Of Cabbages And Kings.
Chapter One.
It was thought best, at the time, that Sherlock would be told it had been a terror attack.
Of course, once he was older, Sherlock being Sherlock (or to put it more aptly, Sherlock being a Holmes), would investigate the events of that day and discover that it was a blatant falsehood. That there had been no act of terrorism. That there were no public records of such an event, no articles in the newspapers, no old newsreels. There had been no insurgent attack. That it was all a lie, a tale to protect a young boy.
But that of course, would not be for some years. After which, the secret would be sheltered under a cocoon of silence, the communion of restraint, where the pauses and the pained stillness during conversation were as important as rituals as the wafer on the tongue of a choir boy during Eucharist. Ah, the aristocratic rules of the English household. Where wars were waged amidst the passing of the Yorkshire Pudding during Sunday lunch, and a feather light laugh spoke volumes.
Mycroft had not been there when Sherlock had been told. He had been four at the time, with those baby curls of his still loose around his shoulders, uncut and unruly, as the stubborn boy had maintained that "pirates did not have time for haircuts". A small part of Mycroft, even later on as a man, still seized up at the thought of the little boy having to wade through the torrent of that news alone.
"Mycroft."
That small voice, demanding attention, had brought Mycroft out of his stupor. He moved to turn over in his bed, to face his small brother peering in behind the half closed doorway, and he winced in pain, as the burns under the bandages still stung, even under a sheet of vagueness. The buzz of the morphine, though beginning to wear off, still made the room unclear, and he blinked, as Sherlock shuffled in.
"You're home."
Mycroft closed his eyes, making a non-committal sound, as he heard the soft footsteps moving nearer.
"You came home last night. From the hospital."
It was spoken like a demand more than a statement, but Mycroft knew the hysteria and confusion that was boiling beneath those words, and he knew that if he did not do the right thing now, Sherlock would start screaming. Mummy did so hate it when Sherlock screamed.
He reached out with his hand, and felt a spout of relief when Sherlock blundered the last few steps to the bed and threw himself on him. The pain throbbed at Mycroft's flesh and he hissed in the newly remembered pain, but the selfish little boy did not seem to notice as he curled up, under the blankets, clinging to his twelve year old brother. The child's fingernails bit through Mycroft's light nightshirt at the covered wounds underneath, and Mycroft bit his lip to contain a grunt.
"Sherrinford is dead."
Mycroft stiffened at the words, and instantly memories assaulted him. Sherrinford, shaking, blood everywhere. So much crimson, as he lay on the soft carpet, looking up at Mycroft as he hollered for help, bits of glass scattered around him, like flecks of dusted sugar. Then there had been a shriek as the hotel maid had barged in from hearing the boy's cries – seeing the mess, the ruins of the expensive room. Mycroft still howled, dripping with his own blood, but Sherrinford just lay there, his body trembling from what had just taken place, his weak whimpers soft.
He had been abroad on the Continent for the summer hols, on a diplomatic trip of his father's, with his brother Sherrinford, elder by two years. Sandy haired and with a penchant for top-hats. They had been left alone most of the time, with their father attending conferences and negotiations. But he had promised to take them out that third night, to an evening of symphony and fireworks. And ice-cream. The promise of ice-cream, so deliciously common, bought from a street vendor who spoke Italian.
Mycroft did not want to think anymore on the accident. He lay with Sherlock, holding tight, as he remembered an afternoon together on the trip, before it all burned to hell. A safe memory. He could not afford to cry – not now, it would frighten Sherlock.
Sherrinford had moved over to him that day, holding out a candle, a small flame dancing on its wick.
Mycroft had not looked up, "Go away."
"Oh come on, Mycroft."
"Father says I mustn't."
Sherrinford had chuckled; then set the candle down beside Mycroft's school papers. Mycroft said nothing, but pushed it a safe distance away from his work.
"If I could use spells on anything, I'd magic away school holiday homework."
"Of course you would," Mycroft said without missing a heartbeat, "You're average. There's no hint of prodigy in you, no potential for genius," he felt a flicker of mischief, "You're the family shame."
"Might be average, but I'm going to inherit. Lord Holmes. Lord Holmes." Sherrinford let out a snort, "Lordy Lord. Sounds like a wanker to me."
Mycroft allowed himself a small smile, as he continued with his calculus.
"But I mean – you really don't mind, Mycroft? Eton instead of…" he let the words trail.
Mycroft did not look up, "Of course I don't mind. It's Eton. Why on earth would I want to…Turn toads into…" he made a face, "blasted teacups – when I could one day –"
"Rule the world?" Sherrinford interrupted with a grin.
Mycroft let out a snort, "Why would I want to do a thing like that?" he furrowed his brow as he thought over a sum, then turned the page to read a paragraph of notes, before answering, "There is no world worth any interest, outside of London. Well, no, that's not fair, I suppose. Outside of the United Kingdom."
"So you just want to rule the UK then, little brother?"
"Far too much work," Mycroft answered, "No. I don't want to rule anything. Merely pull the strings of those who do. In the shadows. Directing the course of crown and country, while unsuspecting fools…This damned sum…"
He let Mycroft muse for a few moments, till Mycroft had his inevitable understanding of the math problem and then laughed that it had taken those moments to grasp the sum, and scribble down the answer, before Sherrinford said, "Do you think Father will pay for scuba diving lessons?"
Mycroft looked up and stared at Sherrinford for a few moments, not rising to the bait of giving his brother attention at such an odd statement. Then he nodded, and Sherrinford's smile deepened into a grin when his brother had deduced what he had meant. Mycroft sat back in his chair, placing his pencil down, "You want to be an astronaut now? Well, I suppose that will stop Mummy's tears of you talking about the theatre."
Sherrinford laughed good-naturedly, "That was amusing though, wasn't it?"
"You always upset Mummy…"
"Yes, but I'm not the good son," he paused, then said coaxingly, "Come on, Mycroft."
Mycroft looked to the candle and sighed, feeling a twitch in his fingers, as much as he said he wouldn't, "I can't…It…It could have dire effects."
"How?" Sherrinford lent forward, "It's natural, isn't it? Strange things have always happened around you. It's not going to hurt anything. Just because you don't want to go to Hogwarts, doesn't mean you can't play with your magic."
Mycroft stared at the candle for a few more moments, then at once blew the flame out. Sherrinford slumped back in his chair, disappointedly.
"Mummy's already battling with the Ministry of Magic, or whatever it's called," Mycroft opened up a book, "Bet they've never had someone high up fight them. And so she should," he sniffed, "Can't believe they stormed the Manor, trying to say I had to go to their silly school of magic," he flicked to the back of the book, "If I repress it, pretend it never happens, fight against it, ignore it, I don't need any training or nonsense. They say that it's dangerous if I don't learn to control it. Well, I have controlled it. And stop looking at me like that; I'm not juggling flames for you. If you want to believe in fairytales, then become an astronaut and live out in space."
"Don't want to be an astronaut," Sherrinford muttered, "I want to be an astronomer. Study stars. I just think…I just think you could do so much, Mycroft."
"It's what I intend to do," Mycroft replied, "But the proper way."
"The proper way," Sherrinford pulled a face, "Sometimes I think I should become an actor, just to pave the way for Sherlock, so he can grow up knowing he can do whatever he wants. You want to learn magic, Mycroft, I know you do. But you're just scared. You're blind scared, and lazy as well. Not to mention a buggering snob."
"Lazy?" Mycroft held up his work, "Is that why they give me advanced calculus two years above my age level?"
"Bah! Learning's easy for you. You're a genius. But you never try anything that might take a little effort. Thank God I'm the family disappointment. I can do whatever I want."
"Yes," Mycroft said dryly, "The load of having a genius brother on your shoulders," from a folder he took out a sheaf of paper, "Who does your homework, because you can't be bothered memorising Latin. Such a burden it must be!"
Sherrinford stood up and took the papers, then dropped a bag of rhubarb and custard sweets on to the desk, with a smirk, "Always good doing business with you, Mycroft."
"Mm," was Mycroft's reply.
~
Mycroft now closed his eyes for a few moments, then opened them, and sat up, holding Sherlock close. His nightshirt was soaked from his brother's tears, "There's no need to cry, Sherlock."
Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, tears streaming down his face, "Sherrinford's not really dead, is he? Is he? He's coming home, isn't he? Who's going to play with me? You're always away at school now. Who's going to look after me, Mycroft?"
Mycroft did not answer. Instead he stood up, staggering a little from the grogginess, he threw on his dressing-robe. "Come on," he said to the boy, and took his hand, ready to take him back to his own room. He needed to walk. To stabilise himself. Sherlock would complain of course, at being led back to his room, and beg. Perhaps cry a little more. And Mycroft would sigh; then promise to stay in Sherlock's nursery. And he would stay, like he always did, when he was home from school in the holidays.
It had always been him, Sherrinford and Sherlock.
There was no point sleeping. He needed to be up early, anyway. Before he left his bedroom, he took a letter from his desk. A letter which had the details of a meeting at the Ministry of Magic, about the accidental death of his brother.
Mycroft felt cold at the thought, but forced himself not to cry