Author's note: This idea came to me ages ago... Believe it or not, I used to think about fanfiction long before I started to write it. I'd no idea I would someday be writing fanfiction, and yet, here I am... Anyway, on with the story.
I don't own anything, please review.
Mycroft really hadn't wanted to visit the conference in Switzerland.
It was a conference of little to no importance, mostly diplomats trying to be polite to one another without causing trouble between their countries.
But Anthea had made it rather clear that she wanted him to go – "You need a holiday, sir" – and he hadn't known how to protest.
A year ago, she wouldn't have told him to leave England, even for a week. A year ago, he wouldn't have gone.
A year ago, Sherlock had been alive.
Now...
Now his brother was dead, all that was left was a grave, and Mycroft had too much free time. He couldn't look after him anymore. He couldn't make sure he was safe anymore.
He couldn't kidnap his friends anymore. And he had to admit that, ever since Sherlock had actually found a few friends, he'd looked forward to their conversations.
John still hadn't forgiven him for telling Moriarty everything he needed to know. He didn't blame the doctor, he could even understand him – and yet, to Mycroft's surprise, it hurt a little. Perhaps because John had been Sherlock's best friend. The one person he'd trusted. John had moved out of 221B shortly after the funeral, and he didn't think it likely that he'd ever return. It had been their flat, not John's flat.
DI Lestrade had always been polite, and very useful when Mycroft had been curious about Sherlock's cases or antics. And the DI had been the one to tell Sherlock that he'd have to quit cocaine if he wanted to work with the police, the one to look after him on danger nights before John had turned up, the one who'd understood his brother's need to solve cases, because, somewhere deep down, he felt the same need.
Mrs. Hudson – obviously Mycroft had never kidnapped Mrs. Hudson. She was still living at 221B (apparently having decided never to allow somebody else to live there), and now and then, he visited her. She was the only one of Sherlock's friends he still had any contact with, and she never asked him why he'd decided to show up. She simply gave him tea and a biscuit and talked about the weather or her day, and he was grateful for that – she was the only connection he still had with his brother.
Caring is not an advantage. It still wasn't an advantage, but he'd always cared about his brother. He couldn't help it. Sherlock had wormed his way into his heart when Mycroft had only been seven years old, and he'd never found a way to shut him out. He hadn't wanted to, to be honest. Sherlock had been the only one tying him to the humanity he'd tried so hard (and still been afraid) to lose.
And now he was gone.
Mycroft still worked, of course. He ran Britain behind everyone's back, he was the puppet-master in the shadows.
But –
Something was missing. Something important. He couldn't forget that it had been his information Moriarty had used, that it had been him who gave Moriarty the ammunition to destroy Sherlock's career, reputation – and ultimately his life.
Maybe he was trying to run away. Maybe that's why he hadn't out up more resistance when Anthea had all but ordered him to take the trip and spend a week in Switzerland.
Be that as it may, here he was. It was October and freezing, which was one of the reasons he sat in the expensive bar of the equally expensive hotel the (official) government was paying for him while he was visiting this utterly useless congress.
The other reason was that he felt as alone in his room as he'd felt in his house, ever since Sherlock – took his own life, and he couldn't bear it. Not that he'd ever admit that this other reason even existed.
He was just drinking his second brandy, and thinking about ordering a third, when someone entered the bar.
Someone with blonde hair, blue eyes, a few inches shorter than Mycroft, who was walking slowly towards the bar, as if he had all the time in the world...
Mycroft almost dropped his glass in surprise.
Because, no matter what disguise, no matter where, no matter how –
He'd always recognize his brother.
And he was sure that it was Sherlock who'd just ordered a gin-and-tonic in a rather high voice (certainly higher than Sherlock's, but he'd always been a master at hiding in plain sight).
He shook his head, for once doubting himself. His brother was dead; he'd seen the body; he'd made certain that the DNA was confirmed; he'd arranged the funeral.
But – but –
He was still sure, absolutely, impossibly, wonderfully sure, that he was sitting next to his brother.
Maybe he was growing mad.
Sh – the stranger certainly took no notice of him, and simply sipped his drink, apparently content with sitting in a warm bar, never mind the prices. Mycroft swallowed and pointedly didn't look in the direction of the stranger, instead staring into his glass, hoping he'd leave soon. Really, there was no reason to –
And then he realized that the stranger was obviously hiding the fact that he was staring at someone who sat at the other end of the bar.
Mycroft quickly deduced the person the stranger was looking at – business man, married but doesn't think much about fidelity, possibly ties to several crimes committed in the recent past – and it was the last one that made his heart beat faster.
Because, if there was a reason for Sherlock to be alive and here, if all places, it would be crime.
He was aware that this thought was far from sane. In fact, if he called Anthea, she'd probably have men with straight-jackets pick him up within half an hour.
That didn't change the fact that he had, he simply had to be sure.
So he paid his bill and sat down in the entrance hall – in the shadows, where he wouldn't be visible from the bar – and waited for the stranger to appear.
He came out not fifteen minutes later, and Mycroft followed him as he left the hotel.
He wasn't used to legwork, in fact he abhorred it, which was maybe why he wasn't surprised at all when he followed the stranger into a dark alleyway and found a silhouette in the shadows waiting for him.
"I shouldn't be surprised, really" were ironically the first words the stranger addressed him with, and in this moment, Mycroft felt several things at once.
Relief. Happiness. Guilt.
Because –
Before, he hadn't been sure. But this was the voice of his brother.
He swallowed, but there was a slight tremor in his voice as he asked, "She – Sherlock?"
A short, bitter laugh. "Who else would you have followed and observed the whole time?" Then the shadow turned around and Mycroft followed, because really, there was nothing else he could do.
They finally reached a rather seedy-looking hotel, and the shadow said, "I hope you don't mind climbing in through the window, the receptionist might find me returning at such an hour suspicious".
He followed him, as if in a trance, and when the shadow turned the lights on and stood before Mycroft, with the wrong hair colour, the wrong eye colour, in a suit Sherlock never would have worn, but with the gaze that was so familiar –
Mycroft knew that the miracle he'd been praying for without admitting it to himself had occurred.
He didn't know what to say, so he simply asked, "How?"
"Molly" Sherlock answered curtly. Doctor Hooper, of course. She'd been infatuated with Sherlock for a long time and probably hadn't thought twice about it when he'd asked for her help.
Sherlock answered his next question without him having to ask. "Moriarty had snipers on John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. I had to jump to save them."
Mycroft nodded.
"And now – "
"I'm destroying Moriarty's network. To keep them safe."
Mycroft nodded again.
This time, Sherlock had a question.
"What are you doing in Switzerland?"
"Visiting a congress."
"I thought you hated legwork."
"I do. Anthea forced me to go."
Sherlock frowned, and Mycroft was reminded of a little boy he'd taught the Science of Deduction once. "Why would she – "
Suddenly, he seemed to understand, because he swallowed, and looked on the floor. Mycroft took a step towards him.
"Sherlock..." He didn't know what to say. They had never really apologized to each other – even after he'd told Moriarty everything, he'd relied on John to pass on the message. And, somehow, "I'm sorry" didn't seem enough.
Instead, he said, slowly, "I could help".
Sherlock snorted. "I'm sure you could." His eyes turned hard. "But what makes you think I'd want you to?"
Now it was Mycroft's turn to look at the floor. "I know it wasn't – I shouldn't have – "
"Frankly, I would have been surprised if you hadn't. Caring is not an advantage, and there were more important things at stake than my career."
"Still" Mycroft replied, looking up and suddenly sure what he was going to say, "I shouldn't have told him your life story. I'm sorry."
Sherlock seemed taken aback. Then he bit his lip. "I could – I could use some help, maybe, after all".
It was the best acknowledgment of his apology he'd get, and Mycroft simply replied with "What do you need?"
He left the hotel – through the window – two hours later. He'd have to set up an account for a certain Alan Baker – Sherlock would inform him of any change of identity – and he would collect information about the man Sherlock had observed at the bar – part of Moriarty's web and running a drug cartel.
Sherlock had promised to keep in touch, though Mycroft wouldn't hold his breath. His brother had every right to be angry.
But –
He'd just settled down in his own hotel room when he received a text from an unknown number, most likely a burn phone.
It was good to see you again, Mr. Holmes.
AB
And he smiled. Perhaps he could atone for having told Moriarty about Sherlock after all. Perhaps there was such a thing as fate.
And perhaps – though he barely acknowledged that thought – Sherlock had not only missed John and Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade.
Perhaps he'd missed Mycroft a bit too.
Author's note: This has been sitting around in my mind for ages... And my mind decided it had to be written.
I'm going to upload the next chapter of my Christmas story tomorrow.
I hope you liked it, please review.