Fic for monkiainen: Beautiful Surfaces - Part 2
Title: Beautiful Surfaces
Recipient: monkiainen
Author: rivertempest
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes, John Watson/Mary Morstan, Mycroft Holmes
Rating: R
Warnings: Mild violence, implied child abuse, sexual content, temporary character death
Summary: Mycroft Holmes considered himself to be the only person in Sherlock's life that knew him completely. He was spectacularly wrong.
Notes: Based in the Ritchie!verse, this fic also has a smattering of ACD and BBC Sherlock flavouring the story, with definite manipulations (or perversions, your choice) of the movie timeline and The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter. monkiainen, I hope you enjoy this - it took a wildly different turn than I expected. Many thanks to S and D for their fantastic beta skills!
It was his job, his purpose to prepare for any eventuality, any minor miscalculation in affairs concerning Sherlock. However, Mycroft could have never envisioned someone like Dr. John Watson.
Upon learning of the new resident on Baker Street-two minutes after Dr. Watson was ensconced in their rooms-Mycroft immediately requested the man’s military dossier.
Received medical degree from University of London, 1878.
Completed prescribed British Army course for surgeons at Netley.
Attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as assistant surgeon. Regiment stationed in India during Second Anglo-Afghan War. Removed from brigade in Qandahar and attached to the Berkshires.
Wounded in left shoulder via Jezail bullet-extensive destruction of proximal humerus, clavicle and superior border of left scapula. Subclavian artery grazed resulting in significant blood loss, complicated by second injury: superficial right knee wound via Jezail bullet-partial lateral collateral ligament tear.
Relocated to base hospital in Peshawar upon stabilisation. Progress with rehabilitation exceeded expectation-prognosis for recovery: high. Suffered extreme setback with onset of enteric fever, lasting approximately four months. Severe weight loss and malnutrition. Military medical review suggests honourable medical discharge with full pension.
Expedited return to England on troopship HMS Orontes, via Portsmouth.
Mycroft tossed the file onto his desk. Apparently an invalid lack-wit with barely enough sense to take cover from enemy fire-shot twice as evidence-was his brother’s choice of flatmate. Mycroft had purchased the house at 221 Baker Street outright, so why was Sherlock in need of a companion? Money certainly wasn’t an issue; both he and Sherlock were quite wealthy, though Mycroft kept a tight rein on Sherlock’s finances since the time he’d tried to purchase a steam-powered mechanical oscillator by Nikola Tesla for an exorbitant sum.
From a brief glance at the man’s relatively short military history, Mycroft concluded that Watson had the tendency to exhibit reckless behaviour under the guise of bravery-the kindest word he could think of for the doctor’s stupidity; suffered horrific nightmares associated with combat-not because of the war, but because Watson craved stressful situations in order to gain the pleasure of excitement; was stubborn, almost to a fatalistic degree-he could only imagine the conniption Watson pitched when he was informed of his discharge; suppressed anger until release was unavoidable-outbursts of temper coupled with suspicion and trust issues was a formula for disastrous newspaper headlines.
When paired with his mad, brilliant brother for any length of time, Mycroft came to the conclusion that John Watson would be the making of Sherlock… or the reason for his utter destruction.
This would not do. Not in the slightest.
He set about arranging an informal meeting with Dr. Watson, requesting that he meet Mycroft at the Diogenes Club in two days’ time. Just as he sealed the invitation, his secretary announced that Sherlock had arrived seeking an audience. Perfect. Time to dissolve any notions his little brother might be harbouring about attaching himself to someone other than Mycroft.
Once Sherlock sat before him, Mycroft instructed his secretary that they were not to be disturbed. He watched as Sherlock assessed the state of his government chambers, missing nothing.
“Don’t bother with the letter,” Sherlock said. “He will not receive it.”
Mycroft leaned back in his chair. “Is that so? Why ever not?”
The expression on Sherlock’s face transformed into something that Mycroft had never witnessed in all the years of knowing him. There was a softness around his eyes, indicative of burgeoning sentiment… possibly desire or nervousness.
“Because I shall waylay every attempt to present him with the wretched thing.”
“It is merely an invitation to dine with me at my club. Why so suspicious?”
“Should I answer chronologically or alphabetically?”
Mycroft tutted. “You should thank me for the interest I take in your life.”
“One of the surest symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important. The second is auditory hallucinations. Tell me, has the strawberry gateaux from Maison Bertaux started speaking to you yet?”
“Baiting me will not be to your advantage,” Mycroft said with narrowed eyes.
“I’m not baiting you. I’m truly concerned. Your weight gain in the last few months is extra-ordinary. You seem so preoccupied with my life that you ignore your own.”
“Why are you doing this? We both know you have access to ample resources and are financially sound. There is no reason to invite a man of questionable character to share rooms with you.”
“The numerous times you drew the strings of my purse tight far outweigh any dubious company I might keep,” Sherlock ground out. “I prefer my coinage to be free of your fingerprints.”
A shrewd smile unfurled on Mycroft’s lips. “What good is money if it can’t inspire terror in your fellow man?”
“I find that I’m not at all surprised at the depths you’ll descend to retain power. However, that particular form of manipulation lost its effect on me long ago,” Sherlock said with a smirk.
Subtlety was lost on Sherlock; perhaps a strike to his most vulnerable parts was necessary. “Does the good doctor know that he’s struck a bargain with the very Devil himself?”
Mycroft was pleased to see Sherlock falter for a moment. “We discussed our faults at our initial-”
“You told him about your drug usage, then? Your erratic eating habits? Surely you informed the unsuspecting fellow of your penchant for buggery?”
Sherlock fidgeted and picked at the loose threads on his waistcoat.
“I thought not. You do realise that, should you demonstrate your...proclivities, he will most likely report you to the nearest constable? Did your disastrous affair with Victor Trevor teach you nothing? It was wrong of me to turn an indulgent, blind eye during that time, but I shan’t make the same mistake twice.”
“It was never your mistake!” Sherlock said, heatedly. “I wanted to observe the effects of physical intimacy with someone I moderately trusted. God forbid I actually enjoyed it!”
Mycroft sneered. “You certainly wouldn’t have enjoyed the attentions in the gaol to which you would’ve been sent had I not intervened.”
Sherlock paled but remained resolute. “How many pounds of flesh must I give you to become my own entity?”
“All of them,” Mycroft said, brooking no argument. “Keep your relationship with Dr. Watson in the realm of colleagues, and there will not an issue. Should you try to test my resolve in the matter, I can promise you the results will be devastating. Are we clear?”
“Crystal, unlike the shoddy excuse of a chandelier you have in the foyer at your town home. You should report your newest maid-she’s pinching the crystal pendants and replacing them with cut glass,” Sherlock muttered as he stood. “I still ask that you not acquaint yourself with Dr. Watson as of yet; he is an intelligent fellow, though he will never reach our gifted sphere. I believe we might damage the poor chap, should he meet the two of us in abrupt succession.”
Mycroft saw the diversionary tactic for what it was: a ploy for time in which Sherlock could win Dr. Watson’s loyalty. “Keep your word, Sherlock, and I will not reveal myself to him until you deem it necessary.”
Sherlock nodded hesitantly and left.
Mycroft resolved to observe his brother at every given opportunity.
Detailed reports of Sherlock’s and Dr. Watson’s exploits appeared in Mycroft’s office on a near-daily basis. In what Mycroft felt was a half-hearted attempt to keep things professional between himself and the good doctor, Sherlock had invited Watson to assist in his deductive work. Mycroft swiftly discerned that the former military surgeon was just as incorrigible as his brother, if not more so. Felled by gunfire though he might have been, John Watson was a crack shot in his own right and proved this uncanny ability by saving Sherlock’s life on multiple occasions. And the more cases they accepted, the more they delved into the treacherous criminal underworld. It was only a matter of time before someone with subtle, far-reaching power was forced into a corner by Sherlock Holmes and his faithful Dr. Watson-someone from whom Mycroft had no way of protecting his brother.
Things came to a head one evening four months after Sherlock’s visit to his office. Mycroft attended a function, where unbeknownst to Mycroft at the time, a suspect in Sherlock’s latest case was expected to make an appearance. Upon spying Sherlock and Dr. Watson, dressed to the nines and lurking about the edge of the ballroom, Mycroft quickly deduced that he hadn’t been seen. After he discreetly excused himself, he hid amongst the shadows, waiting for the opportunity to observe Sherlock’s dealings with his fellow lodger first-hand. It didn’t take long to discern their true nature.
Mycroft waited thirty-two minutes in the darkened alcove, until one of the double doors that led to the ballroom opened slightly. Sherlock and Watson eased quietly into the corridor and hurriedly made their way to an empty chamber on the floor above. Of course Mycroft followed, slipping without their notice into the dimly-lit room where he hid in a wardrobe with the door opened just a sliver. The first thing Mycroft would admonish Sherlock for would be his carelessness; Sherlock hadn’t even picked up on the fact that he had been followed. But once the door closed, Sherlock’s carelessness became the least of Mycroft’s concerns.
Watson grabbed Sherlock by the nape of his neck and firmly kissed him. “God, I’ve wanted to do that all evening!”
Sherlock smiled against Watson’s lips. “I’m surprised you’ve held out this long, my dear Watson.” He slanted his mouth over Watson’s, dual moans filling the air. Fingers gripped strands of grey-blond hair, then released their hold and drifted downward, pausing briefly at Watson’s left shoulder before trailing down past the waist of the tailcoat and delving between the cheeks of his arse.
“Yes, please,” Watson hissed, and thrust against Sherlock’s hand. He placed a string of open-mouthed kisses along Sherlock’s neck, licking his pulse point, biting the straining tendon enough to elicit a groan.
Sherlock closed his eyes and nuzzled Watson’s cheek. “My lovely, dear Watson. Ask anything of me and it shall be yours.”
“Your mouth,” Watson panted, “I want to spend in your mouth.”
Sherlock gave Watson a lascivious smile as he cupped the front of the other man’s trousers and slowly palmed his length. “What a gift, for you taste exquisite when kept on edge too long.”
Watson returned his smile. “You would know.”
Nimble hands meandered down the flat plane of Watson’s stomach until they reached the top of his trousers and flicked at the buttons on either side. Freed of the restrictive placket, Sherlock dipped long fingers beneath Watson’s smallclothes and began stroking his shaft. Watson leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s, his hands finding purchase on Sherlock’s shoulders.
“I don’t want to know what sort of chemicals you have on your fingers, do I?” Watson asked, earning a small chuckle from Sherlock.
“I promise you, it’s not corrosive,” Sherlock said. He withdrew Watson’s cock from his trousers and rubbed his thumb over the silky glans, spreading the sticky.
“God, Holmes, that’s phenomenal!” He thrust impatiently into Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock pressed his thumb lightly on the slit and was rewarded with a bead of pre-ejaculate, which he swirled around the head, Watson’s harsh pants increasing with each swipe. Sherlock stroked him leisurely for a moment before bringing his thumb to his mouth, coating his lips with the fluid, his tongue darting out to lick it away.
“As I said: exquisite,” Sherlock murmured.
“Oh, bloody hell!” Watson whimpered. He drew Sherlock close for a rough kiss and caught his lower lip between his teeth. “Please!”
Another kiss, and Sherlock knelt, tugging Watson’s trousers and smallclothes down until he was bare from waist to mid-calf. Hands on the back of Watson’s legs, Sherlock let his fingers travel slowly up Watson’s muscular thighs, which were covered in light blond hair, stopping to caress the back of his knees, then moving inexorably upward until he clasped Watson’s arse and began kneading the flesh. He pulled Watson closer and buried his nose at the base of his tumescent length, inhaling deeply.
Watson threaded his fingers in Sherlock’s wild curls, alternately smoothing and fisting the strands. “You look magnificent,” he rasped.
Sherlock nuzzled Watson’s groin, moving to circle his tongue around his glans, occasionally dipping into the wet slit. When Sherlock gripped the base of his erection, Watson yelped and promptly pressed his fist against his mouth. Sherlock stroked him leisurely, avidly watching Watson’s foreskin slide easily over the tip and back down. He shifted his gaze to observe Watson’s reaction with each stroke.
“I won’t last long if you keep doing that, Holmes,” Watson said hoarsely, his chest heaving.
Sherlock licked the length of his shaft with slow, deliberate swipes. “Given that time is a luxury we are not afforded at the moment, delaying your gratification is not advisable.”
Knotting his hands in Sherlock’s hair, Watson thrust hard against Sherlock’s lips. “I think you should busy that arrogant mouth of yours with something constructive.”
An obscene moan filled the air, as Sherlock let his jaw relax and fully accept Watson’s cock, humming around the length as he pumped the base. Watson let loose a feral growl of pleasure, the intensity increasing each time his cock slipped between Sherlock’s lips, his legs trembling with the effort to stay upright.
Sherlock used his other hand to fondle and lightly grip Watson’s testicles, squeezing in tandem with his mouth, as he slid down as far as his throat would allow. He slipped a finger into the crack of Watson’s arse and pressed on the dark entrance, and Watson groaned harsh and loud, as his climax hit him with the force of an explosion.
Sherlock swallowed repeatedly, eyes closed, humming in a highly satisfied manner. Watson hissed as his softened member slipped free of Sherlock’s mouth with a wet plop.
“And that was merely the apéritif, my dearest Watson,” Sherlock purred as he sat back and beamed at the man above him.
Watson, still panting, dragged Sherlock to his feet and pulled him in for a brutal kiss. “Such a main course you’ll make when I get you home,” he whispered against Sherlock’s ear, then buried his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck.
Sherlock laid his cheek against Watson’s temple, nuzzling and cradling his head. “Surely a bounty fit for a king,” he murmured.
After a moment they separated, quickly and quietly corrected their clothing, and left the room.
The fingers of Mycroft’s left hand were bloody from where he had gouged the oak wardrobe with his nails. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth were grinding. He didn’t even glance down at the softening bulge in his trousers and he tried to dismiss the wetness of the surrounding fabric.
Not only had Sherlock ignored his request to keep his relationship with Dr. Watson professional, but the damned fool had gone and fallen in love with the man! There was no need to force a confession from him; it was apparent in every interaction Mycroft had observed.
His humiliation was complete.
With a sniff, he left the wardrobe, resentment building to monumental proportions. Mycroft was the only person who saw Sherlock for what he truly was, who could protect him from himself, who understood the full capability of Sherlock’s intellect. Slipping through a door in the servants’ quarters, Mycroft departed, his agile mine already forming a plan to rid Sherlock’s world of Dr. John H. Watson.
The opportunity to set his plan in motion came sooner than Mycroft expected. The very next week, whilst attending a symposium on applied sciences, he spotted Dr. Watson deep in discussion with several colleagues. Mycroft sidled up next to the group and listened to them converse on the topic of hereditary attributes. As he could easily have predicted, Dr. Watson extolled the amazing powers of his friend, Sherlock Holmes-making Mycroft feel rather ill in the process. A fellow amongst the group corrected the good doctor, telling Watson that, far from being a one-off in terms of observation and deductive reasoning, Sherlock’s older brother Mycroft, had skills that outstripped those of his younger sibling.
Interestingly, Watson expressed shock in learning that Sherlock had an older brother, confirming Mycroft’s suspicion that Sherlock had not even mentioned his existence, let alone his formative role in Sherlock’s mind and character. However, Mycroft was long past annoyance with the oversight. Having gathered enough information for the moment, he slipped back into the crowd and positioned himself to approach Watson at the earliest convenience.
Twenty-six minutes later found Dr. Watson and Mycroft in a hansom cab on their way to the Diogenes Club.
Thirteen hours later found Mycroft relaxing in his copper bath, the smile of a contented man curling his lips.
Four days later found Dr. Watson being introduced to one Mary Morstan by Mycroft, under the pretence of a possible case. An enraged Sherlock looked on in silence.
Two weeks later found the conclusion of said case and a smitten Dr. Watson.
When Mycroft queried Sherlock as to what he had achieved by the end of the affair, he looked at his brother, notched his chin high, and proudly announced, “Several phials of cocaine.”
Seven months later found Dr. Watson leaving Baker Street to begin his practice in Kensington, marriage plans with the tenacious Miss Morstan fully underway.
Sherlock was holed up in his rooms, shooting the walls, drugging Watson’s dog and making Mrs. Hudson’s life a living nightmare.
Nine months later found a dishevelled Dr. Watson and a bruised, battered Sherlock at the altar with Mary Morstan. Of course the stag party hadn’t gone according to plan, courtesy of Mycroft. He quelled any response to the look of abject grief in Sherlock’s eyes when Watson said his vows and kissed Mary.
With Watson firmly out of the picture, Mycroft fully anticipated that Sherlock would resume his casework, including a few that involved his less-than-intelligent government colleagues. Unfortunately, such was not the case and eventually powers beyond Mycroft’s control-namely one Moriarty-wrested Sherlock’s focus from the relative safety of London to a larger global stage. And even then, Sherlock managed to drag that insipid doctor along with him! The final blow, though, was the selfless request Sherlock made of Mycroft before they left England.
“I have no choice. Moriarty has given me none.”
Mycroft looked up from his ledger. “And why should I do this?”
“He’ll go after them. After them both. He was able to determine my weakness for-”
“Everyone except the man you hold dear was and is able to see that Dr. Watson is your Achilles’ heel. I won’t be responsible for your indiscretions.”
“You introduced them,” Sherlock ground out. “Surely you must see how much he loves the woman? It would destroy him if he were to lose her!”
Mycroft waved off his concern. “A calculated risk I’m willing to take to remain safely neutral.”
Sherlock dropped his gaze to the Aubusson carpet that graced the floor of Mycroft’s private office. Several minutes passed before he finally spoke. “I’ll give you the rest of my life to control as you see fit,” he said, his voice barely audible.
Mycroft didn’t even have to think on it. “Done. Give me the coordinates, and I’ll fetch the new Mrs. Watson from the river.”
In hindsight, it was one of the few rash decisions Mycroft had ever made in his life-one he came to regret a mere fortnight later, when he attended a diplomatic meeting in the Bernese Oberland region of Switzerland.
Dr. Watson pushed through the throng of people to reach Mycroft’s side, his complexion ashen. “I… I need…” Words failed him and he managed, barely, to grip Mycroft’s arm and tug hard for him to follow.
Mycroft had lost visual contact with Sherlock at least a half hour ago, so Mycroft considered it in his best interest to follow the shaken man. Watson pulled him out onto a balcony that overlooked the Reichenbach Falls and collapsed at his feet.
“He’s gone,” Watson whispered.
Impatient with the man’s histrionics, Mycroft pulled Watson to his feet and shook him. “What do you mean, ‘he’s gone’? Moriarty? I’d say that was for the best.”
Tears flooded Watson’s eyes and spilled down his flushed cheeks. “No! Sherlock! He…” Watson pointed vaguely to the balustrade. “They both…”
But Mycroft heard nothing more. White noise filled his brain, drowning out the screams coming from his chest. Such a modification to their plans was unacceptable! Sherlock was cleverer than that, cleverer than Mycroft by far. He was supposed to win the game Moriarty had played, not bow in defeat before an inferior opponent! There must have been some caveat, some clue Mycroft had overlooked, one that held the true solution to the final equation.
Mycroft blinked at the sudden sound of Watson’s inconsolable sobs. He turned and studied the man who fell once more to the ground.
Physical collapse: continuous peril since leaving England, resulting in three fractures, including occipital orbit of left eye which will require spectacles with the advancement of age, multiple abrasions, contusions, haematomas and singed hair.
Emotional fatigue: supposed to be on honeymoon, yet chose instead to accompany Sherlock to Europe to investigate Moriarty’s operations; unable to sever co-dependent ties to Sherlock, possible remnant of previous affections.
Conclusion…
But Mycroft could not come to a satisfying conclusion. Not one that allowed for all the facts.
Not until Watson spoke once more.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” Watson managed through his tears, crouched there on the balcony, staring down at the perpendicular fall of rock and water. “I should never have left you.”
A hot, unfamiliar emotion threatened to choke Mycroft where he stood: Shame. He had never personally felt it before, but he definitely recognised guilt’s more volatile cousin; he’d seen it enough in the eyes of men who had indulged in adulterous affairs, in proud people forced to accept charity, in the dead and empty gazes of the prostitutes that haunted Whitechapel. And now, it would be Mycroft’s constant reminder of the life he squandered.
Gone. Sherlock was gone.
Three years had passed, and not a day had gone by that Mycroft hadn’t tried to atone for his mistake concerning John Watson. It had eventually come to the point that Watson had forbidden Mycroft to ever contact him again.
Mycroft abided by the request… to a certain extent. If the Watsons happened to find their bank register showed an influx of money, Mycroft certainly didn’t know anything about it. When Watson’s dog Gladstone was struck and killed by one of the new automobiles menacing the city, Mycroft denied any knowledge of the newly-weaned bulldog pup that suddenly appeared on Watson’s doorstep two weeks later. And Mycroft was resolutely silent when all expenses were paid for Mary Watson’s funeral.
To his credit, Mycroft tried, but the emptiness within told him it was never enough.
Not until an early summer day in June three years after the night at the Falls.
Mycroft was in his study, going over details of a recent attaché with questionable credentials, when a shadow separated itself from a wall near his bookshelf. Without preamble, he retrieved the pistol he kept in his middle right-hand desk drawer and pointed it in the direction where he perceived movement.
“You’ll be dead before you take your next step,” Mycroft warned. “Reveal yourself and I may convince Detective Inspector Lestrade to be lenient with you.”
An amused snort struck his ears and then a familiar voice filled the air. “How the deuce did Lestrade make it to Detective Inspector with his ineptitude?”
Mycroft swallowed past the lump in his throat and willed his hand to cease shaking, his voice to remain cool. “Quite effortlessly-he was, after all, the best of a bad lot.”
“Then it is incumbent upon me to provide him with a challenge.” The shadow became form, as Sherlock stepped into a shaft of sunlight that filtered through the curtains, a devious smirk making his right cheek dimple. “Hello, Mycroft.”
The pistol fell from Mycroft’s nerveless hand as he rose from his chair. Blindly, he made his way around his desk, grabbed Sherlock and pulled him into a smothering embrace.
For a few moments Sherlock remained lax in his arms but, slowly, hands made their way around Mycroft to grip tightly at his shirt.
Sherlock felt thin, nearly wasted away. Mycroft pulled back to deduce the history of his brother, but Sherlock refused to relinquish his hold. After further consideration, and a resurgence of that dreaded shame, Mycroft decided he would wait until Sherlock was ready to tell him where he had been for the past three years.
Mycroft brought his hand up and cradled the back of Sherlock’s head, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said, uncaring of the tears that welled in his eyes. “I failed you quite thoroughly.”
Sherlock shook his head and buried his face against Mycroft’s neck. “I was an obstinate child and a pitifully uncooperative adult,” he joked weakly. “I wouldn’t have survived as long as I have without you.” He withdrew gradually. “But now I’m here to fulfil the promise I made to you.”
Mycroft let him go but frowned. “Promise? I have no recollection… Oh, dear God.” Fresh tears fringed his lashes. “No, I had no right to ask that of you. Your life has been, and always will be, your own.”
Mycroft had contemplated numerous scenarios over the years, ones where he had stepped back from Sherlock’s life and let him live it as he saw fit instead of trying to control every aspect of every waking moment. Of course, each one ultimately ended with Mycroft’s involvement in one form or another, but nothing was compared to the living proof standing in his study. Three years on his own and Sherlock looked like utter hell. But he’d survived by himself, which was no mean feat. Mycroft thought he might actually be proud of the clever bastard.
“You’ve changed,” Sherlock said, his head tilted in contemplation. He gave Mycroft a knowing smile. “John has that effect on people.”
“I won’t ask for your forgiveness. I felt, at the time, I was correct in my assessment of the situation.”
“Mmm. And the reason for this re-evaluation?”
“Dr. Watson’s reaction to your death.” A shudder ran through Mycroft, and he had to close his eyes.
Sorrow the likes of which Mycroft had only ever seen on Watson’s wedding day flashed in Sherlock’s eyes. “My John,” Sherlock whispered. He blinked quickly and gave a wan smile. “I’ve already seen Watson.”
“Has he not reconciled your return? I can provide ample evidence to the contrary. Allow me to-”
“Mycroft!” Sherlock clapped a hand on his shoulder. “John was quite stunned to find me alive.” He pointed to the fading bruise around his right eye. “I astonished the poor chap nearly to the point of death, truth be told. But we’ve come to an… agreement.” His expression became incandescent, as it had all those years ago in Mycroft’s bedroom. “He agrees to forgive the façade of my death, if I forgive his lapse in judgement in marrying that… that… woman.”
“It’s unwise to cast aspersions on Mary Watson, Sherlock; she made sure Watson survived this long without you.”
Sherlock sobered instantly and nodded. “Quite right. Quite right.”
Mycroft felt as if a burden had been lifted. “I still adhere to the fact that caring is not an advantage.”
“If logic follows, as it must dear brother, then why do you care for me?” Sherlock asked.
“Because I suffer from the same madness that ails John Watson,” Mycroft said on a sigh. He gripped Sherlock’s shoulder. “When it comes to Sherlock Holmes, an exception will always be made.”
Sherlock laughed and patted Mycroft’s cheek. “No need to be petulant about it.”
No. No need at all.
Recipient: monkiainen
Author: rivertempest
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes, John Watson/Mary Morstan, Mycroft Holmes
Rating: R
Warnings: Mild violence, implied child abuse, sexual content, temporary character death
Summary: Mycroft Holmes considered himself to be the only person in Sherlock's life that knew him completely. He was spectacularly wrong.
Notes: Based in the Ritchie!verse, this fic also has a smattering of ACD and BBC Sherlock flavouring the story, with definite manipulations (or perversions, your choice) of the movie timeline and The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter. monkiainen, I hope you enjoy this - it took a wildly different turn than I expected. Many thanks to S and D for their fantastic beta skills!
It was his job, his purpose to prepare for any eventuality, any minor miscalculation in affairs concerning Sherlock. However, Mycroft could have never envisioned someone like Dr. John Watson.
Upon learning of the new resident on Baker Street-two minutes after Dr. Watson was ensconced in their rooms-Mycroft immediately requested the man’s military dossier.
Received medical degree from University of London, 1878.
Completed prescribed British Army course for surgeons at Netley.
Attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as assistant surgeon. Regiment stationed in India during Second Anglo-Afghan War. Removed from brigade in Qandahar and attached to the Berkshires.
Wounded in left shoulder via Jezail bullet-extensive destruction of proximal humerus, clavicle and superior border of left scapula. Subclavian artery grazed resulting in significant blood loss, complicated by second injury: superficial right knee wound via Jezail bullet-partial lateral collateral ligament tear.
Relocated to base hospital in Peshawar upon stabilisation. Progress with rehabilitation exceeded expectation-prognosis for recovery: high. Suffered extreme setback with onset of enteric fever, lasting approximately four months. Severe weight loss and malnutrition. Military medical review suggests honourable medical discharge with full pension.
Expedited return to England on troopship HMS Orontes, via Portsmouth.
Mycroft tossed the file onto his desk. Apparently an invalid lack-wit with barely enough sense to take cover from enemy fire-shot twice as evidence-was his brother’s choice of flatmate. Mycroft had purchased the house at 221 Baker Street outright, so why was Sherlock in need of a companion? Money certainly wasn’t an issue; both he and Sherlock were quite wealthy, though Mycroft kept a tight rein on Sherlock’s finances since the time he’d tried to purchase a steam-powered mechanical oscillator by Nikola Tesla for an exorbitant sum.
From a brief glance at the man’s relatively short military history, Mycroft concluded that Watson had the tendency to exhibit reckless behaviour under the guise of bravery-the kindest word he could think of for the doctor’s stupidity; suffered horrific nightmares associated with combat-not because of the war, but because Watson craved stressful situations in order to gain the pleasure of excitement; was stubborn, almost to a fatalistic degree-he could only imagine the conniption Watson pitched when he was informed of his discharge; suppressed anger until release was unavoidable-outbursts of temper coupled with suspicion and trust issues was a formula for disastrous newspaper headlines.
When paired with his mad, brilliant brother for any length of time, Mycroft came to the conclusion that John Watson would be the making of Sherlock… or the reason for his utter destruction.
This would not do. Not in the slightest.
He set about arranging an informal meeting with Dr. Watson, requesting that he meet Mycroft at the Diogenes Club in two days’ time. Just as he sealed the invitation, his secretary announced that Sherlock had arrived seeking an audience. Perfect. Time to dissolve any notions his little brother might be harbouring about attaching himself to someone other than Mycroft.
Once Sherlock sat before him, Mycroft instructed his secretary that they were not to be disturbed. He watched as Sherlock assessed the state of his government chambers, missing nothing.
“Don’t bother with the letter,” Sherlock said. “He will not receive it.”
Mycroft leaned back in his chair. “Is that so? Why ever not?”
The expression on Sherlock’s face transformed into something that Mycroft had never witnessed in all the years of knowing him. There was a softness around his eyes, indicative of burgeoning sentiment… possibly desire or nervousness.
“Because I shall waylay every attempt to present him with the wretched thing.”
“It is merely an invitation to dine with me at my club. Why so suspicious?”
“Should I answer chronologically or alphabetically?”
Mycroft tutted. “You should thank me for the interest I take in your life.”
“One of the surest symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important. The second is auditory hallucinations. Tell me, has the strawberry gateaux from Maison Bertaux started speaking to you yet?”
“Baiting me will not be to your advantage,” Mycroft said with narrowed eyes.
“I’m not baiting you. I’m truly concerned. Your weight gain in the last few months is extra-ordinary. You seem so preoccupied with my life that you ignore your own.”
“Why are you doing this? We both know you have access to ample resources and are financially sound. There is no reason to invite a man of questionable character to share rooms with you.”
“The numerous times you drew the strings of my purse tight far outweigh any dubious company I might keep,” Sherlock ground out. “I prefer my coinage to be free of your fingerprints.”
A shrewd smile unfurled on Mycroft’s lips. “What good is money if it can’t inspire terror in your fellow man?”
“I find that I’m not at all surprised at the depths you’ll descend to retain power. However, that particular form of manipulation lost its effect on me long ago,” Sherlock said with a smirk.
Subtlety was lost on Sherlock; perhaps a strike to his most vulnerable parts was necessary. “Does the good doctor know that he’s struck a bargain with the very Devil himself?”
Mycroft was pleased to see Sherlock falter for a moment. “We discussed our faults at our initial-”
“You told him about your drug usage, then? Your erratic eating habits? Surely you informed the unsuspecting fellow of your penchant for buggery?”
Sherlock fidgeted and picked at the loose threads on his waistcoat.
“I thought not. You do realise that, should you demonstrate your...proclivities, he will most likely report you to the nearest constable? Did your disastrous affair with Victor Trevor teach you nothing? It was wrong of me to turn an indulgent, blind eye during that time, but I shan’t make the same mistake twice.”
“It was never your mistake!” Sherlock said, heatedly. “I wanted to observe the effects of physical intimacy with someone I moderately trusted. God forbid I actually enjoyed it!”
Mycroft sneered. “You certainly wouldn’t have enjoyed the attentions in the gaol to which you would’ve been sent had I not intervened.”
Sherlock paled but remained resolute. “How many pounds of flesh must I give you to become my own entity?”
“All of them,” Mycroft said, brooking no argument. “Keep your relationship with Dr. Watson in the realm of colleagues, and there will not an issue. Should you try to test my resolve in the matter, I can promise you the results will be devastating. Are we clear?”
“Crystal, unlike the shoddy excuse of a chandelier you have in the foyer at your town home. You should report your newest maid-she’s pinching the crystal pendants and replacing them with cut glass,” Sherlock muttered as he stood. “I still ask that you not acquaint yourself with Dr. Watson as of yet; he is an intelligent fellow, though he will never reach our gifted sphere. I believe we might damage the poor chap, should he meet the two of us in abrupt succession.”
Mycroft saw the diversionary tactic for what it was: a ploy for time in which Sherlock could win Dr. Watson’s loyalty. “Keep your word, Sherlock, and I will not reveal myself to him until you deem it necessary.”
Sherlock nodded hesitantly and left.
Mycroft resolved to observe his brother at every given opportunity.
Detailed reports of Sherlock’s and Dr. Watson’s exploits appeared in Mycroft’s office on a near-daily basis. In what Mycroft felt was a half-hearted attempt to keep things professional between himself and the good doctor, Sherlock had invited Watson to assist in his deductive work. Mycroft swiftly discerned that the former military surgeon was just as incorrigible as his brother, if not more so. Felled by gunfire though he might have been, John Watson was a crack shot in his own right and proved this uncanny ability by saving Sherlock’s life on multiple occasions. And the more cases they accepted, the more they delved into the treacherous criminal underworld. It was only a matter of time before someone with subtle, far-reaching power was forced into a corner by Sherlock Holmes and his faithful Dr. Watson-someone from whom Mycroft had no way of protecting his brother.
Things came to a head one evening four months after Sherlock’s visit to his office. Mycroft attended a function, where unbeknownst to Mycroft at the time, a suspect in Sherlock’s latest case was expected to make an appearance. Upon spying Sherlock and Dr. Watson, dressed to the nines and lurking about the edge of the ballroom, Mycroft quickly deduced that he hadn’t been seen. After he discreetly excused himself, he hid amongst the shadows, waiting for the opportunity to observe Sherlock’s dealings with his fellow lodger first-hand. It didn’t take long to discern their true nature.
Mycroft waited thirty-two minutes in the darkened alcove, until one of the double doors that led to the ballroom opened slightly. Sherlock and Watson eased quietly into the corridor and hurriedly made their way to an empty chamber on the floor above. Of course Mycroft followed, slipping without their notice into the dimly-lit room where he hid in a wardrobe with the door opened just a sliver. The first thing Mycroft would admonish Sherlock for would be his carelessness; Sherlock hadn’t even picked up on the fact that he had been followed. But once the door closed, Sherlock’s carelessness became the least of Mycroft’s concerns.
Watson grabbed Sherlock by the nape of his neck and firmly kissed him. “God, I’ve wanted to do that all evening!”
Sherlock smiled against Watson’s lips. “I’m surprised you’ve held out this long, my dear Watson.” He slanted his mouth over Watson’s, dual moans filling the air. Fingers gripped strands of grey-blond hair, then released their hold and drifted downward, pausing briefly at Watson’s left shoulder before trailing down past the waist of the tailcoat and delving between the cheeks of his arse.
“Yes, please,” Watson hissed, and thrust against Sherlock’s hand. He placed a string of open-mouthed kisses along Sherlock’s neck, licking his pulse point, biting the straining tendon enough to elicit a groan.
Sherlock closed his eyes and nuzzled Watson’s cheek. “My lovely, dear Watson. Ask anything of me and it shall be yours.”
“Your mouth,” Watson panted, “I want to spend in your mouth.”
Sherlock gave Watson a lascivious smile as he cupped the front of the other man’s trousers and slowly palmed his length. “What a gift, for you taste exquisite when kept on edge too long.”
Watson returned his smile. “You would know.”
Nimble hands meandered down the flat plane of Watson’s stomach until they reached the top of his trousers and flicked at the buttons on either side. Freed of the restrictive placket, Sherlock dipped long fingers beneath Watson’s smallclothes and began stroking his shaft. Watson leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s, his hands finding purchase on Sherlock’s shoulders.
“I don’t want to know what sort of chemicals you have on your fingers, do I?” Watson asked, earning a small chuckle from Sherlock.
“I promise you, it’s not corrosive,” Sherlock said. He withdrew Watson’s cock from his trousers and rubbed his thumb over the silky glans, spreading the sticky.
“God, Holmes, that’s phenomenal!” He thrust impatiently into Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock pressed his thumb lightly on the slit and was rewarded with a bead of pre-ejaculate, which he swirled around the head, Watson’s harsh pants increasing with each swipe. Sherlock stroked him leisurely for a moment before bringing his thumb to his mouth, coating his lips with the fluid, his tongue darting out to lick it away.
“As I said: exquisite,” Sherlock murmured.
“Oh, bloody hell!” Watson whimpered. He drew Sherlock close for a rough kiss and caught his lower lip between his teeth. “Please!”
Another kiss, and Sherlock knelt, tugging Watson’s trousers and smallclothes down until he was bare from waist to mid-calf. Hands on the back of Watson’s legs, Sherlock let his fingers travel slowly up Watson’s muscular thighs, which were covered in light blond hair, stopping to caress the back of his knees, then moving inexorably upward until he clasped Watson’s arse and began kneading the flesh. He pulled Watson closer and buried his nose at the base of his tumescent length, inhaling deeply.
Watson threaded his fingers in Sherlock’s wild curls, alternately smoothing and fisting the strands. “You look magnificent,” he rasped.
Sherlock nuzzled Watson’s groin, moving to circle his tongue around his glans, occasionally dipping into the wet slit. When Sherlock gripped the base of his erection, Watson yelped and promptly pressed his fist against his mouth. Sherlock stroked him leisurely, avidly watching Watson’s foreskin slide easily over the tip and back down. He shifted his gaze to observe Watson’s reaction with each stroke.
“I won’t last long if you keep doing that, Holmes,” Watson said hoarsely, his chest heaving.
Sherlock licked the length of his shaft with slow, deliberate swipes. “Given that time is a luxury we are not afforded at the moment, delaying your gratification is not advisable.”
Knotting his hands in Sherlock’s hair, Watson thrust hard against Sherlock’s lips. “I think you should busy that arrogant mouth of yours with something constructive.”
An obscene moan filled the air, as Sherlock let his jaw relax and fully accept Watson’s cock, humming around the length as he pumped the base. Watson let loose a feral growl of pleasure, the intensity increasing each time his cock slipped between Sherlock’s lips, his legs trembling with the effort to stay upright.
Sherlock used his other hand to fondle and lightly grip Watson’s testicles, squeezing in tandem with his mouth, as he slid down as far as his throat would allow. He slipped a finger into the crack of Watson’s arse and pressed on the dark entrance, and Watson groaned harsh and loud, as his climax hit him with the force of an explosion.
Sherlock swallowed repeatedly, eyes closed, humming in a highly satisfied manner. Watson hissed as his softened member slipped free of Sherlock’s mouth with a wet plop.
“And that was merely the apéritif, my dearest Watson,” Sherlock purred as he sat back and beamed at the man above him.
Watson, still panting, dragged Sherlock to his feet and pulled him in for a brutal kiss. “Such a main course you’ll make when I get you home,” he whispered against Sherlock’s ear, then buried his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck.
Sherlock laid his cheek against Watson’s temple, nuzzling and cradling his head. “Surely a bounty fit for a king,” he murmured.
After a moment they separated, quickly and quietly corrected their clothing, and left the room.
The fingers of Mycroft’s left hand were bloody from where he had gouged the oak wardrobe with his nails. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth were grinding. He didn’t even glance down at the softening bulge in his trousers and he tried to dismiss the wetness of the surrounding fabric.
Not only had Sherlock ignored his request to keep his relationship with Dr. Watson professional, but the damned fool had gone and fallen in love with the man! There was no need to force a confession from him; it was apparent in every interaction Mycroft had observed.
His humiliation was complete.
With a sniff, he left the wardrobe, resentment building to monumental proportions. Mycroft was the only person who saw Sherlock for what he truly was, who could protect him from himself, who understood the full capability of Sherlock’s intellect. Slipping through a door in the servants’ quarters, Mycroft departed, his agile mine already forming a plan to rid Sherlock’s world of Dr. John H. Watson.
The opportunity to set his plan in motion came sooner than Mycroft expected. The very next week, whilst attending a symposium on applied sciences, he spotted Dr. Watson deep in discussion with several colleagues. Mycroft sidled up next to the group and listened to them converse on the topic of hereditary attributes. As he could easily have predicted, Dr. Watson extolled the amazing powers of his friend, Sherlock Holmes-making Mycroft feel rather ill in the process. A fellow amongst the group corrected the good doctor, telling Watson that, far from being a one-off in terms of observation and deductive reasoning, Sherlock’s older brother Mycroft, had skills that outstripped those of his younger sibling.
Interestingly, Watson expressed shock in learning that Sherlock had an older brother, confirming Mycroft’s suspicion that Sherlock had not even mentioned his existence, let alone his formative role in Sherlock’s mind and character. However, Mycroft was long past annoyance with the oversight. Having gathered enough information for the moment, he slipped back into the crowd and positioned himself to approach Watson at the earliest convenience.
Twenty-six minutes later found Dr. Watson and Mycroft in a hansom cab on their way to the Diogenes Club.
Thirteen hours later found Mycroft relaxing in his copper bath, the smile of a contented man curling his lips.
Four days later found Dr. Watson being introduced to one Mary Morstan by Mycroft, under the pretence of a possible case. An enraged Sherlock looked on in silence.
Two weeks later found the conclusion of said case and a smitten Dr. Watson.
When Mycroft queried Sherlock as to what he had achieved by the end of the affair, he looked at his brother, notched his chin high, and proudly announced, “Several phials of cocaine.”
Seven months later found Dr. Watson leaving Baker Street to begin his practice in Kensington, marriage plans with the tenacious Miss Morstan fully underway.
Sherlock was holed up in his rooms, shooting the walls, drugging Watson’s dog and making Mrs. Hudson’s life a living nightmare.
Nine months later found a dishevelled Dr. Watson and a bruised, battered Sherlock at the altar with Mary Morstan. Of course the stag party hadn’t gone according to plan, courtesy of Mycroft. He quelled any response to the look of abject grief in Sherlock’s eyes when Watson said his vows and kissed Mary.
With Watson firmly out of the picture, Mycroft fully anticipated that Sherlock would resume his casework, including a few that involved his less-than-intelligent government colleagues. Unfortunately, such was not the case and eventually powers beyond Mycroft’s control-namely one Moriarty-wrested Sherlock’s focus from the relative safety of London to a larger global stage. And even then, Sherlock managed to drag that insipid doctor along with him! The final blow, though, was the selfless request Sherlock made of Mycroft before they left England.
“I have no choice. Moriarty has given me none.”
Mycroft looked up from his ledger. “And why should I do this?”
“He’ll go after them. After them both. He was able to determine my weakness for-”
“Everyone except the man you hold dear was and is able to see that Dr. Watson is your Achilles’ heel. I won’t be responsible for your indiscretions.”
“You introduced them,” Sherlock ground out. “Surely you must see how much he loves the woman? It would destroy him if he were to lose her!”
Mycroft waved off his concern. “A calculated risk I’m willing to take to remain safely neutral.”
Sherlock dropped his gaze to the Aubusson carpet that graced the floor of Mycroft’s private office. Several minutes passed before he finally spoke. “I’ll give you the rest of my life to control as you see fit,” he said, his voice barely audible.
Mycroft didn’t even have to think on it. “Done. Give me the coordinates, and I’ll fetch the new Mrs. Watson from the river.”
In hindsight, it was one of the few rash decisions Mycroft had ever made in his life-one he came to regret a mere fortnight later, when he attended a diplomatic meeting in the Bernese Oberland region of Switzerland.
Dr. Watson pushed through the throng of people to reach Mycroft’s side, his complexion ashen. “I… I need…” Words failed him and he managed, barely, to grip Mycroft’s arm and tug hard for him to follow.
Mycroft had lost visual contact with Sherlock at least a half hour ago, so Mycroft considered it in his best interest to follow the shaken man. Watson pulled him out onto a balcony that overlooked the Reichenbach Falls and collapsed at his feet.
“He’s gone,” Watson whispered.
Impatient with the man’s histrionics, Mycroft pulled Watson to his feet and shook him. “What do you mean, ‘he’s gone’? Moriarty? I’d say that was for the best.”
Tears flooded Watson’s eyes and spilled down his flushed cheeks. “No! Sherlock! He…” Watson pointed vaguely to the balustrade. “They both…”
But Mycroft heard nothing more. White noise filled his brain, drowning out the screams coming from his chest. Such a modification to their plans was unacceptable! Sherlock was cleverer than that, cleverer than Mycroft by far. He was supposed to win the game Moriarty had played, not bow in defeat before an inferior opponent! There must have been some caveat, some clue Mycroft had overlooked, one that held the true solution to the final equation.
Mycroft blinked at the sudden sound of Watson’s inconsolable sobs. He turned and studied the man who fell once more to the ground.
Physical collapse: continuous peril since leaving England, resulting in three fractures, including occipital orbit of left eye which will require spectacles with the advancement of age, multiple abrasions, contusions, haematomas and singed hair.
Emotional fatigue: supposed to be on honeymoon, yet chose instead to accompany Sherlock to Europe to investigate Moriarty’s operations; unable to sever co-dependent ties to Sherlock, possible remnant of previous affections.
Conclusion…
But Mycroft could not come to a satisfying conclusion. Not one that allowed for all the facts.
Not until Watson spoke once more.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” Watson managed through his tears, crouched there on the balcony, staring down at the perpendicular fall of rock and water. “I should never have left you.”
A hot, unfamiliar emotion threatened to choke Mycroft where he stood: Shame. He had never personally felt it before, but he definitely recognised guilt’s more volatile cousin; he’d seen it enough in the eyes of men who had indulged in adulterous affairs, in proud people forced to accept charity, in the dead and empty gazes of the prostitutes that haunted Whitechapel. And now, it would be Mycroft’s constant reminder of the life he squandered.
Gone. Sherlock was gone.
Three years had passed, and not a day had gone by that Mycroft hadn’t tried to atone for his mistake concerning John Watson. It had eventually come to the point that Watson had forbidden Mycroft to ever contact him again.
Mycroft abided by the request… to a certain extent. If the Watsons happened to find their bank register showed an influx of money, Mycroft certainly didn’t know anything about it. When Watson’s dog Gladstone was struck and killed by one of the new automobiles menacing the city, Mycroft denied any knowledge of the newly-weaned bulldog pup that suddenly appeared on Watson’s doorstep two weeks later. And Mycroft was resolutely silent when all expenses were paid for Mary Watson’s funeral.
To his credit, Mycroft tried, but the emptiness within told him it was never enough.
Not until an early summer day in June three years after the night at the Falls.
Mycroft was in his study, going over details of a recent attaché with questionable credentials, when a shadow separated itself from a wall near his bookshelf. Without preamble, he retrieved the pistol he kept in his middle right-hand desk drawer and pointed it in the direction where he perceived movement.
“You’ll be dead before you take your next step,” Mycroft warned. “Reveal yourself and I may convince Detective Inspector Lestrade to be lenient with you.”
An amused snort struck his ears and then a familiar voice filled the air. “How the deuce did Lestrade make it to Detective Inspector with his ineptitude?”
Mycroft swallowed past the lump in his throat and willed his hand to cease shaking, his voice to remain cool. “Quite effortlessly-he was, after all, the best of a bad lot.”
“Then it is incumbent upon me to provide him with a challenge.” The shadow became form, as Sherlock stepped into a shaft of sunlight that filtered through the curtains, a devious smirk making his right cheek dimple. “Hello, Mycroft.”
The pistol fell from Mycroft’s nerveless hand as he rose from his chair. Blindly, he made his way around his desk, grabbed Sherlock and pulled him into a smothering embrace.
For a few moments Sherlock remained lax in his arms but, slowly, hands made their way around Mycroft to grip tightly at his shirt.
Sherlock felt thin, nearly wasted away. Mycroft pulled back to deduce the history of his brother, but Sherlock refused to relinquish his hold. After further consideration, and a resurgence of that dreaded shame, Mycroft decided he would wait until Sherlock was ready to tell him where he had been for the past three years.
Mycroft brought his hand up and cradled the back of Sherlock’s head, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said, uncaring of the tears that welled in his eyes. “I failed you quite thoroughly.”
Sherlock shook his head and buried his face against Mycroft’s neck. “I was an obstinate child and a pitifully uncooperative adult,” he joked weakly. “I wouldn’t have survived as long as I have without you.” He withdrew gradually. “But now I’m here to fulfil the promise I made to you.”
Mycroft let him go but frowned. “Promise? I have no recollection… Oh, dear God.” Fresh tears fringed his lashes. “No, I had no right to ask that of you. Your life has been, and always will be, your own.”
Mycroft had contemplated numerous scenarios over the years, ones where he had stepped back from Sherlock’s life and let him live it as he saw fit instead of trying to control every aspect of every waking moment. Of course, each one ultimately ended with Mycroft’s involvement in one form or another, but nothing was compared to the living proof standing in his study. Three years on his own and Sherlock looked like utter hell. But he’d survived by himself, which was no mean feat. Mycroft thought he might actually be proud of the clever bastard.
“You’ve changed,” Sherlock said, his head tilted in contemplation. He gave Mycroft a knowing smile. “John has that effect on people.”
“I won’t ask for your forgiveness. I felt, at the time, I was correct in my assessment of the situation.”
“Mmm. And the reason for this re-evaluation?”
“Dr. Watson’s reaction to your death.” A shudder ran through Mycroft, and he had to close his eyes.
Sorrow the likes of which Mycroft had only ever seen on Watson’s wedding day flashed in Sherlock’s eyes. “My John,” Sherlock whispered. He blinked quickly and gave a wan smile. “I’ve already seen Watson.”
“Has he not reconciled your return? I can provide ample evidence to the contrary. Allow me to-”
“Mycroft!” Sherlock clapped a hand on his shoulder. “John was quite stunned to find me alive.” He pointed to the fading bruise around his right eye. “I astonished the poor chap nearly to the point of death, truth be told. But we’ve come to an… agreement.” His expression became incandescent, as it had all those years ago in Mycroft’s bedroom. “He agrees to forgive the façade of my death, if I forgive his lapse in judgement in marrying that… that… woman.”
“It’s unwise to cast aspersions on Mary Watson, Sherlock; she made sure Watson survived this long without you.”
Sherlock sobered instantly and nodded. “Quite right. Quite right.”
Mycroft felt as if a burden had been lifted. “I still adhere to the fact that caring is not an advantage.”
“If logic follows, as it must dear brother, then why do you care for me?” Sherlock asked.
“Because I suffer from the same madness that ails John Watson,” Mycroft said on a sigh. He gripped Sherlock’s shoulder. “When it comes to Sherlock Holmes, an exception will always be made.”
Sherlock laughed and patted Mycroft’s cheek. “No need to be petulant about it.”
No. No need at all.