Chapter Text
People called her the iceberg. The heartless woman. The player. She couldn’t disagree, but they weren’t exactly accurate, they didn’t show the whole Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft Holmes was a practical woman. She didn’t like complex cases and she tried to avoid them.
In her work it wasn’t a good strategy, but in her private life, it saved her more than once, it prevented her from affairs, treasons and humiliation of public scandal and private self – loathing. The older Holmes observed with a pale smile how people paid for their weaknesses, for they need of family and passionate sex. Bastard child of Minister of Finance, Vietnamese prostitute in room that belonged to other Minister, oh and love affair of Vice Minister with some consultant who sold everything to The Sun. People trusted other people and they paid for it. Mycroft didn’t judge. Judgment never brought benefits and for her it was only waste of time. No, Mycroft didn’t judge, she only remembered all of it.
When she was twenty one she became the right hand of British government, every government, and British Queen was inviting her regularly for teas. It was also the first time when Mycroft felt pressure of society. If she wanted to be an official Minister, she should now think about a candidate for a husband. Without a husband it would be difficult, said specialists from public relations. Voters liked to know what was happening in beds of politicians and they liked sweet little children and small animals. First time in her life Mycroft wondered if the game meant for her that much to do all of these things. Examples showed that it was very hard to find someone you could trust. And the thought of children… who will be like her or worse like Sherlock…
Of course there was always illusory concept of true love. To find a person who would not betray you and for whom you would be important with money or without it, with diabetes in progress and without ideal body. She was far too practical to think about it. Love, sooner or later became a daily battle with small unimportant things. She didn’t like being confused by such things. She predicted that her theoretical marriage would last three years. With her work, her travels and mysteries no men would wanted her longer and women were not an option.
And in her twenties Mycroft decided that she would not take part in any campaign, she would not suffer because of betrayal. She saw many destroyed lives. The Queen and few Ministers were slightly confused by her choice, but they didn’t press.
Mycroft created save routine, behind it she hid everything what wasn’t practical. There were not much, but always. Thoughts and cravings were hidden under daily torturous rhythm. Ritual of morning tea and newspapers, checking sugar in her blood before breakfast, choosing the suit, cold shower, makeup. Ritual of free Sunday in dark-blue robe in front of telly, because it helped to fall asleep. And the most important, ritual of breakfast. She liked it long and big. She didn’t hurry and everyone who worked with her knew that and were waiting patiently till she ate her scrambled eggs. After that she could solved hounded things in a minute, but breakfast was the most important. It was a difference between her and Sherlock, and maybe one day she would really have diabetes because of that. It was hard to accept that heritage disease could attack her, but she didn’t want to resign from her ritual which included peaches’ marmalade, sweet tea and awful, full of chemicals cookies from Tesco.
So Mycroft ate her breakfast and went to her office where at 1 p.m. she made a break and went for a lunch with Anthea. They didn’t eat it only if there was a war threat. Anthea knew splendid Greek restaurant where Mycroft ate lamb and aubergines. Rituals helped her functioned without doubts and regrets. She felt bad without them, but she could manage it, like after the attack on World Trade Center. She spent two days negotiating, without returning to her home, without shower and on Anthea’s sandwiches and coffee. She was ill after that. Dizziness, migraines. She slept for four days after that and when she thought about husband and a child she knew she did a right thing.
Now, it wasn’t a political choice, it was a common sense.
Sherlock said how sorry he was that the firstborn of Holmes family didn’t give their mummy legal, official grandchildren. What a shame. Mycroft rarely wanted to hit Sherlock, but that time she really wanted to do that. But she didn’t, she never hurt her brother and she hated herself for it.
It was their dialogue. Her and Sherlock. About feelings, emotions, about being attached to someone, who was weaker then things and more changeable then wind. They spoke from time to time with breaks, but it was always the same conversation. Inconvenient, uncomfortable but needed. World slowed down, sometimes it stopped and Sherlock Holmes changed for a moment from sarcastic genius, who spitted irony to younger brother, who was a little lost, a little vulnerable.
“Have you ever thought that we should be afraid of what we became?”
“Look at them, so small, thoughtless. They cry, feel and live.”
And sometimes, when was some special occasion.
“I don’t know how to… It is something wrong with us, that we can’t?”
She never replied on these mostly rhetorical Sherlocks’ questions. Because, Sherlock with his undiagnosed Asperger and isolation and devoting himself to one thing without barriers couldn’t understand all feelings. Of course he had emotions, but without understanding, without empathy. The younger Holmes didn’t chose it, nature made him an ideal politician, but bad luck, he never wanted to be one. He run away from his sister and her society. He preferred to play with his deductions and being detective. Ideal politician, without doubts, without feelings. After ten years of trying she gave up the idea of introduced Sherlock to government. What a shame, because things that were natural for Sherlock, Mycroft had to gain, work on them every single day.
Sometimes, she wanted to be like Sherlock. She wouldn’t have to fight with her emotions. Sherlock didn’t respect social norms, he understood them, but didn’t care. He was concentrated on his own purposes. Mycroft understood and respected social norms, but concentration on her own purposes needed constant attention. Not right sibling was gifted with useful syndrome by god.
Mummy, of course had her own opinion.
“Take care of him, Mycroft. He is thirty and still he lives in such awful places.” She told during one of Sundays’ dinners. “He is so withdrawn. I don’t know how to talk with him.”
Mummy couldn’t talk with Sherlock since he was five and with stolen equipment from their father cabinet vivisected a cat. There was huge affair, their cook whose cat belonged to was paid and she resigned from her position. After few days Sherlock told Mycroft that cat was dead before he cut it. The youngest Holmes just didn’t think it was important.
And it was like that. Sherlock didn’t explain his actions, and if he did, it was only to Mycroft, always avoided their busy father and mother who was so into charity that she forgot about her own children.
“I want to die knowing that you are happy, that you are married, have homes.” Mummy told and feed her dachshund. “You have to look after each other. I am not eternal and one day you will be alone.”
Mycroft nodded and promised whatever mummy wanted. She knew that the elder women, when Mycroft went home, would do something connected with charity, this time probably saving dogs. She cared of her children very rarely and that was good, because her caring was inquiring about grandchildren and marriages.
“Mummy whish me to look after you, dear brother.”
“You observe me without her wishes, Mycroft. Observing isn’t looking after, it is spying.”
Daily, they were arguing, using arguments meant to hurt. Mycroft remained Sherlock about his constant problems with money, living in slums and his addiction to adrenaline and worse things. Sherlock said that she was lazy and stupid to play with government and of course he pointed her love for sweets.
Interesting was a fact, that Mycroft always said that Sherlock didn’t have real friends and Sherlock never said that she didn’t have them too. Pot, kettle. Mycroft didn’t pry, she knew it was act of politeness from her brother. Sherlock as a self-declared sociopath couldn’t be framed, but he really was closer to Asperger then being sociopathic. Sherlock didn’t feel the lack of friends, Mycroft could, but didn’t want to. Sherlock didn’t chose so he was in better position, but he never used this against Mycroft.
Because of that Mycroft never remained him about rescuing him from police and sending to expensive, luxury, rehab center.
They never talk about it. Twice in his life Sherlock OD. Twice in her life Mycroft saved him, she always claimed she did it for mummy. But the truth was, she did it for herself, because if Sherlock died, she would be completely alone.
It was Mycroft weakness. Caring for her junkie, little brother. They didn’t talk about at all.
////
She met Lestrade for the first time after Sherlock’s dangerous chase after serial killer. Mycroft thought that her younger brother choose well.
Detective Inspector Greg (he insisted) Lestrade was a right man in a right place. Confident, consequent, he knew what he was doing. He was always few steps further than others in police. And because of that he stayed in the Yard after hours and because of that his wife found herself a lover after ten years of marriage. Stupid woman, but on the other hand, people rarely was intelligent when it came to their relationships.
Greg could play that everything was all right. Mycroft liked this feature in people. Lestrade from the beginning quarrelled with Sherlock, but he also saw in him some kind of potential and he was intelligent enough to use it. From the beginning it looked like a bargain. Sherlock got his adrenaline and mysteries to solve. Lestrade got another solved case. Sherlock could have police files and play in morgue. Lestrade had higher statistics. Mycroft observed, didn’t take part in their play. But one day it changed. Sherlock started drugs again. With some depressive dark humour he decided to check if he was able to solve a case during his high.
Lestrade caught Sherlock, before he went to the morgue. He caught Sherlock and took him to Molly’s office and gave him a speech about drugs, that even Mycroft was impressed. She recorded everything, material showed that always arrogant Sherlock didn’t look at Lestrade, he tried to be smaller than he was under inspector’s words. Something about access to morgue, Yard archives and crime scenes. The microphone in Molly’s office wasn’t very good, she had to have it better.
Sherlock started his usual ironic speech about blind police officers, who didn’t even know how many times there were betrayed. Lestrade punched him. Younger Holmes was confused, Molly screamed and run for icepack and Mycroft decided that she liked detective inspector Greg Lestrade and that she had to meet him in person.
Sherlock was angry and didn’t show up in Yard for a whole month. He hid in a house of befriended pensioner, whom he rescued from her husband, younger Holmes was thinking and detoxing. No drugs, no cigarettes, only nicotine patches. Lestrade punched not only him but also his ambition. Well, well. It was the first time when Mycroft went to meet inspector and talked with him about her younger brother.
She knew that Lestrade wouldn’t be impressed by her. In his not typical for a police officer career Lestrade had met enough grey eminences and it taught him to not show what he thought. Good.
“Good Morning detective inspector Lestrade. I am here to talk with you about something important. About my brother and his potential cooperation with you.”
Greg stared at Mycroft with calculating eyes of someone who saw many dead bodies and knew that he would see more of them.
“Sherlock, yes. How can I help you?”
“I want you to give my genius and also unbearable brother a chance.”
She could intimidate him or bribe him with money or privileges. She could but something tell her he was different. She was a man of brain not heart and she hated listening her instincts, but it was also above average so she decided to listen it this one time.
Greg looked at her with attentive eyes. Tired, grey-faced, workaholic, his tie didn’t match to his shirt which had small spot from morning coffee on his cuff. He wasn’t at home for 48 hours, didn’t eat anything besides sweet rolls from cafeteria and caffeine candies. And only his eyes were extraordinary, brown, warm. Somehow they made him alive and trustworthy. Mycroft did her homework. Greg Lestrade was hard working, citizen, middle class, he was married in time had small house on credit, which he would pay for next thirty years. He was so normal, dull average.
He was really good in his role.
Greg coughed and Mycroft focused on him.
“I will work with Sherlock as a my consultant with pleasure.” He announced with certainty and he smiled. His teeth were surprisingly white and his wrinkles were surpassingly nice. Mycroft hesitantly liked him. Dangerous, dangerous.
“I heard in your voice, mister Lestrade , an unspoken condition. So what do you want?”
Greg flashed her a grin and sat more comfortably.
“My condition is Sherlock comes to my crime scenes clean and sober. No drugs, he has to be conscious. I am not gonna drag him through whole city, listening his shitty rumble about the material of my coat. Your brother, miss Holmes, has a brilliant mind. I want his help, but I will not tolerate junkies.”
“Sherlock is not a junkie.”
“Not yet.” He cut in. “I saw this many times. Fascination, loneliness. The middle of the story can be different, but the end is always the same.”
Greg was right, Mycroft smiled.
“Detective inspector, you are a very observant man.
“Greg.” He said and gave his hand. “We both clean after Sherlock and it is not the best job on this planet. I think we can stop formalities.”
Mycroft for a long moment just stared at Lestrade. He was interesting. On the other hand Sherlock wouldn’t work with someone completely ordinary, so maybe…
Mycroft took his hand. Strong, sure handshake, his hand was dry and warm with calluses.
“Mycroft.” She muttered happily observed that Lestrade was still looking at her.
“I will make sure Sherlock won’t end like in those stories, Greg.”
“I hope so. To be honest, we need his help, but his… eccentric behaviour brought too many unkind attention. And I am only detective inspector.”
“Do you want to be more?” Mycroft was curious, she made him saw possibility that she could make him someone more. It would take her three maybe four hours.
Greg rolled his eyes and hid his hands in pockets of his trousers. He wrinkled his nose in a funny way.
“Oh god, no. I would have drown in paperwork. I didn’t do all those things for years to do paperwork.”
He took her proposition as a joke. Maybe it was better. Mycroft coughed and played with her umbrella.
“I will talk with Sherlock. It won’t be easy, but manageable. Your team of course will receive a rise for new equipment and other things.”
Greg clenched his hands into fists. His mouth was thin pale line.
“We don’t want anything.”
“Oh.” Mycroft said not trying to hide disappointment. “Why didn’t you want my help? You are helping me by taking care of my genius brother and give him a chance to entertain him with something different than drugs. Please let me do something in return.”
“I don’t want any debts.” Greg said politely, but his eyes were serious. “When your brother is bored, he sits in morgue and he helps Molly Hooper with victims of car accidents. He is guessing car brands after them. The only thing you should do is to talk to him, Mycroft. Nothing more, nothing less.”
It was something funny in the conversation with small, grey policeman who talked with her like with someone equal. She could just destroyed him at least on four ways, physically and economically, yet he wasn’t scared at all. He was looking into future.
There was something nice in that. Lestrade didn’t retreat, didn’t hide his intentions. He was open, trusted into stupid system, that should prevented him, because he was clean. People like Lestrade were extremely rare. It was easier to bribe few people to have things you needed than looked for one good human being who would help you, because he trusted you.
Lestrade wasn’t hypocrite or idiotic moralist. He just didn’t see everything.
Mycroft liked him and she wanted to show it. Step by step. Greg would win with her frontal attack, but he would probably be caught into some kind of trap. Good, Mycroft was never good in frontal attack, she let Sherlock act like that, she preferred intrigues and traps.
“Sooner or later, you will agree to my proposition, Greg. I will wait.”
“That what I am scared of.” He gave her tired smile. He looked like he drank too much coffee. “Younger Holmes and older Holmes. You are surpassingly similar.”
“Oh, certainly I am nicer and my manners are better than his.” She acted like very offended person, Greg rolled his eyes one more time.
“And very modest in addition.”
Mycroft wasn’t sure for a second, but intuition told her to not let Greg Lestrade so soon. She needed to be sure about their bargain. Probability that Sherlock would work as a consultant was very big. Genius or not, her brother needed someone on his side in the Yard.
“Can I invite you for a dinner, Greg?” She asked tried to sound friendly, but it probably didn’t work, because Greg face wasn’t amused anymore, it became rather cool and suspicious.
“I am busy.”
She knew when someone was telling fuck off in nice way. With a smile, she stood up and said something ironic about Greg’s office.
“Don’t worry, I will take care of Sherlock.”
Mycroft tried not to smile.
“Thank you, see you soon detective inspector.”
She was satisfied with the meeting. So she gave herself a free evening. She was sitting in Diogenes and stared at sun set. She felt peace and she was sure that soon something bad would happen, something that would make her world spin in a way it never did.
But tonight nothing happened.
//////
Sherlock was avoiding Yard for few weeks more. Greg didn’t do anything about it nor Mycroft. They observed and waited. From time to time they texted each other. Lestrade was very calm when he understood that Mycroft could observe everything by CCTV and that she had every telephone number.
The first text Greg sent to Mycroft was during her meeting in Foreign Office. Minister wasn’t very happy when her mobile vibrated, but he couldn’t say anything, Mycroft was a person who had to have her mobile constantly switched on. Metter of a state. She and Anthea were always online.
She apologized and proposed another chocolate cookie to Minister while she was reading the text.
“Hello, Sherlock is in hospital. Everything under control. GregLestrade”
For a moment she just looked at the text. She had to look strange, because Minister asked if it was good time for their meeting.
“No, everything is all right.” She smiled. “Tea?”
Why Lestrade wrote a text when everything was under control? First why he had this number, second what happened to Sherlock if Lestrade was taking care of him in hospital?
“Who gave you my number? MH”
“Sherlock, he asked for some things, he has only his coat. St Barts, second floor, building C.”
Fast, good. Minister ate his third cookie. Sherlock would bite his hand off than just ask her for help. Lestrade wrote, Lestrade sent the message. That meant Sherlock was unconscious., but he gave him her number.
Sherlock interrupted some smugglers and he was running away straight into November Thames. Hypothermia, mild concussion, broken wrist. Greg saved Sherlock from drowning. It was like he just helping all those strange , slightly crazy people he met.
“Thank you, inspector Lestrade. MH”
She came to hospital with a bag with Sherlocks’ clothes. Minister was happy after their conversation. Few telephones and emails from Anthea later she knew everything about Thames incident. And she had to pay for it, Greg deserved some reward.
Sherlock was lying in hospital bed and he looked like a kid. Lestrade sat on plastic chair next to him in ugly t-shirt and some trousers from some nurse. So his wife didn’t come. Mycroft had guessed that and had clothes also for him.
“You don’t have to thank me, I would do that for anyone.” Lestrade said, his face was strangely pale. “Sherlock or not, no one deserves to be drown in Thames.”
Strange silence. Mycroft stood and stared at Greg. No one deserved to wait for someone who wouldn’t come. No one deserved to can’t call his wife and tell her he was in hospital and needed some things. Mycroft wanted to put her hand on his shoulder and it was a surprise for her. She didn’t remember the need of touching someone, visits in exclusive brothels didn’t count. She destroyed this need.
“Don’t wait for your wife, Greg.” She said quietly, then she put down bag for Sherlock and she took out the smaller bag for Lestrade. She gave it to him.
“If someone didn’t come during an hour, it means she doesn’t come at all.”
Greg shrugged and looked through the window. It was raining.
“I know, I know, thanks, I will give it to you when I have a chance.”
He was humiliate. Mycroft thought that clothes would be send by post and their unofficial contacts would be broken soon.
“You saved my brother, you don’t have to thank me. If you are ready, my limousine is to your disposition. I will take you wherever you want.”
It was funny, how easy it would be to take Greg to her empty mansion. She could finally use a fireplace and they could drink something, wine, beer..
“My car is on the bridge…” Greg said.
“I know. My people took it to your house.”
Greg didn’t protest. When Mycroft talked with doctors Lestrade went to the bathroom and changed his clothes. Ten minutes later they went to her limousine. When they sat she decided it was a time for a conversation. She wanted to spend this evening in different way than usually, but Greg would not come with her without conversation.
“You saved him, but don’t think he will come to you and say thank you.” She announced, Greg smiled grimly.
“I know, he is good at being angry at people.”
“Wait, he will understand, he needs cooperation with you.” She told him. His smile became more natural. He breathed deeper.
“I hope so. Sherlock is crazy, but he is my crazy. He works for me, even if he never said it.”
“I am sorry for your wife.”
Gregs’ brown eyes became hard. Mycroft observed this change with fascination. Maybe she shouldn’t look at him, maybe it would be more politely. But no, Greg clenched his jaws, and said in low voice. Honestly. Honesty of Greg was marvelous to look at and scary to feel. And she felt addicted to this.
“My wife has betrayed me for four years. I am used to it.”
“Why you didn’t divorce?”
Greg was silent. Mycroft felt uncomfortably and stared through the window. She shouldn’t ask. She knew why his marriage was still a thing like many others. People just liked when there was someone who waited for them at home. And that someone could have affairs, ignore them from time to time and forget about important things, but she came back. And as long as she came back, it meant she loved and the marriage was a thing.
Mycroft never could understand this kind of thinking, she never had been with someone longer than two weeks.
“I invite you for a drink… in my place.” It was surpassingly hard to ask such an easy question. Greg sighted funny and looked at Mycroft, honest, tired eyes.
“I won’t be a good companion tonight.”
“I am never a good companion, so it makes us two.” She said. Greg laughed. Nice, she wanted to hear it more often.
Greg didn’t protest when she told the chauffer to go to her mansion. In wool dark coat and in suit worth more than all his credits Lestrade looked really good. Mycroft thought that she should start replaced his wardrobe. And then other things, like this ugly, middle class house with small garden.
It was a nice evening. Behind big windows rain was still pouring. Blue – violet London was shining with lamps . Her mansion was silent and dry.
They took of their coats and went to the living room. Mycroft tried to start fire, but she couldn’t so Greg did that.
She looked at Greg’s movement, sure and fluid. After few minutes she realized she was still looking at him. So she just went for a whiskey and to the kitchen for something to eat. She discovered that there were only tuna, tomatoes and her Tesco’s cookies.
“You rarely have guests.” Greg said with a smile while he was observing her with amusement.
“Well, I don’t have time for pleasures like that.”
Greg laughed and helped her with plates.
“You don’t like guests so you don’t invite them. Dust on your fireplace betrayed you, madame Holmes.”
“You are right detective inspector, excellent deduction.”
“But you invited me.” He said, Mycroft sighed and showed to him plate with Tesco’s cookies.
“I thought, we both need some companion tonight.”
“You thought good, but I thought that your house will be full of people, you now servants and bodyguards.”
Greg shrugged. They went back to the living room. Mycroft ate a cookie.
“House full of people it is not a house. I have a maid, she is here once in two days. I cook, so it saves my time and is more safe.”
“Did someone try to poison you?” Greg ask like he thought she was joking. Mycroft smiled and ate one more cookie.
“Not once.”
They laughed together and their voices were strange in that empty, dark mansion Mycroft called home.
The idea of inviting Greg was one of the best of her ideas just after her agreement that Czech Republic and Lithuania could be a part of European Union. So they drank whisky, ate cookies and talked. About nothing and everything. Greg said that he was stupid, because he didn’t want the divorce even if he was tired of all of it. Mycroft confessed that she hated coming back to the mansion, because it didn’t look like a home and she didn’t know what home was at all. Holmes residence was like that too, rich and empty. But they had whisky and cookies.
She didn’t think that this awful day would end that nice. She wanted it last longer, she wanted Greg just stayed where he was. She could arrange free time for him and just do whatever middle class did in their free time. Mycroft never did anything like that. She wasn’t impulsive. Probably too much whisky and chocolate cookies.
Around three a.m despite the invitation to spend a night in a guest bedroom Greg was driven to his home. Tipsy and happily telling her that they had to do this one more time. Mycroft didn’t agree but she also didn’t say no. It was better to hide your needs, especially when they were crazy and so uncharacteristic for her.
///////////////
It was raining for three days. Mycroft was surpassingly happy and she managed every possible and impossible things for British government. But December was coming. Christmas were coming. She hated Christmas.
Sherlock was released from the hospital week after his accident. He was sore and unhappy. Mycroft didn’t want to see him and she didn’t have time for it. Too many things before Christmas depression. She was lucky that Mrs Hudson took care of her thirty year old, adopted, nearly 6,5 feet tall child and she was feeding him. How she made Sherlock eat? No one knew, but whatever she did, Mycroft was impressed. She promised herself to uninstall few cameras from Mrs Hudson flat.
Days were full of lonely breakfasts, diplomats, negotiations and lunches with Anthea. In the evenings she made fire and mansion was more bearable.
/////////////
Mycroft was afraid Greg would think she was strange if she started sending him messages. Not every day. Just from time to time. She didn’t wanted to scare her potential helper and she didn’t want him thinking about her as a controlling maniac, even if she really was someone like that. Sherlock always emphasized this.
“Live for yourself Mycroft, don’t bother society.”
“Pot kettle, dear brother, Mrs Hudson called, it is time to pay your own bills.”
Sherlock made a face and played something dramatic on his violin. Mycroft smiled.
But Greg wasn’t Sherlock and he didn’t mind texts. So they texted regularly. At the beginning about Sherlock of course, then weather, probably they would evolve to another topic.
Maybe from weather they would go to politic.
“Sherlock have been sitting in Baker Street for four days. MH.”
“Maybe he died from boredom? GL”
“I don’t think so, he likes shows too much to die in silence. MH”
She still didn’t understand why this grey, ordinary man was in her daily schedule. His texts weren’t very funny or interesting but it was good to read them. Without money or promises Greg Lestrade involved Mycroft in his life. Firstly she didn’t believe in his good intentions, but she gave up. Nothing wrong would happen if she allowed herself for some normality, from time to time.
So it was normal to text with barely known policeman who should get a divorce and who spent nearly all his days in work. Mycroft never were good at normality, she found it dull and depressive.
She didn’t have friends. When she was a child she couldn’t communicate with other children, because they were too stupid. She ended Oxford when she was 21 with the best grades possible. She didn’t have time for parties and other things students did. All friendships ended, all relationships ended, sooner or later everyone was abandoned by people who were trusted. Better when you were needed then liked, when you were needed it was harder to abandon you.
Mycroft allowed herself to exchange those texts with Greg. They had practical purpose, she would know the person who would monitor Sherlock. But there was something different, shameful. Mycroft didn’t like to think about it.
“You were right, I should do something about my marriage. GL”
Maybe Greg was in the same situation as her and he didn’t have anyone to talk to.
She didn’t reply on this text. He probably understood she didn’t want to know about his private life. After that he stopped sending private texts, they came back to Sherlock. And she caught herself on the thought that she didn’t mind texts about his life, she was missing them. But it was too late.
She wanted to ask why, but she knew he would stop communicating at all. She didn’t want that. It felt good to read about weather in London. It felt like he just liked her enough to send meaningless texts.
Sherlock of course had to be stupid when it came to work with Lestrade, but Greg just started talking to him and sending him texts about interesting cases.
“Just show him what he misses. And he will come to you. MH”
“He came to the crime scene when he heard about one more mystery death. He thought that it is a serial killer. GL”
“Probably it is. MH”
Sherlock tried to be nicer toward Greg but not toward Donovan or Anderson. Yarders really liked the show when Sherlock with one sentence could change Anderson in angry red faced cloud. Greg tried to intervene. Mycroft was really happy to have Lestrade. Sherlock didn’t do drugs, he didn’t even smoke, but he was missing something in his life and it made him even less bearable for people.
“And he was such a beautiful boy, I had never thought that he will have so many problems with finding a wife…” Mummy nodded, during one of Sundays’ dinners, on which Sherlock of course didn’t come. “I am worry about him.”
Mycroft smiled. Mummy was sad for few seconds. Her sadness was always the same. Mycroft was the one who was really worried, she was the one who rescued Sherlock from psychosis, dark humours, she helped him. And it was worse. Winter was coming and Sherlock thirty second birthday. And Mycroft was sure that taking care of Sherlock would be her eternal task.
Sherlock thought the same, so he wreaked havoc. Mrs Hudson could stand him, but when he was out of money she gave him ultimatum. After conversation with Mycroft of course. And it was how Sherlock found his doctor Watson.
When she saw them, she knew that John would be Sherlock’s sooner or later. It was only matter of time.
///////////////////////
To know doctor Watson, Mycroft for three days didn’t do anything with Eastern Europe. She couldn’t let anyone used Sherlock. His genius didn’t matter in this case, because with some things he was as naïve as a child. So Mycroft made sure no one tried to used him. She was lucky he didn’t have sexual relationships. She didn’t know if he didn’t do this, because he didn’t know how to be in relationship or because he was practical like Mycroft.
Mycroft made research about John Watson. She arranged a meeting. She showed her power, the power of information. And according to her deduction doctor Watson caught the bait, he had to be really bored without action, because he didn’t think much when he went to the black car knowing that he was observed.
John Watson went into the game with bravery, hands that didn’t shake and he was ready to fight. He was interested in, intrigued, by the idea of London as a battlefield. Even if he was in negation and wanted to have normal home and wife without blowing up experiments, crazy flatmate, violin and grey eminence of British government, who was always observing.
“You are not scared.” Mycroft said, John just replied.
“You are not scary.”
It was nearly funny. Sherlock should never let his Watson go, because he was interesting. Enough interesting and crazy to live with Sherlock and maybe make his life happier.
And he was loyal, even if he met Sherlock few days ago he didn’t want money. She tried this with many people, Sherlock always guessed and people resigned from their roles. Because her brother if he wanted could be unbearable and any money couldn’t change that.
Mycroft learnt fast and she realized that she had to have different relation with people around Sherlock. Not economical, but still she had to know what was going on. Like with Greg, or Mrs Hudson, who was nice and very grandmother like but she refused any bribes, announced that Sherlock was a cute young man maybe a little crazy, but he didn’t deserve for things like that.
People who surrounded Sherlock, surrounded also Mycroft. And they were really good at hiding elephant under blanket, nearly as good as Mycroft.
“I am not your maid, Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson said, but she was always feeding her boys.
“I am not gay.” John said and went to date some boring woman just to go back when Sherlock texted him.
“Not my division.” Greg said but then he did not his paperwork, because he didn’t want to leave nearly finished case.
“Of course you are so different from us, small people, Mycroft.” Sherlock was ironic. “My diet is good. I know nothing about those chocolate bars I ate last night.”
Sherlock was talented actor and he could talk like Mycroft, without a problem. Anderson looked at them, Donavan stopped writing and Greg stopped eating his sandwich. Mycroft felt she was red on her face. John tugged Sherlock’s sleeve, younger Holmes rolled his eyes, but he said nothing more.
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So Sherlock, John and Mrs Hudson created something like family, very unusual and strange but still family. Good, because Sherlock caused too many problems with her work. Politicians, Ministers and other didn’t make problems, Mycroft made too much things for them, but better not tested their patience.
Mycroft was quite happy, she showed her society that she also had family problems and she needed time to solve them. Usually it looked like she didn’t need holidays. Workaholic, iceberg, player. It wasn’t good to be seen in only one spectrum. A little difference, a little family problems were good. Unpredictable. Queen was more thankful than ever and gave Mycroft keys to her residence in Brighton. Minister of Finance was also grateful, but his present was in bank, there was no much sense to keep gold Buddha sculpture in an empty mansion.
People was funny when it came to family problems. They became more elastic, less professional,. Mycroft used it wisely.
“I am happy I could help.” Sherlock told reading newspaper. “It is always good to help older sister to take over the world.”
Sherlock liked eating breakfasts with John and he even gained some weight. Doctor Watson sat next to Sherlock, ate his toasts and eggs and he didn’t suspect how important he was.
“I am happy to give you gold card brother. Now when you live with normal people I suggest to buy few normal things to wear.”
Sherlock declined present, but John took it, good, because Christmas were coming and mummy wanted to see both of her children in a good shape. John understood. His relation with Mycroft started working better when John finally caught that he needed colours in his dull life. And Sherlock had all colours he needed. And he needed adventures, which maybe wasn’t very comfortable, but if he needed comfort he wouldn’t go to Afghanistan to sweat and kill in a name of American petrol.
So Sherlock was managed she could work and work and work. Anthea said she should take free weekend.
“In all respect, but you will kill yourself. You are never at home, you live on coffee and cookies and you sleep on couch in your office.”
She worked with Anthea for eight years. And if she who never left her blackberry told Mycroft she needed a break that was probably truth.
So she stood up from her desk and looked at big mirror. She was tired, her face unhealthy grey, eyes black rimmed. One moment, she saw something like that before…
“You are of course right, Anthea. Maybe I should rest for few days. I will go to Brighton to Queen’s residence.” She nodded solemnly. “But world will not rest with me. So you will take care of my projects, if something will be happening do not hesitate and phone me immediately.”
“Of course.” Anthea said smiling.
They were using each other names for few years. From a moment when Anthea took mummy who was on some kind of pills out of Holmes manor and drew her to rehab. Mycroft thought that Anthea was a miracle. And always had that small crush on her that you had on your older brothers’ friends that were out of your reach. Not that Mycroft had an older brother or knew that, of course. Anthea had fourteen IDs and twice than that passports. And when she was in charge of Mycrofts’ projects the third world war had to start to make her call the older Holmes.
And Christmas were coming. She stopped sleeping, and her stopping eating was in progress. Depression was coming, was closer and closer.
“Will you pay attention for Sherlock for me? MH”
“Are you trying to bribe me again? GL”
“Holidays, I will be very grateful. MH”
“OK, have fun. GL”
For a moment she thought she should write to Greg that there was no need of writing his name in every text, she had his number in speed dilating, together with mummy, queen, prime minister, Anthea, Sherlock and doctor Watson. He didn’t have to do that, but she did that too. It probably meant something, but she didn’t want to solve it right now.
Crisis was coming and Mycroft needed isolation.
It was always in the same way. She couldn’t eat and then to make something with sugar level she ate too many sweet things. Oh she had problems with sleep. Sometimes Mycroft was tired she fall asleep immediately. She woke up like she came out from black hole with strange feeling that she slept only a minute. But there was also worse nights when she couldn’t sleep at all. Too many thoughts, too many cases. Sherlock said that nervosas were normal for Holmes.
“Buy a cat and pet it. You will relax.” Mummy said. “It obvious that having a pet is calming.”
Mycroft didn’t have time for her cactus in bedroom, so pets were impossible.
Sometimes she didn’t sleep for three days. Small naps on the couch in her office and sea of coffee. Empty spaces of her mansion, never used fireplace and bedroom cold as morgue.
It was week to Christmas, so she went to Brighton to catch her breath. She didn’t need psychologists or specialists from diet. She needed sleep and silence.
She packed some thongs, clothes, few books, laptop and Tesco’s cookies. She gave Anthea instructions about everything and she gave Mycroft ugly Christmas scarf. She only smiled and hid in in her case.
She used her own private car. When she was leaving London small, wet snow was falling, when she was near Brighton it changed to real blizzard.
Mycroft cursed. Everything looked like from cheap horror movie. Lonely traveller, blizzard and she didn’t see anything besides white snow. She stopped the car and get out to clean the front glass. Wind was blowing, freeze bite her cheeks and ears. And she wished she didn’t hide Anthea’s scarf.
Murmuring invectives she tried to clean the car. But snow was still falling, harder and harder and it was darker. Why she stooped in the middle in nowhere, no houses, no shops.
She get to the car, cold and angry. She found blanket, so it was not so bad. She tried to start the engine.
And it didn’t make a sound.
Mycroft should stay in the car, drank tea from thermos and called someone. She should make sure she was warm, calm and logical, but Mycroft was tired of being logical. And she get out from car one more time in funny uncoordinated movement, she didn’t care of her unbuttoned coat and lack of gloves. She started screaming and kicking her car. It was enough for her. It was enough of caring for everyone, of doing everything alone. She didn’t want winter and Christmas and family who was only waiting for her mistakes.
“Shit, fuck, damn it!”
She felt pain after a while. Right knee. From her fight with a car, the machine won. She was lying on the snow breathing deeply. She turned on her back. She felt cold, she shouldn’t stay here, she should go to the car… but somehow she didn’t feel like it.
Her first number in speed dilating was Greg. Mycroft pressed the button and with empty head she listened to the signal
“Yes?” She heard Greg’s voice, tired and raspy.
“It is Mycroft. Can you come for me? I am lying on the ground in snow, something like a mile from Brighton. I twisted knee, my car broke and my scarf is hidden in a case. Don’t tell Sherlock.”
For a long moment the line was silent. Mycroft stared at violet – grey sky above her and thought that Greg would hung up. Damn it, she would hang up if some cretin called her like that.
“Your car is broken, Mycroft?” Greg asked slowly.
“My knee is broken. Right knee.” She gave him an enigmatic reply and she felt an urge to laugh. Snowflakes landed on her smiling lips.
“All right, go to the car, do not turn of you mobile. I will be there soon.” Greg said and hung up.
Mycroft was still smiling when she sat on the ground. It was cold. So she tried to get up. Knee was one big painful piece of meat.
She sat in the car and screamed from pain when she had to bend her knee. For a moment world was spinning. She had to breathe, Greg would be here soon. Greg wouldn’t leave her, to whom he would send all of these texts about weather if she died here?
The car was still broken, but she couldn’t check what was wrong, but Greg would help. Maybe someone was taking care of Mycroft existence. Someone who was not Mycroft.