Chapter 1: The Code
Mycroft had been a mess ever since this whole ordeal began. Now, 'mess' was a relative term when considering Mycroft's usual demeanour. From the outside, he appeared to be handling everything beautifully—at least, that's how he hoped he came across. But inside, he was tearing himself apart. He'd always strived to be in control: control of the British government, control of his own emotions, and control of his little brother. For the most part, he'd succeeded.
If there was one thing he loathed most in the world, it was feeling powerless. He couldn't think straight if anyone but himself was dictating what happened in any given situation. It made him feel helplessly afloat, drifting about at the whim of the ocean's current. Throughout his entire life, he'd done everything humanly possible to remain in control.
But one person always managed to throw a wrench into his perfectly-oiled system: his own younger brother. Even when they were kids, Sherlock was the complete opposite of everything Mycroft stood for. He'd been a messy, disorganized, and obnoxiously loud toddler. Scratch that, he was a messy, disorganized, and obnoxiously loud adult, but it was even worse when they were younger. He'd left his pirate toys strewn all over the house, sometimes even in Mycroft's bedroom, even though he'd forbidden Sherlock from ever entering. The child's own room had been a certified disaster zone; the one time Mycroft had dared peek inside, he hadn't been able to see the floor beneath all the debris.
Modern 221B Baker Street wasn't all that different, but now John was there to keep Sherlock somewhat in check. Mycroft was incredibly glad of his presence, as he was one of a select few people who knew Sherlock both before and after the doctor entered his life. Although the drug situation had resolved when Sherlock began working for Lestrade, Mycroft was still on high alert for a relapse until John showed up. With him around, Sherlock was as far away from considering 'the sauce' to alleviate boredom as he ever could be. This was just another weight Mycroft was glad to have lifted from his shoulders. The past couple years had seen a peaceful equilibrium in the British government's life. But of course, good times never last.
Mycroft let his guard down, and a monster snuck in. A monster he'd never faced before. He could handle the minor sprains, the broken bones, and the overdoses, but he'd never encountered cancer before. To say he was unprepared would be an atrocious understatement. He remembered when he first heard the diagnosis, he'd been in denial. He wanted to tell the doctors there had to be a mistake, that they'd mixed up or mislabelled their tubes. He wanted to make them rerun everything because there was no way Sherlock Holmes, his baby brother, had leukaemia.
But Mycroft knew, deep down, that there was no mistake, that this was real. Once he'd come to terms with it, he'd had to sit by and watch, knowing he could do nothing about it, as his brother suffered unimaginable misery. His life had literally become the incarnation of his worst nightmares. He'd never experienced anxiety before, but the constant edginess he felt could be defined by no other term.
One would think that in this state he'd jump at any opportunity to participate in Sherlock's care, to potentially help cure him. But decisions for Mycroft could never be that easy. He knew that as a sibling, he'd be the first candidate addressed about donating bone marrow, and initially he'd been eager to regain some semblance of control over the situation. But as he was left to mull over the idea, he was plagued with terrible thoughts. He remembered picking up the pieces after some of Sherlock's worst overdoses, reading the lists he'd left with mouth agape because there was no way a single person could take so much and still be breathing. He'd always managed to fix him up after those instances, but drugs were something he knew how to handle. This was something entirely different. Something unfamiliar.
He began to wonder: what if it isn't enough? What will I do if I donate and he dies anyway? He didn't think he could live with himself knowing that he wasn't good enough. He was literally seconds from asking Anthea to call the hospital when he got the call from John Watson. While he knew the doctor could be a powerful little firecracker, he never expected the verbal warfare the man would wage over the phone. Mycroft physically shrank away from the angry voice on the other line, immediately feeling guilty. Because of course John saw right through him and knew exactly what was going on inside his head. He'd lived with Sherlock long enough to know how to handle a Holmes, and he was a bloody expert.
At the time, Mycroft had thought he couldn't possibly ever feel worse than he did then. But he should have known that life's cruelty knew no such bounds. Without a question, the worst moment of his life was that first time Sherlock coded. Things had been going progressively downhill for so long that Mycroft was preparing himself for the worst. At least, he thought he was preparing. The truth was that no amount of preparation could ever help with the hell that was to ensue.
He sat in Sherlock's room with John and DI Lestrade, the only sounds the mechanical hiss of the ventilator and the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. He spent those hours in a mental sparring match with his own thoughts. Every time a terrible vision attempted to display itself, he tried to forcibly beat it away. He reran his favourite movie in his mind over and over again, anything to keep from thinking about what would happen if...
It happened. He'd heard the sound on countless medical dramas: the shrill tone of a flatline. Immediately, all his mental defences were washed away by a flood of panic and fear. His memories of the moment are a bit fuzzy, maybe because his brain was trying to block it all out. He remembered John trying unsuccessfully to push his way through a horde of nurses and doctors, screaming for Sherlock. He and Lestrade had to go up and drag him away so the medical staff could actually do their jobs. When his hands made contact with the doctor's body, he felt him violently trembling. While his own emotions hadn't manifested in such a way, he felt like his mind was shaking itself apart.
He didn't remember the turns they took once leaving Sherlock's room; all he knew was that they ended up in a blank room with couches and chairs. John was obviously an absolute wreck, and Mycroft felt the way the doctor looked. The Detective Inspector went over to comfort John, and his stern but sympathetic approach worked wonders. Mycroft listened as John's breathing gradually slowed down to normal, and wished his own would do the same.
To banish the bad thoughts, he zeroed in on one spot on the wall. There was a slight contour, as if a drywall screw hadn't been placed tight enough. At that point, he was truly convinced it was the end. His last glimpse of his baby brother was to be him hooked up to countless machines being violently manhandled in an attempt to bring him back to life. He felt the backs of his eyes burning with unshed tears, but he wouldn't allow them to fall. Even if he could no longer control what happened to Sherlock, he could manage his own reaction. So he would not cry. Not here, not now.
He blinked heavily and continued to stare intently at his spot on the wall. The colour of the paint reminded him of the sand on the beach his family had frequented before he'd left for university. The beach where the four of them had sat together and had picnics or spotted funny shapes in the clouds. The very beach where Sherlock had first claimed he wanted to be a pirate. Mycroft remembered a young Sherlock, maybe three or four, digging in the sand with a small plastic shovel. Mycroft himself had been absorbed in a book when his younger brother came up to him and presented him a large, flat circle. Mycroft marked his page in the book, set it down, and gently took the offered gift from Sherlock. The little boy was beaming from ear to ear. Mycroft looked more closely at the circle to make out the markings around the edges, and he saw that it was a toy gold doubloon.
"Where'd you find this, Locky?" he'd asked. Remembering his brother's childhood nickname intensified the need to cry, and Mycroft forcibly swallowed against it.
"Dug it up!" he had announced proudly, holding up his shovel.
"Wow, that makes it buried treasure," Mycroft had told him. Little did he know that this simple phrase 'buried treasure' would lead his younger brother to an obsession that lasted the majority of his preadolescence.
"Buried treasure! Like the kind pirates find!"
"Exactly like the kind pirates find!" Mycroft'd parroted back. Sherlock had scrambled away to dig more holes in search of more buried treasure. He didn't find any, but that did nothing to quell his growing fascination with pirates. Next thing he knew, their house was filled with library books on Blackbeard, Anne Bonny, and Calico Jack.
Not until he stopped to think about it did Mycroft realise just how much he missed the good old days when they were both young and innocent. Being seven years older, Mycroft remembered a short period when he'd been an only child, before Sherlock came along. Most elder siblings would feel somewhat neglected once a new baby arrived in the household, but not Mycroft. Ever since Mummy told him, he'd been looking forward to a new friend.
Anyone who'd ever met Mycroft knew that he hated ordinary people. They were much too slow and prone to sentiment. Sherlock had proven to be significantly faster and more fun than the average boy, but slow enough that Mycroft could always beat him. That's just the way he liked it. But nobody but Mycroft was allowed to beat Sherlock Holmes. Cancer certainly wasn't allowed to beat Sherlock Holmes, but maybe it just had.
Most people who knew Mycroft saw only the stern government official, but he didn't consider that his real job. All his life—minus the first seven years—Mycroft's job was to look after Sherlock. As a child, he'd needed supervision to keep out of trouble, and that hadn't changed as they progressed into adulthood. Without a little brother to manage, Mycroft didn't know what he'd do with his life. Sherlock was a constant that he'd never before had to consider going without. Now that this disease had forced him to entertain the thought, he was horrified.
Even worse than that idea was the prospect of having to tell their parents. They travelled often, and because of this saw their sons maybe once a year at best. Whether it was fortunate or unfortunate that they'd been out of the country for the entirety of Sherlock's illness, Mycroft was yet to decide. He'd refrained from contacting them to inform them of the situation until he saw how it played out. No use in dragging them back from wherever they were just to watch their youngest son die.
Mycroft's train of thought was stationed right about there when a doctor finally found them to tell them the good news. Mycroft felt physically lighter knowing that he didn't have to consider a life as an only child just yet. Lestrade and John also sighed with relief, and the army doctor dashed out of the room as soon as he was told he could see Sherlock. Lestrade and Mycroft glanced at each other knowingly. They both understood that if things went south again, they could easily lose John too.