Work Text:
When Mycroft opened the door to his flat to find Sherlock on his threshold, it wasn't the 30-something, newly back from the dead, formerly infamous consulting detective that he saw. It was the 7-year-old, wild-haired, ice-eyed youth manfully holding back tears as he quizzed his older brother on why the boys on their posh street refused to play with him and called him “fish-face” and other such cruel names.
Back then, Mycroft would wrap his arms around his brother and explain that the boys were uneasy because Sherlock was so much more intelligent than they were and could tell things about them that others didn't know, things that could get them into trouble - such as when Sherlock casually informed their crotchety, aristocratic neighbor that his own grandson had broken the glass in his prized greenhouse, not vandals as the man had suspected.
Mycroft would then read to Sherlock from one of his favorite books on adventure on the high seas, and that would content him for a time.
The same puzzled sadness was evident in the stark blue eyes, but Mycroft knew that this time it couldn't be massaged away with hugs and Robert Louis Stevenson tales.
“Sherlock.”
“Mycroft.” Sherlock nodded tightly. “I need to speak with you.”
Mycroft stepped wordlessly aside. He saw his brother take the measure of his flat, glancing around impassively as if it were the moderately interesting home of some stranger. It pained Mycroft that his own brother seemed so ill at ease, but he knew better than to try to smooth it over with inane conversation. Sherlock had sought him out, and that was enough to put him on the alert.
“I was going to have tea,” said Mycroft. “Would you care to join me?”
Sherlock sat in an armchair by way of answer, and Mycroft busied himself in the kitchen. It always amused him whenever people assumed that he had an army of staff to cater to his every whim when in fact he did everything about his flat himself, save for cleaning it. For a man in his position, doing things for one's self was a particular luxury.
He took in a salver laden with tea things, placing it on the small table in front of the armchair in which Sherlock sat. Mycroft made the tea the way he knew Sherlock liked it even though he knew his brother wouldn't touch it, or the biscuits that accompanied it.
Sherlock glanced over at him. “You needn't look so concerned. It's not as bad as all that.”
“The last time you came to me like this,” said Mycroft as he stirred his tea, “it was to tell me that we needed to 'rethink' our plan vis-a-vis the Moriarty issue. And we all know how that turned out.”
“It's nothing like that,” said Sherlock stiffly. “It's about John.”
Mycroft stopped stirring. “Oh?”
Sherlock nodded once. “He's in love. I believe he plans to ask her to marry him. You know about her, I assume?”
Mycroft was quiet. There was no way to answer that except to tell the truth. Sherlock wasn't looking at him, so he was expecting Mycroft not to dissemble. He felt a rush of love for his younger brother that he would trust him that way.
“Mary Morstan. Age 33. Never married, no children. Convetional upbringing in FInchley, attended respectable schools. Was an au pair in Luxembourg for a noted London socialite family. Returned five years ago to teach in a private primary school." Mycroft paused. "She and John began dating nearly a year after your … death. It was evident to me that she was not like the others. He did not see her as a distraction. She viewed him as marriage material. I suppose it was just a matter of time.”
“Yes. She's a smart woman but terribly transparent as regards her feelings,” said Sherlock. “She loathes me. Of course, she pretends to be astounded by me, but she hates me with a passion.”
“If that is so, then that is understandable,” said Mycroft. “You ruined her plans. Her way to him was clear, and your return spoiled everything – in her mind.”
Sherlock looked up at his brother.
“Why does he love her? She is so commonplace. She's pretty enough, I suppose, but Sarah Sawyer was prettier. Her features were more regular. The boring teacher was taller. The girl with the nose was smarter. The woman with the spots was kinder. Why her?”
“Why not?” Mycroft shrugged delicately. “She is, I think, the sort he always felt he'd wind up with in the end. John Watson expected to live a rather conventional life. He planned on being a doctor in some pleasant suburb, with a pleasant wife and well-groomed children. Mary Morstan is precisely the sort of woman that could fit effortlessly into that scenario.”
“Yes,” said Sherlock, dragging out the single syllable as if he were unsure of what he was saying. “She loves him. Perhaps that is why I am here. Sarah loved him, too. She was not so boring as the rest. I almost liked her. If things with Moriarty had not progressed as they did, I'm sure she and John would have gone farther in their relationship. Those others, the nose, the spots, the boring woman, were fascinated by him and enjoyed the sex. They had no compunction in leaving him at the end because there were many men out there to fascinate and shag them. But Mary Morstan loves John.”
“And?”
Sherlock took the cup of tea and turned it around and around in his hand, managing somehow not to spill any on the plush carpet.
“John wishes to move out and in with her. As you say, they were on the cusp of setting up house together when I returned. She is pressing him and he wishes to do it. Each time he gets the nerve to tell me, he stops himself. He thinks I am still – fragile.”
And you are. Mycroft concentrated on his tea. Sherlock glanced at him as sharply as if he'd heard Mycroft's thoughts, but he said nothing for a time.
“It is only – fitting – that John move on with his life,” said Sherlock. “I cannot stand in his way. He would despise me for it and I cannot have that. I must have his help in my work. I must also have his – friendship.”
Mycroft did look at Sherlock then. The brothers stared silently into each others' eyes for a moment before they both went back to not drinking their tea.
“I see.”
Sherlock put the cup down and said softly: “You must tell me how it is done.”
Mycroft looked up again. “Pardon?”
“You must tell me how to let him go,” said Sherlock. “I cannot simply delete him or what – I feel. You've done it. I must do it. Tell me how it is done.”
The older Holmes felt a chill down to the marrow. “I'm not sure I understand.”
Mycroft was always amazed at how calm he could sound when he lied. It should have frightened him, perhaps, but instead it fascinated him. He thought he'd honed the skill in his profession, but truth be told, it had come long before that, in cold rooms with blandly polite parents being acidly civil to each other, in empty gardens where he sat alone, not wishing to hear any more about how “portly” he was becoming. He'd developed the skill of lying without stammer, without demur so that it was as ingrained in him as his accent or his red hair.
It was impenetrable, his facility in dissembling - like chain mail. No one had ever been able pierce it. Save one person. And he was out of his life now. Forever.
“Yes, you do. You simply don't wish to talk about it, but you must,” said Sherlock. “I never ask you for anything but I am asking you to tell me how to release your feelings. You've done it with Lestrade. Now you must tell me how I can do it with John.”
Mycroft took a deep breath, held it for several heartbeats, and slowly exhaled. His hand still trembled on his cup, however.
“That,” he observed, “was quite different.”
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes, he was married already. I'm aware. Still, you had feelings for him. Feelings that you knew he shared –”
“He felt an attraction to me,” Mycroft corrected his brother. “While my feelings were slightly more – complex.”
“Nothing about you is complex to me, brother dear.” Sherlock said, eyes narrow. “Do I need to say it? You were … in love with him. He felt something more than friendship for you. And he went back to his wife. Moreover, you encouraged him to do it, knowing that she was shagging other men. You had to know it would make no difference and that he would stay.”
“Ah, but he didn't,” said Mycroft. “Your little revelation at your Christmas gathering effectively scotched that plan.”
“Only because he had planned to give her the baby she wanted,” said Sherlock, “and he understood then that he'd always be questioning paternity. It was easier to leave. You are avoiding the subject, Mycroft. How did you let Lestrade go?”
Mycroft put down his cup. As he looked as his brother, his mouth bent into a pained grin.
“You tell me, Sherlock.”
The younger Holmes studied his brother. After a second, he slumped in the chair.
“I see. You haven't let him go.”
Mycroft's smile began to wilt as did the sudden flash of bravado.
“No,” he murmured. “I have not. It is impossible to do that when you love someone, Sherlock. You never can truly … erase them. They let go. It is never, never the other way round. Never.”
Sherlock raised his chin stubbornly. “He would have stayed if you asked. You know he would have.”
“Yes,” said Mycroft. “He would have, and he would have spent every day wondering if there was more he could have done to salvage his marriage, more he could've said, more he could've thought. More.” He breathed out again. “And he would have begun to despise me. Just as you fear John has begun to do with you. And I could not have borne it any more than you could do if things with John come to that extremity.”
“Then you love him still. Lestrade.”
“Of course.” Mycroft's eyes traced a curve patterned into the carpet. “I always shall. But he let go. I stood back. It was proper and right of me to do so. It was not easy. It hurt.”
Mycroft looked up and he thought he saw his own anguish reflected in his brother's eyes.
“It was – is – painful. Especially now that he ...” Mycroft paused. “Especially now that he does not even hold me in the least bit of esteem. But it was the right thing to do. I loved him enough to recognize that.”
“I don't know,” said Sherlock slowly, “that I can do the same. Step back. I don't know, Mycroft. There must be another way. There's something you aren't telling me. You rowed with him, yes? You could not have just watched him pack his bags and leave.”
“He was very apologetic,” said Mycroft, trying to resist the pull of the memory. “He didn't try to obfuscate or deflect. I listened. At the end, we parted with a kiss, and that was all.”
Sherlock frowned. “That was all? You didn't ask him to stay?”
“It wasn't my place.”
“You didn't ask him to stay?”
“He had made up his mind already. He was even wearing his wedding ring again.”
“But you didn't ask him to stay.” Sherlock's eyes were glassy and for a moment Mycroft was uncomfortably reminded of the dark days of his drug addiction, the hazy veil that enveloped his brother and walled him off from the world – from him.
“You didn't ask!”
“Sherlock, I don't see what difference –”
“But it makes every difference!” Sherlock gestured at the space between them. “I thought you had. I thought you'd rowed. I thought you'd poured out your heart. You didn't. You let him walk away without telling him!”
“He'd made up –”
“He might have changed it had he known.” Sherlock shook his head in amazement. “Mycroft, you're not often given to being a fool, but when you are –”
“I don't see what this has to do with your predicament,” said Mycroft, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Gregory and I are different people and the circumstances – as you yourself pointed out – were very –”
“I didn't think it would make a difference,” said Sherlock. “If I asked John not to leave, not to marry Mary Morstan. I thought you had done that with Lestrade, and since you are alone, I thought it would make no difference if I did the same.”
“Sherlock ...” Mycroft sighed. “It might not make any difference.”
“But I don't know that. Just as you don't know that it wouldn't have made a difference with Lestrade. And now I must try. Because you didn't.”
Sherlock stood, looking down at his brother. “He's been reinstated, you know.”
Mycroft didn't look up. His heart was pounding and he felt a sharp headache coming on.
“Yes. I know. He'll be released to full duty within two weeks. He won't even have a reprimand in his file.”
“I told him.”
Mycroft glanced up. “You told him he'd be back perusing blood spatter within a fortnight?”
“No. I told him about you. About your part in my disappearance. About Moriarty.”
The elder Holmes looked away. “All of it?”
“All of it.”
Mycroft nodded slowly. “I see.”
And he did. It had made no difference. In fact, it was worse. It was easy to understand Gregory's enmity toward him when he'd thought that his carelessness had led to Sherlock's death and the end of an illustrious career at New Scotland Yard. Now that he knew the truth … and nothing had changed …
“He was ashamed,” said Sherlock. “I could see it in his eyes. He was always so transparent. He and John believed in me, you see. But they hadn't believed in you. They are both repentant. But John viewed it as a mistake not to trust you. Lestrade viewed as a betrayal not to do so.”
Mycroft raised his head again. Sherlock wore a faintly sardonic grin as he wrapped his scarf around him.
“If you've not heard from Lestrade, it's because he doesn't know what to say to you. Or if you'll forgive him.” Sherlock paused. “Someone should tell him that he shouldn't worry.”
“Yes,” said Mycroft in a strangely hollow voice. “Someone should.”
“Well then. Good evening, Mycroft. I believe we've filled our quota of 'brotherly chat' for quite some time.”
“Indeed.” Mycroft stood and showed him to the door. They were silent as they walked through the quiet living room and it wasn't until Sherlock had put a foot outside the threshold that Mycroft spoke.
“Sherlock.”
The younger Holmes turned. Mycroft put a hand on his brother's shoulder and leaned close.
“If you feel that I've made a ... mistake in this regard, then my advice would be that you not repeat it,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Fight. John may still choose to … he may still decide to be … but if you feel that deeply for him, fight.”
Sherlock stared at his brother. “Father always said you were more brilliant than any boy of your age group because you never made the same mistake twice. I trust he wasn't just bragging.”
Mycroft watched Sherlock disappear into a convenient taxi only seconds later. He closed the door and walked silently into the little alcove off the kitchen, where he poured out a small measure of brandy and spent the rest of the night deep in thought.
A week later, a manila envelope was left in Mary Morstan's pigeonhole at the school at which she taught. Upon reading the contents, she turned pale, mentioned to the head secretary that she felt ill, and was given leave to go home early.
She was never seen again, though she did post two letters bearing postmarks in Luxembourg – a rather belated resignation from the school and a “Dear John” letter, appropriately enough, to John.
Many were baffled as to why she would leave behind her life in London. It was a mystery that deepened when the manila envelope in question went permanently missing, though there was a duplicate tucked in a safe that would be dispatched to the Home Office if “Mary Morstan” ever stepped foot on British soil again.
For, after all, it was all well and good to fight, Mycroft mused, but even the best pugilists needed a little help now and again.
John was disconsolate for a time, but Sherlock's return and the celebrity surrounding it kept the good doctor busy, as did the cases that poured in from all of those who'd believed in Sherlock Holmes all the while, and Scotland Yard picked up a fair bit of good press.
Mycroft smiled as he read the latest exploits headlined under REBORN BOFFIN SLEUTH'S LATEST BONE-ANZA, having to do with smuggled artifacts from a noted museum exhibit on dinosaurs. The case had incorporated theft, two murders, and attempted arson, and so the media was having a field day.
“They misspelled my name, the wankers.”
Mycroft lowered the paper, and he just managed not to whistle.
It should have been indecent how utterly lickable Gregory Lestrade looked in nothing but pajama bottoms and a tousled head. He'd been fast asleep when Mycroft had last seen him. Mycroft reckoned it had been a rather tiring day for the Detective Inspector. The long-overdue "talk" they'd had at New Scotland Yard after Sherlock had hauled in the "bone-thief" had spilled into dinner, which spilled into drinks, which spilled into ... well, other things.
Apparently, Sherlock had been quite astute. After Mycroft's true role in Sherlock's "death" had been exposed, Lestrade had thought he would be the last person Mycroft would want to talk to. The elder Holmes spent quite a bit of time explaining just how wrong he was.
“I think the apostrophe was a bit whimsical,” said Mycroft. “And I'm certain it was spelled that way once upon a time.”
“Yeah, back when blokes pissed in buckets and bathed once a year. You want to bring that back, too?” Greg yawned and glanced at the clock. “What're you doing up, anyway? Thought I'd tired you out.”
“Not quite,” said Mycroft. “You forget – it's been several months since we've indulged in this sort of activity. It will take quite a bit more before I'm exhausted.”
Greg grinned wickedly. “All right then, c'mon back to bed. I think I have a few more tricks up my sleeve.”
Mycroft folded the paper with a small smile. “But of course, Gregory. All you had to do was ask.”