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There was a knock on the door and before James could say anything, the door opened. He lifted the head, curious to see who was bothering him. Sherlock wouldn't knock at his own bedroom door––they had nothing to hide from each other, and James' presence had already become self-evident. And also, James knew, Sherlock wasn't even home. James was lying on the guest bed they had put in the room especially for him, because Sherlock had never had the need for a guest bed before. James still had to grin whenever he remembered Cordelia Holmes' greeting words to him. Sherlock's first friend, wasn't that something?
It was Mycroft. James tilted his head.
"Sherlock isn't here."
"Believe it or not, I can see that."
He pushed the door open fully, or at least far enough for him to pass through. He left it slightly ajar, which unnerved James. He understood the desire to peak behind every door, to know what was happening on the other side of a wall. But when he was the one inside of a room, he preferred to keep the door closed. Mycroft treated this house as if there was no reason to hide anything, and how he could genuinely believe that, or even pretend to, James couldn't understand.
James sat up, planting his feet on the ground and leaning back, his hands on the mattress.
"He went into town with your mother."
"Yes, I know." Mycroft leaned against the desk in the middle of the room, picked up one of Sherlock's old toys, looked at it with mild interest, then put it down again. "I actually came to talk to you."
"To me?" James asked surprised. He hadn't expected that. He didn't believe there was much Mycroft and he had to talk about. The only moment he had felt a glimmer of interest in Sherlock's older brother had been when he had lied to his family to betray his father. He found it difficult to imagine Mycroft doing what James had been told he had done, threatening a man with a gun. But he had to admit the eldest Holmes sibling had the steadiest hands. It made more sense when James considered Mycroft had done it to protect his family. James had seen the real distress on Mycroft's face when Sherlock had been shot. He was probably still tearing himself up over it, while all that remained on Sherlock's body was a small pink scar, the size of a coin and the texture of raw skin. All things considered it had healed well though. It was just fresh, hypersensitive to touch. Sherlock squirmed so nicely when James ran his fingers over it.
"Yes." Mycroft looked uncomfortable. He wrapped his fingers around the edge of the table to steady himself. "It is about Sherlock."
"What about him?" James voice sounded amused. It was clear Mycroft disapproved of his tone, expecting him to take it more seriously. He pursed his lips accusingly below his mustache.
"What are your intentions with him?"
"My intentions?" he laughed, sat up a bit straighter. "I certainly don't intend to wed him, if that is what you are concerned about."
It filled James with satisfaction, to see Mycroft blush and glance to the side. He would not let him think he had the upper hand here. James' relationship to his brother was none of his business. If this was what this was about, he would make sure to end it as quickly as possible. But Mycroft shook his head.
"That would be the least of my concern. At least then I'd know he'd be taken care of."
James laughed again. Mycroft glanced at him angrily. It just amused him further.
"You know he's not a lad anymore, yeah? He's old enough to make his own decisions."
"You wouldn't understand! He is still my brother."
"I also had a brother once."
Mycroft's eyes widened, he was silent for a few moments. When he spoke, his voice was supposed to sound more steady, but instead it only shook more.
"Then perhaps you didn't care for him the same way I care for Sherlock." When he saw the expression on James' face change, he quickly added, "Perhaps you didn't have to."
"Now what could you possibly mean by that?" James demanded to know. He heard the threat in his own voice and enjoyed it, the low hum, the rough edges of his words. He enjoyed that he scared Mycroft, for whatever reason. As if they weren't simply having a conversation.
"All I mean by that is, you know what kind of household Sherlock grew up in. And maybe you did not have to look out for your brother in the same way I did."
"Because of your father," James stated. He disliked Mycroft immensely for the way he avoided naming things as they were. For some reason James always found it to be very cowardly. It was never an outright lie, which James could respect. It was avoidance, like walking up a flight of stairs without making a noise.
"Yes."
"I suppose you're right. I had the luck of not having to take care of my brother like that." James gnashed his teeth. "Because he died."
Mycroft blushed deeper and James revelled in his discomfort. Like the coward that Mycroft was, he didn't enjoy sitting with it for very long.
"Sherlock isn't the only one of you who is intense," he echoed James' words back to him, spoken when they had shared a quiet moment in Paris. Really, James had wanted Sherlock in that moment, but he had had to make do with the next best thing. He supposed this was how Sherlock's father had felt. He didn't like the thought, but he didn't dislike it either. It had simply come to him and he held it for a moment before letting it go.
"I'll take it as a compliment, if you don't mind."
"It wasn't meant as one."
"I know. You never make me any compliments. It's very upsetting."
"I don't think it would be very good for anyone else in this family to be so absolutely smitten with you." Now he sounded angry, accusatory. As if James had charmed anyone here. As if he had done so with any terrible lie. James didn't think it was his fault the rest of the family liked him so much. "There's no space for you here."
"You'll find that there is. I'm in this room, am I not? On this bed, which has been brought in for me?"
"Sherlock needs a calm life!" Mycroft insisted. "Don't you want what's best for him?"
"Maybe I simply don't agree with your idea of what that is. If he really wanted that, don't you think he would have listened to you at some point? I haven't been around for that long."
Mycroft pressed his lips together, his jaw clenched tightly around his words.
"Neither have I," admitted Mycroft quietly, the tension falling from his body. He rubbed his neck, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I had put my trust in the boarding school staff. No one had told me what he was doing there––"
"Because you are not his father?" James tried to help. It wasn't really helpful. Mycroft looked like James had punched him. Like a wounded animal.
"But someone has to be. Even though I am not very good at it."
"It's not your fault Sherlock ended up in jail. Twice. At least. It might be your fault you didn't manage to get him out the second time. If you weren't such a stickler for rules..."
"Someone has to be!" Mycroft said again, with more conviction. He wouldn't let James take his place so easily. "If we didn't have rules, we'd go the way of the beasts! Everyone taking what they wanted, doing what they wanted, it would be chaos!"
"Aw," James said with mock pity. "Come on now, would that really be so bad?"
"You know, Sherlock would agree with me."
This was true. James had tried to guide him away from all these useless morals which were holding him back, but he did cling to them quite desperately. Perhaps this was Mycroft's fault and James had underestimated the older brother's hold on the younger one. Mycroft was right, he knew awfully little of brotherhood. He knew that, with the first brothers, one had had to kill the other, and that his own brother had died while James had survived. So maybe that was all there was to brothers. There were always two, and the wrong one outlived the other. He would hate to have to take another sibling from Sherlock, though he would, possibly, if the dear brother seriously threatened James' position here. He didn't know how Sherlock would take it. He had such a fragile mind.
"For now."
"Leave him be," Mycroft begged. He let go of the desk to take a step towards the bed where James was sitting. Feeling cornered, he pushed himself up to his full height. He was barely an inch taller than the other man, which he noticed unhappily. Being at eye level with Sherlock was different, there it felt right, earned. This was ridiculous. Mycroft stood his ground, even though he had flinched when James had moved so quickly. "You are too much for him."
"It's not your decision to make. Sherlock wants me here, so I will stay. And, for your information, so do your mother and sister. So if you want me gone, you'll have to try harder than this. Go tell them dirty lies about me, if you must. Or, heaven, you might even tell them the truth. But I'm not giving this," he had almost said him, "up."
Mycroft backed off, his gaze flickering between James' angry face and his clenched fists. He nodded curtly and headed to the door. James' heart was racing with the promise of victory. This would most likely not be the end of this, but he had won the first round. He had stood his ground, had not yielded again to someone trying to make him leave the place where he belonged.
Mycroft turned around again before he left.
"Parasite," he hissed from between his teeth.