Work Text:
“I’m afraid my brother had always had a bit of an odd sense of humor.”
That’s the usual platitude Mycroft offers as to why his brother has been behaving the way he has tonight. He uses that line on half a dozen party guests before deciding to append the polite explanation of “I do believe he came straight from Heathrow to the town house. He has become quite the traveler since his graduation two springs ago.”
Running damage control on Sherlock in large social settings is nothing new. It might have shocked him on his fifteenth birthday when Sherlock started attacking all their distant relatives with a plastic sword, and it might have disappointed him at his graduation party when Sherlock decided to leave his vile-smelling bacterial cultures under the refreshments table, but Mycroft Holmes is into his thirties by now and too old for any of those things.
His townhouse is playing host to a charity dinner tonight, and things are going off without a hitch.
Years later, Mycroft won’t remember what the charity was or what important-at-the-time figure was attending or which suit he was wearing. But he will remember that night and that party.
It’s a tired song and dance, and Mycroft is far too busy and too important to spend the night chasing around his brother who should know better by now. So he puts out Sherlock’s fires where he has to, and the few times he sees the younger man he is sure to inform him that the guest bedroom is upstairs and he is welcome to stay. His responsibility as a host is not compromised by his responsibility as a brother.
The house is empty, quiet and a complete wreck by two in the morning. He’s planning on calling cleaners in the morning.
This is the part Mycroft remembers clear as day.
He lopes up the stairs and knocks politely on the guest room door before entering. Sherlock, curled up on the bed with his shoes still on, one foot jangling and eyes fixed on a clock, is nothing new. Mycroft leans against the doorway with his arms crossed.
“You know my mobile hasn’t changed,” he says softly, “You are permitted to inform me the next time you plan on dropping by. Just on the off chance I may be hosting a few dozen extremely important people at my flat.”
Sherlock doesn’t respond, but then Sherlock never does to Mycroft’s chiding. He sighs.
“How was Frankfurt?” he asks, more to be polite than anything.
No response. Sherlock has been more distant lately, but Mycroft is patient. He stands in the doorway, waiting for an answer or at the very least an insult and none come.
“Well,” he says, straightening with the intent of leaving, “You are at liberty to tell me about it whenever the mood strikes you.”
“She’s stealing from you,” says Sherlock, suddenly and clearly. Confusion moves across Mycroft’s face, and Sherlock continues before he can voice it. “She’s stealing from you. Aren’t you going to do something about it?”
“Who on earth is stealing from me, Sherlock?”
“Her!”
“…her?”
“Yes! The—You know, with the—“ He stops speaking, gesturing at his hair as though that would give Mycroft some sort of clue. His brow merely furrows in confusion as he shakes his head.
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re—“
An aggressive groan of frustration at Mycroft’s stupidity comes out of Sherlock’s mouth as he swivels into an upright position. “Yes! You do!” he practically shouts, gesturing wildly, “You just don’t want to face the truth! Just because you fancy her you think she can’t steal from you? She’s studied-- Why are you still here? Go, you might still be able to stop her!”
The confusion and concern on Mycroft’s face dissipates as a very secret satisfaction enters his mind. It seems Sherlock, avowed teetotaler during his teenage and Uni years, is tipsy. Mycroft knows the exact speaking patterns, gestures and faces of a Sherlock who is trying to express something and searching for the correct words. This is not that Sherlock. It’s the only possible explanation for the nonsense coming out of his mouth, a drink or two on the plane. Mycroft finds it all rather rich, but knows better than to mention it – Sherlock is very defensive of evidence suggesting that he possesses an average human body.
“I’ll be certain to apprehend her,” he promises, trying not to smile as he goes to shut the door, “Good night, Sherlock.”
He’s tired and he wants to go to bed so he can get up early to call in cleaners and send out thank-yous and maybe make a public statement of what a success the charity event was. Of course he checks to make certain that there are no items missing from the townhouse (there aren’t) before turning in.
In the morning, Sherlock does not bring up his ramblings from the night before. He tells Mycroft at breakfast that there is a forensic expert in Buenos Aires who he simply must see. He asks for five thousand pounds.
Mycroft gives it to him. Sherlock is gone before breakfast is over.
***
“You know Sherlock has become quite the traveler.”
That’s the brand new reason Mycroft gives Mummy to explain the Sherlock-sized hole in his income. She’s always asking after Sherlock, and Mycroft is, after all, her only real source on the matter. He tells her about all the places Sherlock is traveling to, the people he is meeting, the research he is doing as the months slip by. Sherlock hasn’t actually told Mycroft half of what he tells her, but it can’t hurt to embellish and fill in the edges a bit for their mum.
The seven year chasm between them has long kept them apart. Mycroft on his side was only able to imagine with dread what secondary school and Uni were like for someone like Sherlock. And though he rarely speaks of his younger brother to anyone, there were many quiet moments wherein he would allow his strained mind to rest, and in rest would drift back to a moment between the two of them in play in some now-dusty sitting room, a moment innocuous at the time that nostalgia and homesickness had encased in the amber of memory.
When those quiet moments happen, sending money is the least Mycroft can do.
Sometimes it’s just a text asking for more to be wired over, sometimes Sherlock remembers that Mycroft prefers receiving phone calls. The latter is usually for much larger sums.
There’s only one phone call that Mycroft remembers clearly.
Sherlock is asking for another ten thousand to stay a few more weeks in Amsterdam. Mycroft is happy to send it, but he teases that as punishment Sherlock must converse with him on the phone. He’s making some kind of joke about the sorts of activities that normal people would blow several thousand euros on in Amsterdam. Perhaps he’s in a good mood, perhaps he feels like gloating. Somehow he slips it into the conversation.
“Though I don’t think I shall ever truly forget the one time I managed to see the illustrious Sherlock Holmes after a few drinks. I should have recorded it for posterity.”
“You know I don’t drink,” drawls Sherlock, and Mycroft can practically hear the scowl. It sounds like he’s walking somewhere briskly outdoors, and Mycroft knows any asking after the sufficiency of his outerwear in this winter will earn him an instant hanging up.
“I know it’s terribly hard to accept that alcohol affects you as it does every other human. I am here for you in your hour of need,” joked Mycroft, his tone dry and his smile wide.
“How pompous do you actually think I am?” says Sherlock, and Mycroft has no idea if his brother is tickled or offended, “I have never consumed more alcohol than would have a biological influence on me. It’s not arrogance, it’s science and fact.”
Mycroft is silent for an iota of time. It’s not true. It can’t be. Outright lying with no clever cover-up isn’t in Sherlock’s character. That night no longer makes sense if not as a result of overpriced airplane cocktails. It was an anomaly in Sherlock’s behavior, and as a man who was difficult enough to pattern, that was saying something.
They joke and the conversation moves on. That night was nine months ago. Perhaps Mycroft is simply remembering it wrong. Perhaps Mycroft had been drinking that night.
Yes, that makes sense. That must be it.
***
There are five unanswered text messages from Sherlock on Mycroft’s phone. He doesn’t bother calling any more.
They have all been sent at rather odd hours (that’s at least if Sherlock is still in Vancouver as he claims – the outgoing timestamps on his phone seem to corroborate as much) and Mycroft rereads them endlessly. But he doesn’t respond.
04 Nov 23:13
Experiment needs more time. 3k is all I ask. SH
05 Nov 00:45
This work is Crucial. SH
05 Nov 3:34
Mycroft i need the Money. For The Work. SH
05 Nov 6:19
I know you are awake and i know your phone is on so why arent you answering me i need the money fo the work so i can do the work and support myself you should understand this you should know why i must be doing this so why wont you answer me Mycroft
06 Nov 17:22
You are aware of the effects of sleep deprivation. My request still stands. Please inform me of your decision so I may make travel arrangements. SH
Mycroft worries about him constantly. He even makes an emergency appointment with a psychiatrist colleague to go over some of the symptoms Sherlock has been exhibiting in the past few months. Perhaps some undiagnosed personality disorder, nothing a little prescription can’t fix. Was Sherlock truly just overworking himself, explaining away his secrecy and incommunicado status, or was it some latent recurring mental health issue? As he should have guessed, the psychiatrist colleague merely says that no conclusion is possible without Sherlock being present.
After a week of radio silence, Mycroft sends a text.
13 Nov 16:00
>The money shall be wired to you in 3-5 business days.
***
Mycroft wants to forget that year’s Christmas.
When Mycroft was a child he thought himself unbearably clever in listening to stories of fortunate gamins being granted finite wishes by magical beings and declaring that he would simply ask for more wishes. Mycroft is no longer a child, and if any such magical being existed, his first wish would be to erase that Christmas from his memory.
It’s taken a great deal of convincing and coercing (and even the promise of additional stipends, but Mycroft does his best to convince himself that monetary compensation has little to do with all this) and Sherlock will be visiting the Holmes country house just outside of London for Christmas day. Last Christmas, Sherlock had been otherwise occupied and Mummy had spent the whole time pouting and pining that it was only the two of them. The Christmas all those many years ago that had been just the three of them for the very first time, Sherlock was still a child and the two of them were easily united in the goal of ensuring that a three-person Christmas felt no different from all the ones they’d known previously. They could get on with one fewer than their family had started out as. Two fewer wasn’t a real family.
Of course Mycroft does precious little of the organizing, cleaning or decorating. They have people they hire for that, and Mummy does have an active social circle enough to keep her happy through December. Work occupies Mycroft until late Christmas eve night when he is to pick up Sherlock from Heathrow. Months since Sherlock last unexpectedly appeared to take advantage of the guest room, and yet their car ride to the country house is quiet.
The thing about those nights and days that you want to forget is that you never really remember the whole thing. You forget all the boring things that wouldn’t be so bad to remember, and remember all the awful things that cling like a tattoo. Mycroft doesn’t remember what they had for dinner and he doesn’t remember Mummy’s chiding at the two of them for not having grown up to be artists any clearer than the fact that they had some kind of dinner and she chided.
But he remembers Sherlock’s eyes when he knocks into that beautiful statue Father had gotten made for them for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. They were dull and uncomprehending as it shattered to the floor. They were nothing at all like the sharp, bright eyes Mycroft had known his whole life.
He remembers the shattering sound it makes as it hits their new-polished floors.
He remembers the sinking feeling in his stomach as he realizes that, oh. This is going to be one of those nights. One of Sherlock’s off nights when he doesn’t act alright – more not alright than usual. Mycroft never knows when it’s going to be one of those nights these days.
He remembers the frozen moment of silence, and then Mummy cutting in and saying how in the end things are only things and aren’t we all just so lucky to be here with each other any way.
He wants to forget how obvious the lie ached in her voice.
He remembers Sherlock frantically attempting to get the pieces back together, the shards of porcelain slipping out of his trembling hands. He remembers promises tumbling out of Sherlock’s mouth.
Mycroft doesn’t remember how the night ends, though it’s likely with the shards all swept up in a corner to deal with later. He remembers being unable to sleep.
In the morning Mycroft goes to Sherlock’s bedroom after being awake for at least an hour, maybe two. He opens the door slowly and lingers a moment before stepping in and settling in a plush chair beside the bed.
“Sherlock,” he says, the outline of happiness in his tone in the hopes that Sherlock will follow the cue and be cheerful for Christmas, “We cannot keep breakfast warm forever. When are you planning on joining us?”
A grumble comes from Sherlock’s sleeping form and he rolls over. Mycroft purses his lips and briefly considers the kind of existence his brother would have if he himself were a normal brother without an infinite well of patience reserved for Sherlock interactions only.
“You are free to return to bed for a kip after presents,” he says gently, hands folding and ankle crossing over his knee, “All we ask of you is your presence so we may exchange gifts and eat breakfast as a family. Quite the overwhelming demand, I am aware. Mummy and I aren’t all that deplorable, are we?”
“Sleep,” he mumbles, words muffled by a pillow.
Mycroft takes a moment and a click of his tongue to choose his next words carefully, leaning forward as he does so.
“Sherlock,” he says, an edge of sternness in there now, “It is Christmas morning and our mum made us breakfast. Now, we are going to go downstairs and enjoy that breakfast and smile and say thank you very much. Presently.”
“No,” says Sherlock. There is no further elaboration and Mycroft’s well of Sherlock interaction only patience is running thin and muddy.
“It is Christmas,” Mycroft says, eyes narrowing and volume falling dangerously, “And you intend to sleep the day away while your family is downstairs without—“
“Yes.”
He must be joking. Certainly Sherlock isn’t always the most attune to certain nuances in interaction, but this is different. This is family and Christmas. This is the sort of time where Sherlock is allowed to be the person Mycroft used to know. And yet he doesn’t move, sheets pulled over his face, dark curls only visible. He waits for a long moment to see if there is any movement or explanation forthcoming. Nothing.
Mycroft stands and leaves without another word, limbs shaking with fury. He collects himself on the stairs. Once in the dining room, he explains to their mum that Sherlock is feeling ill. He explains that Sherlock is absolutely heartbroken by the turn of events and had even attempted to make his way downstairs, but Mycroft had insisted that he rest up a bit more. Mummy is upset of course and asks all sorts of questions which Mycroft answers deftly as he starts to tuck in.
The breakfast is surprisingly nice with only the two of them, but that’s only because Mycroft is putting every ounce of energy into making it enjoyable. Sherlock’s absence isn’t going to ruin today.
That’s how mum has always been. Sweet, well-meaning. Never quite asking the right questions or taking the right initiative. She hasn’t changed much over the years.
By the time the sun is setting, Sherlock still hasn’t emerged and Mummy is tipsy and giggling. She doesn’t remember it the way Mycroft does – she just remembers another Christmas with her lovely, odd, intelligent sons and a dash of bad luck with the youngest. Mycroft remembers the lies he’s spinning as they start to spin out of control. Yes, Sherlock is doing magnificently. Yes, they talk on the phone twice a week. Yes, he’s approaching several important break-throughs and working with some of the top minds in the world. Mummy, would you like some more Zinfandel?
Once she has been put to bed, Mycroft stalks to Sherlock’s room. His pulse rises as he opens the door after only the most cursory of knocks.
Sherlock is fully dressed and packing the small mess he’d made. For a moment Mycroft is too angry to speak.
“There you are,” says Sherlock tersely as he spies Mycroft in as he tosses items into his carry-on, “Couldn’t have bothered to wake me up? No matter, I have an excessively important venture tomorrow morning. I assume Mummy has retired already. Do give her my regrets. I need to be on a flight to Moscow within the hour. Can you arrange that?”
As he speaks, Mycroft shuts the door and takes a seat in the same chair he’d tried to wake Sherlock from. He lets the long silence hang in the room until it makes Sherlock pause his frantic actions (he’s packed all the toothpaste that was being stored under the sink) for a moment to look at him. His eyebrows quirk downward in a question. Mycroft takes a deep breath.
“I cannot,” he says quietly enough that Sherlock cannot possibly continue packing along to this conversation, “I cannot do anything for you unless you are willing to speak to me about what has been ailing you.”
“Ailing me? Nothing’s ailing me,” he says with a roll of his eyes and a gesture of his arms (they hadn’t always been that thin, Mycroft notices it for the first time with his jacket off and only shirtsleeves), “Is that a satisfactory answer? Will you get me to Moscow?”
”You slept through Christmas,” says Mycroft, bringing a hand to rest on his face, “No one on this planet loathes sleeping as much as you, and today you slept through Christmas.”
“I loathe repeating myself a great deal more – I have been working. Perhaps I have overworked myself slightly, that hardly represents a serious—“
Mycroft doesn’t remember anything else Sherlock says because that’s when he sees it. A slight red and yellow discoloration around the inside crook of Sherlock’s left elbow. It’s fresh. A thousand explanations leap to Mycroft’s mind – he cut himself, he bruised, he really is ill and taking an intravenous treatment, he’s doing some blasted experiment. There are so many reasons why that splotch could be there besides what it looks like. Sherlock never even drinks, he said so himself. Mycroft can still see a fourteen year old Sherlock in his mind’s eye lecturing him on how many chemicals there are in drugs and why would anyone ever want to pollute their brain. Our brains, our intelligence are all we have in the end, he’d said. That same person is standing in front of him now and his words are fumbling as he tugs down his rolled-up shirtsleeves. Mycroft had been staring too long.
The moment is in front of him. All Mycroft has to do is ask. He opens his mouth.
“No,” says Sherlock.
“Pardon?” says Mycroft, the reflex still coming to him even when he’s rudderless.
“Don’t.”
“Sherlock—“
“What was it you told me? ‘Sometimes even very bright, very wonderful people need a bit of help to feel happy and sometimes it’s okay to take medicine for different reasons than you ought if it makes you feel better on the inside’? I’d thought you were wrong at the time, turns out you were right as per usual. Congratulations.”
Mycroft freezes, the blood draining from his face. Sherlock had been eleven, how the hell did he remember Mycroft’s half-arsed explanation why he was stealing laxatives from the cabinet. He’d made Sherlock promise not to tell their mum, he himself promised that it was safe and normal. It was neither safe nor normal, it was something Mycroft had managed to forget entirely about himself as a teenager. Self-destructive coping mechanism that he’d outgrown fifteen years ago and now Sherlock was spinning it on its head to justify this.
“I was wrong,” he says with a pinched sounding voice.
“Ah, there’s one for the history books, Mycroft Holmes was wrong!”
“Are you admitting to me that you—“
“Have found a more convenient, more time-effective bridle for my mind? Yes, I am. Spare me the lecture, unless you’re praising my improved efficiency and clarity. Did you know that, under laboratory conditions, the cells that would typically—“
“I cannot allow this, Sherlock,” says Mycroft, slipping into his stern formal work tone so he can procrastinate the crushing realization that his baby brother was shooting up in their mother’s bath.
“Oh can’t you? Funny, didn’t realize it was yours to allow.”
“If you think for one instant that I’m going to even consider the possibility of putting you on a plane to---“
“I knew you would take it like this, why else do you think I haven’t told you?”
“Haven’t told me? Oh well isn’t that splendid, what a lovely way of saying ‘lying--”
“If you’re not going to put me on a plane, I’ll simply have to find some other mode of transportation to get to—“
“I don’t plan on allowing you to leave this house!”
At that Sherlock falls silent, eyes flashing. Their tones had risen close to shouting. He turns sharply away from Mycroft, zips up his suitcase, and stomps out the door before Mycroft can realize what he was doing. Belatedly, he gives chase, his ears humming with the wretched prayer that this would all be some sort of elaborate prank or experiment. He keeps his footsteps quiet and doesn’t dare shout – waking up Mummy would be unforgiveable.
He catches Sherlock’s elbow by the door.
“Stay,” he says, and it’s halfway between a feeble order and a desperate request.
“Goodbye, Mycroft,” says Sherlock with a polite little smile before disappearing.
That night after he’s done pacing and after he’s cried a bit and after he’s relived their conversation so many times that it’s permanently etched in his mind, Mycroft goes into their library, into the section that houses all their old Uni textbooks. There is a book, he’s fairly certain it was Sherlock’s, from some advanced psychology class. “Drug Addiction and Its Treatment.”
Sitting on the floor by the bookshelf, Mycroft opens it.
***
06 Jan 7:37
I hope to draw your attention to the dangerous state of my living expenses. SH
11 Jan 11:56
Oh I see, you’re going to be all high and mighty about this? SH
16 Jan 4:19
Have you told Mummy you’ve decided to stop speaking to your brother? SH
24 Jan 17:29
I no longer find this amusing. Respond to these messages. SH
25 Jan 00:02
Mycroft. I cannot continue my research without a sponsor. SH
27 Jan 05:23
Mycroft? SH
13 Feb 12:46
Please. SH
13 Feb 13:00
>I will gladly fund your research in London.
13 Feb 13:01
No. SH
23 Feb 4:17
Fine. I shall return within a week. SH
***
The thing about a proper diagnosis is that it doesn’t just hit you like a freight train or a ton of bricks or any other metaphor of substantial weight. It does do that, of course, but that’s only one part. You’re handed a pattern, a chain of adjectives and suddenly every retrospective and memory that seemed so special and so individual and so uniquely yours is no more than a common symptom. A diagnosis moves backwards in time and explains all the things you’d almost forgotten still needed explaining. Innocuous details, innocent little ‘I thought everyone did that’s can be found in bulleted lists in some textbook that had hardly been opened. It is invasive and comforting and terrifying all at once.
Mycroft tries to devour the book in one sitting, but he starts to feel that weight of the diagnosis and he goes to bed feeling ill.
He does devour the book, but now he does so in the way that he’s learned to devour things – slowly, with great care, and in very small increments. He’s an adult, after all. He knows how to consume things without becoming ill, after many years of trial and error.
And it is difficult. Mum bothers him nigh weekly for updates on how Sherlock is doing, and the lies have become harder to maintain since Mycroft flipped to the glossary in the back to look up the word “enable”.
The charity dinner, the phone call from Amsterdam, their texts. He can’t unrealize what those simple moments now amount to. In hindsight, it’s easy to shake his head, and he’s certain anyone who he would tell would think the same. How dense had he been? Why hadn’t he acted earlier? Was he denying all the symptoms or had he really just been that ignorant?
The worst part is being in his mum’s house the few days after Christmas and seeing reminders of their youth everywhere. Mycroft opts for late nights at his office in lieu of using a room with a desk that Sherlock once drew pictures of chemical structures on in crayon.
Pamphlets start to collect on Mycroft’s bedside table. The entire textbook is read through two, three times, post-its start to stick out of the edges.
He reads that every addict thinks themselves an exception to the rule. He reads that every addict uses arrogance and individuality to shield their own weakness. He reads description after description that fits Sherlock like a glove.
There are the days when Mycroft is certain that if he can just get Sherlock back in London then he can save him and they will all be happy again. There are the nights that Mycroft fears that his brother is already dead and Mycroft weeps in his office and he fights the urge to just wire a few hundred to hold him over. There are the mornings where Mycroft tries not to blame himself and hopes that he can at least have the chance to help his brother be recovering even if he’ll never be all the way recovered.
Winter is still deep in London when Mycroft is given the first sign that maybe things won’t be like this forever.
“You know Sherlock is thinking of returning to London.”
That’s the only news worth telling his mother, and the only genuine smile he’s had in months.
***
Mycroft doesn’t remember much what Sherlock’s first flat back in London looks like. It’s small and inexpensive and in a nice enough part of town that he should be safe. He does remember how gaunt Sherlock looks, like he hasn’t eaten in months. They don’t speak much. There are suitcases and messy notebooks and Mycroft has bought a mattress. Every time he stops by (never when Sherlock is home) there are more things in the flat, furniture Sherlock has presumably found on the street or knick-knacks from god only knows where. Mycroft disinfects them. One day Mycroft stops by when Sherlock is home to drop off several boxes of old books, including that old textbook. All the post-its are gone and the underlined words have been erased.
Maybe he accidentally sticks a pamphlet or two in there as bookmarks.
If only this were as simple as politics. If only he could just kidnap Sherlock, stuff him into an in-patient program kicking and screaming, and pull him out sober and fixed. Well certainly Mycroft could do that, and he’d certainly given the option some serious thought before he’d read further in the textbook. But that wouldn’t actually be a solution; it just would be a laxative for Mycroft’s guilt. Mycroft was too old for that sort of thing anyway.
It costs him more than he would ever tell a living soul, but Mycroft begins to employ a small detail of trustworthy people to keep an eye on Sherlock in the neighborhood around the flat. It’s worth the price.
Sherlock has been in London for four months when, abruptly one Wednesday, every inch of his apartment reeks of cigarettes. Mycroft coughs when he enters the empty apartment, and this time there is a note on the microscope. Mycroft- Stop sneaking over here. I don’t keep sweets in the flat. Go away. SH Mycroft is so happy he actually laughs, long and loud and ending in a coughing fit from the smell of the place. It is a small step, but it is a step in the right direction and it is a step that Sherlock took himself. That is all he can hope for.
One night he receives a call from a woman he’s hired parked in a car across the flat saying that he’s been acting just a little bit odd tonight. Probably nothing. Mycroft asks for details – out of the patterns formed by research and then forged by his months of guilt, Mycroft has determined the approximate differences between a regular odd night and a danger night. It is an imperfect system, only a few clues or signs. It’s the best he can do for a man like Sherlock.
Outside his flat in ten minutes, Mycroft knocks and taps his foot impatiently. Perhaps he is overreacting. The door is opened only a crack, and Mycroft peers inside at the sliver of Sherlock’s face. His eyes are dull and unfocused. Mycroft was too late.
Mycroft remembers that night in swaths of sensation. He remembers Sherlock letting him inside the apartment and explaining animatedly for hours about fascinating tobacco ash is, showing microscope slides and graphs and charts. He remembers smiling and nodding along and feeling like he hadn’t done enough. He remembers wanting to cry. He remembers watching Sherlock start to slow down, coming off the high, his explanations becoming less and less coherent. He remembers going to the bathroom and flushing what’s left on the sink counter and tossing the rubber tubing out the window. He remembers the night slipping into morning slipping into daybreak and Sherlock shaking and lashing out at Mycroft, hurling insults. He remembers sitting there, thin-lipped and stone-faced. He remembers feeling as though time had stopped for them inside the cramped flat with just the two of them. He remembers feeling all those years of disconnect across that chasm finally coming together.
When Sherlock is lucid in the last morning hours before noon, they are both embarrassed and quiet. Mycroft’s phone buzzes in his back trouser pocket, which he doesn’t acknowledge. Sherlock drifts in and out of sleep on the sofa. They must have started talking at some point – not about anything important, not about profound thank-yous or apologies or how truly they were the closest thing each other had to friends. But Mycroft remembers one thing.
“So you’ve become rather rusty in my time out of country.”
“I beg your pardon, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“I mean, why on earth would I need flour? Do I seem suddenly the cooking type?”
“I don’t rummage through your cabinets, Sherlock, contrary to what you —“
“You were thirteen, our nanny decided to hide all the sweets in the house in a bag of flour and—“
“—Oh gracious, no need to remind me—“
“—time you got them all out, flour all over the kitchen floor and—“
“—told me where they were, if you hadn’t suggested we used the broom to get it down, we never would have –“
“—really didn’t even think to wonder why I had a flour bag in my flat?”
Mycroft's gaze shot to the now suspicious bag of flour atop Sherlock's refrigerator. He burst into laughter at the same instant Sherlock did. There are, without a doubt, some memories they would never be never too old or mature or messed up for.