Chapter Text
“Now that that's sorted…” Mycroft rose from his seat. “Would you mind going on a walk with me? As acquaintances.”
Louis hesitated.
“Only if you have no business to attend to.”
“Louis, would I be inviting you out if I weren't completely free?” he furrowed his brow slightly.
He was jesting. Louis could see it, a faint smirk on his lips, similar to one his younger brother had when he was accusing his brother on that damn train, only ten times less noticeable. Spoke volumes about Sherlock and his unsubtlety.
“I wouldn't mind,” he pursed his lips. What now?
Mycroft chuckled.
“Lord, you're so awkward. Let's go.”
***
It felt… unusual, to say the least. Holmes was as tall as Albert, but maybe it was his more energetic stride or Louis's pent-up exhaustion, that he found it a bit difficult to keep up with this man. He had to adjust his step to not break into a jog and stay on the same level.
Still, he couldn't see the point in taking a walk. Mycroft didn't say a single word in the five minutes they were walking, didn't even elaborate where exactly they were going, and Louis couldn't decide if he was thankful for the silence or unnerved by it.
…Should he initiate 'small talk'? Brother used to say it was useful in situations like such. He also used to say that he had a bad habit of not speaking unless spoken to, which was unfair. He spoke to his family and colleagues just fine, and other people up until now were secondary.
What is he supposed to say even? Their only common grounds were MI6 and their... missing brothers.
“Do you smoke?”
The question came out of nowhere. Well, at least he didn't have to start a conversation himself.
“Uh, no, Mr. Holmes. Why?”
“I need to buy some tobacco for myself,” he said, nodding to a store in front of them. So Mycroft smoked too, huh.
“I'll wait outside.”
“Thank you, Louis. I'll make sure to be quick.”
***
Eventually Holmes led him to a nearby park. At noon on a working day, there weren't that many people going around. The weather was pleasant, warm and sunny. He gestured Louis to sit on a bench. Then, he lit a cigarette and sat beside him, so that smoke wouldn't fly into Louis's face. How courteous.
And oh, it definitely was the kind of cigarettes Sherlock used to smoke. The first time he ever encountered the man, the most notable thing about him before he spoke was his smell. A potent, almost suffocating stench surrounded him that day and it took him everything to not scrunch his nose at it. Revolting, even as a memory.
Thinking about people who had left his life, he cannot help but feel disappointed. In Sherlock, in Albert, in William, but mostly in himself. It's a childish feeling, selfish, like he didn't get what he was owed, which in turn made him feel even more guilty and shameful. Sherlock promised him to save his brother. Albert chose imprisonment and wouldn't budge. And he failed to convince William either.
He wondered, sometimes, in the privacy of his own room, if there was anything he could've changed. But the answer was all the same: brother would've chosen death anyway. Louis was forcefully torn away from his family and there was nothing he could do about it but grow and move on, because resentment toward a person as gone as dust in the air would not change anything or help anyone.
They sat in complete silence, but Mycroft seemed to follow a similar line of thought.
“Forgive my little brother for anything he has done or failed to do,” he spoke, shaking off the ashes on the ground. “I can assure you he never meant harm to anybody. Especially…” he took a long drag to his cigarette.
“Especially not your brother.”
That was not surprising. Before the murder of Milverton, he doubted the man could even hurt anybody beyond harsh language. And for the sacrifice Sherlock made, Louis knew it would be unfair to hate him. But…
“Do you… hate my brother then?” he asked, locking his hands together.
“Albert? No, not in the slightest. Although I do not fully understand his intentions,” Louis glanced at him. Mycroft was clearly trying to avoid the question and wasn't even trying to be subtle about it. They made eye contact. The older man sighed and pushed his back into the bench.
“As for your other brother… I do, a little.”
That was not surprising either. But it still hurt like a stab to the stomach.
“I understand. I hope you'll be able to forgive us.”
“I don't remember you doing anything wrong to me personally, Louis. If anything, I only remember Alberts loving words about you,” he paused, and Louis's breath hitched. “I will forgive William, eventually. It just takes time.”
…How could he so casually bring up the fact that Albert used to tell stories about him? That is so unfair. So unfair, in fact, that he felt his throat burning. He knew how much he loved his brothers and how much they cared for him, but they never really spoke of it. They only gave each other presents, but words of affection were hardly ever uttered out loud. To hear such a thing was as heartwarming as heartbreaking.
Louis took his glasses off to rub at his stinging eyes. Wet. He was about to cry. When was the last time he did that, anyway? Childhood? Yes, when his pain was too much for his little body to bear with, and his brother wasn't near. When he felt weak and lonely.
He hung his head low, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands were shaking. Mycroft slowly took the glasses from his hand.
“Have you cried a single time in these three months?” he spoke quietly, almost in a whisper.
Louis shook his head wordlessly, afraid to choke on his own words.
“Then let those emotions out. Let them out, and don't let them heave at your chest.”
And so he did. He cried, pushing his palms into his face in an attempt to muffle his sobs. He cried for, what he hoped, the last time in his life and let everything out: pity for himself, guilt for his sins, despair for his past, grief for his brothers. He cried like a child he was once supposed to be, yet forced into becoming an adult. There was no Louis James Moriarty on this bench, but a lone stray with nothing but responsibilities, a promise and a hope for the better future to hold on to.
Mycroft Holmes silently sat beside him, smoking a cigarette and holding onto his glasses.