At twenty-one, Mycroft greatly resented that he still felt an obligation to come home for the winter holidays. It frustrated him that he could never voice this opinion to anyone as they would surely decry him as heartless or uncaring for his loving parents. He didn't abhor spending time at home in Yorkshire with his family, but the entire two-week experience could usually be summed up in the first two hours of being at home again.
Christmas holiday of 1986 was no exception to this assumption. Mummy had hugged him and asked him countless questions about his schooling and well-being, and Father had welcomed him back just as warmly. Those first few minutes, although tedious, were comforting to the travel-weary young man that had missed his good-hearted parents during the school year.
And then six-year old Sherlock came running up to the house sporting a bloody lip, a scratched knee, and a wide grin. His left eyes was in the process of turning into a ripe
purple, and someone had apparently dumped mud over his long curly hair.
"Sherlock!" Mummy cried as her gaze fell upon him. "What on earth happened to you?"
"I went flower picking," the boy explained, out of breath as he nearly fell over while skidding to a stop. "The others found me and laughed at me. They tried to fight me but I got away. And," here he thrust his fist into the air revealing a clump of angry red and orange flowers, "I found the ones you showed me in my book, Father. These are the ones that make that paralytic poison, don't they?"
"But... your eye..." Mummy gestured fruitlessly towards the boy before turning pale. She staggered for a moment and put her face in her hands.
"Violet," Father was at her side in a moment, holding her upright with steady hands. "Violet, maybe you should sit down..."
"Come along, Sherlock," Mycroft directed, trying to do his part in keeping some order at this little family reunion. "Go inside and take a bath."
Eventually, after an hour or two, the Holmeses were relatively calmer. Mycroft had settled into his favorite armchair while Sherlock took up residence in front of the fireplace, a large book open in front of him. The boy was still cut and bruised after his bath, but it didn't seem to affect his reading. Mummy had spent the time since Sherlock's troubling arrival in bed, but had since risen and had enough strength to help Mycroft settle into his old room. She and Father disappeared into the other room away from they boys in order to speak privately, and Mycroft was torn between listening in and attempting to start a conversation with Holmes the Younger.
Finally he came to a decision. He cleared his throat and addressed the boy deeply absorbed in his reading. "Well, Sherlock, how has Mummy been?"
"She gets tired a lot," Sherlock replied, not looking up from his book. "I heard her and Father arguing about going to see a cardiologist. I know what that word means; I looked it up in one of Father's dictionaries. Why does Father want Mummy to see a cardiologist, Mycroft?"
"Ask Mummy or Father," Mycroft replied off-handedly. The string of questions reminded him how tiresome a conversation with a curious Sherlock could be, and began to regret asking after Mummy's health. He hoped that that would be the last of the questions so that more of his parents' conversation could slip into the room.
Sherlock, meanwhile, had no consideration for Mycroft's unvoiced desires to listen in on the private talk. "They got angry when I asked them about it. Why did they get angry? They never get angry when I ask questions."
"They were angry because you were eavesdropping." By twisting his head slightly, Mycroft found that he could make out a bit of what his mother was saying now to his father. "And quite honestly I think Mummy and Father let your endless questioning get far our of hand. Your curiosity borders on the unhealthy sometimes, Sherlock."
The little boy's eyebrows furrowed, but otherwise showed no sign of anger at being reprimanded. He brought the giant book up off the floor and propped it up so that it covered his face. Mycroft grimaced as he read the title for the first time: Deadly Vegetation of Eastern Europe.
By the time Sherlock fell silent, however, the whispers from the other room had died down so that there was no hope of anyone catching even a stray word. Mycroft cleared his throat again and settled back into his armchair, giving up. Turning to Sherlock on the floor, he decided to resume his first task of building a "strong" and "healthy" relationship with the youngest member of his family. "Are you paying attention in school?"
"School is boring," Sherlock replied with as much disdain for the question as a six-year old could muster. Grimacing, he turned to a page on bittersweet nightshade. "I asked Mummy if I could stay home and read from the library for my education but she said no." He made a face by scrunching his nose and furrowing his brow. "She taught me all about chemistry last summer. I can't see why she can't teach me."
"Mummy doesn't know everything," Mycroft responded.
"Well then Father can teach me what she doesn't know."
"Father and Mummy have better things to do than entertain you all day."
"Then I'll teach myself!" Sherlock replied indignantly. He took hold of one of the pages in his book and gave it a sharp tug. The piece of paper ripped free from the binding, and Sherlock shoved the page into his trouser pocket.
"Don't do that Sherlock. You're ruining the book." Mycroft got up from his chair, strode over to the boy, and snatched the book out from under him.
"Father says I can do what I want with my books!" Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, rising up to his full height. The top of his curly head reached the bottom of Mycroft's ribcage, but still he was determined to be an intimidating force. "Give it back!"
"No," Mycroft said cooly, holding the book above Sherlock's reach. He took a glimpse at the pages. "Oh lord, you've been writing in it too?"
"Mycroft! I said give me back my book!" The boy jumped as high as he could to reach for it and failed. He began to turn red in the face as he exhausted himself. "Give it back to me!"
"Mycroft!" Both boys turned to see Mummy Holmes standing in the doorway. She was clearly furious, looking both enraged and exasperated in one expression. Her glare was turned on the older of the two, demanding obedience. "Give Sherlock his book back!"
"But Mummy..." Mycroft began, ready to explain about the ripped and vandalized pages.
"Mycroft!" Mummy said again. She began to bite her lip until it turned white, and the color soon spread to the rest of her face, replacing the angry red and creating a rather sickly pink instead.
"Violet!" Again, Father appeared by her side, ready to steady her with concern. "Please, sit down. You don't want to aggravate yourself..."
"Oh for God's sake, I'm not a doll, Altamont!" she shouted at her husband. She did, however, walk herself to Mycroft's armchair and sat, her limbs shaking.
Mycroft meanwhile lowered the book to Sherlock's height. The boy snatched it from him and ran up the stairs to his bedroom, making a ruckus on each step. Mummy flinched with each one from her spot in the armchair and burrowed her face in her hands when Sherlock slammed a door above them. Quietly, Father approached the armchair and put one hand on her shoulder, stroking it softly. Mummy looked up at him, tears of weariness slipping from her eyes. She relaxed into her husband's caress until his arms were completely around her and his lips were in her hair.
As they embraced, Mycroft let himself out of the house and into the early evening. Without a destination, he began to walk.
Samantha Harrington is sixteen, tall, fair-haired, rarely smiles, never laughs, and plays the piano for two hours each day; enough so that it is not simply a hobby, but not enough to amount to any spectacular level of talent. Her fingers are thin and long but clumsy. She has difficult tying knots, threading needles, and hitting the correct ivory keys when she plays.
Her hand is cold, bony, and still the first time Mycroft takes it in one of his own.
"Stop just ahead. I see him."
The driver of Mycroft's car nodded, pulling over to the side of the road in response to the young man's command. After a few moments the car ground to a stop several yards ahead of two boys sitting and speaking together on top of a rather large rock. They both looked up from their conversation as they heard the car approaching, and the taller of the two had hopped to the ground by the time the car came to a stop.
Mycroft opened the door closest to the rock and waited. Neither of the two boys spoke. Mycroft ignored the raggedy one and turned his focus on the boy with the long coat and curly hair. "Get in the car." He sniffed and straightened his shoulders. "Does he need a ride?" Mycroft asked, looking down on the grubby urchin with no pretense of politeness. The taller boy shook his head and let himself in the car.
"It was nice talking with you, Sherlock," the short-haired boy said with a smile that, for some reason, sent a shudder down Mycroft's spine. "I'll be seeing you."
Sherlock closed the car door, and the driver instantly began pulling away. Mycroft kept the strange child in his gaze with the side mirror until he disappeared from view.
The car travelled at a steady pace down the empty road. The pair in the back sear sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds coming from the engine's purr and the driver's occasional sniffs.
"Mummy told me that I'd find you in front of your school at three pm," Mycroft began, breaking the silence. "Yet here we are, five miles from Norford Primary School in the middle of nowhere at six-thirty in the evening."
Sherlock said nothing, drawing his muddy shoes up onto the pristine seat cushions and wrapped his coat tighter around himself.
"I was minutes away from phoning Mummy, Sherlock," Mycroft continued.
"But you didn't," Sherlock said, his voice oddly thick as he broke his silence. It was almost an accusation.
"I spared her the news in the end." Mycroft explained, tightening his grip on his umbrella. "Not for your benefit, mind you. I wouldn't want to be the one to exacerbate her, especially with her heart..."
"Shut up," Sherlock snapped from his seat.
"If she can't be bothered to remember to tell her youngest son when his older brother is coming to fetch him from school, then I can only assume she's losing the ability to make full use of her mental processes."
"She didn't forget," Sherlock said, firm and defensive of Mummy Holmes.
"Then would you care to explain why you weren't at school waiting for me?"
"I went to talk to someone," Sherlock admitted after a bit of silence. "Over at the police station."
"Who on Earth would you have to talk to at the police station?" Mycroft asked, baffled. When the boy didn't answer, Mycroft turned to look at him. He found himself perplexed when he looked to see tears in the young boy's eyes. He spoke with concern, tentatively reaching out to him. "Sherlock?"
"Where did his shoes go?" Sherlock jerked as far away from Mycroft as he could. He looked up to the ceiling so that the tears wouldn't fall down his face. "Why does nobody else see it? Why am I the only one who cares?"
"That's what's upsetting you," Mycroft said, pulling his hand back and placing it back on his lap. It was a statement, not a question. "Nothing else is bothering you."
"The others at school never listen to me either," Sherlock sniffed, wiping his face with one coat sleeve. "And teachers. But the police, Mycroft. They're supposed to listen to people; to people smarter than them..."
"You're nine years old, Sherlock." Mycroft sighed in exasperation. "No one has any obligation to listen to you. Especially when you choose to pester people with your inane questions and observations. Believe it or not, people have more important things to do than look after you."
"But..."
"That Powers boy died in an unfortunate accident. The police have investigated and they closed the case. Let it go."
Before Sherlock could respond, a looming stone angel came into view out the car window. Turning his head to look further, Mycroft could see that they were driving along a black spiked fence. More and more stone statues came into view and soon all he could see out the window was a sea of gravestones and well-landscaped grass.
The car pulled into the graveyard and slid to a stop amongst the mud and gravel. "We're here," Mycroft announced to the other passenger. He let himself out of the vehicle and walked around to open the door at the boy's side.
"I'm not getting out," Sherlock declared.
"Get out of the car, Sherlock."
"You can't make me!" Sherlock kicked the seat in front of him in anger.
Mycroft tightened his grip on the door handle, resisting the urge to throttle the stubborn child. Had Mummy been catering to Sherlock's every whim during his absence? Was that why he had driven three hours from Cambridge to Yorkshire to pick up this little horror and then spent another three hours actually trying to find him? "Have it your way," he managed to say with a cool, unconcerned air. He had read once that indulging attention-seeking behavior would only result in a spoiled child, and god only knows how much Mummy had coddled Sherlock in the past few months.
Mycroft collected a package from the passenger seat of the car before setting off alone into the graveyard. Not too far from where the car was parked, he came across the gravestone that was the purpose of his trip.
Altamont Holmes
Loving Father, Husband, Friend
1952-1989
Mycroft sighed as he opened the box that he'd brought with him, revealing a floral arrangement. He placed the bouquet of yellow and orange flowers, now wilted after sitting in a heated car for six hours, by his father's gravestone.
"Back home now, I think," Mycroft announced to the driver as he stepped into the car minutes later. "We'll have to come up with an excuse as to why we spent nearly four hours at a cemetery. That is, if we don't wish to tell Mummy about Sherlock's impromptu afternoon stroll."
Sherlock, despite himself, turned his head to take one last look at the graveyard as the car drew farther away. Mycroft glanced at him discreetly and caught a brief flash of regret in his cloudy blue-green eyes. Had he been a more typical child, Mycroft thought, he might declare at that moment that he had changed his mind, and he would insist that the driver turn the car back around so that he could repent and cry over Altamont Holmes's grave. Mycroft almost wished that he would, just so that he could deny the boy the opportunity. It would serve him right.
Sherlock, however, managed to keep his expression still and stony. Mycroft turned away from the stoic child for the rest of the trip home.
As children they suffer together. Not quite a brother and sister in arms, but their shared inability to shed their baby fat as quickly as their sadistic peers meant that they often crossed each other's paths during their primary school years. They both hide behind large trees at lunch, take infrequently used pathways home from school, duck into corridors to hide from more mean-spirited classmates.
They reach adolescence. They fill out their matured bodies in ways that more closely resemble the typical aesthetic standard of well-bred teenagers in the United Kingdom.
They decide that they are perfect for each other.
Eight weeks before his thirtieth birthday, Mycroft Holmes picked up the phone in his office and received the message that he'd been expecting to hear for at least four years.
"Mr. Mycroft Holmes?" a woman's voice asked as soon as he lifted the telephone. Mycroft recognized the voice on the line as a close friend of Mummy's that he had never bothered to put a name to. It sounds saddened, worried, burdened, and just a bit tense.
"Yes, speaking," Mycroft responded, idly leafing through some paperwork on his desk.
"This is Roseanne Fleetwood, a friend of your mother's. I'm afraid I have some sad news." Fleetwood took a shaky breath, and at that moment Mycroft was completely certain he knew what had happened.
"Ms. Fleetwood?"
"Mycroft, dear," the woman said, sounding pained and apprehensive. "Your mother passed away earlier this morning."
Mycroft nodded calmly to himself, his theory confirmed. "Cardiac arrest, I presume?" He asked before he wondered if the question might seem to callous.
"Yes, right in the middle of the family library. She was taken to the hospital but I'm afraid nothing could be done by then. She went very quickly; the doctors told me that it all happened rather suddenly. She would have felt no pain."
"Thank you. That's a relief to hear," Mycroft recited from the speech he'd had written in his head for the past two years. It is appropriate, he figured, for sons to express comfort at a mother's quiet death, even if it had been expected. He dreaded what he knew would come next, however, and he cursed inwardly as Mrs. Fleetwood cut off the rest of his oration.
"Mr. Holmes, while I'm sure you would like time to grieve during this difficult time," she interrupted, clearly close to tears herself, "there's also the matter of your younger brother..."
"Yes yes, I assumed that." Rolling his eyes at the thought of having to make arrangements for Sherlock to take up residence in his orderly London home, Mycroft sits dow at his desk. "If it's not too much of a burden, if you could see that his things are packed by tomorrow, Ms. Fleetwood, I'll have a car sent by around noon to pick him up..."
"No, that's not it Mr. Holmes," the woman said. "He's disappeared."
Mycroft froze just as he put a pen to his planner to mark down some time to devote to moving Sherlock. "What do you mean, 'disappeared'?"
He only half-listened as the woman on the phone describes taking Sherlock to the hospital and looking away for only a moment. The headache that pounds in his temples makes it difficult for him to hear anything, and the pain only grows when it dawns on him that he will have to take responsibility in finding the runaway.
They move from hand-holding to more taboo pursuits rather quickly. It isn't particularly romantic or passionate in any sense. It is clumsy and awkward but not in the way of two young lovers but in a way that is a bit unpleasant. They improve over time, in both of their childhood bedrooms when their parents and servants are outside or sound asleep.
They carry on this way for two months until, all of a sudden, Samantha disappears.
After two years of searching then giving up then taking back up the search only to lose hope again, Sherlock turned up in a police station four blocks from Mycroft's residence in London. Mycroft himself went to handle his release a few days later, and he would have taken longer had not one of his insiders at Scotland Yard tipped him off about the scrawny dark-haired boy that turned up unidentified in a cell.
"We got him robbing a Tescos three nights ago. Got away with some cash and some fags," the sergeant overseeing Sherlock's arrest told Mycroft. The man shook his head, unfazed by the government official's well-made suit and umbrella. "Probably would've gotten away from us if he'd had a bit more meat on his bones, to be honest. Quick little bastard, he was. Finally collapsed from exhaustion. Just wasn't ready to run that far on foot."
Ten minutes later, Mycroft found himself sitting across from Sherlock at a table meant for interrogations. The young man's hair was the most unkempt Mycroft has ever seen it, greasy and tangled with leaves and dirt stuck among the curls. His lip was split, and the eyes that refused to look up at him were swollen shut and bruised. "Oh Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, clocking his tongue at the urchin in front of him. "What would Mummy say if she could see you now?"
Later he supposed that he should be grateful that he hadn't accidentally bitten off his own tongue. It had certainly seemed like he had at the time judging from the amount of blood that gushed from his mouth. An officer hurriedly handed him napkins to try and stop the blood flow, all while apologizing profusely as though he himself had punched him five times in the mouth.
Mycroft watched the boy struggle and swear at the men restraining him, the older man's blood still on those pale and knobby fists. When the police officers bring their fists and clubs down on the scrawny boy, he doesn't bother telling them to stop.
A few weeks following Samantha's disappearance, Mycroft gets a letter hand-delivered at school by one of her girlfriends: Wanda Miller. Of course she had to hand him the envelope in full view of his male peers, and they all jeer and laugh at him. The boys crowd around him, nudging his ribs, asking him who it's from, if there are dirty photographs of Well-Stacked Wanda inside, suggesting that it might be from Nigel Miller (Wanda's brother who talks with a lisp), hooting that Mycroft Holmes still gets love letters like a primary school brat, and they don't stop until Mycroft tucks the letter into his jacket pocket and refuses to say another word about it.
By the end of the school day he forgets about it, and it isn't until Violet Holmes launders his jacket later that week that the letter is read, the contents become known to those outside the Harrington circle, and the Holmes family changes forever.
Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson left the scene, chattering on about something inane that would undoubtedly fuel the former's massive ego. As his secretary worked her magic through her mobile, Mycroft watched the newly formed duo walk away with a cloud of foreboding hovering over his head.
The house is unbearably silent. All three family members are in the sitting room. Mycroft's soiled jacket sits forgotten elsewhere, the letter long removed from the pocket. Instead it sits crumpled on the coffee table, but it hardly matters. Everyone in the room has read it at least four times.
Altamont Holmes has long since taken his coat off and now sits motionless; a perfect statue in his armchair with steepled fingers set firmly against his mouth.
His son inherited this trait.
Violet Holmes, in contrast, is in constant motion. Not a single small object in the sitting room escapes her touch. She picks up coasters, candlesticks, pocket dictionaries, and throws them into the air with a sort of manic grace before catching and replacing them.
Her son did not inherit this trait.
Mycroft stands in the center of it all, directly in front of his seated father and trapped by the silent fuming and pacing of his mother. His hands are folded neatly behind his back, his eyes not daring to meet either of his parents' gaze, his mind trying to focus on something, anything, besides the horrific scandal he's just thrown his family into.
The ringing phone is what brings the three out of their respective trances.
Mycroft never dared to entertain the notion that, with Doctor Watson in Sherlock's life, he would have less to do in terms of monitoring Sherlock's behavior. He could hardly imagine, however, the indignities that Sherlock would bring to the family name with his newfound friend. True, they did manage to put away or eliminate criminalsthat terrorized the streets of London, but it wasn't long before his peers began chuckling amongst themselves at the sound of the name "Holmes".
When his superiors actually insisted that he call upon "Holmes the Younger" for help with the Adler Scandal, as it has come to be called, the humiliation became almost too great to bare. He could only hope that Sherlock would maintain the cold detatchment and brilliance he continuously bragged about when handling such a delicate case.
Three months later, when a months-long government plan lay in shambles and Miss Adler pushed Sherlock aside with a snide "Not you, Junior, you're done now", Mycroft turned away, pretending not to notice the hurt expression on his face.
People talk.
People do little else.
Violet and Altamont announce the happy but fictitious news to the neighbors, Mycroft continues to attend school, and the Harringtons invent a sudden but non-serious ailment for Samantha. Her fatigue, they say, causes infrequent but troublesome fainting spells. At first they explain that the weather in the South where a close relative lives is better for their daughter's condition, but after a few months the entire family moves without a single word to anyone except the Holmeses.
Mycroft isn't given a chance to see Samantha.
Both families carry on as usual until a few days after New Years' Day when the Harringtons summon Violet and Altamont. Mycroft is left home alone.
"John... I'm sorry." The barely lit room had more than enough light to see the disbelief and anger in John Watson's face. He scoffed at the apology and turned to leave. "Tell him, would you?" Mycroft asked before the door to the private room of the Diogenes Club slammed shut.
He knew that it was a futile request, one that would never be granted. John Watson fancied him and Sherlock a two-person army; in his mind it was them two against the world, against Moriarty, against the press, against the public.
Against Mycroft.
Mycroft could not begin to imagine what John and Sherlock would get up to that night. He knew about the arrest, of course, and the handcuffed-dash through the streets of London. He wasn't sure how much more farciful and ludicrous their situation could become, but he never stopped to think about how difficult it would be to clear both Sherlock and John's rapidly increasing criminal records. If their "them-against-the-world" mentality was going to continue, then his help would never be accepted.
At half past one, he came to the conclusion that, if he wanted to make this right in any sense of the world, he personally would have to find Sherlock and apologize.
Apologize. Mycroft walked to the door and secured the lock before allowing himself to sit back in his chair and dwell on that word any further. Had he ever apologized to anyone? He couldn't recall ever having done so. There were certainly apologies made on behalf of other people, namely Sherlock. Apologizing for Sherlock's incompetence and irresponsible behavior had become at least a weekly occurrence in his life, but that wasn't quite the same as expressing remorse for one's own actions. There had been that incident with Mrs. Hudson nearly a year ago, but that apology had been forced out of him with admonished looks and a thick silence. No, no, that wasn't an apology, not a proper one at any rate.
An apology would be what he would have made to Mummy and Father had they been alive to see Sherlock's disastrous downward spiral. An apology would be what he would make to poor Samantha Harrington had he the stomach to find her and face her for the first time since 1979. After all these years, he hadn't dared use his resources to check up on her in case his worst fears were realized. Unmarried, unemployed, a shackle of unsupported children. Mycroft closed his eyes until the churning in his stomach quieted.
An apology, he thought, would be what he would make to Sherlock if he could find him in time. What he should have made to Sherlock, he corrected himself. He was certain that he had never apologized to Sherlock before. For any of the misdeeds he'd committed against him in the last thirty-odd years.
As night became day, alone with his money and his cameras and his power, Mycroft could only hope that he would have the opportunity to do so, to apologize to Sherlock Holmes, for the first time.
At nine o'clock that morning, Mycroft's phone buzzed with an incoming call from Detective Inspector Lestrade. As he answered, Mycroft prepared himself for the worst.
And that was precisely what he received.
Samantha Harrington gives birth on January 6th, 1980 after only seven and a half months of pregnancy to a weak and sickly baby boy in a private hospital somewhere near Leeds. Mycroft gets the news by phone from his mother that day. She tells him everything: how the baby is premature but will most likely survive, how she and Altamont plan to take the baby to Yorkshire just as soon as he's strong enough to travel, how he already has a name.
Mycroft can take about twenty-six minutes of this before he fakes weariness and ends the conversation, promising to speak longer the next time. He hangs up after a quick goodbye and tries his hardest to steady his spinning head and shaking legs. Once his body is back under his control, he manages to make it to the toilet and empty his stomach.
"Suicide of Fake Genius."
Mycroft folded the paper and set it aside before leaning back. He resembled a perfect statue in his armchair, with steepled fingers set firmly against his mouth.
Altamont Holmes had passed this trait on to him, just as Mycroft had passed it on to his own son.
The baby needs time to rest at the hospital. Violet and Altamont stay with the newborn during this critical time, but eventually they come home.
Altamont drives the car to the house where his son waits for him outside. The two new grandparents exit the car with Violet cradling the baby in her arms. Before she does anything else, before she enters the house at all, Violet holds the bundle out to Mycroft. He takes it cautiously, looking down at the baby's curly black hair and small fingers.
Sherlock Holmes is almost three months old when his father holds him for the first time.