What Keeps us Afloat
The Holmes brothers do not get along. If you ask Mycroft if it bothers him, he will regard you with cold eyes and simply tell you, no. Sometimes, he even means it. Moments like these; moments when Mycroft is asking (but really telling) Sherlock to connect a Persian man to the disappearance of official government documents and the younger man is methodically ignoring him pull at his waning patience.
Sherlock rubs his temples for ten minutes before opening his eyes. "Oh, you're still here," he says. A moment later he picks up a book and nonchalantly flips it to a random page, only mildly pretending to read its contents.
Mycroft knows how to play this game. Several tactics can be applied, all depending on his brother's state of mind. Seeing that Sherlock is not in a terribly argumentative mood, Mycroft knows he simple has to wait out the display of stubbornness. Confident in his ability to do so, Mycroft leans back in the armchair. Yes, he can most certainly wait.
Not one to be out done, Sherlock continues on with his charade. Mycroft can see him wearing down; the emphasis in the way he turns the pages diminishing. Utilizing the spare time, Mycroft scrolls though emails on his mobile, prioritizing the order in which he should respond. The routine is calming, welcome even. Though busying himself with work, Mycroft's peripheral is focused on his brother. Sherlock may have stamina but Mycroft has patience and today, he has time to spare.
It wasn't always this way. Silent battles of will and conversations laced with hostility; the lingering side effect of a relationship long abandoned. Much to the contrary, though even Mycroft sometimes questions the validity of his memories. Sherlock used to be the only person Mycroft could call a friend. That was years ago, however, in a world impossible to revisit.
Mycroft remembers the day that he realized Sherlock was like him. Sherlock had only been four. Instead of playing with the other children at the park, Sherlock would sit away from everyone near a broken swing set. Their mother would watch, her eyes failing to hide her concern, as her son isolated himself from the others. Their mother was capable and caring but Mycroft knew she didn't understand Sherlock. He often overheard her whispering to their father when she thought her children were asleep. To mother, Sherlock was detached but Mycroft knew better; Sherlock was simply observing.
Mycroft soon took on the responsibility of accompanying his brother to the park. He had lost interest in such places years ago, much earlier than most children do, but Sherlock needed someone there; someone who understood. Unlike their mother or nanny, Mycroft never encouraged his brother to join the other children. Instead, he lead his brother to the broken swing set and offered to push him on the remaining swing. The swing set wasn't far enough to drown out the sound of children playing but it was private enough.
"Why is she sad?" Sherlock asked.
Mycroft didn't need to look at who Sherlock was talking about. A woman of thirty sat on a bench a few meters away. She was smiling but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. He stopped pushing, letting Sherlock come to a slow sway. His bother didn't take his gaze off of the woman. Mycroft recognized that look; the careful focus that came with putting pieces together.
"Why do you think?" Mycroft knew. The signs were glaringly obvious but he reminded himself that Sherlock was younger, younger and possibly as ignorant as everyone else in the park. He wanted Sherlock to answer, he wanted -needed- to know what his brother's mind was capable of.
There was a feeling of hesitance underlining his curiosity. Mycroft couldn't figure out why then, but looking back, he thinks that maybe he hoped his little brother would be spared. As much as Mycroft longed for someone to connect with, he understood that his intelligence came with a price. Maybe Sherlock's behavior was just a phase, as their father so often said, and he would grow out of it; maybe that would have been for the best.
Sherlock quickly made it clear, however, that he would never grow out of it; he would never adapt. "Because she doesn't have any children."
Good. But that only skimmed the surface, Mycroft wanted to know if Sherlock could go deeper. "Then why is she at the park?"
"She misses her son," Sherlock continued. "He's not here anymore."
The mother was past the grieving stages, but not completely healed. In fact, she was on the verge of relapsing into depression; possibly more due to the fact that her husband was considering divorce because he couldn't live with a ghost in their home. Mycroft returned his attention back to Sherlock. With a quick glance at the woman, he continued pushing Sherlock on the swing.
Just one mistake, "Her daughter," he corrected gently. Mycroft smiled but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, either.
Sherlock possessed the same gifted mind. It was already developing; capturing details and making connections most people failed to notice. There was no stopping it or the ramifications it would have on Sherlock's life. Sherlock would never be able to turn it off and as with Mycroft, it would isolate him from his peers. At least Sherlock would have Mycroft. It was an advantage Mycroft never experienced, Sherlock would always have someone to relate to.
Mycroft was right in the end. Sherlock never fit in, not really. Children are cruel, a belief he still harbors. Far more perceptive than adults, they latched on to things that stood out; that didn't fit the mold they were accustomed to.
Sherlock was an easy target.
Mycroft remembers Sherlock coming home from a sleepover. Of course, he wasn't really invited. One phone call from their mother and the arrangement was made. Her heart was in the right place but there wasn't a phone call she could make that would help Sherlock become accepted by his classmates.
The day he came back, Sherlock sat next to Mycroft on the couch. He played with the ruffles on a pillow for a few seconds before speaking: "They said I was strange." He was still a child then, only eight, even his mind couldn't fully understand why he was rejected.
"You are not strange, Sherlock. Our minds work differently than theirs." He only slight hesitated before finishing with: "We're better than them."
Mycroft made mistakes when it came to Sherlock. It is a fact that Mycroft tries not to think about but it is also a fact that he cannot ignore. One of those mistakes was insisting that they were better than everyone else. Not that it wasn't true, but it instilled an idea of superiority that would come to harm Sherlock. Because the fearless six year old grew in to the fearless fifteen year old and this new Sherlock was unmanageable.
This new Sherlock couldn't be entertained by finding the right stick for his pirate costume or learning to play chess. Helping Mycroft with his chemistry assignment didn't hold his attention like it used to and he certainly didn't listen to Mycroft with the same level of devotion as he did when he was nine. That boy had been left behind, replaced by someone who focused on holding a piece of ice too long or seeing which sugar attracted the most ants (to their kitchen).
Mycroft remembers sitting Sherlock down and explaining that he needed to be more subtle. Sherlock used his mind to unsettle people around him; playing a game to amuse himself. Teachers were beginning to request meeting with their parents and the neighbors were beginning to whisper. "People don't understand how we work," he said. "They are starting to talk."
"Why should I be bothered with what others think?"
Unlike, Sherlock, Mycroft, used his mind to gain power. It was a trait he hoped to pass along to his brother. "It's not about what others think but how they react towards you. We have the ability to be something wonderful, Sherlock. Drawing such attention to yourself will get in the way."
"But you understand?" Sherlock asked.
Mycroft nodded. "Of course I understand. In fact, I fancy that I'm the only one who ever will."
That was all Sherlock needed. He never did become more subtle. Mycroft would return home from university to hear that Sherlock had been suspended again, his arm was bandaged again, their father was sending him to the psychiatrist again. He lacked Mycroft's restraint, the calculated tact that kept the power of Mycroft's mind discreetly hidden behind a mask of maturity and what others called impeccable drive but he recognized as burning ambition. In contrast, Sherlock seemed to throw himself to the wolves just to see how many he could rile up in the process.
Their behavior has not altered. More to the point, Sherlock fell more into his rebellious nature. The consulting detective clears his throat as he reaches for another book. He doesn't bother turning it upright. Mycroft shakes his head but doesn't allow his agitation to show. Sherlock would grow bored, eventually. Mycroft has an ability that no one save for John possesses, he can read his brother. If nothing else, Sherlock's boredom will spark some curiosity in the case.
If only Mycroft's ability to read Sherlock had been so finally tuned when he was younger, maybe it would have saved them from drifting apart.
Sometimes, when Mycroft was tired from traveling home and taking exams, he had moments of weakness when he thought, maybe there is something wrong with him, after all.He remembers their father saying: Thank goodness you are manageable, at least one of them turned out all right, will you please tell me what is wrong with that brother of yours. For a long period of time, Mycroft didn't have the answers.
He remembers that day. That Thursday afternoon; the summer before he finished his postgraduate studies. He remembers how oppressively hot it had been and how everyone was slightly on edge because of it. As customary, their father threw a dinner party for his friends and colleagues. Sherlock insisted on staying in his room; having not slept for three days, an unusual length for him those days. Their father, however, would have none of it. Everything lead to the wrong combinations coming together in a catastrophic manner.
"How is it?" Sherlock asked a man standing next to him. Mycroft should have intervened at that very moment. The smile on Sherlock's face was too strained, his shoulders were still tense from the argument he had with their father only a few hours prior, but he had been away at university and didn't know better. It was the fatal flaw that stared tearing them apart.
"I'm having a lovely time."
"No, no; not the party, the cocaine." Said so smoothly it almost masked the blithe.
The man took a step backwards. "Excuse me?"
Mycroft didn't get to Sherlock fast enough.
"Oh, come on," Sherlock nearly sorted. "Dilated pupils, exaggerated hand gestures, and you really mean to tell me that a room full of government officials failed to notice the residue on your left coat cuff? You must have been somewhere you thought was private; the toilet -most likely the one upstairs, thought you wouldn't be disturbed. Someone knocked, you panicked, brushed against the powder before you could safely put it away." He threw his hands in the air. "No wonder drugs are booming in this city, you are practically -"
"Sherlock. What is wrong with you?" Mycroft yelled before Sherlock could finish his sentence. Mycroft remembers grabbing Sherlock by the shoulder when he finally reached his brother. Anger made his grip tight, too tight. He can still feel the sting of his own fingers against the fabric of Sherlock's shirt. He heard his own words then, we are better than them, but they were so faint, he could barely hear them.
Mycroft remembers the look of shock on Sherlock's face before their father pulled the younger of the two out of the room. The guests fell silent, looking from Mycroft to the door Sherlock had been pulled through. Mycroft didn't falter, even then the need to control guided him into action. Straightening his shoulders Mycroft guided the guests to the patio where refreshments for the latter part of the evening were waiting.
Later that night, when the guests had departed and their father sat in the family room with a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, Mycroft walked passed Sherlock's room. The silence coming from Sherlock's room was unnerving. The floorboards didn't creek, indicating that Sherlock wasn't pacing. It was usual for the boy to be still. Even so, Mycroft walked past the room in anger. Generally, after their father had a row with Sherlock, Mycroft would sneak into his brother's room, staying with him until Sherlock calmed down. Mycroft didn't go to his room to comfort him that night. He never would again.
Mycroft did enter Sherlock's room the next day. He should have waited until he was calm. Nothing good came out of brash actions but Mycroft had yet to learn the patience he has today. The same patience that is preventing him from storming out of 221b Baker Street right now.
"That man you insulted happens to work for the company I was set to internship for. Needless to say, thanks to your little show, I can expect a ring telling me I will no longer be considered for the position."
Sherlock shrugged, "You will find something more fitting to your standard."
There it was, the blatant arrogance that Mycroft had programmed his brother to believe. Mycroft shook his head. He was just as angry at himself as he was with Sherlock for misusing their talent. "They are the best, Sherlock. Don't you see what you did? The opportunity you ruined?"
"You hardly need them, Mycroft. It will be foolish of them not to take you on," he dropped onto his bed. "They will accept you. Sometimes, I think you forget we are better than them."
Those words again. Mycroft shook his head in disagreement. "No," he said. "I made a mistake about you. You need to be controlled like the rest of them."
The pain in Sherlock's eyes only lasted a second before he offered an indifferent shrug. He turned his face away to look out the window. "How I do apologize, brother-of-mine."
Mycroft returned to university the next day. Five days earlier than planned. He should have stayed. He should have been there to aid his mother in calming down their father. He should have been there to stop his father from sending Sherlock to that school. What Sherlock needed was his family, not a disciplinary school. More than that, Sherlock needed Mycroft. He needed Mycroft to show him how to handle the constant onslaught of data, he needed Mycroft to show him how to use restraint, how to channel his energy instead of allowing it to consume him. Instead, Sherlock got sent away; where he detached himself completely and fell into drugs.
It was Mycroft who picked Sherlock up after his first, and last, year. "I shouldn't have let them enroll you in that school," he said. It was the closest Mycroft has ever come to apologizing.
Sherlock nodded. He bit the tip of his thumb and kept his gaze locked out the window. "Yes, I'm sure that must be a weight lifted off your shoulders."
Mycroft nodded. He should have explained why he never visited or wrote but there wasn't a plausible explanation. Mycroft didn't know how to face his own failure. He wanted so badly for Sherlock to be his equal that he didn't realize he was hurting his brother. So, Mycroft focused on what he was good at, he pulled out his mobile began fixing his schedule and forwarding documents. When they came to a stop outside their house, Sherlock didn't wait for Mycroft before entering the house. When the driver unloaded the suitcases, Mycroft drove off without saying his goodbyes.
They would never return to the days of broken swing sets or capturing tadpoles to monitor their growth patterns. That relationship was gone. Only silence was left behind. A silence that lasted for years, only broken by Sherlock's eventual and expected overdose.
"No," Sherlock said, still unable to sit up in his hospital bed. "I don't want to go."
Mycroft expected a fight. He was willing to drag Sherlock to the rehab if he had to. He had failed him when they were children but he wouldn't follow through with that mistake. "As I am well aware. Unfortunately, there isn't a choice in the matter. Arrangements have been made."
"Ah, yes, arrangements. Well, I must regrettably decline your offer. I have other plans. "
Mycroft shrugged his shoulders, "It's done, Sherlock. A car will arrive for you in the morning, don't make this any more difficult than you already have."
"Father would be so proud of his periodical son," Sherlock said, locking his eyes on his brothers.
Their father would be proud. It didn't make Mycroft feel proud, it just made the snapping of the strings holding them together seem louder.
Mycroft remembers the asinine fights about diets and credit card bills and the larger ones about Sherlock unwillingness to just listen, for once in his life could he just listen to reason, but Sherlock was done listening, he stopped years ago. Mycroft remembers the moments when Sherlock pushed his patience to the breaking point and he yelled at Sherlock like he was a bloody child because everything that he had done was in Sherlock's best interest. He wasted favors that he had saved up for years, years Sherlock, just to get his brother out of trouble.
And Sherlock, ever so stubborn saying, apologies brother, for wasting your resources, you know where the door is.
Mycroft left feeling defeated but he knew Sherlock wasn't sitting in his flat feeling victorious either. They were broken, so terribly broken, and for once Mycroft's power and connections couldn't fix the problem.
And damn it all because he could refuse to pay the credit card bills, the rent, or the blasted mobile bill but he did every month because Sherlock was his brother and Mycroft has proven to himself time and time again that he is weak when it comes to him. He still is today.
The door to the flat opens. Mycroft takes a deep breath and puts his mobile back in his suit pocket. Just past three o' clock on a Monday? Oh yes, John's last appointment had cancelled on him, hadn't she. It doesn't take long for the doctor to enter the flat. He pauses at the door as he usually does when he enters to see the Holmes brothers sitting in his living room.
"Mycroft," he says politely as he walks into the kitchen. "Two cups of tea, then?"
"That won't be necessary, John," Sherlock says as he reaches for his violin, "as Mycroft was just seeing himself out."
"The case Sherlock."
"Too busy, too simple. The man shredded the papers,; was probably just trying to prove to himself that he could steal them without having an actual need to do so. Egos, they can be dreadfully bothersome."
"Yes," he agrees. "Now, I expect the details soon. I will be in touch."
He waves the folder with the information about the Persian in his hands for a few seconds before dropping it on the table in front of him. Sherlock will provide the information needed, he just wished that for once, Sherlock would simply accept the case without putting on a show. Sherlock eyes the folder before he places his violin against his chin with an exaggerated motion.
The tune Sherlock plays makes Mycroft falter in his stride.
"Not with that again." John says emerging from the kitchen.
Mycroft doesn't mind, no, not this time. He recognizes the tune better than anyone else and he should, seeing as he was the one who composed it. Sherlock was eleven when he insisted that Mycroft teach it to him.
These are the times that Mycroft is reminded that not everything is lost.
Sometimes, Mycroft opens his door and a book is resting just to the right of him. The cover is dirty and part of the corner is torn off. He doesn't need to look at the book so much as to smell it to know who it's from. He's greeting by this smell every time he wanders into 221b Baker Street. Mycroft opens the book, a single sheet of paper signed, SH, rests between the cover and the first page. Charles Lubrecht's Atlas of the World 1885. Trust Sherlock to pick up on his new interests in maps, he thinks as he takes the book inside.
Occasionally, Mycroft is able to convince Sherlock to join him for brunch or dinner (rather, he is able to convince Sherlock to stay inside the car until they reach a bistro or restaurant). Mycroft always keeps his plate just a few centimeters further away than it should be. No one else would notice but Sherlock picks up on the silent invitation. Sometimes, Sherlock picks at his chips, sometimes, he sticks to his coffee or tea.
"Three lovers," Mycroft says looking at a woman to his right. "Where do people find the time?"
There is a hint of a smile on Sherlock`s lips. "Looks like mummy gets bored when the nanny has the children."
"She resents them; she never wanted children." Mycroft scowls. "Who would?"
"Well, she had to make her husband stay somehow." Sherlock scans the inhabitants of the bistro, looking for the next target in their game. "Man on the right. He has been evicted from his flat. There are stains on his trousers; obviously doesn't have somewhere he can easily change. He is buying a meal he can't afford so his client won't notice he has slid into debt; he is trying to impress her. Why? She's offered him a partnership, but only if he can come up with a percentage of the money.
"They are business partners," Mycroft corrects because he always has and always will. "She is on the brink of ending their arrangement."
Sherlock takes another glance. "Ah, of course."
Sometimes, Mycroft surprises himself and makes Sherlock laugh at one of his observations. These are the times that he knows both brothers are transported back to family dinners when they would make deductions about the guests (borrowed the dress and jewelry in order to impress everyone, just stole a candle holder, absolutely can't stand the woman he is talking to but is trying to make someone jealous), never answering when asked what they were laughing at.
Mycroft likes the way Sherlock always turns up on his birthday. Oh, is it? I forgot. My brain deletes useless information. A bottle of wine is always tucked under his arm and he easily ignores the look of warning given to him. They don't speak, they barely glance at each other. Sherlock lays on the couch with his eyes closed and Mycroft sips on his wine trying to think of reasons why he is suddenly relaxed.
He remembers buying Sherlock that coat. It wasn't exactly a peace offering and most certainly wasn't treated like one when he handed the box to his younger brother.
"I'm perfectly capable of buying my own clothes, mummy," Sherlock snapped.
Mycroft threw the box onto the sofa before he let himself out of the flat. He didn't mention anything about it when he happened to come upon a crime scene to see Sherlock wearing the coat. He smiles at the fact that Sherlock is rarely seen without it now, but neither of them have mentioned anything about it since.
Mycroft passes the coat as he walks down the stairs. Tomorrow, he will receive an envelope with the information he needs to prosecute the man in question. He might think of texting Sherlock his thanks but he won't. It's not how the brothers operate, not anymore. Their communication is a silent one, built around hints of the past they are both unwilling to let go of even if they are unable to recapture it. When Mycroft is sitting in the back of his Lexus, he closes his eyes and hums the rest of the song Sherlock had been playing.
The relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft is one of my favorite aspects about this version of Sherlock. It was only a matter of time before I tried to write something about it. Hopefully, I did the brothers some justice.
I'm still a little nervous writing for this fandom but I hope more stories will come in the near future.