Sherlock Fanfiction: Aberdeen to Euston
Title: Aberdeen to Euston
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Molly, Mummy
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~3300
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Also posted on: LJ Holmestice and AO3.
Summary: Post-TRF, Sherlock returns to London. Mycroft reminisces.
A/N: Written for the June 2013 Holmestice Exchange for jcporter1 whose lovely prompts included a request for the characters as children. Can be read alone or as part of the Other Experiments series where it would fit in after Reliquary and before Revisionist. (Other Experiments begins with Sometimes.)
Excerpt: “Why must you go? I don’t approve,” Sherlock said, drawing himself up to his maximum height and directing a stern look at his older brother. “I’ve considered it carefully and it makes no sense for you to waste your time with a gaggle of idiots rather than spending it with me. My company is far more edifying than theirs could ever be.” Sherlock brushed a curl from his forehead without losing a whit of his outrage or his dignity.
Mycroft studied the slim, pale child in front of him and remembered gathering a new bundle of life in his arms and thinking that it would always be his, his brother, his companion, his responsibility.
Aberdeen to Euston
The sleeper berths were narrow; the two of them shouldn’t have fit into one. Sherlock took a deep breath and felt his chest press against the warm curve of John’s back. Their cramped quarters shouldn’t have been conducive to sleep either, but they had been. Sherlock bent his knees behind John’s, ran his hand over John’s chest under the thin blanket, tucked his fingers between a firm pectoral and the pallet. Small and solid was John, volatile when shaken, strongly bonding. He was a challenge to the hypothesis that caring was not an advantage.
***
A tiny chirp sounded in the oak-panelled room. Mycroft opened his eyes. A window blinked to life in the corner of his computer screen. The darkness within its borders began to move, black and grey streaked with yellow. Mycroft leaned forward, rested his elbows on the smooth mahogany of the desk. The streaks resolved into rectangles. Over his clasped fingers, his eyes narrowed at a silhouette framed in one. The sallow light blurred. Mycroft glanced at the symbols running beneath the window.
“Welcome back, Sherlock,” he said.
***
The train gathered speed as it cleared the platform of the deserted station. The camera at the corner of the station roof swivelled as the train disappeared down the dark track. Sherlock dropped his cigarette out the window and turned back towards the cabin where he'd left John sleeping.
***
Mycroft tapped his screen. The image froze, the train’s number clear beneath its rear lights. He sent the image to his assistant and leaned back in his chair.
Sherlock had refused to go with Mummy to the station. His face had been impassive as he explained that he had an experiment to monitor and pointed out that it wasn’t as though they needed help with the luggage.
“Why must you go? I don’t approve,” Sherlock said, drawing himself up to his maximum height and directing a stern look at his older brother. “I’ve considered it carefully and it makes no sense for you to waste your time with a gaggle of idiots rather than spending it with me. My company is far more edifying than theirs could ever be.” Sherlock brushed a curl from his forehead without losing a whit of his outrage or his dignity.
Mycroft studied the slim, pale child in front of him and remembered gathering a new bundle of life in his arms and thinking that it would always be his, his brother, his companion, his responsibility.
“You could sit their silly tests now and get perfect grades,” Sherlock stated.
Mycroft tilted his head in agreement. “That’s not the point,” he said.
“What is the point? They have nothing to teach you,” Sherlock declared. “While you always learn things with me.” Sherlock looked away, reaching out to spin the globe which stood near the window. He was taller than it now. “You said you were lonely before I came.” He gave the globe another push. “You’ll be lonely there.”
Mycroft set his book aside and folded his hands in front of him on the reading table, kept his keen gaze on Sherlock’s bent head. He saw the faint tremor in his lower lip, the extra rigidity in his back to compensate for it. “They may have nothing to teach me, but there is a lot I can learn there,” Mycroft replied softly.
Sherlock’s eyes were as grey as the sky framed by the large window behind him when he looked up. “What?”
Mycroft raised his folded hands on his elbows. “It’s an experiment,” he said.
Sherlock’s eyes widened at the word. “We have an excellent lab here and if you need very specialised equipment, we can go to Bart’s. They have better than any foolish school,” Sherlock insisted.
“It’s not equipment I need,” Mycroft said. He drew in a slow breath and opened his hands, palms up. “Unlike you, the hard sciences do not intrigue me. It’s the interaction of people that fascinates me, their politics, their psychology. I need subjects within social structures to observe and upon which to test my hypotheses.” He watched the brightness fade from Sherlock’s eyes. “That, a school will have.”
“How long?” Sherlock asked, his shoulders slumping.
“I’ll take the A-levels in a year. They have that option and a school year should be sufficient for me to deduce their social dynamics and learn to utilise them,” Mycroft explained.
“Is your objective to be a prefect?” Sherlock asked, a small sigh escaping with the words. “I’ve read about such creatures.”
Mycroft smiled, shaking his head, not a tight, formal smile, but one that used all the muscles in his face and lit his eyes. It was a smile Sherlock had seen more often than anyone else, even Mummy. “By the end of the year, to be able to influence both student and staff decisions without being elected or appointed to any formal position,” Mycroft explained and sat back in the leather chair.
Sherlock nodded. “Machiavelli, of course.” He trained his observant eyes on his brother. “You’ll do it,” he said. Mycroft leaned forward again, his smile even brighter. “I’ll expect reports, Mycroft. Biochemistry affects behaviour. I’ll be able to help you with that. I’ll need data though: age, height, weight, photographs and samples would be most helpful.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t considered that factor. It’s not likely to be easy to procure samples. I’m not planning biological warfare, you know.”
Sherlock spun the globe once more and walked forward to lean on the table. “Aren’t you?”
***
A small light lit up on the desk. Mycroft flipped a switch. “The sleeper train from Aberdeen arrives at 0747. Shall I have a car meet it at Euston Station, sir?” Anthea asked.
Mycroft looked over his computer at the smooth curve of the globe and the dark diamond panes of the window beyond. “No,” he said. “Maintain surveillance status, Grade 3 active, until further notice.” He flicked off the switch.
“You’ve gone through so much trouble to avoid me, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s gaze roamed across the book shelves and settled on the intertwining patterns of the carpet.
“All right, niceties out of the way,” Sherlock said, marching into the library, notebook under his arm and hand waving behind him in the direction of the dining room when Mycroft returned for his first half-term holiday. “Although informative in a theoretical way, your letters were sorely lacking in detail.” Sherlock stopped and turned a studious eye on Mycroft. “Were you concerned they would be intercepted? Do they do that at schools? Read the students’ private correspondence?”
Mycroft paused an instant in his arranging of the cushions on the sofa. “I’m not sure. I wonder whether I sensed that subconsciously.”
“Too busy to record your results?” Sherlock had asked at Christmas because the letters had been rather brief and far apart, but he smiled as Mycroft told story after story about the antics of his classmates and the staff who were supposed to be instructing them.
“You have to make an effort to write more of it down,” Sherlock had admonished as Mycroft prepared to leave. “It’s tempting with our memories to omit that step in the scientific method, but it is a mistake. Going back over one’s notes provides valuable insights.” Mycroft had looked up from gathering his toiletries to consider the serious expression on his younger brother’s face. When he had asked Mummy’s permission to go skiing during the February half-term break Sherlock had not been with them. Sherlock didn’t find out until he received Mycroft’s note asking if he would like anything from Switzerland.
Sherlock had studied Mycroft silently when he returned in the spring, listening gravely to the anecdotes Mycroft offered during dinner and disappearing afterwards. Mycroft had resorted to playing the cello with the door to the music room open to draw Sherlock out. “You’re out of practice,” he’d said when he appeared in the doorway. Somewhere during the second duet, Mycroft had caught Sherlock’s eye and Sherlock had smiled.
“I can’t help you, if you don’t keep me informed,” Sherlock had warned before Mycroft boarded the train. “I know what it’s like to get caught up in an experiment, but you have to communicate to have meaningful collaboration,” he added, standing close and speaking softly. Mycroft looked down and realised how much Sherlock had grown since Christmas. “I can only read your mind when you’re here,” Sherlock concluded and handed Mycroft a small notebook. “I’ve made some deductions based on your stories. You can read them on the train.”
The sun-drenched scenery had rolled past the train’s windows unheeded. As Mycroft read, he thought that if Sherlock could deduce so much from second-hand fragments of information, what he would glean from meeting the subjects of the stories in person would be vast and highly useful.
It motivated Mycroft to write more detailed letters more frequently in the following weeks. Shortly before the last half-term break, he mentioned that he would be spending the first week of the break with one of his classmates and his family in Gloucester.
He found a charred corner of that note caught beneath the base of Sherlock’s Bunsen burner when he next came home.
***
Mrs Holmes smiled at the young man being introduced to her by her eldest son. Of course, when Mycroft had called to ask permission to invite his classmate home he had told her the boy’s name. It had met with approval.
“Luncheon will be in an hour,” she said when Randolph released the gentle hold he had on her hand. “I’ll see you then,” she added and disappeared into the library.
“He doesn’t like you, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as he stepped out from the alcove beneath the stairway. He cocked his head, took in the rooks and knights on the visitor’s tie. “He resents that you beat him at chess and accepted your invitation so you would help him with his exam revision,” Sherlock concluded in lieu of a greeting
Randolph smirked and rolled his eyes at Mycroft. “Younger siblings,” he scoffed and raised his hand as though to give Sherlock a brotherly cuff to the side of the head. Mycroft caught his arm and Randolph looked at him, puzzled.
“He is a delicate child,” Mycroft said. A precision instrument. Through the layers of linen shirt and jacket, he could feel muscles tenser than necessary for a playful slap. “And our mother does dote on him.”
Several expressions flitted across Randolph’s face before he wrinkled his nose and nodded conspiratorially. “Must keep the parents none the wiser,” he said. Mycroft felt the muscles relax and released Randolph’s arm with a smile.
“I’ll see you on the terrace for luncheon,” Sherlock said and turned away.
Mycroft noted the slight emphasis on the verb.
***
Mycroft had gone travelling in Europe with three of his classmates that summer. Randolph had not been one of them. Sherlock had been sent unusual postcards over the weeks, the text always in one of the codes they had devised years before. He told Sherlock about his companions and said he would be bringing them home in August in time for the exam results.
It was a jubilant group that dined that summer evening at Mrs Holmes’s table. Telephone calls had confirmed that all had achieved the required points for their offers at Cambridge, social scientists the lot of them. Sherlock watched them quietly from the opposite side of the table. He hardly glanced at Mycroft next to him once he had made clear that he would be joining them at university in the autumn.
“Maman,” Sherlock said. “I think it is also time I narrow the focus of my studies. I should like to go to Bart’s in the autumn and live with grandfather. The labs are better.”
Mycroft watched their mother consider how straight Sherlock was sitting in his seat, the firm set of his childish jaw. “I’ll tell Dr Holmes, and Dr Bertrand, of your plans,” she replied. “They have been hoping one of you boys would study the medical sciences.” Mycroft saw the soft smile she gave Sherlock brighten to a formal one as she turned to the astonished faces of the guests. “Shall I ring for dessert now?” she asked.
There was an envelope from Sherlock under Mycroft’s door that evening, the encryption unfamiliar. It had taken a day to decode it while the guests were otherwise occupied. “They all seem oblivious to your being three years younger than they are. I suppose your bulk, along with your height, has confused them, but surely they should have taken the smoothness of your upper lip into consideration. Even so, they’re a cut above that idiot you brought home in the spring. Rajiv fancies Nigel, not you. You might wish to temper your displays of admiration accordingly. I do hope you aren’t planning on wasting three years to get a degree at their speed. There are limits to the sacrifices that should be made for an experiment. SH.” The note had included a postscript on the reverse side. “I expect to be very busy at Bart's. I doubt I’ll be able to assist you with your research any longer.”
Mycroft sighed. Rajiv’s eyes had been dark and beautiful, but as their first year at university progressed, he saw that they turned to Nigel more and more often and Sherlock had answered Mycroft’s letters and calls more and more infrequently.
***
Early morning rain was giving way to sunshine as Mycroft sipped his tea, a newspaper folded to the article he was reading in his other hand. His laptop chimed. A window opened. Mycroft set down his tea. The CCTV footage showed commuters swarming through the ticket barriers at Euston. A tall figure passed beneath a beam of light. Mycroft froze the image. “Blond,” he murmured.
As he had reached the bottom flight of the main stairway, Mycroft had heard the high voice. “Mycoff,” it piped. Sherlock’s infant tongue could not yet pronounce double consonants. “Maman. Mycoff.” He was not crying, but the note of distress was clear. Mycroft bounded down the last few steps and across the hall into the library. For a moment the sun pouring in the high windows blinded him as he scanned the rows and rows of books and maps and brass instruments.
“My-coff.” The voice had edged a little higher and Mycroft looked up. There was Sherlock, half-way up the wall, little feet on one shelf, tiny hands clinging to the one above, half a metre from the edge of the library ladder. How long he had been stuck there, alternately calling his mother and Mycroft, Mycroft couldn’t know, but there was no note of surprise in his tone and Mycroft feared it had been a long while that the small voice had echoed in the high rooms with no ear close enough to hear. Mycroft kicked a footstool closer to the shelves and stood on it. His hands closed around Sherlock’s waist. “Book,” Sherlock said as soon as Mycroft had him and reached out for a heavily-gilt binding a hand’s-breadth away on the shelf.
“I’ll get it for you,” Mycroft said and set Sherlock down. He reached back up for the book, which was thick and heavily bound with leather and metal clasps and took both his hands to hold, and turned to check where Sherlock was before he stepped off the stool. Sherlock had begun to climb at the same time he had begun to walk and he did both rapidly; it was usually a mistake to assume he continued to be wherever one had seen him last. He had moved to the side, standing still, eyes on Mycroft’s hands, golden hair aglow in the sunlight. Mycroft sat and rested the book on his lap. “This is the one you wanted?” he had asked and Sherlock had nodded.
The hair had darkened as Sherlock grew. “Strange to see you with long, blond curls again,” Mycroft said to his computer screen.
Mycroft tapped the screen and the film rolled. The camera had caught a bit of a shorter, dark-haired man at Sherlock’s side, face turned away, before both men disappeared behind a kiosk. Mycroft exhaled. Sherlock always followed the path of least visibility in public places, unless he wished to be seen. It had become second nature long ago. “I hope that’s John you have with you to hear you call, Sherlock,” Mycroft said as he watched the two duck into a taxi without a clear shot of either of their faces.
The light on his desk blinked. Mycroft reached for the switch. “Shall I send someone to intercept the taxi, sir?” his assistant asked.
“No,” Mycroft replied. “Confirm destination and notify me by text.”
***
They went in at the morgue entrance. Molly looked up and gasped as they approached. “Did the samples arrive?” Sherlock asked.
Molly nodded and tilted her head towards the refrigeration units. “Anyone dangerous?” Molly asked, looking past Sherlock to smile at John.
“Won’t be certain until we run tests, but I don’t think so,” Sherlock replied, stopping for a moment and squeezing Molly’s arm. “You took precautions.” Molly nodded again. “No strange reactions?” Molly shook her head. “And the suitcases?”
“Mike picked them up from the airport,” Molly said. “They arrived at almost the same time as the samples. I’ll tell him you’re back.” She opened her mouth to ask another question.
Sherlock raised a finger to his lips. “I have to check something in the archives,” he said. “Can you bring them up to Lab Nine and reserve it for us? Text me when it’s free.”
Once more Molly nodded. “It’s good to see you both. Any closer?”
“Yes, but not done,” Sherlock replied, “Lab Nine.” He turned towards the back of the morgue. “John,” he said as he strode towards the supply cupboard.
“Molly,” John said by way of farewell and followed.
***
Mycroft’s mobile lit up. Destination: St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Arrived: 0814. Instructions?
“Safe for now,” Mycroft whispered. “And incommunicado.” He frowned at his phone. Sherlock had done an exceptional job of blocking remote surveillance inside Bart’s, particularly after Moriarty’s incursion. “But it was always your refuge,” Mycroft sighed. “Trade-offs.”
Maintain surveillance status. M. Mycroft set down his phone and took up the classified report he had been reading. He leaned back in his desk chair.
***
At the top of the stairs, they pushed the bookcase open. Laptop bags were left on the coffee table in the office, coats on the sofa, shoes following as they stepped out of them. John hesitated at the door to the bedroom, surveying it, eyes skimming over the glass-fronted book shelves, past the gilt leather of the ottoman and the drooping glass lilies of the lamp on the night table, to the bed. Sherlock stopped disrobing at the bathroom door to observe John, was fairly sure he knew which image John was remembering based on the deep frown on his face.
“Memories,” Sherlock stated.
“We didn’t spend much time here,” John said, staring. “But the emotions were intense.”
“Intense emotion tends to imprint memories,” Sherlock remarked. That was the difference, Sherlock thought. At sufficient intensity, sentiment becomes something more durable. Not just a vicious motivator, although that property is never completely absent. “John,” Sherlock said softly and John’s attention immediately shifted. You intensify; you magnify. “Shall we imprint new ones?”
John turned and took a step towards Sherlock. Sherlock smiled at the ready response and walked into the bathroom. He flung his shirt behind him. In the mirror, he saw John catch it with one hand and bring it to his face as though to feel the warmth of it or inhale the scent. John looked up and saw Sherlock watching. He smiled and then he disappeared as he pressed his cheek into Sherlock’s back. John’s fingers smoothed along the fair skin and re-appeared under Sherlock’s arms to hook into the front of the trousers’ waistband. Sherlock had seen the heat in the smile, but there had been furrows in John’s brow before desire had melted them. Sherlock reached behind him and pulled John more tightly up against him. How much heat to burn all those memories away? Sherlock wondered and sighed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part, Revisionist, may be found here.
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Molly, Mummy
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~3300
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Also posted on: LJ Holmestice and AO3.
Summary: Post-TRF, Sherlock returns to London. Mycroft reminisces.
A/N: Written for the June 2013 Holmestice Exchange for jcporter1 whose lovely prompts included a request for the characters as children. Can be read alone or as part of the Other Experiments series where it would fit in after Reliquary and before Revisionist. (Other Experiments begins with Sometimes.)
Excerpt: “Why must you go? I don’t approve,” Sherlock said, drawing himself up to his maximum height and directing a stern look at his older brother. “I’ve considered it carefully and it makes no sense for you to waste your time with a gaggle of idiots rather than spending it with me. My company is far more edifying than theirs could ever be.” Sherlock brushed a curl from his forehead without losing a whit of his outrage or his dignity.
Mycroft studied the slim, pale child in front of him and remembered gathering a new bundle of life in his arms and thinking that it would always be his, his brother, his companion, his responsibility.
Aberdeen to Euston
The sleeper berths were narrow; the two of them shouldn’t have fit into one. Sherlock took a deep breath and felt his chest press against the warm curve of John’s back. Their cramped quarters shouldn’t have been conducive to sleep either, but they had been. Sherlock bent his knees behind John’s, ran his hand over John’s chest under the thin blanket, tucked his fingers between a firm pectoral and the pallet. Small and solid was John, volatile when shaken, strongly bonding. He was a challenge to the hypothesis that caring was not an advantage.
***
A tiny chirp sounded in the oak-panelled room. Mycroft opened his eyes. A window blinked to life in the corner of his computer screen. The darkness within its borders began to move, black and grey streaked with yellow. Mycroft leaned forward, rested his elbows on the smooth mahogany of the desk. The streaks resolved into rectangles. Over his clasped fingers, his eyes narrowed at a silhouette framed in one. The sallow light blurred. Mycroft glanced at the symbols running beneath the window.
“Welcome back, Sherlock,” he said.
***
The train gathered speed as it cleared the platform of the deserted station. The camera at the corner of the station roof swivelled as the train disappeared down the dark track. Sherlock dropped his cigarette out the window and turned back towards the cabin where he'd left John sleeping.
***
Mycroft tapped his screen. The image froze, the train’s number clear beneath its rear lights. He sent the image to his assistant and leaned back in his chair.
Sherlock had refused to go with Mummy to the station. His face had been impassive as he explained that he had an experiment to monitor and pointed out that it wasn’t as though they needed help with the luggage.
“Why must you go? I don’t approve,” Sherlock said, drawing himself up to his maximum height and directing a stern look at his older brother. “I’ve considered it carefully and it makes no sense for you to waste your time with a gaggle of idiots rather than spending it with me. My company is far more edifying than theirs could ever be.” Sherlock brushed a curl from his forehead without losing a whit of his outrage or his dignity.
Mycroft studied the slim, pale child in front of him and remembered gathering a new bundle of life in his arms and thinking that it would always be his, his brother, his companion, his responsibility.
“You could sit their silly tests now and get perfect grades,” Sherlock stated.
Mycroft tilted his head in agreement. “That’s not the point,” he said.
“What is the point? They have nothing to teach you,” Sherlock declared. “While you always learn things with me.” Sherlock looked away, reaching out to spin the globe which stood near the window. He was taller than it now. “You said you were lonely before I came.” He gave the globe another push. “You’ll be lonely there.”
Mycroft set his book aside and folded his hands in front of him on the reading table, kept his keen gaze on Sherlock’s bent head. He saw the faint tremor in his lower lip, the extra rigidity in his back to compensate for it. “They may have nothing to teach me, but there is a lot I can learn there,” Mycroft replied softly.
Sherlock’s eyes were as grey as the sky framed by the large window behind him when he looked up. “What?”
Mycroft raised his folded hands on his elbows. “It’s an experiment,” he said.
Sherlock’s eyes widened at the word. “We have an excellent lab here and if you need very specialised equipment, we can go to Bart’s. They have better than any foolish school,” Sherlock insisted.
“It’s not equipment I need,” Mycroft said. He drew in a slow breath and opened his hands, palms up. “Unlike you, the hard sciences do not intrigue me. It’s the interaction of people that fascinates me, their politics, their psychology. I need subjects within social structures to observe and upon which to test my hypotheses.” He watched the brightness fade from Sherlock’s eyes. “That, a school will have.”
“How long?” Sherlock asked, his shoulders slumping.
“I’ll take the A-levels in a year. They have that option and a school year should be sufficient for me to deduce their social dynamics and learn to utilise them,” Mycroft explained.
“Is your objective to be a prefect?” Sherlock asked, a small sigh escaping with the words. “I’ve read about such creatures.”
Mycroft smiled, shaking his head, not a tight, formal smile, but one that used all the muscles in his face and lit his eyes. It was a smile Sherlock had seen more often than anyone else, even Mummy. “By the end of the year, to be able to influence both student and staff decisions without being elected or appointed to any formal position,” Mycroft explained and sat back in the leather chair.
Sherlock nodded. “Machiavelli, of course.” He trained his observant eyes on his brother. “You’ll do it,” he said. Mycroft leaned forward again, his smile even brighter. “I’ll expect reports, Mycroft. Biochemistry affects behaviour. I’ll be able to help you with that. I’ll need data though: age, height, weight, photographs and samples would be most helpful.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t considered that factor. It’s not likely to be easy to procure samples. I’m not planning biological warfare, you know.”
Sherlock spun the globe once more and walked forward to lean on the table. “Aren’t you?”
***
A small light lit up on the desk. Mycroft flipped a switch. “The sleeper train from Aberdeen arrives at 0747. Shall I have a car meet it at Euston Station, sir?” Anthea asked.
Mycroft looked over his computer at the smooth curve of the globe and the dark diamond panes of the window beyond. “No,” he said. “Maintain surveillance status, Grade 3 active, until further notice.” He flicked off the switch.
“You’ve gone through so much trouble to avoid me, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s gaze roamed across the book shelves and settled on the intertwining patterns of the carpet.
“All right, niceties out of the way,” Sherlock said, marching into the library, notebook under his arm and hand waving behind him in the direction of the dining room when Mycroft returned for his first half-term holiday. “Although informative in a theoretical way, your letters were sorely lacking in detail.” Sherlock stopped and turned a studious eye on Mycroft. “Were you concerned they would be intercepted? Do they do that at schools? Read the students’ private correspondence?”
Mycroft paused an instant in his arranging of the cushions on the sofa. “I’m not sure. I wonder whether I sensed that subconsciously.”
“Too busy to record your results?” Sherlock had asked at Christmas because the letters had been rather brief and far apart, but he smiled as Mycroft told story after story about the antics of his classmates and the staff who were supposed to be instructing them.
“You have to make an effort to write more of it down,” Sherlock had admonished as Mycroft prepared to leave. “It’s tempting with our memories to omit that step in the scientific method, but it is a mistake. Going back over one’s notes provides valuable insights.” Mycroft had looked up from gathering his toiletries to consider the serious expression on his younger brother’s face. When he had asked Mummy’s permission to go skiing during the February half-term break Sherlock had not been with them. Sherlock didn’t find out until he received Mycroft’s note asking if he would like anything from Switzerland.
Sherlock had studied Mycroft silently when he returned in the spring, listening gravely to the anecdotes Mycroft offered during dinner and disappearing afterwards. Mycroft had resorted to playing the cello with the door to the music room open to draw Sherlock out. “You’re out of practice,” he’d said when he appeared in the doorway. Somewhere during the second duet, Mycroft had caught Sherlock’s eye and Sherlock had smiled.
“I can’t help you, if you don’t keep me informed,” Sherlock had warned before Mycroft boarded the train. “I know what it’s like to get caught up in an experiment, but you have to communicate to have meaningful collaboration,” he added, standing close and speaking softly. Mycroft looked down and realised how much Sherlock had grown since Christmas. “I can only read your mind when you’re here,” Sherlock concluded and handed Mycroft a small notebook. “I’ve made some deductions based on your stories. You can read them on the train.”
The sun-drenched scenery had rolled past the train’s windows unheeded. As Mycroft read, he thought that if Sherlock could deduce so much from second-hand fragments of information, what he would glean from meeting the subjects of the stories in person would be vast and highly useful.
It motivated Mycroft to write more detailed letters more frequently in the following weeks. Shortly before the last half-term break, he mentioned that he would be spending the first week of the break with one of his classmates and his family in Gloucester.
He found a charred corner of that note caught beneath the base of Sherlock’s Bunsen burner when he next came home.
***
Mrs Holmes smiled at the young man being introduced to her by her eldest son. Of course, when Mycroft had called to ask permission to invite his classmate home he had told her the boy’s name. It had met with approval.
“Luncheon will be in an hour,” she said when Randolph released the gentle hold he had on her hand. “I’ll see you then,” she added and disappeared into the library.
“He doesn’t like you, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as he stepped out from the alcove beneath the stairway. He cocked his head, took in the rooks and knights on the visitor’s tie. “He resents that you beat him at chess and accepted your invitation so you would help him with his exam revision,” Sherlock concluded in lieu of a greeting
Randolph smirked and rolled his eyes at Mycroft. “Younger siblings,” he scoffed and raised his hand as though to give Sherlock a brotherly cuff to the side of the head. Mycroft caught his arm and Randolph looked at him, puzzled.
“He is a delicate child,” Mycroft said. A precision instrument. Through the layers of linen shirt and jacket, he could feel muscles tenser than necessary for a playful slap. “And our mother does dote on him.”
Several expressions flitted across Randolph’s face before he wrinkled his nose and nodded conspiratorially. “Must keep the parents none the wiser,” he said. Mycroft felt the muscles relax and released Randolph’s arm with a smile.
“I’ll see you on the terrace for luncheon,” Sherlock said and turned away.
Mycroft noted the slight emphasis on the verb.
***
Mycroft had gone travelling in Europe with three of his classmates that summer. Randolph had not been one of them. Sherlock had been sent unusual postcards over the weeks, the text always in one of the codes they had devised years before. He told Sherlock about his companions and said he would be bringing them home in August in time for the exam results.
It was a jubilant group that dined that summer evening at Mrs Holmes’s table. Telephone calls had confirmed that all had achieved the required points for their offers at Cambridge, social scientists the lot of them. Sherlock watched them quietly from the opposite side of the table. He hardly glanced at Mycroft next to him once he had made clear that he would be joining them at university in the autumn.
“Maman,” Sherlock said. “I think it is also time I narrow the focus of my studies. I should like to go to Bart’s in the autumn and live with grandfather. The labs are better.”
Mycroft watched their mother consider how straight Sherlock was sitting in his seat, the firm set of his childish jaw. “I’ll tell Dr Holmes, and Dr Bertrand, of your plans,” she replied. “They have been hoping one of you boys would study the medical sciences.” Mycroft saw the soft smile she gave Sherlock brighten to a formal one as she turned to the astonished faces of the guests. “Shall I ring for dessert now?” she asked.
There was an envelope from Sherlock under Mycroft’s door that evening, the encryption unfamiliar. It had taken a day to decode it while the guests were otherwise occupied. “They all seem oblivious to your being three years younger than they are. I suppose your bulk, along with your height, has confused them, but surely they should have taken the smoothness of your upper lip into consideration. Even so, they’re a cut above that idiot you brought home in the spring. Rajiv fancies Nigel, not you. You might wish to temper your displays of admiration accordingly. I do hope you aren’t planning on wasting three years to get a degree at their speed. There are limits to the sacrifices that should be made for an experiment. SH.” The note had included a postscript on the reverse side. “I expect to be very busy at Bart's. I doubt I’ll be able to assist you with your research any longer.”
Mycroft sighed. Rajiv’s eyes had been dark and beautiful, but as their first year at university progressed, he saw that they turned to Nigel more and more often and Sherlock had answered Mycroft’s letters and calls more and more infrequently.
***
Early morning rain was giving way to sunshine as Mycroft sipped his tea, a newspaper folded to the article he was reading in his other hand. His laptop chimed. A window opened. Mycroft set down his tea. The CCTV footage showed commuters swarming through the ticket barriers at Euston. A tall figure passed beneath a beam of light. Mycroft froze the image. “Blond,” he murmured.
As he had reached the bottom flight of the main stairway, Mycroft had heard the high voice. “Mycoff,” it piped. Sherlock’s infant tongue could not yet pronounce double consonants. “Maman. Mycoff.” He was not crying, but the note of distress was clear. Mycroft bounded down the last few steps and across the hall into the library. For a moment the sun pouring in the high windows blinded him as he scanned the rows and rows of books and maps and brass instruments.
“My-coff.” The voice had edged a little higher and Mycroft looked up. There was Sherlock, half-way up the wall, little feet on one shelf, tiny hands clinging to the one above, half a metre from the edge of the library ladder. How long he had been stuck there, alternately calling his mother and Mycroft, Mycroft couldn’t know, but there was no note of surprise in his tone and Mycroft feared it had been a long while that the small voice had echoed in the high rooms with no ear close enough to hear. Mycroft kicked a footstool closer to the shelves and stood on it. His hands closed around Sherlock’s waist. “Book,” Sherlock said as soon as Mycroft had him and reached out for a heavily-gilt binding a hand’s-breadth away on the shelf.
“I’ll get it for you,” Mycroft said and set Sherlock down. He reached back up for the book, which was thick and heavily bound with leather and metal clasps and took both his hands to hold, and turned to check where Sherlock was before he stepped off the stool. Sherlock had begun to climb at the same time he had begun to walk and he did both rapidly; it was usually a mistake to assume he continued to be wherever one had seen him last. He had moved to the side, standing still, eyes on Mycroft’s hands, golden hair aglow in the sunlight. Mycroft sat and rested the book on his lap. “This is the one you wanted?” he had asked and Sherlock had nodded.
The hair had darkened as Sherlock grew. “Strange to see you with long, blond curls again,” Mycroft said to his computer screen.
Mycroft tapped the screen and the film rolled. The camera had caught a bit of a shorter, dark-haired man at Sherlock’s side, face turned away, before both men disappeared behind a kiosk. Mycroft exhaled. Sherlock always followed the path of least visibility in public places, unless he wished to be seen. It had become second nature long ago. “I hope that’s John you have with you to hear you call, Sherlock,” Mycroft said as he watched the two duck into a taxi without a clear shot of either of their faces.
The light on his desk blinked. Mycroft reached for the switch. “Shall I send someone to intercept the taxi, sir?” his assistant asked.
“No,” Mycroft replied. “Confirm destination and notify me by text.”
***
They went in at the morgue entrance. Molly looked up and gasped as they approached. “Did the samples arrive?” Sherlock asked.
Molly nodded and tilted her head towards the refrigeration units. “Anyone dangerous?” Molly asked, looking past Sherlock to smile at John.
“Won’t be certain until we run tests, but I don’t think so,” Sherlock replied, stopping for a moment and squeezing Molly’s arm. “You took precautions.” Molly nodded again. “No strange reactions?” Molly shook her head. “And the suitcases?”
“Mike picked them up from the airport,” Molly said. “They arrived at almost the same time as the samples. I’ll tell him you’re back.” She opened her mouth to ask another question.
Sherlock raised a finger to his lips. “I have to check something in the archives,” he said. “Can you bring them up to Lab Nine and reserve it for us? Text me when it’s free.”
Once more Molly nodded. “It’s good to see you both. Any closer?”
“Yes, but not done,” Sherlock replied, “Lab Nine.” He turned towards the back of the morgue. “John,” he said as he strode towards the supply cupboard.
“Molly,” John said by way of farewell and followed.
***
Mycroft’s mobile lit up. Destination: St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Arrived: 0814. Instructions?
“Safe for now,” Mycroft whispered. “And incommunicado.” He frowned at his phone. Sherlock had done an exceptional job of blocking remote surveillance inside Bart’s, particularly after Moriarty’s incursion. “But it was always your refuge,” Mycroft sighed. “Trade-offs.”
Maintain surveillance status. M. Mycroft set down his phone and took up the classified report he had been reading. He leaned back in his desk chair.
***
At the top of the stairs, they pushed the bookcase open. Laptop bags were left on the coffee table in the office, coats on the sofa, shoes following as they stepped out of them. John hesitated at the door to the bedroom, surveying it, eyes skimming over the glass-fronted book shelves, past the gilt leather of the ottoman and the drooping glass lilies of the lamp on the night table, to the bed. Sherlock stopped disrobing at the bathroom door to observe John, was fairly sure he knew which image John was remembering based on the deep frown on his face.
“Memories,” Sherlock stated.
“We didn’t spend much time here,” John said, staring. “But the emotions were intense.”
“Intense emotion tends to imprint memories,” Sherlock remarked. That was the difference, Sherlock thought. At sufficient intensity, sentiment becomes something more durable. Not just a vicious motivator, although that property is never completely absent. “John,” Sherlock said softly and John’s attention immediately shifted. You intensify; you magnify. “Shall we imprint new ones?”
John turned and took a step towards Sherlock. Sherlock smiled at the ready response and walked into the bathroom. He flung his shirt behind him. In the mirror, he saw John catch it with one hand and bring it to his face as though to feel the warmth of it or inhale the scent. John looked up and saw Sherlock watching. He smiled and then he disappeared as he pressed his cheek into Sherlock’s back. John’s fingers smoothed along the fair skin and re-appeared under Sherlock’s arms to hook into the front of the trousers’ waistband. Sherlock had seen the heat in the smile, but there had been furrows in John’s brow before desire had melted them. Sherlock reached behind him and pulled John more tightly up against him. How much heat to burn all those memories away? Sherlock wondered and sighed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part, Revisionist, may be found here.