Work Text:
No, you can’t. You can't imagine the Christmas dinners because there aren't any. Not any that I’m present at, in any case. Christmas is dull, boring, uninteresting in every way. There are always better things to do – I make sure of that. It was a ridiculous thing to say on Mycroft’s behalf. Something he says to raise sympathy, to make himself look good. As so often he does. That was what started it all. His ridiculous game and his ridiculous mouth.
The details are irrelevant. I vanished for a few weeks. Off the face of the planet, or at least off the eyes of Mycroft's CCTV toys. I wanted to prove that his so-called security systems weren’t as perfect as he liked to think they were and that all the technology at his disposal was not as infallible as he claimed it to be. He defends himself by saying he worries about me, but look beyond that false smile. He does it to spite me. He likes to play around with secrets and cameras and supposed privacy. It appeals to his God-complex, it keeps him from getting bored.
All I did was prove myself more clever than his little security networks. I successfully proved that his toys were flawed and his people incompetent. There were gaps in his system and I managed to slip through them. The next time he required my help he would not be so disdainful the homeless and the little old ladies behind their living-room windows.
I admit it was fun to aggravate him. And it would have been a most amusing joke, had Mycroft not gone to our mother like an infant whose toys had been broken by a bully.
He told her. No, wrong emphasis. He told her. That is why he is to blame for all the weeks she spent upset, thinking I was dead. He told her they couldn't find me. He told her they'd searched everywhere, he assured her that they would not give up until they found me, ‘no matter what’. He told here were sending divers into the Thames to see if they could find me on the bottom of it. He wanted to hold a memorial in my name. He ordered a plaque. He then proceeded to clean out my apartment, placing several adds on the web to try and sell my microscope and some antique scientific devices to the highest bidder. He threw away my…- He threw away things. My things. Things that cost quite a bit to keep hidden.
All just to bait me out of hiding. Mycroft knew I was alive and was simply trying make me appear again by upsetting our mother and – far more sadistically – selling my equipment and throwing away my things.
But I did not falter. I did not give way. I stayed undetected for another five weeks.
In total I was gone seven weeks. I never announced my return and it cost my brother dear another day to realize I was back. He then said I upset our mother. As you can see, however, it wasn't me who upset her. If you want to point the finger, take one good look at the guilt-ridden puffy face of my brother.
*
You can't imagine the Christmas dinners because there aren't any. Not any that he’s present at, in any case. He says Christmas is boring. He searches high and low for something else to do. When he does, he turns it into an issue of grand importance, so he can stay away from celebrating the holidays with his family. It's very ungrateful of him and though we all know his problematic approach to everything emotional, there is no excuse for it. He can fake every emotion admirably; he could fake a little smile at dinner. That's what I do.
I worry about him. You might think me meddlesome, but it is not without reason. He has been in trouble before. Severe trouble. So when he failed to answer when I called (and by that I mean that he failed to answer any one of the 20 calls I made and 30 texts I sent) I feared he might be lying passed out under a bridge, doped up on something illegal or worse. Those are the two possible fates that await my brother. No other end will do.
He likes the thrill of it all. The excitement of the chase, the adrenaline, the high. I worry about him greatly. I have every reason to. He would have taken the pill. If it hadn't been for Dr. Watson he would have taken it. There was a fifty-fifty chance of him dying, right there, just because he wanted to prove he was clever. It wasn't the first time he did something so distastefully stupid and it wouldn't be the last. Offering secrets to a psychopath in a deserted pool at midnight? It's merely one example. So you must see, you must understand. I worry and I have to keep a close eye on him. No one else will.
I did tell our mother, I admit, and I did place advertisements on the web selling his more precious possessions, and I did throw away his drugs. I thought it would make him give up his silliness, provided, of course, that he was still alive. You must believe me when I say that the thought of a dismal fate never left me. I sent a team to search the Thames because I truly did fear he would be on the bottom of it. I told our mother because she deserves to know about her son. He does a horrible job of keeping her informed about his life any way (I think he assumes she reads his website and I know he thinks that's all there is to say).
Now we are arch-enemies. It was me who coined the term, in case you were wondering. I will not be placed in the same category as every other ordinary criminal and syndicate that Sherlock deals with. If we are to have this silly feud then it will be a proper one. On that, at least, we can agree.