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“Do you remember Redbeard?” Mycroft asked and he heard how Sherlock took a shuddering breath.
“I’m not a child any more, Mycroft.” His little brother said with emphasis.
Mycroft nodded to himself and smiled cynically. “No, of course you’re not. Enjoy not getting involved, Sherlock.”
He heard Sherlock taking a deep breath one more time. Then the connection was gone.
Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed.
He dropped the phone and stroked a hand over his face, still sweaty because of his work out.
I’m not a child anymore …
Involuntarily, Mycroft’s eyes fell on the two pictures on the wall accross from where he was standing.
On the first one a very young Sherlock had his arms around a big Irish Setter, a smile all over his face.
The other picture showed Sherlock lying in the grass, reading a book, and Redbeard lying beside him, sleeping.
The pictures were peaceful and full of a bright, happy atmosphere, Mycroft couldn’t even remember.
He swallowed.
Of course he hadn’t chosen not to attend the wedding because he thought he would be unwelcome. Oh sure, they wouldn’t be very happy to have him there, but it wouldn’t spoil their silly, little party. No.
The main reason, he wasn’t there, was Sherlock.
Sherlock. Who travelled to the end of the world and back for a certain army doctor.
Sherlock, whose first thought after he was saved from torture and was told that there was information about a planned terror attack in London, was that army doctor.
John Watson.
John Watson came into this story from nowhere and stole Sherlock’s heart. Quickly and efficiently.
Only a fool could be blind enough not to see it.
Mycroft wasn’t a fool.
One time, someone called Sherlock his pressure point. His only pressure point.
Mycroft had laughed about this. Ridiculous idea, he had said.
But behind his mask, he knew that this person was right.
Sherlock was indeed his only pressure point.
He has always been his pressure point.
He sighed, and turned away from the pictures on the wall.
He might show people that he was cold and emotionless, but a mask was a mask. Made to protect the one who wore it. Made to hide weakness.
He wore this mask again, when he talked to Sherlock on the phone.
Sherlock, who nearly begged him to come.
Cars can be ordered, private jets commandeered.
But Mycroft was scared his mask wouldn’t be strong enough. Would shatter in the exact moment he would see Sherlock’s heart shatter. When two people gave their wedding vows.
Mycroft looked at his watch.
He had to tell his men to observe when the wedding would be over. He had to make sure Sherlock would be observed when he went home alone.
He was very sure this was going to be a danger night.
Mycroft sighed, and went into his living room. He was hungry. The nerves. He was always hungry when something concerned him.
*
A few hours later, he was phoned by one of his men.
“Sir.”
“Is the wedding over already?” Mycroft asked, surprised. He had thought the party would last until deep in the night.
“No, Sir. Your brother has left early. Alone. He is calling a taxi right now.”
Mycroft closed his eyes and swallowed.
Oh Sherlock.
“Thank you. I will drive to Baker Street now. Please inform me immediately if he goes elsewhere.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Mycroft left his house in a hurry.
A danger night. And this time there was no John Watson at Baker Street.
Just Sherlock on his own. Sherlock alone with his thoughts and Mycroft knew exactly how this night would end.
Not on my watch.
*
When Sherlock entered the flat, Mycroft was sitting in John’s arm chair waiting for him.
They looked at each other for a moment.
There was no real surprise in Sherlock’s eyes. His look was a mixture of numbness and slight anger. His first words were expressed with a hoarse voice.
“What are you doing here?”
“You called me,” Mycroft simply said. Calmly.
“No, I didn’t,” Sherlock answered and frowned. “But I see, you still let your men observe me like a criminal or …”
“Your phone call earlier this evening,” Mycroft interrupted him. “It was a call for help, wasn’t it brother mine?”
Sherlock closed his mouth and stared at him.
There was silence for a minute.
They stared at each other and Mycroft could make out the exact moment in which Sherlock broke down. The moment, his brother’s own mask shattered.
His look became desperate. Tears entered his eyes quickly. Oh so quickly. They began to run down Sherlock’s face unhindered, when he opened his mouth and said quietly, “Why does it hurt so much, My?”
Before Mycroft could answer, Sherlock emitted a choked sob, and began to sink to the ground.
Immediately, Mycroft stood up and hurried to his brother. Crouched down in front of him, and dragged him into his arms without hesitance. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here.”
In the next second, Sherlock’s hands clawed at his back desperately, and his whole body began to tremble in Mycroft’s arms. Sherlock’s broken sobs hurt Mycroft deep inside.
“It’s all right,” he mumbled and closed his eyes. He held Sherlock tight. “It’s all right. Let it out.”
“It hurts,” Sherlock whimpered, and pressed his face to Mycroft’s chest. “It hurts so much, why … I thought …”
“I know,” Mycroft said calmly and a single tear ran down his own face to his chin. It fell into Sherlock’s hair. “I know. I’m so sorry, William.”
All hearts are broken.