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Mycroft had discovered very early on that one of the only ways to calm his brother, Sherlock was with touch. As a baby, he cried almost constantly when left in his cradle or bassinet, but neither Mummy nor Father were the type to coddle him. “He’ll learn soon enough that crying won’t get him attention,” Mummy told Mycroft when he hovered anxiously over the cradle. “Just like you did.”
“But what if he needs something?” he asked, worried for this new addition to his life.
“He’s been fed and changed, Myc - he’s fine.” She’d left then, returning to her study to work on a paper she was writing and Mycroft was left alone in the nursery.
The red faced, tiny human below reached up with his chubby arms, his eyes scrunched shut as he wailed. Mycroft thought for a moment - he had apparently learned from a young age that affection wouldn’t be freely given and not to beg for it, but even at the tender age of seven, he knew that he was miserable for it. There were times when all he wanted from his parents was a cuddle, but instead all he was offered was a lecture on the inferiority of emotional intelligence. Making up his mind, he reached into the cradle and lifted the baby into his arms. The crying ceased immediately and he moved over to the nursing chair, sitting himself down and beginning to rock gently. Large blue eyes looked up at him and he gazed back, a gentle smile on his face. “We’ll just have to take care of each other, Lockie,” he whispered, running the back on a knuckle over a soft red cheek. The baby gurgled at him and latched onto his finger, his eyes never leaving his brother’s face. Dappled sunlight was filtering in the window through the large tree outside and as the breeze moved the branches, the light danced across Sherlock’s face, changing his eyes from blue to green. “Oh, it looks like you’ve got the same thing as Uncle Rudy,” he said. He chewed on his lower lip as he tried to remember what his uncle had called the condition when he’d asked about it. “Sect...sect...sectoral het...heterochromia,” he stumbled over the difficult words. “That makes you special, Lockie.”
Sherlock continued to stare at him, his hands tight around his finger and Mycroft shifted him from the crook of his elbow until he was lying against his chest and shoulder. He held the back of his head and cradled the baby to him, enjoying the first proper cuddle of his life. It felt wonderful and he silently promised his brother that no matter how much their parent’s denied them physical touch, his would never lack for affection from his older brother.
oOoOo
Mummy homeschooled Mycroft but since he learned more from devouring books on the subjects she taught than from listening to her lecture, she tended to assign him several texts to read and would then quiz him at the end of the week. He was left very much to his own devices and so he would collect his baby brother after breakfast and they would spend the entire day together. Mycroft would finish the books he had to, often reading out loud to Sherlock, who would lie curled up in his lap, listening to his big brother’s voice. By the time he turned three, Sherlock was already reading along to the most technical of texts, and was eager to learn everything he could from Mycroft.
They were inseparable and whenever Sherlock was hurt or upset, it was Mycroft he turned to, not his parents. The more his mind developed, the busier and louder it became and soon the whir of thoughts and data in his mind became unbearable. He would become surly and snappish and the only way he would settle was if Mycroft curled up with him, tracing patterns over the skin of his back and carding his fingers through the dark, curly locks. Whenever Mummy would come across them like this, she would frown and tutt, chiding them for what she perceived as a weakness. She told them again and again that caring was not an advantage, that emotional bonds would only lead to distraction from intellectual pursuits. Neither boy heeded her words, and they took to hiding from her, finding nooks and crannies where she would never think to look for them.
“Is this really so wrong?” Sherlock asked one day when he was eight. It was a warm summer’s day and they had found a quiet place at the very back of the garden after the noise of his mind had started to get too much. Mycroft was leaning up against a tree trunk and Sherlock was nestled between his legs, leaning back against his chest while they read a book on advanced mathematics. They had been discussing ways the formulas could be implemented in real life scenarios, with Sherlock holding the book and Mycroft twisting his curls into small braids. “I don’t understand why it angers Mummy so much.”
Mycroft shrugged. “Neither do I. It doesn’t feel wrong. Does it for you?”
Sherlock put down the book and twisted about so he was facing his brother, and wrapped his arms around him, leaning his head against his chest. “No. I like when you hug me. I don’t see why it makes her so mad.”
“You’ve met our grandparents, Lockie - on both sides of the family. None of them seem to be overly affectionate. Perhaps Mummy and Father don’t understand our need for affection because they were never shown any. She knows we’re clever, like her, and she wants us to be able to go far with our intellects. I think she’s worried that we’ll throw that away in favour of sentiment.”
“But we’re learning and cuddling right now - can’t she see we can do both?”
Mycroft chuckled and reached out to poke a finger in his brother’s ribs, causing the small boy to squeal and jerk away. “But we’re not, are we? You put down the book.”
“Don’t tickle, Mycie!” He gasped, catching his breath and then poked out his tongue. Mycroft poked his back and after a few more minutes of tickling and pulling faces, they settled back down with the book.
It was obvious Sherlock couldn’t concentrate however and after a while, Mycroft reached over and closed the text. “What’s wrong, Lockie?”
The boy shrugged, and picked at a scratch on his knee. “Mummy says you’ll be going off to university next year; that you’ve already started studying some of the curriculum but you’ll have to actually go there to finish your studies.”
“Yes, I will. But that’s not until next year.” It was still too soon in his mind. He’d have no problem with the level of learning, but he would already be an anomaly due to his intelligence, he didn’t want the extra burden of being different due to his age, of being at least two years younger than his peers.
“What will happen to me?”
“I’m not sure, Lockie.” It had been a weight on the teenager’s shoulders, worrying what would happen to his brother once he was gone. They had no friends besides each other, and due to their homeschooling, didn’t even have acquaintances. Who would look after Sherlock? Keep him safe, stop him from being lonely, and to give him the calming touches he needed when he became overwhelmed?
“And what about you? Will you find someone there to do this with?”
“Do what with?”
“To cuddle with while you study?”
He couldn’t help but laugh, even though his brother didn’t - couldn’t - know better. “Oh, Lockie, this isn’t what normal people do.”
The boy turned his head and looked up at him with huge eyes. “What do you mean? I thought you said it wasn’t wrong.”
He shook his head. “It’s not - because we’re brothers. But I wouldn’t just find some stranger at university and hug them while I study.” The whole idea of socialising in any capacity with people while he was away was abhorrent to him, let alone getting that close.
Sherlock gave him a smile and then turned back around. “Good,” he said. “I don’t want to have to share you with anyone.”
Mycroft hugged him tightly and pressed a kiss to his hair. “Don’t worry, Lockie - I’ll always be yours.”
oOoOo
This was intolerable. How on earth did anyone manage the noise, and the press of bodies, and the sheer horribleness of it all? Mycroft was miserable at university, and after the first two weeks, he convinced his parents to allow him back home every weekend. He cited that he was unable to concentrate on his studies when his dorm mate had a steady stream of visitors each day they had off, and after they had come up to see for themselves, agreed it was for the best. He was ecstatic when he hopped on the train the following Friday, heading home to see Sherlock for the first time in three weeks. It was the longest they had ever been separated and he missed his brother dreadfully. When he arrived at home, neither could keep from rushing into each other’s arms, despite the disapproving frown from Mummy. “We agreed you could come home in order to concentrate, Myc,” she said in a stern voice. “If your brother is going to be a distraction, we will revisit this arrangement.”
“Lockie won’t distract me, Mummy,” he replied as contritely as possible. “I’m merely saying hello.”
She didn’t say anything else, but continued to frown and the brothers found themselves inching apart to placate her. Once she bustled off to see to dinner, they retired to Mycroft’s room and as soon as they were alone, Sherlock clung to his brother.
“I missed you so much, Mycie,” he said, a catch in his voice. “It was so loud while you were gone. I couldn’t stand it.”
Mycroft rubbed his hand over Sherlock’s back. “I know, Lockie. I missed you too, more than you can know. It won’t be as bad anymore if I’m coming home on the weekends.”
“You’ll still call during the week?”
“Every night,” he promised again. It was a vow he hadn’t broken - they had spoken each night that he’d been away and although it had helped, it wasn’t a replacement for his touch. He led the boy over to the bed and they climbed up onto it, lying on top of the covers. Sherlock curled up next to him and Mycroft hugged him close, his fingers dancing over his spine, the familiar routine causing his brother to relax instantly. “Better?” he asked softly.
Sherlock nodded. “So much quieter,” he murmured. “You’ll still have time for me when you come home?”
“I’ll always have time for you,” he said.
Mycroft wasn’t at all surprised when later that night the door to his bedroom creaked open not even thirty minutes after he’d retired and Sherlock climbed in with him. They stayed up for hours, the boy asking a million questions about university and Mycroft answered as honestly as he could. He admitted that he found the whole experience overwhelming, having never spent time with many other people before, but didn’t share with his brother than he was disappointed in their parents. Their failure to socialise their sons had added an extra dimension of difficulty for Mycroft and before he returned, he would be speaking to his father to urge him to enrol Sherlock in the local school. His brother would most likely hate it, but it would prepare him better for the future. Of course, Mummy would be against the idea, but hopefully Father could talk some sense into her.
The next two days flew by, and the brothers spent almost every minute together. Mycroft made sure they spent half their time in a visible location - the study, the library, the sitting room - demonstrating to Mummy that he was indeed completing his work. During these times, Sherlock sat with him, always close by but not quite touching, reading whatever text his brother was reading. The rest of the time they would find one of their secret places, away from Mummy’s forbidding glare. They would stay in constant contact during these times, taking comfort from having the other near. Mycroft had read about a technique called a Mind Attic and thought it would be helpful for both of them to organise their chaotic thoughts. Sherlock picked the technique up quickly and was soon declaring that his attic was full and he would need a palace to store his thoughts in instead. The older brother hoped that building his palace would help to keep Sherlock occupied during the week when he was away.
When it came time for Mycroft to return to university, Sherlock was distraught but he bravely held back the tears as they said their goodbyes. “Five sleeps, Lockie. Five more sleeps until I’ll be back.”
He nodded, his lower lip trembling. “I know.”
“I’ll call each night and I expect to hear all about your progress.”
“What’s this?” Mummy asked.
“I’ve given Sherlock a project,” he said, avoiding an explanation. “It should help him stay occupied while I’m gone.”
She nodded approvingly, always happy for anything that kept her from having to deal with her youngest son’s meltdowns. Mycroft gave his brother one final hug and then hopped into the cab that had come to take him to the train station. His discussion with Father had gone well but he knew it would be an ongoing task to first convince him, and then for Father to convince Mummy to enrol his brother in school. For now, he planned to help by taking Sherlock into the local village on the weekends, to interact with other children that way. He could only hope that it would be enough for now.
oOoOo
It took another two years before Mummy caved and allowed Sherlock to start at the local high school. Mycroft had finished two degrees by then and was powering through a third, but he still made sure he returned home at the end of every week. The travelling back and forth was exhausting at times, but to spend that time with his brother was well worth the effort.
He started to second guess his determination to have Sherlock attend school when he showed up one weekend and found that his younger brother avoided his touch. Normally they would be stuck together like superglue, and although Sherlock did still spend every free minute with him, he made sure to keep his distance. At first Mycroft put it down to puberty - his brother was growing, and developing and perhaps he just wasn’t comfortable anymore with the level of closeness they’d shared previously. Then he’d seen an article in the paper about a student who had drowned and Sherlock’s mind had gone into overdrive, certain there had been foul play involved. He had gotten himself worked into a right state and Mycroft had immediately started to rub soothing circles on his back. Sherlock had cried out in pain and pulled away, hiding his face from his brother.
“Lockie, what is it?” Mycroft had asked, a flutter of panic in his belly as his brother flinched from his touch.
“It’s nothing,” Sherlock had tried to dismiss it.
It took the rest of the night to get the truth from him, but Mycroft eventually learned his younger brother had quickly become a punching bag for a particular group of boys at school. He was furious but his brother had begged for him to leave it alone, to not make it worse by interfering. He’d eventually acquiesced, not happy but knowing that it was what Sherlock needed to feel like he was in some control of the situation. He had found a tube of balm in the medicine cupboard and had Sherlock lie down on his bed so he could ease the pain somewhat. Mycroft had swallowed hard as he saw the black and blue marks covering Sherlock’s back, pushing down his anger so he wouldn’t renege on his promise. He’d then gently rubbed the cream onto his skin, soothing the hard muscles beneath until they let go of the tension. Sherlock slumped visibly and let out a relieved sigh, and didn’t protest when his older brother continued his ministrations to his neck and arms as well.
After a while the only sound in the room was the young teen’s even breathing as he dozed. Mycroft got up and washed his hands and then returned, climbing into bed and holding his brother close. The desire to protect Sherlock was overwhelming and he swore he would do everything he could to keep him safe.
oOoOo
With a total of four degrees under his belt by the time he turned twenty one, Mycroft was ready to start his career. He had it all planned out but knew he would have to start at the bottom. He easily secured an entry level administration role in the Cabinet office in Whitehall and found a tiny flat in Soho. The downside to his new role were the long hours he had to put in to prove himself worthy and so he was only able to return home one weekend a month to spend with Sherlock. He saw the impact it was having on his brother and pleaded with his parents to allow his brother to come to him. They finally agreed and one weekend a month Sherlock would catch the train and spend Friday and Saturday nights in London.
The time they spent together didn’t vary much from how they had spent it when at home - Sherlock did his school work, Mycroft did the work he’d brought home with him, and in between they talked about topics no one else could or would discuss with them. They went for long, meandering walks through the city, Sherlock having fallen in love with the area, but they avoided taking the tube or going to the tourist hotspots as both were still uncomfortable in large crowds. They would go to the more obscure museums and galleries where there were usually only a handful of other patrons, and they spent a large amount of time in the library.
Sherlock avoided speaking of school, and although Mycroft rarely saw him beaten and bruised, it was clear he was still shunned by his peers. He himself didn’t fit into the social circles in the office and his colleagues had stopped asking him to join them on the weekends he had free the third time he declined, stating a visit to or from his brother as the reason. He overheard two women from accounting gossiping about him, speculating if he really had a brother or if he was playing the family card as an excuse. The next time Sherlock was visiting he made sure to walk them past the restaurant his colleagues were meeting at so they would see he did indeed have a brother and would let the matter drop.
The flat he was renting only had one tiny bedroom, and his couch was too short for Sherlock to comfortably sleep on, so they would share Mycroft’s bed. He knew it wasn’t normal by now, his baby brother well beyond the age they should be so physically close, but touch was still the fastest way to calm Sherlock’s busy mind. He would arrive on Friday night jittery and antsy but by the time it came for him to return on Sunday afternoon, he would be much calmer and relaxed. Spending two entire nights wrapped in his brother’s arms was the secret.
Of course, there were awkward moments - the mornings one of them woke up with an erection pressed against the other for example. They would hurriedly disentangle themselves and turn around, blushing furiously and then would avoid looking at each other over breakfast. Mycroft felt no sexual attraction towards his brother, and Sherlock had identified early on as being asexual, but in such close proximity it wasn’t always possible to control one’s body. It wouldn’t take long before the embarrassment would pass and they would get back to sharing platonic touches and shows of affection and as the years passed, their bond grew and they became even closer.
oOoOo
Their relationship began to deteriorate once Sherlock graduated high school and started at university. Mycroft had been promoted numerous times and had gotten a foothold in MI6, which meant his workload increased exponentially. Their weekends together dropped to once a month, then once every two months, and then they seemed to peter out altogether. Mycroft still worried constantly about his brother, and used his growing influence in the secret service to keep tabs on him from afar, but it was clear that the distance that was growing between them was having a detrimental effect on the younger man.
The first time Sherlock got high, he phoned Mycroft in the middle of the night, rambling nonsensically at him about the obliquity of the ecliptic. His older brother had rushed to the university to find Sherlock on the roof of one of the buildings with a handful of other students - all of them under the influence of one drug or another - taking apart a telescope and declaring there was a listening device in it somewhere. He’d dragged him to his room and held him until he’d started to come down, by which time Sherlock was grouchy and irritable. He grew indignant and kicked Mycroft out of the room, vocally chastising him for his presumptuous actions. His fellow dorm mates had no idea who Mycroft was or what had transpired and so as they watched on, some with amusement, some with sneers, he felt very much like he was taking a walk of shame as he left.
The second time he found Sherlock high was far from the second time his brother had actually gotten high. In fact, he was quite the regular user now, having moved quickly from the party drugs up to more hard core substances. Mycroft had kept tabs on him but had not interfered, thinking that his brother just had to find his own way. He did find it in the end - but it had led to a crack house in one of the dodgiest parts of town and Mycroft had gotten there just in time to stop a random stranger from taking advantage of Sherlock. He had dragged him home with him - a nicer flat this time - and had berated Sherlock when he’d finally sobered up.
“How could you be so stupid? You poison your mind with chemicals and then put yourself into situations where you can get hurt or injured, or even worse. Is that how you wish to lose your virginity? To some bum in a rubbish strewn room in a drug den?”
Sherlock had shrugged, sniffing in disdain and turning his back on his brother. “Whatever,” he’d muttered, not seeming to take it seriously.
The third time Mycroft found him, he was in a similar establishment. He’d moved up through the ranks again and had his own team now. One of them kept an eye on Sherlock whenever he left the dorm (which was often - he rarely attended classes now) and they alerted him of his destination. Mycroft had had enough and had a car take him there immediately, hoping to drag his brother out before he could do anymore damage. As it was, he arrived just in time. Sherlock was on his back, his entire body convulsing and liquid frothing from his mouth. With a cry, Mycroft had rushed to his side, turning him over and clearing his airway. When he’d suddenly gone still, the seizure over, Mycroft had searched frantically for a pulse. It was thin and reedy but it was there, and he had scooped his brother’s emancipated frame into his arms and carried him to the car.
After several days in hospital to stabilse him, Mycroft had Sherlock sent off to a rehabilitation facility.He visited after a week and found he hardly recognised his brother. Dark circles under his eyes made his sharp cheekbones more prominent than usual, his clothes hung off his skeletal frame, and the light was gone from his eyes. He lay on the bed, vacant and nonresponsive, ignoring everything the doctor was saying as he filled Mycroft in. After a while, the doctor left and Mycroft closed the door behind him, taking in the sight of the stranger before him. He sighed and crossed to the bed, sitting on the very edge. He reached out for Sherlock and then hesitated, his hand hovering over a stick-like arm. It had been years now since his brother had sought comfort from him and he was unsure as to whether or not it would be welcomed. In the end he muttered a quiet “Bugger it, ” and rested his hand on Sherlock’s arm. He felt Sherlock jerk at the contact and then he seemed to suddenly collapse in on himself, curling into a small ball and shuddering as he began to cry.
Mycroft immediately laid down next to him and pulled Sherlock flush against his chest, holding him tightly and whispering soothing nonsense in his ear. His whole body shaking as he sobbed, the younger man pushed himself back against Mycroft’s solid chest and one of his hands found his brother’s. His fingers, always long and slender, were so fragile that Mycroft was worried any pressure would snap a bone, but Sherlock tightened them around Mycroft’s own and squeezed hard.
After a while, he could hear Sherlock whispering something. Mycroft lifted his head, straining to hear, to make out the words. His heart broke in two when he understood the words that Sherlock was chanting under his breath.
“Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, please don’t leave. ”
He swore once more that he never would.
oOoOo
More years passed and Sherlock got clean. He stumbled from time to time, but never again fell so low. Mycroft watched anyway, waiting to catch him, but he found he was needed less and less. Every now and then his brother would show up at his door and wordlessly spend an afternoon, an evening, or even an entire night with Mycroft. He would crowd close, cling on, and then once he left, never mention it again. His older brother never protested or commented, just gave him what he needed and then gave him his space. He watched from afar as Sherlock started to build up a business of using his intellect to solve puzzles for people - the sorts that were too bizarre or grey for the police to take on. When he was caught up in a more difficult puzzle, Mycroft wouldn’t see Sherlock for months at a time, the act of solving them seeming to quiet the noise in his head. He became so good at it that when he started showing up to crime scenes to offer advice to the floundering detectives, one of them realised his value and starting bringing him in on official cases.
Sherlock travelled to the United States at one point, Mycroft not learning of his trip until the plane was in the air. He berated his security team for not giving him any warning and then had to use his contacts at the CIA to find out what he was doing. It appeared he had gone there at the behest of an older woman who was seeking help to ensure her husband didn’t get off on a murder charge. He was surprised to find once Sherlock had found new evidence that successfully put the man on death row that the woman travelled back to London with him. Her name was Mrs Hudson and she seemed to have adopted the ‘consulting detective’ as a surrogate son. She owned real estate in town and rented out the top flat to Sherlock.
Even with the discount, he didn't earn enough to cover the rent himself. Mycroft was on the verge of offering to cover the shortfall when his brother did something that he’d rarely managed to do before - he shocked Mycroft.
It came by way of a blonde army doctor called John Watson. Within a heartbeat the man had moved in with Sherlock and had even started helping him consult on cases with the Met. Mycroft was beyond puzzled and arranged to meet with the man, sticking to cloak and dagger techniques simply because that was what he was used to doing.
Watson was less than impressed with Mycroft but the eldest Holmes was fascinated by the man whom his brother had quite suddenly attached himself to. It was a puzzle that he himself couldn’t solve, but he hoped that the man would stick around. There had been an immediate improvement in Sherlock’s temperament, and for the first time since he was a child, Mycroft found himself worrying less about his brother’s well being. The blonde doctor not only embraced Sherlock’s caustic personality but was also protective of him. He killed a man the first night to keep him from doing something stupid, and Mycroft would be forever grateful.
The months went by and John Watson became part of the furniture in Sherlock’s life. Mycroft didn’t hear a peep from his brother for months, but continued to have him monitored. When he received an alert that the younger man had started to act erratically, he decided it was perhaps time to pay his brother’s flatmate a visit.
John was alone when he arrived, having timed it for when Sherlock was at Bart’s. “Mycroft,” the man said, a note of surprise in his voice. He stood back and allowed him in. “Sherlock isn’t here. You’re welcome to wait for him but he doesn’t exactly keep set hours there.”
“It’s actually yourself that I’ve come to see, Doctor Watson,” he said, leaning his umbrella against the wall.
“Oh? Right, well, have a seat.”
John gestured to the free armchair and Mycroft undid the button on his jacket before he settled down on it, crossing his legs and making himself entirely at home. “Have you noticed my brother acting peculiar at all lately?” he asked, cutting straight to the chase.
One of John’s eyebrows raised. “Define ‘peculiar’ when it comes to Sherlock.”
“You know him well enough by now, I’m sure, to be able to make an informed decision,” he countered.
The doctor sighed. “Fine, you’ve got me there. Yeah, he has been a little off lately.”
“How so?”
“He doesn’t seem able to settle, wanders about the flat at all hours of the night, doesn’t sleep, can’t sit still.”
He nodded. “It is as I thought then.”
“Oh? And what exactly would that be?” The man’s voice had notes of concern but also irritation, and it was clear that he still resented the circumstances surrounding their first meeting.
“As I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, Sherlock’s mind is remarkable. It is a constant whir of information and data, fighting to be analysed and catalogued. It never stops, no matter what, and even when he appears calm and content, it is there in the background, processing. Sometimes it is more cacophonous than usual and he requires...external help to cope.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s usually a case or a puzzle, for a long time it was drugs. Before then, it was me.”
“You?” He was immediately on edge and Mycroft cursed himself for not being more clear.
“Nothing nefarious, I assure, Doctor Watson. Despite the appearance he projects, my brother is a tactile person. He reacts well to touch, and this has always been how I’ve managed to keep him calm.”
John folded his arms. “You’re not making it sound any better,” he snapped.
Mycroft shook his head. “You misunderstand - not sensual touch. He takes comfort from being close, he enjoys hugs, a hand rubbed on his back, or his hair stroked.”
He looked unconvinced. “We are talking about the same man, aren’t we?”
“As I said, Doctor Watson, he takes great pains to hide it so he doesn’t appear weak.”
“But he’s happy to pump his veins full of illicit substances?”
Mycroft shrugged. “Who knows why my brother makes the choices he does?”
“This is all very nice - a lovely snapshot into your childhood - but why exactly are you telling me this?”
He sighed. “We used to be close, but as I’m sure you’ve noticed, we don’t have the best relationship anymore. I thought that perhaps you could step up and do what needs to be done.”
“And what exactly do you think needs to be done?”
“Just an innocent display of affection for your best friend, Doctor Watson, nothing more. Give him a hug or two, be more tactile than usual, allow your legs to touch when sitting on the couch, that sort of thing.”
John shook his head. “I don’t understand how this is supposed to help him.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’m sure if you think back to your university days, you’ll recall the correlation between touch and comfort.”
“This goes a little beyond that.”
“I utilised this technique from the time my brother was a few months old, Doctor - you could say he’s been programmed to respond a certain way. Trust me when I say this is a guaranteed way to calm Sherlock’s mind without the need for him to resort to drugs.”
Eventually the blonde nodded. “Okay, I’ll give it a try.”
“That’s all I ask.” He stood and redid the button on his jacket.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay and wait for Sherlock?” John asked. “He might not be long.”
His lipped pressed together in a thin smile. “Thank you, but it’s best if I go. My brother does not look fondly upon me these days and I would not like to distress him further.” It pained him to admit that but it seemed no matter what he did they just grew further and further apart.
He let himself out of the flat and headed home, pushing down the feeling of jealousy he felt towards Sherlock’s flatmate. He was so used to being the only person his brother relied upon that he was feeling usurped from the position. Although he was happy that Sherlock was no longer alone, he had always felt... special that he was the only one who could reach him when no one else could.
He had just retired for the evening when his phone rang and he answered it after a brief glance at the display. “Doctor Watson? Is everything alright?”
“No it’s bloody not!” John half shouted down the phone. “I did what you suggested and he freaked out! Now he’s more worked up than before and has started smashing cups in the kitchen, saying he needs to observe the shatter patterns.”
“I see. I’ll be right over.” He hung up and dressed quickly and called for his driver. It wasn’t long before he was striding into 221B and taking in the scene.
John was sitting in his armchair, having obviously given up on convincing Sherlock to stop destroying the kitchen. There was a reddened mark on his cheek and he glowered at Mycroft.
“He hit you?” the government official asked in shock.
“Yes,” John growled. “He apparently doesn’t appreciate cuddles .” The way he spat the last word told Mycroft he was quoting Sherlock.
Turning to the kitchen, Mycroft took in his brother. He was hunched over the microscope on the table, but his leg was jingling so much that his whole body was shaking, so the older man doubted he was seeing anything. “Lockie,” he said gently, moving forward.
Just the name had a profound effect on Sherlock. He immediately stilled and he looked up, eyes wide and looking ten years old again. “Mycie?” he asked in a small voice.
“Come here, Lockie. Let me make it quiet again.”
He held his breath, waiting, and then in two strides Sherlock had crossed to him and had folded himself into Mycroft’s arms. “It’s so loud, Mycie,” he whimpered.
He shuffled them over to the couch and maneuvered them down onto it, Sherlock lying half on top of him as he stroked his hand up and down his brother’s spine. Over the mop of dark curls he could see John’s shocked face but he tuned the doctor out, focusing all of his attention on his brother. “It’s okay now, Lockie, I’m here.”
“Don’t leave me, Mycie, please don’t leave.”
He sighed and ran his fingers up through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and turned to press a kiss to his forehead. “I won’t. I promise that this time I won’t.”
He’d broken that promise before but this time, Mycroft vowed to keep it.