Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Mycroft Holmes had wished for a "challenging" jigsaw puzzle for quite sometime. To be honest, Sherlock didn't really find them all that interesting and wondered why Mycroft were so fixated on them when there were so many other interesting birthday presents to potentially receive. His parents obviously didn't understand either because every single year, Mycroft opened a large, brightly wrapped puzzle, usually with 400 pieces or less. In other words, totally unacceptable. But he'd always put on a thin smile and thank his parents because they meant well, truly.

This year, however, Sherlock was determined to find a satisfying gift. After saving up his tiny allowance, he had finally found something worth his attention: a 5000 piece puzzle of Edvard Munch's The Scream. Mycroft was a fan of fine art so it very well was perfect for him.

Seeing the rectangular box in navy grey wrapping paper, Mycroft's heart sank. "Well, at least the wrapping's different and not some blindingly neon colour", he thought. But upon tearing it open, he was most pleasantly surprised.

"Wow!" he breathed. "Five thousand pieces? Mother, where did you even find this?"

"I didn't sweetheart." Mrs. Holmes looked at her husband expectantly. "Did you—"

"Not me."

As if this was his cue, a tiny hand raised itself up. "I found it at the shop two blocks down from Pim's."

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up and their mother voiced what he didn't dare.

"You went all that way by yourself?"

"Yes, but—"

"Sherlock, that was sweet of you, but you mustn't do it again. What if something had happened to you?"

"Nevermind that," Mr. Holmes interrupted, "he's a smart boy. The real question is where'd you get the money?"

Mrs. Holmes was about to lightly hit her spouse on the shoulder but quickly realised it was just his dry sense of humour.

"Thanks, Sherlock." Mycroft said, smiling at his little brother, who wasn't looking at him.

"It wasn't that hard to find."

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Mycroft sat down on his sofa and stared at his chow mein guiltily. “To eat or not to eat,” he thought glumly, “that is the question.”

He picked up his chopsticks and clicked on the television. He stared at the screen, not really seeing, until a certain ‘Breaking News!’ caption caught his eye. Mycroft took a sip of his water and choked, nearly coughing up a lung. He lunged for the control remote and frantically tapped the volume.

“Susan Formack here. A man that had previously made an attempt on one of our government officials, unnamed of course, has been killed or rather, has killed himself.” an anchor-woman explained. “This just in of course, but we appear to have a witness! The police have just brought him in, let’s see what he has to say. Are you there Macy?”

Another woman, obviously filming from a different section of London, nodded.

“Hello, Susan! Macy Grimes reporting live to you with a witness that actually saw the suicide. Here he is.”

None other than Sherlock Holmes, dressed in a painfully fake beard and God forbid, skinny jeans. Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose; his brother was horrible with disguises.

“Alexander Geo—I mean, I saw the man on his balcony and I, you know, didn’t have a clue who he was, shouted out, ‘No, mate, don’t do it!’ but it was far too late. He was broken, on the pavement.” Sherlock sighed and ran his hands through his hair as if the very memory was hard for him to bear. “I just can’t believe he really—that he jumped, you know? You never think people will do it until their feet actually l-leave the ground.” His voice cracked and the interviewer looked sympathetic.

“Poor dear,” she said, looking at the camera, “back to you Susan.”

Susan returned to the screen, shaking her head. “Macy, I don’t quite know how to feel. I suppose the government won’t have to worry about tracking him down. In other news—”

Mycroft turned off the television. “Oh, Sherlock…” he tsk-tsked. “What would I've done had you been caught?"

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Mycroft stared at his plate and cleared his throat. He pushed his mashed potatoes to the side of his plate and distracted his parents with conversation. "It's so nice coming home from university."

"We're glad you're home, Myc." His parents refused to use his full name, despite it being on his birth certificate.

Mycroft chewed some of his broccoli up and discreetly spit it in his napkin, pretending to be wiping his mouth. "Excellent cooking, Mother."

Sherlock, though he was still a teenager, frowned. He could see right through Mycroft's act. Making conversation, hiding some food, condensing it all to give the illusion that some of it had been eaten… it was child's play. Sherlock wondered how his parents missed it.

Mycroft had been consumed with the idea that he was overweight. Sherlock knew that statistically, he was not overweight but Mycroft wouldn't have it. In his own eyes, he was grossly large and it killed his self confidence.

Later, after dinner, Mycroft nearly had a heart attack when Sherlock approached him from behind.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft yelped, turning around quickly. "What do you want?"

"You're not fat, Mycroft." Sherlock announced and left.

Mycroft stared after him until he shut his bedroom door. His brother was such an enigma oftentimes but other times, so predictable and easy to understand.

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“Sherlock! I have an interview in…” Mycroft glanced at his watch again. “Three hours, five minutes and 24 seconds! I don’t understand why you would so ignorantly take—”

Sherlock thrust a cup of coffee into his older brother’s hand and tossed a paper bag at him, which Mycroft barely caught without spilling the liquid caffeine.

“Fact. You have circles under your eyes. Fact. You’re irrational and irritable. Fact. You’ve been studying in your office for hours and obviously through the night. Deduction. You’ve got a presentation, a speech or something, you mentioned an interview, and you’re noticeably nervous. I figured you’d need something to keep you awake and calm during the presentation, so coffee was an obvious choice. Lots of caffeine so you don’t feel the immediate need to pass out unconscious. Warm drinks are statistically proven to be calming to nerves so hot coffee. Additionally, I’ve gotten some bagels because I’m just guessing you haven’t eaten in roughly…” Sherlock checked his own watch. “Thirteen hours and hmmm… 37 minutes. Good luck, although you won’t need luck, but rather, pure skill. Good day.”

And with those parting words, he left Mycroft dumbfounded for once.

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“Leave me alone, Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped, flipping a page in his textbook. “I’m trying to study.”

“But I’m bored.” his younger brother Sherlock whined.

“Then go do something! I’ve got my final exams tomorrow and they’re rather important to me!”

“Everyone knows you’ll ace your exams.” Sherlock mumbled, sliding down into a seated position, his head against Mycroft’s bedroom door.

The elder Holmes scoffed. “I don’t know that.”

“Can’t we go do something? C’mon Mycroft, let’s play deductions!”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft reprimanded. “Get out.”

Just when he was about to resign and abandon all hope, a beautiful sound wafted through his bedrooms walls. Closing his eyes and listening carefully, Mycroft identified the tune: one of his favourites, “Romance from The Gadfly” by Dmitri Shostakovich. It was a elegant, soothing, sometimes melancholy sounding piece and this did calm his anxious mind.

Mycroft, feeling very much like a small boy, got out of his desk and sat down, back up against the wall. He pressed his ear to the drywall and closed his eyes, letting his brother’s music consume him.

Although Mycroft didn’t know it, Sherlock was mirroring his brother’s posture. Sherlock was also leaning against the other side of the wall, eyes closed, playing his violin as if it were only him and the violin, nothing else in the universe.

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“Sherlock! I came as soon as I heard.” John gasped out as he jogged up to Sherlock Holmes. “They barely even let me in here. What the hell happened?”

“He was kidnapped, tortured for a bit and they said there’s a gunshot wound, but I’m not sure, not sure what’s going on and I… I…” Sherlock suddenly became aware that he wasn’t breathing, ohgod, he couldn’t breathe, what was happening, what was going on, Mycroft, Mycroft—

“Sherlock. Look at me. It’s John, you’ve got to look at me right now. Can you hear me? Sit down, please!” John spoke loudly but his friend couldn’t hear a thing. John grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and yanked him down and they sat together up against the cool concrete walls.

Sherlock felt like he was drowning. He couldn’t get any oxygen in his lungs, despite the fact that he was taking huge, gulping breaths. His skin felt prickly and hot and he wanted to scratch it all off, tear it all off actually, but John wouldn’t let him.

“You’re having a panic attack and I know it’s uncomfortable but focus. You know where you are?”

“Safe house.” Sherlock wheezed. He blinked rapidly and vaguely wondered if he was going to do something embarrassing, say, cry.

“Okay, good. Why are we here? Think, give me facts.”

Facts. Facts! Facts were good, they were excellent! Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and brought his hands to either side of his head.

“Mycroft’s-been-hurt-and-he’s-getting-surgery.” the detective rushed, not taking a breath.

“Try again?”

“Mycroft’s been hurt and he’s getting surgery.” Sherlock explained slowly this time. “I’m waiting here until he’s awake. They’ve been operating for three hours so I’d estimate I’ll be able to enter his hospital room in 54 minutes. Approximately.”

John stared at his friend’s blank expression and waited for him to speak up.

After an awkward pause, John cleared his throat. “Er, he is. Sherlock,” he hissed, “let’s go!”

“This way please. And, erm, no friends please, immediate family only.” The doctor glanced menacingly in John’s direction.

“I know.” Sherlock interrupted.

“Okay then, he was shot with a—”

“Yes, yes, I know that too! Get on with it!”

“We’ve realised that he was tortured with a number of small—”

“Is there a bloody thing you know that I don’t?!”

The doctor pursed his lips and glared at the opposing man. “Sir, I—”

“What did you do to him? In the surgery.”

“My surgical team and I removed bullet fragments from under your brother’s lung, which was unharmed. We’ve set a few broken fingers, two of his ribs are cracked, so he’ll be in some pain for the next couple of days. He’s got some minor cuts along the face, stomach and back. He’s received nine stitches on his arm.”

“Well is that all?” the detective asked smartly.

“Ehem, er, he’s currently on a morphine drip and I’ve prescribed him to start off with a dose of tramadol.”

“Dosage amount? I’m sure my brother won’t appreciate dosages you’ve prescribed that are too high in amount.” Sherlock snapped. The doctor looked exasperated.

“Look, I’m just trying to do my job.”

“Play nice, Sherlock…” a voice mumbled. Sherlock turned to at his brother’s pale form.

“You can leave us.” Sherlock instructed the doctor. “And do tell John everything’s alright.”

“John’s ‘ere as well?” Mycroft slurred, looking up at Sherlock.

“He is.”

“Does Mother know?”

“As of now, no.”

“Don’t tell her… please.”

Sherlock studied his older brother’s face. “Pain scale?”

“Hmm… 7.5.” Mycroft coughed sharply, winching in pain. Sherlock nodded, trying not to portray any strong, irrelevant emotions.

“I’ll tell them to increase your morphine amount.” To his surprise, there was no objecting from Mycroft. He did however groan.

“What’s… um, what’re you…” Sherlock couldn’t find the words, all of a sudden.

Mycroft gave him a forced smile. “No need to look so flustered. I’m just… I just feel… sick.”

“The feeling of nausea is a common symptom when first put on morphine.”

“I know… I just… tired.” he grumbled, incoherently. Sherlock bit his lip, then quickly stopped. What was he doing?

“Mycroft,” he stared, feeling nervous, “I wanted to tell you…”

“Mmm…”

“I, er, well, I…”

Mycroft’s eyes were closed, but he was still half-listening.

“Don’t you ever get kidnapped again.” Sherlock decided. “It… it alarmed me and I dislike the feeling. It’s uncomfortable and impractical and do not do this again. Please.”

“Never though’ I’d ‘ere tha’ from you.” Mycroft was fighting sleep to say these last few words.

“Your intelligence never fails you. I think both you and I know you won’t remember this conversation tomorrow. The drugs and your ‘traumatic experience’ will take care of that.”

“I… am aware.” Mycroft spoke slowly, in a daze. He was slipping in and out of consciousness and he knew that too. “Thank you… Sherlock.”

“Of course.” His brother responded, watching as Mycroft’s eyes closed and he started to breathe more heavily. “Brother mine.”