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Sitting in the back of the sofa, with pillows propped up all around to act as a protective barrier, a small boy with auburn hair held his breath as a tiny baby wrapped in swaddling clothes was handed to him. His legs, which had been bouncing in anticipation along the top of the sofa, his feet barely hanging over the edge, stilled as the small bundle was laid carefully down.
“Mind his head, dear,” his mother said with a smile on her face.
The small boy cradled the tiny head of the baby in the crook of his arm as his mother showed him. His small face was serious as he felt the responsibility of caring for this little human in his arms. He brought up his free hand and gentle touched the tip of the tiny nose, traced a thin eyebrow, smoothed down a bit of the downright shocking amount of dark hair on the small head.
The baby’s eyes were closed in sleep while his little mouth puckered and suckled at the air. The boy smiled as he moved his fingers down to trace the baby’s small cheek. The gentle touch stirred the baby, and the tiny body arched and mewed quietly before settling back into sleep.
“What’s his name?” He looked up and asked his parents, who were standing guard around him in case the baby moved unexpectedly or the boy grew tired of holding him.
“William,” his father said.
The boy scrunched his nose in disapproval. “William? I don’t like ‘William'.”
“William Sherlock Scott is the whole of it,” his mother supplied.
The boy turned his eyes back to the baby in his arms. “I’ll call him Sherlock.”
“Why ‘Sherlock’ and not ‘Scott’?” His father asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Because he’s special,” the boy replied earnestly, his small finger tracing the baby’s nose again. “He needs a special name.”
“Well, we can’t argue with that. He is special, just like you. We’ll call him ‘Sherlock’ then,” his mother said, the smile evident in her voice.
The boy smiled, a huge grin that felt like it would split his face in two. The baby squirmed in his arms again, and this time, the tiny eyelids opened and revealed bright grey eyes.
“Hello, Sherlock. I’m Mycroft. I’m your big brother. Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of you,” he promised.
The boy’s baby brother grunted softly in his arms and closed his eyes again, settling back into a gentle sleep. Mycroft smiled again, then leaned down and placed a soft kiss on his brother’s forehead.
“I’ll always look after you.”
___
“My-croft”, the boy enunciated, carefully differentiating the syllables, and clicking the final “t” purposefully.
He was sitting on the soft rug that covered the floor of the family’s parlour. Scattered about was the detritus of school lessons and small toys. A small plate of biscuit crumbs sat abandoned on the wooden table beside one of the armchairs that occupied the room.
The toddler he was talking to ignored the older boy. Small, chubby hands were busy stacking blocks atop one another, little brows furrowed in concentration at the intensity of the game. The stack grew to four, then five blocks high, before tumbling down. The child squealed in delight at the mess the blocks made, and returned to his task of stacking them again. Mycroft smiled at his little brother, who was almost a year and a half now. He was walking and climbing everything. Their mother was often running after him to pull him down from the bookshelves he attempted to climb. He often got very high before their mother noticed. Mycroft was always watching after him when he climbed, though. He wouldn’t let him fall.
Sherlock loved playing with blocks, and little cars with wheels that spun around, and the small wooden dolls that were a hand-me-down from their mother. Mycroft would sit and play with him whenever he didn’t have to do his lessons or practice the piano. It was his favorite part of the day.
Sometimes, he would read out his lessons to Sherlock. His little brother would often try to climb into his lap or onto his back like a small monkey whenever he was trying to read to him about the solar system or the importance of government in maintaining a civilized society, but he didn’t mind.
His goal right at the moment though was simple.
“Come on, Sherlock. You can do it. Copy me. ‘My-croft’,” he said again.
Sherlock hadn’t spoken any real words yet. He babbled in the way of small children incessentanly. That string of consonants and vowels that didn’t make any sense except to the toddler that was speaking.
The tower of blocks made it to six high before toppling this time, and Sherlock’s small mouth pursed out in a pout. Sensing a potential toddler strop, Mycroft quickly held out a small red car. Sherlock could throw an epic tantrum for such a small thing, and Mycroft really didn’t like it when his brother was sad or hurting.
“Here, Sherlock. How about the car instead? Would you like to race?”
He smiled as his brother reached for the car and starting pushing it on the ground between them. The thick pile of the rug was too dense for the car to move properly, but the child didn’t seem to mind.
“Vroom, vroom,” Mycroft mimicked the sound of a car as he pushed a blue one around with his brother. Sherlock giggled and crashed his car into Mycroft’s repeatedly.
“Sherlock, did you know that our solar system is based on the heliocentric model? It means the planet Earth revolves around the sun. It was first proposed as early as the 3rd century BC by Aristarchus of Samos, but it wasn’t until the 16th and 17th centuries that it was really studied.”
The small boy looked up at his brother, a big grin splitting his face, all seven of the tiny white baby teeth that had come in clearly visible. He climbed to his feet and toddled to his brother. Once he was in front of him, small hands grabbed his face and Sherlock pushed his cheeks together until his lips puckered up.
“My-croft,” the older boy said, his voice coming out funny as he forced the word out of his smooshed mouth.
Sherlock stared at him intently, bright eyes, blue and gray today, focused on his mouth. Little brows drew together as he pursed his lips, then relaxed his hold so his brother’s cheeks went back to their usual shape. He then pushed them together again, and both boys giggled.
“My-my,” Sherlock suddenly said after the giggles stopped. Mycroft felt his whole face break into a happy smile, and Sherlock’s smile copied his. “My-my, My-my,” he sang-songed, squeezing his brother’s cheeks together and apart with each iteration.
Mycroft didn’t think he’d ever been happier before.
“Close enough, brother mine.”
___
The limb of the tree snapped before either boy could react. Sherlock plummeted towards the earth and hit the ground before he was able to cry out in fear. Instead, he cried out in pain as the sharp crack of his ulna pierced the air. Tears streaked his cheeks, his breath coming in shallow gasps as his small body registered the pain.
Mycroft had seen it all happen in the blink of an eye, and had run forward to try and catch his brother, but had been unsuccessful. He cried out for his parents to come quickly as he ran. He caught up to his brother on the patch of moss that blanketed the earth under the tree.
“It’s ok, Sherlock, it’s ok. Mummy and Father are coming. You’ll be ok,” Mycroft crooned, trying his best to calm his brother through his own flash of distress. He gently pet his brother’s dark curls, tried drying his tears even as they continued to fall. He hated to see his brother in any kind of pain, and this was the first time he had ever seen his brother in this level of physical pain.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock sobbed, his little hand cradling his right arm, “it hurts.”
“I know. It’ll be ok. We’ll take you to hospital and you’ll be right as rain.”
This actually seemed to calm the younger boy a bit, and he sniffled, looking up from his arm that was starting to swell to his brother’s face.
“Do you think I’ll get a cast?”
Mycroft smiled and nodded, then used the sleeve of his shirt to dry more of his brother’s tears that were finally starting to slow down.
“Yes, I should think so. You can pick a color, and I’ll sign it for you.”
“What happened?” came the strangled cry of a question as the boys looked up and saw their mother running down the green lawn toward them.
“Sherlock fell from the tree,” Mycroft answered.
When their mother got to their side, she tutted and patted worriedly, before carefully helping the young boy to his feet, and then she gently lifted him with an arm behind his back and one behind his knee so he could cradle his arm carefully across his chest. Mycroft stood and walked right beside them as they walked back towards the house.
“My poor boy, come now. We’ll get you to hospital. Does it hurt?”
Sherlock sniffled and nodded, holding his arm carefully as his tears dried.
“Mycroft said he’d sign my cast,” he said, and his mother looked down and smiled at him.
“Did he now? That’s sweet of him,” she replied, then turned her head to smile at her oldest who offered her a small smile in return.
“Mycroft, dear, run along up to the house and let your father know what happened. Tell him to go get the car.”
“Yes, Mummy,” he answered, then took off to the house as fast as he could.
“Mummy, Mycroft is the best big brother ever,” Sherlock said through his continued sniffles.
Later, when Sherlock sat in the middle of the large hospital gurney with its starched white linens and the fluorescent bulbs humming overhead, Mycroft signed his brothers blue wrapped cast. Both of their smiles nearly split their faces in two.
___
Sand was flying everywhere in the wake of his running, and both boys giggled at their game. It was summer, Mycroft was home from school, and they were attempting to cram a year apart into a summer of play.
Mycroft was really too old to be playing these types of games, but it was hard for him to deny his brother anything.
“Avast, you scoundrel!” his brother shouted as he turned in front of him, his wooden sword swinging widely in an arc over his head.
The older boy, young man now, skidded to a halt and held up the black umbrella that served as his pretend rapier for their game.
“You’ll never stop me, Captain Yellowbeard,” the young man called out his required line. “You’re no match for me.”
“It’s a good thing I have my trusty first mate, then!” the boy shouted, brandishing his wooden sword again. He stopped, however, when his trusty first mate had yet to make his appearance.
“Redbeard! Here, boy!” he called out. He pursed his lips in an attempt to whistle, but all that came out was a whoosh sound and a bit of spittle. He tried again, with more spittle and less sound being a result, but a small bark answered the call regardless. A moment later a red setter puppy made its appearance from behind one of the dunes dotting the beach, and ran towards the boys.
“Good boy!” the youngest proclaimed proudly, then turned his attention back to his brother, a large lopsided grin on his face. “Did you see that?” he asked excitedly. “He came when I whistled!”
The young smiled indulgently at his brother and nodded his answer.
“Yes, well done. We need to work on your whistle a bit,” he said, but his brother simply rolled his eyes and raised his sword again. The puppy was now busy running between the two brothers, jumping on their legs and barking for attention.
“Surrender!” his brother commanded, and he dropped his umbrella in mock defeat as Redbeard jumped playfully on him again.
“You have beaten me, Captain. Clearly I am no match for you and your first mate,” he said, face and speech solemn.
Sherlock laughed, showing off the missing front tooth that had yet to come in, and ran at his brother. Mycroft dropped his umbrella to the sand in mock defeat as his brother collided into him and they fell to the ground. Redbeard jumped and ran around, barking excitedly as the boys tumbled playfully.
Yes, Mycroft was really getting too old for these games, but as his brother broke into another fit of giggles, he couldn’t help laughing along.
___
Once crimson blood had dried to a rusty colored stain on the white collared shirt where it had splattered. Flakes still clung to the skin beneath the younger boy’s nose. He stood staring at his reflection in the mirror of his bathroom, fingers gently prodding the swollen skin around his left eye that would surely result in a rather spectacular black eye in the next day, and he wasn’t at all surprised when the door to the washroom swung open and his brother walked in. He locked eyes with his brother through the mirror for a moment, trying to decipher his brother’s thoughts, before he turned his attention to the tap and began running water. He wet a flannel, wringing out excess water after turning the water off, and then began to dab the dried blood off of his face.
“Are you alright?” he heard his brother ask.
“I’m fine,” he replied, eyes staying on his own reflection as he cleaned himself up. “I doubt I’ll be able to get the blood stains out of this, though,” he said, indicating his shirt. “Suppose I’ll just have to bin it.”
The older boy didn’t respond to that, his eyes still intent on his brother.
“What happened?” He knew what happened. He had known the second his brother had walked in. In addition to the blood staining his shirt and face there were grass stains and dirt caked into his shirt and trousers. The younger boy had been knocked down, by at least two others. The shape of knuckles where his eye was already beginning to blacken was clear.
The younger boy exhaled audibly as he tossed the flannel down onto the floor by the door of the washroom. His hands went down to grasp the sink as he lowered his head. The older boy looked at the top of the head of curls that reflected back at him from the mirror. He didn’t speak for a long time, and both boys stood quietly, their even breathing the only sound that filled the room. The older boy waited. He knew his brother. Knew that he needed time to process before he would be able to speak, and he gave him that time while keeping his silent vigil.
After several minutes, the younger boy looked up, then turned to face his brother. He gave a small smile before letting his face fall again.
“You already know what happened, brother,” he said, “and why.”
The older boy watched his brother, saw how his eyes were glassy, but that he wouldn’t let any of the tears that threatened to fall actually do so.
“People are idiots,” the older boy said, and the younger boy let out a surprised huff of laughter, then sniffled, rubbing the back of his hand under his nose. Then he grimaced at the pain that erupted from that spot.
He knew it was only a matter of time before the younger man would be targeted by the idiotic bigots of their small village. He would protect his brother if he could, but there was only so much he can do. His brother wasn’t one to shy away from who he was, and often let his mouth run away from him as well. Knowing this didn’t stop the wrenching feeling in his gut or the tightening in his chest.
“Who was it?” he asked. He knew it had to be some of the local boys, probably not much older than Sherlock himself. Maybe eleven or twelve years old, judging by the size of the knuckles that were clearly displayed.
“It doesn’t matter. They’re idiots,” his brother replied with a smirk, and Mycroft returned the smile.
“Indeed. I hope they found themselves in a similar circumstance as you.”
“Obviously. They didn’t expect me to hit back.” He smirked again, and the older boy gave in to the whim to fluff his brother’s hair affectionately. His brother dodged and ducked out of the washroom beneath his arm.
“Good man,” he said, and turned to follow him out of the room.
___
The younger man’s mind was constantly on. Always whirling, always seeing, on and on and on. Even the course load of university was not enough to force his thoughts to still, to focus on anything for more than a few moments at a time.
Then there was a boy. A man. He helped still the thoughts for a moment. His kisses, his body pressed against his, his hands on his arms, his chest, his arse, his cock. He gave him focus. Sweet stillness in constant movement. And then he left. Tossed aside like last night's takeaway. His heart was broken.
The older man came to his brother. Sat at his side on the dingy couch in the flat he kept, and his heart broke for his brother.
“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock,” he said, and he meant it. He knew how caring caused nothing but heartache, and he would do what he could to save his brother from that.
___
The stink was cloying and thick. It made bile rise in the back of Mycroft’s throat, but he swallowed it down and continued his search. He knew his brother had to be somewhere among the filth and petulance of this dilapidated house. Well, calling it a house was being entirely too generous. It was mostly standing and had at least half of a roof, but that was about as far as it went. Mattresses, blankets, trash, and the detritus of materials needed for the activities that went on here littered all available space of the floor. Scratches of thin nails, either mice or rats, could be heard racing across the floorboards and through the walls. There was even a cat lying on a blanket that currently held the unconscious form of a passed out male. The feline was fat, and clearly hadn’t even made a dent in the available vermin.
Mycroft raised a handkerchief to his mouth in an attempt to mask some of the smells assaulting his oratory sense, and his head turned suddenly at the sound of a deep groan from a figure lying atop one of the mattresses. He carefully picked his way over, stepping over a young woman’s legs as she sat propped against the wall, her eyes far off and unfocused as he walked past.
Another groan rent the stale air as Mycroft approached the mattress and the prone body, and he watched as the young man turned onto his side and clutched his stomach. A ratty red jumper covered the man’s upper body, the sleeves pushed up past the elbow of his left arm, clearly revealing the bruised track marks from multiple needles. His eyes were closed, clenched tightly in pain, and his dark curls were drenched with sweat and sticking to his forehead and temples. It had clearly been some time since his last hit, and his body was rebelling against him. Mycroft felt himself sinking down onto the soiled mattress, sitting down beside the head of the younger man. One of his hands lifted to caress sweaty curls off of the other man’s face.
There was another groan at his touch.
“Fuck off, Mycroft.”
“How long since your list hit?”
It was obvious it had been some time. The younger man was in the beginning stages of withdrawal at the minimum. He wasn’t sure if this weaning off was intentional, or the result of a lack of funds.
“I said ‘fuck off’,” the man groaned again, turning his face into the mattress as his arms tightened around his middle.
“Where’s the list?” the older man asked, resignation and a touch of fear in his voice. They had made a promise to one another since the last time. Since the time he had found him, unresponsive, nearly dead. He had been terrified that he was too late. He didn’t know what his brother had taken. If the ambulance had been even minutes later he would have died and there would have been nothing he could have done to stop it.
His brother said nothing, but after several long moments he reached into the pocket of the denims he was wearing and pulled out a scrap of cardboard that appeared to have been torn off of a pack of cigarettes. Written down in a shaky hand was the evidence of his brother’s current drug of choice, the time he had taken it, and the percentage. Judging by the time, he was indeed in the first stages of withdrawal.
The older man closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly and steadily. There was nothing he could say to his brother. He had been walking down this road for nearly two years now. Every time Mycroft thought they might have been reached the end of it, that Sherlock had reached the bottom and would now be able to crawl his way back up, he had been wrong. It appeared his brother was capable of digging himself a deeper hole, with further and further to fall, and Mycroft was beginning to fear that he would never be able to help his brother out of it. That he would lose him to it.
“Go away,” came the baritone command from the mattress. At least, it would have been a command if it wasn’t laced with physical pain.
“I’m not going anywhere,” the older man said. He sat more fully on the mattress, leaning back against the wall, his hand coming to rest on his brother’s head a moment before he brought it back to his lap. His brother wasn’t in danger of dying at the moment, so he would sit and wait with him. And then, after, he would do what he had to do to help his brother get clean. Whatever it was.
The younger man said nothing as he felt his brother stretch out beside him. His body was aching, his muscles and nerves aflame and in desperate need of another hit, just one more needleful of the blissful oblivion promised by a seven percent solution of cocaine, one more. Just one. One would be enough to get him through. He screwed his eyes closed, his brain turning frantic as his body rebelled against him. He felt his brother’s hand on his head, but did nothing. Said nothing. There was nothing to say.
___
Shattered ice eyes stared into the blue of his older brother and for the first time in his life he truly hated. He hated his brother more than he thought it was possible to hate another soul. In truth, he hated himself. But his brother was there, had put him here, and he would gladly force his hate on to him instead.
Mycroft could read it all in his brother’s eyes as if he was reading a book. He had waited until his younger brother was well enough to stand, to walk out of that house on his own power, and then practically forced him into a waiting black car and had them driven to a rehab facility over 3 hours outside of the city. Sherlock wasn’t given a choice. He was told he was going, and he was in no physical condition to fight his brother off.
The older man saw his brother’s suffering and saw the hate so clearly in his eyes. If this was the price that had to be paid to get him clean, to save his life, then he would gladly pay it. He would bear his brother’s hate in exchange for his brother’s life. It was a fair price as far as he was concerned. If hating him gave his brother a reason to be clean and to live the extraordinary life that was possible for him, so be it.
He rapped his umbrella smartly against the marble floor, the sound carrying sharply through the room.
“It’s a six month program, Sherlock. I’ll be back to visit next month.”
The younger man simply stared at him. No response. No sarcastic retort. Just stared at him with those eyes so full of hate that the older man felt something in him twist and die painfully.
The older man finally looked down, breaking away from the intensity of his brother’s gaze. He would do what must be done. This had gone on for long enough.
___
His brother hated him. He knew that, and he accepted it, but he would continue to do anything that he could to watch over him. If that meant using government funds and CCTV to spy on his brother, then so be it. It worked, and he felt no remorse over it. It gave him a way to keep an eye on him without having to confront him. Not that he would mind confronting his brother, and he often did, but this was easier for them. His brother knew he was spying on him, of course. He was far too intelligent, too aware of the world around him, to not know.
It was through the CCTV that he discovered his brother kept winding up at crime scenes. It was no trouble at all to discover the name of the DI that his brother kept seeming to make his way to and approach him.
One innocent, he was loathe to call it “kidnapping”, but it was what it was, and he was able to meet the DI, a Gregory Lestrade, and learn just what the status of the relationship the two seemed to have.
The DI had struck a deal with his brother after Sherlock had stumbled onto a crime scene high as a kite one day and solved it within five minutes. Stay clean, and he would let him help solve crimes. Mycroft went a step further. If his brother stayed clean, he would make it so he could get actual access to the crime scenes. Nothing official, of course, but the MET would look the other way as a civilian worked alongside them.
Mycroft was pleased with this arrangement, and it seemed to be a good motivator for his brother and keeping him off the streets. It was also beneficial to have another person who seemed to actually care about his brother in his vicinity. He didn’t spy on him or report to him, but they were both intent on keeping Sherlock clean and busy, and Mycroft felt something similar to gratitude for the presence of Gregory Lestrade in his and his brother’s lives.
___
“You’re his brother. When you said you worry about him, you really meant it.”
John Watson was an intriguing man. To just look at him wouldn’t inspire any kind of strong feelings or opinions, and yet he deserved a second look. A second look revealed layers of nuance and character that was often hard to find. More importantly, his brother had discovered something in him and the two men seemed magnetically drawn to each other.
“Yes, of course,” he answered, leaning casually on his umbrella, despite the fact that he was decidedly not relaxed. He was nervous, and he hated that feeling. But he needed this to work.
“I need your help, John. My brother rushes headfirst into every situation regardless of care for his personal safety. He is reckless and childish and impossible.”
“What exactly do you expect me to do?” the doctor asked, and he feels a bubble of hope in his chest. He isn’t outright dismissing him.
“I need you to watch him. Keep him safe. I need an ally.”
“I’m not spying on him for you,” John replied, a touch of anger in his voice.
“Of course not,” he answered, and he doesn’t expect that. He already knows that an offer of money would be an insult, and so he doesn’t offer anything.
The two men stare at each other for several moments. Eventually the smaller man gives a small nod.
“I’ll watch his back. But it’s not for you.”
Mycroft nods, not trusting his voice. It was more than he hoped for. He felt a weight lifted off his shoulders. To not be alone in the care of Sherlock Holmes was a heady thing. His face and posture, of course, betrayed none of this.
“Goodbye, John,” he said, using his most dismissive tone as he turned to walk away, giving his umbrella a gaunty twirl.
___
“How is he?” the younger man asked, and his brother decided to ignore the way his voice broke on the question. The way his fingers tightened their hold on each other in his lap.
“He’s...getting by,” the older man replied, his eyes carefully watching and his voice even.
His brother nodded slowly, and he hated seeing him in this emotional pain. He wanted to shout at him, remind him again, “caring is not an advantage, look where it has led you!”, but he would not. It was far too late for those reminders. His brother had always cared, cared deeply, and cared for John above all others. No words would change that now.
It had been over eight months since the brothers had been together face to face. There had been contact through encrypted emails at internet cafes, burner phones, and the occasional agent, but nothing where they actually saw each other.
He took in his brother’s appearance. His hair was longer, his face thinner, and his eyes held a haunted look in them. The clothes he wore were sagging off of him, a clear indicator of the weight he had been losing. His brother wasn’t one to make eating a priority in the best of times, and these were certainly nowhere near that. He made a note to himself to make sure his brother ate before getting on the plane scheduled to take him to his next location.
“Gregory Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are doing well,” he offered, and his brother gave a small nod without looking up. They both knew who Sherlock was truly concerned about.
He hesitated. It was an unusual feeling for the older Holmes to not be completely confident in his actions, but his brother was the one who could always cause him to pause. He wasn’t sure if what he was about to do would actually help, or if it would only make things worse. Of course, nothing showed on his face as he debated against himself.
It was the appearance of his brother’s bitten nails that finally swayed him. It was an old anxious habit, one that his brother had broken long ago, but it appeared to be back. He wasn’t sure how much of his anxiety stemmed from his current mission, or from the thought of what and who he left behind, but it settled his mind that he could do this one thing to help relieve some of his brother’s stress.
He pulled out a file from his briefcase and handed it across to his brother. Sherlock took it in his hands, his steel colored eyes looking up briefly in surprise at the name across the top before turning back to the file. Clearly, it wasn’t a file that he was expecting. Long fingers opened the file, and he watched as his brother looked over the photos and written files within.
“I know it isn’t much to go on, but it’s the best I can give at the moment,” he said in way of apology.
His brother looked up at him, a curious expression on his face. He knew his brother was trying to deduce him, to see why he gave him this file, his purpose for it.
“A reminder, perhaps, of what you’re fighting for?” he asked, and his brother’s eyebrows raised as he leaned back in his chair, looking again to the file. He watched as his brother took a long look at one of the smaller photos pinned to the top of the file, his long fingers hovering over the face of the man, before he deftly plucked the photo free and slid it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
He briefly considered revealing more to his brother, but then decided against it. It didn’t matter at the moment, and he thought perhaps the information would do more harm than good. So he changed the subject.
“Your plane leaves in 2 hours. You’ll need to debrief with Anthea before then. And make sure you eat something, brother mine. I’m not sure when we will see each other again, and I’d rather you not waste away to nothing.”
His brother’s sharp eyes returned to him, and he knew his brother saw something he didn’t like. He knew that his brother saw that he was withholding something. He also knew his brother decided not to fight him on it. Perhaps he had an idea of what was happening, and he didn’t want to hear about it.
The two men stared at one another for several moments, and he eventually stood. His brother stood up right after him, facing him, eyes still locked together.
“Thank you, brother,” the younger man said, and he watched as his brother’s hand lifted to his inside pocket, his hand resting over the image they both knew was there.
He nodded, then reached out a hand and placed it gently on his brother’s shoulder. He counted it as a small miracle that the younger man didn’t flinch or push him away. He gave a bracing squeeze, then turned on his heel, grabbing briefcase and umbrella off the floor, and made his way out of the decrepit hotel room.
___
He had tried to warn his brother. Warn him that John wasn’t at Baker Street anymore. That he had moved on with his life. Mostly, he had tried to warn his brother that John Watson would not appreciate whatever kind of harebrained scheme he was coming up with to reveal his return from the dead. Judging by the impressive split lip and blackening eye, he had chosen not to listen to him.
That said, he was still somewhat surprised that John Watson had obviously hit him without pulling his punches. He couldn’t hold it against him. There were plenty of times when he himself had wanted to hit Sherlock, and for far less grievous reasons. It didn’t completely squelch the flare of brotherly affection and protection in him, though. He would need to take a step back before he met with John Watson for their weekly dinner.
He almost smirked at the thought, but hid it behind his carefully crafted mask instead. When he had told Sherlock that he met him every Friday for fish and chips he knew Sherlock didn’t believe him, and why on Earth would he?
It wasn’t always fish and chips. Sometimes it was just coffee and scones.
He had kept a weather eye on John Watson since his brother had stepped off that hospital roof. He had nearly revealed the truth to him multiple times, in fact, but it was Sherlock’s secret to tell, and against his better judgement he remained quiet on it.
“Find a cake big enough to pop out of, brother mine?” he asked, this time letting the corners of his lips quirk up in a smirk.
His brother’s eyes shot to him and flared with that hatred that had been like another brother between them with how strong and deep the emotion ran, but it flickered out and what was left was an emotion that Mycroft had trouble deciphering.
“Apparently the whole city was out of cake. I do hope you enjoyed eating it,” Sherlock retorted, trying for insult, but failing miserably. The younger man shook his head, a flash of annoyance crossing his features before he forced his expression back to indifference. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I believe I told you that he had moved on with his life.”
“That’s not…” he paused, shaking his head again. “It wasn’t in the file you gave me. I knew you weren’t telling me something. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mycroft observer his brother silently. Watched as he tapped his fingers in agitation against the arm of his chair, one leg jumping as he tapped the toe of that foot repeatedly against the floor. Sherlock was looking off to the side and refused to make eye contact. He was hurting, and Mycroft hated it.
“What would I have said? What could I have done that would change anything? You had your self imposed mission. You were close to seeing it through the finish when he met her. Should I have told you that John Watson had met someone and was,” he rolled his head on his shoulder and rolled his eyes as well, “falling in ‘love’? Would it have changed anything or just distracted you?”
Sherlock remained silent. They both knew he had no reply to the question. None that he would dare speak out loud, anyway. The silence stretched between them for several minutes, neither one wanting to be the first to speak again.
“What do you know about her?”
“Wouldn’t you rather ask John?”
“I don’t think John wants to speak with me at the moment.” It was a quiet confession. The closest he would probably come to admitting that he had been wrong in his approach to revealing himself.
“No, I don’t suppose he does,” he agreed. “He’s going to want to speak to you even less after this.”
Sherlock looked up at him then, brow quirked in silent query.
“I’m afraid this woman, this Mary Mortstan, isn’t all that she appears to be.”
“Please do be more dramatic about this. I’m all aquiver in suspense.”
Mycroft barely kept from rolling his eyes as he reached into the briefcase at his feet and pulled out a file, then passed it to his brother. He had kept an eye on John Watson. When John had met Mary, of course he had looked into her. And he didn’t like what he had found.
“It appears Mortiarty’s web isn't quite as destroyed as one would hope. There’s still one little spider dancing along its thread.”
Sherlock’s eyes were shooting over the pages in the file at lightning speed, taking in everything and making connections that even he probably missed.
“Does John know about this?”
“No.”
His brother looked up at him sharply.
“You’ve known he was in a relationship with this woman, this ‘Mary’; you knew what she really was, and you never told...you never told him or me!” His brother had ended in a shout, and Mycroft’s eyebrows rose.
“I’ve kept an eye on him. She hasn’t done anything dangerous. Now that you’re back, though, I am loath to admit that I’m unclear what her endgame is.” The confession burned like acid in his mouth, but it needed to be said.
Sherlock sneered at him, leaning back into his chair and crossing his legs as he looked back at the file. The thumb of his left hand tapped idly on his bottom lip as he thought.
“One more game, then.”
___
Fluorescent lights gave the younger man an almost sickly looking complexion as the monitor beeped steadily as proof of life, though it gave no indication of how close that life had come to an end. Mycroft watched his brother sitting at the side of the doctor that was laid out on the hospital bed. Watched the rhythmic up and down of his breathing as his head rested atop his folded arms on the bed beside John Watson, his eyes closed, his face relaxed in sleep. Mycroft was reminded suddenly of the little boy that had once slept in his arms as an infant. Grown man he might now be, but Mycroft often saw that little boy when he saw his brother. It had been a driving force in his life since he was seven years old. That little boy and his safety and, yes, happiness, though he would never admit it out loud, had been a priority of his since he had promised to always look after him. It didn’t matter that the promise was made as a child. Mycroft kept his promises, even when they so often led to his brother pushing him further away and hating him more.
They had almost been too late. John Watson’s life was almost lost to the bullet that his wife put in him before the authorities were able to contain her. It wasn’t meant to go that way, of course. John Watson shouldn’t have been in danger, but she had threatened Sherlock, and that appeared to be more than the doctor could handle. He had gone after her, and she had put a bullet in him.
Mycroft was thankful they had been able to get to him in time. He knew that Sherlock would never have forgiven him if he had died. Honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure Sherlock would have been able to survive the death of the doctor if it had come down to it.
He was lost in these thoughts when he heard a soft “thank you” coming from the other side of the room. He blinked and turned his attention towards the bed where he saw that his brother had woken up and was looking at him. There was an ugly purple bruise spreading across his forehead where Mary had hit him and knocked him out during the scuffle that ended with a bullet in John.
He arched a brow in question at his brother, who gave him the honour of rolling his eyes in response.
“You heard me,” he said, though it wasn’t as sullen as he would have expected.
“Yes, but I am confused as to the reason why you’re thanking me.”
His brother took a breath, eyes turned towards the man on the bed before looking back to his brother.
“You saved him. For that, I am thanking you.” It was spoken quietly. Wholeheartedly. He didn’t think he had heard his brother use such a soft tone of voice with him since he was a young man.
Mycroft was quiet for a long time. He studied his brother, who had turned his attention back to the doctor and had taken one of his hands within his own. Yes, he had an ambulance on standby on the chance something like this should happen, though to be honest he had intended it as life-saving measures to keep the woman known as Mary Morstan alive if it came to deadly force being used. That it was needed to save John Watson was not his intention or an eventuality he had planned for, but he was grateful it had worked out, as it were.
“You’re welcome, brother,” he spoke sincerely, and his brother nodded in acknowledgment.
As he watched his brother for a moment longer, watched as he laid his head back down on the bed near the doctor as he held his hands, he was further convinced of the truth he had been telling his brother for decades. Caring was not an advantage. It made you do ridiculous things, take foolish risks, act completely preposterous, make nonsensical choices. It hurt.
Yet his brother cared deeply for the doctor. The doctor cared intensely for his brother.
Well. It went far beyond caring, didn’t it? It was sentiment. It was love.
No, caring was not an advantage.
But he loved his brother, and he would do whatever he had to do to protect him, including caring.