Title: The Face of Tragedy
Fandom: Sherlock
Author: frickangel ( frickangel{dot}livejournal{dot}com )
Pairing: -
Spoilers/Timeline: Post 'The Great Game'
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't know. Don't I wish.
Summary: Mycroft was always perplexed by his brother's need for John Watson in his life. Now, as he and the good doctor anxiously await news of Sherlock's condition, Mycroft takes the moment to understand why.
A/N: Sibling rivalry will always be deeply rooted in family love that's hard to explain.
Warning: Un-beta'd
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Mycroft found it silly that only in the face of tragedy would memories and regrets of the past be his sole companions. Little bits and pieces that come knocking on the door, demanding his attention and ever increasing the wave of nostalgia that he knew was illogical to overwhelm him.
No point in dwelling in it.
Not now.
Not when his younger brother was fighting for his life while he sat in the waiting room and twiddled his thumbs. He hoped that for once, Sherlock's stubbornness will prevail and he won't let an imbecile like Moriarty get the better of him.
Not today. Not ever.
Idiot.
Mycroft chastised himself for falling into the trap and found his train of thought leading him on that path of regret.
"You really shouldn't be here," Mycroft finally said, breaking the thinly veiled silence between them. "I could inform you as soon as we hear anything."
"No," Watson shuffled slowly and cautiously, obviously careful of his still raw injuries. "Sitting in a room and staring at walls wouldn't help either."
Looking up and glancing at the doctor, Mycroft bit back a deep sigh but instead straightened his back and kept his sights on Watson. The younger man was most definitely in pain, not the unbearable kind, but the freshly wrapped burns on his arm looked less the comfortable. The bruises on his face were only slightly hidden by the reddish skin due to exposure from high heat, and cuts from the shrapnel that broke skin—some deep while others not—were tended to. It was nothing life threatening, but certainly nothing to be taken lightly either.
The two men fell into their silence again as they preoccupied themselves with more thoughts. Mycroft refused to be lured back there again.
"Sherlock wasn't always this... petulant."
"Sorry?" Watson's forehead was creased in a frown, the white bandage folding along with his skin.
"My brother was actually a rather slow learner. Mumm—," Mycroft cleared his throat as he caught himself. No point to be referring to her as such with Watson. "Mother..." he corrected, "...was worried about her youngest. By the time all the other children were forming some spattering measure of sentences to communicate, Sherlock was still mute."
He remembered then when his mother spent most of her days and nights, exposing Sherlock to words and rhymes, hoping that something would help break her son out of his world. He also remembered how sometimes he'd walk past her room and accidently overhear the tears in her voice as she discussed Sherlock with her husband.
Whose fault was it? Was it some autism gene that they had passed on to him? Was he damaged?
Mycroft, being only 12-years old at that time, was tempted to walk in and lecture his parents about the useless need to wallow in self-pity but instead plan for a future. It was only the possible consequences of a good beating from his father that kept Mycroft quiet.
He'd slipped past their room unnoticed.
Watson remained silent and Mycroft took it as a sign to continue. "When the time came for Sherlock to begin formal education, Mother insisted that he'd be homeschooled, afraid that the teachers would just label him as autistic and leave him behind.
"Now that I think about it, it could have been Sherlock's brilliant plan from the very beginning." If circumstances were any different, Mycroft would have chuckled at the very thought that a boy of 4-years had already been plotting and manipulating people towards his own benefit. "Making himself the centre of attention, knowing full well that Mummy would have devoted her entirety to him." Tapping the heel of his shoe against the polished floor, he recalled all those private lessons of mathematics, science, English, French, and even the violin. After all these years, Mycroft finally realised what it was exactly that had bothered him so much; the one thing that caused all that unease and tension between the siblings.
Jealousy.
Mycroft was jealous of how much time Sherlock had commandeered in her life.
No.
Tightening his jaw, Mycroft refused to show any emotion and instead balled his hands into fists and gently messaged his thighs. It was a quieter alternative than stamping his feet, which was exactly what he felt like doing at that moment.
He allowed himself one last conscious memory, "At least he gave her joy through his music." Taking a deep breath, he suddenly came to a conclusion that, just maybe, talking things out may not have been such a brilliant idea. Maybe keeping their thoughts to themselves may have been a wiser alternative.
"I don't think I can imagine Sherlock being slow in anything."
Mycroft tore himself out of his musings at the sound of Watson's voice.
Damn these things.
"You'd be surprised," Mycroft permitted a small smile at the thought, "my brother maybe quick in puzzles of logic and science, but when it came to matters of the heart, he's rather… dense."
He had been staring at the wall before them, settling into the comforts of its pale peach colour and ignoring the nurses and patients that ambled by. There was a child right by the corner of the waiting room, sobbing and kicking his foot into the wall. Eventually an older woman bent down to whisper into his ear, her fingers slowly weaving through the youngling's dark hair, attempting to tame the mess of short curls.
Curls that were so much like his.
Turning away from the scene, turning away from the threat of those memories again, Mycroft returned to exchange a glance at Watson, knowing that the man would agree in his statements about Sherlock. But instead, he saw Watson looking down and shaking his head slightly, a small smile played on his lips.
"I may not know Sherlock as long as you have, Mycroft," Watson's voice surprised Mycroft as it carried clearly over the chaos of the hospital, "but from what I can see, he knows a lot more about feelings and emotions than most of us do. So much so, that he has no choice but to put everything into a box because it was distracting him from solving life."
The debater and logic in Mycroft forced the argument further, "And what makes you say that?"
"Because if Sherlock Holmes really didn't have a heart, I wouldn't be his flatmate, you wouldn't be here, and…" Watson sighed, leaving his explanation half finished. He seemed burdened by his own train of thought and conclusion, something to which Mycroft found curious.
"And…?"
"If Sherlock Holmes didn't have a heart," Watson repeated and turned to look at Mycroft, sharing with him an overflowing amount of confidence and loyalty, as if telling the whole world that his words were not to be taken lightly. "Then Sherlock would be Moriarty."
It was a disturbing thought. Although many a times had the Scotland Yard lackeys gossip about Sherlock's fascination—obsession—with the darkness of crime solving and eventually it would be Sherlock they'd be investigating; that Sherlock's warped mind would finally take a twist of damnation.
But no. This was his brother who although in all his selfishness, was only seeking one main objective in his actions. He wanted to be loved. Though it was in a way that only few people understood and that included himself, their mother, and now, perhaps even John Watson.
"Touché, Dr. Watson, touché indeed," Mycroft admitted. "Although my only hope is that after tonight, it does not change my brother too much that he'd find his life drawing parallels to that wretched man."
Watson gingerly eased himself into the hospital's chairs but not once glancing at Mycroft. "If that does happen," Watson replied and pursed his lips before giving into a smile. "Then we ourselves will not have any hope of salvation and be damned to hell."
For the first time that night, Mycroft Holmes began clutching at the understandings of John Watson's purpose in this world; this epiphany allowed him to mirror Watson's smile in return. There was no need for a reply because at that moment both men knew where they stood and basked in the same commonality.
The few moments to enjoy the comforts of their fragile bond were brought to an abrupt end and pushed into a corner of their minds as they stood up simultaneously. Like the end to a long dreadful dream, the closing chapter appeared in the form of a middle-aged man dressed in surgical scrubs.
Mycroft braced himself for whatever news he may bring of his younger brother.
He was ready.
Enough with the past—it was time for the present.
.
.
.
THE END
Thanks for reading.
Comments and criticism are most welcomed.
-Jo