is starting to make me sleepy. I don’t think I will make a good company now.” Mycroft was lying.
(Greg didn’t want to think too deeply about what it meant, that he of all people could tell that Mycroft, the ‘iceman’ with the most impenetrable poker face, was lying.)
“You’ve never-”
“Then, I’m coming with you, Sherlock,” Greg interrupted with his best ‘don’t even bother trying’ tone. “I’ll be back later,” he promised the patient on the mattress as Sherlock grumbled. He hoped he managed to convey his apology with his eyes. “Have a good rest,” he surprised himself again when he reached out to squeeze the elder Holmes’ arm.
Greg pretended that he didn’t see Sherlock quirking his eyebrow in amusement.
(And the sight of the blush that spread on Mycroft’s cheeks did funny things to his organs.)
16.
The revelation happened like this:
“…Mr Holmes,” Inspector Lestrade treaded carefully.
Mycroft sighed inwardly and drew on all of his willpower to smile at the other man. “Yes?”
The copper opened his mouth once, looked aside for half a second and pursed his lips before he started again. “This has to stop.”
Mycroft turned defensive at the get go. “The drug-taking? I thought we agreed long ago that it should,” he said lightly, as he slowly swirled the wine in his hand, one eye on the yarder.
Inspector Lestrade clenched his fists on his lap, and for a moment Mycroft wondered whether his companion would punch him this time. He knew he could be infuriating. Hell, within the past one year (had they known each other for a year already? Time flew) there were certainly more times Lestrade had looked more murderous than this.
The police officer only ploughed on after taking a deep breath. “You know that’s not what I mean.”
Lestrade’s tone was 90% frustration and 10% desperation. The latter threw Mycroft off. “How would Sherlock ever be well, if he’s not-?”
“I’m not talking about the rehab. It’s painful, but necessary, I get that,” Lestrade interrupted, and Mycroft had to pause, taken aback. If he wasn’t against the way I literally kidnapped Sherlock and forced him to go on rehab then what...? Mycroft didn’t have to wonder long. “I’m talking about the flat-search,” he answered the question in Mycroft’s head.
Mycroft stiffened. “What’s wrong with it? Weren’t you tired of living with him, before, since he’d wrecked your flat with his experiments and made your wife’s patient run thin? Isn’t it more convenient with the places I’ve shortlisted? You-”
“That’s it!” Lestrade interrupted him a second time. If he was any other person he would not hear the end of Mycroft’s irritation. *“Sherlock is the way he is because you don’t let him grow.” The yarder’s voice was firm and brimming with a dangerous anger, yet there was an undercurrent of concern there, too. “He deletes knowledge of society, social norms and etiquette because you’ve always solved his problems for him. Now you’ve created a person who will always be reliant on you. If you don’t stop, he’ll be in even more serious trouble.” [2]
Mycroft was stunned.
“This will only harm your relationship further, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade continued in a quieter voice, though he was no less steely. “I don’t believe that Sherlock doesn’t have any self-control. He does. And you know the only way he’ll stay clean this time,” Mycroft winced at the insinuation, “is if he himself desires it.”
Mycroft put down the wine glass and looked at his hands.
“Trust him,” Lestrade took another deep breath. A callused hand lied atop his sleeve and Mycroft looked up to a pair of steady, imploring brown eyes. “Trust me. We’ll get through this.”
The detective inspector left when Mycroft didn’t seem like he was going to say any word.
The thought rested heavily in his heart, tossing and turning his brains, causing him to relook at certain memories, decisions, actions, from different angles. He was dismayed to find that DI Lestrade was right.
The Gods must be conspiring against him, because that same week Perseus and a double-oh agent went missing in the Middle East and Mycroft had to arrange the speediest retrieval he’d ever organised his whole life. He didn’t care that his Masters might be unhappy with his blatant abuse of power and he had to blow the moon in compensation. Mycroft wouldn’t forgive himself if Perseus, if Sherlock, if any one of his brothers died when he could have done something about it.
“I’m not going back to the field, ever,” Perseus said, seven days after he was hauled back to England, his legs twisted unnaturally, his skin a myriad of white, blue and red, his chest barely moving, two days after he woke up next to Mycroft holding vigil at the youngest Holmes’ bedside. Perseus was surprisingly calm and steady for a person who’d been traumatized within an inch of his life barely a week prior.
“Oh,” Mycroft raked his brain for anything, any sign of disdain he’d accidentally let out in the past two days. Perseus had never shown any indication of hating legwork, when they had weekly lunches and talked about MI6 and Whitehall, Mummy and Sherlock.
Perseus only needed to look at Mycroft for a while before he picked up on the auburn-haired man’s hesitancy. “It’s not you. I’d never particularly loved fieldwork in the past. Now, I just…dislike it,” he paused. “There’s something you’re not telling me, is there? And it’s related to Sherlock.”
Mycroft sighed inwardly. Perseus was a Holmes, of course he would notice.
Mycroft didn’t answer straight away. He looked at the sheaf of paperwork on his lap for a long, long time, his eyes zeroing on the red circles he’d inked on the report, before he ventured. “How could you stand me?”
Perseus stared. Mycroft let himself be scrutinized. He watched as Perseus’ hands tightened around the Styrofoam cup of weak tea (the best the hospital could give) before one of them reached for his hand.
“You know, I’d never felt…restricted by you,” Percy’s voice was so very soft when he began. “Maybe it’s because my experiments are a lot less physically destructive than Sherlock’s. Maybe because I’ve realised, much earlier on, that once I understand the rationales behind your rules and interventions, and negotiate with you persistently enough, instead of rebelling outright, you would hear me out.”
At the end of his little speech, Perseus looked up from their linked hands. “I know you only mean well,” he breathed. It’s Sherlock fault as much as yours, were the words left unsaid. He curled his lips tentatively, and there was so much unconditional love there.
Mycroft’s sight turned surprisingly blurry. He clasped his baby brother’s hand in return, and hoped that it was enough to convey his gratitude.
(It was also around that time, Mycroft mused, that he started falling for DI Lestrade. Alas, the silver fox was married, and there was no way he would be attracted to him anyway. Or so he’d thought.)
17.
“Why?” James questioned.
“Because you are important, Mr Bond,” Holmes smiled. “England needs you.”
James snorted. “Everyone knows you’re more important than me, Director. England would fall without you.”
“Hardly,” the politician shook his head in amusement. “Thinking of oneself as overly important is a common pitfall of man, Mr Bond. I admit I do fall prey to it quite often, but no, England was well before I was born, and she will continue to be majestic after I depart.”
James scowled. “This is not about England, isn’t it?”
Holmes merely shot him an enigmatic stare. It’s maddening.
A beat, and the people who’d been behind the door, letting James have this infuriating conversation, decided that they didn’t want to wait anymore.
“Mycroft. Still alive I see.” James heard, and turned.
And couldn’t blink.
Holmes’ visitor looked so much like Q, or at least who he would be in five years. The hair, the shape of his eyes, the cheekbones, the tall lean frame, the pale skin - they were the same.
“Sherlock,” the stranger’s companion sighed his name in a patronizing tone.
Holmes rolled his eyes at his visitor. “I’m so thankful for your affection, dear brother.”
And suddenly everything made sense.
Sherlock Holmes, the private detective who had been rising in popularity and gotten himself frequently featured on local newspapers recently. Sherlock Holmes, younger brother of Mycroft Holmes. And older brother of ‘Q’ Holmes.
The intimacy. The mannerisms Q shared with Mycroft, the little habits that belayed how familiar they were with each other. Of course.
“You, mister, are staring,” the detective’s disapproving stare brought James back to reality.
He’s got more sharp edges than the boy, James thought amusedly. “I shall be going. Good day, Mr Holmes.”
“Mr Bond,” the Director’s tone was more transparent this time, and it was pleading (for what?). “Don’t over think.”
James almost reeled back in response. As it was, he just left the ward quietly, too many questions in his mind.
18.
“When are you going to be done with the matchmaking?” Sherlock snarled.
Q and Mycroft shared a look. “Why, would you like to have our assistance in your love life?” Mycroft voiced their thoughts.
Sherlock threw his hands up in the air in frustration.
(Later, much later, when James Bond and John met and it was revealed that they had a history, Sherlock joined “the matchmaking” efforts. Only after ascertaining that the spy had nothing but good intentions for his brother, of course [3].)
TBC
This should end soon. If Sherlock’s death is not included in the narration.
Also, Curiosity by King_Katherine has become my headcanon.
Notes:
1. Originally, I included John, but I’m getting really enamoured with the possibility of past James/John, so the ex-lovers will meet another time J
2. Almost the whole thing starting from the ‘*’ is lifted from chapter 4 of ‘Collision’ (http://archiveofourown.org/works/474688) by ice_evanesco
3. Concept is from Big Brother, Little Brother by White_Noise. I would like to have a try on writing ‘big-brother-warns-younger-brother’s-boyfriend-not-to-hurt-Q’ too.
4. In contrast, why did Mycroft seem like he’s given 007 his blessing already? My theory is this: at this point, Q is already in love with James. Mycroft knows this, had memorised Bond’s entire life, and gone on a mission with him to ascertain his assumptions. His conclusions are that Bond is a good guy deep inside and Bond cares about Q. The most possible way Bond hurts Q is thorugh avoiding Q because he’s scared Q will die because of him (that, and the way Bond recklessly places his life on the line). Well, Q’s job already gives him plenty of danger (Q is more likely to die from enemies kidnapping him for knowledge of MI6 security than from his association with Bond), so Mycroft wants Bond to stop over thinking and just start that frigging relationship with his brother already.