Nutrisco et exstinguo Chapter IX - Ita diis placuit!

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Nutrisco et exstinguo: "I feed from it and extinguish it"

Ita diis placuit! literally "Thus it pleased the gods": what's done is done, and we can't change it.

Warnings: Rating for this chapter is K+

Edit: This chapter was kindly betaed by BritChick101.

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Chapter IX: Ita diis placuit!

song: Turn to stone, by Ingrid Michaelson

oOo

Let's take a better look
beyond a story book
And learn our souls are all we own
before we turn to stone

Mycroft was reading the newspaper in his usual seat at the Diogene's - well, pretending to, to be more precise. He already knew all the news of the day - and even some of next week's. From all over the world. Literally.

He'd been looking for signs of Sherlock for weeks now. Nothing. He could find nothing. He had never cursed the talent of his little brother so much.

Then again, he had it coming. He was perfectly aware of the extent of his responsibiliy in this affair. Still, did Sherlock have to act like such a child and do this all on his own? What was he trying to prove, really? That he was so clever he could handle dismantling a world-wide criminal organization by playing both the 'devils' and the 'angels', alone?

Such a fool.

But deep down, he knew very well that this was no about proving how clever he was. Sherlock had been past that. He had been... happy, in his own twisted way. No drugs, no cigarettes - he'd been clean for months, all thanks to Dr. John Hamish Watson. He'd changed, too, even if imperceptibly so. Well, not so imperceptibly after all, since even old Jim Moriarty had noticed. Not that Moriarty was an idiot or anything - although Mycroft was seriously beginning to wonder about that. The man had killed himself out of boredom after all - and also to put Sherlock in a brain-racking quandary, of course. Still, the man had ended his own life. That did not make him stupid in the least. But psychotic, yes.

And that maniac had sent his little brother to hell. With his blessing. To be fair, Mycroft needed Sherlock on this. Only he had such a relationship (if one could call it that) with the criminal mastermind - only he was brilliant and insane enough to accept such leg work as this.

But if Mycroft had been 'constantly worried' about his baby brother before, now he had good reasons to be preoccupied. Very preoccupied, indeed. Both about Sherlock and the dear doctor.

Kids. They were such trouble. And to think that he'd never married precisely to avoid this kind of situation. He sighed. That idiotic brother of his. Always one to wreak havoc even when he was dead.

Let's go to sleep with clearer heads
and hearts too big to fit our beds
And maybe we won't feel so alone
before we turn to stone

Naturally he'd had to talk to Mummy.

The woman hadn't been worried of course, but quite upset indeed. She hated all the media fuss. She hated scandals in general. And Sherlock undeniably knew how to leave the stage outrageously. Oh, dear, that hadn't been easy. The talk, that is. Because of course she'd wanted to know what on earth they had been thinking and why this couldn't have been avoided, and Mycroft just didn't know where to begin - because he needed Moriarty out of the game, because Sherlock was always so proud and stubborn, because he'd found something he desperately wanted to protect... A weakness he'd (quite literally) die for.

As expected she had wanted to know more. Mycroft wasn't sure exactly who Moriarty had targeted around Sherlock, but one at least was obvious. Not that Mummy wasn't aware of it - she read the news, too. But that was part of the scandal - the whole flatmate thing. Having a son over thirty solving mysteries and investigating crimes with an ex-army doctor he was living with did not exactly fit her ideas of a successful life. But if that made him happy, after all, why not? She didn't mind. Except for that now he was 'dead', and it was all over the news. Such a difficult child.

Mycroft could only agree.

Difficult, it must have been for Sherlock too. Even though he had warned him that caring wasn't an advantage, he couldn't stop himself. As always. Every time Mycroft had warned Sherlock against something, it had only made him more intent on indulging in it - candour, aloofness, crimes, drugs... love. That fool.

And if Mycroft could be held responsible for introducing Irene Adler into his life, the whole matter with John Watson had completely escaped his grasp. It had been pure chance, and there was no way he could have prevented it. Not that he necessarily would have. The doctor had a good influence on Sherlock to a certain extent, even if he did make him worse too. They were an item, a true pair, and Mycroft had never imagined even in his wildest dreams (which, admittedly, weren't so wild) that his brother of all people wouldn't stand on his own, but would be one side of a coin. That when his name would be spoken, another one would inevitably come up.

It was thanks to John that Sherlock had become so famous. Because of the doctor's blog, he had received many clients, and his talents as a consulting detective had been given an even wider scope. However that wasn't something his brother had ever wished - he didn't care. Did not give a damn about what other people thought. He just didn't bother. John, on the other hand, did. And now he must have been feeling guilty and completely responsible for his best friend's death. Mycroft could picture it from here: 'If only I hadn't written about him on my blog, if only I hadn't barged into his life and made him an internet phenomenon, if only, if only... if only he had never met me, he would still be alive.'

Wrong.

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed, fighting the urge to rub his temples.

Without you he would have managed to kill himself by now. For real.

And if you wait for someone else's hand,
Then you will surely fall down
And if you wait for someone else's hand,
You'll fall, you'll fall

John's haunted gaze had been even worse to deal with than Mummy's haughty frown. The man had come to need Sherlock like Sherlock needed him. Of course neither of them accepted this fact - they never did anything the easy way, did they?

But to see him that distraught... He knew that glare. It was that of a man who could kill, and who would eventually. If only himself. That day in the doctor's new gloomy room Mycroft knew he would have shot him. Without remorse. Then maybe he would have shot himself, or gone on to the trial - but the thing is, it would be even trickier to end his own life once in jail, so he probably would have done it right away. A thin smile played on the elder Holmes's lips as he imagined Mummy's appalled expression at the renewed scandal - but then he thought of Sherlock's reaction and the coldness was back on his face. It would be highly ironic, though. Some kind of modern, twisted version of Romeo and Juliet. So who was he supposed to be, Paris? He snorted.

Still, he kept a high surveillance on the doctor. Sherlock would never forgive him if anything were to happen to John in his absence. His little brother had met people he came to care for and who cared for him, which wasn't granted to start with. Sherlock truly was insufferable after all. Even if according to Mycroft, no one could ever be so endearing. He frowned. No wonder he'd never gotten a wife.

It was unfair though, he thought as he folded his newspaper to pretend to read another page, that the moment he'd found something dearer than the game, he had been forced to give it up to play once more. And Mycroft knew Sherlock. He would suffer, indubitably, but then he'd fall for it again (no pun intended). He certainly wouldn't get bored - he'd be provided with everything he'd always been addicted to. There would be no lack of thrill. He'd never be short of danger and situations where he'd die if he didn't prove clever enough. And John wouldn't be there to save him this time.

John. Sherlock couldn't delete him altogether, but he could delete specific memories that made him so attached to the doctor - his first reaction to him showing off his deductive skills, the giggles at the crime scene after he had shot a man to save his life, the time at the pool he was ready to sacrifice himself in order for Sherlock to live... More insidiously even, his expressions, the sound of his voice, typical gestures. Every knowing smile they'd shared. Everything that made their partnership a meaningful bond. If he couldn't delete general facts, he could erase the whole feeling of complicity that surrounded them. He could erase what truly mattered.

I know that I am nothing new
There's so much more than me and you
But brother, how we must atone
before we turn to stone

At one point even Mycroft started to doubt. It wasn't impossible, and it was even getting less and less improbable with every passing day, that Sherlock truly had died that day he had jumped off from the roof. Unlikely, of course. Mycroft knew he surely hadn't died from the fall, but he very well could have gotten caught by some interested party (and there were many) before even leaving the country.

Two months, and there had been no trace whatsoever of Sherlock. If anyone was capable of fooling Mycroft's surveillance and leaving the country without him noticing even though he had put his best people on it, it was Sherlock. But even he would eventually need him - or the power he held anyway - to carry through what he was undertaking. Even if he couldn't properly contact him, he would have found a way to reveal where he was and what he was tackling at the moment. But there had been nothing, and so Big Brother had started to wonder if perhaps this whole plan hadn't gone terribly wrong already.

Because really, there were so many ways it could have gone wrong, and so many ways it still could. Sherlock was brilliant indeed, but when left alone he was as dangerous to himself as he was to other people (not that he wanted to harm them, but because he didn't bother). Incredibly clever, yes, but still human, and even he could make mistakes. And those would be deadly considering the present situation.

There was also the fact that Mycroft didn't have the slightest clue as to what his younger brother's strategy was. Or would be. He was sure he had thought about it already, but couldn't be quite certain whether he had made up his mind or not. Sherlock was always very passionate and dedicated to what he did - or, to put it more bluntly, he had a single-track mind and an addictive personality. Not the best combination. The good news was that this meant he knew where his priorities stood. The bad news was that everything else was transport. And also that once the priority, the goal, and the adversary had been set, any means were good to win the game. Whatever the goal was.

Mycroft's goal obviously was to get rid of Moriarty's network, of the Angels, the Devils, whatever those crazy humans wanted to be called as long as they stood between hell and heaven. Or at least control them. That was just the general idea. Even more generally speaking, he had vowed allegiance to the crown - Queen and country and all that. He had chosen a side, period. And he played the game from there. His position was the best to never be bored - at least for him.

He had to admit that Sherlock was too impulsive and much too candid to be able to enjoy fully political power and such. Sherlock never wanted to be a mastermind, whether criminal or not. He wanted to be a pirate. He was a mischievous child and even as he grew up he was still too pert to truly be on anybody's side. His impertinence only matched his audacity - he could only have clients, not masters. Which is why Mycroft was so concerned about this whole affair. Sherlock hadn't done it for a client. He certainly hadn't done it out of brotherly support either. He had done it to protect John and those he loved.

The doctor had been surprisingly perceptive on the matter - even if a little dramatic and cliché. What was it again he had written on his blog? There are forces out there, and they're coming for Sherlock Holmes. Something of the sort. Slightly hyperbolic perhaps, but quite right indeed. And also the part about it not being safe for people around him, such as dear Mrs. Hudson or John Watson himself. Sherlock hadn't asked for it, but he had been thrilled. Thrilled to be targeted by nothing less than a consulting criminal - and a proper genius, too, if a little unhinged. The perfect nemesis. Sherlock was always criticizing John's way of telling his cases, because it supposedly wasn't rational and scientific enough, too 'romantic'. It was work, and it had to be taken seriously. But who was he kidding, really? He himself craved the adventure. He needed to put his own life on jeopardy. He needed to risk everything he had in the game for it to be stimulating enough to dispel his existential boredom. One doesn't become a pirate to become rich, but because of the thrill.

Except that pirates don't work alone, and Sherlock had always been rejected by the world. He was, after all, truly a freak. Not that Mycroft cared much for such a fleeting label that always depended on time and place. Still, all in all, in most environments Sherlock would still be considered a freak by the dominant group, and thus ostracised. Or, sometimes, be given as the scapegoat. Mycroft didn't dwell on the thought because it was just too close to the current situation - he knew he had used Sherlock, but it had never been his intention to kill him. In fact if his brother was dead, he would lose on all tables: both as the government official and the family member. Because he did care for Sherlock, deeply. He hadn't realized this stubborn, too proud for his own good fool would go so far as fake his death and meet Moriarty where the madman stood: in Hell.

Did he always have to be so extreme? It was like asking a child to clean up his room and see that he had in fact cleaned the whole house, throwing away half of its contents in the process because it had been deemed 'messy', and leave to never come back for the same reason ('a perfectly clean house wouldn't be so with me in it now, would it?'). All right, so maybe children didn't usually do that, conceded Mycroft, but Sherlock would. And on a larger scale, here he was, hiding from him, doing God knows what, and risking getting killed. Or maybe already dead.

The government official neatly ignored the fact that he hadn't exactly asked his brother to clean up his room, but to face a criminal, psychotic genius who was clinically obsessed with him.

And if you wait for someone else's hand,
Then you will surely fall down

Finally, there had been signs. Nothing clear, nothing obvious. In fact, nothing Mycroft could undoubtedly identify as his brother's doing. Still, he now had good reasons to hope that Sherlock was alive (and still on the game, whispered a dark voice in the recesses of his mind).

That being said, Mycroft could now worry about the other issue at hand with the involvement of his brother with I.O.U. and what was left of Moriarty. Because they hadn't met nor talked about this directly, the government official could not be sure where exactly his own brother stood.

Clearly, dear old Jim (rest his soul) had thoroughly destroyed him as a consulting detective. Sherlock could always change identities and start anew, but he could never be so open, like he had been until now. He'd have to hide, between something or someone, or he would be found and hunted down or maybe even bought. Well, death would always be an option. But that wasn't the kind of risk Sherlock liked to take - this was dull, and he'd want to avoid it. Furthermore, the thrill wasn't his priority number one anymore. John was. Even Mrs Hudson now came before the thrill in the hierarchy. He wouldn't want them to come to harm just because he had been recognized by the wrong people.

There was also the fact that the idiot didn't lack pride. Mycroft had always wondered why in the world he'd always tell his true name to criminals who asked, and why he'd be so stupidly open about it - going as far as to have a website. A very funnily democratic way of finding clients, and definitely not the safest, nor the smartest. If it had implied more complicated thought processes, Sherlock would have no doubt been a Robin Hood rather than a Barbarossa. In any case, that meant he'd want to clear his name. But, again, not if it would put John's and the others' lives in danger. For that, he'd sacrifice even his name. Mycroft pondered sombrely. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't sacrifice everything just to please John: but to save his life, he would, unquestionably.

And if you wait for someone else's hand,
You'll fall, you'll fall

One of Sherlock's many faults had been to start caring. Another one had been to be so blatantly obvious about it. It hadn't even crossed his mind that his very presence by the side of those he loved could represent a deadly threat to them. They weren't normal, weak people after all. They knew the risks, too. But did he? Like a child who's never had any toy, he hadn't believed it could break, once he'd been given one.

He hadn't been very coherent about all this. He just didn't bother to think it though because he didn't think it would last anyway and he just wanted to enjoy the feeling of not being completely alone and left aside. Until he had realized that being alone was his only protection. Not in the sense that by refusing to indulge any kind of relationships he'd avoid getting hurt or be manipulated, but in the sense that getting away was the only way to protect those he loved. How ironically tragic. Hadn't Moriarty warned him, though? That they both knew he had a heart. That he'd burn it.

Since ancient times burning had also been a way to purify. Deduction didn't need a heart - in fact a 'high-functioning sociopath' would be the ideal deducer. And here again Sherlock was being such a child. Claiming to be a sociopath and not a psychopath clearly was all about cocking a snook at society itself (and most of all at his family). Except that he wasn't. He didn't know how to act normal - he wasn't even sure what normal was, and why in the world it should be the norm when it was so irrational. He had created a job that allowed him not to study people from afar, or to manipulate them, or to ignore them altogether, but to live among them and interact with them.

Unfortunately for him, Sherlock did have a heart. His first reaction to boredom hadn't been to become a criminal, but to use his skills against them. A surprising approach, since the thrill would no doubt have been much stronger the other way around. When that hadn't been enough, he'd turn to drugs. Self-harm: he did have a destructive personality, but that was only directed towards himself. And walls, sometimes.

So he had burnt his heart himself. It was necessary to win the game, no doubt. Moriarty's message couldn't have been more limpid: My little abandoned child, it's high time you learned you may get lost if you keep following the crumbs. You can't do this half-heartedly. Care to come with me on a tour of the big bad world? Three. It suddenly dawned on Mycroft. Of course, there must have been three targets. The number always present in fairy tales - three, and all the symbolism it held. Why hadn't he seen that sooner? Three break-ins: the jail, the bank and the tower. The cage, gold and jewels. Moriarty was teaching Sherlock through fairy tales, because Sherlock was a child. He was playing the king, what with wearing the crown - and didn't he call himself Daddy? Mycroft rubbed his temples. He'd really have to read again Bettelheim and Propp.

The he gulped. Moriarty wasn't merely telling Sherlock a story. He had used it to shape his very life. He had made him a "hero": and the hero in fairy tales is often the most fragile, or the weakest, the youngest. And albeit appearances, Sherlock was indeed quite damaged. The fairy tale hero goes on a journey because he experiences a lack of something, and he must always meet someone who will help him: an auxiliary character. Sherlock had met John. The hero leaves home and must face the outside world, thus learning life the hard way, his experiences leading to profound transformations.

Except that Sherlock didn't want to be a hero, but a pirate. And in children books the pirate doesn't usually deem himself good enough for the one he loves. He eventually leaves them in better hands, and continues roaming the seas. Sherlock loved John, that much was clear. A while ago Mycroft would have been certain that his brother would just do his work, clear his name and come back to his life as if nothing had happened, expecting everyone to greet him with open arms because he had saved them after all. Obvious. Mycroft would have held for a fact that his little brother would come home whining and showing off, more insufferable than ever now that he'd be "consulting detective, the only one in the world, and who managed to bring down the most powerful international criminal web of the century".

Now, he wasn't so sure any more. Fairy tale heroes experience self-transcendence and then return home. But Sherlock wasn't a hero and didn't care about fairy tales. He had killed the Sherlock Holmes persona, even if he had rather been forced to do so: and he hadn't killed himself to transform into a better person through an adventurous journey like in some kind of Bildungsroman. He had killed himself so the people he loved would live. And regardless of how fake his death was biologically speaking, something in him had no doubt died that day. Not by the hand of Moriarty, but by his own.

Besides, he never liked riddles. His field was logic. He cared for John more than anything, and so it was only logical that he'd stop at nothing to protect him. The same went for Mrs. Hudson if he'd decided she came next in the priority list. And who could be the third person? Mycroft snorted. Certainly not him. No one could target him without him noticing. Who, then? Oh. Of course. The D.I. Well, let's say he came third on the list. And by that Mycroft meant their lives - again, Sherlock wasn't one to actually put people as his priority: he wouldn't change himself for them. However, he'd certainly change himself to keep them alive.

But to what extent exactly? thought Mycroft grimly.

He suddenly had a very ominous feeling about all this, and something akin to guilt started gnawing in the pit of his stomach. If priority number one was John, and then somewhere in the top 5 was the wish to clear his name, the best option for Sherlock would be to dismantle the whole web - Moriarty, I.O.U., angels and devils alike.

The question was: would he be an angel in disguise among the devils, or the other way round?

And brother, how we must atone
before we turn to stone

xXx

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