Chapter Text
Mycroft knew the moment Sherlock brought his chemist to Christmas that it was going to be the usual. Every Christmas, without fail, Sherlock would upend in one way or another. Perhaps, given the type of interruption this year, there might at least be the chance Christmas would end early.
Christmas dinners for the Holmes family did so often have a certain je ne sais quoi.
Or rather, je sais quoi?
He shook his head at himself. The season was getting to him. It hadn’t been more than a few hours, and he felt himself coming undone.
Sherlock showed no signs of relapse, and so on that alone, he assumed that he was the next logical choice.
He suspected if it were about drugging their parents, call the day off, Sherlock might have let him in on it, with full knowledge he would be a willing accomplice.
Of course, Mycroft gave no indication that he suspected anything. As ever, it was easier that way.
As the day went on, and awful business continued, he played a little game with himself. Find the drugs, or rather, find the proverbial peanut butter that Sherlock had stashed the drugs in.
At first, he thought the food, though that wouldn’t be reliable dosing.
Then the cake, not ideal, but portionable.
He recognised quickly this might have been wishful thinking on his part. He did really want it to be the cake. It intrigued him.
When he spied the punch being placed out, he inclined his head.
Surely Sherlock wouldn’t be so obvious. Mycroft thought to himself, frowning. He approached, inspected the liquid for a moment, then brought his attention back to the room.
“Punch, how quaint.” He began, “Might we be struggling through by imbibing?”
“Oh, Myc.” Their mother chided immediately.
“Mycroft,” Mycroft corrected with a terse smile. “If you could.”
It took a moment, two in fact, to dig deep inside himself for some decorum.
Mycroft exhaled through his nose quietly and poured himself some punch. When he took a sip, he made a noise of realisation, triumph almost, as the game came to an end. He had located the peanut butter, er, source.
In the punch, then. How very fraternity of him. Mycroft thought, brow soaring.
Sherlock looked up warily, just enough to observe but not give himself away.
Mycroft had caught his brother’s sudden attention in his periphery.
“Strong.” Mycroft covered, turning toward him fully and gesturing with his drink.
Sherlock narrowed his gaze. “You’re not serious.”
Mycroft smiled politely. He permitted himself a single thought of: But why?
Which very quickly became: Oh well, whatever makes this day end, I suppose.
He took a bigger drink then.
And another for good measure.
As he tipped the glass back the second time, he saw his laptop at the corner of his vision, beneath potatoes.
Ah.
*
“I’m glad you’ve given up on the Magnussen business,” Mycroft said as he stood with his brother in the garden, smoking. He kept his gaze steady on him, observing.
Sherlock kept his back turned to him. They both knew Sherlock struggled to lie to his face.
“Are you?” Sherlock responded flatly.
Mycroft sidestepped the question, offering one of his own. “I’m still curious, though. He’s hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you hate him?”
Mycroft listened not for anger, but for the sound of a decision already made. Terminal intent.
“Because he attacks people who are different, and preys on their secrets – why don’t you?” Sherlock snapped, eyes wild but not furious.
Mycroft absorbed the vitriol, regulating the moment with conversation. “He never causes too much damage to anyone important. He’s far too intelligent for that. He’s a businessman, that’s all. And occasionally useful to us.” He paused, then added. ”A necessary evil, not a dragon for you to slay.”
Sherlock exhaled sharply, then moved closer to his brother, almost shoulder to shoulder as the moment narrowed in around them.
“A dragon slayer, is that what you think of me?” Sherlock asked.
“No.” Mycroft lied, considering his words carefully. “It’s what you think of yourself.”
Stillness resumed, and Mycroft considered his options.
Sherlock gave him no indication that the destruction of Magnussen’s person was planned. It was a risk, of course, but not guaranteed. Mycroft had learned, over time, what intent sounded like in his brother. This was not it.
From this Mycroft decided to permit Sherlock his plan – such as it was. He did not raise the alarm, though he was aware he should have. This was either going to go exceptionally, or terribly. It was amazing how often those two tended to coincide. Especially when Sherlock Holmes was involved.
Mycroft took another drag and coughed, grimacing. “This isn’t agreeing with me.” Mycroft said queasily, dropping and then crushing the cigarette underfoot. Sherlock, of course, thought he meant the cigarette. Mycroft meant the punch.
“I’m going in.” Mycroft added.
“You need low tar.” Sherlock chimed, “You still smoke like a beginner.”
Mycroft did not rise to the bait. Instead, he thought about the time it had taken for the drugs to reach peak effectiveness. Realistically, Sherlock could have chloroformed him, and the outcome would have been much the same.
A pang, then. He examined it briefly and noted that Sherlock was being especially careful with them. Something in him felt weirdly cared for.
He felt something like warmth, then came over decidedly wistful.
“Also.” He almost closed his eyes but didn’t. “Your loss would break my heart.”
Sherlock sputtered on the next drag.
“What the hell am I supposed to say to that?” Sherlock coughed, incredulously.
“Merry Christmas?” Mycroft supplied.
“You hate Christmas.”
“Yes” He responded, brow knit, as if he had only just remembered. “…Perhaps there was something in the punch?” Mycroft said knowingly, though he sensed Sherlock missed it.
“Clearly.” Sherlock responded flatly. “Go and have some more.”
Gladly, Mycroft thought.
Sherlock watched Mycroft smile mildly, turn on the step and go in.
*
When Mycroft walked inside, he stumbled, catching himself on the wall at the entrance. Struck with inspiration, he borrowed the wall’s stability to reach into his breast pocket to retrieve his phone.
Clumsily going through his contacts, he stopped on DI Lestrade and called without hesitation.
It went straight to voice mail. This did not deter him.
“Gregory!” He began in earnest, “Just calling to tell you that you’re great, and I rather think – if it’s all the same to you – we should go out for dinner sometime, after this whole ghastly business of the holidays is over.”
His voice was uncharacteristically jovial for the time of year, though some words had slurred at the edges. “Anyway. Must go. I’m losing consciousness.”
With that, he hung up and permitted himself a glance of the living room. He was vaguely aware of silhouettes. One sprawled out on the sofa, the other reclined in the kitchen.
Their parents, probably, as he walked toward the kitchen.
He swayed then swallowed sickly as the room tilted. He paused just long enough to regain his balance, then stepped past one and then both of his parents. Unconscious, then. He noted without interest.
Sherlock’s dealer watched Mycroft in silent confusion, and restrained alarm as they made eye contact with each other.
Mycroft tried to wink but instead blinked with both eyes.
Got – as the children say – ‘em.
He then sat at the table, placed his head down, and succumbed. He had just enough time to think of the hours that would be wasted on blissful nothing.
Christmas avoided.