Chapter Text
Mycroft isn’t sure how to feel about James Moriarty.
When he had first witnessed Sherlock and the young Irishman huddled together, finishing each other's sentences as they analyzed a clue, all he could think was “oh god, now there's two of them”. And then - well, then everything sort of went to hell, and Mycroft had been too busy running damage control to stop and have a proper conversation with Sherlock’s new friend.
Mycroft’s life has only gotten marginally less hectic since they returned to England. As the eldest of the Holmes offspring (and the most responsible, thank you very much), he’s taken on the monumental task of tying up the loose ends left by Silas’s death. He spends most days poring over documents pertaining to his father’s estate in between his work for the Foreign Office; whatever time he has left is spent at Appleton Manor at the behest of his mother. Now that Beatrice has returned to them, Cordelia is insistent on having all of her children in one place.
He hadn’t expected James to follow Sherlock to Appleton. He’d assumed that once the whole dreadful ordeal in Constantinople was over, the two young men would part ways. After all, they had been thrust together under unusual circumstances; it was only natural that they would go back to their separate lives now that there was no longer a mystery requiring close proximity. However, Sherlock and James hadn’t appeared to even discuss the matter, as if it were a given that where one went, the other would go too.
Mycroft has spent his relatively uneventful days at the manor closely observing the two young men. He may not have his brother’s eye for the details, but his years of navigating workplace politics and bailing Sherlock out of scrapes has given him plenty of practice reading people. It doesn't take him very long to determine that his little brother adores James. It’s not an altogether surprising conclusion; Sherlock is a man who cares deeply for others, despite his attempts to appear cerebral and aloof. If Mycroft were honest, he’s been aware of Sherlock’s attachment to James ever since that dusty cliffside outside of Constantinople, where Silas had fallen to his death and Sherlock had fallen into James’ arms, allowing no one but the Irishman to touch him. Mycroft had tried to convince himself that this overt display of trust and affection was simply the product of adrenaline, blood loss, and stress, but he can’t fool himself anymore.
Mycroft finds it more difficult to decipher James’ behavior. The young man is charming and polite, to be certain, but there’s an undercurrent of careful calculation to all his actions. If Sherlock flits from one thing that interests him to the next like a butterfly, James prowls with all the grace and confidence of a large cat stalking its prey. Mycroft shudders to think that his brother may be the one that James is hunting.
The obvious solution is to speak with the Irishman one-on-one in the hopes of discerning his true motives, but getting him alone has not been as simple a task as it sounds. James is never far from Sherlock, always in step with him or a couple paces behind. The two young men are practically inseparable, making speaking privately with James all but impossible. After several weeks of fruitless attempts, Mycroft is getting desperate.
So, when Cordelia asks Sherlock for help in the garden one day and James moves to follow him, Mycroft takes his chance: “Actually, James, would you mind staying? I wish to speak with you.”
Sherlock pauses at the doorway of the sitting room and looks back questioningly. James slowly sits down again. “Go on, then, Sherly,” He says, waving his hand dismissively. “I’ll be out in a bit.” Sherlock hesitates, looking between his brother and James, then reluctantly leaves.
James leans back against the sofa. His posture is casual, but his keen gaze never wavers. “Well? What can I do ye for?”
Mycroft straightens and clears his throat awkwardly. “Mr. Moriarty, what are your intentions with my brother?”
James cocks an eyebrow. “I’m afraid you’re going to need to be more specific.”
“I understand the events leading up to your initial partnership, but the mystery is over,” Mycroft continues. “My father is dead, Beatrice has returned to us; what do you gain from remaining so close to Sherlock?”
“Are you accusing me of something, Mycroft?” James asks evenly.
“You must understand that it looks suspicious for an Irish pauper who has lost his Oxford scholarship to so strongly attach himself to a wealthy young man from a prestigious English family.”
Something in James’ eyes shifts. “You think I want his money?” There’s a hard edge to his voice that might be disgust.
“I think you have placed yourself in a convenient position to benefit from Sherlock’s friendship. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has taken advantage of his good nature, and I do not intend to allow it to happen again.”
(“What on earth would possess you to do other students’ homework, Sherlock?”
“They said they’d be my friends and play with me if I did!”
“People who ask you to break the rules for them are not friends worth having.”)
James’ jaw tenses and his grip on the arm of the sofa tightens. For the first time, Mycroft considers that it may be unwise to provoke this man, but there’s no turning back now. “Here is my proposal,” Mycroft says, leaning forward. “However much you think you’ll get out of Sherlock, I’ll pay you double. My only condition is that you leave this house and cease all communications with my brother. You give up whatever game you’re playing and you leave him be.”
James just stares at Mycroft for a moment, looking remarkably like Sherlock when he’s analyzing something. “I don’t want your money. I know that’s hard for you to believe from up there on your English high horse.” He holds up a hand before Mycroft can reply. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how you looked at me sideways when you first heard my accent. I know what people like you think of people like me. But you’re wrong. You can keep your money; I’m not leaving Sherlock.”
“At least consider my offer,” Mycroft replies. “Everyone wins: you live comfortably and Sherlock is spared the heartbreak.”
James shakes his head. “Believe it or not, Mycroft, you and I are on the same side. I don’t want to see him hurt any more than you do.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “You want to know what I get out of my relationship with Sherlock? I get Sherlock. That’s enough.”
Mycroft sighs. “I see that you won’t be swayed. You do understand, however, that I will be keeping an eye on you.”
James nods. “If I ever hurt Sherlock, you have my full permission to hunt me down and put a bullet through my head.”
Any reply Mycroft might offer is prevented by Sherlock’s reappearance in the doorway of the sitting room. “James? Mother requires assistance lifting a bag of compost, but she will not allow me to help her due to my wound. I reminded her that Dr. Maltby says it is healing well, but she is adamant that I abstain from physical exertion.”
James turns, his expression shifting back into an easy smile at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. “Aye, can’t let the princess get his hands dirty,” he teases, standing. He nods briefly at Mycroft in acknowledgement before joining Sherlock. “Lead the way, Your Highness.” They walk out together, James ruffling Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock half-heartedly attempting to bat his hands away.
Mycroft…well, he still isn’t sure how to feel about James Moriarty.
It’s like he’s trying to assemble a puzzle without being allowed to see any of the pieces, and he can’t shake the nagging feeling that there is much more to James than he lets on. For the moment, however, it appears that all he can do is watch carefully and wait.
And maybe invest in a gun, just in case.