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James raised a brow as Sherlock’s brother sat down beside him in the courtyard. He had been spending a good deal of his time out here in recent days. He couldn’t read for long yet, before being overwhelmed by headaches, and since he was also still instructed to limit strenuous activities, there wasn’t much else for him to do beyond sitting around until he was fully healed.
The courtyard at least offered fresh air, which was a relief after the time he’d spent shut up in a room with the curtains drawn while under more strict bedrest. In the days immediately following the explosions at the factory.
“Good afternoon.” He greeted pointedly, when Mycroft said nothing after joining him on the bench he was currently occupying.
“Forgive me, James, good afternoon.” Mycroft replied with a brief, rueful smile.
He looked like a man lost in his own thoughts. He was also holding himself in an awkward fashion, sitting up much too stiffly with his hands curled into fists and resting palm down atop his knees. It was as if he were making an effort to appear at ease, but was failing miserably in the actual execution. There was too much tension in his shoulders and one of his legs was bouncing very subtly, not to mention the anxious edge to his gaze.
He had blue eyes like Sherlock and Beatrice, but while the colour of them wasn’t the exact same shade as their mother’s, from whom they had been inherited, he had more of her softness visible in them than his other siblings. Whether Beatrice had any of it at all still remained to be seen. And while Sherlock certainly did have that softness too, it wasn’t as plainly visible in his eyes alone, not like it was in Mycroft’s.
That made it very easy to see how troubled the man was now.
“Is everything alright?” James asked, keeping his tone light, but not flippant.
“Fine, fine.” He insisted, although it was a bald faced lie, if perhaps not intended to be one.
James decided not to press right away, allowing Mycroft to continue stewing over whatever it was that had brought him over here. He was under no illusion that the man had come seeking his company without any other motive.
“Has Sherlock spoken to you?” Mycroft asked at last, proving him right.
“Well, as it happens, he speaks to me quite often.” James remarked drily. “Was there something in particular you were wondering about?”
Mycroft heaved a deep, fretful sounding sigh, still holding himself tensely and awkwardly where he sat. It was almost funny, in truth. He looked like a man who had never sat down before in his life, and who couldn’t quite figure out how to make it seem natural now that he had managed. A stiff-limbed porcelain doll trying to imitate the contrapposto of a marble figure shaped by the masters, and coming up short.
“Has he spoken to you about our father.” Mycroft elaborated, his tone as stilted and awkward as his posture.
“In what sense?” He countered.
This time, Mycroft’s sigh was irritated more-so than fretful. The exhale loosened his shoulders, but only for an instant before his next breath drew them back up tight again.
“None of that now.” James chided. “Don’t blame me because you’re too bloody English to be direct. If you have something you’d like to ask me, ask me.”
Mycroft turned his head in the opposite direction, scoffing quietly and crossing his arms over his chest. Before too long, though, he abandoned the affronted facade and returned to his earlier, stiff-backed anxiety.
“I’m worried about him.” He said quietly, like a confession.
Obviously, he wasn’t talking about the dead man.
“Is there reason to be worried about him?” James frowned.
“I don’t know.” Mycroft said.
He was speaking softly, and with less of the ever-polite veneer James had come to associate with him. The last time he’d heard him sound this genuine, it had been when he was attempting to comfort Cordelia, while they’d been sitting vigil for Sherlock after he’d been shot.
This was the voice of a man who was seeking serious answers.
“I know my brother cares for you.” Mycroft whispered, emphasizing that one word in a particular way that James couldn’t quite put a name to.
The uncertainty set an uneasy prickle at the back of his neck, and the first claws of dread tickling at the base of his spine.
“He’s a good friend.” He said, deliberately mildly.
“The pair of you are something rather more intimate than just friends, by my reckoning.” Mycroft huffed.
James forced himself not to react in any outward manner, and yet he couldn’t help the way his heartbeat kicked up into the driving rhythm of a tattoo. Of war drums. Although whether or not a fight was imminent still remained to be seen.
“Are you accusing me of something?” He asked carefully.
“Accusi— Goodness, no!” Mycroft spluttered, twisting in place to face him more directly.
“No?” James challenged, although he kept his voice low.
He refused to drop the other man’s gaze. If it was going to be a fight, he didn’t intend to back down from it.
“No.” Mycroft insisted again.
He sounded sincere, but James didn’t trust it fully. Not yet.
“Sherlock has never had a friend before.” Mycroft said.
“So I’ve been told, and yet, by your reckoning, you claim I am not his friend.” He countered.
“Not only his friend.” The man corrected. “But you were that to him first.”
James said nothing.
“He was always different from the other boys.” Mycroft continued, at his silence, he sounded somewhat fond now. “Children can be cruel, and he suffered for being unable to fit in amongst them. He’s only ever had our family to really care for him. For a long while that was only he and I, truthfully. Mother wasn’t well, and Father was almost always away.”
James still said nothing.
“Now he also has you, James.” Mycroft said softly. “You care for him. You protect him. For goodness’ sake, I’ve watched you kill for him in this very courtyard!”
The man broke off for a moment into incredulous laughter.
“More than that, however, you make him happy.” He continued. “I have only ever wanted for my brother to happy and safe. You are a boon to that end, James Moriarty and I am very grateful to you for it.”
James couldn’t say he had ever expected to be told a thing like this, let alone by Mycroft Holmes. He had no idea how to react, and so he gave no reaction at all.
“As long as he is safe and happy in the arrangement, whatever you and Sherlock may or may not be to each other is no business of mine, James.” The man added, there was no trace of insincerity to be found in him. “And although discretion is certainly in your interests, for both of your safety, you need not guard yourselves quite so strictly when it comes to me… Not that I wish to be subjected to knowledge a man ought not to have about his little brother’s habits, of course.”
James let out a laugh without really meaning to. It was a sharp, startled thing.
“I assure you.” Mycroft said, solemnly but warmly. “Your care for Sherlock is not the reason for my concern on his behalf. I apologize if it came across that way, as it was never my intent.”
James shook his head, but found that he did actually believe the man.
“I am worried about my brother, though, James.” Mycroft continued, less warmly, but no less seriously. “I was hoping to know if he might have confided things to you that he would not be willing to do with me, given the differing nature of your relationship with him in comparison to my own.”
“What kinds of things do you think he might’ve confided?” He asked carefully, still not daring to acknowledge anything about his and Sherlock’s relationship to each other. “And why would I tell you if he had?”
Just because he had believed Mycroft when he’d said he wasn’t concerned about James’ and Sherlock’s intimacy, didn’t mean he was going to risk actually admitting to it out loud. There was no incentive for him to take that risk, so he refused to do it.
“He strikes me as rather obsessed with attempting to dissect our father’s mind. His motivations.” Mycroft said. “For the life of me, James, I cannot fathom why he will not leave the matter alone… What is there to understand beyond the fact that the man was a monster?”
James considered his response for a few long moments before giving it. Mycroft really did seem to be approaching him from a place of concern, and he could respect that. An older brother should have concern for the wellbeing of his younger siblings.
“He’s only just learned that, Mycroft.” He offered eventually. “He didn’t know he was a monster until very recently.”
“None of us did.” Mycroft scoffed.
“Perhaps.” He allowed. “But you already had a much better inkling than Sherlock did, didn’t you? It wasn’t as much of a shock to you.”
Mycroft turned an abrupt, alarmed expression on him then, one tinged with the beginnings of indignation.
“If you think I was privy in his crimes—”
“That’s not what I meant.” He interrupted, before the man could get in a proper huff over a misinterpretation. “I mean that you’ve had a better understanding of his true character for longer.”
“And how do you figure that?” Mycroft demanded, still in an affronted, defensive tone.
“I was there, if you recall, at that supper.” James reminded him. “When Silas raised his voice and rattled the tableware with his fist. I was sitting beside you.”
Mycroft’s eyes widened, taking on an almost frightened edge. Not nearly as intense as the look James had seen on him on the evening he’d just referenced. Still, it was a familiar expression, if not on this particular set of features. He was more accustomed to seeing it reflected in dark eyes, older and younger mirrors of his own.
“Your sister never so much as twitched.” He elaborated. “Your mother was too consumed by the righteous fury of a woman scorned to show any other reaction, but I don’t think it would’ve been fear if she had. Sherlock met the man’s anger with anger of his own. But you… I saw the way you flinched. The way you braced yourself.”
“I don’t appreciate being called a coward, Mr. Moriarty.” Mycroft said icily.
“Convenient then, that I’m not calling you a coward, Mr. Holmes.” He shrugged.
“What are you saying?” The man demanded.
“Merely that I recognized the look of a son who feared the consequences of his father’s temper.” He replied. “And that from what I saw of the rest of your family, Silas didn’t mete that temper out amongst youse evenly. Did he?”
Mycroft’s expression shuttered. James recognized that look as well.
“I don’t know what you mean.” The man whispered at last.
“Yes you do.” He corrected. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
For a moment, the shutters lifted, and Mycroft’s face displayed every bit of complicated emotion that must’ve been going through his head. James would’ve been lying if he’d tried to claim he didn’t feel for him then. By now, he had come to know Mycroft as a good man in many ways that mattered. Especially in how he looked after his family.
“Did he prefer to use his hands or his belt?” James asked, blunt, but not intending to be cruel.
Mycroft’s expression shifted into one of open horror in response.
“My own bastard father wasn’t picky whenever the temper took ahold of him.” James offered, even though a part of him wished to swallow the words back as soon as they’d left his mouth.
Mycroft’s horror visibly softened into something closer to grief. Grief and understanding in equal measure. James did his level best to not let it rankle.
“James…” The man whispered.
“Silas never raised a hand to your brother, did he?” James pressed.
“Not that I know of.” Mycroft agreed quietly.
“And you never told him that the same wasn’t true for yourself.” He continued.
“Of course not.” Mycroft scoffed.
“Right. So it was much more of a shock for him to learn that your father was capable of cruelty.” He suggested. “Since he’d never seen any evidence to the contrary, until this whole mess, at least.”
“I suppose so.” Mycroft nodded.
“I’m not implying that you knew the true depths of his depravity until any sooner than the rest of your family.” James added. “But you knew he had cruelty in him for a lot longer than Sherlock did, at any rate. Is it such a surprise that he would still be trying to make sense of your father’s evil himself, knowing that it was more of a shock to him than it was to you?”
“No.” Mycroft said.
“I wouldn’t say you have nothing to worry about in your brother’s regard.” He noted. “He can be a bit shite at takin’ care of himself, as I’ve come to discover… But I wouldn’t worry about him looking into Silas. He’s just trying to understand something he’s only recently learned he was wrong about.”
Mycroft was silent for a few long moments.
“Thank you, James.” He murmured at last, barely louder than a whisper.
“Aye, well, you’re a good brother for worrying after him in the first place.” He shrugged, since it was true. “Costs me nothing to offer an opinion.”
“You won’t tell him, will you?” Mycroft asked. “Or Mother, about…?”
“Nah.” He said, shaking his head. “That’s your business to decide.”
For a while they sat together in silence. The atmosphere felt less fraught with tension than it had before, although James still wouldn’t call it comfortable.
“Is your bastard father still living?” Mycroft questioned eventually, borrowing James’ turn of phrase with the tentativeness of a man unaccustomed to speaking insults plainly.
“No.” He answered. “He’s not.”
“Was it recently that he passed?” The man pressed, although with an edge of hesitation.
“No.” He replied.
“How did you feel when he died?” Mycroft continued, that the question he really wanted to ask, James suspected.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to respond to it, but then he decided that it might not be so terrible to be honest with this man, given the circumstances. After all, Mycroft was probably still trying to decide how he felt about Silas’ death, and could use another person’s perspective. He had been kind enough to James thus far that he found himself willing to oblige his curiosity a little but further.
“I was furious at him for leaving my siblings and I behind to face the world on our own.” He admitted. “But I was also relieved he was gone. He wasn’t just harsh, you see, he was properly cruel. To all of us.”
“Hm.” Mycroft nodded sadly. “May I ask how he died? Was it unexpected?”
“Not as such.” James said, with a bitter, sardonic laugh. “My father died cold and alone, face down in the dirt.”
“Goodness.” Mycroft gasped, almost as if to himself.
“I hated him.” He remarked. “But I can’t say I never shed a tear over him either, after he was gone. You feel what you feel, even if you want to be feeling a different way.”
“Indeed.” Mycroft agreed quietly. “That certainly does seem to be the case.”