"John's going to be a father," Sherlock said. "He and Mary—there's a baby on the way."
"Ah," Mycroft said. Then, "Shall I pour you a brandy? We can wet the baby's head."
"Isn't that supposed to happen after it's born?"
"We can make an exception, I think," Mycroft said.
Sherlock nodded, mutely. His brother poured—glanced back at his little brother with concern—and poured a bit more. He handed Sherlock the snifter. "To the Watsons, those with us, and those merely booked for later transport." He sipped, watching Sherlock all the time over the brim of the glass. "A bit of a shock, then?"
Sherlock glared at him.
Mycroft shrugged. "As you'll no doubt realize, you can hardly blame me for this, Sherlock. Out of my hands entirely."
"You knew?"
It was a real question. Mycroft could tell—Sherlock wasn't sure what his omniscient older brother had deduced. He shrugged. "Rather beyond my purview. Reproductive biology from an extreme distance is out of even my range. No. However—one can hardly say it was unexpected. Your John has a fondness for the stable pillars of civilization. Families among them."
Sherlock sipped his brandy, refusing to comment.
Mycroft studied him, worried. The tall, lanky scarecrow hunched deeply into his coat, in spite of having been indoors for over half an hour. He'd kept his collar high, and he seemed to pull down into it like a turtle withdrawing into the safety of his shell.
"I hate to say I told you so, little brother, but…I told you so," Mycroft said, softly. "Things change. Or some things. Rest assured, you're still welcome here. You'll always have a room, a bed. So long as I live, you've got a home."
The glare he got was entirely predictable. Mycroft sighed, wishing he could, somehow, reach the boy who'd loved him…
"Just what I need," Sherlock growled, staring back down into his snifter. "Regression. Return to…no. Not the womb. Just return to your ever-present mothering."
Mycroft grimaced, and raised his head, fighting not to say any of the dozens of hurt things decades of Sherlock's disdain had called into existence. He would not ask Sherlock if he'd prefer to have been raised entirely by Mummy and Daddy. He would not ask who'd hauled Sherlock's arse out of jail when he'd gone off the rails. Who'd helped dry him out. Who'd saved his life and supported his vendetta over the entire Moriarty mess. No. He would not go there. He was smart enough to realize that, in the end, it was all just a convoluted way of crying, "Don't you love me?"
And, he thought, sadly, the real answer was…no. Not really. Not quite. Or perhaps with some confused, angry mix of the love of a brother, an idol, a parent, and…yes. An archenemy. No matter what, in the end Mycroft was best loved when he was least seen. Most appreciated for favors he could provide, rather than for intimacy he could offer.
Which, he had to admit, was as much his own fault as anyone's. But hope apparently burned eternal, even in Mycroft's heart.
"He'll be a good father," Sherlock said. "He and Mary. They've done a good job on me."
Mycroft merely nodded, then.
"Taught me how to be human," Sherlock added, voice dagger-sharp.
"I can see they have," Mycroft replied… and let his tone suggest that being human might not be such a grand thing as all that.
"Not something you'd understand," Sherlock growed.
"Indeed," Mycroft agreed. "More brandy?"
Sherlock held the glass out. "Someone's after them. Someone's determined to hurt them. I don't know why. But the murder at the wedding wasn't an accident. I don't think it was just the photographer's idea. John being kidnapped wasn't an accident, either. Someone's trying to hurt them."
Mycroft filled the glasses, handing Sherlock his before leaning against the fireplace. "Clues? Supporting details?"
Sherlock frowned, reviewing the past months. "Too few to see the pattern, yet. I saw…there was one thing… there… A 'Telegram.' At the wedding. To Mary. From someone called Cam. He called her poppet, and regretted her family wasn't there. Something was…wrong."
Mycroft winced, brain suddenly racing. C.A.M. Poppet—puppet. The oblique reference to Mary Morstan's dead family—an implied threat? A reminder?
"You'll keep an eye on them, won't you?" he asked, hoping…
He didn't know what he hoped. C. A. M. Charles Augustus Magnussen.
Mycroft looked at his little brother, and swallowed a slightly larger sip of brandy than he'd intended. The heat of the liquor blended with sudden fear. There was so little Mycroft held dear, these days—but Magnussen could be trusted to endanger anything he suspected might be precious.
C. A. M.
Mycroft's lips tightened. "Well. All things end."
"What?" Sherlock frowned at him, and Mycroft realized he'd done the unheard of, and jumped a track to a discussion Sherlock wasn't ready for, that Mycroft hadn't prepared him to hear. The one about how to protect, without holding on; how to defend what you held dear, without…
Without ever holding it at all. Without possessing or being possessed.
"You've come a long way over the past years," he said, quietly. "You did very well taking apart Moriarty's network. You should consider doing more of that sort of work. I can arrange it, if you like."
Sherlock snorted. "Trying to bring me back into the fold again, Mycroft? I'm not baby brother, any more."
"Exactly, Sherlock. You're a skilled and talented operative, who could be doing work in an international arena, well outside my daily supervisory capacity. It would almost be like having no brother at all—an outcome that ought to appeal to you, I should think."
Sherlock studied his brother. "You're…manipulating me."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Sherlock… Fine. Stay here. Under my cameras, surrounded by my operatives."
"And by my friends."
Friends, Mycroft thought in growing fear, who could only be put in even greater danger by his presence, if Magnussen was determined to play.
Who was that man after? Sherlock? John? Mary Morstan? Mycroft himself? Who was Magnussen gaming? And what move might counter him?
He wanted Sherlock well out of the line of fire. But…
"You really ought to be getting to bed, Sherlock," Mycroft said. He downed the last of the brandy.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, genuinely bewildered by his brother's shifting mood. "Everyone I know's going to be hung-over tomorrow morning. Or on their way to the south of France on honeymoon. Unless someone calls in an interesting case, I can stay up till dawn if it suits me."
"Sherlock, stop being a clot," Mycroft snapped, suddenly longing for privacy and a chance to ransack his private databases and secret search engines. There had to be a clue. There had to be something to let him know what was coming. He had to know what to protect. What did he have to move, what did he have to hide, what price could he pay? "Just go to bed. Take the brandy with you, if you like. Send my congratulations to the Watsons when you text them." He prowled toward the door of the library, heading toward his secret study—the one that, God willing, even Sherlock didn't know about. Which was probably too much to hope for, but… it provided at least the illusion of security.
"Mycroft, what's wrong?"
Mycroft looked back at his brother. His baby brother, whose best friend was newly married to a woman receiving implied threats from C.A.M. "Nothing, Sherlock. Nothing. Don't worry. I'll…take care of it."
"Take care of what?" Sherlock asked, now fully alert.
Mycroft shook his head, and fled, dismayed, and far too aware there was nothing he could do to fix it. He turned back for one faltering moment. "Be careful, Sherlock. Be… please. Be careful. Even I can do only so much."
In the end, even that wasn't possible.