Author note: Part 4 of the "No Heart For Me Like Yours" series. This story is a sequel to my two earlier fics, "Always The Last To Know" and "Completely Amazing," and a companion piece to my earlier fic, "Song of Sherlock," and contains some dialogue from that fic. This is a different take on that story, told from Mycroft's POV. This is definitely not a standalone piece – it would probably make more sense to read the rest of the series first, as they tell how John and Sherlock got to this point.
Many thanks to my wunnerfulwunnerful beta, Skyfullofstars. The scene with the Scotch is largely her doing. If you haven't read her fics yet, drop everything and go read her stuff at once. You'll be glad you did. (But please, come back here when you're done!)
Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing. This makes me very sad. However, if Mr. Cumberbatch or Mr. Freeman (or both! together!) ever feels a need for a little temporary ownership, I'm sure we could come to an arrangement. ;)
Warnings: Sherlock/John. Preslash/Slash.
Trigger warnings: References to previous abusive relationship, non-con, sexual assault.
Please read and review!
My Brother's Keeper
By Sherlock's Scarf
In which Sebastian Wilkes finally gets his comeuppance…but at what cost?
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"Then the Lord said to Cain, 'Where is your brother Abel?'
'I don't know,' he replied. 'Am I my brother's keeper?'
The Lord said, 'What have you done? Listen!
Your brother's blood cries out to me from the ground.'"
Genesis 4:9-10
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"What do you mean, he's gone?"
Mycroft Holmes was a busy man, far too busy to be dealing with any nonsense from his little brother. Sherlock had always been a challenge, constantly finding new ways to antagonize his older brother. Mycroft had hoped that when Sherlock began attending university at the age of 15, that his intellect would be challenged enough to keep him out of trouble.
Clearly, Mycroft was too much of an optimist.
There had been so many conversations with the Vice-Chancellor of Cambridge, conversations where Mycroft had to use all of his considerable diplomatic skills to persuade him to allow Sherlock to remain as a student, that Mycroft received a personal Christmas card from him each year. Of course, the Holmes family's considerable donations to the university might have been a contributing factor. Then again, those endowments would not have been necessary if not for Sherlock's…antics.
This morning, Mycroft was managing Britain's interests in two globally significant events, the dissolution of Czechoslovakia and the Chemical Weapons Convention. It was the first time that his superiors had given him two projects of such significance to oversee at once, and Mycroft was determined to prove himself worthy. The last thing he needed was to be cleaning up after his little brother. Yet here was Ian, Mycroft's personal assistant, with an urgent phone call from Sherlock's sorely-tried student advisor, Mary Wentworth.
Mycroft sighed, nodded to Ian, and lifted the receiver.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Wentworth. How are you today?"
The frown lines between his eyebrows deepened as he listened, and his knuckles tightened on the telephone handset. Bloody hell – this was not what he needed right now.
"What do you mean, he's gone?"
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Mycroft waited, his long, graceful fingers tapping lightly on the arm of the beautifully upholstered club chair. Once again, he was grateful for the Holmes family's inherited membership in the Diogenes Club. The plush, comfortable atmosphere of the club always felt far more like home to Mycroft than his own tastefully decorated flat. Such peace, such tranquility.
Not for long.
When the door burst open, Mycroft sighed, looking resignedly past the livid figure before him to the two gloved and flannel-booted gentlemen who had escorted his guest to the Stranger's Room. At the small nod from Mycroft, they politely stepped out, closing the door softly behind them.
Thank heaven the Stranger's Room was soundproofed.
"How dare you send your minions to kidnap me, Mycroft?" roared the wraithlike young man, his startling upturned eyes blazing.
"Good afternoon, Sherlock," Mycroft said coolly. "I trust that you are quite well?"
In actual fact, Sherlock looked anything but well. Mycroft's highly-focused gaze swept his younger brother, taking in the way his disheveled clothing hung on his gaunt frame. Sherlock was almost vibrating with tension, and Mycroft noticed dark shadows below his eyes, eyes so overly dilated that Mycroft could scarcely see their pale, silver-blue colour. A muscle tic caused his right eye to twitch slightly.
"What the hell do you care, Mycroft?" A scornful sneer curled Sherlock's full lips.
"Of course I care, brother mine – you know how I worry about you."
Sherlock threw himself down sideways into the leather chair facing Mycroft.
"Only when it's to your advantage, Mycroft. What do you want? Don't make me ask you again. You know how I loathe repeating myself."
"You wound me, Sherlock. I repeat: I was concerned about you. It has taken three weeks to run you to ground. I received a call from Mrs. Wentworth at Cambridge…"
"Stupid cow." Sherlock rolled his eyes, then shot a suspicious glare at Mycroft through the greasy, unkempt curls that fell heavily across his forehead. "What did she tell you?"
"That you disappeared without warning from your dormitory, without completing the term, and without notice of any kind to the college administration."
Mycroft leaned forward, looking sharply at his younger brother, who threw his head back over the chair arm with a huff.
"My own investigation at Cambridge turned up no concrete information about why you would have abandoned your course of study in such a heedless fashion. I did, however, hear some…rumors…that you were…involved with a fellow student?" Mycroft noted Sherlock's sudden agitation, his twitching fingers and feet.
"Unfortunately, I was unable to discover a name…?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
Sherlock practically leaped from his chair and began to pace the room like a caged tiger.
"You were misinformed. I don't do romantic relationships, Mycroft. The brain is all that matters."
Mycroft quirked one eyebrow sardonically, and replied, "And you are taking care of that brain with stimulants now?"
"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock snarled. "I am an adult, this is my body, and I can do what I like with it. Don't meddle in my life any more. Leave. Me. Alone."
Sherlock whirled toward the door. Before he could leave, Mycroft spoke again.
"Who was he, Sherlock? What did he do to you?"
Sherlock froze, his hand on the doorknob. Mycroft watched Sherlock's back heave with his panicked breathing. He said nothing, and for a moment, Mycroft hoped he might answer.
Then he was gone, with a loud slam of the door to the Stranger's Room that would almost certainly cost Mycroft a warning in his membership file.
Mycroft huffed out a long, frustrated sigh. Sherlock was clearly abusing some stimulant, almost certainly cocaine, and this was likely only the beginning of a long, frightening downward spiral.
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"Sherlock? You haven't participated in this discussion at all." The therapist leaned forward in her chair, looking intently at the sullen figure crouched in an armchair, long toes curling over the edge of the cushion. "We are here to help you. Don't you have anything you'd like to say to your brother?"
Mycroft watched his younger brother's tangled curls, as his face was buried in his bony knees. Long, woefully thin arms were wrapped firmly around his shins, the short sleeves of his hospital-issue pyjama top doing nothing to hide the bruising and track marks on Sherlock's arms.
"Sherlock?"
Sulky, glaucous eyes lifted to stare at the therapist, pointedly not looking in his direction, Mycroft noted wryly.
"I have nothing to say to the bastard who is responsible for my incarceration in this hellhole."
"No need to thank me, Sherlock," Mycroft drawled. "I'm only looking out for your wellbeing."
If looks could kill, the glare that Sherlock sent in Mycroft's direction could have wiped out London's West End.
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"Sir, your brother has found a new flatmate."
Mycroft looked sharply at Anthea, the elegant young woman that had succeeded Ian when he accepted a post with the Common Foreign and Security Policy team.
Anthea might affect a distracted demeanor, but she was as sharp as a razor. Mycroft trusted her to handle surveillance monitoring details for the people who were important to him, and she never failed him. The fact that she was bringing this up meant there was more to the story, and considering Sherlock's history, Mycroft couldn't be too careful. Mycroft took the file, glancing over the profile of the former soldier.
"Make arrangements for a discreet meeting with Doctor Watson this evening, please."
"Very good, sir."
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