Chapter Text
For the first time in what felt like ages, there was silence around Mycroft Holmes.
In the car that had brought him home, he had been separated from his discreet and trusted driver by the privacy screen so no words had been spoken, but there had still been the muffled noises of the traffic and the unpleasant sound of wheels rolling on wet streets. Even in his stupor, staring out onto the dimly lit streets, the noise had made his head thrum a bit more.
Before, there had been screams. At him. Mycroft was not used to being shouted at. For incompetence. For mismanaging a situation so badly that people had died. The accusations had not made him feel much worse, as that had hardly been possible, nor had they been necessary to make him aware of his failure. He had watched those people die, and every one of those deaths was weighing on the soul he indeed had albeit denying it.
Just like his brother, he clearly was not some sort of angel or saint. He had dedicated his life to Queen and country and he had made hard decisions to protect it for the past two decades, and it had never given him sleepless nights. But giving an order – never a written one though as his existence was so hush-hush – to take out terrorists or rogue agents or traitors was something completely different than actually watching people die. Innocent people. Well, innocence was a relative term. The governor had brought this over himself by ignoring his orders to never engage with Eurus. At least one of the Garrideb brothers had been a murderer. But the other two? The governor’s wife? Victims of a war they had not known they were participating at. The war of a vengeful little girl in the body of a grown-up, mentally disturbed woman, lashing out at her brothers. But of course she had not wanted to see Sherlock dead, just him, Mycroft, for the crime of having her locked up for all those years. So she had saved Sherlock from shooting himself – for which Mycroft would forever be grateful.
In the heavenly silence of his house, he poured himself a generous drink. He had not switched on the lights. He had hung up his coat in the dark after leaning his umbrella against the wall. Carrying his briefcase, he had stalked through the dark corridor towards the living room at the other end of the floor. It was no problem for him to manoeuvre in the dark in this house he knew so well. He had always been fond of the darkness. In his profession, he was used to operating in the shadows. After all those years, he had become a part of them, and that suited his misanthropic personality just fine.
He was trying not to think. Not of the deaths. Not of the horror he had been feeling seeing Sherlock direct the bloody gun at his own head. Or the desperation he had experienced when he had woken up in Eurus’ cell, not knowing if Sherlock had made it out alive.
Now, nearly twenty hours since being told by the police that his brother was fine, after organising Eurus’ now safe incarceration during what had been left of the night in his Diogenes office, followed by a hellish day at Whitehall, the shock had not vanished. He had somehow survived that day, a day filled with hard words he fully deserved. No lunch, no break, no rest. And he had not been able to do the work that had piled up on his desk as it did on every given day so he had brought a dozen folders home to work a few hours more before the next cycle began. He should have been deadly tired but he knew he would be too wired to sleep. So he took his drink to his office upstairs, feeling wobbly on his feet out of sheer exhaustion.
When he had fallen heavily onto his chair, the folders carelessly thrown onto his desk, he felt that he was unable to move a finger. He had to remind himself to blink. Everything felt numb and sore at the same time. His eyes were stinging. His heart was heavy with dread and guilt. His stomach was empty but the thought of eating anything made him feel nauseous.
After what felt like ages, he opened the first file. On the first page the photograph of agent Thomas Cunnings, thirty-two, the dark hair slicked back, the blue eyes cold. Lost in Afghanistan a day ago. A tragedy? Or the actions of a double agent?
He didn't get to read anything more as he couldn’t have cared less right now. The attractive face of the lost man turned into the features of the only man Mycroft Holmes had ever loved. And would ever love. He could see Sherlock's cheekbones appear, the wide eyes of the agent narrowing to his brother’s mercurial cat eyes.
So close. It had been so fucking close. What life would there have been for him if Sherlock had pulled the trigger – not at him, Mycroft, but at himself? The answer to this was an easy one. None at all. There would be no life without baby brother. Sherlock was everything. The faithful little boy, the sulking teen, the hopeless addict, the beautiful grown man with all his resentments against him. A kaleidoscope of pictures was whirling in Mycroft's mind, images merging with each other, completing a picture of love and care and all the unspeakable sentiments, too.
Mycroft's shields had been disrupted like never before in these minutes which he had assumed to be his last. He knew he had shown his feelings too openly before Sherlock had decided to rather threaten to kill himself than shoot him. But of course little brother had not understood, had not seen. Thank God. And whatever responsibility he had been feeling for his older brother had vanished when he’d had John back after playing along with Eurus to have the doctor being saved from the fate little Victor Trevor had not been able to escape from.
In an unheard-of touch of care, Sherlock had sent his friend Greg Lestrade to check on him. Care by proxy, it had to be called. The policeman, busy with the imploded Garrideb-case, had spared him a visit, thank God, but he had called Mycroft to ask how he was doing, and Mycroft had assured him that he was just fine. Probably the older man had not believed him but what could he have done? Mycroft had not wanted his company, let alone his sympathy. Or anyone else’s for that matter.
He had gone to the office at once, dealing with the Sherrinford disaster. And Sherlock had gone home with John Watson as his own flat still resembled a war zone after the explosion. The status quo had mostly been restored. Sherlock and John. The dream team. Still. In or out of 221B Baker Street, it didn't matter. After all that had happened – the guilt, the hurt, the violence. And Mycroft on the other side – alone, as he had always been. And suddenly, this had become too hard to bear. Feelings and longings of a past he had literally locked away rose in him. Just a look. One look at something he should not even possess. The doors to his heart were wide open. Vulnerable he was; there was no denying it.
He poured himself another drink. And then he got up and walked over to the opposite wall. He opened the safe that was hidden behind the wooden panels. Took out a slightly crumpled envelope he should have burnt a long time ago. Opened it to let its contents slide onto the desk. And stared at them. Stared and longed and burned, and tried to soothe the burn with another drink, and then another. But the burn would never stop, and in the end it would burn him from inside, and now, after this massive failure, this hurt and guilt and being torn apart, he did not even care.
*****
“You’re sure you don't wanna come with us? I’m sure Molly could look after Rosie.”
“No, thanks. A quiet evening at… Well, here is all I need.” Sherlock could hardly call this place his home. It was the flat that John had been sharing with Mary. Whose death still weighed heavily on him. John had forgiven him for the actions that had led to Mary being shot as it had been her decision after all. And he had also said sorry for unleashing his wrath on him in the morgue of this sodding hospital. They had buried the subject afterwards – after those three to four sentences about something so explosive… They were still behaving awkwardly around each other whenever they were alone. Rosie was serving as a distraction during the daytime. But until the explosion in 221B, they had avoided spending time with each other in the evenings, when they were surrounded by silence. Silence was bad. Silence gave them time to think and might even force them to actually talk.
Sherlock knew he had deserved John’s wrath. Perhaps he had even provoked it. To cleanse him from his massive failure in dealing with Vivian Norbury. His nemesis. Deadlier than Moriarty and Magnussen after all. But John had crossed a line in a way that made it impossible to feel relaxed in his presence now. They had never been that physical with each other. Perhaps there had even been a time when Sherlock had vaguely considered the possibility of them becoming, well, physical with one another in a completely different way. A positive way. They had been very close for a short while; close enough for him to overthink his ‘married to my work’ lifestyle at least in some theoretical way. But it had never come to this, and these times were long gone and so was the lightness and trust of their early days. Mary’s shadow would forever linger between them. The hatred on John’s face when he had kicked him into the ground was something Sherlock would never forget.
But that was not the reason for him feeling relieved that John would go out with Lestrade tonight. Well, not the main reason.
He had simply not been feeling like himself. For a long time, actually, but it had become especially evident after it had been all over – when John had been sitting next to him, shivering, wrapped in a blanket, after having been rescued from the bloody well. The tension and horrors of this night, spent with playing his monstrous sister’s games, had slowly vanished. So had this insane moment of closeness with Eurus. It had worked. She had allowed him to save John. And then she had been brought away, back to Sherrinford, where she had been awaited by people who would make sure she would never run free again. Sherlock had been feeling hollow and sore, sitting next to his best friend. Or the man who had once been his best friend. He had been feeling… lost.
But that was not quite right, was it? He’d had an epiphany in Sherrinford. An overdue epiphany. No matter if John left his life again. If Lestrade had enough of him. If Molly never spoke to him again after this blasted phone call. If Mrs Hudson didn’t let him move back into Baker Street for causing so much damage to her property and her nerves. No matter if everybody dropped him, he would never be alone. There would always be someone to catch him when he fell.
His brother.
The man who had just offered his life in Sherrinford. Who had not been able to shoot someone cold-bloodedly. Who had been feeling guilty for Eurus’ misdeeds, for allowing her a conversation with Sherlock's archenemy Moriarty. Who had woken up in Eurus’ cell, alone. What had he been thinking? Had he seen Sherlock being sedated too before he had lost consciousness? Or had he been taken out, not knowing if Sherlock had survived?
It had been wrong to ask Greg to look after his brother. It had been wrong not to talk to him himself. Sherlock had just been feeling numb and exhausted but that was no excuse. He could and should have at least called, or in the very least texted him. But he had not done it.
Since he had arrived at John’s flat the other night, he had taken his phone plenty of times to write a text to his brother, but he had always put it away without writing a single word. There was something that kept him from reaching out to his brother… Something disturbing had been going on, in this moment in which Mycroft had thought he would shoot him. And how could he have? How could his smart brother not have deduced that Sherlock was just playing for time? Deceiving Eurus?
It hurt. It hurt to know that he had been such a horrible arsehole of a little brother that Mycroft had seriously thought he would murder him without so much as hesitating.
Sherlock was experiencing a feeling that had not been bothering him very often in his life. Shame. He had completely and utterly failed as a human being. Not just in dealing with Norbury. He had fucked it up with Mycroft over decades.
And Mycroft had never let him down. And he had been willing to die at Sherlock's hands, just to save John, who meant absolutely nothing to him. And that look… What had been happening in this moment? It made him feel dizzy just to attempt thinking about it.
“You’re sure you’ll be okay?”
Sherlock winced at John’s voice as he had blanked him out completely. “Sure. Just go. I’ll make sure Rosie’s fine and go to bed.” It was nine-thirty, and John looked rather exhausted himself. But if he thought he had to go out, well, Sherlock was not his mother. But he did not feel the slightest wish to accompany him. And asking Molly to babysit would probably not be the smartest thing to do. John had explained the phone call to her but Sherlock was sure that she was still hurt and feeling humiliated. Eurus was very good at making people feel like this…
“Good. If there’s any problem…”
“…I’ll text you at once,” Sherlock assured the doctor. “Now go and greetings to George.” One should think Lestrade had spent enough time with them today, speaking about the Garrideb case, but apparently he was too wound up to go to sleep early, too.
“His name is…”
“…Greg, I know.” Sherlock gave John a wry grin and it was returned with a rather fond-looking smile and an almost Holmes-like eye-roll.
“See you tomorrow.”
“Yes, John.” Sherlock watched him finally leave, and then he slowly got up to have a look at the baby.
And he wondered what he had to do to stop feeling all wrong and like a stranger to himself. And how to understand what had been happening between him and Mycroft under John’s and Eurus’ very noses.
*****
There was no noise from John’s room. The bedroom he had shared with Mary. Sherlock had heard him come home rather late, and he had probably drunk some beers with the DI.
It was still awfully early anyway. When he dragged himself out of his guest room bed, Sherlock felt as if he had aged twenty years in the past two days. Well, probably the past few years had taken their toll. It had not been a walk in the park, his life, ever since he had confronted Moriarty on that roof.
He checked on Rosie but she was still sound asleep, clinging to her fluffy giraffe.
After a quick shower and a shave he bumped into the doctor, whose face looked as if an elephant had been sleeping on it.
“Morning, Sherlock. Slept well?”
“Better than you as it seems.” It was a lie. In fact, Sherlock had barely slept at all.
John scratched his head. “Yeah. Got two pints more than I should have,” he mumbled. “Will take care of Rosie now. She’ll go to daycare.”
Sherlock nodded. John had a shift at the clinic, starting at nine. How he was going to survive that after two more or less sleepless nights was beyond him. But as a doctor and a soldier, John was used to short nights.
What would he be doing all day? Sherlock wondered when he sat down on his kitchen chair after filling the kettle. Check on the progress in 221B? Well, at least he could have tea with Mrs Hudson. Or stroll through the streets of London. Perhaps Lestrade would have a case. Perhaps Mycroft wanted some company.
The thought made him feel… weird. Why? Hadn’t he and Mycroft practically reconciled even before going to Sherrinford? In these moments before the patience-grenade had sent him and John out of the window and torn his flat to pieces? Hadn’t there been gentleness, and fondness? This was his brother for God’s sake. Mycroft had to have gone through some serious trouble at work after the disaster with Eurus, and he was certainly not feeling cheerful about the horrors he’d had to witness in the prison. He would certainly appreciate Sherlock reaching out to him.
And yet the sheer thought of facing him felt like biting on tinfoil. It made his synapses frizzle. It made him want to bang his head against the wall and he didn't know why.
Or perhaps he did but he didn't want to acknowledge it. What had become of the man of logic and reason, of science and cool?
“Fucking hell,” John interrupted him, the newspaper in his hand.
Sherlock had not checked his phone yet. “What’s wrong?”
“I’d have thought your brother would keep the lid on this. But it seems that one of the fired guards talked to the press.”
Sherlock swallowed when he saw the headlines. ‘Imprisoned killer causing havoc in secret institution.’ and ‘”She killed my sister.’”
Great… “I need to go see Mycroft. In a few hours,” he added, figuring that his brother would be very busy with taking revenge on certain people now. “Damn…,” he mumbled then. “Our parents will read that, too…” The parents who still thought that their daughter had died as a child...
“Oh fuck.” John gaped at him.
Well said indeed… They would come to London and they would come today. And they would not be pleased…
*****
Sherlock tried to not roll his eyes. “He did his best.”
“Then he’s very limited.”
Sherlock winced at Mummy’s rude words and the contemptuous tone in which they were spoken, and he didn’t have to look at Mycroft to know that his brother was hurt by these harsh and utterly unfair words.
He had expected the unavoidable confrontation with their parents to be bad but it was even worse than he had thought. They were bashing Mycroft for doing what he had thought was the only way to deal with the nasty secret that was Eurus Holmes. And it had not even been his decision; in fact, he had been nothing but a boy himself when Uncle Rudy had decided to lie to their parents and lock Eurus away for good. And that was exactly what had to happen to her and what had to be continued, and Sherlock was sure that she had hardly been craving their parents’ comfort for the past thirty years. He did remember a lot of child Eurus now and she had never paid any attention to Mummy and Father as they had seemed to be beyond her.
But he had to admit, as horrified he was by what she had done, he did feel kind of sorry for her. She had been born like this and she had hardly been prone to change under her living arrangements – alone in a glass cell, only used for government purposes. No human contact, no fresh air, no life. It had been necessary and their parents would eventually understand that. Of course they demanded to meet her, and even though Mycroft told them that it made no sense, he would give in and bring them to her. And they would see. They would never get through to her.
But perhaps there was a way to make her feel a bit better. She might not deserve it. But he had told her that she wasn’t lost anymore when he had found her in Musgrave. Yes, he had done it to save John but he had felt pity for her. She could never be allowed to run free but she didn’t have to be all alone anymore. At least he could try to make a difference for her. It would placate their parents and this would help Mycroft.
Big brother had tried to look nonchalant and superior when he had asked Sherlock in – the parents had arrived only a minute earlier as Anthea had told him – but Sherlock had seen how exhausted and desperate he was feeling underneath his cool demeanour. He was not used to being in everybody’s bad books and yet he had certainly listened to harsh accusations from his colleagues for the compromised security of this prison he had always thought was completely secure, and now he, who had always been the golden son, had to hear that Mummy called Sherlock the ‘grown-up’, which could have only been a joke. It was hurting him and seeing him hurt did things to Sherlock that would have surprised him had he not realised that something fundamental yet indescribable had changed in him in regards to his brother during the previous days.
So mostly for Mycroft's benefit he promised their parents to visit Eurus first and see if she was amenable to it, to perhaps playing the violin together. Music would likely be the best way to make a connection with someone who refused to say a single word. The parents could join them at a later point and perhaps take over eventually as he did not see himself going to this island all the time for very long, especially if she went on refusing to speak. He did want to help her but he also knew himself too well. He did not like to be bored… He also wasn’t sure at all that there would be a chance to make Eurus part of their remarkably dysfunctional family but he would give it a try.
“I don't know how to thank you,” Mycroft said meekly when the parents had left, still shaken and behaving rather impolitely towards their older son but at least a little bit soothed.
Sherlock felt ashamed. He had not stepped in for his brother as thoroughly as he should have, and Mycroft had to know this. And still he was thanking him? Well, probably it had already been a large improvement to Sherlock's usual behaviour around him… A few days of being nicer to Mycroft had hardly made this undone. Nothing would do that. Like Sherlock, Mycroft had a perfect memory – even though Sherlock had conveniently erased or rather suppressed unwelcome memories as it seemed. His brother would always remember his awful manners. He had to do better.
He should have asked how Mycroft was coping – but his brother would brush it off and perhaps close up at the intrusiveness as well as silliness of this question. He should thank Mycroft for his bravery to try to sacrifice his life for a man he couldn’t even stand – but he would have only sounded clumsy and stupid. They just didn't have this kind of relationship. They were not used to being open with each other. Let alone affectionate. He didn’t know how to pull that off. But he had to try to make some sort of connection – he felt it with some urgency.
So when Mycroft bent down to pull some folders out of his briefcase, in all probability using work to distract Sherlock from the nasty – and in his eyes certainly embarrassing – scene with their parents, he asked, “More work?”
Mycroft sat down in his chair again. “Yes. Took it home last night but… wasn’t able to get a lot done.”
And Sherlock only now realised that not only John had gotten pissed last night. “They gave you a hard time,” he concluded, meaning Mycroft's colleagues and the PM. It felt embarrassing enough to state the obvious but Mycroft accepted his attempt at a conversation.
“They did, and I had it coming.”
What was it with them and feeling guilty all the time? Sherlock mused. Shouldn’t they be above all this crap? It didn't lead anywhere. It only made them feel miserable. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said, knowing it to be futile. If a stubborn Holmes wanted to feel responsible for other people’s decisions, they would do it.
Mycroft gave him a wry smile. “Well. They should have obeyed my orders. But I should have made sure they do.”
“Mycroft, it might shock you but you can’t be everywhere at the same time,” Sherlock said dryly. “You are busy enough with running the country and keeping my sorry behind out of trouble.”
His brother shot him a surprised look. Then he shook his head with the saddest smile Sherlock had ever seen. “If I actually ran the country, it wouldn’t be in such a mess… And I’m afraid I’ve failed at protecting you big time as well.”
He didn't just mean the Eurus-confrontation. He was talking about John. Magnussen. Sherlock getting shot by Mary. “I’m a big boy, brother. In four years I’ll be forty. I should be able to look after myself by now. Can I help with anything?” Sherlock changed the subject before they both got even more depressed than they already were, pointing at the folders.
“Oh.” Mycroft looked thoroughly surprised.
Well, of course he was. Sherlock had not really offered his help on government matters very often before. Not once, actually. In fact, he had always refused to help Mycroft with cases in the past. It made him only feel more ashamed and angry at himself. What had he told Lestrade when he had sent him to look after Mycroft (and what kind of a dick move had that been anyway…)? He had said Mycroft was not as strong as he thought he was. In fact, Mycroft was very strong – usually. But he was also very sensitive; the past few days had proven that, cumulating in his meek behaviour towards their parents even though he would have had every right to yell at them for being treated so unfairly. So Sherlock's behaviour during all those years must have hurt him thoroughly, and Sherlock had not even seen it. A great detective he was. And an even greater brother...
“I don’t think so. This is about an agent who might be in captivity in Afghanistan but could also be a traitor.” Mycroft tapped onto the paper folder. “And I don’t want you to go there and search for him!” he added at once.
Sherlock nodded, taken aback by the intensity of his words. But was this surprising in the least? Didn’t he know by now how much his brother cared about him? And Mycroft had just literally watched him pointing a gun at his own head. Of course he didn't want to see him in danger so soon again. “But I could do some digging regarding his family and friends and his past. And John might be able to use his connections to Afghanistan. I guess you remember he’s been there.” He grabbed the folder. “Why don’t we let Anthea make a copy and... Oh, sorry, let me get that.” Papers and photographs had slipped out and fallen onto the floor.
Sherlock bent down to pick the stuff up – and then his eyes widened in utter surprise as he glanced at a photograph that was showing a young man, lying on a messy bed with his face buried in the pillows, a mop of curly black hair forming some sort of dark halo. Apparently he was sleeping, and he was sleeping in the buff, his plush bottom on display for everybody to look at, due to the position of his legs even a hint of pink visible between those two creamy-white globes.
It was a picture taken in a room he remembered all too well – the dark-grey walls, the edge of what he knew had been a poster of the periodic table. It was a photograph of a much younger Sherlock in their parents’ home. A naked, exposed Sherlock.
His brother made a pained, strangled noise when he saw what was now slipping out of Sherlock's shaking hand, and Sherlock looked up to see Mycroft's eyes bulge out of their sockets in shock, his face as pale as the bedsheets on that photograph.
For a moment, neither of them said anything or moved. Then Sherlock turned to leave, wobbly on his feet, croaking something he later couldn’t remember, and left Mycroft's office, shaken to the very core.