Chapter Text
A warm night breeze blew in from the windows lining the corridor, through which one could observe the light from a waxing moon dappling across the bougainvillea climbing the courtyard’s walls. Sherlock’s footsteps tapped softly down the halls as he paced them, his thoughts flying fast as he unconsciously tightened his grip on the blood-stained hive-patterned handkerchief in his palm. It was nigh on midnight by now, yet sleep eluded him. A key, ensconced in a cutaway portion of Darwin’s Origin of Species was the foremost of his racing thoughts.
What more had Silas been hiding? Had he intended for Sherlock to find the key? For it surely felt as though he must have, pressing his honeycomb handkerchief into Sherlock’s hands before tumbling off the edge. He surely remembered, just as well as Sherlock, the day his youngest son had come running to him about the bees he saw dancing. He knew Sherlock would remember it as well. And his words spoken last night in the darkening garden, “We are not above nature; everything by design”—surely those were intentional? Clues deliberately laid before him like trails of breadcrumbs to follow. If the past week or so had taught Sherlock anything, it was that he had not known his father as well as he had thought he had. And yet, one thing Sherlock was certain of was the man rarely did anything unintentionally. Silas was a plotter, a schemer, manipulative to the end and he knew Sherlock, knew his curiosity could not be sated until he had unraveled every thread, pulled apart every cog, nut, and bolt and examined how they worked together to create the whole. And Silas, perhaps arrogant but an undoubtedly clever man whose plans rarely failed, would have fallen to his death confident in the knowledge that the pieces were in place for Sherlock to be the catalyst for his machinations to move on, even after his own passing. No, no, Silas had most certainly intended for Sherlock to find the key. That then led to the next question. What will come of all this? Why did he want him to find the key?
“Put it back. Please”. Unbidden, the memory of Mycroft’s concerned expression as he had beseeched him to return the key passed through Sherlock’s mind. Mycroft’s voice had contained a note of pleading rarely heard from the man— not his usual exasperated request for ‘his brother dear to please stay out of trouble and make his life a little easier for once’, but something quieter and more genuine, more desperate. It crossed Sherlock’s mind at that moment that Mycroft, too, had traveled down the same routes of thinking as Sherlock just had, but had skipped the dismantling of the puzzle in favor of tallying the bottom line. Mycroft had always been rather pragmatic that way, blessedly free of the all-consuming inquisitiveness that had gotten Sherlock into most of his scraps and instead focused on controlling the outcome and minimizing the damage.
That was who Mycroft was. It was not who Sherlock was.
Sherlock blew out a short breath. “Sorry, brother dear,” he muttered as he turned on his heel and trod down the hallway to his father’s study. Slipping into the massive room, now only dimly lit by the dying coals in the fireplace, Sherlock slid the thick green volume off the shelf and opened it once more to find the key glinting dully up at him. Sherlock let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, relieved to find the key exactly where had left it. Irrationally, Sherlock had somehow feared that by returning it to its place it might disappear or be taken by someone else, its mysteries snatched up by another, perhaps ill-intentioned individual. Unlikely, Sherlock knew, for who else would be able to piece together his father’s clues, dropped deliberately in their trail for Sherlock to find?
James might have.
That, Sherlock thought, snapping the book shut and placing it back upon the shelf, was a problem for another day. It had not escaped Sherlock’s notice that James had been rather too invested in Silas’ dealings in Paris and Constantinople. That while he was obviously along for the ride out of friendship and loyalty to Sherlock and the thrill of the chase, behind those lively eyes and charming grin the wheels never stopped turning, no opportunity for self-interest ever to be discarded. Sometimes James reminded Sherlock of a fire, a hungry spark that brightened the room and gave warmth and light but was ready to turn at the gust of a wind, always seeking more and more to devour.
Sherlock slipped the key into his vest pocket. Though he was dying to begin uncovering its mysteries, that much could wait until morning. Silently exiting the room, he softly made his way down the hall towards the room that had been designated for him the night before.
He was just about to round the corner when he heard a shattering sound, the sound of pottery smashing upon tiled flooring, he surmised. He turned towards the direction of the sound and followed it to the nearest doorway. Mycroft’s room.
His heart quickened minutely. Being in this strange house in which the ghost of his father still seemed to linger made him uneasy and he was somewhat on edge this evening. Edie, or rather Bea, he supposed (claiming her as his sister still felt unreal), had taken control of the most immediate of issues following their return from the cliff; the staff knew her and she knew most of the ins and outs of the property. She had paid and dismissed all but the minimum necessary number of staff, keeping only those she trusted most. To Sherlock’s knowledge, no one but their family and James were in the upper floors of the household this late, with Shou’an having elected to stay with her friend until she made her return home to China.
Sherlock approached the door cautiously, placing his ear against its heavy wood, but heard nothing else. Still, it was unlike his brother to be clumsy and for that matter, it was unlike him to be up so late at night, at least without stacks of paperwork to be done. Hesitantly, he grasped the ornate handle and pushed the door open to a gap, semi-playfully (but also worriedly) peeking his head around the corner to inquire: “Brother dear?”
No vexed response, indignant protest at this untimely invasion of privacy, or any other sound came from across darkened room, but from the flickering shadows of a dimly lit lamp Sherlock caught a glimpse of movement from the bed.
“Mycroft?”
Sherlock crossed the room, affording him a better look at what had caught his eye before. Sprawled across the bed lay the lanky form of his elder brother, in a stripped-down version of the outfit he had been wearing at dinner: tie, jacket, vest, and shoes removed, shirt with the top few buttons undone, the collar loose and askew. Mycroft’s eyes were closed, pinched tight, and judging by his lack of reaction to Sherlock’s approach, he was apparently asleep, albeit not restfully so, his body twitching and his hands lightly clenching and unclenching around the sheets caught in their grasp.
Sherlock stepped closer and as he did his foot crunched down on something. The broken china.
On closer inspection it appeared to be the remains of a water pitcher, knocked down from its position on the bedside table. Sherlock withdrew his foot and as he did he inadvertently pulled a larger piece across the tile, resulting in an unpleasant scraping sound.
The sound appeared to trigger something in Mycroft, who suddenly began thrashing in his sleep, twisting onto one side while his legs kicked out wildly and his hands grasped at something not there. Sherlock’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of his brother’s insensible struggles; the broken pitcher made sense now. However, Sherlock had never seen his brother look so distressed while sleeping.
Deftly avoiding the broken china, Sherlock stepped to his brother’s bedside and cautiously reached out to grab Mycroft’s flailing arm. As Sherlock took hold, Mycroft flinched. His body stilled, aside from minor tremors that seemed to wrack his body. He still did not make a single sound, and at this closer angle Sherlock could see his brother was biting his lip, so tightly it had begun to draw blood.
“Mycroft! Mycroft, wake up!”
Mycroft’s eyes pinched tighter closed for a moment, then opened up, blinking blearily at the face above him. “Sherlock?”
Mycroft’s eyes glinted with traces of tears and his face was as pale as the sheets of paper that by day he piled around his desk like a wall of bureaucratic armor.
Sherlock felt his heart clench. He aimed for a nonchalant smile and missed, landing at a pained grimace. “You were having a nightmare, brother dear.”
Mycroft blinked several times, then slowly drew himself into a sitting position and attempted to gather the tattered shreds of his dignity. “Ah. Yes,” he said intelligently. Let no one in Her Majesty’s government accuse him of ineloquence. “Well, I thank you for your assistance, brother dear,” he started, voice slurring slightly with exhaustion despite his best effort, “Now that that’s resolved, perhaps it’s best if you return to your chambers for a proper night’s rest.” He attempted a wan smile.
Mycroft’s stab at an authoritative tone was somewhat undermined by his unkempt appearance. Hair and clothes disheveled, arms still quaking from where they attempted to prop him up, eyes glassy with lingering fear or grief, Sherlock felt an unexpected surge of protectiveness for his brother. He was suddenly determined to know what haunted his normally composed older brother.
“Mycroft. What was it?”
“Hmm?”
“What was your dream about?”
A startled expression crossed Mycroft’s face. He hesitated, opening his mouth to say something, to lie, probably, when a sound by the door caused both brothers to glance up.
Standing in its opening were James and Bea, both in nightclothes and looking faintly rumpled. James was holding a small kerosene lamp.
James spoke first. “I heard a noise and came to see what it was. Sounded like something breaking. Met your sister in the hall,” he added quickly. Bea crossed her arms over her chest and shot James one of her terse, unreadable glances. There was an awkward pause before James’ eyes flitted over the two brothers, taking in the scene into which he had stumbled, before straying to the broken pottery on the floor.
“Jesus, Holmeses, don’t you think it’s a little late in the evening to be wildly celebrating?” he joked, entering the room properly now, and approaching Sherlock’s side. “Though I don’t object, just thought you might think to invite me first,” he said, with a wink and a light jab of the elbow to Sherlock’s side.
Bea rolled her eyes, though some tension seemed to leave her expressions upon seeing her brothers whole and unharmed, and she followed James into the room. “Everything alright?” she asked in a determinedly detached manner, not quite meeting Sherlock nor Mycroft’s eyes. Clearly the hurt of years apart would not be mended in the space of one evening.
Mycroft and Sherlock spoke at the same time.
“Yes—”
“No—”
Sherlock huffed in annoyance as Mycroft shot him a frustrated glare that was rather less effective than he presumed due to his slightly unfocused glance and delayed reaction time.
James let out a chuckle. “Well, which one is it, lads?”
Sherlock spoke first, affecting a playfully serious formal tone the likes of which he had heard from Mycroft many times over the years. “My brother finds himself rather unfortunately indisposed this evening—”
“Yes, well,” Mycroft spoke hurriedly, attempting to control the narrative before Sherlock could drive it elsewhere— off a cliff, probably— and once again gave his best (shaky) diplomatic smile. “It seems I was a bit clumsy and knocked my pitcher off the nightstand. No cause for alarm. I do apologize for waking everyone.”
Bea seemed satisfied with that and turned to leave but James gave his trademark smirk and stepped forward, catching Mycroft by surprise when he laid the back of his hand flat against Mycroft’s forehead. “Yes, well, easy to be clumsy when you’re running a fever, now isn’t it?”
Sherlock spun to face Mycroft, indignation and concern springing anew across his features. Sherlock could have kicked himself. Now that James had pointed it out he was wondering how he had missed the signs. Mycroft’s pale countenance sported small splotches of color across his cheeks, and he hadn’t ceased his trembling.
Mycroft blinked. He hadn’t really noticed his fever himself, but it would explain…everything. The fatigue. The weakness. The way everything felt just a bit surreal. The nightmares, well, they came and they went regardless of fever, but they had certainly struck him this night with a vengeance.
He snatched James’ hand off his forehead only to feel another cool hand come down to replace it. Sherlock’s.
Sherlock let out an affected sigh. “Brother dear, must you be such a burden?” Mycroft would rather suspect Sherlock was enjoying this turnabout of roles except that behind his playful remark Sherlock’s expression looked strained.
Mycroft opened his mouth again to say something but was unable to find the words. “Never mind, it’s up to the cleverest Holmes to once again save the day,” Sherlock sighed, turning towards James and Bea. There was once again a pause, and though Mycroft didn’t really have the wherewithal to track what was transpiring, it seemed Sherlock and James were having one of their telepathic communications again and possibly managed to rope their sister into the communicative loop this time.
“Right then,” Sherlock said aloud. “Though sadly unforthcoming about his own condition, my brother dear is right in saying there is no cause for alarm, it’s nothing a spot of tea and a good night’s sleep won’t cure. All of us will feel better after a good night’s rest.” He glanced pointedly at James who turned then to Bea and offered her his arm in a gentlemanly fashion.
Bea ignored the arm and instead bent over Mycroft, brushing her lips against his cheek in a gentle kiss. “Goodnight, dear brother, feel better in the morning.”
Mycroft, too stunned for words, simply sat and stared feverishly, wondering if that was real or he had imagined it, as Bea withdrew, her long dark hair curtaining her face and hiding her expression. “Sherlock,” she said in parting, before turning and again ignoring James’ outstretched arm as she glided out of the room.
James lingered a moment, smiling at Sherlock with his eyes, before saying “It would be rude of me to leave a lady, even one as admirably independent as your sister, to wander these dark halls without an escort. I’ll see that she gets to bed.”
Sherlock scowled, recalling James’ blatant flirtation with his mother in the carriage, as James’ grin widened. “To her own bed, if you don’t mind,” he said acidly.
There was a pause, and then, “Please ask her not to say anything to my mother. She worries too much.”
James nodded his head, smile still frozen in place but a more serious expression lighting his eyes. “Of course,” he replied, before tipping an imaginary hat in Mycroft’s direction. “Mycroft.”
Mycroft, still catching up to the conversation, said nothing as James took his leave, but then turned to Sherlock and grasped his arm. “Thank you, brother dear.”
“For what, brother dear?”
“For not involving our mother. It’s nothing, really. I’ll be better by the morning.”
Sherlock made a noncommittal noise that suggested he had his doubts about that but said nothing as he bent to begin carefully scooping up the shards of the pitcher off the floor.
Mycroft made to rise and help him, but Sherlock swiftly turned and glared at him, commanding “Stay where you are, Mycroft Holmes.”
Mycroft sat back with a huff. “First and last name treatment, brother dear? I must really be in trouble now.”
Sherlock rose, the largest pieces of china laid out in his palm. His brows were furrowed and he was unsmiling. His face held almost a betrayed expression, reminiscent of the one he wore during Mycroft’s announcement at the dinner table with their father not hardly one day ago. No teary eyes, this time, but a look of disappointment. Any other time Sherlock might have played along and teased his older brother about their role reversal but at the moment he was genuinely distressed. Whatever façade he had been holding together for the arrival of his sister and his friend had gone out the door with them.
“Mycroft, why didn’t you say you were feeling ill?”
Mycroft gave a bit of an apologetic shrug. “I didn’t know myself, to be honest. I was just feeling tired and thought I’d lie down for a bit before getting ready for bed.” He looked down at himself and his messy, undone dress shirt. “I guess I didn’t make it to the second part of that plan,” he admitted sheepishly.
Sherlock’s frown deepened. “Are you wounded? Did you get caught in the blast at the factory?”
Mycroft gave a weak chuckle. “We all got caught in the blast, Sherlock. But no, no wounds.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure.”
Sherlock felt it would be quite like his brother to hide some injury. He was pretty sure Mycroft could be bleeding out and still apologizing for not having remembered to put a kettle on for tea beforehand. Still, he supposed any attempts to make a forceful examination would not be well received.
Mycroft sat up again, more fully this time. Sherlock began to protest, but Mycroft held up a hand. “Come now, Sherlock, it will hardly be good for me to fall asleep dressed like this. And despite your badgering, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
With that Mycroft climbed off the bed and stood up, swayed once, but caught himself before Sherlock could extend a hand and strode over to the wardrobe if not gracefully, at least without falling flat on his face.
He coughed once and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. “If you’d be so kind..?” He nodded towards the doorway.
Sherlock strode to the door. “Very well, brother dear, I shall leave you to your vanity in spite of my better judgement. But I shall be back with tea momentarily.”
Mycroft frowned, but tea did sound appetizing, and so he said nothing, electing to finish undoing his shirt buttons instead.
As Sherlock closed the door quietly behind him, he paused for a moment, ear against the wood, to listen for any sounds that suggested Mycroft had things less than in hand. Nothing.
At that, Sherlock made for the kitchens, his mind whirring as it had earlier this evening but this time the key was the last thing on his mind; instead, his thoughts turned towards his brother. It would be ridiculous to say that Mycroft did not get ill; every man was capable of becoming ill. And yet, Sherlock could not recall ever seeing Mycroft less than the buttoned up, respectable, articulate bureaucrat that he was. Tired? Yes. Exasperated? Most certainly. Stressed? When was he not? But ill?
Surely Mycroft must have taken sick as a child. But no, even recalling their childhood days Sherlock could not remember Mycroft ever falling ill. Instead, he remembered multiple occasions when Mycroft had tended to Sherlock’s ailments. The time he ran out in the rain to search for an intriguing toad and had a fever the next day. Mycroft had run down to the village for Dr. Maltby. The time he scraped his knee climbing the big elm in the front garden. Mycroft had helped him wash it and wrap it to prevent infection. The time he was observing the shape and texture of the leaves of the different rosebushes in their garden and accidentally jabbed a thorn nearly straight through his palm. He had run, crying, to the house and Mycroft had calmed him, distracted him with a piece of barley sugar, and teased the splinter out of his hand. Countless other examples, childhood stomach aches, colds, and skinned knees came to mind. Through it all, Mycroft had always been there and had always known what to do, steadily and patiently fixing his brother. Yet Sherlock could not recall even one incident where their roles were exchanged.
This realization made him feel rather chastened, for what sort of man never becomes ill? Surely Mycroft had had his fair share of these experiences, too, but had kept Sherlock from seeing his weakness. Memories of Mycroft’s closed door, of days when he refused to come out and play with Sherlock suddenly sprang to mind. How many times had he stifled a cough, shrugged off a headache, disguised a fever?
Worry brewing along with their tea, Sherlock hurriedly made up a tray complete with two teacups, a glass of water, and a cold compress.
Knocking on his brother’s door once more, while balancing the tray in one hand, Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer before pushing it open.
He was relieved to see Mycroft was in bed again, this time properly attired. What he didn’t expect was that Mycroft appeared to have fallen asleep in the space of the few minutes it had taken Sherlock to brew their tea and gather some supplies.
He must really be exhausted, Sherlock thought fondly, setting the tray on the nightstand. He had been though quite a lot recently— getting fired, watching his brother sent to prison (again!) for a crime he didn’t commit, watching the man he was supposed to be assisting die under mystifying circumstances, chasing a man down to Paris where he discovered his mother healthy and hale, his sister possibly still alive, and his father embroiled in criminal activity. On that same trip he had seen Sherlock shot, dragged his body through the streets of Paris under the whizzing bullets of civil unrest, and sat at Sherlock’s bedside without knowing if he would live or die. In the past week alone he had traveled back to London to be informed of his disgrace and confronted with a truly bleak proposition before rushing off to Constantinople where they discovered Bea was truly alive (and Hodge’s former assistant, no less!) and were taken prisoner on their father’s estate. He had let everyone think he had betrayed their family while orchestrating a plan for their escape, was under gunfire, in an explosion, and finally had just received the news of his father’s passing, no doubt experiencing the same array of complicated emotions Sherlock himself felt for the man.
When put that way, it was a miracle Mycroft hadn’t succumbed to his exhaustion earlier.
Sherlock glanced at the bed. Mycroft now lay motionless, in contrast to his prior restless slumber, and Sherlock judged he could safely leave his brother to get some rest of his own.
He didn’t. Instead, he pulled the brocade armchair from the corner alongside Mycroft’s bed and settled into it.