Disclaimer: All characters were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no money, and mean no harm. This story contains two direct quotes, one from Doyle's "The Final Problem," and one from Shakespeare's "Hamlet." Thanks so much for reading.
A Choice of Evils
It was no light burden to live in fear.
The pack of wolves on Sherlock's trail lost him quickly enough; they howled through the wilderness for a while, but once tempers cooled they circled back to London. Mycroft picked them out in crowds, through windows, on street corners. They watched him hungrily, hoping to pick up the trail through his single point of contact. They sent him threats and bribes, and then abandoned words altogether. Their last message read, Send for your brother. You'll need him.
After that, there were accidents, shattered windows, midnight fires. The smallest steps of his daily routine became burdensome; he couldn't eat without checking for poison, couldn't catch a hansom unless he recognized its driver. On some dark mornings, shivering with cold but afraid to pass before his own windows to light the fire, he heartily wished his brother had chosen a different profession.
But he would be shot dead in the street before he'd lure Sherlock back to this city.
He was used to evaluating risk, and trained to accept responsibility. The first order of business was to ensure that these murderous threats went no further than his brother and himself. Moran and his thugs had to be taught that nothing could reach Sherlock except through him; targeting civilians must be proven a waste of time. Mycroft busied Mrs. Hudson with guarding relics of the past; the ruffians who sounded her out in passing on the street found nothing in her life but lonely memories. He kept Doctor Watson under constant guard, as well. A young government agent, superlatively trained, shadowed the man's every move, though sadly she proved to be a very inefficient housemaid.
Hoping a public declaration of ignorance would push Watson further from harm's way, Mycroft sent a brief note urging him to present the truth of Sherlock's "death" in print. He mentioned – truthfully, if vaguely – that Moriarty had brothers-in-arms still at large who were determined to undermine the Holmes legacy. The indignant fire of Watson's reply brought a smile to Mycroft's face for the first time in months. When his manuscript arrived, Mycroft noted with astonishment that Watson had addressed it directly to those shadowy "brothers-in-arms" – Colonel James Moriarty, indeed – and wondered what subliminal twist of literary license had guided him to that particular rank. Let Moran make of it what he would.
Doctor Watson himself appeared in Mycroft's office not long after his draft of "The Final Problem." Mycroft envied his brother few boons, but he would have given much to share Sherlock's distance from this grinding sorrow. Mycroft sensed the wooden core of duty that rooted the man in work; he noted the traces of medicine on his clothes and boots and fingers, but was moved more deeply by the exhausted line of his wounded shoulder. A troubled mind sculpted worn shapes in the angles of bone; Mycroft saw as much in his own glass, and felt it in the tired pull of heavy limbs. He did not doubt that Watson still woke to the roar of the falls.
"You are troubled, Mr. Holmes." The quiet voice surprised him, and Mycroft could not deny the truth; he was too tired. Gesturing to the manuscript waiting on the desk, Watson said, "Forgive me; I did not mean to wake old grief."
Mycroft rallied. "My dear sir, you are not at fault. You have only done what I asked, and done it admirably."
Watson smiled. "A small enough tribute, I fear, but at least it has the merit of sincerity. He truly was the best man I have ever known."
The praise, artless and warm, pricked Mycroft's overburdened conscience. Without pausing to reflect, he set out upon dangerous ground. "Doctor Watson – I hope you will pardon me for this, but having read your account, I find I must ask: do you feel my brother did you injury?"
"Injury?" Watson paled with distress. "My dear sir, how on earth could I have given that impression? Nothing was farther from my mind!"
"Yet you say he sent you away on false pretenses, knowing well the inevitable consequence."
Watson flinched. That wound was the deepest of all; even Mary's gentle, fearless hand had passed over it in grateful silence. Almost angry, Watson rasped, "He could not have done otherwise."
"As you say; you know his mind as well as I. He had a choice of evils, and he chose to spare you danger rather than grief. I'm quite sure he'd have done so again if he'd had the chance." Mycroft's hands were still, giving nothing away. "But suppose the choice were yours?" he prodded softly. "Could you find it in your heart to honor his wishes, even in that?"
Watching tense lines darken like bruises under Watson's eyes, Mycroft felt ashamed at having disturbed the doctor's fragile peace for the sake of his own. Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, his mind supplied, and he raised a hand to wave away the question.
Watson would not let him.
"Mr. Holmes," he offered slowly, "what can I say? Had I known the truth, I could never have left him. But I understand the honor in his choice." Without perceiving it, Watson hardened the line of his back in a shadow of parade formality. "It was my privilege to share his dangers, not my right. He misled me often in our work when the stakes were high, and each time it hurt me cruelly. He regretted my pain, but never his actions, and he promised no reform." His voice was dry. "I had to learn to accept his judgment. I did, and I still do. It broke more than my pride before the end, but I cannot say he used me ill."
Mycroft bowed his head.
Both turned to the mantel and watched the fire rather than each other. Soon enough, Watson retrieved his hat and stick from the corner vestibule. Mycroft picked up his manuscript from the desk and held it out, his manner solemn.
Watson demurred politely. "That copy is yours, sir. I have my own draft for the press. I simply wanted to be sure it met with your approval." Then, struck with sudden energy, he plucked the ever-present pen from his front pocket and darted toward the desk. "Give me a moment, though. I've just realized it isn't finished." Taking the loose leaf stack, he flipped it over and retrieved the final page. He bent for barely a moment, absorbed and intense, before straightening and stepping back to take his leave.
Glancing down, Mycroft noted the brief, illuminating alteration. "The best and wisest man I have ever known."
With a strange, hitching breath, he called to Watson, who was moving toward the door. Watson turned, donning his hat, and inclined forward slightly with one finger to the brim.
"Mr. Holmes," he said, "I am at your service."
Having given tacit consent to he knew not what, he returned with steady strides to his work and his grief.