There were the days of good scotch at the Diogenes.
There were the days of scones and tea with the Queen.
There were the evenings of low fires and brandy at the estate.
And then…
And then, Mycroft thought, as he buttoned on a charcoal grey overcoat, there were the days for going to the Tower to watch the rooks. Cold days, for some reason; he never seemed to hunger for the cautionary experience of the Tower and the ravens on balmy summer days. No. Cold days; short days. Days bleak and hard and unforgiving. Days that suggested that even best outcomes were seldom rewarding, and worst outcomes pure bloody hell.
He fussed with the soot-grey scarf folded into the neck of the guards coat, emphasizing the elegant line of its lapels and seeming to provide focus for its comparatively slim, trim lines. It was not, perhaps, so dramatic as Sherlock's Belstaff, but it had its own quiet, classic elegance, and Mycroft took a certain comfort in that. It was easier to be Mycroft in a well-cut suit and a graceful classic coat, with an umbrella to swing jauntily as he walked down the footpath, than it would have been to be Mycroft in ready-to-wear and a worn trench-coat. When he was sure he was properly kitted out in his soul's rightful armor, he collected his umbrella and stepped out of the office.
"Going out," he said. "Tell security they can follow, but to please make it easy for me to at least pretend they're not there."
Not-Anthea nodded, bent over the most recent files from their analytical department. "Will do, sir. This is a Tower day?"
He frowned. "Am I so predictable?"
She looked up, briefly. "No, sir. Only to those who know you fairly well."
He clucked, fretfully. "Should I do something about it?"
"How many people know you fairly well, sir?" she asked. She didn't soften the question—one of the things he appreciated in her. She simply asked what she asked, without heaping on the sugar.
"There is that," he conceded. "Still, please let me know if your success rate in predicting my actions mounts too high."
"Of course, sir."
He was in one of the lesser, back-up offices that day, so he chose to take a taxi from the office to the Tower. He could, of course, have simply had the car brought 'round, but today was a Tower day; a day of silences and privacy. Over the years he'd come to realize there was little less private than a government maintained car with a driver employed by MI6. Indeed, it was the antithesis of privacy. The soft anonymity of a black cab and a driver who didn't give a good goddamn was, in comparison, as private as a hermit's cell.
Once at the Tower he walked into the innermost ward, then leaned against the iron rail surrounding the White Tower. He had a good view of the pallid, tawny stone block and the rook-scattered green.
A huddle of teenagers in school unis was gathered on one of the footpaths, circled around a teacher in full lecture mode. School tour, obviously. Mycroft forced himself to stop his rapid evaluations of the students and their adult attendants: the act of deduction could easily descend into infinity if he allowed it. Sometimes he thought his most critical skill was not deduction, but knowing when not to deduce—and how to stop. Neither had come to him easily, or without cost. Wakefield Tower, darker than the White Tower, lay to his left, and behind him ran the Thames, visible over the crenelated wall.
'The Tower was used primarily as a political prison, and saw its greatest period of use during the 16th and 17th Centuries," the teacher announced. "But the White Tower was built by William the Conqueror in 1078."
Mycroft grimaced. Not a word that couldn't be looked up on Wikipedia, he thought. But, then, so much useful information was, now, available on Wiki. On bad days he told himself his utility was quickly coming to an end. On good days he saw how even the most clever of his subordinates managed the flood of information available to them, and knew that his obsolescence was still at least some decades in the future, if it ever occurred at all. The ability to simultaneously locate, analyze, navigate, and make predictions based on disparate facts still could not be effectively mimicked by software. Not at the level Mycroft managed it.
"Your little brother. He becomes a problem, my dear fantoccini. So elegant you are. A pretty popinjay. What shall you do about him, I wonder?"
Mycroft refused to turn, knowing who stood beside him; knowing he'd missed Magnussen's approach. "Why, very little, I suspect," he said. "Sherlock's actions are, as ever, his own."
"I am not fooled so easily, my good Mr. Holmes."
No. Magnussen was never easily fooled.
"You won't forget where your ultimate loyalties lie," Magnussen said, softly. "Traitor's Gate lies behind us, if you're in any doubt."
"I serve my Queen and nation. As always," Mycroft said.
Magnussen stirred at his elbow. Out of the corner of his eye Mycroft could see sun glint on the simple lenses of his glasses, a bright spark in the chill gloom of the day. The man nodded toward the green. "Their wings are cut," he said, cheerfully. "So they can't fly away."
"A sensible precaution," Mycroft said.
"Indeed. The legend is the fate of the nation depends on the presence of those birds."
"Yes," Mycroft said—and didn't point out the legend was, in all likelihood, a Victorian fake. A hoax. "Nations rise and fall on such subtle points. Caution is always…advisable." The moreso, he thought, if such caution was misleading. He struggled, keeping his breathing calm, calm, calm. Magnussen must guess nothing. Nothing at all. "Do you need any information to help you deal with my wayward brother?"
"No. I prefer to gather my own, thank you. One hates to admit it, but I would consider the source questionable if the information came from you."
"Of course. I understand entirely," Mycroft said. It was a shame, but he'd never expected Magnussen to permit him that route for providing disinformation. He'd have very little room in the coming confrontation.
"You know the consequences if you betray me," Magnussen said. "You've quite a lot at stake."
Yes. Public obligations. Private…secrets. Loves even Sherlock didn't know about…loves who outranked even his brother, though not by much. Mycroft knew exactly what lay in the balance of Magnussen's scales.
The man beside him chuckled, a sound dry and tasteless as stale breadcrumbs. That sound had, over the decades, become the sound of Mycroft's despair.
Years before he'd rounded on Magnussen, snarling, "You're enjoying this."
He no longer made such accusations. There was so little point in lingering over the obvious, after all.
"Well, then," Magnussen said, softly. "You'll have a good day, then. Enjoy your stay in the Tower."
"At the Tower," Mycroft said.
"No. In it," Magnussen countered. It was, after all, a prison.
Mycroft refused to watch as Magnussen walked away, as trim and elegant and neat in his fashion as Mycroft himself. He leaned heavily on the iron rail, marshalling his knowledge, sorting through his options. There was so little he could risk giving Sherlock…and if Mycroft hadn't beaten Magnussen in all these years, how could Baby Brother?
But…Baby Brother was warned. And Baby Brother….
Overhead, high in the pewter sky, a single rook flew by, free. It cawed and croaked, tumbled on the wind. A wild bird, of course, in from somewhere beyond. Able to cut the icy air in complete freedom.
Mycroft looked up, squinting, as the bird flew barrel rolls, shouted its disgust of its wing-bound brethren below. He smiled.
Behind him the teacher was lecturing again.
"The rooks of the Tower are bound in service to the crown, and are managed much as though they were military recruits. They can even be dismissed for inappropriate behavior."
Such good and worthy birds, Mycroft thought, and sighed. He glanced again to the one wild bird laughing on the wind. It gave a harsh shout, and flipped away, leaving the Tower and its bound birds far behind.
Who in their right mind would put his hope on a wild raven? A bird free as the wind, and without clear loyalties?
Mycroft fought back a shudder, feeling suddenly as though his life were cascading over him; lost loves, lost hopes, lost honor. Lost… so much that had delighted him, gone, or turned to weapons in Magnussen's hands. Even his loyalty turned on him, cutting the heart out of him. He would not willingly walk through Traitor's Gate, he thought. But…
It was so chancy a plan he had, and so much of it depended on Sherlock figuring out so much that Mycroft couldn't tell him. And it was so much more likely Sherlock would do as Sherlock so often did, and simply assume the worst of his brother's goals and motives.
God. If Sherlock did as he'd done over Bond Air, when he'd so passionately assumed his brother would willingly sacrifice the lives of hundreds for a passing tactical advantage… If Sherlock once more jumped to the least loving of conclusions, it would all be lost. Mycroft was trapped—as crippled as the Tower rooks. He had to count on Sherlock, who flew free.
So many memories, he thought, as they swept over him. He held himself in tight check, determined no one would detect the tremor that shook him, or see the slight leak of tears. He fought for control, in a situation in which no control would ever be enough.
Only when he'd calmed did he move, pushing away from the iron rail, and calling a taxi to return him to his cell. These were the cold days, he thought. Days of iron rails and clipped wings. Days in which his entire life hung on the uncertain flight of a single wild bird.
Notes: The Cold Heaven William Butler Yeats Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice, And thereupon imagination and heart were driven So wild that every casual thought of that and this Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago; And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason, Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro, Riddled with light. Ah! When the ghost begins to quicken, Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken By the injustice of the skies for punishment?