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“In the end they all leave.”
Sherlock says it without bitterness, softly, gently, as if that’s the way things are meant to be. He doesn’t cease watching the rain that pelts down against the office windows, doesn’t hunch his shoulders or grip his glass too tightly. Instead he stands straighter, shoulders pushed back, chin lifted as if somehow the loss makes him a better man. He has a glass of Amaretto and scotch in one hand, the other shoved casually into a pocket.
It’s Mycroft who sighs, who runs a hand over his hair, whose expression wavers as he sits behind his desk. The man standing by the windows is the picture of a perfect civil servant, displaying grace and forbearance against the vagaries of the rising storm. If Sherlock looked like this on a regular basis they’d be clamouring to employ him, and probably oust Mycroft in the process.
“It’s meant to end with Happily Ever After.”
Mycroft says it calmly, with only a trace of irritation. He presses his fingertips together, resting his elbows on the desk and starts to plot the untimely demise of John Watson’s fiancée, mere days before her wedding.
“Oh, stop it.”
Sherlock laughs. It’s a good-natured sound, devoid of all malice. Mycroft frowns at its unnaturalness, though he does accept the rather generous measure of scotch that Sherlock hands to him.
“I could make her... disappear.”
“And that would make John unhappy, so no.”
“Pity.”
Mycroft swallows down a mouthful of liquor far too quickly and winces at the sharpness. He hasn’t had the time for a nice, relaxing, drink for a few months now. Hasn’t even really had the time to enjoy his coffee. He’s been busy tracking the steady, worrying, calamitous, progression of John’s relationship. He’s been plotting contingencies and tracking variables. He can make her vanish, he could just as easily paint her has the villain. Her casual bravery could be used against her: he could convince John that she’d been a deliberate plant all along. He could have false terrorism charges drawn up against her, false documents suggesting that everything about her was a forgery. He could erase her existence from the public record and then go on to erase her remaining family. He could do all these things but he won’t, not yet, not without Sherlock’s say so.
“I... want John to be happy.”
“As I recall, you wanted Victor to be happy too.”
“Yes.”
It’s always been the way with Sherlock: falling hard for the occasional blinding light in amongst a sea of dull humanity, and then working hard to lose them. Not quite directly or intentionally but carefully, deliberately, so that he paves the way for their departure with good intentions. Victor Trevor had married an insipid piano teacher from the local village, as Mycroft recalls, and Sherlock had sent a thoughtful present for their wedding while absenting himself from the country, due to a case that he’d claimed couldn’t be put off. Doubtless, the same thing will happen again. Sherlock will, to all intents and purposes, claim to be quite willing to attend, and then, at the last minute, he’ll be called away urgently. He’ll send his apologies and a lavish gift, and then somehow he’ll manage never to cross John Watson’s path ever again.
“Self-sacrifice doesn’t suit you.”
“Pettiness doesn’t suit you either.”
There’s no maliciousness, it’s just a clear statement of fact, and that alone irritates Mycroft further. There is a beauty in that serenity of course, an elegance and eloquence in Sherlock’s quiet self-assurance, in his utter acceptance of his fate, but that doesn’t mean that Mycroft has to like it. Just because Sherlock seems to believe that it’s his lot in life to suffer, to be alone with his dazzling intellect, doesn’t mean that Mycroft has to agree with that. Perhaps because it strikes rather too close to home. Mycroft himself is alone in the vast corridors of his mind. He has many on whom he can rely, but none that he could readily draw close to him, into the position of confidante and companion.
“It wasn’t unexpected.”
“Then you should have planned-
Mycroft stops himself suggesting that Sherlock should have planned to sabotage their relationship, mostly because the suggestion will not go over well, rather than because he has any moral reservations about it. Sherlock ought to have stepped in and done something, caused some kind of breach between Sarah and John, somehow. It shouldn’t have been difficult to turn John against her after all. For all her calmness, her acceptance, all that could easily have been used against her. Just a few poisoned words and John would have done the rest of the work himself.
“Nevertheless, it was very short-sighted of you.”
Sherlock smiles at that and perches himself on the edge of Mycroft’s desk, mere inches from his brother. Mycroft gulps down another mouthful of scotch and scowls. For someone whose heart is being broken, Sherlock is taking it remarkably well, almost too well, so the rational part of Mycroft’s mind prompts. Not that he wants to be rational now, he wants to be angry and dangerous and seconds away from issuing a kill order that will remove a severe inconvenience from his brother’s love-life.
“Mycroft.” Sherlock’s hand covers his to stop him raising the glass again.
Mycroft lets go of his death grip on the cut crystal.
“You’re being remarkably inobservant.” Sherlock finishes his own drink and sets the empty glass down on the table.
“Pray, do enlighten me.” Mycroft doesn’t bother to hide his sarcasm.
“In the end they all leave.” Sherlock smiles, widely, wonderingly, delightedly. “All of them but you.”
Of course, it all makes sense when phrased like that. Each companion, each suitable gentleman friend that Sherlock lets go. They all leave him, they’re all meant to because he doesn’t make them stay. He never tries to: he doesn’t need them, not like he needs Mycroft.
“I can be remarkably inobservant when I choose to be.”
“Are you being deliberately inobservant now?” Sherlock cups Mycroft’s face in his hands.
“My data is inconclusive at the current time.”
“Then I should rectify that.”
It is, inevitably, everything that Mycroft never realised that he wanted. He can taste scotch and Amaretto and tobacco, and threading through it all, that distinctive taste that is Sherlock alone. If he were a lesser man he’d be overwhelmed, he’d be reeling and confused: he wouldn’t have stood gracefully, smoothly, wouldn’t have managed it all without breaking away to catch his breath. If he were a lesser man he wouldn't have tightening his grip on his brother’s waist and pushed him down onto the desk. He most certainly wouldn’t have managed to press himself between Sherlock’s spread legs, bend down low into that all consuming kiss and still press a finger to the off button of the Blackberry on his desk. If he were a lesser man none of these things would be possible, but he isn’t. He is Mycroft Holmes. Thus, it only follows, naturally, that events should conform to his will, whether he chooses to express that openly or otherwise.