Chapter Text
HM prison Wandsworth, London
Three months, seventeen days, and five hours. That was the exact length of time Mycroft had gone without hearing from and having to deal with his pain-in-the-arse of a baby brother. He foolishly thought that Sherlock has finally wised up and stopped looking for trouble like it’s a competitive sport.
What an utter fool Mycroft was indeed. Of course, the reason why Sherlock hasn’t been bugging him was because he had landed himself in jail.
“Wait here,” The prison guard instructed monotonously.
Mycroft sighed, sat down on the hard bench, and waited. He waited restlessly as his phone trembled in his pocket like a trapped insect. No doubt it was someone from the office with yet another demand. He checked his watch for the second time in a minute, and found the passage of time no more satisfactory on the second inspection than on the first.
After what seemed an eternity, which was actually nine minutes fourteen seconds, the door finally opened, revealing his brother dear, in a stained t-shirt and wrinkled jeans, smelling strongly of cheap body wash.
“You’re free to go.”
A grin flickered across Sherlock’s face, quick and mischievous at the sight of him, “Mycroft!”
Mycroft didn’t waste any time ushering them out of the ugly building and into a waiting cab.
“Petty theft! Of all the damn things,” Mycroft remarked exasperatedly.
The question of why hung on the tip of his tongue. He has long since stopped trying to understand what enlightenment Sherlock hopes to have achieved with his various shenanigans.
Sherlock shrugged, “Would you rather have me commit arson instead?”
“What I would rather, is for you to be in school!”
“I’m on a gap year.”
“Ah yes,” Mycroft laughed mirthlessly, “A gap year behind bars, that would fit right at home in your resume.”
Sherlock shrugged again.
Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.
Hopefully, his brother would be kept occupied enough with what Mycroft has planned for him, to steer him away from continuing with his quest for trouble.
St James street, London
“We’re going somewhere?” Sherlock looked pointedly at the packed suitcases beside the door from his position on the couch.
After a restful nights’ sleep, Mycroft was feeling confidently optimistic about the situation. Maybe this would be the push which Sherlock needed to turn his haphazard life around.
“We, brother dear, are going to Oxford,” Mycroft nodded, “I’ve secured you an internship at the university, arguably the greatest university in the world.”
Sherlock perked up instantly, “You have?”
“I have.”
“Well! I’m surprised. Grateful.”
There was a reason Mycroft has chosen Oxford, his alma mater. Despite the risk of having his brother embarrass him in front of his peers with his antics, “I’ll be there on government business, so I’ll be able to keep an eye on you. Make sure your hair is brushed, teeth is cleaned, shoes are shiny.”
“Hmm,” Sherlock smiled, “I’m touched. Moved.”
“Get dressed, we’re going to pay our respects to Mummy.”
Sherlock stood from the couch reluctantly, “What business does the Cabinet office have with the university anyway?”
“Nothing for you to concern yourself with.”
Appleton Manor, Oxfordshire
Mycroft was seven when Sherlock was born.
He could still remember the celebratory atmosphere following the return of his parents from the hospital with the newest addition to the family swathed in thick blankets.
Father had placed the warm, hefty bundle into Mycroft’s arms, “This is Sherlock, your little brother. He will be looking to you before he looks to anyone else, make certain he finds an example worth following.”
“Yes, father.”
Mycroft was ten when his parents came home from the hospital with…no baby. It was followed by a funeral for someone they have never met. A small and sombre affair.
Their mother had not stopped crying since.
Neither had the late-night quarrels between his parents behind closed doors.
“You are imagining things. You need help. You think I’d steal from my own sons?”
“I think you’ve convinced yourself that you’ll be paying it back.”
“Cordelia-,“
A loud thud.
Mycroft jumped.
“No! I will not let you- Let go of me!”
“I will get you the help you need, my love.”
His heart raced and his mouth went dry.
“I heard what you are planning! I know what you are going to-,”
“You’re not well! You’ve been imagining things!”
His hand gripped the doorknob and turned-
“Mycroft?”
A tug on the hem of his shirt, “Mycroft.”
“You sir,” Mycroft grumbled, “are supposed to be in bed,” taking his ear off the heavy oak door and his hand off the door knob..
It was Sherlock’s turn to stick his ear against the door, “You once said that it is rude to eavesdrop.”
Mycroft dragged him away at once. Sherlock did not need to see or hear any of this.
“I suppose it is. C’mon. Back to bed,” He shot a last backwards glance towards the closed door.
“Who is Beatrice?” Sherlock piped up unexpectedly.
“What?”
“Is she Mother’s friend?”
His mind flashed back to the headstone bearing the name, “Um, no. Why do you ask?”
“I heard mother calling out for her in the night. And there’s a stone, with the same name on it.”
“Oh.”
“Well?”
Mycroft shook his head to clear the images of their grieving mother from his mind, “Beatrice was our sister.”
Sherlock frowned, “We don’t have a sister.”
“We don’t, not anymore. She died.” It pained Mycroft to put it so plainly, but he knew Sherlock would never let it go otherwise, like a dog with a bone.
“How did she die?”
“I don’t know," All he knew was that a part of their mother died with the baby that day.
Sherlock just looked at him with wide eyes. Mycroft could almost hear the whirring of the gears in his brother’s head.
“Okay,” Sherlock finally said.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft called out, his hand extended towards his brother, “Promise me that you will not bother Mother about any of this. You don’t want to see her upset, do you?”
Sherlock straightened, “I promise.”
“Thank you.”
Warneford Hospital, Oxford
The hallways were quiet today, thankfully. It was always unsettling to hear the screaming.
“Mother,” Mycroft greeted.
Mother was seated by the window, working on a painting. An unfinished painting of a dove it looked like. He always loved watching her paint. Their childhood home was adorned with her paintings. Mycroft particularly liked the one which hanged in their dining hall - the one with two puppies engaged in play, a tangle of paws and ears in the grass.
She turned towards her sons with a smile, looking just like her old self.
“Sherlock! My darling,” She reached towards Sherlock.
“Hello mother,” Sherlock sat himself down on the bed beside Mother.
“Were the three months hard, my darling?”
Sherlock grinned, “It was quite an education, really.”
Mycroft scoffed.
Mother leaned closer to Sherlock and lowered her voice, “They’re listening to me, you know?”
She pointed to the lamp sitting in the corner, Sherlock’s gaze followed. She was speaking with the certainty of someone describing the weather, her eyes darting toward the window every few seconds.
“All the time,” She whispered conspiratorially.
Each strange assertion landed like a stone in the pit of Mycroft’s stomach.
Mycroft’s heart ached whenever he was reminded of what his mother had become, what their family had lost. The woman they knew was sitting before them, yet somehow out of reach. The cruelest part was how familiar she still sounded.
“They can hear everything I say. There’s this man, with a bird’s claw. He’s coming back for me.”
Sherlock stilled. The air in the room grew heavy and an uneasy silence settled between the three of them.
Sherlock shook his head, “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to visit much recently, Mother.”
Mother’s face smoothed out into a smile again, “That’s not your fault.”
“But, we’re going to be in Oxford now,” His brother exchanged a brief glance with him, “So I’ll be close by. And I can visit much more often.”
“You must promise me something.”
“Anything!” Sherlock said without a second thought.
“You must stay out of trouble.”
“Understood,” Sherlock nodded, “I will! No more trouble.”
Mycroft’s eyes drifted heavenward. Of all the fantasies discussed this afternoon, that one was perhaps the least believable.
“I won’t lose you too.”