Brothers in Arms
"No."
"I haven't said anything yet, brother dear," Mycroft smiles.
John chuckles; he knows the routine. Mycroft will be marching out of 221B within… fifteen minutes, he guesses, if Sherlock already reaching for his violin is anything to go by.
Sherlock smirks, comments on Mycroft's diet, his PA and the state of the country in general, and John makes that ten minutes, reminding himself that hiding both the nicotine patches and the gun might have been a bit harsh, as it doesn't seem to have done Sherlock's attitude any good.
Then again, he smiles silently to himself, it is Mycroft he is talking to; what was he expecting?
He goes to make tea, misses the glance Mycroft sends in his direction, and it takes him a while to notice the fact that Sherlock has stopped insulting his brother, and is now listening, John would almost say intently, to Mycroft.
Who is talking in… French?
After which Sherlock gets up and grabs his coat while muttering something unintelligible. Probably also French, John decides.
"…imbécile, et à quelles fins?"
Yes, definitely French.
Sherlock and Mycroft, having an actual conversation, in bloody French, and the aforementioned imbéciles are now on their way out, solving a case or saving the damn world for all he knows.
John pinches the bridge of his nose. He really, really shouldn't be this surprised anymore.
Sherlock flicks his eyes over the map spread out on the mahogany desk, the list of names and faces, scribbles in that illegible handwriting his older brother produces when he lets himself. He looks up, searching his brother's face.
"You shouldn't have gotten involved in this, Mycroft."
"I am aware," Mycroft twists his fingers absentmindedly and purses his lips. "I had little choice, Sherlock." He smiles mirthlessly. "They had information on what people would call... my weak spot." The last two words are pronounced with just enough disdain.
Sherlock's eyebrows almost disappear into the mass of curls, and he smiles a smile of disbelief. "Your… say that again?"
Mycroft leans back in his chair, his eyes fixed on his brother's face, and breathes out through his nose.
Sherlock's smile fades. "Oh."
He takes the envelope his brother passes him, slips out the blurry photographs and frowns. Sherlock flips through the images. He is standing on the doorstep of 221B talking to Lestrade; he is sitting in a café, not-eating and smiling at John; he is playing the violin in front of the window, and always oblivious to the red dot hovering over his back.
Sherlock glances at his brother, narrowing his eyes in confusion "I don't see how this would…" and then - John in a ridiculous parka and the smell of chlorine and the red dots daring him to make a wrong move and JohnJohnJohn and not being able to breathe and oh yes, he sees – he closes his eyes briefly before clearing his throat and focusing back on Mycroft.
"What do you need me to do first?"
Mycroft suppresses a snort. Not very successful, unfortunately, but then again, his younger brother does look ridiculous, and it isn't often that he gets to see this.
"Not really your colour, I would say," he says, carefully not grinning in Sherlock's general direction. A huff and a 'doshutupMycroft' is all he receives in return. He keeps watching, however, as his brother adds some final touches to his disguise, and he has to admit, it's good.
Sherlock eyes himself in the familiar mirror, ties his bow tie, and mumbles absentmindedly 'loop, double… loop, hold, double,' his eyes narrowed in concentration.
Mycroft watches and wonders, savouring the moment, while ignoring the knot of inexplicable regret, tugging at his insides.
He refocuses. "Now remember, no dramatic deductions, just –"
"- play the game, and talk them into giving me the information, yes, Mycroft, you've told me. I am capable of remembering the basics."
Mycroft doesn't miss a beat. "Try not to attract too much attention; they will be expecting something and- "
"-try not to get yourself killed this time," Sherlock chimes in, adding an almost-chuckle and giving his brother the Eye roll of Exasperation He shrugs on his coat, wraps the shawl around his neck "Oh, better stay away from the fridge, Mycroft, might have accidentally placed some slightly toxic experiments in it." At his brother's frown he sends him a blinding smile, while heading out the door, "Always glad to help out with the diet, brother dear," and he's gone.
It takes Sherlock three hours, some flirting, two handshakes and one and a half phone calls to get the information he needs.
It takes Mycroft five minutes and twenty seconds to connect the dots and figure out their next move.
Bach plays in the background.
"There's chocolate on your sleeve, Mycroft," Sherlock remarks absentmindedly, while removing the last traces of his disguise.
"There's lipstick on your collar," is the amused reply.
Sherlock smirks and brushes some blonde hairs out of his eyebrows. "Did get her to give me the right name, though."
"I'm sure you did."
"Did you find the-"
"-yes, Sherlock, very amusing, would you mind telling me what exactly you needed two dead platypa for?"
"As I said, always glad to help out with the diet."
Mycroft huffs absentmindedly and starts talking into his phone the second whoever he was calling picks up. He glances at his younger brother, who nods in affirmation as he lists names and locations.
Before the phone call is finished, the elder Holmes has already started shifting the papers in front of him, frowning, scribbling and drumming some undistinguishable rhythm with his left hand on the wooden desk. Sherlock comes to stand beside him.
"Have you tried-"
"-yes."
"No, I mean the supplier. If we find him-"
"I've tried that, Sherlock, can't track him down. In too deep."
Sherlock frowns, flicks his eyes over the pictures, names, faces, lines connecting people seemingly at random and murmurs something.
"No, Sherlock."
Sherlock huffs, glances at the mess of paper on the table, takes the pen from his brother's hand, and crosses out names, underlines others, before finally circling a rather blurry picture showing a brown-haired man in his forties, smiling charmingly at the security cameras.
"It all comes down to him. Track him down and you're done."
He watches as his brother hunches over the material once again, turns up the volume of Partita no. 2, and leaves quietly.
Mycroft is startled out of his concentration by the time the recording gets to the opening notes of the Sarabande.
"Sherlock"
When he gets no response, he just pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, before pouring himself another drink and downing it in one go.
He returns early the next morning, all energy, arms and hands gesturing wildly, talking at full speed whilst waving a note in his brother's face. Something important it seems, some hint, some clue as to where their man might be.
Mycroft doesn't listen.
He looks.
And he sees. Oh yes, he sees. He sees the way his younger brother's hands shake slightly as they used to do. He smells the smell of alcohol and neglect as he used to smell it in that dump he got his brother out of twice, back then. He sees, smells, observes, deduces, and knows very well where the information comes from, where his little brother has gone, even though he told him that it-
"Sherlock!"
The outburst is sudden and comes without warning. "A bloody- SHERLOCK, what were you even thinking…"
"Mycroft…"
Before he can stop himself, Mycroft has slammed his fist into the table, a too familiar gesture for the both of them. "Reckless little …" he turns to Sherlock "What is wrong-"
The sight of his younger brother cuts him off right there. A sharp intake of breath and the cold, stone mask that he remembers so well falls into place. Mycroft closes his eyes. It doesn't matter that he didn't actually say the words. Mycroft knows his brother hears their father rage just like it echoes in his own mind "What is wrong with you?"
Mycroft clears his throat. "I'm sorry," he tells the table. Sherlock doesn't seem to register his words, eyes focusing on a spot just over Mycroft's shoulder. The elder Holmes reaches out and tentatively lays his hand on his brother's arm.
"Sherlock…"
The reaction is instant. Sherlock tenses and backs off as if scolded, his face as impassive as ever. He lets the note slip through his fingers, shakes his head once and is gone again.
Mycroft stares at the door long after his brother has gone. He should follow him. He should go after him.
What is wrong with you!
The sound of a slamming door echoes in his brain, quick little feet racing up the stairs -
What is wrong with you! He buries his head in his hands.
He should have- If only he'd done something, anything.
Over the last dramatic chords of Bach's Chaconne, Mycroft shoves his chair back, stands up abruptly, takes the note and goes out.
Sherlock surveys the now-empty room, drinking in as many details as he can.
Empty glass, that means three already, no new scribbles, note gone, two pencils snapped – gone out angry and in a hurry...
His eyes rest on the closed drawer, before roaming over their improvised map of London, filled with unreadable comments and blurry pictures. He blinks. The address on the note - it makes sense - if only he could see what-
"Mycroft…"
Faces, names, places and people click together slowly
"... what have you…"
His mind connects the dots at full speed now.
"Shit!"
He forces the drawer open, takes out their father's gun and runs.