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Sherlock wanted to be angry with Mycroft. Angry, disappointed, frustrated. All his constant criticism of Sherlock while he was hiding such secrets. It'd be so easy to focus on Eurus and abandon Mycroft. He deserved that, Sherlock thought bitterly, not really believing that.
The next time Sherlock saw him, Mycroft's appearance alarmed him. He had lost a suspicious amount of weight, but that didn't magically make him happy. His face was pale, gaunt. No more thinly veiled insults, smirking, sarcasm. He seemed defeated. Sherlock automatically wanted to ask what happened, but he knew, obviously.
Now, after some reflection, Sherlock was more understanding of his brother's actions. He was right to keep their sister's existence a secret, and was right about making the little girl crash the plane away from the land. His decision to sacrifice himself to save John still hurt. No one spared a thought for a young Mycroft who was burdened with too many serious problems. Eurus, parents and Sherlock were all his responsibility, and it felt natural to accept that Mycroft was the only true adult. His needs were conveniently ignored because that protected the other Holmeses from realising they failed him.
Sherlock came to Mycroft's office to discuss their sister's progress. He didn't say anything, struck by the unfairness of the situation. Mycroft didn't expect any care or compassion. He looked ill and was so used to being ignored. The unpleasant new feeling made Sherlock's chest tighten. Guilt and remorse for being a horrible brother. He wanted it gone.
'Are you free tonight?' He asked, eventually.
Mycroft reluctantly nodded, surely prepared for more mistreatment. Sherlock had several hours to come up with a quick, radical solution.
He wanted to ask John for advice, but he was busy. He was showing Rosie cat videos on his laptop. 'Look, a kitty.' Sherlock watched, too, desperate for an inspiration. Maybe he could borrow someone's cat, drop it on Mycroft's lap and wait for it to fix the Iceman.
'Look, that's a Pallas cat,' John explained. A deceptively small cat lay on his carer's lap and accepted gentle petting, but kept watching the man. When the cat nervously licked his mouth, the man removed his hands and apparently told the cat it could go. Hmm. If a ferocious wild beast could be tamed like that, maybe it could work on Mycroft, too.
Both of them avoided physical touch. It seemed weird, unnatural, and neither could say out loud that they were scared of letting anyone close. A stranger could be potentially dangerous, especially armed with the knowledge of the Holmesian Kryptonite, but Mycroft could trust Sherlock, right? Besides, hugging, while gross and stupid, had positive effects. He glanced at John and Rosie holding each other. It was easy for them. Sherlock decided to act against his instincts and give his brother a good hug.
Mycroft waited for him with a drink in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. He clearly expected the worst. More blaming, more cruel words. He didn't react when he saw a peace offering: a single portion of sticky toffee pudding. For sure, he assumed it was poisoned.
'This is for later,' Sherlock explained. 'Can you stand up?'
Mycroft did, without any questions. As always, it was easier to let Sherlock do what he wanted and then clean up his mess.
Sherlock took a step towards him. Mycroft, confused and alarmed, observed him.
'I'm not going to hurt you,' Sherlock clarified, but that changed nothing. Mycroft's whole body was tense. He watched Sherlock's hand move towards him as if it were a knife. Sherlock put it on one shoulder. Mycroft winced and tried to suppress his natural reaction.
'What is this?' He asked, instead.
'Affection, I believe. Shut up and take it, or I'll drag parents to family therapy,' Sherlock threatened. 'You think they're insufferable now? Imagine them trying to be nice to you.'
Mycroft grimaced. 'Can't we simply wait for me to die prematurely? I'm sure a good, massive stroke is just around the corner.'
'You're asking for it.' The other hand on the other shoulder. 'No one is dying, certainly not you. You're making me do this.' Sherlock pulled him into a hug and wrapped his arms around his brother, mostly to stop him from leaving.
It was much worse than they expected. So much closeness was utterly unbearable. They could feel each other's heartbeat and breathing. Sherlock kept his face away from Mycroft's body, but thought how obvious it'd be to rest his chin on Mycroft's shoulder or press their cheeks together. Absolutely disgusting. When Mycroft relaxed just a little bit, Sherlock let go of him. Mycroft instantly shuddered and shook his head.
'God Almighty. That was horrendous. I can't believe people do it voluntarily and like it.'
'Yes. Tomorrow, the same time and place. Have the pudding now.'
And so it continued. Every evening, after work, Mycroft would brace himself for another intolerable embrace. He wanted to run away, fake an illness or his own death, wished Sherlock had a fascinating case or a stomach bug from the youngest Watson. He hated, hated being touched. It was not his fault that his mind associated people and physical touch with danger. After so many disappointments, what else was his amygdala supposed to think when someone got close to him? Danger! The amygdala screamed every time that happened. So much danger!
There was no hiding anything from Sherlock when he was hugging him. He could tell Mycroft had a smoke earlier and changed his aftershave. He could tell Mycroft's body and mind resisted. He still shuddered afterwards, like a wild animal who successfully survived being chased by a predator. Harm! His amygdala shouted every time Sherlock's arms ensnared him. A tasty treat helped, but not much. The sweetness was soured by the fresh memories of being held and exposed to kindness. For sure, that was going to end him sooner than his work-related stress.
'When do you plan to stop torturing me?'
'I don't know. Do you feel better?'
'Yes.' A blatant lie, they both knew it.
That whole thing was ridiculous. Mycroft accepted his fate as a child. His needs were an afterthought, at best. Everyone was more important, and it was Mycroft's job to take care of them. On a rare occasion, he allowed himself to think about what an injustice that was. Apart from that, he understood it had to be that way. He was more intelligent than his family and knew that was the reason he was a scapegoat. Much easier to blame one person than to take a good look in the mirror.
Plus, if Sherlock was capable of seeing him as a human being, where was his care earlier? Did Mycroft have to let the latest insults get to him to receive some tenderness?
'We're doing this wrong. Turn around.'
'Oh, for goodness' sake!'
Sherlock clung to his back. His arms were around his waist. Actually, it was less awkward than front hugging, less intimate. Mycroft could endure it, though for how much longer?
'I'm sorry about everything,' Sherlock said. 'I was wrong.'
That had to hurt, but Mycroft felt no satisfaction. Years of hostility and ungratefulness couldn't be erased by words.
After a month, Sherlock was cautiously optimistic. Full thirty-one days of hugging, small desserts and not one serious quarrel. He wasn't pushed away, and his keys weren't confiscated. Mycroft was getting used to them being that close. He looked better, too. Though Sherlock was tired of spending so much time with both siblings, he knew that was his penance for neglecting his brotherly duties.
His new idea was a side hug on the sofa. It was less invasive and more comfortable. He would tell Mycroft about his cases and Rosie's language acquisition. How fascinating it was to observe someone so small learning such a complex skill. He and John instinctively helped her by talking to her while maintaining eye contact and describing everything around her.
'I remember you at that age,' Mycroft said suddenly. 'You used to point at things to make me name them. Your favourite was yourself and me.'
Aww. That was sweet, until Sherlock thought about what lay ahead for a young Mycroft. He must have regretted wasting time on teaching him how to speak.
After two months, Mycroft's stubborn mind learnt to accept Sherlock's touch. Perhaps due to the lack of his nasty behaviour. He wanted to hope Sherlock improved his attitude for real. Like right now, he was holding Mycroft with one arm and said nothing mean while Mycroft ate his latest offering. He gestured with a spoon in his direction, and Sherlock gave a nod. Sharing food was new for them, not to mention a dessert. Banoffee pie wasn't Sherlock's favourite, but he had several bites. Anything that worked, worked.
As any scapegoat strong enough to survive, he realised something. His only logical choice was to accept Sherlock's efforts. Nothing could alter the past, and some annoyance remained, but he had to let Sherlock change. Avoid bitter comments and keep his frustration to himself. Maybe soon they could stop hugging and just sit together on the sofa, enjoying each other's company.