Chapter Text
Sherlock blinked wearily up at the lofty space above his head, his sweat making the sheets and duvet cling to his body. As the youngest, his brother had often sat by his bedside until he fell asleep, but now it only dragged up unpleasant memories of a happiness long gone and a time that could never be again. It hurt both men to think of it, really, and so they generally avoided it at all costs. It was probably why they fought so often, because fighting and anger were easier to feel than the pain and awkwardness of their shared history. Neither man wanted that sort of battle.
And so they stayed apart from one another for years, Mycroft following in their Father’s footsteps as soon as he was able, but then leaping from the path with all the grace of a large amphibian when whatever had happened to him actually occurred. Sherlock had never been privy to why Mycroft decided to go rogue, and at his elder brother’s insistence that they never discuss the topic, he felt that he would possibly never know. (Though deep down he thought that it probably had something to do with the deaths of their parents, he would never, could never, ask properly.) It wasn’t until years later -without any contact between the two of them- that Sherlock soured on England and had the secretly long-for reunion with his brother. Unfortunately, his brother had changed in the years spent apart from Sherlock, and indeed he too had changed, his once naive view of the world quickly jaded and thrown aside for a much more appropriate view.
They’d become jaded, Sherlock had realized, and they could not face it.
Not together.
And certainly not by themselves.
So they’d lived in solitude, their minds and petty games the only things keeping them anchored to reality. Both of them had imposed a sort of boundary upon themselves, as well as the crew they quickly assumed, ever present but still untouchable. Like the finest of spun glass encased within steel as thick as the beams in the shipyards upon soil of Mother England, their fragile bits were tucked away from the light and prying eyes, protected from everything, and unreachable by even themselves. After so long of living that way, they had become used to it, and even now Mycroft continued to live that way, rarely showing any signs of humanity beneath his icy exterior. It was where his famous nickname “The Ice Man” had come from, after all, and though Mycroft secretly detested the thing, it served him well. And not even he could refute that.
But unlike Mycroft, Sherlock’s armor had been chinked and cracked over time, slowly wearing thin in places that not even he could see to repair in time. He would break down in the privacy of his own quarters, away from prying eyes when confronted with the sudden emotional pains he felt, or the crippling sense of loss that assaulted him when someone in his crew left for Davy Jones or was taken by the authorities to be hung. He would never let anyone see that side of him, his soft, pink, tender underbelly. He would never let anyone think that they could reach him, The Ice Man’s younger sibling and Ice Man in training himself, and he would never let anyone willingly beneath the patchwork armor he had erected about himself.
Then he met John, of course, and everything had gone to Hell quicker than he could ever have imagined. The Merman had done in a few days what men like Moriarty had been trying to do for years, and in the span of a few weeks, had wormed his way beneath the icy metal and into the central core of the fragility that was Sherlock Holmes. Once there he’d proceeded to gather the splintering pieces and began the laborious process of putting them to rights instead of taking them from him forever. John had never once shown greed in his task, only patience and a warm calm that thawed even the thickest of ice surrounding Sherlock’s heart, his inhuman hands putting things to rights in a way that was damn near impossible for humans. But just like how he’d crafted his fine jewelry that hung from his neck, John shaped and molded Sherlock again, casting and re-casting him until he was closer to his original appearance than he had been when he’d left England under chase.
Sherlock’s guilt was quickly suffocating him.
“John, I’m so sorry...” He whispered into the air, the silence of the cabin, uncaring if Mycroft -of all people- heard his confession. Sherlock would have to inform his brother at some point anyways, would have to tell him that he knew his time was quickly coming. “But know that you will be at peace with me soon. Goodbye, John.”
Moriarty was going to be the end of him.
He’d always known really, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Moriarty was going to be the one to kill him. When they’d first met, introduced by Captain Powers aboard his ship, Sherlock had instantly known something was afoul. It wasn’t until later that he placed the feeling as discomfort and a other-worldly sense of upheaval, of the pain that came from knowing that you are looking Death in the face. Of course, back then he hadn’t known he was destined to be a pirate, he’d only thought that James “Please, call me Jim!” Moriarty was going to be rid of him and rise to take what he had. So he’d made all the precautions he could which had undoubtedly lead to his life aboard his ship and sea. Precautions that had set him up to be the perfect scapegoat for Carl’s death, and the death of many others in his company.
So when Moriarty had been the one sent after him, and by default after all the other unruly pirates in the Caribbean Sea, Sherlock quickly put two and two together. Eventually even the best of players had to grow tired of the Game, and though it was a glorious one, full of mystery, intrigue, and challenge, it would eventually claim him as a casualty, or perhaps Moriarty and Moran. A casualty of war really, because that’s what their Game had grown to become, and when it happened, Moriarty would win, or Sherlock would win, and then it would all be over. Back to the boring life of mental stagnation, and that was a worse way to go than a glory filled death at the hands of a worthy opponent. But then the Game had changed, Moriarty had taken John, a being that shouldn’t have been a player to begin with, and the rules had shifted, as had the balance of power. Sherlock had quickly gone from keeping his head above water to drowning, losing his end of everything, and it was with that power-filled move that Sherlock realized his end was nearing.
“You have yet to inform me on just who this mysterious John fellow is.” Mycroft said loftily from his seat at his rather ornate looking desk, the fine wood glowing in the waning sunlight of the first day of Sherlock’s sentence when the younger awoke. “And just why you have three days to get him and the remainder of your crew back. Though I’m sure that the last part has more to do with Moriarty than whoever this John person is.”
Mycroft seemed to be ignoring the crippling wave of sadness Sherlock had let loose not three minutes prior, his apology to the universe swept away along with everything else. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a damning finger in his chest, but took it all in stride, turning to look his brother in the face as he spoke. He would never back down from Mycroft, couldn’t really, not anymore. Especially not after all he’d been doing to help his younger brother survive.
“It has to do with them both, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s response was light but deadly, the dead seriousness of the situation doing more to color his tone than he’d like. He’d always tried to reign in his emotions like his elder brother, The Ice Man, but he failed sometimes. They all failed, sometimes. “It always had to do with them both. True, Moriarty has been following me relentlessly since we met, but he took something more precious from me than he ever knew. I intend to have it back.”
“We’ll be in Port Royal later this evening. Harry has sent word, he means to attack well into the night, much after the dark has crept out from the water. It is the perfect advantage.” Mycroft seemed to be ignoring the human frailty for the moment, his all-seeing eyes carefully avoiding the touchy subject of Sherlock’s broken tone, skimming the emotions neither wanted touched upon. “You would do well to be prepared upon arrival, little brother.”
“When did he make contact?” It wasn’t that he cared all that much when it had happened, as much that it had actually happened. Harry was more than just some half-witted captain that could be moved like a pawn beneath his and his brother’s far-reaching hands. Harry was King and on top of that, was someone even Mycroft admired. “Certainly I would have heard if we’d made contact with The Queen’s Pride? Not even I sleep that deeply, injured or not. The ship is massive.”
“While you were sleeping, of course, a long boat arrived. You’re still injured and recovering so I hardly hold you responsible for not noticing it or the messengers. Do not forget that or you’ll be no good to anyone, least of all yourself and John.” Mycroft smirked lightly before it was gone again, his posture sliding gently into itself as he stood from his chair, his grace and poise regal as always. “Don’t make me order you.”
Sherlock couldn’t find it within him to smirk at such a ballsy move, not even when it came from someone as refined as Mycroft was and always had been. The situation was too dire, even for his tastes, and despite his elder brother’s efforts, he could not find it within himself to do much more than wallow in his regret. Regret for giving up John when in reality he’d only given up the innocent creature on top of his crew’s already present death sentence. They would be hanged before the Game ran its course, strung high from the gallows for all to see as warnings to all passing into Port Royal. Even if the distraction and rescue were to happen tonight as planned, the crew would be without a ship and have an injured Captain, one that planning for his own death in secret. Nothing would even be the same now, his ship nothing but burning ruins out in the sea, his will to lead severely damaged, a broken body and a plagued mind.
It wouldn’t have mattered in the long run, they were going to die anyway...but John could have been saved.
Sherlock wretched his eyes away from the wooden panels that made up the ceiling, the cool icy stare finding the wall opposite of where Mycroft had been sitting moments prior, the chilly gaze boring holes through it by sheer force of will. The thought struck him almost violently, much like a sharp blow to the head or torso, the violence of it all hardly comparing to the sudden blossoming of pain he experienced. Sherlock must had jostled his stitches, yes, and that’s where the pain came from...not the thought that Sherlock and his damned borrowed time had sealed the fate of a beauty the world would never know again. No wonder the males of the species always stayed hidden, separate from their female counter parts, locked away from the cruelty of the world. If this happened and they died as such it was any wonder they persisted at all.
The burning sensation was building behind his eyes, Sherlock could feel it, along with the heavy weight settling in his stomach and heart. The weight had been there for years, really, the death of his parents a stone dragging at him long before he had known what it truly was, but now it was becoming unbearable. He’d carried it for a long time and over that time had become used to the crushing presence, adjusting himself for carrying the heavy burden and all that it entailed. It was why he developed the metal casings he placed about himself, shields to keep other out, but also to distract from the broken center that nested in broken glass and jagged wounds. Now it was only growing larger, crushing more, and Sherlock had no choice but to accept it.
Mycroft’s tapping steps were hardly noticeable as Sherlock wallowed in his misery. Mycroft walked with as much force has he always had. It hurt him, both as an elder brother and as a knowledgeable man, that his brother was so broken, so jaded of life that he could hardly function in the real world. It had hurt him when he had had to leave England after discovering the true reason their parents were dead and it hurt him when Sherlock had left England to follow him, just as it hurt him now that Sherlock was wounded with something so black that it was out of his power to heal it. If there was one thing that Mycroft Holmes truly detested, it was the feeling of powerless and out of control, to be completely ineffective, and have to sit by and watch as life tore away at his younger sibling in great chunks before hurling his remains to the sharks. It pained him in ways that Sherlock could never possibly know.
When his presence finally registered with Sherlock, Mycroft could hardly contain his worry at what he saw. If the eyes truly were the windows to the soul, Sherlock’s eyes were thrown open wide to show the entirety of his soul, all his pain and anger and sadness on display for anyone observant to see. It both startled Mycroft and confirmed what he had already been suspecting, that Sherlock was at the end of his journey, and that the Game he was playing was intended to be an End Game. Someone would lose, finally slip off the precipice and into the darkness that waited hungrily below for their very souls.
Mycroft wasn’t sure that Moriarty even had a soul, but regardless he wouldn’t let that fate happen to his only remaining family.
His decision was only made stronger when Sherlock’s eyes met his own, the tears boiling there beneath the surface finally pouring up and out, welling down his angular face in such a way that cannot be merely described, only seen. It was a strange sense of pained beauty really, a sight that not many would ever see in their lifetimes, and came from a road bathed in blood and filled with anguish. Mycroft wished that Sherlock had never been put on such a road, but regret was hardly worth his time. Now he had to worry about keeping Sherlock alive, keeping Sherlock sane and in the present. It would do them both no good if they were to see the outcome of this battle alive, only to find out later that Sherlock had never really survived at all and had found the option given to him by the memories he had of their Maternal Grandmother. He didn’t know if he could survive himself if he were to come into a room that held the cooling shell that had once housed such a bright and vivid soul, one that had been his brother before all this had started. And the thought of having to made him reach for his brother, embracing him in a hug they hadn’t shared since Sherlock had been little and grieving their parent’s deaths.
“I always tried to protect you, you know, keep you safe, blanketed from the world.” Mycroft said softly, holding his brother tightly, his own armor cracked in a way that was undetectable to others, but that Sherlock could see clearly. Oh so clearly. “Father did not even have to say the words, say that it was my responsibility, but I always knew. I feel like I failed you, Sherlock. That I have always failed you and that I keep on failing. Tell me, instruct me on how to help you...please?”
Sherlock gave a choked sob into Mycroft shoulder.
“Tell me how to make this better, Sherlock.” Mycroft could only continue, and though he felt the twinge deep within his chest, the one that he had felt every time he saw Sherlock unhappy or unresponsive to something, he felt nothing more. He didn’t even know if he could feel anything more. “I cannot help you if you do not let me in. Tell me and I will go to war with Moriarty, take on King and Country for you. We all would, Sherlock, you know this to be true. You have but give the word.”
And as if some redemption had been offered to him, Sherlock pulled away, eyes red and wet with tears, but his face and eyes set hard, his soul once again calmed and controlled. But the passion was still there, burning brightly in the blue depths, and Mycroft knew then what his answer would be. Sherlock would lead them into Hell...and Mycroft would go willingly. He always would. He would give anything for Sherlock, to Sherlock, even his very soul. That was what big brothers were meant to do, and though the eldest Holmes was nearly incapable of love for others, it did not mean that his love for Sherlock had gone cold from years of being pushed under the icy waters. He would always love his brother more than he loved himself.
“Then let us go to war, Mycroft.” Sherlock gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “I have a date with the Devil and he’s itching to dance.”
“Well then, let us not keep him waiting, hm?”