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Oh, what a night.
Oh, what a night indeed, thought Sherlock sullenly as he slipped into his coat. The glow from the reception behind him bathed everything in a golden light. Everything except for his heavy heart, clouded with the knowledge that he now had to leave and never look back. This would be for the best. John was happy and in love, Mary would be a good wife, and Baby Watson was on its way. Sherlock knew he wasn’t supposed to piece into this image of a happy family and it was easier to face this fact on his own. The haunting truth of the matter was that John didn’t need him. For all his knowledge and exceptional intelligence, Sherlock was nothing without John. John, however, was still everything without Sherlock. He grimaced at the thought, but quickly forced himself to bring his expression back cool composure. Love was most definitely a dangerous disadvantage and the sharp ache radiating from Sherlock’s chest was the definitive proof.
Sherlock walked further and further away from the reception. As the music gradually faded out of audibility so too did Sherlock’s motivation to continue walking. The constant rushing of tyres on asphalt indicated that he was nearing a main road and he urged himself to keep going until he had at least found a cab. He could stop walking and rest his exhausted body once he was on his way home. Stopping before that would be inefficient and counterproductive. He also partly feared that once he was down he may not be able to get up again. Not without the helping hand of John Watson. Standing at the side of the road, Sherlock threw out his arm as a cab sailed around the corner. It pulled smoothly to the curb and stopped, availability light flicking off. Sherlock lowered himself into the back seat and gazed out the window at the moonlit world outside.
“Where to?” asked the cabbie gruffly.
“221B Baker Street,” Sherlock replied instinctively.
His hand twitched into a clenched fist as he remembered everything back at the flat. John’s latest teacup, still with the remnants of tea at the bottom. One of John’s jumpers resting on the back of his armchair. Oh God the armchair. What could he do about that? No, he couldn’t face the contents of 221B at this point. Home would just have to wait. He couldn’t be alone at this point. Sherlock cleared his throat and said to the driver, “actually, a different address.”
There was a nod in reply.
He took a deep breath and recited Mycroft’s home address.
****
After a moderately long drive that Sherlock scarcely remembered as a result of remaining consumed by his thoughts, the cab pulled to the side of the road outside a large, charming townhouse lit by a single lamp by the door. He thanked the driver (an unusual occurrence) and paid the fare before clambering out onto the street and gazing at the house for a moment. Mycroft never left the front light on which meant he knew Sherlock was going to be visiting. Damn. He hated the acknowledgement of his weaknesses. No sooner had one foot touched the first step of the house, the front door clicked open to reveal Mycroft’s form silhouetted by the light before him.
“Brother mine,” stated Mycroft in his distinguished voice.
“Mycroft,” replied Sherlock through gritted teeth.
When he reached door, Sherlock took long strides straight past Mycroft and into a door off to the right of the main corridor that lead to a drawing room. He could hear the front door closing again and the sound of the light outside being flicked off. The hard echoes of well-made shoes against polished hardwood floors loomed closer until Mycroft too entered the drawing room and closed that door behind him as well. Sherlock had already curled up in one of the two large, plush armchairs with his arms locked around his legs, chin resting on knees. Mycroft regarded him sternly and opened the crystal decanter sitting at a table between the armchairs. He poured a sensible amount of scotch into his own glass, and topped Sherlock’s with what was possibly a little more than necessary. Sherlock huffed a thank you as he was handed the glass but decided he was not to drink a drop of it just to spite Mycroft, who was observing him carefully.
“I did warn you, Sherlock,” Mycroft began. “Don’t get involved.”
“I didn’t get involved.”
“No, of course you didn’t,” he replied, examining his scotch with a raised hand.
“Mycroft, I did not come here to be mocked like a juvenile,” stated Sherlock.
“Why did you come, Sherlock?”
There was silence.
“You came here because you could not bear a broken heart. John Watson has moved on. I suggest you do the same.”
Sherlock rearranged in his seat so that he faced away from both the flickering fire and Mycroft’s face.
“Sherlock, at least heed my next statement.”
Sherlock sniffed.
“Mourn a broken heart by all means-”
There was a tell-tale crack of breath from the hunched form in the armchair.
Mycroft continued. “- but do not fall back to old habits.”
An odd chuckle erupted from Sherlock’s chest. “Old habits,” he repeated, turning around to stare at Mycroft directly. “Old habits, brother? Let’s think about which of the two of us have the hardest maintaining self-control. Gaining weight again, Mycroft? I can practically hear the buttons on your waistcoat screaming under the strain.”
Sherlock had stood up and was near shouting by the last statement. There was a small murmur at the back of his mind that pleaded him to stop using such volume but he needed to project his anger. Mycroft kept eye contact and allowed no expression to flash across his face.
“You have always wanted me to be as perfect as you, as unfeeling as you. Well, Mycroft, terribly sorry to disappoint you as always. Mummy and Daddy will be upset, won’t they?”
Without thinking he took an angry sip of the scotch in the glass his hand was clasping with a little too much force. Mycroft remained still, eyebrows raised slightly. Sherlock continued to oscillate in front of the fire, breathing heavily, and shouting abuse at random intervals.
“I was never good enough for you, or for John. What more can I do, Mycroft?”
He took a deep gulp from his tumbler - no longer caring for his initial decision to not touch the ghastly drink at all - and then refilled it clumsily.
“It was all for nothing,” Sherlock admitted, suddenly whispering. He looked at Mycroft who had still not moved despite everything hurled at him. “I should have jumped properly.”
At that confession, a small silvery tear leaked out of one of Sherlock’s pale eyes.
****
A new look had replaced the fury across Sherlock’s face; one that appeared weary, sorrowful. He seemed unsteady on his feet and his arm how hung limply by his side, the tumbler situated loosely between two fingers. Mycroft recognised this posture as his cue to intervene. Sherlock’s anger had lapsed and now the depression was settling. He set aside his own glass with scotch still untouched and rose to his feet. He stood opposite Sherlock and watched the dark curls of his downcast head. The crystal tumbler finally slipped from Sherlock’s light grasp and shattered on the floor, spilling expensive scotch across the floorboards. The smash echoed around the now silent room and amplified the stillness. A small sob spilled past Sherlock’s lips and his shoulders began to shake. Mycroft’s heart wrenched as he watched the sorry scene and he took a deep breath to maintain composure. Carefully, he took a step closer to his little brother. “Sherlock,” he whispered. “Come here.”
Without hesitation, the smaller man closed the space between them and pressed himself against Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft wrapped his arms around his brother and rested his head against Sherlock’s. In the protective embrace of his older brother, Sherlock finally let go of his sadness and cried salty tears onto Mycroft’s suit. Mycroft held onto him tighter. Blinking away a tear of his own, he murmured his response to Sherlock’s shouting. Mycroft prided himself on his ability to push away sentiment of any kind, allowing him to remain practical and rational at all times. That is, until his brother was involved. Just as John Watson had done to Sherlock, Sherlock had broken Mycroft’s heart.
“I would not have let you jump.”