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“No, you must pull the skin down. Like this,” Mycroft instructs, flinching at the bit of blood beading on the surface of Sherlock’s throat. He demonstrates on himself, the razor rasping across the stubble and leaving behind a smooth patch devoid of stubble.
“I am pulling it down,” Sherlock objects, but he tries again, pulling his own razor up the side of his neck in a clean albeit wobbly fashion. “Why not just visit the barber?”
“You’d lose a pretty penny and quite a bit of your life were you to go every day,” Mycroft answers. “Holmes hair grows fast. Leave it for more than a day and you’ll end up looking like a vagabond by teatime. Besides, it isn’t difficult once you have the knack for it.”
Mycroft watches in the mirror as Sherlock makes another pass down the side of his cheek beneath the bone. Sherlock has always been clever with his hands, with everything from microscopes to lockpicks, and he’s gaining confidence with the razor with each passing minute.
“And do you, brother dear?”
Mycroft’s brow furrows. “What exactly do you think I’ve been teaching you for the last ten minutes, brother dear?”
“Well, one does wonder,” Sherlock says casually, rinsing off the shaving soap that has built up on the razor. “What with that feral animal on your upper lip.”
“A well-groomed moustache is the mark of a gentleman in London.” Mycroft carefully edges around the corners of his mouth. “Not that you would know. One would think you’ve been raised by wolves with the way you carry on sometimes.”
“You’d slander our mother so?” Sherlock hisses as the razor slips, resulting in another cut, this time on his bottom lip.
“Christ. Give that here and stop talking,” Mycroft instructs, wiping his hands and taking the razor from Sherlock before he can object. Sherlock huffs but dutifully tips his chin up when Mycroft nudges. His jaw is set in stubborn frustration, and Mycroft has to shave carefully around the tension. “In this and in many other aspects of your life, sometimes silence is key.”
“Is this about Abingdon?”
“Of course it’s about bloody Abingdon,” Mycroft snaps. “That’s the third school in as many years. When will you learn the value of obedience?”
“I can hardly stand by as—”
“You very well can! Mouthing off will get you absolutely nowhere in life. How else do you think I gained a position at the Foreign Office? It certainly wasn’t by calling the dean of my school a—well, I won’t even repeat it.”
Sherlock’s jaw ticks underneath Mycroft’s hand. His eyes are full of steely stubbornness, so young and so old at the same time. Some days it’s like Mycroft doesn’t even recognize Sherlock, and some days it seems like only yesterday that he was Mycroft’s baby brother, tagging along behind him on the estate.
Mycroft sighs. “I’ve secured you a position at Ilminster. You start on the first of the month. And I’ve told Father.” Though it’s an empty threat—Father barely replied to his telegram about Sherlock’s first expulsion, never mind the many subsequent ones. Work keeps him very busy.
“And Mother?” Sherlock asks angrily, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“No. You get to experience the joy of doing so yourself.”
“Mycroft!”
“I would keep my objections in check were I you, with a razor to my throat.” Though Mycroft is almost done—Sherlock barely had any hair to start with, and it was all wispy, fine hair, just starting to grow in.
“You would slit my throat?” Sherlock says, calculating. Mycroft recognizes it too late—Sherlock leans forward, into the razor, and Mycroft yanks it away as fast as he can. “It wouldn’t reflect very well on the Foreign Office, would it?”
“Be careful,” Mycroft snaps, clenching his hand into a fist so that it doesn’t tremble. “This isn’t a game.”
“Of course it is,” Sherlock replies, then takes the razor from Mycroft. He finishes the last strokes with a steady hand, then pats his face with a towel. “It all is. The only question is whether one is a pawn or a king.”
“Sherlock Holmes, King of England. God help us all.” Mycroft quickly finishes shaving his own face. Side by side in the mirror, two Holmeses stand with freshly-shaven faces. They couldn’t be more alike—they couldn’t be more different.
“Now come along. You’ll learn to care for your razor, and then we’ll visit Mother. You can impress her with your new knowledge.” He gathers up the shaving kits, two of them—one given by Silas to Mycroft, then passed on to Sherlock, and one freshly purchased with Her Majesty’s wages.
“Perhaps I can practice by taking care of that moustache of yours, brother dear,” Sherlock says. “She might dance out of joy.”
“Perhaps I might shave your head bald,” Mycroft retorts. “Let’s not deal in perhaps and maybes, shall we?”
Sherlock grins. “Perhaps.”