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Whimpers echo down the long hallway separating Mycroft and Sherlock’s bedrooms. They’re muffled by the thick walls and distance between them but Mycroft can still hear them, the soft cries from his little brother. The pain.
Sherlock has always been an anxious, high-strung kid. He feels a little too much, sees a little too much, and if the opinions of his peers can be counted, talks far too much for his own good. He’s good at pretending, keeping his face blank. He can’t emote the way the world expects him to so he doesn’t emote at all. At least, in public.
Behind closed doors, Sherlock is a cacophony of emotion.
Their parents don't see the problem with Sherlock’s coping mechanisms, nor do they see the issue with his emotional distress. He is their perfect little angel, their genius son. They are blind to his pain, to his violence.
The sound of shattering glass cuts through the night air.
Their parents aren’t home, gallivanting somewhere by the coast on vacation. Mycroft is in charge. He often is.
He isn’t sure when he became Sherlock's parent.
Despite this, he stands. Someone has to comfort the youngest Holmes. Mycroft is the only one qualified for the task, the only one available.
The hallway is cold, ice seeping into his bones, settling into his chest. The plush carpet under his bare feet doesn’t provide any solace. He curls his toes as he walks, long and steady strides.
He’s 18 now; Sherlock is 11.
He doesn’t feel like an adult, but that’s what his brother needs. He has always given Sherlock what he needs no matter the cost.
Always.
The knock echoes down the hall, almost as loud as the silence that follows. Sherlock’s sobs stop. Mycroft’s heart skips a beat. How the hell is he supposed to do this?
Sherlock’s door creaks open and reveals a mess of deep brown curls. His eyes are bloodshot and his tiny hands are clenched into fists at his side.
He’s the wet kind of angry, the kind that rips from your throat and leaves you sobbing. The type of anger that feels like a tidal wave inside your skull. He’s shaking with the power of it, lithe frame shivering from far more than the cold. He is a natural disaster, a force to be reckoned with, a whirlwind that is fatal to everyone including himself.
His little brother is drowning in emotions he has never been taught to feel. It’s pitiful.
Mycroft wishes now more than ever that he could understand it, wishes he’d never blocked off that part of his mind. Empathy is distant, a chemical defect found only in goldfish and his exquisite little brother. Mycroft has never felt as strongly as Sherlock does; he has never been overwhelmed by the oceans behind his eyes.
Sapphire meets cerulean and the dam breaks.
“Fuck you.”
It’s harsh language for the average little boy. Sherlock has never been average though. His impressive vocabulary reflects that.
“Brother, I know you’re angry…” He doesn’t get to finish the sentence.
“You don’t know anything, Mycroft!” It’s a venomous shout that makes Mycroft’s cold heart shatter. His little brother is hurting.
His little brother is hurting and it’s his fault .
“You’re leaving me! YOU’RE LEAVING ME BEHIND AND FOR WHAT?” He’s flinging his arms around, teeth bared and snarling. Anger radiates off him in waves. It feels primal and raw and oh so vulnerable. It makes Mycroft ache.
He almost feels guilty.
He wishes he could feel guilty.
Tiny fists shaking, blue eyes blown wide, teeth gnashing, Sherlock spits. “For some whores you’re too afraid to bring home to mum and dad?”
Whores…
Mycroft has to stop himself from explaining that if anyone is a whore, it’s him. He’s the one bedding different men almost every week. He’s the one with fake I.D.s and sly grins. He’s the one with a change of clothes in his car, with a reservation at the nicest restaurant in the city every other week, with a regular room at the grimiest hotel in London.
A room that rents by the hour.
A room that has never seen the same partner twice.
His skin feels too tight and the light leaking from Sherlock’s room becomes too bright. It is overwhelming, but he cannot break now. No, Sherlock needs him.
“Sherlock, I’m attending university not running off to get married.” His voice is steady and stern but not unkind. He has never been unkind to Sherlock despite what the younger may think, despite what their mother believes.
“You are leaving me for your little boy toys! Don’t pretend it isn’t true,” His voice shakes alongside his fists. “Don’t pretend you aren’t abandoning me for them.”
Is he? Abandoning his little brother?
It feels more like the other way around like Mycroft is the one being left behind. He barely knows who he is outside of Sherlock’s caretaker. How can the little boy not see how hard this is on him? How much this hurts?
Mycroft is a shell of a man when Sherlock isn’t present.
Mycroft just wants to be his own person.
Is he being selfish?
“Brother mine, I will still visit on weekends and breaks. I will never truly leave you.”
He hates that it’s true. He resents the accuracy of the doubling meaning.
He can’t leave Sherlock, not even if he wanted to.
“It won’t be the same…” His voice is a soft murmur, a little cry for comfort. “Do you love them more than me? Are they more important than us?”
Us. Mycroft and Sherlock. The Holmes Brothers. Geniuses. Family. Blood.
Mycroft is tired of being a collective, of being ‘Sherlock’s older brother’. He’s tired of us. He’s tired of the giant shadow his tiny brother casts. He’s tired of blood, of the thread that connects them.
“I could never love anyone more than I love you, brother dearest.”
Not their vicious mother. Not their passive father. Not his lovers. Not his mentors. Not the faceless men who haunt his dreams. Not even himself.
Sherlock finds comfort in his words, the painful truths his brother croons.
They are so different.
Mycroft opens his arms. Sherlock doesn’t hesitate to fling himself against the older’s chest, tears soaking the fabric of his nightshirt.
They are the same.
Mycroft is glad that Sherlock cannot see his face because he can no longer hide his resentment. He glares daggers at Sherlock’s bedroom wall. He hates this, the gentle touches. It makes his too-tight-skin crawl. He feels sick and his head aches sharply.
He will never love anyone as much as he loves Sherlock.
He will never hate anyone as much as he hates Sherlock.
“Let's clean up that broken beaker, huh?”
Sherlock doesn’t notice that he’s speaking through clenched teeth. Sherlock doesn’t notice his stilted movements. Sherlock doesn’t notice his rage.
Mycroft tries not to feel glad that Sherlock cannot recognize emotions in others. It is rude to wish that sort of cluelessness on a brilliant little boy. It is the same ignorance that makes Sherlock’s peers hate him.
Mycroft tries and fails.
He supposes he’ll feel bad about it later, tucked into his own bed, dreaming about ghosting touches from faceless ideals. He will feel enough guilt to last a lifetime.
University is a desperate clutch for balance, cat claws sinking into fabric during a fall. He is grasping at something he can never have. He is smarter than every professor who tries to teach him. He is more complex than every person he meets.
He is colder than the frigid London air.
Christmas break is coming up. He’ll have to go home soon, have to face his failure.
Sherlock is still angry. It bleeds into the ink of his letters, staining the paper and reminding Mycroft of how much he’s lost. His brother will never forgive him for leaving. Mycroft doesn’t know how to explain that he would have died if he stayed.
Mycroft is but a mouse, sprinting wildly through the undergrowth. He is prey and he knows it. He is prey and he is terrified because home is a cathouse. Home is a barn filled with grain to eat and hay to rest upon, but home is only home with a cat inside. The farmer says it is to protect his crop but Mycroft has to eat too. Mycroft needs a warm place to rest.
Home is a place where Violet Sherrinford resides. She lounges in the sunlight and waits for a little mouse to run by, a little mouse who tends to eat more than he should, a little mouse who is too odd to play with for long. If Mycroft lets her — if Mycroft gives up —, she will swallow him whole. She will snap his fragile spine with harsh words and sharp claws.
Mycroft is a mouse but his mother is a barn cat.
His father is a farmer who turns a blind eye to the war in his barn.
Sherlock is a kitten who is slowly but surely being taught that mice are only fun when they’re terrified, that mice are to be played with and eaten.
That Mycroft is something to be hated .
University, while not being what he dreamed of, is still a haven. University is filled with dim goldfish who smile brightly when Mycroft gives out the homework answers and professors who find his intellect intriguing instead of annoying.
He has his own flat here, his own room. He doesn’t have to use grimey hotels or parked cars when he wants to feel the heat. He has been cold for so long; it is a breath of fresh air to have the warmth of another body pressed against him even though the heat will fade when they eventually leave. Mycroft isn’t sure what he’d do if they stayed.
He isn’t sure he could handle the heat for long.
Still, he must go home. He has to once again embrace the freezing temperatures of his childhood bedroom. He has to face his mother, his father, and the shadow his brother casts.
One of his teachers calls him the Ice Man jokingly. Mycroft thinks it’s only funny because it’s true.
It is hard to be warm in the shade; it is hard to grow in the dark.
Christmas is hell, but Mycroft had been expecting it. Mother is pushing about a girlfriend, father barely says a word, and Sherlock spews vitriol at every turn. It is easier to deal with pain when you ready yourself for it like taking a deep breath before a shot. It still hurts — oh god does it hurt — but Mycroft is a grown man now. He is used to the pain.
“I hate you.” It’s a hiss from a tiny ball of fur, a little kitten trying to be a tiger. It is Sherlock’s vehement rage and inherited hate.
It is the truth. The truth always makes Mycroft hurt, yet he can never prepare himself for it. There is no breathing technique for reality.
He doesn’t know what to say, knows he can’t change it. He hates not knowing. He hates it so very much.
“I know, brother mine. I know.”
He doesn’t, and he can’t keep the despair out of his voice, the absolute anguish. It shocks Sherlock, jaw dropping to reveal little fangs. He’s growing into them. He’ll be a great cat oneday.
Mycroft frowns, deep and somber. He wonders if he could have ever saved Sherlock from this fate. He isn’t sure he could. He’d rather have his brother hate him than have him suffer under their mother’s claws for the sin of being a mouse. Maybe it is for the best that he inherits this hate, that their mother’s instincts become his own.
“Myc…” He doesn’t get to finish. Mycroft walks away, disappearing into his bedroom like he did before he went away. Things may be different but they haven’t really changed.
Sherlock stares at the closed door and wonders to himself if he’s really angry. He wonders why it is so easy to hate Mycroft. His brain is a work of art, a network of information, but he doesn’t have all the answers. He is still a little boy.
He is just a little boy who misses his big brother and doesn’t know how to say it.
Christmas isn’t as fun as it used to be. Mother blames Mycroft.
Sherlock does too.
Touching Mycroft is like touching a marble statue. He’s cold and stiff yet somehow so very human. It is an ugly sort of balance. He is too much and not enough, and he is only beautiful for a moment. He is only alive when you’re looking at him just right. You have to squint against the light but his flaws are so visible, carved into his skin like cracks in stone.
Hands glide down his ribs like Michelangelo’s David. Teeth sink into his neck like Venus De Milo. Lips graze sensitive skin like the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa.
He is cold to the touch. He is smooth but full of dents. He is damaged and old and empty.
Breath huffs across his face. The bed creaks. The tour is over, the museum is closing, and the appreciation for his structure is fading. He is only interesting for a moment. It is easy to find oneself distracted by the other pieces of art.
The man leaves quietly, no words passing his kissed-red lips. He had been kissing stone. He had been kissing ice.
Mycroft used to feel warm when hands grazed him just so. Now he just feels hollowed out, scraped empty. He feels heavy, so damn heavy.
The man is an art student. He has painter’s hands, slender fingers and paint stained nails. Mycroft had thought he’d stay a little while longer, take in the veil of stone. He had ran his hands so tenderly over his icy chest — how Apollo effortlessly grasps his bow — and it had made Mycroft burn.
His lighter clicks in the silence of the room, the flame becoming the only source of light. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and places one between his lips. He leans into the flame and lets the smoke fill his lungs.
He used to cough when he smoked, throat sticky with nicotine and naivety. He doesn’t anymore; he’s grown a lot since then. Since shaky hands and first hickies. Since his first crash of bodies and his first time waking up colder than ever before.
Deep breath in. Shuddered breath out.
These things will kill him, and it’s funny. He’d spent so long trying to escape the controlling grasp of his mother only to become an addict. It’s almost nostalgic. He knows he shouldn’t find the threat of death comforting but he does. A mouse without a cat chasing it will often find itself in a trap of its own making.
Oh the irony.
His job provides a layer of secrecy he can appreciate. He isn’t very high up in the food chain yet but he is used to being the prey amongst predators. He is smarter than them and has far more experience with profiling than they will ever have.
He is one damn smart mouse.
The Ice Man nickname makes a return for more classified missions. He doesn’t go undercover — not yet — but it occasionally becomes needed for him to have an alias. His teacher had found it funny. Enemies to the British government do not share that sentiment. His name is now something to be feared even if they don’t know it yet.
His coworkers don’t like him. He’s too young to be doing so well in their world, but he pays them no mind. He is adept at mind games and information gathering. He doesn’t need friends. They serve no purpose other than to remind him how dull humans can be.
He is 25 now. He has several bachelors degrees, can speak 11 languages, and officially holds a minor position in the British government.
Sherlock is 18. He has never attended University, can speak 6 languages, and doesn’t have a real job.
No, Sherlock does coke and leaches from his trust fund whenever he pleases. Sherlock gets into fist fights and disappears for weeks at a time.
He is still Mummy’s favorite.
Mycroft has grown past resenting him for it. He still loves his little brother, but he’s growing tired of the aches and pains he gives him. He’s tired of searching dirty alleyways for Sherlock’s messy curls. He’s tired of worrying about Sherlock overdosing. He’s tired of the yelling and the rehab and punches and anger.
He’s tired of being a parent to a little boy who was treated like a trophy for most of his life.
He’s tired of being caught in the maw of a housecat who he has done nothing but cared for.
The CCTV feed is useless when searching for Sherlock. He knows how to avoid them and, in turn, avoid Mycroft’s peering eyes. Mycroft has to turn to rumors and the tales of homeless people. Junkies, prostitutes, and beggars see Mycroft more than his family does.
Mycroft doesn’t really mind it except for the dry cleaning his suits always needs after.
It is the second time this month Sherlock has gone missing. It is his 4th escape from rehab. Mycroft isn’t sure why his brother insists on being so difficult sometimes, but he can understand the resistance to change.
He hates to admit it even to himself but it is quite obvious that Sherlock simply isn’t ready to get better. It feels like giving up to even think about it. It feels like betrayal.
That’s his little brother curled up on the dirty cardboard box in the alley. That’s his little brother with a needle sticking out of his arm. That’s his little brother getting his stomach pumped.
It hurts to admit he can’t help him anymore.
Sherlock hates him and despite knowing this, Mycroft only loves him more. His loss would kill him. Losing Sherlock would be like losing a piece of himself.
Sherlock was the only part of growing up in that wretched house that made it worth it. Sherlock had loved him then, had smiled with gap teeth at their games, had been too young to understand the pain of living in the Holmes house.
Mycroft lifts his limp body into his arms. He’s gotten quite tall but he’s still light — still his baby brother. He’ll take him back to rehab. He’ll wait for the call announcing his escape. He’ll tell his newest PA to switch ownership of Sherlock’s trust fund over to him.
Just because he can’t save Sherlock now doesn’t mean he’ll stop trying.
There is no one he loves more than Sherlock. Not even himself.
The first time Sherlock ODs is the day after Mycroft's 28th birthday. He’d spent the night mixing coke and vodka before being picked up by patrol. Mycroft berates himself for missing it. He’d been doing too much fieldwork recently, accepting his role as the Ice Man in all aspects of life. He’d missed the signs of an oncoming lapse, of the beginning of the end.
Sherlock has hit rock bottom and Mycroft isn’t sure what to do.
He hates not knowing.
The beat cop who picked Sherlock up is in the hospital room when Mycroft arrives, prototype umbrella in hand. He’s a poor man, closer to Sherlock’s age than Mycroft’s, and he seems genuinely worried for Sherlock’s health. His anxiety makes Mycroft sick. Empathy has never been his strong suit.
“Constable Lestrade. You are?”
He has an East End accent, a little thick due to his nervousness. It’s grating on Mycroft’s nerves.
“Mycroft Holmes. This is my brother. Thank you for bringing him in.” His tone is flat but polite. He is a politician after all. He doesn’t want to make an enemy of the man who picked up Mycroft's slack.
“No problem. Just glad he has someone here for him.”
Mycroft suppresses a snort. Sherlock doesn’t want Mycroft here for him. Sherlock wants Mycroft to leave him the hell alone.
“I can handle this from here, Constable. Will he be under arrest?”
The man shakes his head so Mycroft tunes out whatever he says afterward. Sherlock isn’t going to jail and that’s all that matters to him. It’d be alot harder to protect him if he was locked up, not impossible but hard. Mycroft would have to call in some favors he’s owed. He’d hate to cash those in on something as simple as a drug arrest.
Sherlock hits him when he wakes up, a crash of knuckles on cheekbone. Mycroft can’t find it in him to tell Sherlock that he died. Flatlined in the ambulance almost gone forever.
The pain of almost losing Sherlock is far greater than a pathetic little bruise.
Mycroft doesn’t check him back into rehab, but he does tell Sherlock to be more careful. The response makes Mycroft’s head spin.
“My life is no one's business but mine.”
He has to stop himself from explaining that Sherlock’s life means everything to him. That even now he can’t imagine himself living in a world without his baby brother. That he’d do anything to save Sherlock from himself.
That he’d spent so long taking care of Sherlock that he doesn’t know how to take care of himself.
Instead he walks out of the hospital room and gets Sherlock blacklisted from every drug dealer within a ten kilometer radius. It’s a useless task but it makes him feel better, it makes him feel like he’s trying.
Sherlock gets mostly sober by his 26th birthday. Mycroft stops doing leg work after he sees a tiny boy with deep brown curls die at the hands of an enemy operative. Constable Lestrade becomes Detective Inspector Lestrade on the same day Mycroft gets back from his mission.
It’s a shock to see his quick rise in rank in a tiny article in the paper because Mycroft knows better than to believe he solved those cases on his own, that Sherlock stopped doing coke on his own.
It’s not a shock to know that, in the end, Sherlock hadn’t needed him to get better.
The hurt is only outweighed by the pride. His little brother is a consulting detective. It’s not quite a pirate but it is a real job. It is something. Sherlock Holmes is rising up from rock bottom. He’s moving on.
Mycroft glances at the pack of low tar cigarettes on his desk. It’s a lot more than he ever accomplished. It’s so much more than he could ever do.
It may be lonely at the top, but Mycroft has anecdotal evidence that the bottom is a whole lot emptier. He calls up an old ‘friend’ and grits his teeth when he answers.
Nails dig into his thighs like Milo of Croton and despite his efforts the heat never quite reaches him. The bed is cold and empty after a few hours and Mycroft pretends it doesn’t hurt. He misses the warmth, the rebellion of his first few partners. He’d been doing something wild back then, something taboo. He’d been escaping the grasp of his mother one late night kiss at a time. It had felt like a bonfire like something huge. Now it just feels like a flickering match. It isn’t warm anymore.
He inhales a puff of smoke. It doesn’t really matter. Sherlock is finally grown up, is finally doing alright. He doesn’t need to care anymore. He let the frost take him, invelop his shrinking heart.
The Ice Man.
He chuckles, smoke blowing past his chapped lips. It is only funny because it’s true.
Tears sting his eyes. The truth always hurt so fucking bad.
Mycroft is 34 when he rolls up on a crime scene at Sherlock’s request. Detective Inspector Lestrade greets him with a small nod, focused on the dead body in front of them. He isn’t sure why he’s here. Sherlock has never called him in before, has been ignoring him for years now.
“I need a favor.”
Of course he does. “And what would that be, brother mine?”
There’s a harsh huff of breath and Lestrade glances between them. He looks a little confused but Mycroft chooses to ignore him.
“I need you to get me access to a lab like a real lab. Molly’s set up at Bart’s isn’t going to be enough.”
“If you needed money, all you had to do was call. I don’t see why I’m here.”
This catches Lestrade’s attention, head snapping up. He doesn’t seem to understand the relationship between the two Holmes brother — To be fair, Mycroft doesn’t understand it either. It’s almost endearing how he cocks his head like a confused dog.
Almost.
“I don’t need money,” He sneers; it’s a vicious little hiss. His brother truly is a barncat now. “I need you to pull some strings to get me into a real lab.”
Mycroft sighs and Lestrade looks sorry for him — and a little more than pissed off at Sherlock. “Will Oxford’s do?”
“It’ll have to. Lestrade, I’ll call you with the results.” He storms off, coat flapping behind him. Mycroft snorts. His brother has always been so dramatic.
“He shouldn’t talk to you like that.” Lestrade’s voice is soft but stern, velvet over iron. Mycroft turns to him, a little confused but not showing it. Why does he care how Sherlock treats him?
“I know he’s kind of a prick and that it’s just how he is, but you don’t deserve that. If you ever want to swing on him, I’ll give you a pass.” It’s an embarrassed little joke. He’s got a sweet blush across his cheeks and Mycroft gives him a smile.
“Thank you, Detective Inspector, for everything you do for him. I might take you up on that pass sometime.” He isn’t sure why he jokes back but he does. Greg isn’t like his usual dalliances, a bit too nice. Mycroft usually goes for gold diggers and men with too much interest in the idea of a sugar daddy.
“It’s Greg, Gregory Lestrade.” He’s got the softest brown eyes, and he’s looking at Mycroft like a puppy who just got a treat.
“Well, Gregory, try not to let him get under your skin too bad. He doesn’t get easier to deal with.”
Greg laughs and has to cover his mouth to hide the fact he’s cackling at a crime scene. Mycroft smirks and leans down on his umbrella.
He stops smiling when the light catches on Greg’s wedding ring. Oh…
It doesn’t take much effort to see that Greg is unhappy in the marriage. She’s a cheater and he prefers men.
Still, it’s enough to make Mycroft walk away, turn his back on the grey haired man.
All hearts break, everyone leaves. The smaller the heart the less it hurts. He can find someone else to fill the space in his sheets, someone who isn’t bound by law to someone who doesn’t love them, someone who doesn’t look like a kicked puppy when he leaves without a word.
He does find someone else but when the night is over, the faceless men who have haunted his dreams since his adolescence suddenly have wide brown eyes and saccharine smiles. He chain smokes all his cigarettes and makes himself some tea.
He really needs to stop walking into mouse traps and expecting it to be okay.
Dear Mycroft,
Life here isn’t the same without you. Everyone is so dull. I’d rather die than talk to one of my peers ever again. How’s university? Mother says your grades are good but that you still haven’t met a nice girl yet. For such a smart woman she sure is blind. Though, I doubt any of your boy toys would make a good impression anyway. You’ve always had terrible taste. You should come home soon; I’m growing tired of entertaining myself while Mummy and Daddy are gone. Mummy says Christmas break is soon. You better get me something big to make up for this whole stunt. I expect nothing but the best, okay?
Best, your little brother,
S. Holmes
Dear Sherlock,
Life at University is fine. I don’t have boy toys nor I am abandoning my education just to entertain you. You’re old enough to find stuff to do on your own. I will be back for Christmas break and while I cannot promise the best gift, I am sure you’ll enjoy it. All I want for Christmas i s ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶s̶t̶o̶p̶ ̶m̶a̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶l̶i̶v̶e̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶s̶h̶a̶d̶o̶w̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶m̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶s̶t̶o̶p̶ ̶h̶a̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶b̶e̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶y̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶s̶t̶o̶p̶ ̶h̶u̶r̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶m̶u̶c̶h̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶r̶m̶t̶h̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶l̶i̶n̶g̶e̶r̶ ̶a̶ ̶l̶i̶t̶t̶l̶e̶ ̶w̶h̶i̶l̶e̶ ̶l̶o̶n̶g̶e̶r̶ for you to stop being such a little menace.
Love, your elder brother,
M. Holmes