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Mycroft Holmes was well aware of the fact that in every single universe, he was overshadowed by Sherlock Holmes. He knew his brother was the one who was more suited for the limelight. In other circumstances, in other families, maybe that would have bothered him, kept him up at night.
But Mycroft Holmes was happy being out of the limelight. He was fine where he was, thank you very much.
No, while Sherlock tended to go for the dramatics, for the adventure, Mycroft was very happy waiting in the wings. Sherlock craved the hunt, craved the game. Mycroft craved other things. He craved normalcy. He craved leaving home and coming home at the same time every day. He liked rules, liked routine, and liked the fact that he could use his connections to get his brother out of jail every time he wanted to pick up a habit like pickpocketing the city’s wealthy. God, why couldn’t his brother find normal hobbies….
Maybe a job in government wasn’t what he always dreamed about. Maybe he longed for a job full of learning and research and philosophical conversations instead of working for a government that would sell him out the second it sensed a profit, but Mycroft accepted the fact a long time ago that a job in government was the best way to keep his brother and his mother safe. Lord knew their father was useless (and that was before he found out about his dastardly schemes), so Mycroft accepted the reality that it was up to him to protect them.
So he took that internship in London his father had gotten for him, he graduated top of his class, and once it became clear his little brother was most definitely going to need a ‘get out of jail free card’ and his mother was likely to spend the rest of her life locked away in an asylum, he took a job in Her Majesty’s government and never looked back.
And it was true… he liked consistency, he liked dependability, things that he could count on. He liked it when things remained status quo, when he could keep tabs on his brother and check in on his mother.
He liked the routine…. So he should have known it would all be blown out of the water the second that Sherlock introduced him to his… friend.
The thing was, Sherlock didn’t have friends. For as long as Mycroft had been alive, Sherlock had never had another human being he could call “friend.” The closest he had ever come to friends were his prison pals, who often just befriended him because they knew there was a chance he could use Mycroft’s string pulling to get themselves out.
No, Sherlock did not have friends. Mostly because he was too odd, too caught up in his own head and his own thoughts and his own imagination. Sherlock could not help himself, and it was something Mycroft had learned to live with and nurture over the years.
The other reason his little brother did not have friends was that people, once they realized the gift he had, only used him for whatever could benefit them. Mycroft had been to many of his brother’s expulsion meetings, and as far as he could tell, about fifty percent of his brother getting kicked out of school was caused by some other student using him to get something for them.
(Mycroft will always remember the first one of these meetings he attended, once he was at university and his father was away. Sherlock hadn’t wanted him to get involved, but there was no way he was going to let his brother get expelled without at least trying to understand why.
So he showed up at the meeting, and he could not help the cringe that overtook him when Sherlock explained how he broke into the professor’s office because a group of other boys, who, of course, denied the whole thing, asked him to.
Sherlock was quiet on the ride home, his eyes on the floor of the carriage. Mycroft simply asked him, “Why?” and he will always remember the hurt in his voice when he answered, “Because I thought they were my friends.”)
So, when he meets James, and when James is introduced to him as “my friend”, Myrcoft is immediately hesitant. There’s something about James, something about the way he looks at Sherlock that makes Mycroft hesitant.
Mycroft loves his brother; he would kill for his brother. His brother is probably one of the smartest people alive… but his brother is totally blind when it comes to other people. As beautiful as his mind is, it is also completely, totally, and unbearably trusting.
The greatest secret his brother has is that he is, despite what he tries to portray on the surface, deeply emotional. Mycroft sees it in the way Sherlock treats their mother, the way he revered their father, and lived with guilt over their sister. He sees it in the way Sherlock looks at him when he thinks he is not looking, the way he answers “Brother dear” without a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
And knowing this about his brother is why he clocks the fact that James Moriarty is, one day, going to ruin him.
It doesn’t click for him until after they talk together, until after James asks him about Sherlock as a child. Even then, it is after they solve the mystery of their father’s crimes together that the realization hits Mycroft like a punch to the face.
(The smile James had as he said, “Oh, I was thinking he’s very…. Intense.”
The way he ran to him in Paris, shouting his name, helping him up, caring for him in a way he was certain Sherlock had never been cared for by anyone other than his family. The way he came back to the hospital, joked with him as soon as he was awake.
The way Sherlock trusted him with their mother, trusted him with their family.)
No, it wasn’t until a very specific moment that it clicked for Mycroft.
It was after their father’s case, after things had settled down. There were many things Mycroft did not know then. Many things he would come to find out later. The equation, the key, the secrets, and the lies. He should have known better; he did know better. Sherlock was too curious for his own sake, and Mycroft should have taken that bloody key and thrown it into the Thames.
It was a simple thing, a regular night. James, Bea, Mother, Sherlock, and Mycroft sitting around and drinking together by the fire. Reminiscing, filling in the gaps of time. Sometimes, Mycroft will think back to these days and selfishly wish for them back.
They had been talking about something, some question or mystery, Mycroft can barely remember now. What he does remember is the moment Sherlock was talking to them and then was just… gone.
He had seen him do it countless times over the course of their childhood, but did not really get used to it until he was older. At first, he feared it was a sign Sherlock was more like their mother than he feared, but over time, he learned it was just his brother’s way of sorting all the information he has stored in his brain. His brother would be there one second, and then next completely stopped with a faraway look, often muttering to himself.
Over the years, Mycroft had developed a habit of apologizing for his brother, of explaining away the strangeness to friends or strangers, telling them that this was just a quirky trait of Sherlock’s as he quietly ushered him away to somewhere private. He knew better than to try to interrupt his brother during these moments, knew that he was as good as gone to the world until he solved whatever puzzle his brain was working through.
So that fateful night, as he watched Sherlock stop mid-conversation and stare off into space, he knew that his brother was gone to the others in the room. Bea let out a small “...oh,” and Mycroft took a breath to begin the usual spiel, but instead someone else beat him to it.
“Don’t worry about it, love. He tends to do this.”
And then James stood and did something that Mycroft had never seen before. He stood up, went to Sherlock, and started talking to him. But that wasn’t the part that took Mycroft’s breath away, no, it was the fact that Sherlock responded to him.
So he sat there and watched, holding his breath, as James did something Mycroft had never been able to do: navigate his brother’s mind.
The moment passed swiftly, Sherlock coming back to himself and announcing some discovery, but Mycroft didn’t process any of it. Instead, he stared at James, who stood, watching Sherlock with a sense of pride that made Mycroft’s stomach twist in knots. Mycroft didn’t sleep well that night and feels like he hasn’t had a good night of sleep since.
It was after that night that Mycroft made it a point to speak to James, and speak to him privately. He put it off as long as he could, as long as his conscience would allow, and then one night, as he lay in bed wishing he could sleep, he decided that he may have been many things, but a coward was not one of them, and went out to find James.
He found him in his usual spot, a pub not far from where they were living. James even kept a usual table, in the back, facing the entrance, with his back to the wall. There was not a person who came in that James did not see first, something Mycroft had noticed long ago and filed away.
James smiled when he saw him and gestured to the seat in front of him with his whiskey glass.
“Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”
Mycroft noticed that behind the smile he gave was a spark of curiosity, a spark of amusement.
“You look awfully serious there, Mikey.”
Mycroft tried not to cringe at the nickname. “I fear I come with rather serious business, James.”
Mycroft remembers the way James leaned forward and arched his eyebrow. “And what might that be?”
“Sherlock.”
For the first time that night, since Mycroft had seen him, James frowned. “Is something wrong with him? I just saw him a few hours ago.”
Mycroft wrung his hands together. “No, nothing wrong… yet.”
“Well, that sounds ominous.”
“James,” Mycroft leaned across the table, “for this conversation, I have a simple request.”
“And what might that be, brother dear?”
“Let’s both lay our cards on the table.”
“Meaning?”
“Right,” Mycroft cleared his throat and looked around, “let’s both cut the shit.”
James barked out a surprised laugh. “Well, alright then.”
“Firstly, I know you and Bea have had… relations. It would take a blind person not to see the two of you have a relationship bordering on… intimate.”
James downed his whiskey. “Does Sherlock know?”
“If he did, I wager you would be sporting a black eye by now.”
“So when you said it would take a blind person not to notice….”
“I am rather aware of the fact that when it comes to matters of personal relationships, my brother has no earthly clue what is going on.”
“I may have picked up on that.”
“If you ever tell my brother I said this, you and I will have a much different conversation.”
James perked up his eyebrows. “Now I’m curious.”
Mycroft sighed. “Protecting my brother has been my life’s goal since I was a child. Since the moment he was born, I… I swore that I would keep him safe. After Bea… after we thought… well, I admit I royally fucked up that part.”
James let out another surprised laugh. “I would say you’ve done a good job of it so far.”
Mycroft let out a humourless laugh. “Over recent years, I’ve done the best I could. I acknowledge the fact that my brother is sometimes difficult. I know he’s struggled with intimate relationships.”
James smirked. “Yes, him and the princess was a sight to see.”
Mycroft shook his head. “I’m not talking about the princess.”
James tilted his head. “I’m not sure I follow, then.”
Mycroft took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “My brother does not make friends easily, James.” He watched as the other man nodded. “I know the two of you joke, but I would wager to believe my brother does truly consider you a friend. Not just a friend but… a best friend. A brother. A partner. You are the only person outside of our family that my brother has ever loved.”
James sputtered at that. “Love is a strong word, I would say-”
“What did I say, James? Cut the shit. We both know my brother, for all he struggles with understanding social cues, he feels things on an incredibly deep level. He loves you, whether you want to admit it or not.”
James remained silent for a second. “I have,” he began slowly, “over the course of time we’ve known each other, grown quite fond of your brother as well.”
“Right then,” Mycroft sighed, “that’s good to hear. So please forgive the clichéd expression here, but I must ask, what are your intentions with my brother?”
James flinched. “Jesus, Mycroft, I’m not plannin’ to date him.”
“Right, no, of course not… just my sister.”
James pointed a finger at him, “Now hang on a second-”
“And I seem to recall Sherlock telling me a time you also tried to flirt with my mother.”
For the first time, possibly since he had known him, James blushed. “I cannot believe he told you that! That was absolutely not my-”
“My mother and my sister can handle themselves quite well, James. But my brother, on the other hand… if you hurt him…. I’m not sure he would recover from that.”
James scoffed. “What have I ever done to give you the impression I was going to hurt him?”
Mycroft picked his hat off the table and began playing with the brim. “I am under no illusion that I am the smarter brother between Sherlock and me,” he began. “But I will humbly say that I have some observational skills of my own. That and, as much as you would try to beat me at this, I know my brother better than anyone else in the world. I see beyond his brain and beyond his talent. I see what many do not: I see his heart. I see his care. I see his admittedly naive yet incredibly endearing, dangerously strong sense of ethics. I see the way he views the world, and I see that he has some outrageously large blind spots when it comes to the people around him… when it comes to you, James.”
For the first time since he started playing with his hat, Mycroft looks up at him and meets his eyes. “My brother thirsts for knowledge; he asks questions and pursues the answers. And you, James, you are the only one my brother has met that can keep up with him.”
James’s voice comes out quietly. “I feel the same about him.
“Yes, you two are very similar. But it is where you are different that concerns me. You see, James, when I look at you, I don’t see what I see in my brother. I see a man who hungers. I see a man who chases, who hunts, and who dominates. I see a man who has been hurt and will do whatever it takes not to be hurt again.”
James’s eyes never leave his. “And is that such a bad thing?”
Mycroft shakes his head. “No, it is not. But it is the same thing I saw in my father, and I believe that were it not for you, my father’s betrayal would have killed Sherlock.”
“I don’t think-”
“I know my brother, James. And I know for a fact that you are to him what I cannot be. You are his friend. His confidant. His partner. He turns to you. He trusts you. I am begging you, James. Do not hurt him.”
For the first time that night, James looks away, almost uncomfortable. His voice is almost too quiet to be heard. “And what if I can’t help it?”
Mycroft responded quickly. “Then end this. End it now. Leave. Go somewhere my brother will never find you and do what you feel needs to be done.”
James smiled. “We both know your brother would never let me go.”
“Then don’t hurt him, James. Whatever you’ve done, whatever you could be planning, choose to stay with us, stay with him. I will make sure you’re taken care of, I will-”
James snapped his head up. “I don’t want your charity.”
“Then what do you want?”
Mycroft watched as James’ eyes darkened. “My whole life, I’ve felt like I was on the outside looking in. My whole life, I have felt powerless.” He sneered. “I made a promise to myself that I would never feel that way again.”
“And do you feel that way with us, with Sherlock? We can have a good life. You, me, him, Bea. We can be a family.”
“What if that’s not enough?”
“What would be enough, James?”
James leaned in, and his face turned into a sneer. “I intend to find out.”
Mycroft looked at him, his gaze so intense that James leaned back. The two men stared at each other, both daring the other one to speak first.
Mycroft leaned back. “Here is what I think, James. I think nothing will ever be enough for you. I think that you will keep searching for it, leaving devastation in your wake. Sherlock would follow you to hell and back, but he will not be an accomplice in this war you will make for yourself. You would destroy him, and I will not let you.”
“So what do you propose?”
“I propose a truce, for now. You can go along like this conversation never happened, and I will not express my concerns to Sherlock or Bea.”
James almost looked surprised. “And in return?”
“You give me some sort of signal, some sort of sign, before you go off the deep end. I pray to God you never do, James, but if you ever betray him, then I beg you to at least warn me so I can pick up the pieces after you’ve left.”
Mycroft expects him to protest. Expects him to deny. Expects him to get angry. Instead, he nods. “And would you do something for me?”
James takes out his wallet and leaves change on the table. “What would that be, James?”
“Try to explain to him why I had to do it. Try to tell him… if I ever do leave… There was nothing he could have done differently.”
Mycroft nods. “I will, but he won’t believe me.”
James stands up to leave. “No, no, he won’t.”
And as Mycroft watched him leave, he could almost see the next few years play out in his head.
They would all get on happily, one big family.
Then, another case, another mystery, another weapon, another adventure. A betrayal, a fight, a stab in the back. A grand divorce.
And in the end, his brother… alone.
The only thing that will surprise him after the fact is how long it takes to happen. It’s not until years later, not until years of trust built up between the two of them, that James snaps.
Mycroft is, unfortunately, proven to be correct in every turn of events. James, true to his word, sends him a telegram while he is away on duty in Paris with four simple words. Tell him I’m sorry.
Mycroft doesn’t need to know who it is from; instead, he takes the first train back to London and tries to put back the pieces of a life that had exploded while he was away.
It is with a clear conscience that he does not fulfill his end of the promise. The betrayal is too great, so beyond what Mycroft could have even imagined. So instead of defending the man he had almost considered a brother, he swore to do everything he could to destroy him so Sherlock wouldn’t have to.
Sherlock self-detonates in a particularly spectacular fashion, and Mycroft is hit with the sudden uncontrollable fear that James may have actually broken his brother beyond repair. It is after this thought, after Mycroft spends time pondering how he is going to track James down and choke the light out of his eyes, that something rare happens.
For the first time in his life, he is glad he is wrong.
His brother, through some miracle…. Does something for the second time in his life.
He makes another friend.
This one is almost the complete opposite of James. He is kind, he is caring, he is grumpy in a way that perfectly matches Sherlock, and he is, shockingly, a writer.
He does not talk to Sherlock when he gets locked into his trances; instead, he is right there when Sherlock returns. He never apologizes for Sherlock; instead, he congratulates his brilliance. Sherlock will say he is embarrassed, say this “writing business is a bit much”, but Mycroft has never seen his brother smile the way he does with this friend. Mycroft knows that while he might not be able to keep up with Sherlock mentally, he is something that James Moriarty was, in the end, not.
John Watson is good. He is unflinchingly, unapologetically, good.
In the end, John is the only other soul Mycroft will tell of his conversation with James Moriarty that day. The two will be sitting in an old flat, tea long gone cold on the table as the room thickens with a grief unlike anything Mycroft has ever felt before, even after losing his father, his mother, and his sister.
He and John become close during this time. By now, his brother had countless people singing his praises, had adoring fans and many acquaintances, but only two men really knew him.
So they sat, and for the first time, Mycroft Holmes told John Watson the story of a young Sherlock and James before they became Holmes and Moriarty. And John listened, free of judgment and free of regret, like Mycroft knew he would. That day, Mycroft did something he had not done in many years… he cried.
-
(And when he finally made it back to his own flat, a letter was waiting for him.
In handwriting he had not read in years, a message was written.
Brother dear,
If you are reading this, then it means that my chapter has come to an end. Knowing our Sherlock, I know it is incredibly likely that his has as well.
There is no out for me, no secret plan, no surprise revenge. I have been beaten fair and square, and after all these years, I am sure that brings you satisfaction.
I know I have no right to ask, but I have one small favor to ask of you. When you think of me, when you curse my name, try to also remember what it was like before. My God, Mycroft, we were beautiful.
And during that time, remember what I said to you. “He is too stubborn to die…”
For what it is worth, I loved him too.
James.
Mycroft lights the letter on fire after he commits it to memory.
Later, he will find it ironic that in the end, James Moriarty was right one final time.)