Pairings/Characters: Mycroft, Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Moriarty
Warnings: angst, SPOILERS for seasons 1 and 2
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and all his friends, arch-enemies, and relations belong to me only in the sense that I own a copy of his books. Any and all scribbles I make about him et al are only profitable in the sense that it makes me happy, much as playing with stuffed animals made me happy when I was six.
Summary: Mycroft Holmes was never as omniscient as his brother liked to believe.
AN: This is un-betaed and un-Britpicked, so all errors are mine. This is essentially just me working out what I saw in Mycroft during season two.
Mycroft's mind often stuck itself upon words, a strange subconscious tick that he had learned to take as illuminating rather than merely irritating. Usually, the word would drift off when he had resolved whatever situation had given rise to its context. Unfortunately, Mycroft's mind had been stuck on the same word for months, and it only seemed to become more apropos as time went on.
Untenable.
There were stages in life, some marked out by societal structures and some entirely personal in nature. Mycroft recognized only two distinct stages in his life, as all others merely fell under the heading of one or the other. Before Sherlock and After Sherlock.
Seven is too old for the gentleness of easing a child into the thought that a new addition is coming into the family and will supplant the general importance of the established family dynamic. Seven is the age when mistakes and errors in judgment about the delicacy of Mummy's comically rounded belly are met with snappish frustration and not careful explanation. Seven is old enough to hold an infant sibling correctly and to learn to change diapers, bathe, and care for said infant. Seven is too old to feign incomprehension of a baby brother's superior command on his parents' time and attention. Seven is the end of childhood.
Never let it be said that Mycroft wasn't in possession of an adaptable mind. The period of shock he felt over the sudden end of his primacy of place in the household was brief and he was quick to turn hurt feelings into productive action.
If he was to have a younger brother, then he was to have a remarkable younger brother. Mycroft took pride in looking after his sibling, in knowing what he needed and providing. When Sherlock displayed the kind of aptitudes that were previously markers of Mycroft's stunning singularity, Mycroft turned his disappointment at the loss of being wholly unique into the earnest endeavor to teach Sherlock and see the peculiar mind of his younger sibling grow in vast leaps and bounds, past any expectation of development generally accepted. Mycroft learned to let go of the comfort of being a single entity and embraced the knowledge that he was as responsible as his parents for this person who was so similar to him, and yet so utterly different.
Mycroft remembers Before Sherlock hazily, as though a pleasant dream of blurred details and potent impressions. Mycroft remembers everything After Sherlock.
He sometimes wishes this were not the case. He frequently wishes he could simply ignore the younger brother who so fervently ignores and openly despises him. He always wishes for that sense of unity they once shared when facing the world, before it divided their interests and minds.
His colleagues, his subordinates, and his enemies would say that Mycroft Holmes is a passionless man, an icy intellect that not so much serves as supervises the ruling heads of England. His brother would say he is a dangerous man, a steely mind that manipulates what it cannot manage. Mycroft Holmes would say – were he ever in a position to be honest – that he is a man, possessed of an above average acuity which he dedicates entirely to the safety of the people he cannot help but love.
Protecting Sherlock from himself is ever his first priority. It has been since the first moment Sherlock was placed in his arms, when he curved his arms to support Sherlock's small head and stopped the fidgeting infant from waving his tiny, fragile arms so wildly that he might bruise himself against the sharp edges of the world. It was that moment when Mycroft first noticed how very many sharp edges there were.
Mycroft should never have allowed Moriarty to come into Sherlock's field of vision. Mycroft could have stopped it all, somehow. Before it all got to Sherlock. Sherlock who had been doing so very well, had become so very happy in the last two years. The happiest Mycroft could remember seeing since Sherlock had learned piracy was neither a viable nor an honorable profession. For all the rest of the world's fears about his little brother, Mycroft knew with the conviction of years of evidence from careful observation that Sherlock did not want to cause hurt. That he did was often beside the point. He did not want to, and that was enough for Mycroft to launch his determined campaign to give Sherlock a way in life that dignified his talents and minimized his shortcomings.
Moriarty's interest had been noted but deemed a medium-level threat. Sherlock was capable of unraveling Moriarty's schemes when he came across them, and the criminal consultant was notorious for his personal removal from the activities he funded and arranged. Mycroft moved quickly after the bombing incident, but the wheels were already too far in motion. Mycroft had realized far too late that he himself was part of the game. No further proof of that was needed than the debacle with Ms. Adler.
Pressure had come down from the only master he came to heel for, over what he'd been sure was a trivial matter. Adler's involvement in the terrorism plot came across his desk far too late, long after he had loosed his brother on a mystery that, while Sherlock would never have stumbled across it on his own, now would be impossible to shake free of Sherlock's ravenous inquiry. Mycroft had sacked four of his people for the oversight, had cooked the CIA in the firestorm of his disgust and anger. But there was no way to stop Sherlock.
He had tried, despite the blows from above and below for the tenuous thread of control he had over the twin situations of Royal scandal and public protection that dangled from Sherlock's fingertips, to protect his brother. To assure the heads of state that his position was in no way compromised by the immediacy of his connection, that he was impervious to error and indecision as always. It wasn't the first time in his life that Sherlock proved dangerous to him, but it was the first time in Mycroft's life that he had been utterly unable to reverse the danger to Sherlock, to himself.
It had been Sherlock who had saved him in the end of that horrific affair, such as it was possible to fix such a terrible mess. Sherlock who hadn't allowed Irene Adler to beat him, to beat them.
Not that Sherlock wasn't still Sherlock. Sending Greg Lestrade to the country to keep an eye on his brother was a warning, a censure. If he had wanted to stop Sherlock, it would have been simple to have him arrested and to have his goings on investigated and have whatever had caught his interest handled. But Mycroft believed in his brother's work, believed even in the pedestrian nature of his justice. Mycroft had ascended to power by knowing that the heavy hand of procedure and punishment hid as much as it exposed. Still, Sherlock had needed reminding that Mycroft hardly needed Sherlock's status as an ongoing threat to national security touted about the countryside.
Especially now that Moriarty was in custody. Especially now that the crown wanted to know everything about him. Especially now that the crown couldn't get anything out of the man unless Moriarty got something out of Mycroft. What did the crown care if the psychopath listened to stories about Sherlock's early life? What did anyone care if James Moriarty was fixated on anecdotes about a long-grown boy's childhood?
Mycroft had received assurances that Moriarty would be handled once he'd given them what they wanted to know. He'd been promised the man's life would fall in his hands once they wrung him dry.
Instead, he'd been made to deliver the order for Moriarty's release. Knowing he'd been played, but not understanding how. Knowing that if he went after Moriarty without mitigating the power vacuum his disappearance from the ranks of the criminal underworld would cause, that the blame for the instability of his nation and her neighbors would fall squarely on his own head. Knowing that he had bound his own hands with the neglect of concern and love, waiting too long to strike, before anyone thought to question his motivations.
His power was useless in the face of Moriarty's perfect play. His last move – the very last he could make – was to appeal to the only other man he knew that would eschew power and personal concerns for Sherlock. John Watson.
But Mycroft was still two steps behind. John Watson was a good man – the best of men for his brother – but without help, John Watson was as susceptible to the winds of fate and chance as anyone else. Honestly, it had surprised Mycroft how fully John Watson discerned the depth of Moriarty's web of lies, given how baffling it had proved to the man who some called the British government. It would take Sherlock to fool Mycroft Holmes, and Sherlock had a twin wrought of all the things that Sherlock would never allow himself to be. Sherlock also had a best friend wrought of everything Sherlock wanted to be but couldn't manage on his own.
There was no rebuttal to John's words. There were excuses, a clear chain of events that led to this ultimate vulnerability, to this useless apology. While Mycroft was many things, he was not yet bereft of his adaptable mind.
Untenable.
He folded the paper, set it carefully in his lap, conscious as he was of the many men around him who paid a great deal of money to say nothing to him. And here, he too need give no comment. Just as well. Mycroft Holmes had nothing to say.
END