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And the Lord said, "What have you done? Listen; your brother's blood is crying out to me from the ground! And now you are cursed from the ground, which has opened its mouth to receive your brother's blood from your hand.
After Afshin, Mycroft Holmes returns home to London. A place for everything, everything in its place — Sherlock and Mother back to Appleton Manor where they belong, and Mycroft back to London where he belongs. Silas Holmes has returned to his maker. He is rather unsure where Beatrice has decided to spend her time; she hasn’t told him.
He tells himself it’s a miracle, of course. The miracle of life, the miracle of family, the miracle of patience: he is no longer Sherlock’s mother, father, and brother. It is almost ridiculous to miss the burden of responsibility, but such is Mycroft’s own cross to bear. Even when he was young, Mycroft had never quite understood Cain’s refusal, that first mortal sin. He has never minded being his brother’s keeper, not even when he was barely twelve. Give a child a child, and he would never want for control — Mycroft told himself this must’ve been why God gave him Sherlock. What other reason could there possibly have been?
London is cold and inhospitable as it always is, but even this city has a sheen of wonder about it nowadays. Shou’an had sent him a letter the other day: you should travel to Gansu Corridor next year, when it’s the season for it. You might even enjoy it, if you can enjoy anything. The unsaid corollary at the end: unlike your brother.
Contrary to popular belief, Mycroft is plenty interesting on his own, without his brother or his sister or his mother. He does not miss his father as much as he should; this may be a fault in his character, but he rather can’t bring himself to investigate the matter. His father is dead, and he rarely thinks about him. An eldest son should miss his father, should mourn him greater than any other person on Earth. But Mycroft has been the only orphan in his family for a great many years, and the sudden rush of zero-one-two-one has been difficult to adjust to. He has borne the sudden forced relinquishment of Sherlock to his father and then back again surprisingly well. He can’t be expected to feign those explicit mourning rituals for a man he barely talked to at the end, really.
Bea had been the straw that broke the camel’s back, of course. Trading in a man capable of hiding his little sister away right under his nose, feigning death and loss and grief — it was never a question of loyalty for Mycroft. Sherlock had made him a brother, Beatrice had kept him a brother, and besides, it was awfully gauche to define himself as someone’s son. Brother was more interesting. He thinks a father for a sister is more than a fair trade, even if the aforementioned sister refuses to see him at normal hours.
Case in point: Beatrice is in his quarters, the lock pried open with the finesse of a master of her craft. She’s sitting on his favorite armchair, cross-legged, smoking a cigarette inside the house. It will be absolute murder to get the stench out of his rooms, but he tries not to be too particular about these things. It’s difficult enough to speak to her; he still catches himself calling her Edie at the back of his mind sometimes.
Mycroft is quite aware that their mother and father believe Sherlock is the genius out of the three Holmes siblings, even if Sherlock himself doesn’t quite seem to have as big of an ego as one might expect about the whole blasted thing — there are times when Sherlock seems almost in awe of Mycroft, like he’s a child again. Mycroft thinks, though, that they might’ve all gotten it wrong after all: it’s Bea, it’s clearly Bea, it was always going to be. Silas had offered his empire to Sherlock, to Beatrice. Mycroft had slipped by just the same as ever, turncoat and betrayer and murderer.
“Brother dear,” Beatrice sings, gleeful. She’s rarely in such good spirits nowadays — Mycroft wonders which poor soul must’ve been robbed of all his gold, if his sister’s joyous in his drawing room. He sits in the horrid chair across from her, the one he really must give away or embroider a cushion for, the one he makes all the stragglers of the Diogenes Club sit in when they come for tea. “Prepare yourself. I’ve come bearing a gift.”
“And what might it be?” Mycroft asks evenly. He’s quite skilled at keeping his composure, so he doesn’t find it difficult to keep the smile off his face. Sherlock is the one who inherited the strict moral code, although God only knows where he must’ve got it from — he and Bea are cut from the same cloth, instead. Tapestry upon tapestry of terrible decisions.
It’s only a matter of time before the family illness infects Sherlock, too. Mycroft’s already seen the beginnings of it, the glint in Sherlock’s eyes when he saw the key, the book, the game. Mycroft had told him to close the book, and he had. Mycroft Holmes could never want for control, could never want for anything at all. A clerkship at twelve. What more could anyone want?
“A bit of fun,” Beatrice replies, taking a drag of her cigarette. She tilts her head to the side, eyeing Mycroft with something terribly interested in her gaze. From the pocket of her blazer (which is really tailored so well, it’s shocking, maybe Sherlock is born in the wrong family after all), she draws out a folded piece of letter-paper, skimming the edge along her nails.
Mycroft swallows. He runs through the dramatis personae in his head: Sherlock at home in Appleton Manor with Mother, Beatrice sitting across from him, Shou’an having reunited with her village halfway across the world. Father is dead, although Mycroft wouldn’t put it past him to reanimate his waterlogged corpse, just to give Mycroft one more thing to manage. Hodge is dead, and his government job, no matter how fucking boring it is, has been returned to him. He closes his eyes and sees the flash of Bea’s arm, broken, her elbow out of its socket — and then he blinks again and she’s back in front of him, healthy and beautiful and old.
It’s always a wonder, watching his sister grow old. He hopes she’ll outlive him by twenty years, thirty years, forty years. However many she’d like. Mycroft tilts his head back towards her. They used to play a game like this, Mycroft and Beatrice: mirror, mirror, on the wall. “Please. Feel free to elucidate whenever you’d like.”
Beatrice passes him the note, sitting up straight so that Mycroft will have to be the one to lean over and grab the letter. He thinks that might be pride bubbling up inside of him, pride and adoration and tenderness. Mycroft Holmes at twelve was not supposed to want for anything, of course, but he was never very good at following orders: more than anything else on Earth, Mycroft Holmes wanted his sister returned to him. And God said let there be light; and here was Beatrice, sitting right across from him with a smile on her face.
“It really became too much of a hassle, you know, dodging questions about why my dear eldest brother is in London and hasn’t invited me into his home,” Beatrice says. She raises an eyebrow, her eyes flicking down to the note in Mycroft’s hands. “Last night, then, I thought, why not cut the cancer out altogether?”
Mycroft ignores her teasing, but he does open the letter. The card is thick and weighty, the ink still gleaming in the light. The penmanship is fanciful and neat — Mycroft recognizes it, of course he recognizes it.
Mycroft Holmes,
I hear you reside in London at present. You may find yourself at the Diogenes Club around five tomorrow. I’ll see you then.
- M
“Good Heavens, Bea, is he inviting me to my own gentleman’s club?” Mycroft bursts out, crumpling the edge of the card with how fast his hands tighten into a fist. He presses his temples with his free hand, drawing out the aches in his head that are sure to begin soon, considering the circumstances. He places the note down on the table across from him. “He’s — my own club?”
Beatrice grins, and Mycroft realizes he may have miscalculated altogether. Maybe Sherlock is not the one in danger of being tempted out of his cleverness by something new and shiny. Maybe Mycroft is. She crosses her arms in front of her, looking ever-so-pleased with herself. “Oh, but, brother dear, you’ll be there at the eve anyway! Why stop now?”
There’s a flash of her as Edie again: bad luck, old chum. He presses his temples harder and harder until he sees fuzzy spots of color fill his line of sight, covering up his sister until she’s Beatrice again like she’s always been. Give a child a child — sometimes, he thinks he’s still that child, only now he’s been given a sister to raise instead of a brother. “Right. I suppose you’ve got no hand in this now, then.”
Beatrice tips her chin up. There is a sinister amount of pride involved in being a Holmes, Mycroft has come to understand. It’s a Sisyphean task to stop the fall; at least Mycroft had a handle on himself, with this job and this life and this body. Beatrice never had a chance. Neither did Sherlock, now that he thinks about it, not since that first time Mycroft saw him with his eyes following James Moriarty in the Oxford mess. Beatrice clicks her tongue. “The address of the princess in China. I know you’ve been sending her letters, brother dear.”
“It’s impolite to go through one’s brother’s private mailing parcels,” Mycroft says, pressing the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t know what she could possibly want from Shou’an, but he knows it’s nothing good. There can’t be anything good that comes out of what happened in Constantinople (his father dead, his brother a murderer, his mother insane, his sister unrecognizable, Mycroft a turncoat —), but he thinks Shou’an’s return to her hometown might come close. “Should I relay a message?”
The shift is instantaneous; Beatrice clams up, averting her eyes the other way, taking another drag of her cigarette instead. “No. I have business with her,” she says with finality.
“Hmm,” says Mycroft instead of what he really wants to say, which is more along the lines of: put the fucking equation down, Beatrice, he is dead in the ground because of it and you might be, too, if you carry on like this, and I’ve already seen you dead once. Instead, he leans back in his chair, considering. “You might do well to drop the duality, Bea. I’m not Sherlock.”
Beatrice does not relax, but her shoulders do drop incrementally forward — Mycroft considers that some sort of progress, anyway. She holds her cigarette between two of her fingers, glancing over at Mycroft’s ashtray with a curious look in her eyes. “How much did you know? Before Constantinople, I mean.”
Mycroft thinks about it; he has decided seven years of extra age is enough to be allowed a white lie here and there. He swallows down the truth, which is that he always knew something. It wouldn’t do any good here. “I suspected. The abbey was a giveaway. I thought I was going insane like Mother had.”
Witless was the word Mycroft had used to describe himself, actually — he’d thought about what he would say if it was Sherlock proposing this theory to him, and he’d decided it was completely witless to think Bucephalus Hodge’s assistant had some deep and abiding connection to Mycroft Holmes. It was possible there were thousands of fathers in London who encouraged their children to read, but of course, Mycroft would be lying if he’d said it was just that. Edie had beaten him — him! — and Mycroft was inimitable. Singular. And then there were three.
“Yes, madness does tend to run in your family,” Beatrice replies, stubbing out her cigarette. She catches herself mid-motion, pausing while she registers her own words. She clears her throat. “Our family. Will you give me the address, brother dear?”
“I don’t believe selling it will work on its own, Bea. Your co-conspirator’s too busy playing cat-and-mouse with our dear brother to realize this. But you know — don’t you? This isn’t enough. The theory, maybe, but the practical use and the tools Malik used, they’re not so easy to gain access to,” Mycroft says, revealing his hand. He closes his eyes, refusing to see the surprise on his sister’s face, the gleam in her own eyes that reflect his back to him. She used to look like him, when she was younger, even though now she’s grown into the right Irish twin of Sherlock. “I had tried to tell you, you know. I’m not Sherlock. Neither are you.”
“No,” says Beatrice. Mycroft opens his eyes, and it’s still not fast enough to dodge away from Bea’s hungry gaze and the glint in her smile. He doesn’t know when he started looking at her face and seeing himself reflected there, seeing the ravenous way Sherlock had looked at the key in her eyes. There is a pocket calendar in the back of his desk behind his letters, there is a pocket calendar that says exactly when Mother called to say Sherlock was travelling to London, there is a pocket calendar that Beatrice must have seen when she rifled through his papers, there is — Beatrice clicks her tongue, breaking him out of his misery. “For what it’s worth, I never thought you would be a turncoat in Constantinople. It wouldn’t be that easy for you to break free of him.”
Mycroft can’t tell if the him she mentions is Silas or Sherlock, although the facts of the matter remain the same regardless. A miracle, then, that he is no longer Sherlock’s only friend nor his only sibling nor his only parent — a miracle, then, that he is nothing at all except Mycroft Holmes.
He glances up at Beatrice, finally, and he sees his own face staring back at him. “No. You’re right. Now, tell me what exactly you want from the princess.”
—
Mycroft had expected James Moriarty to be waiting for him at the Diogenes Club in one of his customary brown suits, handsomely nonchalant as always, nose drawn high and proud. He’s right on two accounts, but instead of the brown, James looks resplendent in white. He’s got himself a glass of whiskey, his ankle drawn over his knee. Mycroft is suddenly and abruptly furious that he’s the Holmes brought in to deal with this James, lean and slick and watching Mycroft with a crafty, dangerous look in his eyes. A snake, maybe, or a dragon. Mycroft hasn’t decided yet if he’s predator or prey.
“Ach, Mycroft, welcome to the Diogenes Club,” James taunts with a grin, clicking his tongue. He gestures around with his free arm like he owns the entire building, dismissively ignoring Mycroft’s proximity to him — the back of his hand slaps Mycroft’s chest, resting there for a second too long before James drops it. “For unsociable men, they tell me. Why, I didn’t realize that meant you.”
“You may have missed the plaque commemorating my founding of the club in the hall, then,” Mycroft replies, dropping into the mahogany chair across from James. He angles his body further than he thinks possible, although James really doesn’t seem to mind — he simply pulls his chair in further, drawing ever-closer like a chill up his spine. “You’ve never had an issue with unsociable men before. How is my dear brother, by the by?”
James looks away; the first sign of weakness. “I wouldn’t know. There’s only one Holmes I’ve been seeing as of late — but I’m sure you must know that already. Beatrice did say you were the clever one.”
“Clever as I might be, Mr. Moriarty,” Mycroft says, leaning back in his chair, “you haven’t answered my question.”
“I haven’t seen him,” James repeats. Mycroft thinks he can almost catch a tell, if he looks close enough at James’ ears. They turn red, he thinks, when James decides on dishonesty. Right now, they shine against the glaring white of his suit, the sharp green of his pocket square. He does not look like a dishonest man, really, but Mycroft has known many dishonest men who looked beautiful, and he thinks this one can’t be unique. At least James has the good sense to protect Sherlock, still, even if it’s breaking into his own safety.
Mycroft glances around; there’s no one in the room except the two of them. He’d had the good sense to dismiss the club butler before he’d come in, at least. “Mr. Moriarty, I’m sure we can have a civil conversation without all this duplicity. Sherlock came to London last week; neither Beatrice nor I saw heads or tails of him. I ask you again: how is my dear brother, by the by?”
“Jesus. He didn’t come see you?” James asks instead, suddenly, his eyebrows drawing together in that supremely expressive way of his. He looks like he’s puzzling out the mystery of Sherlock like one of Babbage’s Difference Engines — he looks like a man obsessed. Mycroft could save him the trouble; there is absolutely no solution to the mystery of Sherlock Holmes, and one could go insane simply trying to find one. “That’s curious. Odd. Why wouldn’t he?”
James Moriarty is as clever as they come, so Mycroft really doesn’t pretend to know why he’s pretending to be an idiot tonight. He takes the glass of whiskey that’s been offered to him, finally, and sips it. “Why did you invite me here, James, if not for him? I half thought I might bring Beatrice or Sherlock, just in case. Who knows which one you’ve been chasing after today?”
It’s a gamble. With Beatrice, of course, it is an open secret as all secrets like this can be — she and James have been carrying on in London just fine, apparently, and they seem to be keeping out of trouble well enough, considering the only time Mycroft hears about Beatrice is from Beatrice herself.
With Sherlock, as with most things regarding his brother, everything is completely and utterly awry. Mycroft thinks he may know Sherlock better than he knows himself, sometimes. There is, of course, the matter of the law, although Mycroft is almost certain that Sherlock doesn’t know he’s capable of breaking this one. His brother is clever, yes, but he’s no cleverer about himself than he is about the matters of affection. A friend is already bad enough; much less James Moriarty, sitting there across from Mycroft now, crude and lovely and obsessed. Mycroft does not like to mince his words nowadays: here is a man obsessed, and here is Sherlock playing at obsession. He’s seen it before, he’s felt it before, he knows it can’t — he knows there is never a happy ending.
“Would you arrest me?” James tilts his head, looking awfully like Beatrice, like Sherlock. He seems genuinely curious, like he has no skin in the game — distant, scientific. Mycroft wishes, more than anything on Earth, that he could be so lucky. Instead, he has these hands and James has those eyes, and neither of them know how to be with each other tonight. “On the suspicion, of course. I did invite you here all alone, after all.”
“No,” says Mycroft, honestly, although he doesn’t know what possesses him to tell the truth. He downs the rest of his whiskey, deciding that he might as well stockpile as much liquid courage as he can fit inside his lungs. He lets James get up to fill his glass again, waiting for him to turn back towards Mycroft until he speaks. “No sooner would I arrest my own brother.”
James snorts in disbelief, swiping a sip from Mycroft’s glass of whiskey before handing it back to him. He shakes his head. “Jesus, how the fuck is that supposed to make me feel better? You put him in the gaol, didn’t you, at the beginning? Before Oxford.”
“And yet,” Mycroft replies, delicate. He presses the bridge of his nose, letting the shiver run up his spine without a second thought. There’s such a thing as too much whiskey, he thinks, and he may have found that limit without intending on it. “It’s a ridiculous question, Mr. Moriarty. Unsociable men and all.”
James looks up instantly, blinking, eyebrows already raised in surprise before Mycroft even realizes what he’s said. He narrows in on Mycroft’s face — for a strange moment, Mycroft suddenly feels like their positions are mirrored, that Mycroft is the one seven years younger instead of the other way around.
The moment passes; James looks keen and covetous.
“You’re not boring, Mr. Holmes,” James proclaims, abrupt, clinking his glass into Mycroft’s over the table. He says it like he’s calling it into existence, like it must be true from his very nature of being. A lot of James Moriarty is shaped like that; it’s difficult to tell unless you’ve grown up with Sherlock Holmes shaping worlds into being right next to you, according to Mycroft. “You just pretend to be.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Moriarty. It is often greatly advantageous for a man to be uninteresting and droll,” Mycroft replies, although he’s prepared to sacrifice his dignity for another sip of whiskey to get through this conversation. He wonders if Beatrice had this in mind when she gave him the letter — knowing her, she probably did. “Do you keep up with the politics of the era? You might do well to.”
James hesitates for a second too long, although he eventually nods his head, opting to relegate himself to another drink of whiskey. He swallows it too slowly, like a showman would — Mycroft does not entertain him. “Cause, then effect. What’s your poison with this one, Mycroft?”
“The Strand Theatre incident,” Mycroft says, ignoring the use of his given name on James’ tongue instead of the name he shares with Beatrice and Sherlock. He eyes him coolly, out of the corner of his gaze. “The way you broke him out of prison that last time, James — dangerous, at the very least. Fatal, at the very worst.”
There is a moment, brief and unexpected, where James can’t help but choke. Mycroft vaguely wonders if he should act before James straightens up, grinning lazily up at Mycroft like he’s all back to normal. “We scraped by. Jesus, he was in more danger from me, I had to teach him how to throw a fucking punch.”
“There has never been a reason for Sherlock to know how to throw a punch, nor how to run, nor how to kill,” Mycroft says, closing his eyes, waiting for the vision of James to fade behind his eyelids instead, “because I have been able to in his stead. I would trust, Mr. Moriarty, that you’re willing to do the same in this matter.”
James shrugs, although it’s more that he rolls his shoulders back into something that can be vaguely contrived to be agreement. “He’s learned. You saw him in Constantinople, didn’t you? He’s been a star student. Top marks.”
This education is not one that Mycroft would wish for Sherlock to grow accustomed to, but he’s fairly certain he has no choice in the matter. Ever since he dropped Sherlock into Oxford with the intention of making something of him, ever since he dropped him right into James Moriarty’s waiting grin, Mycroft knew what fate would hold for them. He wonders how much pull James has over Sherlock’s unbreakable mind, if the indescribable realization of the falsity of Mycroft’s dullness would seep through James’ fingers and into Sherlock’s skull.
Mycroft clears his throat. “You remember, I trust, my remarkable position in the government. There is a certain amount of safety I can afford myself and Sherlock that cannot — rather, will not apply to you and Beatrice, if you continue on as you have done.”
“Not Beatrice?” James asks, although he doesn’t seem to take any offense at being excluded from this. He winks at Mycroft, crossing his arms in front of him, his hands carefully placed on his elbows. “I think I’ve proven my worth. I don’t believe there’s any prison on Earth that could hold me, Mycroft, I’ve quite gotten the hang of it.”
There is a certain amount of fear for Sherlock that rises up within Mycroft, but he tamps it down easily, shaking his head, ignoring James’ salaciousness. He polishes off the rest of his whiskey. “It would be rather difficult for an English civil services officer to claim amnesty in the Gansu Corridor, I believe.”
James looks up, the shock brilliantly arresting on his face. Beatrice must’ve left without another word to him, then, after the telegram she’d sent with his advice last night. Mycroft is not exactly sure what she is planning, and he thinks his laxness must be a sinful sort of neglect, but there is an odd way she sneaks past his defenses. She’s always known how to do it, even when she was a child, even when she was Edie, but Mycroft really can’t explain to anyone else how much of himself he allows his brother and sister. Here are my hands to do as you wish, here is my mind for your games, here is my body for —
A gasping sort of sound, and then James is clearing his throat. He’s caught between a laugh and a shout, Mycroft thinks, and the resulting sound is entirely too crude for a gentleman’s club. James taps his fingers on the edge of the table. “Did you satisfy her curiosity about the princess, then? God, but she’s been chasing after it for a month. It’s like a cat-and-mouse, only now she’s gone and made herself the mouse.”
It’s a surprisingly apt description of whatever Mycroft thinks has been happening between Sherlock and James, although he’s not quite sure yet which one is cat and which one is mouse. He thinks he underestimates how cold his brother can be sometimes, how cruel — he is Mycroft’s brother after all, despite his attempts to forget it. Mycroft thinks about his sister, about the burning light in her eyes as she’d asked Mycroft for advice (advice! The very nerve of her assumption is —) on how to possibly track down Xiao Wei within the course of the next month. She had looked hungry, he thinks, whereas Sherlock had looked starving. He wonders if it’s the Holmes curse, if all three of them are doomed to this life forever. There is, of course, no way to determine the answer to such a melancholy question, so he lets it go.
“She has what she needs,” Mycroft decides on saying, instead of addressing any part of James right now. He stands, unsure if he’s going to leave or stay or make yet another terrible decision. He thinks the odds are about equal for each outcome. He clears his throat, although it’s much more proper than whatever James had been doing. “You and Sherlock —”
“Yes?” James says, leaning forward, leaning across the table on his elbows. He looks voracious, something wolfish and sharp hiding in the curve of his canines as they peek through his lips. “What about me and Sherlock?”
“Be careful,” replies Mycroft, deciding he’s had enough. He’s drunk his fill — now back to the monotony of civil service, of his apartments in Pall Mall too far from the Piccadilly, of unnamed men he never sees the faces of until it’s too late. Lifelessness suits Mycroft well enough; he’ll leave the chase (the adventures, the lovers, the games —) to the younger Holmeses. “My duties at the Foreign Office were never very clear, James. I read your papers for the scholarship. Cleverness is not something to squander like this.”
Mycroft fans out his arms, although he’s not sure whether he’s referring to the Diogenes Club or to himself, standing there like a fool, a statue gone solid in place. He wonders if James will let himself out, or if he’ll have to stumble his way through an explanation to the doorman.
“I know what I’m doing,” James says with surety, the certainty radiating off of him in waves. Mycroft thinks, for a moment, that it is not entirely unclear how his brother got entrapped in this man’s charms after all. But the moment passes, and James is suddenly standing, swiping Mycroft’s whiskey glass off the table, sliding it into his pocket. “I’ve always known what to do with Sherlock.”
“On that, at least, we agree,” says Mycroft. He does not look when James winks at him and leaves. He does not look at anything at all.
—
Mycroft rides to Appleton Manor the next week. It is always a surprise to him how uncomfortable the sight of home makes him, nowadays, how much he chafes at being away from London. Somewhere along the line, somewhere between becoming a clerk at twelve and the third time Sherlock got himself kicked out of a boarding school for troublesome behavior, he stopped thinking of Appleton Manor as something that would ever really be his. Of course, he was the eldest; he believes the estate might even technically be his, now that Father’s dead.
He thinks God, if He does exist, must have a very peculiar sense of humor. Give a child an estate, and let him find a wife before he can find himself — he almost laughs to himself in the carriage, thinking about what an anomalous burden this must be. He toys with the idea of writing an updated will. Of course, everything still goes to Sherlock, because everything that’s Mycroft’s belongs to Sherlock, even if that entails Mycroft himself. Beatrice, he thinks, would do well with money and power.
Mother greets him at the door, radiant and smiling, beckoning him forward so that she can kiss his cheek. “Oh, hello, Mycroft. You mustn’t surprise your mother like this! We could have prepared for your arrival, oh, you’ll have to go sleep in Beatrice’s room.”
Mycroft supposes he shouldn’t have expected anything different. It’s a juvenile jealousy that bubbles up inside him: so only one Holmes in London can have a perpetual room made-up for them, then, is that it? It is a ridiculous thing, being so much older than his sister and his brother and still feeling just the same as he was when he lost them — him — her. “It was very last minute, Mother, I apologize. Is Sherlock in?”
“Ah, you must’ve just passed him on the road. He was headed to London, I think — oh, a pity if he meant to meet you! How I do hate surprises,” Mother replies, fading into herself. Mycroft is used to it, and has always been used to it. He was, of course, her first son, even if it is difficult for her to remember nowadays. He sits her down on the chaise lounge he had Mrs. Crowle set up after her last bout.
“Mother, I have to depart. My most sincere apologies, but I would like to catch Sherlock before he leaves, especially to save him the journey,” Mycroft lies off the back of his hand; he finds it no hassle. Mother does not seem particularly concerned with his whereabouts, so he leaves her there, hastening back down the road from whence he came.
It takes him almost a quarter of a mile, but Sherlock is trotting down the road on a horse with no carriage, his mouth set in a line as he makes his way through the cobblestone. It reminds Mycroft of something he can’t place, a memory he can’t grasp — who was in it? Sherlock or Beatrice? Mother or Father? Or was it Silas? Or was it Mycroft himself, looking up from a rocking horse, looking at — who?
Sherlock catches his footsteps, whirling around with his fists up before he realizes it’s only Mycroft next to him. He softens, disembarking off his horse and coming to a full stop. “Brother dear. What are you doing at Appleton? You never wrote.”
“Yes, I thought I might visit home,” Mycroft dismisses, but he does watch the light slip out of Sherlock’s eyes once he processes the statement, and he does know what exactly that means. Like always, Mycroft will give in to his brother’s wants; there was never a question of anything else. “Where are you journeying off to?”
“Just down to the groundskeeper. I saw a deer,” Sherlock says, slipping up. It’s not even a good lie — Mycroft had thought he must be better at lying nowadays, considering how much time he’s been spending chasing after James in London in secret. And of course, Sherlock has been trying to keep it a secret from Mycroft, or else Mycroft would know otherwise. He always knows otherwise. Sherlock shifts from foot to foot, an awkward energy in his movements like a baby rabbit caught in the garden.
Mycroft tilts his head; he knows he looks like Beatrice as he does it. “I thought you were headed to London. Mother said – anything important there?”
Sherlock smiles thinly, grim. “Just you, brother dear.”
There is a moment, of course, when Mycroft considers confessing his great sin to Sherlock – yes, I saw him, yes, I’ve caught your plot, I’ve discovered your secret, I’ve solved your mystery once and for all. He does not entertain it for longer than a moment of deep temptation and sacrilegious envy, but he does entertain it. By God, he’s going to Hell. He is his brother’s keeper after all; and, of course, Sherlock is his. “Beatrice is traveling. At present, I presume she’s nearing the Suez Canal — I’ve just had a telegram from the princess Shou’an. They aim to meet in Calcutta, as far as my knowledge ends.”
This does not seem to surprise Sherlock, although his nod comes after a moment of hesitation and delay. There is a keen sort of want in his eyes, grasped within his pupils and held there without release — another secret, then, from Mycroft. Maybe even from himself, with the way he doesn’t seem to realize it. Sherlock glances up. “She had expressed an interest, yes. I did not know you were willing to give it to her, especially considering her motives.”
Mycroft plays dumb, tilting his head. He thinks about Silas at the bottom of that canyon, about the gun shaking in Beatrice’s hands, of the twin aims of Beatrice and Shou’an. He thinks about the bloody handkerchief in Sherlock’s hands, the key secreted away to London under Mycroft’s nose. “Don’t be so witless, Sherlock. If she had any sort of ulterior motives, I’m sure I would have known by now. And anyhow, there is nothing to concern yourself with. She simply sought out a kindred spirit; I facilitated the interaction. Are you satisfied?”
Sherlock draws back, blinking, but he’s still silent. He has a distinct methodology of going about his observations, although Mycroft can’t know where he’s gotten it from. For a moment, Mycroft feels like one of those poor dead butterflies in the glass, dead by the nerve agent, fallen and trapped, Sherlock presiding over his great and unnatural death. It is, of course, entirely too melodramatic for a man of twenty-seven, so he turns his mind back to the matter at hand: Sherlock, suspicious and hurt.
“I had presumed,” Mycroft continues, keeping a watchful eye on Sherlock’s face, “that you wouldn’t have had much contact with her, anyway. Considering how instrumental you have been in the resurrection of Appleton, rather than the affairs of London.”
“Yes,” Sherlock says, instantly. It’s shockingly reminiscent of his meeting with James, the simultaneous duality of their haste to protect each other. Sherlock clears his throat. “I am sure there are no motives. Kindred spirits can be — paramount.”
“There is a certain benefit to having a mirror of sameness in this harsh world, yes,” Mycroft agrees, although he’s entirely sure that Sherlock doesn’t see the goddamn irony of his statement. He wonders if he’d sent James a telegram about his arrival, or if he planned to show up and chase after him with nary a second thought. He thinks the second one might be more likely; this sort of youthful affection does not suit an intelligent mind well at all. Mycroft clears his throat, echoing his brother. “I distinctly remember your statement from earlier in the month about some last remnant of Father’s business wrapped up in London, is that correct? Surely, you’re simply traveling to correct the matter.”
He must be a terrible brother. There’s no other explanation for the way Sherlock looks up in shock, his eyes wide, his mouth caught open where he stands. He looks at Mycroft warily, like he’s not willing to believe this opportunity Mycroft has provided for him — when really, he should believe it, he should know that Mycroft would give him anything he asked, he would give him his hands and his mind and anything else Sherlock could possibly think of with that brilliant mind he possesses. Mycroft has made no secret of the matter of his favor; he wonders if he could invent a sort of dual will and testament, bequeathing everything he owns to the twin-headed hydra of Sherlock and Beatrice. He wonders what would be the point of him, after that. Mycroft decides he’ll put it off until it’s necessary.
“I am,” Sherlock replies slowly, unconvincingly. James will have to work on that, Mycroft thinks – he absolves himself of this responsibility for whatever Sherlock becomes next. Whatever it is, he gives himself up.
“Good,” says Mycroft. God help him, he does want to see his brother happy.
Something sharp-set, maybe. Something with teeth.