A/N: Being an older sibling myself, I've always been drawn to Mycroft's character; I genuinely think he loves Sherlock and wants the best for him, even though Sherlock clearly doesn't see it that way. This fic was a result of the Mycroft-angst I've been chewing on since TAB aired and all of the brilliant & heartbreaking Holmes brother meta that has been floating around on Tumblr.
Many thanks to my immensely talented BFF, Keena Wedric-Ames on Wattpad, for editing this and helping with the summary. Love you!
I hope you all like this and I'd love to hear some feedback in the comments!3
The night that Mummy and Daddy finally bring Sherlock home from the hospital, Mycroft can't stop staring at him.
"He's so small," Mycroft whispers in awe, as Mummy gently lays Sherlock down in his pale yellow crib. His small face is visible for only a second, but in that time, Mycroft catches a glimpse of his tiny pink mouth stretched in a yawn, his wispy black hair, and his startlingly clear, pale blue eyes.
Mummy bends to kiss Sherlock's forehead, and then turns to Mycroft. "I'll be right back, Mikey; could you stay here and watch him for me?"
Mycroft nods eagerly and Mummy shoots him a grateful look. "Thank you, love; I'll only be a moment."
Once Mummy is gone, Mycroft bounds forward and pushes up on his toes so he can see the sleeping bundle within the crib. Sherlock's little hands curl up into fists and then spread wide, as if he's reaching for something in the air.
"I'm going to protect you," Mycroft whispers, watching the small figure stir and make contented gurgling noises. Carefully, Mycroft sticks his hand through the crib's bars and watches in awe as Sherlock grabs hold of his finger. "I love you, Sherly," he says quietly. "And I promise I'm going to be the best big brother I can be."
Nineteen years later, when Mycroft finds Sherlock curled up against the side of a building one night, barely conscious and high out of his mind, the first thing he says is, "I'm not angry."
Sherlock rolls over on the filthy mattress, smiling and humming a snippet of Beethoven's 5th. The belt is still wound loosely around his upper arm and the leather is starting to chafe a bit. His needle has disappeared somewhere behind the trash bins, it seems.
"Mycroft," Sherlock says in greeting, his voice as thick and slow as honey. "I can't imagine why you would be angry, but I suppose I accept the sentiment, nonetheless."
Mycroft's face swims before him, all dark eyes and worried creases. His hand, posed on Sherlock's shoulder, is unsettlingly still. "You're slurring, Sherlock; I can't understand you."
"I'm being perfectly articulate."
Mycroft gives Sherlock a hard, searching look. "What did you take?"
"Magic," Sherlock murmurs. And he believes it, too. He is no longer in a dirty alleyway on a pile of someone's old rubbish, he's floating along a clear, cool river, crashing through lush green forests, bounding across an endless field of forget-me-nots and meadowsweet. Everything is so lovely right now, so vibrant and bright and utterly exciting. London is a fairytale, he realizes. There are dragons afoot, princes and paupers dancing through the streets, gold and silver spilling from treasure chests all across the city.
"Sherlock, you're shaking."
The neon sign looming overhead reminds him of the moon. A technicolor, pink moon beaming down on him like a smile. His veins are full to bursting with nectar, with champagne, with honey—and honey attracts bees, doesn't it? How absolutely wonderful. Bees are so clever with all their hard work and single-minded persistence.
"Bees? Sherlock, what are you talking about?" Mycroft sounds scared, which Sherlock can't understand, because there are no dragons here as far as he can tell. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"
"Of course, brother mine; I hear everything. My ears are quite good, you know. "
Mycroft hauls all eight stone of Sherlock into an upright position and grabs hold of his thin shoulders. "Sherlock, what are you on? Please tell me. If you don't, I'll be forced to take you to the emergency room."
Ah, well, that's not a good idea. If he goes to the hospital, Mummy and Father will realize that he is no longer attending Cambridge and demand that he come home at once, and that is the last thing he wants.
"Please don't, Mycroft," Sherlock begs, holding onto the lapels of his brother's coat.
"Then tell me, Sherlock."
"More than eighty milligrams, less than a gram," he says, and Mycroft relaxes. Less than a gram is something he can work with. Less than a gram does not necessitate medical help.
"Stop moving about," Sherlock mutters, tightening his grip on Mycroft's jacket.
"Sherlock, I'm not moving. Are you alright?"
Black spots dance at the edge of Sherlock's vision, threatening to overtake him. He sways for a moment before collapsing against Mycroft's chest with a defeated grunt. He doesn't intend to linger there, but it's quite difficult to move, so he closes his eyes and remains where he is, his forehead pressed to Mycroft's heart.
Gingerly, Mycroft settles his hand over Sherlock's curved back. He sighs and it sounds like the heaviest thing in the world.
"I'm taking you home; come along."
…
The next morning, Mycroft serves him a cup of black coffee, a tall glass of water, and a slice of toast. Stony-faced, he seats himself across from Sherlock and folds his hands on the table.
"You told me you were going to stop."
Sherlock takes a sip of water, contemplates the coffee, and ignores the toast entirely. "I've said a lot of things, Mycroft."
"You were meant to go back to Uni, finish your classes for the term, and then stay with me over winter holiday. You agreed to this months ago."
"Things have changed."
The clock hanging over the kitchen window ticks loudly in the silence, as steady as a metronome. Sherlock presses his trembling palms flat against his thighs, hoping to steady them, as a sickening headache pounds through his skull like a percussion ensemble.
"You realize I'll have to alert Mummy about this, don't you?"
"You promised you wouldn't."
"And you promised you would stop using."
Sherlock sits up straighter, panic lancing up his spine. "Mycroft, if Mummy finds out, I'll have to go back home. I can't go back home, it's too dull. I'll go mad."
Mycroft's face is cool and dispassionate—a far cry from the visibly shaken, wrecked expression he wore the night before. "Yes, well, being a bit bored is preferable to being dead, Sherlock. I believe it would behoove you to stay somewhere rural for a bit. Get away from the city."
"I'd rather die," Sherlock says flatly.
Mycroft exhales slowly and turns his head away for a moment, composing himself. "Sherlock."
"What."
"Why must you do this?" There's that shattered look again, bubbling to the surface once more. Mycroft's cool exterior crackles and shifts. "We had an agreement, didn't we?"
Sherlock drops his gaze to the table where his fist is curled into a tight ball. "You don't understand, Mycroft."
"What don't I understand, Sherlock? You have a long life ahead of you and you're trying to throw it away at every given opportunity."
"I do have a life, Mycroft, but what's the point of it?" Sherlock says coldly. He feels something terrible well up in his throat and lodge there, like a rock. His hand starts shaking again so he clenches his fist harder, his veins bulging in his bruised arms like ropes. "What's the point of living? What do I have to stick around for? The Work?" he laughs bitterly. "Yes. Sniffing around the mediocre cases that crop up on campus is ever so scintillating. The cheating boyfriend, the pregnant teacher, the misplaced textbook—it's all so bloody useless. There is nothing anchoring me here. I have no reason to stay."
"Me," Mycroft says after a long time.
"You? What about you?"
"Stay for me, Sherlock."
"Don't get maudlin with me, Mycroft."
Mycroft tightens his jaw and stares at him. "Last night, Sherlock. Do you remember what I said?"
Sherlock scoffs dismissively. "I was high."
Mycroft's gaze remains steady. "I said I was not angry with you."
"And?"
"And I meant it."
Sherlock resolutely looks away.
"I know people have not been there for you in the past. Mummy and Father did their best, but…" Mycroft shakes his head. "I know you fear abandonment, Sherlock, but I want you to know that I will never leave. I will always be here for you, no matter what. I will always forgive you and I will always help you. Unconditionally."
Years later, Sherlock meets John Watson and for a long time, everything is perfect. No slip-ups, no fallbacks, no relapses. The needle taped to the underside of his writing desk remains untouched and the unnamed contact on his mobile never gets a call. He sustains himself on chases down alleyways, John's breathless laughter, banter shared over the breakfast table, experiments, companionship, and flawless cups of tea.
It's all so wonderful and brilliant and lovely, until Sherlock lies into a cellphone, leaps from a building, and says farewell to one of the most important relationships of his life. Then, after two years of aching, desperate solitude, he returns only to find that in his absence, the universe has shifted and he has been replaced. Mary Morstan, she's called. My fiancée, John says.
So, with the sun absent from his sky, Sherlock crawls back into the darkness in search of an old light.
Two days after the wedding, Mycroft finds him in the sitting room, sprawled out on the couch. The needle is sitting on the coffee table and the leather band is still cinched around his bare upper arm. When Mycroft walks into the room, Sherlock doesn't even attempt to hide the evidence, instead peering at him from beneath hooded, exhaustion-bruised eyes.
"What are you doing here?" he mutters.
"You were doing so well, Sherlock," Mycroft says lowly. He plants his umbrella between his feet and leans on it, half for support and half for the sake of looking in control.
"Leave me alone, Mycroft. I don't need you breathing down my neck every time I so much as smoke a bloody cigarette," Sherlock snaps. Despite the scathing look on his face, his voice sounds ragged and thin.
Mycroft examines the assortment of items surrounding Sherlock and gives him a dark look. "I think it's quite clear you've been indulging in far more than a few cigarettes lately."
"Does it matter?"
Mycroft tightens his grip on his umbrella and looks soberly out the window, where sunlight and smog are churning in the morning air. "After all this time, how can you even ask that, Sherlock? Of course it matters. You matter."
"So you've said."
Frustration finally gets the better of Mycroft and his self-possession slips. "I know how painful this is for you, Sherlock, but you can't turn to a needle every time life becomes a bit difficult!"
"A bit difficult?" Sherlock repeats coldly, sitting up. "You don't anything about how I feel, Mycroft." He draws his shaking arms tighter around himself, furling inward like a wilting flower. "You don't understand a single fucking thing about what I'm going through, so please don't insult me by pretending to."
"Sherlock—"
"He's gone, Mycroft!" Sherlock shouts. "Gone! And he's never coming back! It's over. Do you know what that's like? To lose someone like this? To have him ripped from your life without warning?"
"Sherlock, I only want to help you," Mycroft says a bit desperately. He can feel his composure unwinding like a spool of yarn down a staircase, as is typically the case during his interactions with Sherlock. "What can I do to help you? Please, just tell me."
Sherlock covers his face with his hands and breathes raggedly for a few moments, his shoulders shakily rising and falling. If Mycroft didn't know better, he would say he was crying.
"Sherlock," Mycroft tries after a minute.
"You know what, Mycroft?" Sherlock says quietly, dropping his hands, his eyes pink and his mouth twisted in a humorless smirk. "I think I've figured you out. I know why you come skulking around here with your black umbrella and bloody impeccable suits—it's because you want an ego boost. You want to make yourself feel better about your own lonely, pathetic life by waltzing though mine and examining the wreckage."
"Sherlock, you can't possibly think that's why I'm here," Mycroft says, nearly stumbling backwards at the jarring inaccuracy of the statement.
"I don't need you, Mycroft. Get it through your head," Sherlock growls, his bruised, thin arms wrapped protectively around himself like chains. "I don't bloody need you."
Following this outburst, silence falls over the sitting room like a suffocating blanket. Sherlock's chest is heaving and his eyes are full of tears, and Mycroft would give anything to wipe the mistrust and betrayal from his face.
"So be it," Mycroft says quietly. He ignores Sherlock's seething expression and calmly folds his slightly shaking hands over the curved handle of his sleek umbrella. "But I'd like you to know that contrary to what you may believe, there is nothing, brother mine, which I would not do for you."
And with that, he turns and leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Sherlock is on the first interesting case he's had in ages when he gets the call. It's an unfamiliar local number, so he turns away from his evidence wall and answers it with an annoyed sigh. Most likely a client.
"Who is this," he snaps impatiently, as he leafs through the thick file of photographs. In documents A and F, the officer claimed that the woman had been wearing two silver pendants, but in the picture of the crime scene, only one necklace rests on her throat. Foul play or poor documentation?
"Hello, Mr. Holmes, this is NHS Tayside Hospital, you are listed as Mr. Mycroft Holmes's emergency contact and—"
Sherlock frowns and stops looking at the photos. "Mycroft is in hospital?"
"Yes, he's currently in CCU, our critical care un—"
"I know what it means," Sherlock interrupts. He drops the folder on the table and doesn't notice when the pictures spill onto the floor. "Why is he there?"
"He fainted during a meeting, sir. After an MRI scan, we found PNTs growing along his brainstem."
She goes on to talk about tests and statistics and long, medical-sounding names, and Sherlock listens with dread growing heavier and heavier within his chest. It's when she says the word 'terminal' and discloses a maliciously short amount of time, that Sherlock finally hangs up the phone.
"You knew and you didn't tell me," Sherlock says quietly, wounded. He is staring at the tablecloth in front of him, counting the blue and yellow checkers that march back and forth in a ceaseless pattern, because that is infinitely easier than facing his brother's steady-eyed, somber gaze.
"I didn't want to worry you," Mycroft replies. Tentatively, he reaches across the small table and places his hand over Sherlock's, his palm trembling slightly. "But this was always inevitable, wasn't it? We all must face the end at some point."
"No," Sherlock says flatly, without looking up at his brother. His hands are shaking, too. "Not you."
The last time Sherlock visits him is a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of May. When Sherlock walks into the room, the first thing Mycroft says is, "Brother," and his tone is so fond that it makes Sherlock's chest ache.
Sherlock walks over to his bed gingerly, as if the floor is made of paper. Mycroft smiles approvingly at Sherlock's pressed suit and carefully-knotted tie and gestures for him to come closer. Propped up by two stiff white pillows and plugged with IVs, Mycroft looks unbearably human. His skin is wan, his cheekbones look more pronounced than Sherlock has ever seen them, and there seems to be a newfound frailty to him. It looks as though the right gust of wind could knock him down.
"Mycroft," Sherlock says quietly in lieu of a greeting. Dozens of apologies lodge in his throat like granite.
"It's so nice to see you," Mycroft says. He sounds as tired and weak as he looks, but there is a bright spark in his eyes that valiantly refuses to submit. "How have you been?"
"I've been well," Sherlock replies, his voice shaking. He clears his throat and kneels down beside the bed. He knows how Mycroft has been—he's read the charts. Still, he asks, "And you?"
"Oh, much better," Mycroft lies. "Though I will say that the mind-numbing television programs they provide for us certainly have not improved."
"Yes, they're quite vapid," Sherlock answers. The comment feels hollow, but it leaves his lips far easier than the aching statements lurking behind his teeth. "It seems the staff still fails to understand that there is nothing particularly useful about shows involving cupcake competitions or canine fashion shows."
Mycroft nods, and chuckles until it turns into a rattling cough. Without overthinking or analyzing the gesture, Sherlock takes Mycroft's hand between his own and simply holds it. His brother's skin is too warm, almost fevered.
"Sherlock…" Mycroft trails off with a sigh.
Sherlock bows his head and presses the back of Mycroft's hand to his brow. He hides his face. He doesn't want to pretend anymore. "You were right, you know," he says quietly. "Caring is not an advantage."
"I shouldn't have told you that, Sherlock," Mycroft says softly. He moves his fingers out of Sherlock's grasp to shakily brush back Sherlock's curls. It's a gesture he hasn't indulged in for decades. "I was trying to protect you, I'm afraid. Emotions mean pain. I never wanted you to experience pain. But in the process of guarding you from it, I suppose I only made you more vulnerable."
"Well, it's too late now, Mycroft," Sherlock says with a low laugh that sounds like a sob. "I'm a sentimental mess."
Mycroft sighs and repeats the soothing motion, Sherlock's curls running silkily through his fingers. "You're strong, Sherlock. You'll be fine."
When I'm gone, is what he means. When I'm no longer here to drag you from alleyways and pull needles from your arms.
Wordlessly, Sherlock shakes his head, a desperate ache throbbing behind his breastbone. He isn't disagreeing with Mycroft's statement, he's denying the existence of this entire situation. He refuses to accept it.
Mycroft's breath hitches and the machines beside him begin to beep a bit slower. Carefully, deliberately, Mycroft says, "I have one request, Sherlock."
"Anything."
"Just once more, I would like to hear it."
"Hear what?"
"Those three words. You used to say them so often when you were young," Mycroft whispers, a faraway look in his eyes. "Before Redbeard, remember?"
Sherlock swallows the lump in his throat and nods, understanding his brother's request. It feels as if his heart is being cleaved in two. "I love you, Mycroft," he says thickly, his voice catching on the last syllable.
"Thank you," Mycroft murmurs with a dreamy smile, his eyelids slipping shut. His shaking hand closes around Sherlock's for one last time. "I love you too, Sherly."
"See, Sherly?" Mycroft says, squatting down by the riverbank and pointing into the clear water. "Those are called minnows. There's quite a lot of them right now because the female minnows are laying their eggs."
Fascinated, five-year-old Sherlock toddles forward and attempts to peek for himself, but Mycroft catches him just in time to save him from slipping in the mud. Sherlock turns around and pouts, his pale blue eyes bright with frustration. "But I want to see them, My!"
"Then here, sit on my lap so you don't topple into the water."
Sherlock sighs, a strangely adult gesture on such a small child, and holds his arms out for Mycroft to pick him up. With a grunt, Mycroft settles his little brother onto his knee and secures a hand around his middle.
"There you go. Can you see them now, Sherly?"
"Yes," Sherlock says very seriously, his cherubic little face scrunched in a frown. "They're silvery and small."
"Very small," Mycroft agrees, picking a fallen leaf out of Sherlock's errant curls. "What else do you notice?"
"They swim in bunches," Sherlock notes. "Lots and lots of them all together." He twists around to look at Mycroft, his expression earnest. "Why do they do that, My?"
"Because they want company, Sherly. That way they don't have to swim alone."
"Why don't they want to be alone?"
"Because they don't have to be alone," Mycroft says simply, holding his little brother a bit tighter. "Not as long as they have their family with them."
"Like brothers and fathers and mummies?" Sherlock asks, unthinkingly slipping his thumb into his mouth. Mother has told him time and time again that Sherlock is far too old to still have this habit, but Mycroft can never bring himself to stop him. It's far too endearing.
"Yes, Sherly," Mycroft replies. "Exactly like that."
He rests his chin on Sherlock's curly head and the two of them continue to peer into the clear, cool water, the minnows sparkling like jewels beneath the late afternoon sun.
"I don't wanna be alone, My," Sherlock says after a while. "I wanna swim in bunches too."
"Don't worry about that, Sherly," Mycroft tells him, holding him closer. Sherlock leans back and lets his head rest comfortably against Mycroft's shoulder, his small hand gripping the sleeve of Mycroft's jumper.
"Why not?"
"Because," Mycroft says, pressing his lips to Sherlock's hair, "I will always be here for you."
A/N:Thanks for reading everyone! I think I'm going to go hug my brother now.
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