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He wasn’t entirely sure how he had ended up here, toasting a drink to a mutt he had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting on several occasions and who had a strong liking for munching on the ends of his trousers. For supposedly such a well trained dog, he did have appalling manners. The dog’s owner had ensured him it was because he was highly liked by the thing and not at all because it was attempting to maul him but couldn't quite manage it because it was quite frankly, tiny.
“Mr Pickles was a fine dog I’m sure,” he found himself saying, not quite believing it himself. He was glad he was the elder with unlimited access to the closed circuit television network and not his dearest brother, from whom he would receive no end of derision if he were to know of his partaking in a drink over a dog of all things. Mycroft hardly noticed the passing of a human.
“He was my solid companion for fifteen years. But even the best of us succumb to illness,” the Kingsman said sad, but not overly so. Mycroft was glad of it for excessive weeping over a dog he had once been told to shoot, and did, would surely have given him stomach ache. "Most people want to bury their pets, not burn them into decorations,"
“It was just nice to have company,”
“Is that why you had him stuffed?” Mycroft enquired. He thought it all in poor taste but surely there was a point in undertaking taxidermy for one’s beloved pet. He couldn’t understand it though, having never found anything beloved in his life.
The only thing that came close was his little brother Sherlock, especially during his youngest years of life, when wonder and curiosity had not been tainted by bitter resentment, suspicion and a fear of company. Like their mother, Sherlock had found comfort in something soft and affectionate but no more complicated than a three year old. Mycroft would wager Sherlock would actually be rather good with children if only he overcame his distaste for mouths and grabby hands.
If there was one thing Sherlock had been ever fond of, and even now it was a pressure point, it was Redbeard. Redbeard had been his gift to Sherlock, one of very few, and one of the last. Gifts became the sign of sentimentality - something he could not indulge in being as scrutinised as he was.
It had been one of the best decisions he had ever made.
Redbeard had been looked after with the utmost care of course, and was one of the best trained dogs in the country. As a Kingsman dog Redbeard anticipated commands and followed instructions to the letter. He did, however, had a fondness for being petted, one Mycroft could never train out of him and so grew steadily weary of the doleful eyes and hopeful panting. In the end, he had only been a burden to him.
---------------------
The cottage was modest in size: comfortable, but not betraying the wealth of the proprietors. Indeed they could afford something much bigger and further out into the countryside, but a desire to be near one’s offspring prevented the purchase of a larger much more luxurious home. The stone brick was bumpy beneath the touch, but smooth and clean and very white. It was clearly well looked after and had undergone all the proper maintenance procedures. There was a sizeable back garden which could not be viewed from the front, and a modest entryway to the home leading to the cliched white picket fence.
Only it wasn’t white anymore. It was the most alarming shade of blue he had ever seen.
In his right hand was an umbrella he refused to go anywhere without. He liked to twirl it, waving it about like an elaborate plot. No one ever guessed it’s true function, not even his over curious little brother whose brain was surely to go to waste in any place but the finest establishments. He had been grooming him for Kingsman since the age of five. No longer five, ideas of pirates and sailing the seas swashbuckling and defending maidens’ honours had been thrown out for over zeleaous theatrical plots and suave finely shaved men in perfectly cut suits. Mummy had reliably informed him Sherlock had spoken nothing but the best kind of gadgetry for the past month and may just be unbearable.
Mycroft was rather looking forward to see how right he was getting it all.
You see his brother was very clever, not quite as clever as himself, but very clever indeed. William Holmes had a fantastical nature, one of a dreamer, and became very obsessed very easily about the details of a thing. No doubt he would be questioned about the fine dust on Redbeard’s fat paws or his acutely alert nature.
Said nature was making itself known as Redbeard looked curiously about but never strayed from his side. The deep red dog, quite nearly a shade of mahogany glanced up several times at his master hoping to be allowed to explore but was sadly ignored. Before too long he’d be allowed to run amok willy nilly and given treats and petted and utterly adored.
Oh how spoiled his dead dog was going to be.
With a short rapping knock Mycroft beseeched entrance to his parents’ home, only to find himself accosted by a small person wrapped around his legs and his mother wrapped around his torso. With both hands full he had no choice but to stand there and accept their affections hoping they would peel themselves off him very soon.
When his mother stepped back she tutted as her son glanced down at his clothes to see if they were now wrinkled or in some way compromised. This was his favourite bespoke suit and seeing Sherlock's curly head reminded him his little brother was still in the digging phase and was probably covered in dirt.
Myroft’s face looked like a lemon had been shoved into his mouth and squeezed very hard.
Next thing he knew Sherlock was on the ground with Redbeard on top of him, laughing as he ruffled the dog’s fur and being licked furiously on the face.
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes have some decorum!” Mummy snapped but her eyes were fond and her mouth far too soft for her to be truly annoyed.
A half hour later Mummy was demanding to know what Sherlock was doing, running as he was around the house before declaring ‘this corner’ was the best corner.
“Well he’s mine isn’t he? Isn’t he Mycroft?”
“What makes you say that?” he had asked.
“You don’t have time for a dog Myckie and you know I’ve always wanted one!”
Mycroft sighed dramatically. “My name is Mycroft. Use it,” he said sternly before relinquishing the lead to eager hands. “Yes, it is yours. His name is Redbeard,”
Sherlock beamed at him with a smile he would never forget for he would never see it again. “That’s a good name for a pirate,” he had whispered conspiratorially to his new best friend.
________________
“I remember being told to pick one of the dogs in the cages,” Harry said. “They laughed at me, when I picked him. Said that I got the one no one wanted,”
“I picked the one I thought would be least annoying. They were all yipping in their cages. Bar one,” Mycroft returned.
Harry smirked. “I said I wanted a challenge. Put their gas at a peep quick enough,” he said smugly. “And I had him more or less trained by the end of week two. They were still struggling with theirs,”
“You always did have a controlling nature,”
Harry looked at him slyly. “You mean I have a commanding air, there’s a difference,”
“There really isn’t,”
“Hmm. You weren’t saying that before,”
“I haven’t said a lot of things before,” Mycroft returned equally calm and considerate. Whatever game they were playing now, it was like the one he played with Sherlock: who can score as many points within the duration before the slate gets wiped clean again. Sometimes there was a clear winner, sometimes it was as muddy as the Thames, but always, always, the clock reset when one left the room.
“Is that what you tell your brother when you change your mind about something?”
The curveball had Mycroft’s left eye twitching ever so slightly. Someone who wasn’t looking for it would never see it but Harry smirked and leaned back in his chair, perfectly composed. He was a picture of control.
“I seem to recall you stating rather clearly that the Kingsman Institute was much better than MI6 despite your previous praise. I gathered this was supposed to garner his interest,”
“Indeed. All it did was garner his ridicule,” Mycroft admitted sourly. “What’s your point?”
“You mock me for loving my dog, and you claim sentiment is a failing, but you are so clearly in adoration of your own little brother that it leaves you blind not only to his true potential, but the threat he is to you,”
“It’s my responsibility to ensure my family doesn’t jump off of a cliff. The disgrace would be unbearable,” But the long moment of his hesitation was too clear in the quiet room and far too resolute to mean anything but I can’t let my little brother kill himself.
Harry scoffed. “You have spent your whole life lying to your brother, telling him to have as little emotion as possible and claiming to do the same. The only person you are lying to is yourself Mycroft,”
_____________
“Do not lie to me!” The body was pulling angrily at the restraints sure to create angry bruises on too pale flesh. The body on the bed was too thin, the bedclothes too big and the scene too heartbreaking.
And so he refused to have heart.
“You tried to steal from Mummy Sherlock. And when you were caught you attacked our father. You were out of your mind,”
“That was rather the point brother dear,” Sherlock seethed. “I didn’t want to be in my mind,” He wrestled angrily again. “Why am I in these things?” He demanded.
Mycroft was standing at the end of the bed, umbrella before him embedding itself into the ground, staring at the pathetic excuse of a human: his baby brother, whom he had held as an infant, whose tears he had dried and whose safety he had always ensured, from everyone but himself. “You attacked the nurses when they brought you in. You were most agitated,”
The cool manner of his tone served to further anger Sherlock who yelled in a throat wrenching snarl. “I’ll hurt you in a minute!” he threatened but after several minutes of struggling he was covered in a sheen of sweat and very much exhausted. Panting he regarded his brother with shiny eyes, pale and piercing. “Why are you here?”
Mycroft took a deep breath, glanced at the ground and then regained his steady gaze on his brother. “This isn’t a hospital. It’s an institution,”
“What?” Sherlock asked darkly visibly trembling.
“Specifically, a fine rehab unit in central London. You won’t be going anywhere until you’ve completed twenty eight days,”
“You can’t do this,”
Mycroft remained silent.
“It’s illegal! I have to do this voluntarily,”
“Unless there’s a court order,” Mycroft corrected.
“You scheming poof! You just wanted me out the way. Ruining your plans am I? Fucking up your rise to power? Your irritating little brother who just won’t go away and to kill him would be suspicious so you lock him up instead?!” Sherlock bared his teeth saying words he didn’t really believe but he relished the look in Mycroft’s eyes all the same. “That’s it isn’t it? Perfect Mr Holmes’s gleaming rep smudged and dirtied by his not so perfect little brother!”
“Your killing yourself Sherlock. This is for your own good,” Mycroft turned and walked away chased by the screams of his brother begging please, please don’t leave me here.
___________
“Just because I don’t want to see my brother splatted across the pavement does not mean I hold him in any specific regard,” Mycroft said. “Liking one’s brother, and not caring if someone throws him out of a window are two entirely different things,” he explained.
The Kingsman agent smirked. “Didn’t know you liked Die Hard,”
“How is it possible to die hard? It’s not that difficult a thing to do,” Mycoft commented, but thought, if you are Sherlock Holmes, dying seems to be a very difficult thing indeed. Several times his little brother’s heart had stopped, and although they had wanted to give up, statistics stating there would be too much damage, and that his brain had gone too long without oxygen, Mycroft had insisted they pursue his life with all haste. Merlin had intervened at the last possible moment with a compound that jolted Sherlock’s system alive.
---------------
The cold sterile of the hospital grated against his skin. The silence of waiting filled up his heart until it was brimming over, spilling into his gut until that too sloshed unpleasantly. He looked the picture of stoic perfection standing staring at faceless doors with little taunting windows filled with wire.
Through those doors to his right, grey and plain as they were, life was being forced back into a blank body. The too thin man on the bed, wasting away from not eating enough and smoking too much, or was it injecting, had died. A team of doctors and nurses were using their every tactic, every ounce of energy they had into bringing him back to life. It had been ten minutes now. Ten minutes and nothing. No one had come out. Those doors hadn’t swung open. And he hadn’t left, heels clicking on the floor to call their parents and tell them their son was in hospital.
He couldn’t do that while he was still in there lying prone on the white bed, in the white room, fate undecided. His concentration was broken by the door swinging open.
“Sir,”
“Don’t you dare tell me you’ve given up,”
“Sir,”
Mycroft stared down at her hard and took out his phone. Taking this to mean a dismissal the girl muttered they would keep trying and hurried back inside.
His phone however was not needed. His attention snapped to a tall bald man walking briskly a small sleek box in hand.
“Your late,”
Late or not, it took only three minutes for the nurse to come out and tell him the idiot’s heart was beating and only five seconds more for him to be very grateful for the hard black plastic seats waiting patiently next to the trauma room.
_____________
His little brother could no longer recollect he had been the cleverest in the family, and Mycroft had never the heart nor desire to tell him, for the knowledge would cripple Sherlock beyond repair. Somehow, he had found a semblance of peace in his life. With Dr Watson by his side, Danger Nights were far less dangerous, and far less frequent. It was probably just as well Sherlock had never been interested in working for the Secret Service: the periods between such fantastical cases would have driven him even quicker and more surely in the warm and waiting arms of whatever narcotics he could get his hands on. His little brother would be dead within six months through extreme risk taking and an inevitable overdose.
“You know I have attempted to convince him to apply for either MI6 or Kingsman on several occasions,”
Harry smirked. “Had you truly wanted him here, you would have tricked him into a meeting Uther,”
“That would have made him unruly. He’s unpredictable at the best of times. And be absolutely loathes being forced into anything,”
“Well I am struggling to see the resemblance,” Harry commented, still amused and still smirking.
Mycroft wondered if it would be terribly rude to spike his tea, maybe slip him a mickey when he wasn’t looking just so he’d feel rough and horrible the next day. But alas thoughts of the next global crisis or whatever sneaky villainous plots were brewing stayed his hand. It wouldn’t do to have the best Kingsman agent down for the count because he felt it necessary to uphold his honour.
And that honour didn’t feel anything like spite at all.
“My brother is a self satisfying egomaniac who preens at the first sign of flattery,” Mycroft lashed, his tongue sharp and his wit great but Harry Hart was still infuriatingly happy about something and he couldn’t figure out how to make him stop.
The kingsman set down his cup gently and crossed his legs. “You do look rather upmarket today Mycroft. Is that a new suit,”
“Why yes I just had it made. Geoffrey was in house yesterday and you know how much better he is at measurements than Marcus,” The Holmes brother rechecked his shiny cufflinks his mother had insisted upon giving him and well, he did actually rather like them, even if at the time he had moaned until admonished by his father who had been far too amused by the whole thing to be decent.
“It’s a nice colour. Suits you,”
“Thank you,” he said, pleased.
There was a moment’s silence and a sticky smile on Harry’s face to match the gleam in his eye.
Mycroft sighed. “You’re getting as bad as he is,” he muttered rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “A gentleman must always accept a compliment,”
“That is very true,,” Harry conceded leaning back but still looking victorious.
Mycroft pinched his nose and muttered “I am surrounded by children,”
“What?” Harry asked. “You got me there. And you are nothing if not a gentleman,”
“Thank you,”
“Unless you’re with your brother of course, in which case -”
Mycroft sighed again.
“- all bets are off,” Harry finished. “Actually no, all bets are on. Merlin’s started a pool,”
“What?” He demanded, eyes snapping up to meet Harry’s dark amused ones in mild alarm.
“Oh yes. You’re not that hard for us to monitor and your...interactions, shall we call them, with your nearest and dearest do make for the most alluring entertainment,”
“Don’t you have anything better to do with your time and resources. Like saving the world one country at a time?” Mycroft asked though it was too much to hope for an affirmative. Clearly the world wasn’t quite as mad as he Sherlock was making it out to be. What was the world coming to? Even the interesting people were becoming dull.
Harry took a sip and looked at him for a few long moments as though his thoughts required serious contemplation. It was quite possible the man had no serious thoughts left, leaked out over years struggling to make the deductions which came so easily to himself.
“You know, you are the proper utilisation of resources. You are the only Kingsman who doesn’t regularly check in and more or less as free reign of the world. If Merlin chooses to occasionally monitor you, albeit at opportune moments, to allow your continued freedom, that isn’t something to be sniffing at,”
Mycroft refused to stiffen at the words but the warning, if not threat, was clear. His unique position left him with both strength and vulnerabilities. It was less easy for the Kingsmen to help him and less likely for them to be attacked through him but equally if he became compromised he was in such a position that was standing on a knife’s edge. Precarious didn’t quite cover the sentiment.
“My position-”
“Is invaluable to us,” Harry injected. “But you cannot deny the risks, to us, and to you. Should you be compromised…”
“...I am on my own, I know,” Mycroft finished. “This is all interesting but conjecture only brings us circles and is a waste of my time,” Mycroft stood and buttoned up his waist coat
“You know, your brother isn’t the only one with a love for the dramatics,” Harry also stood sensing that their meeting had drawn to its inevitable conclusion.
“And Merlin isn’t the only one with a flair for smugness,” Mycroft returned. Both of them were smirking.
“You never did tell me what happened to your dog,”
Mycroft collected his umbrella had made for the door. “I gave him away. I had to use for him,”
“To Sherlock?”
“To Sherlock,”
“It seems I’m not the only one who has heart,” was the parting remark that lingered with him long since he settled in the Diogenes Club, settling back into plush dark leather and contemplating his next move.
Yes. The Minister for Defence would have to go.