New Fic: Not An Advantage
Title: Not An Advantage
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: G
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 2K
Pairings: None
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: Two brothers, two evenings, thirty years apart.
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Season 2.
For my three-year-old godson, who is gorgeous and brilliant and adorable, and gave me the idea in the first place.
*
The screaming coincided with the storming of the Bastille. At first it was just loud enough to warrant noting, and once acknowledged was quickly filed away and disregarded. It wasn’t unexpected or unusual, so no further action was required.
By the introduction of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, the screaming had increased in pitch and urgency, almost as if demanding to be heard over the proclamation of liberty, equality and fraternity. While still not unusual, it was enough to give pause to anyone who heard it, if only because of its insistence.
By the woman’s march on Versailles the screaming had reached a pitch and longevity that it could no longer be ignored.
Frowning, Mycroft carefully put down his ink pen and his copy of La Révolution française. There were a few words to be made out of the screaming, but those were pretty much, “No!”, “bed” and “not tired”.
He glanced at the clock, confirming both that it was well past a certain someone’s bedtime and just how long the screaming had been going on for. He waited a further sixty seconds until it became clear that the breaks in the near continuous sound were merely for breathing and or snuffling.
He hauled himself to his feet.
The noise increased two-fold as he opened his bedroom door, and then increased further as he moved down the hallway towards the nursery. Opening the door at the end, he wasn’t surprised to find the origin of the screaming rolling across the floor and a very harassed looking au pair frantically trying to stop it.
“Master Mycroft, I’m sorry, I just can’t get him to stop,” the young lady, virtually in tears herself, managed over the top of the scream of, “I DON’T WANT TO GO TO BED!”
A three second glance told him everything he needed to know, and a further two seconds glance confirmed that the usual methods were not going to work in this situation. This called for extreme action.
Shutting the door, he walked across the room, around the bricks and toys that had been thrown or knocked down in temper, and carefully lowered himself to his knees, wincing as the material of his trousers protested as it pulled tighter across his thick thighs. Sitting on the floor wasn’t a move he was accustomed to, and if getting down was proving to be awkward, getting back up again would be doubly so. This time it was necessary though, and dodging the flailing fists of his baby brother, he pulled the four year old clumsily towards him, wrapping the small body in the bulk of his arms and chest.
It didn’t stop the screams. “I’M NOT TIRED. I DON’T WANT TO GO TO BED. I NEED MY HAT. NO BED. NO. NO. NO.”
He was a large target for his brother to hit and grimaced when the small but surprisingly strong fists thumped into the flesh on his arms. He would have bruises there tomorrow, but at least with Mummy away with Father there was no one he would have to explain their existence to.
“I DON’T NEED MY BED. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME. I NEED MY HAT. I’M NOT TIRED.”
For someone so small, his brother was impressively loud and violent.
Mycroft was just starting to question the wisdom of his actions when suddenly it was as if all the strings had been cut and the boy collapsed against him, sobbing and sniffling, arms jerking but without aim or motive. The screaming finally stopped, trailing off into tears and ugly, wet gasps for breath.
He held on for another minute, silently counting down the seconds in his mind, until finally the head of dark curls dropped to his shoulder and the body burrowed further into him. He waited a further thirty seconds and then carefully drew back.
Sherlock was a mess. His face was coloured with red blotches, his eyes were swollen, bloodshot and running, snot was dripping from his nose and smeared across his face, and his curls were tangled and hanging in his eyes. He needed a hair cut again, Mycroft noted. And a tissue. And some sleep. He brushed a lock of the hair away and fumbled for his hanky. Of course it would have to be one of his special ones. Mummy had got it for him for his last birthday, but that couldn’t be helped. Carefully he wiped around his brother’s eyes and then got him to blow his nose. He really needed a damp cloth and a face wash, but this would have to do.
“Better now?” he asked gently.
Sherlock hesitated but then nodded, his hand rubbing at his neck and throat.
Mycroft frown and then placed his palm flat against his brother’s forehead. He was warm, although that was understandable considering what he had been doing. Was he too warm though? There were signs that food had been wiped off his clothing. Had he been refusing to eat again?
“Does your head hurt?” he asked.
Sherlock nodded again, barely holding back the yawn that overcame him. He was so exhausted he was scarcely managing to keep himself upright.
“Okay,” he said, “why don’t you go and put on your pirate pyjamas while I go and get something to help your head.”
“I need my hat.”
‘I need’ was Sherlock’s favourite phrase and had been since he’d learnt it. For the four year old, ‘I want’ just wasn’t good enough.
“And I’ll get your hat as well,” he said.
The boy looked at him, eyes narrowing as if trying to decide whether or not this was some kind of trick. He sniffed loudly. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
Apparently that was good enough and the boy scurried off to where the au pair was holding the special pyjamas with a dazed expression on her face. Mycroft knew how she felt.
Taking a deep breath, he braced himself and then pushed his more than ample frame up from the floor in what was a horribly undignified manner. Fortunately there were no witnesses, the au pair taken up with his now half naked brother. Sighing he made his way to the medicine cabinet for the Calpol and then to find out where his brother’s beloved pirate’s hat was.
Both in hand, he returned to find a sleepy four year old sitting on the bed. The pyjamas sleeves were part way down his brother’s wrists as he rubbed at his eyes, a victim of his most recent growth spurt. Sherlock wouldn’t be able to fit into them for much longer. Mycroft made a note to find a similar pair in a bigger size. This little obsession seemed to be lasting, for the moment at least.
“Into bed,” he said and was somewhat surprised when it worked and the sleepy boy crawled under the covers.
“Here, sit up and take this,” he said motioning to the medicine. “It’ll make your head feel better and then you can have your hat.”
The medicine went down easily enough and then Sherlock was tucked up under the covers, his hat awkwardly on his head.
“I need a story.”
Of course he did. So Mycroft read him a story, or at least the first page of one as the tantrum, the lack of food, the late hour and the medicine finally all came together and the boy succumbed quickly to sleep, almost angelic with his too long curls poking out from under his hat.
Mycroft stared at him for a good ninety seconds before carefully getting to his feet and nodding to the au pair. Things would be alright now, at least for a while. Although his own night had only just started; he had a French Revolution to deal with.
*-*-*
Exactly 30 years later
*-*-*
Mycroft went through his security measures and opened his front door. He felt weary, heavy with sorrow and regret, even though he knew them to be the product of fabrication and sleight of hand. He alone knew who would be waiting for him, sitting in the old wingback chair, upright, observing and very much alive.
Their eyes met and for a moment neither said anything, choosing instead to read and deduce what was needed. Sherlock was alive and well following his swan dive off the roof of St. Barts. He himself had brought with him everything at his disposal to try and keep it that way.
He handed over the package and took his own seat.
“New passport, identification and documents in the name of Jeremy Sigerson,” he said as Sherlock carefully looked through them. “Credit card registered to a secure but fictitious business. Twenty thousand pounds in a mixture of used Stirling, Euros and Dollars. Contacts and names for safe houses. A list of Moriarty’s known associates and business links. A new smart phone, untraceable and with unlimited credit. A pocket knife, a lock-pick kit and a Sig Sauer P226R. Please try not to lose it.”
Sherlock looked tired, eyes swollen from a lack of sleep. He’d helped himself to a drink of water but nothing else, despite probably having not eaten much in the last 48 hours or more.
“You’re more than welcome to stay here for a few days.” Sleep, eat, plan your next move from a position of security and safety.
“Better not.” Sherlock snapped shut the pocket knife and slipped it into his coat pocket before picking up the Sig. “John has this gun.”
Yes, he did. Illegally of course, although there would never be a prosecution. Ah right, of course. John has a gun, a dead flatmate and a history of psychosomatic injuries. He would require very close attention.
“I could provide you with the occasional update,” he said. “As well as any other resources you might require.”
Sherlock acknowledged the offer and put the gun in his pocket. Rising to his feet, he smoothed down suit and picked up his coat.
“Try not to spoil your diet too much while I’m away,” he said.
Sherlock was leaving, he was going to step out of that door and disappear, possibly for years, swallowed by the world, constantly in danger, on the run, always looking behind him, never fully resting. That was far from what he had wanted for his baby brother. The urge to protect him, to try and stop him was strong, but he stamped it down. It had been easier of course, when they had been children, when for a short while he had been able to hold his baby brother tight in his arms and protect him from both the world and himself. It had been easier when most of the problems could be solved with Calpol, a tissue and a pirate’s hat.
“Remember to eat,” he said instead. And sleep. And drink enough fluids. And stay away from cocaine, no matter the urge. Stay safe, and whole, and come back. You need to come back.
Coat on, Sherlock paused by the door, eerily reminiscent of that matter with Irene Adler and the National Security of the country.
“Caring’s not an advantage, remember.”
It seemed that Sherlock remembered that time as well.
“No,” he said slowly, “it’s not.”
And yet, in their own way, they each would continue to care; one by jumping from a building, the other by holding out a hand to help him back up again.
Sherlock nodded, just the once, and then he was gone.
Mycroft continued to look at where his brother had been and carefully counted down the seconds in his mind. At sixty he forced himself to look away. Closing his eyes, he rubbed briefly at the bridge of his nose with his fingers, then sighed before rising smoothly to his feet. He still had the uprising in Yemeni to deal with.
*
The End
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: G
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 2K
Pairings: None
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: Two brothers, two evenings, thirty years apart.
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Season 2.
For my three-year-old godson, who is gorgeous and brilliant and adorable, and gave me the idea in the first place.
*
The screaming coincided with the storming of the Bastille. At first it was just loud enough to warrant noting, and once acknowledged was quickly filed away and disregarded. It wasn’t unexpected or unusual, so no further action was required.
By the introduction of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, the screaming had increased in pitch and urgency, almost as if demanding to be heard over the proclamation of liberty, equality and fraternity. While still not unusual, it was enough to give pause to anyone who heard it, if only because of its insistence.
By the woman’s march on Versailles the screaming had reached a pitch and longevity that it could no longer be ignored.
Frowning, Mycroft carefully put down his ink pen and his copy of La Révolution française. There were a few words to be made out of the screaming, but those were pretty much, “No!”, “bed” and “not tired”.
He glanced at the clock, confirming both that it was well past a certain someone’s bedtime and just how long the screaming had been going on for. He waited a further sixty seconds until it became clear that the breaks in the near continuous sound were merely for breathing and or snuffling.
He hauled himself to his feet.
The noise increased two-fold as he opened his bedroom door, and then increased further as he moved down the hallway towards the nursery. Opening the door at the end, he wasn’t surprised to find the origin of the screaming rolling across the floor and a very harassed looking au pair frantically trying to stop it.
“Master Mycroft, I’m sorry, I just can’t get him to stop,” the young lady, virtually in tears herself, managed over the top of the scream of, “I DON’T WANT TO GO TO BED!”
A three second glance told him everything he needed to know, and a further two seconds glance confirmed that the usual methods were not going to work in this situation. This called for extreme action.
Shutting the door, he walked across the room, around the bricks and toys that had been thrown or knocked down in temper, and carefully lowered himself to his knees, wincing as the material of his trousers protested as it pulled tighter across his thick thighs. Sitting on the floor wasn’t a move he was accustomed to, and if getting down was proving to be awkward, getting back up again would be doubly so. This time it was necessary though, and dodging the flailing fists of his baby brother, he pulled the four year old clumsily towards him, wrapping the small body in the bulk of his arms and chest.
It didn’t stop the screams. “I’M NOT TIRED. I DON’T WANT TO GO TO BED. I NEED MY HAT. NO BED. NO. NO. NO.”
He was a large target for his brother to hit and grimaced when the small but surprisingly strong fists thumped into the flesh on his arms. He would have bruises there tomorrow, but at least with Mummy away with Father there was no one he would have to explain their existence to.
“I DON’T NEED MY BED. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME. I NEED MY HAT. I’M NOT TIRED.”
For someone so small, his brother was impressively loud and violent.
Mycroft was just starting to question the wisdom of his actions when suddenly it was as if all the strings had been cut and the boy collapsed against him, sobbing and sniffling, arms jerking but without aim or motive. The screaming finally stopped, trailing off into tears and ugly, wet gasps for breath.
He held on for another minute, silently counting down the seconds in his mind, until finally the head of dark curls dropped to his shoulder and the body burrowed further into him. He waited a further thirty seconds and then carefully drew back.
Sherlock was a mess. His face was coloured with red blotches, his eyes were swollen, bloodshot and running, snot was dripping from his nose and smeared across his face, and his curls were tangled and hanging in his eyes. He needed a hair cut again, Mycroft noted. And a tissue. And some sleep. He brushed a lock of the hair away and fumbled for his hanky. Of course it would have to be one of his special ones. Mummy had got it for him for his last birthday, but that couldn’t be helped. Carefully he wiped around his brother’s eyes and then got him to blow his nose. He really needed a damp cloth and a face wash, but this would have to do.
“Better now?” he asked gently.
Sherlock hesitated but then nodded, his hand rubbing at his neck and throat.
Mycroft frown and then placed his palm flat against his brother’s forehead. He was warm, although that was understandable considering what he had been doing. Was he too warm though? There were signs that food had been wiped off his clothing. Had he been refusing to eat again?
“Does your head hurt?” he asked.
Sherlock nodded again, barely holding back the yawn that overcame him. He was so exhausted he was scarcely managing to keep himself upright.
“Okay,” he said, “why don’t you go and put on your pirate pyjamas while I go and get something to help your head.”
“I need my hat.”
‘I need’ was Sherlock’s favourite phrase and had been since he’d learnt it. For the four year old, ‘I want’ just wasn’t good enough.
“And I’ll get your hat as well,” he said.
The boy looked at him, eyes narrowing as if trying to decide whether or not this was some kind of trick. He sniffed loudly. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
Apparently that was good enough and the boy scurried off to where the au pair was holding the special pyjamas with a dazed expression on her face. Mycroft knew how she felt.
Taking a deep breath, he braced himself and then pushed his more than ample frame up from the floor in what was a horribly undignified manner. Fortunately there were no witnesses, the au pair taken up with his now half naked brother. Sighing he made his way to the medicine cabinet for the Calpol and then to find out where his brother’s beloved pirate’s hat was.
Both in hand, he returned to find a sleepy four year old sitting on the bed. The pyjamas sleeves were part way down his brother’s wrists as he rubbed at his eyes, a victim of his most recent growth spurt. Sherlock wouldn’t be able to fit into them for much longer. Mycroft made a note to find a similar pair in a bigger size. This little obsession seemed to be lasting, for the moment at least.
“Into bed,” he said and was somewhat surprised when it worked and the sleepy boy crawled under the covers.
“Here, sit up and take this,” he said motioning to the medicine. “It’ll make your head feel better and then you can have your hat.”
The medicine went down easily enough and then Sherlock was tucked up under the covers, his hat awkwardly on his head.
“I need a story.”
Of course he did. So Mycroft read him a story, or at least the first page of one as the tantrum, the lack of food, the late hour and the medicine finally all came together and the boy succumbed quickly to sleep, almost angelic with his too long curls poking out from under his hat.
Mycroft stared at him for a good ninety seconds before carefully getting to his feet and nodding to the au pair. Things would be alright now, at least for a while. Although his own night had only just started; he had a French Revolution to deal with.
*-*-*
Exactly 30 years later
*-*-*
Mycroft went through his security measures and opened his front door. He felt weary, heavy with sorrow and regret, even though he knew them to be the product of fabrication and sleight of hand. He alone knew who would be waiting for him, sitting in the old wingback chair, upright, observing and very much alive.
Their eyes met and for a moment neither said anything, choosing instead to read and deduce what was needed. Sherlock was alive and well following his swan dive off the roof of St. Barts. He himself had brought with him everything at his disposal to try and keep it that way.
He handed over the package and took his own seat.
“New passport, identification and documents in the name of Jeremy Sigerson,” he said as Sherlock carefully looked through them. “Credit card registered to a secure but fictitious business. Twenty thousand pounds in a mixture of used Stirling, Euros and Dollars. Contacts and names for safe houses. A list of Moriarty’s known associates and business links. A new smart phone, untraceable and with unlimited credit. A pocket knife, a lock-pick kit and a Sig Sauer P226R. Please try not to lose it.”
Sherlock looked tired, eyes swollen from a lack of sleep. He’d helped himself to a drink of water but nothing else, despite probably having not eaten much in the last 48 hours or more.
“You’re more than welcome to stay here for a few days.” Sleep, eat, plan your next move from a position of security and safety.
“Better not.” Sherlock snapped shut the pocket knife and slipped it into his coat pocket before picking up the Sig. “John has this gun.”
Yes, he did. Illegally of course, although there would never be a prosecution. Ah right, of course. John has a gun, a dead flatmate and a history of psychosomatic injuries. He would require very close attention.
“I could provide you with the occasional update,” he said. “As well as any other resources you might require.”
Sherlock acknowledged the offer and put the gun in his pocket. Rising to his feet, he smoothed down suit and picked up his coat.
“Try not to spoil your diet too much while I’m away,” he said.
Sherlock was leaving, he was going to step out of that door and disappear, possibly for years, swallowed by the world, constantly in danger, on the run, always looking behind him, never fully resting. That was far from what he had wanted for his baby brother. The urge to protect him, to try and stop him was strong, but he stamped it down. It had been easier of course, when they had been children, when for a short while he had been able to hold his baby brother tight in his arms and protect him from both the world and himself. It had been easier when most of the problems could be solved with Calpol, a tissue and a pirate’s hat.
“Remember to eat,” he said instead. And sleep. And drink enough fluids. And stay away from cocaine, no matter the urge. Stay safe, and whole, and come back. You need to come back.
Coat on, Sherlock paused by the door, eerily reminiscent of that matter with Irene Adler and the National Security of the country.
“Caring’s not an advantage, remember.”
It seemed that Sherlock remembered that time as well.
“No,” he said slowly, “it’s not.”
And yet, in their own way, they each would continue to care; one by jumping from a building, the other by holding out a hand to help him back up again.
Sherlock nodded, just the once, and then he was gone.
Mycroft continued to look at where his brother had been and carefully counted down the seconds in his mind. At sixty he forced himself to look away. Closing his eyes, he rubbed briefly at the bridge of his nose with his fingers, then sighed before rising smoothly to his feet. He still had the uprising in Yemeni to deal with.
*
The End