Chapter Text
It was laughable, really, that none of them had figured it out yet.
The ruse was nearly transparent to anyone who looked closely enough, the very idea enough to make him laugh aloud in disbelief when it was first proposed to him in documents far more official than the absurdity contained within deserved. Who would ever believe such a thing? A fine actor he may be, skilled beyond compare in the arts of deception and subterfuge and the long con that had become as natural to him as breathing, but surely this was a step too far. Surely no one would fall for a story straight out of a cheap melodrama, no one would believe a history so patently engineered to earn sympathy and trust and condescending pity. But they had. One by one, they all bought into the carefully constructed identity that he assumed like a second skin, assessing and dismissing him as harmless and hopeless in an instant. Just as he intended.
For who would ever dream of suspecting that the man they knew as Martin Crieff, the nervous bumbling, useless pilot was nothing more than a cover for Martin Holmes, undercover agent for the British government?
The setup was simple – frighteningly so had Martin not already been intimately aware of how easy it was to do such things thanks to his eldest brother Mycroft’s tutelage. When the brother who was twelve years your senior was so high up in the government that he could use it as his personal plaything, such s minutia as false identification cards and records fabricating an entire history for him were mere trifles. He had not even needed to invent a name for himself, simply assuming the maiden name of an unimportant grandmother who had married into the wealth and power of the Holmes dynasty. No one remembered that Anna-Marie Holmes had once been Anna-Marie Crieff of solidly middle-class upbringing, and on one at all would ever connect the well-known Holmes name to the youngest son who looked nothing like his brothers.
Where Mycroft had inherited the elegant patrician’s bearing so common to their clan and Sherlock the brooding Byronic drama their mother had brought into the family with her French background, Martin somehow discovered both the genetics for both a slight build and the recessive red hair that ever so often popped up among them. To tell the truth, Martin had never really looked like a Holmes at all, except for the resemblance he bore Sherlock if one could look past their staggering differences, a fact that combined with the age difference between him and his brothers had left him ignored and forgotten by the society that welcomed the others with open arms.
That was exactly how Martin liked it. Oh sure, as a young boy there had been pangs of jealousy that Sherlock had inherited the startling good looks and Mycroft the commanding presence of the family, but they soon passed as Martin began to realize the full potential of his lot in life. Left in the shadows Martin had been able to use the powers of observation so flaunted by Sherlock and delicately employed by Mycroft to discover some fantastic truths. For with a carefully timed bluster, a perfectly calculated hunch of the shoulders, and a blush at ready command thanks to hours of practice, Martin had seen eyes slide past him as though he did not exist and forget him moments later. And oh, what a marvelously useful skill that could be.
What need was there for the Machiavellian power plays that Mycroft so loved of the flouncing dramatics that came as easily to Sherlock as breathing when Martin could observe at will unnoticed? When he could slip into any situation without the barest hint of suspicion and do whatever tasked needed to be done with calm efficiency? Gifted as he was with the Holmesian mind and the blessing of anonymity, Martin was born to be a spy.
Mycroft had taken an interest at an early age of course. Already in university and well on his way to a glittering career of government manipulation by the time that Martin was six and beginning to show his abilities, Mycroft began to keep a close eye on the brother he had previously disregarded. Sherlock, with his razor intelligence and obvious talents had been the object of Mycroft’s designs before but by the time he was eleven it was plain that his difficult and stubborn nature would never allow for a life of unquestioning obedience and following orders. But Martin, who kept to the sidelines, who always watched, watched, watched everyone and everything around him, now there was a promising candidate.
With their father’s permission, while on a break from university Mycroft had sat down the forgotten Holmes in the boy’s bedroom where they were sure to be safe from preying eyes and ears. The child watched him silently and steadily, not fidgeting or rolling his eyes in boredom and Sherlock inevitably did when detained in an activity not of his choosing for any length of time, but simply clutching the ragged teddy bear that accompanied him everywhere while he waited for Mycroft to say whatever was on his mind. For what felt like the first time, Mycroft truly examined the brother he barely knew, taking in everything from the slight build, to the quiet disposition, to the wide eyes, to the expression that at such a young age was already schooled into impassivity.
What was it about the Holmes family legacy that led them down this path, Mycroft wondered idly as the silence grew between them. Not for the first time the question of what might be wrong with them all flitted through Mycroft’s brain before being hastily dismissed as fanciful nonsense. They were not broken, just different. And sometimes, different could be powerful.
But neither of them had yet spoken a word in the echoingly empty and cavernous bedroom that Martin called home, filled with toys hardly touched and books that were already lovingly worn. It was clear that Martin would wait out whatever his brother had to say in silence for however long was necessary, a trait that Mycroft applauded in one so young and had already put to good use on more than one occasion. Yes Martin was turning out to be quite promising indeed.
“Do you know why I want to talk to you, Martin?” Mycroft asked lightly, keeping his tone carefully neutral.
Martin remained silent for a moment, assessing his brother with wide eyes before shaking his head solemnly. “No.”
Clever lad. Mycroft smiled indulgently, pleased with the direction this conversation was heading. “Now, Martin, there’s no need for that with me. I’m your brother, not your nanny or mummy, and I won’t get you in any trouble for what you say. So, why do I want to talk to you?”
Another deep silence followed this question as the small boy weighed the truthfulness of Mycroft’s words. Eventually he came to a conclusion, mind obviously spinning at high speeds. “You’ve been watching me since you got back from university” he said carefully to avoid tripping over the large word. “You watch me play with Bear, and with Sherlock when he lets me, you watch me at dinner, and you even watched me at the dinner party mummy and daddy had three nights ago. You try not to have anyone notice, but I still see. You saw me do something you liked, and you want to talk to me about it.” He paused, tilting his head in that motion that was so familiar to all three of them that it made Mycroft smile to see it. “Why do you watch me?”
Oh yes, he is good. Very good.
“Well Martin, you are absolutely right. I have been watching you since I came back, and you’re a very clever boy for seeing it. I’m proud of you.”
Martin perked up slightly at the praise, and Mycroft had to repress a smug smile to see it. Typical Holmes, jumping right into line at the faintest mention of any sort of praise. This is too easy.
He leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice to a whisper despite the absolute silence in the empty room. “And do you know why? It’s because you, Martin, are special.”
The eyes of the small boy clutching a teddy bear as though his life depended on it went as wide as saucers. That was clearly not the answer he had been expecting, but all of his focus and attention was now firmly fixed on Mycroft now as he leaned in eagerly to hear more. “Special? Me?”
“Yes Martin, you are very special. I’ve seen the way you watch everyone around you, how you pay such close attention to what other people miss. You’re a very bright little boy, and I think you have a big important future in front of you.”
“But what about Sherlock?” Martin asked with furrowed brow, leaping ahead in the conversation and demonstrating with startling acuity just the trait that Mycroft hoped to hone into an art. “He’s smarter than me, and he knows everything already. Everyone says he’s a genius.”
“Sherlock may have some…unique skills that make people say that, it’s true. The way he can read people, and remember everything, and pry into everyone’s business even when you don’t want him to. But you have skills too Martin, very good ones, and between you and me,” Mycroft dropped his voice to a whisper as though he were revealing a great secret, saying with sincere solemnity “I think yours are better.”
Martin’s eyes shone, and Mycroft allowed himself the tiniest moment of exultant triumph. Yes, I have him.
“So Martin, would you like to learn to do something amazing?”
-
Training started small, hidden as needs must in puzzles and games and challenges for a boy far too small for anything more difficult. This beginning stage was by far the most crucial, when a young mind was the most malleable and capable of learning skills that would last a lifetime, but it was by far the most delicate as well. Cautious steps must be made, every precaution taken, fail-safes and preventative measures set up to keep the whole endeavor from crumbling before it even began. Because the last thing that Mycroft needed was to face Mummy’s towering wrath if she found out what exactly was being done to her baby. Clever, devious, and resourceful Mycroft might be, but he knew far better than to get himself involved in a battle he had no hope of winning and suffer repercussions beyond comprehension.
In addition to the dire consequences in store for him if he were to be discovered by a mother so indomitable that she could have made several of the high ups at MI6 with nothing more than an eloquent arch of an eyebrow, there was the considerable issue of just how things were to proceed. Mycroft had a precious two weeks left at home before he would be forced to return to university for the next term, a prospect that he did not relish in the slightest and yet was still a tedious necessity of life. Even if he was already far beyond the scope of nearly all of his courses, and had in fact been long before he even applied to the damn school, procedure and form must be as always be followed to the letter. If he were to have any hope of moving onwards and upwards in the career he had carefully plotted for himself a university degree was just one more step he needed to take, and the connections he would make in these years were invaluable and could not possible be replaced.
But as necessary as university was, it did Mycroft no favors when it came to training his young protégé. Two weeks and two weeks only to lay the oh so important groundwork that would last a lifetime – it seemed an impossible task, but there was nothing Mycroft loved more than a challenge and this was certainly one that was more than worthy of him. And so with feather-light delicacy and infinite care, Mycroft began the process of molding Martin for a career of service and duty. There was much to learn after all, and hardly enough time to begin learning it all.
Observation.
Logic.
Blending into the background.
Reading emotions.
Language basics.
All were skills to be mastered, and all needed to have their seeds planted in a mind still fertile enough to cultivate them properly. Certain of these were easy enough to accomplish even with the threat of maternal retribution looming large – it was the work of a moment to disguise exercises in observation, memorization, and logical thinking as puzzles and games for his little brother to occupy play time. Martin was more than glad of both the attention and the games, reveling in the undivided attention of an older brother he had thought did not like him and taking to the challenges set for him like a fish to water. He burned through the introductory puzzles almost as fast as Mycroft could set them, showing a startling aptitude for problem solving and creative thinking and coming up with solutions that even Mycroft had not expected. And with every bit of praise that he earned or smile that Mycroft sent in his direction, the boy stood a little taller and worked a little harder to impress his mentor.
Other subjects were not so simple however. A foundation in foreign languages was crucial right now when Martin was still young enough to pick them up easily, but how on earth could one be expected to secretly teach their baby brother Arabic? Even Spanish was going to be a challenge despite its similarities to French, a language that Martin could already switch in and out of with ease thanks to their mother’s tutelage. After a long evening spent awake wrestling with the problem, Mycroft came to the grim realization that there would be nothing for it but to confront the issue head on. He loathed being so obvious with his manipulation of the direction of things, but without the direct influence he was going to lose all too soon, there was simply no other way to move forward. And besides, Martin was going to need to learn how to indirectly manipulate those around him to get what he wanted sooner or later, and there was no time like the present to begin.
The next day, sitting cross legged on the floor of Martin’s bedroom Mycroft looked carefully at the boy as he worked away happily at a puzzle that exercised both logic and memorization and combined the two into a game of observation devised by a young Mycroft during a childhood spent so very alone. It was only their fourth day working together under the guise of brotherly play, but Martin was picking up the tricks and traits of espionage with incredible speed, and Mycroft was even allowing himself an unusual measure of optimism for the future. Good lord the boy is quick – almost as quick as I was at this. He might even be brilliant if I can just get him through this step.
“Martin,” Mycroft began casually, keeping his tone light as he always did, “tell me, do you like learning French?”
The young boy looked up at him through a mop of red curls that had gone ever so slightly messy since his nanny had gratefully turned him over to his brother’s care for the afternoon, eyes wide with surprise and adoration for the only family member to pay him prolonged attention in quite some time. He nodded vigorously, and the sight of so small a boy sitting attentively next to a beloved teddy bear who had been given a puzzle of his very own to solve was so charming that a smile more genuinely tender than Mycroft had ever intended appeared on his face. Thankfully such a smile was exactly what he needed at the moment, so the mistake was not a dire one.
“Ah, I thought so. It’s fun having a secret language, isn’t it?” he whispered furtively, slipping into French and earning a dazzling grin and a happy giggle from Martin.
“Yes, I talk in French to Bear lots of time so Nanny can’t listen to us” he whispered in return, slipping into nearly accent-free French without a second thought. “Bear’s French isn’t very good but I can understand him because I listen very hard. That’s good, right?”
Oh Martin, you have no idea how good. “Yes, that’s very good, that’s very smart of you. And I’m sure Bear appreciates the listening.” He paused briefly, then asked thoughtfully in English as though it had just occurred to him, “Does Mummy listen to you when you talk to Bear?”
Martin stared at him, dumbfounded. The idea that anyone would listen to his private conversations with his best friend had clearly never occurred to him, making Mycroft doubly glad that he had decided on this route. After a moment of confused contemplation, Martin furrowed his brow and answered slowly, “I…but Mummy never listens to me, not even in English. Why would she listen to me and Bear talk?”
Mycroft shrugged, the perfect picture of casual nonchalance. “Oh I don’t know, she might be interested in what you two have to say to each other. Maybe you’re telling secrets that she wants to know.”
“But Mummy doesn’t do that.”
“She doesn’t? How do you know?” Mycroft asked, the lightness of his voice hiding the sudden increase of his pulse and the breath he was holding in anticipation. This was the moment, the moment that could define Martin and set him on a new path towards greatness, or the moment that would hold him back. The moment that would define his future, or consign him to a life of bitter mediocrity.
Martin frowned, looking over at Bear for help and finding none. This was a problem he needed to work through for himself, no matter how difficult it was for him to reevaluate his entire conception of the world and the way his carefully ordered and structured reality functioned. Finally, after a minute of deep thought in which Mycroft was only able to hold himself together through sheer force of willpower alone, Martin looked up at Mycroft and said solemnly, “I don’t know that. Mummy could listen to me talk to Bear, and I don’t like that.”
Yes. Oh yes, you clever, brilliant little boy.
With an inelegant scoot that he was deeply grateful that no one else was around to see, Mycroft closed the distance between himself and Martin and said in a low voice, “Of course you don’t like it, it’s not nice to have people listen to your secrets. But people do listen, all the time, so you have to be careful to make sure they can’t ever hear you when you don’t want them to. Does that make sense?” Martin nodded, reaching over to pull Bear into his lap and hug him close where the world with its listening ears and insistent hands could not touch him. “I know it’s scary to think about, but there are ways to keep secrets to yourself so other people can’t get them. Would you like to learn?”
Another nod answered this question, more insistent and enthusiastic than the last. Once more, exultation flooded through Mycroft at the sight and the satisfaction of knowing that he had Martin exactly where he wanted him.
“I can help because I know lots of ways to keep secrets from people, but I’m going to need you to be a brave and smart little boy like I know you can, ok? If you do exactly what I tell you, you can learn lots of cool new things that we can share and talk about. And remember, this is our secret.”
-
“I have no idea what’s gotten into your brother.”
“What do you mean, father?”
“I mean that yesterday he came up to me and said he wanted to learn German, completely out of the blue. The boy’s hardly even in school yet, where did that come from?”
“Oh, that. Well, I’m afraid that might be a bit my fault. I’ve been spending some time with him, trying to get to know him a bit, and I think he may have gotten he idea that he wants to go into civil service too. You know how children are.”
“Civil service? He’s six! Shouldn’t he want to be an astronaut or something?”
“I know, I know. But I mentioned being a diplomat and going to other countries, and well, I think he’s rather got his heart set on it now. It might be good to humor him, and besides starting him on other languages young can’t hurt. He’s certainly got a knack for French.”
“I suppose…still seems a bit young for it though. We’d have to find him a good tutor.”
“Don’t worry father, I think I know just the man.”
-
Settling into his seat on the train back to Cambridge with a contented sigh, Mycroft allowed himself a moment of satisfied pride at the work he had accomplished in so short a time. Before coming home for this break, he’d had no idea that he would discover a perfect little spy ready to train right in his own home, or that his baby brother would provide such malleable clay with which to work. But one certainly could not pass up such a perfect opportunity when it was dropped so neatly in your lap by the hands of whatever fate was guiding him, and Mycroft had seized it gladly. Oh yes, it would be many years yet before Martin would be even close to ready for any real work in MI6, but that was just as Mycroft wanted it. After all, he needed to get himself far enough up the ranks to watch over his little brother and ensure his success, and that sort of thing took time. Time, and effort, and just the tiniest bit of luck – luck that after the last two weeks Mycroft was quite sure was firmly on his side.
So yes, there would be time. Time for Martin to begin learning studying as many languages as could fit in his head with the specialized tutor who oh so conveniently would report to Mycroft for direction. Time for the boy to continue on with the puzzles and challenges that Mycroft would send him on a regular basis to expand that rapidly growing mind of his. And when Mycroft was finally done with the distressingly tedious business of university, time for the boy to get down to the real work that needed to be done.
There was much to do. But after all, Mycroft reflected as he watched the countryside slip away from him with private smile, what fun would life be without a challenge?