Starvation
Mycroft Holmes is a man with careful hands. Carefully manicured, carefully coiffed, careful with gestures and signatures and signs. Economical. His handshakes are an art form - just the right amount of pressure, perfect cool meeting of eyes, firm elegant three second grip. When Mycroft shakes your hand, you hear a very specific message: he can take care of you, or he can take care of you.
John Watson's hands are much less controlled. They're callused from the gun grips and worn with London grit and the nails are bitten. The skin around the cuticles is dry and flaky from too much hospital grade soap. John's hands tremble when he's bored and they clench when he's angry. They get cold when he's had too much coffee and too little sleep and he has to rub them together for friction heat before touching a patient. Doctors are not supposed to have cold fingers.
Both men's hands have killed. The difference is in the method. The first time Mycroft takes John Watson's hand in his own, he knows that for the good doctor, the pen is equally mighty to the sword.
Mycroft reads men by the state of their hands. John, being a physician, reads them by their living bodies, specifically the way those bodies react to stimuli. The second touch between them turns the lens on Mycroft and gives John a good, hard look. It goes like this:
"Anthea" has used her considerable powers of persuasion (read: terror) to escort John to Mycroft's office, where John is standing at semi-intentional parade rest. Mycroft is attempting to explain to John why it is his patriotic duty to take the manila folder in front of him to Sherlock and encourage (read: nag) him to read it. Mycroft seems very assured that if only Sherlock will read the file, he will enjoy the case within. John is less concerned with the case and more concerned with the control issues involved in kidnapping him from his part-time job and pissing off his ex-girlfriend-cum-boss. John suggests that, in his professional opinion, Mycroft would benefit from seeing a good psychiatrist. Mycroft is unimpressed.
Once John is reasonably sure he will be allowed to leave the building unmolested, he reaches forward and claps the elder Holmes on the shoulder, meaning to say something like, "Cheer up mate, siblings are hell on everybody," but before he can open his mouth Mycroft has shied away, outraged. Before John can begin to be embarrassed, "Anthea" appears and is shuffling him towards the lobby. She might as well have picked him up and chucked him out on the sidewalk like a bouncer, by her body language.
John is very confused and a little offended. When he gets home, sans folder, Sherlock looks him up and down and smirks. "Your brother is seriously weird," John tells the detective.
"I already told you that," Sherlock reminds him obnoxiously, unaware of how close he has come to being punched by a retired army medic.
Later that night, John rolls the Mycroft incident around in his mind, trying to figure out where he's seen that exact expression of shock and wariness before. It takes him quite some time to place it, probably because the image is right under his nose: Sherlock, shucking off an orange blanket and Lestrade's' friendly hand after nearly eating Jefferson Hope's suicide pill.
Qualitatively John knows Sherlock Holmes does not like to be touched, but the strangeness off it has never really coalesced for him, because John himself became an exception to that rule almost immediately. Sherlock does not make contact with other people. Sherlock does, however, touch John - often in odd and inappropriate ways. What is more, and possibly more telling, is that Sherlock lets John touch him.
Perhaps watching someone kill a man for you takes a lot of the shyness out of the equation. Is that what it was with Mycroft? Shyness?
It occurs to him that he's never seen anyone touch Mycroft. In fact, he's never seen anyone within a five foot radius of Mycroft's body, except when shaking hands. He would have noticed the same thing about Sherlock, except Sherlock is always next to John, can't stand not to be within touching distance of John when they're in public. Come to think of it, Sherlock and Mycroft don't really get too close to one another. In fact the last time Mycroft invaded 221B Sherlock had practically climbed into John's lap to get away from him, and only desisted when John had announced his bad leg was going numb.
There is something very odd in the State of Holmesmark.
Odd, and a little sad.
The third time John touches Mycroft, they are in a hospital.
Sherlock has, as is his wont, gotten himself a bit blown up. John sits by his bed and makes sure the nurses don't molest him too much - Sherlock is imminently molest-able by the reckoning of most heterosexual females (and some who aren't), and has informed John on several past occasions that his transport is to be guarded at all times from prurient examination in the event of unconsciousness. John holds his cold bony hand and dozes fitfully in the bedside chair, waiting for him to wake up and start being impossible again.
John's "foreign human in the room" radar goes off about half past midnight, and he starts awake to the realization that The British Government is looming behind him looking uncharacteristically peaked. John untangles his hand from Sherlock's tetanic grip and stands, joints creaking.
"Is he -" Mycroft begins in a croaking whisper, then stops. He looks a bit lost. John takes pity.
"He's fine," John murmurs. "Woke up about an hour ago, demanded a bottle of luminol, and conked back out again. CT and X-ray came back fine. Just a concussion and a few cracked ribs." Mycroft huffs out a ragged breath, and carefully, carefully, John places a hand on his arm.
Mycroft startles, but after a nanosecond of considering silence, does not pull away. "I don't know how to stop this," he confesses in an almost inaudible voice.
"You can't," John responds with a little squeeze. "He's a force of nature. The only thing you can do is clear up the damage after he's passed through." The snort he receives in return is half-hearted at best. "How long has it been since you slept?" John asks him gently.
"A few days," Mycroft answers with a self-deprecating shrug. All of a sudden he looks massively tired.
John steers him towards a sofa. "Sit down," he says, and his voice is commanding for all its softness. Mycroft obeys. Slowly he un-stiffens, his shoulders rounding in a slump. "I'd ask you how you take your coffee, but the hospital brew is really un-drinkable without cream and sugar," John continues. Mycroft nods.
When John returns with two steaming cups, Sherlock's brother is curled up on the sofa like a child, eyes closed. John sets the coffee aside and takes off Mycroft's shoes. He takes the blanket he'd been using earlier and shakes it open, tucking it around the man's lanky body. Mycroft stirs, reaches for his hand. John grips the chilled fingers and reflects on how similar the two brothers are, for all their quibbling. When Mycroft's breathing evens out, John extricates himself and goes back to his chair. He settles into his vigil, this time over two Holmeses instead of one.
The fourth time Mycroft is the one who touches John. They are standing over an open grave as Sherlock's coffin is lowered down, and John flinches so violently that the movement knocks Mycroft's hand off his shoulder all on its own. John forces himself to endure the prayer, but he cannot bring himself to drop any handfuls of dirt down that yawning gap, and he flees before anyone can offer him condolences. Mycroft's eyes are hot pinpoints on his back as he escapes.
Later that week (John does not know exactly how much later, time is a construct he isn't grasping well these days), he shows up at Mycroft's front door, dripping and furious. The house was difficult to find but burning remnants of Sherlockian technique make John an implacable bloodhound. He shoves his way past a startled footman and into Mycroft's study, where the man himself watches calmly from behind a cherrywood desk. "John," he says.
"You sold him out. You. You did this," John rages.
"John."
"Didn't even get your thirty pieces, did you?" John spits. Mycroft is edging towards him. His all-seeing eyes are unbearably sad.
"Does it frustrate you not to get your money's worth?" John hisses as cold hands rise to circle his forearms. "Does it offend you?"
"I'm sorry," Mycroft whispers.
"I hate you," John weeps. Mycroft pulls him close, close into his ridiculous waistcoat. John drenches his linen shirt with tears and snot. "I hate you so much," he whispers to those fine clothes.
"I know," says Mycroft in a low voice. It travels up through his chest and vibrates against John's nose. "I know. I'm sorry. I know."
They're together often after that. It hurts how much Mycroft's hands and voice remind John of what he's lost, but the comfort of it is too addictive to give up. They even smell a bit alike, although Mycroft Holmes does not have the subtle undertones of formaldehyde imbuing his clothing. He does, however, come to need John in an achingly familiar way. A poor man's Sherlock at first. Then after six months, something more. Something all on his own.
They sleep together from time to time. More often they talk, or cook gourmet monstrosities in Mycroft's vast kitchen. Mycroft speaks to John in carefully couched code about his work, and John is a most superior sounding board. John cries when he chops onions and Mycroft puts a slice of lemon on his head to ward away the tears. Mycroft does not kidnap him from work any more, but sometimes after a long shift there is a sleek black car waiting for John on the curb. It will take him to Mycroft's home or back to Baker Street if he asks, but mostly he chooses the former.
There is an agitated guilt about the elder Holmes that never quite goes away, no matter how many times John whispers affectionate nothings in his ear at night. There is a desperation, sometimes, in the way Mycroft kisses him. John turns it over and over in his mind and ultimately decides to let it lie. He is tired of losing the ones he loves. He is tired of grieving.
One night they are lying together, half-fused after an unexpected and frantic round of screwing each other senseless, still trying to get their breath. John is overheated and makes a tiny noise of protest when Mycroft pulls him close again. "John," says the man, and his tone has gone puzzlingly earnest, almost pleading. "I want you to know… no matter what happens, this was - is - real. It's real to me. Believe that if you believe nothing else."
"What's gotten into you?" John murmurs. He extricates a hand to brush a lock of hair from his lover's suddenly clammy brow. "Of course it's real. How could it not be?" Mycroft peers down at him. John chuckles and kisses him under his chin. "Idiot man."
"Yes," Mycroft sighs, falling back into John's neck, and it is not clear with what part of that statement he is agreeing.
John can no longer remember how many times they've touched, but he knows there is something different in it today. Mycroft's hand is tense against the small of John's back as he walks them up the stairs to the Baker Street flat. No amount of concerned questioning will force the man to explain, so John tries his best to be calm for both of them. He opens the door. His calm vanishes.
Sherlock half sits up from the couch, preparing to stand but freezing at the sight of the blood running out of John's face. John stares. "I don't understand," he says at last.
Sherlock launches into an explanation. "I had to do it," he is saying loudly. "You and Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Moriarty would have killed you all if I didn't jump, I had to do it. They're all gone now, every bit of Moriarty's web, you're all safe again, and I'm back, I won't go again, I'm back John," etc. etc. John turns to Mycroft in the middle of this speech and looks upon his guilt-ridden face.
"You knew," he concludes brokenly.
Mycroft swallows hard and blinks. Sherlock trails off and the room goes silent. "I… I'll go," Mycroft whispers hoarsely.
"No," John says dazedly. "You stay. I… I need to go for a walk." He pulls away from the room, grabbing blindly at the door.
"John!" Sherlock shouts, dismayed. He's walking over, reaching out. Mycroft does the same.
"Don't touch me!" John barks, flinching. They all freeze.
John comes back to his own body with a snap, and flees.
It's a long time before he comes home and there are no cars following him on the sidewalk. He's cold and a little sniffly and very, very conflicted. The sitting room is dark and silent and for one terrible moment John wonders if it were all a dream, but there is a Stradivarius sitting on the couch where Sherlock prefers to sit and a freshly rosined bow, and a cold mug of tea on the coffee table with biscuits that resonate strongly of Mrs. Hudson. John peels off his coat and hangs it up next to a Belstaff he'd last seen covered in blood, and retreats to his room.
He's not really asleep, so he doesn't really wake when a long cold body slides into bed next to him. He's angry, furiously angry, but that doesn't stop him from opening his arms and letting Sherlock curl into him. He holds the erstwhile detective as he weeps silently into John's sleep-shirt, and feels his fury slowly give way to agonized joy.
It takes a week for them to finish dancing around each other and after the first case Sherlock begins the arduous process of telling John every detail of the 18 months they spent apart. In between acts, and sometimes in the middle of them when a particularly harrowing event is unfurled, Sherlock climbs into his lap and kisses him, and it is both familiar and not, how easy it is to fall into bed with a Holmes. Sherlock is happy and relieved and joyously, brilliantly mad and just as irritatingly manic after sex as he is before. He never asks why Mycroft had his hand on John's back the day they reunited, and John understands that this is because Sherlock, for once, does not want to know.
The black car never comes, and it takes John a month before he misses it. He is once again dripping on Mycroft's stoop but this time a footman does not answer, it is only Mycroft, dear strange Mycroft, pale and defeated with haunted circles under his scintillating eyes. He ushers John in without a word.
He brings John coffee in the study and sits across from him, waiting. "Why didn't you tell me?" John asks at last. Mycroft considers his answer.
"At first I didn't tell you because Sherlock forbid it," he says with his eyes on his fingernails. "And then I didn't tell you because… because I wanted more time." He doesn't look up from his hands, so he doesn't see John's slow nod. Mycroft slowly begins to reconstruct a mask John had long removed from him, even as he acknowledges how much he's fallen. John interrupts the process by leaning forward and placing the warm solid weight of his hand on Mycroft's wrist.
"Was there ever a time when you and Sherlock shared with each other?" John asks him calmly. Mycroft's heart thuds painfully. "Yes," he says thickly, then adds, "but that was a very long time ago."
John stands, and pulls Mycroft up with him. "I hope the behavior is not too hard to relearn," he says simply. Mycroft collapses against John's sturdy frame and sucks in breath after deep, ragged breath.
John comes home in the morning and hangs up his coat. Sherlock is crouched on the sofa with his knees pulled to his chest. "You were with Him," he accuses.
"Yes," John says.
"Why?"
John meets Sherlock's eyes without a particle of shame. "He saved me when I would have followed you down," he says. Sherlock pales as the implication sets in.
"This is the price," John says. His eyes hold the accompanying questions: Can you live with it? Can I have you both, or will it be just him?
Sherlock studies him, deducing, weighing. He thinks back to 18 months without John and decides he's tired of losing the ones he loves. He's tired of grieving. "All right," he says at last. John smiles and the sight of it fills a gap in Sherlock that's been unfilled his whole life, and he thinks it must feel this way to his brother too, the strange sensation of being fed when one has always starved.
"Thank you, love," John says, and kisses Sherlock with the smile still curving his lips, and it is enough and more than enough. The gain is worth the price.
THE END
**Author's note: In one of my previous short stories, someone pointed out that John is a surgeon and would not have calloused hands. While in some ways I consider that a valid point, the truth is I've thought about the issue before and decided that I believe John would have rough hands. He's an ex-soldier that keeps up with his pistol practice and often fights criminals mano a mano, and he's no longer a surgeon but a GP. Not to mention he's constantly cleaning up Sherlock's chemical messes. My own father is a physician and a target shooter, and his hands, while well-maintained, are rough and calloused both from shooting and from washing his hands over and over after every patient. I like to think of Dr. Watson as having hands like my father's, so that is how I have portrayed him in this story.**