Fic and art for elixile22: In Its Time & Mycroft
Title: In Its Time
Author: burnt_hamster
Recipient: elixile22
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft
Rating: R
Warnings: drug use, brief mentions of child abuse and suicide, bit of naughty language, torture
Summary: Character study. Glimpses into the relationship between Mycroft and Sherlock.
In Its Time
Mycroft enters his bedroom to find a five-year-old Sherlock staring intently at a page in his dictionary. His small hands clutch the worn soft leather of the large book disapprovingly, his small features squeezed into a grimace. So concentrated is he that he doesn’t notice his brother until he is leaning over the book. It’s snapped closed in an instant but Mycroft has already read the page, upside down as it were, identifying the scrutinized word based on the direction of Sherlock’s glare.
He suppresses a smirk as he takes a seat at his desk. “Something happened at school today.” It is not a question.
Sherlock whips his head in his direction, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. The look is too severe on such a small face and he smiles despite himself.
“Everyone is an idiot.”
“Everyone, Sherlock?” Mycroft raises an eyebrow at his young sibling. “Exaggerations hardly suit you.”
Sherlock tosses his shoulders back and shrugs. “Almost everyone is an idiot.”
Mycroft pauses in consideration. “When weighted against you or I, I suppose you could make such a claim. What in particular has been done today to garner such a generalization?” Sherlock feigns disinterest, flipping absently through the pages of his brother’s dictionary.
“They said something idiotic.” He shrugs again, and Mycroft frowns. His brother carries all his uncertainty in his shoulders and when they roll like this it is a sure sign for concern.
“I said particular or do you plan to spend this conversation speaking in vague colorizations?”
Sherlock lifts his eyes to Mycroft and stares at him silently, a decision being made. Then with one last roll of his shoulders he relented. “They said no one loves me.” He looks down at his fingers playing with the corner of the page. “I don’t see how it matters. Doesn’t seem worth the effort.”
“And yet you seem to be putting in quite an effort to understand it.” Sherlock simply sighed and rested his chin in his hand.
“You are not unloved of course so you’re hardly at a loss.” Sherlock’s eyebrows darted together incredulously.
“Come now Sherlock, surely you could identify something from the definition that is exhibited in our relationship-“ Mycroft sputtered suddenly as Sherlock slammed his face into his in a firm mouthed, bruising imitation of a kiss. More just bashing their faces together. Taken aback he pulled his face away to find his brother squinting in concentration, his face pinched and his lips unsure and stiffly puckered. Mycroft laughed until his stomach muscle clenched painfully, glanced at Sherlock’s too old scowl and laughed harder. Taking a gasping breath he grabbed his brother’s wrist before he could dart out the door in an angry huff.
“It will come in its time, Sherlock. I promise you.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mycroft read quietly in the corner while their mother painted. A certain peace fell about the house at these moments when she was contented. Her free hand rubbed absently at her swollen belly. Sherlock was perched next to her watching the easy strokes of her brush.
And then she stopped suddenly. A smile spreading across her face as her hand stilled over her stomach.
“Sherlock,” Sherlock looked obediently in her direction. “Would you like to feel the baby?” Mycroft looked up from his book at the announcement. It was an unspoken rule in the house, they never mentioned their mother’s pregnancies. A baby wasn’t a baby until they could hold it in their arms. She had had miscarriages. Before and after Sherlock. So they never spoke of what they might lose.
But she was too happy this day for safety precautions. Happy with her boys in the room with her and the baby kicking healthy inside her and she couldn’t suppress her hopefulness.
Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he nodded. She directed his hands to her side. Mycroft hid his smile behind his book at the intent face of his brother. Then Sherlock smiled in wonder at the movement under his fingers.
“See? She likes you already.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mycroft watched his brother twist his fork through his fingers. Alternating balancing it on his index and palm. It was silent around the table. Tension had been mounting for months. Mrs. Holmes hadn’t spoken in weeks, the once mediator of the household had abandoned her post. Silence was the only way to keep stability. Sherlock held his fork in front of his face then deliberately opened his fingers to let it drop with a loud clatter on his plate. Their father looked up, his mouth pulled back in a frown as he scrutinized his youngest.
“Sherlock, If you’re only intent this meal is to juggle silverware, then you may excuse yourself.” His voice was tight, barely controlled. The military bite of his words never quite faded though he had been out before the boys were born.
Sherlock stared at his plate for a moment before looking up at their patriarch. “Don’t worry father, Mycroft can have my portion. What do you say brother mine?” It was a jab, they came too easily now. Their father disapproved of both their eating habits. Mycroft wasn’t a respectable weight, it made him look sloppy, lazy and Sherlock’s skipped meals to spite him. There were punishments in turn. Mycroft sitting shamefully as the family ate or Sherlock sitting at the table for a week staring at a plate of long molded food until a forkful was forced through his teeth and he spent the next three days sick.
“How is Mrs. Wellington, daddy?” Sherlock mocked. The venom had no place in a nine-year-old’s mouth and Mycroft shot a warning look to him.
“Sherlock . . .”
“You must be very concerned for her now that Mr. Wellington has departed to Australia on business seeing as you have visited her at least four times in his absence.”
Mycroft was watching his mother carefully for a reaction as she stared down at her flat belly. Her face didn’t so much as twitch at the words.
“That is unless she has let you borrow that unique perfume she imports from Persia and you have come to spray it on your person periodically.”
“Watch what you’re saying Sherlock.” His voice was a growl, low and warning.
“I’m curious, as I am not so knowledgeable on the subject, do you have any feelings toward Mrs. Wellington or are you simply bored and enjoy getting off with her.” Sherlock was flippant, his eyes sharp and defiant. “I’m sure one is morally worse than the other but I’ve never been very-“
Their father slammed his palm against the table sending his plate rattling two feet away and the table to jut away from him. He looked as if he were about to pounce on the youngest, his fist clenching and his teeth ground together. He was however interrupted by the scraping of Mrs. Holmes chair across the hard wood as she pushed it back to free herself. She placed her utensils carefully by her plate and left without a word.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“It wasn’t an accident!” Sherlock bounded into Mycroft’s new office dropping his hands to his brother’s desk and leaning over the papers Mycroft was currently scribbling on. Mycroft’s shoulders tensed for a moment before he continued writing again.
“Evelyn.” Mycroft gripped the pen a little tighter at the name as it conjured up images of a round face girl with wide hips and a fast wit whose first words to him were a question on his preference in Russian Authors.
“It wasn’t an accident. She was murdered!” Evelyn who three days ago was found dead at the scene of a brutal car pileup. At least that was the story released to the media. That was the truth as far as anyone was concerned.
“I mapped out the tire marks in the street.” Sherlock was gesturing wildly, his hands shooting away from him in great swooping motions. They were making Mycroft dizzy and he forced himself to look away. “Witnesses said she hit the brakes but there were no marks to indicate that was true-“
“Sherlock . . .” His brother continued unperturbed.
“I was there when they autopsied her body. There were none of the normal defensive bruising that occurs when one is about to be hit by a car-“
“Sherlock, stop.”
“Mycroft she was dead before the car-“
“SHERLOCK!” Sherlock looked up at his brother. Mycroft’s face was a pinched mask of control, though his eyes were glassy and his hands shook slightly.
Sherlock’s eyes ran over his face, scrutinizing before he stepped back in shock. “You knew.” He said simply.
“Just let it go.”
“You knew it wasn’t an accident.”
“Not another word about this.” Mycroft closed his eyes against images of Evelyn sliding her fingers into his, pulling her hair back in a messy bun, sliding her cold feet under his legs to warm them and laughing as he complained.
“Was it all just a cover up then?” Sherlock looked furiously at his brother. “What did she read something you laid out on your desk and knew too much so you had to get rid of her?
“Please Sherlock, I can’t talk about this.”
“Why because if you tell me you’ll have to kill me? Such is the fate of anyone who loves Mycroft Holmes.”
“They went after her to get to me!” Mycroft seethed, pushing the papers away from himself with a angry thrust of his arm. The admission hung in the room like a sad, solitary note.
“Who are they?” Sherlock said carefully and Mycroft brushed a weary hand across his face.
“You know I can’t tell you. The story was fabricated to prevent unnecessary panic. But you saw through it. Good job you.”
“Unnecessary?”
“The general public has no reason to fear as they don’t hold any of my affections.” Mycroft sighed as he leaned back in his chair. “You on the other hand will have to contend with a bit of security, I’m sorry to say. ‘Such is the fate of anyone who loves Mycroft Holmes’”
The room felt weighted. Mycroft felt heavy and sluggish. He bent to pick up the scattered documents, tears stung his eyes but he forced them back. Suddenly there were hands shooing his away and Sherlock was picking up the papers a sheet at a time and stacking them neatly on his desk. His brother then carefully arranged the objects on the desk back to their place and sat back down letting the room fall silent.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sherlock was gliding round his office. His hands trailing over the shelved books, fingers following the brush strokes in the painting above his chair. It was their mother’s and Mycroft wanted to slap his hand away from the delicate oils.
“Careful, Sherlock.” His voice was low and gravelly to his ears and he shuttered to think he sounded like their father.
“Whatever do you mean?” He bit back his frustration. This is what Sherlock was after, a fight. His brother turned, his eyes too dilated for the well lit room and his smile was detached and wicked.
“Whatever you are pumping through your veins may very well end you the way you’ve been doubling your doses.” His voice was sharp now and he pulled it back under control.
“I’m toasting, Mycroft!” Sherlock hopped so he was sitting on his brother’s desk, pulling his legs up and dropping muddy shoes on Mycroft’s paperwork. “A send of if you will to our dear daddy! If only his heart gave out before Mommy blew her brains out with his well polished service revolver!” He chuckled grimly pulling a syringe from his ridiculous coat and twirling it in his fingers. “Of course maybe we were what sent mommy over the edge.” He shrugged his shoulders and Mycroft despaired. “It’s hard to tell motive when she hadn’t left a note.” He shrugged again and waved the needle in front of his brother’s face. “Care to join me in a toast? No?” He pulled his sleeve up and positioned the syringe sloppily over his abused arm.
Mycroft slapped him. Hard. Sherlock’s head whipped to the side dropping the cylinder to roll to the floor. A hand print formed dark pink on his pale cheek and he laughed. His teeth exposed through chapped lips and his eyes squinted in hysteria.
Mycroft had him up by the collar of his shirt, pushing him toward the wall and slamming him hard against it. Anger flooded through him, made his palms itch and the hair stand up at the back of his neck.
“This stops now.” Sherlock’s eyes were wide with interest as he studied his brother’s face.
“Why?” He challenged, a petulant bark that caused Mycroft to pause. Sherlock was still just a teenager. He forgets too often. And God he was all he had. This lanky, angry seventeen year old.
Sherlock was smiling at him again, his mouth jutting up at a mocking angle. “Oh that’s right, you love me! I never quite got the definition of that word did I? Very complicated. Too many variables.”
“If you don’t stop I will lock you up without it.”
“Then I’ll just start again.”
“And I will continue to put you away until you realize it’s in your best interest to quit. I can do it too.”
“Oh I know you can.” Sherlock ‘s smile dropped. A line of red stood out where his chapped lip had broken. “You’re the most dangerous man in London.” He huffed, giving Mycroft one more careful look before he shook off his hands and banged out the door.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mycroft was nineteen when he first gave an order to have someone executed. Had since ordered more. Though only as responsible as a hammer is of its own destruction. He was a tool after all and the blood couldn’t be said to stick to his hands.
This was an entirely different scenario however and Mycroft was prepared to get as dirty as necessary.
He stood still in the room, his weight on his left foot and leaning into his umbrella as he watched the unconscious man. He smiled as the man grunted awake, eyes squinting in the bright fluorescents.
“Where the hell am I?”
“Now now Mr. Ernsworth. It’s not your place to be asking the questions here. You are right where I wish you to be.”
“Who the fuck are you?!” The man’s voice was guttural, dangerous. Or as dangerous as he could be tied to a chair. Mycroft’s right foot came out in a sweeping motion, catching the legs of the chair and sending it toppling backward. It hit the tile with a loud smack. The brute’s skull bouncing off the floor.
“What did I just say about questions, Mr. Ernsworth?” Mycroft tsked, his voice dangerously calm. “Tell me what you have been up to these last few months?”
The man grunted from his strange position looking up at the tall man. He blinked away his dizziness. “I don’t have to tell you nothin’.”
“No you don’t.” Mycroft trailed the tip of his umbrella along the man’s jaw. “I already know. Picked up a strange hobby of murdering young men and then playing with their cold, abused bodies until they begin to smell up your apartment. Really Mr. Ernsworth, I can recommend a number of alternatives that are a great deal more sanitary.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You got no proof.” Mycroft pressed the sharp point into the flesh of the man’s neck. He squeezed his eyes shut at the pain.
“I’m sorry Mr. Ernsworth. Did I give you the impression you were on trial? You misunderstand me. You will not see a court room. You’re in my hands now.”
“That’s illegal!”
“As far as you are concerned, I am your law. I am your government. I am your God.” Mycroft pressed harder until he pierced the skin and blood trickled down to the floor. “I usually don’t step into tawdry cases such as yourself but you see you made a grave mistake, Mr. Ernsworth. You went after Sherlock Holmes. The only man not fooled by your little cover up. And that Mr. Ernsworth is unforgivable.”
“What’s it to you? He some special governmental weapon not to be tampered with?” Ernsworth spat.
Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the man’s head, maddeningly teasing. “No you silly man.” Then his calm masked dropped to reveal a carefully concealed fury. He pulled his umbrella back in a wide arch and let it come down hard on Ernsworth’s head. Repeating the blows until the man was sputtering blood and squinting threw blackened eyes. He took a deep breath bringing himself under control. “Sherlock Holmes is my brother.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sherlock had snuck past his surveillance again. Mycroft’s men were more than sufficient in any other task, he could hardly fault them for losing his brother when Sherlock wanted to be lost. The only man capable of doing otherwise was Mycroft himself and perhaps this Moriarty character that had so recently become an object of interest for his brother. They were however perfectly capable of keeping eyes on John Watson whose disappeared somewhere between Baker Street and Sarah Sawyer’s apartment was inexcusable.
It wasn’t difficult to determine where Sherlock had gone. He had advertised it on his website for Moriarty like note passing between school children. The pool. The catalyst that created the detective and the criminal. Fitting. Mycroft hadn’t been invited, but he rarely is.
His men had the building surrounded. Had already infiltrated the pool area and gave a report of the situation. A standoff, another tawdry bomb and Sherlock holding the gun. His umbrella swung at his side as he made for the entrance. He was halted by the explosion, loud and terrible, as it pushed him back on his heels. It was contained though, the building trembled but remained intact. His mind swirled with possibilities. Based on the amount of semtex assumed, if Moriarty did indeed use the same amount he had strapped to the old woman, it should have taken off the closest wall. It hadn’t.
It was smoke and heat when he rushed through. Parts of wall ripped away, the ceiling scorched and crumbling. Mycroft strode in, his long legs darting him ahead of his team who shouted information from his elbow. Sherlock had shot, Moriarty’s snipers had shot, six gun shots total. John had run forward and the bomb had exploded.
Mycroft trained his eyes on the still rippling water. Twenty feet away John Watson emerged dragging his brother alongside him, a train of crimson followed his kicking feet in uneven waves. Mycroft stood fixed as he watched John heave Sherlock over the edge and then scramble up himself, smacking a mangled limb against the rim of the pool. The doctor gave it no mind as he crawled over Sherlock, straddling his hips and placing his palms firmly against his diaphragm. He ducked, placing his lips over Sherlock’s and forced breath into his lungs. The rising of his brother’s chest looked artificial, halting and wrong. John kept up his ministrations, firm and sure, the army doctor in complete control. His mouth was still over the detective’s when he finally coughed, turning his head to vomit chlorine water.
As Sherlock took lungfuls of air John seemed to deflate. His shoulders drooped and his head ducked again to meet Sherlock. This time his lips lacked control, were desperate, they rested over the detective’s as John lowered his forehead to meet Sherlock’s. Their breath exchanged between them drunkenly.
Mycroft breathed with them, not realizing he had been holding his own breath in concentration. He watched as they lay there seemingly oblivious to the chaos around them. He couldn’t hear them in the blazing of the fire and the dripping of broken pipes, but he could read their lips.
“Shit, Sherlock.” John kissed him again, in exhausted relief.
“Eloquent as always, John.” And Sherlock was smiling. Mycroft felt his breath catch at the sight.
Of course he knew his brother wasn’t a sociopath. Had known since Sherlock began spouting the self-diagnosis in his painful adolescence. He had never challenged him on it, who was he to deny him that comfort? But Mycroft had never seen him like this. His face open, not marked as it usually is with pinched eyebrows and frowned lips. His eyes crinkled in amusement at his sputtering, relieved doctor. His brother, it seemed, was in love.
He watched now as Sherlock’s brow crinkled in concern at John’s paled face. Saw the flicker in his eye as he finally registered the warm liquid oozing into his trousers from the leg on top of him. His lips moved forming a name before he caught John as he passed out, shifting to a sitting position and cradling him.
Mycroft straightened his jacket, taking a moment to collect himself before heading to aid his brother.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mycroft wasn’t surprised to find Sherlock in his office when he arrived at 4:30 that morning. He had noticed the scuff marks in the carpet particular to his brother’s long legged stride.
He moved silently to his chair as Sherlock watched him quietly from his perch at the corner of his desk.
“I need your help.” His voice was resigned.
“With Moriarty.” Sherlock nodded once though no reply was necessary. “Where’s your doctor?” Sherlock looked at him carefully before answering.
“At home. No longer sleeping I suspect.” On cue his phone chirped, he spared it a brief glance before dropping it in his pocket. “I need to appear dead and lack the resources.”
Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Dead?”
“I need to lead Moriarty away. If John follows me he will continue to be used as leverage and Moriarty will have the advantage.”
“John doesn’t know about this?”
“He’s not to know until I return or he’ll follow me.”
“It could take years to track that man down, what do you suppose John will do in the meantime if he doesn’t even know to wait for you?”
“I don’t suppose anything.” Mycroft studied his brother’s face. Sherlock was tired. The skin pulled loose under his eyes and his mouth pinched back in a grimace.
“I think you may underestimate your doctor’s regard for you.” Mycroft’s voice was warning but Sherlock gave him a look that said he clearly knew too well what John Watson was capable of. Knew the doctor so well that his mind had already conjured up images of John running boldly at a laughing Moriarty, John abandoning all and chasing Sherlock across continents, and worse yet in some absurd romanticism John putting his Browning to use in following Sherlock to his supposed afterlife.
“So you intend to disappear without a word to your doctor Watson, leaving him with no outlet for his revenge and you expect to return to him in however many years it takes and find him unchanged?”
Sherlock’s eyes drifted to their mother’s painting. His expression altogether weary and Mycroft could see what his brother was thinking, like scrolling text around his swarming brain, ‘this is what happens when humans fall in love with monsters’. Were all the Holmes men destined to destroy their mates? He made a mental note to remove the browning from the flat.
“You’ll take care of him wont you?” It was the most vulnerable he had ever seen his brother. It was quite frightening.
“I cannot promise what you’ll come back to, only that he will be there when you do.” Sherlock nodded in relief before sliding to the floor. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and laid it on the smooth surface of the desk.
“I won’t tell you where I’m going. I just ask that you make it look convincing. Do whatever you must.” Mycroft nodded and watched as Sherlock pulled off his coat. “I hate to suggest you use his sentiment against him but I fairly warned him it distracted.” He said as he offered up his coat to his brother.
His phone chirped again and he resisted reaching for it. Then his ringtone when off filling the silent room. “I need to protect him.” His voice was so quite Mycroft couldn’t be sure he was even speaking to him. He leaned against the desk staring at his phone, seemingly reluctant to leave.
“You know I almost expected to walk in and find you clutching my dictionary with a scowl on your face.” One elegant lip curved up at the memory. “It seems you made a better study in the subject than myself. You should write a monogram on it.”
Sherlock mouth twitched before he moved to leave. Then stopped and suddenly turned back to his brother, swooping down to his level and kissing him on the lips. Not as forceful as when he was five but just as innocent and thankful. He pulled himself up after a moment and then he was out the door, the click of the lock reverberating in the empty room. And Mycroft laughed, if only to keep from crying.
Sherlock’s phone rang once more before his vibrated in his pocket. He took a breath before answering, in a smooth, humored voice, “What has my brother done now?”
Bonus Art
Title: Mycroft
Artist: burnt_hamster
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Author: burnt_hamster
Recipient: elixile22
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft
Rating: R
Warnings: drug use, brief mentions of child abuse and suicide, bit of naughty language, torture
Summary: Character study. Glimpses into the relationship between Mycroft and Sherlock.
In Its Time
Mycroft enters his bedroom to find a five-year-old Sherlock staring intently at a page in his dictionary. His small hands clutch the worn soft leather of the large book disapprovingly, his small features squeezed into a grimace. So concentrated is he that he doesn’t notice his brother until he is leaning over the book. It’s snapped closed in an instant but Mycroft has already read the page, upside down as it were, identifying the scrutinized word based on the direction of Sherlock’s glare.
He suppresses a smirk as he takes a seat at his desk. “Something happened at school today.” It is not a question.
Sherlock whips his head in his direction, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. The look is too severe on such a small face and he smiles despite himself.
“Everyone is an idiot.”
“Everyone, Sherlock?” Mycroft raises an eyebrow at his young sibling. “Exaggerations hardly suit you.”
Sherlock tosses his shoulders back and shrugs. “Almost everyone is an idiot.”
Mycroft pauses in consideration. “When weighted against you or I, I suppose you could make such a claim. What in particular has been done today to garner such a generalization?” Sherlock feigns disinterest, flipping absently through the pages of his brother’s dictionary.
“They said something idiotic.” He shrugs again, and Mycroft frowns. His brother carries all his uncertainty in his shoulders and when they roll like this it is a sure sign for concern.
“I said particular or do you plan to spend this conversation speaking in vague colorizations?”
Sherlock lifts his eyes to Mycroft and stares at him silently, a decision being made. Then with one last roll of his shoulders he relented. “They said no one loves me.” He looks down at his fingers playing with the corner of the page. “I don’t see how it matters. Doesn’t seem worth the effort.”
“And yet you seem to be putting in quite an effort to understand it.” Sherlock simply sighed and rested his chin in his hand.
“You are not unloved of course so you’re hardly at a loss.” Sherlock’s eyebrows darted together incredulously.
“Come now Sherlock, surely you could identify something from the definition that is exhibited in our relationship-“ Mycroft sputtered suddenly as Sherlock slammed his face into his in a firm mouthed, bruising imitation of a kiss. More just bashing their faces together. Taken aback he pulled his face away to find his brother squinting in concentration, his face pinched and his lips unsure and stiffly puckered. Mycroft laughed until his stomach muscle clenched painfully, glanced at Sherlock’s too old scowl and laughed harder. Taking a gasping breath he grabbed his brother’s wrist before he could dart out the door in an angry huff.
“It will come in its time, Sherlock. I promise you.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mycroft read quietly in the corner while their mother painted. A certain peace fell about the house at these moments when she was contented. Her free hand rubbed absently at her swollen belly. Sherlock was perched next to her watching the easy strokes of her brush.
And then she stopped suddenly. A smile spreading across her face as her hand stilled over her stomach.
“Sherlock,” Sherlock looked obediently in her direction. “Would you like to feel the baby?” Mycroft looked up from his book at the announcement. It was an unspoken rule in the house, they never mentioned their mother’s pregnancies. A baby wasn’t a baby until they could hold it in their arms. She had had miscarriages. Before and after Sherlock. So they never spoke of what they might lose.
But she was too happy this day for safety precautions. Happy with her boys in the room with her and the baby kicking healthy inside her and she couldn’t suppress her hopefulness.
Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he nodded. She directed his hands to her side. Mycroft hid his smile behind his book at the intent face of his brother. Then Sherlock smiled in wonder at the movement under his fingers.
“See? She likes you already.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mycroft watched his brother twist his fork through his fingers. Alternating balancing it on his index and palm. It was silent around the table. Tension had been mounting for months. Mrs. Holmes hadn’t spoken in weeks, the once mediator of the household had abandoned her post. Silence was the only way to keep stability. Sherlock held his fork in front of his face then deliberately opened his fingers to let it drop with a loud clatter on his plate. Their father looked up, his mouth pulled back in a frown as he scrutinized his youngest.
“Sherlock, If you’re only intent this meal is to juggle silverware, then you may excuse yourself.” His voice was tight, barely controlled. The military bite of his words never quite faded though he had been out before the boys were born.
Sherlock stared at his plate for a moment before looking up at their patriarch. “Don’t worry father, Mycroft can have my portion. What do you say brother mine?” It was a jab, they came too easily now. Their father disapproved of both their eating habits. Mycroft wasn’t a respectable weight, it made him look sloppy, lazy and Sherlock’s skipped meals to spite him. There were punishments in turn. Mycroft sitting shamefully as the family ate or Sherlock sitting at the table for a week staring at a plate of long molded food until a forkful was forced through his teeth and he spent the next three days sick.
“How is Mrs. Wellington, daddy?” Sherlock mocked. The venom had no place in a nine-year-old’s mouth and Mycroft shot a warning look to him.
“Sherlock . . .”
“You must be very concerned for her now that Mr. Wellington has departed to Australia on business seeing as you have visited her at least four times in his absence.”
Mycroft was watching his mother carefully for a reaction as she stared down at her flat belly. Her face didn’t so much as twitch at the words.
“That is unless she has let you borrow that unique perfume she imports from Persia and you have come to spray it on your person periodically.”
“Watch what you’re saying Sherlock.” His voice was a growl, low and warning.
“I’m curious, as I am not so knowledgeable on the subject, do you have any feelings toward Mrs. Wellington or are you simply bored and enjoy getting off with her.” Sherlock was flippant, his eyes sharp and defiant. “I’m sure one is morally worse than the other but I’ve never been very-“
Their father slammed his palm against the table sending his plate rattling two feet away and the table to jut away from him. He looked as if he were about to pounce on the youngest, his fist clenching and his teeth ground together. He was however interrupted by the scraping of Mrs. Holmes chair across the hard wood as she pushed it back to free herself. She placed her utensils carefully by her plate and left without a word.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“It wasn’t an accident!” Sherlock bounded into Mycroft’s new office dropping his hands to his brother’s desk and leaning over the papers Mycroft was currently scribbling on. Mycroft’s shoulders tensed for a moment before he continued writing again.
“Evelyn.” Mycroft gripped the pen a little tighter at the name as it conjured up images of a round face girl with wide hips and a fast wit whose first words to him were a question on his preference in Russian Authors.
“It wasn’t an accident. She was murdered!” Evelyn who three days ago was found dead at the scene of a brutal car pileup. At least that was the story released to the media. That was the truth as far as anyone was concerned.
“I mapped out the tire marks in the street.” Sherlock was gesturing wildly, his hands shooting away from him in great swooping motions. They were making Mycroft dizzy and he forced himself to look away. “Witnesses said she hit the brakes but there were no marks to indicate that was true-“
“Sherlock . . .” His brother continued unperturbed.
“I was there when they autopsied her body. There were none of the normal defensive bruising that occurs when one is about to be hit by a car-“
“Sherlock, stop.”
“Mycroft she was dead before the car-“
“SHERLOCK!” Sherlock looked up at his brother. Mycroft’s face was a pinched mask of control, though his eyes were glassy and his hands shook slightly.
Sherlock’s eyes ran over his face, scrutinizing before he stepped back in shock. “You knew.” He said simply.
“Just let it go.”
“You knew it wasn’t an accident.”
“Not another word about this.” Mycroft closed his eyes against images of Evelyn sliding her fingers into his, pulling her hair back in a messy bun, sliding her cold feet under his legs to warm them and laughing as he complained.
“Was it all just a cover up then?” Sherlock looked furiously at his brother. “What did she read something you laid out on your desk and knew too much so you had to get rid of her?
“Please Sherlock, I can’t talk about this.”
“Why because if you tell me you’ll have to kill me? Such is the fate of anyone who loves Mycroft Holmes.”
“They went after her to get to me!” Mycroft seethed, pushing the papers away from himself with a angry thrust of his arm. The admission hung in the room like a sad, solitary note.
“Who are they?” Sherlock said carefully and Mycroft brushed a weary hand across his face.
“You know I can’t tell you. The story was fabricated to prevent unnecessary panic. But you saw through it. Good job you.”
“Unnecessary?”
“The general public has no reason to fear as they don’t hold any of my affections.” Mycroft sighed as he leaned back in his chair. “You on the other hand will have to contend with a bit of security, I’m sorry to say. ‘Such is the fate of anyone who loves Mycroft Holmes’”
The room felt weighted. Mycroft felt heavy and sluggish. He bent to pick up the scattered documents, tears stung his eyes but he forced them back. Suddenly there were hands shooing his away and Sherlock was picking up the papers a sheet at a time and stacking them neatly on his desk. His brother then carefully arranged the objects on the desk back to their place and sat back down letting the room fall silent.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sherlock was gliding round his office. His hands trailing over the shelved books, fingers following the brush strokes in the painting above his chair. It was their mother’s and Mycroft wanted to slap his hand away from the delicate oils.
“Careful, Sherlock.” His voice was low and gravelly to his ears and he shuttered to think he sounded like their father.
“Whatever do you mean?” He bit back his frustration. This is what Sherlock was after, a fight. His brother turned, his eyes too dilated for the well lit room and his smile was detached and wicked.
“Whatever you are pumping through your veins may very well end you the way you’ve been doubling your doses.” His voice was sharp now and he pulled it back under control.
“I’m toasting, Mycroft!” Sherlock hopped so he was sitting on his brother’s desk, pulling his legs up and dropping muddy shoes on Mycroft’s paperwork. “A send of if you will to our dear daddy! If only his heart gave out before Mommy blew her brains out with his well polished service revolver!” He chuckled grimly pulling a syringe from his ridiculous coat and twirling it in his fingers. “Of course maybe we were what sent mommy over the edge.” He shrugged his shoulders and Mycroft despaired. “It’s hard to tell motive when she hadn’t left a note.” He shrugged again and waved the needle in front of his brother’s face. “Care to join me in a toast? No?” He pulled his sleeve up and positioned the syringe sloppily over his abused arm.
Mycroft slapped him. Hard. Sherlock’s head whipped to the side dropping the cylinder to roll to the floor. A hand print formed dark pink on his pale cheek and he laughed. His teeth exposed through chapped lips and his eyes squinted in hysteria.
Mycroft had him up by the collar of his shirt, pushing him toward the wall and slamming him hard against it. Anger flooded through him, made his palms itch and the hair stand up at the back of his neck.
“This stops now.” Sherlock’s eyes were wide with interest as he studied his brother’s face.
“Why?” He challenged, a petulant bark that caused Mycroft to pause. Sherlock was still just a teenager. He forgets too often. And God he was all he had. This lanky, angry seventeen year old.
Sherlock was smiling at him again, his mouth jutting up at a mocking angle. “Oh that’s right, you love me! I never quite got the definition of that word did I? Very complicated. Too many variables.”
“If you don’t stop I will lock you up without it.”
“Then I’ll just start again.”
“And I will continue to put you away until you realize it’s in your best interest to quit. I can do it too.”
“Oh I know you can.” Sherlock ‘s smile dropped. A line of red stood out where his chapped lip had broken. “You’re the most dangerous man in London.” He huffed, giving Mycroft one more careful look before he shook off his hands and banged out the door.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mycroft was nineteen when he first gave an order to have someone executed. Had since ordered more. Though only as responsible as a hammer is of its own destruction. He was a tool after all and the blood couldn’t be said to stick to his hands.
This was an entirely different scenario however and Mycroft was prepared to get as dirty as necessary.
He stood still in the room, his weight on his left foot and leaning into his umbrella as he watched the unconscious man. He smiled as the man grunted awake, eyes squinting in the bright fluorescents.
“Where the hell am I?”
“Now now Mr. Ernsworth. It’s not your place to be asking the questions here. You are right where I wish you to be.”
“Who the fuck are you?!” The man’s voice was guttural, dangerous. Or as dangerous as he could be tied to a chair. Mycroft’s right foot came out in a sweeping motion, catching the legs of the chair and sending it toppling backward. It hit the tile with a loud smack. The brute’s skull bouncing off the floor.
“What did I just say about questions, Mr. Ernsworth?” Mycroft tsked, his voice dangerously calm. “Tell me what you have been up to these last few months?”
The man grunted from his strange position looking up at the tall man. He blinked away his dizziness. “I don’t have to tell you nothin’.”
“No you don’t.” Mycroft trailed the tip of his umbrella along the man’s jaw. “I already know. Picked up a strange hobby of murdering young men and then playing with their cold, abused bodies until they begin to smell up your apartment. Really Mr. Ernsworth, I can recommend a number of alternatives that are a great deal more sanitary.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You got no proof.” Mycroft pressed the sharp point into the flesh of the man’s neck. He squeezed his eyes shut at the pain.
“I’m sorry Mr. Ernsworth. Did I give you the impression you were on trial? You misunderstand me. You will not see a court room. You’re in my hands now.”
“That’s illegal!”
“As far as you are concerned, I am your law. I am your government. I am your God.” Mycroft pressed harder until he pierced the skin and blood trickled down to the floor. “I usually don’t step into tawdry cases such as yourself but you see you made a grave mistake, Mr. Ernsworth. You went after Sherlock Holmes. The only man not fooled by your little cover up. And that Mr. Ernsworth is unforgivable.”
“What’s it to you? He some special governmental weapon not to be tampered with?” Ernsworth spat.
Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the man’s head, maddeningly teasing. “No you silly man.” Then his calm masked dropped to reveal a carefully concealed fury. He pulled his umbrella back in a wide arch and let it come down hard on Ernsworth’s head. Repeating the blows until the man was sputtering blood and squinting threw blackened eyes. He took a deep breath bringing himself under control. “Sherlock Holmes is my brother.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sherlock had snuck past his surveillance again. Mycroft’s men were more than sufficient in any other task, he could hardly fault them for losing his brother when Sherlock wanted to be lost. The only man capable of doing otherwise was Mycroft himself and perhaps this Moriarty character that had so recently become an object of interest for his brother. They were however perfectly capable of keeping eyes on John Watson whose disappeared somewhere between Baker Street and Sarah Sawyer’s apartment was inexcusable.
It wasn’t difficult to determine where Sherlock had gone. He had advertised it on his website for Moriarty like note passing between school children. The pool. The catalyst that created the detective and the criminal. Fitting. Mycroft hadn’t been invited, but he rarely is.
His men had the building surrounded. Had already infiltrated the pool area and gave a report of the situation. A standoff, another tawdry bomb and Sherlock holding the gun. His umbrella swung at his side as he made for the entrance. He was halted by the explosion, loud and terrible, as it pushed him back on his heels. It was contained though, the building trembled but remained intact. His mind swirled with possibilities. Based on the amount of semtex assumed, if Moriarty did indeed use the same amount he had strapped to the old woman, it should have taken off the closest wall. It hadn’t.
It was smoke and heat when he rushed through. Parts of wall ripped away, the ceiling scorched and crumbling. Mycroft strode in, his long legs darting him ahead of his team who shouted information from his elbow. Sherlock had shot, Moriarty’s snipers had shot, six gun shots total. John had run forward and the bomb had exploded.
Mycroft trained his eyes on the still rippling water. Twenty feet away John Watson emerged dragging his brother alongside him, a train of crimson followed his kicking feet in uneven waves. Mycroft stood fixed as he watched John heave Sherlock over the edge and then scramble up himself, smacking a mangled limb against the rim of the pool. The doctor gave it no mind as he crawled over Sherlock, straddling his hips and placing his palms firmly against his diaphragm. He ducked, placing his lips over Sherlock’s and forced breath into his lungs. The rising of his brother’s chest looked artificial, halting and wrong. John kept up his ministrations, firm and sure, the army doctor in complete control. His mouth was still over the detective’s when he finally coughed, turning his head to vomit chlorine water.
As Sherlock took lungfuls of air John seemed to deflate. His shoulders drooped and his head ducked again to meet Sherlock. This time his lips lacked control, were desperate, they rested over the detective’s as John lowered his forehead to meet Sherlock’s. Their breath exchanged between them drunkenly.
Mycroft breathed with them, not realizing he had been holding his own breath in concentration. He watched as they lay there seemingly oblivious to the chaos around them. He couldn’t hear them in the blazing of the fire and the dripping of broken pipes, but he could read their lips.
“Shit, Sherlock.” John kissed him again, in exhausted relief.
“Eloquent as always, John.” And Sherlock was smiling. Mycroft felt his breath catch at the sight.
Of course he knew his brother wasn’t a sociopath. Had known since Sherlock began spouting the self-diagnosis in his painful adolescence. He had never challenged him on it, who was he to deny him that comfort? But Mycroft had never seen him like this. His face open, not marked as it usually is with pinched eyebrows and frowned lips. His eyes crinkled in amusement at his sputtering, relieved doctor. His brother, it seemed, was in love.
He watched now as Sherlock’s brow crinkled in concern at John’s paled face. Saw the flicker in his eye as he finally registered the warm liquid oozing into his trousers from the leg on top of him. His lips moved forming a name before he caught John as he passed out, shifting to a sitting position and cradling him.
Mycroft straightened his jacket, taking a moment to collect himself before heading to aid his brother.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mycroft wasn’t surprised to find Sherlock in his office when he arrived at 4:30 that morning. He had noticed the scuff marks in the carpet particular to his brother’s long legged stride.
He moved silently to his chair as Sherlock watched him quietly from his perch at the corner of his desk.
“I need your help.” His voice was resigned.
“With Moriarty.” Sherlock nodded once though no reply was necessary. “Where’s your doctor?” Sherlock looked at him carefully before answering.
“At home. No longer sleeping I suspect.” On cue his phone chirped, he spared it a brief glance before dropping it in his pocket. “I need to appear dead and lack the resources.”
Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Dead?”
“I need to lead Moriarty away. If John follows me he will continue to be used as leverage and Moriarty will have the advantage.”
“John doesn’t know about this?”
“He’s not to know until I return or he’ll follow me.”
“It could take years to track that man down, what do you suppose John will do in the meantime if he doesn’t even know to wait for you?”
“I don’t suppose anything.” Mycroft studied his brother’s face. Sherlock was tired. The skin pulled loose under his eyes and his mouth pinched back in a grimace.
“I think you may underestimate your doctor’s regard for you.” Mycroft’s voice was warning but Sherlock gave him a look that said he clearly knew too well what John Watson was capable of. Knew the doctor so well that his mind had already conjured up images of John running boldly at a laughing Moriarty, John abandoning all and chasing Sherlock across continents, and worse yet in some absurd romanticism John putting his Browning to use in following Sherlock to his supposed afterlife.
“So you intend to disappear without a word to your doctor Watson, leaving him with no outlet for his revenge and you expect to return to him in however many years it takes and find him unchanged?”
Sherlock’s eyes drifted to their mother’s painting. His expression altogether weary and Mycroft could see what his brother was thinking, like scrolling text around his swarming brain, ‘this is what happens when humans fall in love with monsters’. Were all the Holmes men destined to destroy their mates? He made a mental note to remove the browning from the flat.
“You’ll take care of him wont you?” It was the most vulnerable he had ever seen his brother. It was quite frightening.
“I cannot promise what you’ll come back to, only that he will be there when you do.” Sherlock nodded in relief before sliding to the floor. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and laid it on the smooth surface of the desk.
“I won’t tell you where I’m going. I just ask that you make it look convincing. Do whatever you must.” Mycroft nodded and watched as Sherlock pulled off his coat. “I hate to suggest you use his sentiment against him but I fairly warned him it distracted.” He said as he offered up his coat to his brother.
His phone chirped again and he resisted reaching for it. Then his ringtone when off filling the silent room. “I need to protect him.” His voice was so quite Mycroft couldn’t be sure he was even speaking to him. He leaned against the desk staring at his phone, seemingly reluctant to leave.
“You know I almost expected to walk in and find you clutching my dictionary with a scowl on your face.” One elegant lip curved up at the memory. “It seems you made a better study in the subject than myself. You should write a monogram on it.”
Sherlock mouth twitched before he moved to leave. Then stopped and suddenly turned back to his brother, swooping down to his level and kissing him on the lips. Not as forceful as when he was five but just as innocent and thankful. He pulled himself up after a moment and then he was out the door, the click of the lock reverberating in the empty room. And Mycroft laughed, if only to keep from crying.
Sherlock’s phone rang once more before his vibrated in his pocket. He took a breath before answering, in a smooth, humored voice, “What has my brother done now?”
Bonus Art
Title: Mycroft
Artist: burnt_hamster
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft
Rating: G
Warnings: None