A/N: WHY DO I KEEP WRITING THESE.
Mycroft once said impulsive decisions would be the death of him.
And perhaps he'd been right, after all.
It'd certainly seemed as much a good many times over the years. Overdoses and leaps of faith, ruined relationships and stupid, off-the-cuff remarks leading to fights he had no hope of winning. His capricious nature is a personal fault he's simply had to learn to live with.
Never, though, has he impulsively shot someone.
No, no… that isn't right. Never has he impulsively murdered a man.
Every piece of him he's wanted so badly to smother for so long is screaming, now. He tries to silence it long enough to at least warn John back, get him out of harm's way, but it's a losing battle. Never been able to quell that dull gleam of a conscience, not in the quiet of night and certainly not now. It glows red-hot beneath the surface, forcing empathy where it isn't wanted and telling him, loudly, so loudly and clearly, that he's just ended a life. Someone's child or brother and even if the man was a blatant psychopath he didn't deserve to die, no one does, no one should ever have to die, ever, and oh god what have I done what the hell have I done...
Only as he falls to his knees before the helicopter and the men with the rifles, the amplified, distorted voice of his brother desperately ordering not to shoot, does the full weight of reality sink in. And it hits him like a tidal wave, then, that he's now of the very monsters he'd always fought.
A voice in a mocking Irish lilt begins to cackle inside his head, jubilant in victory. See, what did I tell you? We're the same, you and I, Sherlock. Just the very same... but no god no they're not they're not they're not.
Deep down, hidden so far that it would never breathe a whisper, he's always clung secretly to some childish hope. That the whole of the world is wrong, that he's the normal one, and they're all deranged, twisted, insane. They call him a freak and a monster and a machine but it's only because they can't see, isn't it, because they don't understand. No one really knows that beyond the talk of puzzles and logic and sociopathy he's fundamentally good. He does care.
For months now the ghosts of dead innocents have haunted his every thought. And those spectres hadn't formed of a lack of compassion, had they? If he were truly devoid of feeling they'd vanish, would've never caught hold in the first place, and lord knows he's tried to make that happen countless times. But no matter what he's done they've still always been there, whispering. And on those rare nights when he's willing to admit to the truth, he knows why – that they're a permanent consequence of who he is. The visceral product of a spark of humanity.
And it's a spark seemingly inextinguishable. Everything he's ever been through, the cruelty and violence and loneliness and death. Hundreds of experiences that could have hardened him so many times over, yet none of it's ever been enough. He still gets upset when people die. Still remains attached to his own idealistic values of right and wrong, naïve though they may be.
And somehow, on some sad, subconscious level... he'd thought that meant something.
A sense of human decency, perpetual, intractable. At his most basic he'd always been a good person, hadn't he? Hidden away, where no one could see, but still there, still real. That had always been his lifeline, his tether to sanity and empathy and kindness. That he's not like them. Not like the rest of the cruel bastards of the world.
But all that's gone, now. There isn't going to be a way to square it this time. No technical innocence by failure to act, no buffers to hide the ugly truth. This was cold and merciless and deliberate. This was murder. And it doesn't matter if he'd done it to save Mary, or improve John's life, or protect their unborn child. Because the hard fact is that he made a conscious decision to destroy a human life, and was then entirely capable of following through. Hadn't so much as hesitated, didn't think, didn't worry, didn't care. Just did what had to be done.
In destroying a monster he's become one himself. He has, to his core, found the abyss gazing back.
... and now like a child he's fighting not to cry.
X
Sherlock barely reacts when he enters the room.
Mycroft shuts the door behind him, pauses a moment, waiting for some sort of acknowledgement. Or appreciable movement, at the very least. But there's nothing. The boy's just staring blankly at the interrogation table, looking thoroughly lost. As per protocol he's been stripped of his coat and jacket – easier to maintain weapons security – and Mycroft can't help but think that lacking the thick layer of wool he seems far too small.
Unwillingly he finds himself again reminded of days long past. Not of Sherlock as a child this time, thankfully, but as a young man. Back in his early twenties when he'd still had the gangly proportions of a teenager, and his idea of sustenance had consisted mainly of cigarettes and cocaine. Months of self-abuse had left him as vulnerable as he'd been insubstantial, often anxious, angry, prone to panic. In those days a situation this stressful might have pushed him into a dead faint. Brain would've shorted out between the combined effects of adrenaline and malnutrition.
There's no sign of imminent collapse now, of course. Which one might charitably take as an improvement. Instead the boy's just sat there, forced into an uncomfortable slouch by handcuffs trapped between his back and the chair, focussing on nothing.
Mycroft huffs a quiet sigh and finally takes a seat across from his brother.
"Ordinarily, you know, I don't do interrogations." He keeps his tone intentionally blasé. Calm against the seriousness of the situation. "What fantastic luck for you I'm feeling adventurous, hm?"
Not entirely sure why he's making such pains to elicit a reaction, what the point of being so flippant might be – perhaps it's because the last time his brother fell into this sort of mute catatonia he'd eventually come to his senses with a massive panic attack? Seems a good idea to avoid having the boy hyperventilate himself straight back into hospital, if at all possible. Get him to talk, then, draw him out of his head.
Unexpectedly, and perhaps fortunately, Sherlock deigns to speak within a scant few seconds.
All he says, though, in a somewhat dazed mumble, is, "... I shot him."
Mycroft forces down a spike of worry. Shell-shocked? Sherlock shouldn't do shell-shock, he never has, not after Serbia and not... but, then, no... no, not a problem. Doesn't need to fret, it's fine. He can manipulate the boy back into some semblance of normalcy. Done it before. Just has to push the right buttons.
"Yes," he thus agrees, drawing the word out to accentuate how obvious it should be. Sarcastic derision has historically been the best way to bait Sherlock into snapping back. "... and then you cried."
The jab works. Sherlock glances up with a faint glare. Despite every awful aspect of the situation, despite his own shock, he still finds it uniquely insulting to draw attention to the drying tear tracks still streaked down his face.
In response Mycroft simply raises a brow. Well? Even the score, then, Brother Mine. Insult me back.
But like a snuffed candle the moment abruptly fades – Sherlock's gaze stills, loses focus, then drops away. Mycroft frowns. Damn it all, withdrawn back into his head. Something in his thoughts must have turned on the attack. Can't let the boy stew in there for long, though, not if they're going to get anything done. Another barb to draw his brother's ire, then.
"If you're quite finished being traumatised," he intones disdainfully. Half-works. Sherlock does indeed refocus on him, which is good, but his expression doesn't change. Still disengaged. Rather bad. Mycroft presses on regardless.
"It would seem we've a few plans to make." He leans back in his seat and crosses his arms, lifts one hand to briefly knead his forehead. This is all going to give him migraine later, he just knows it. "You've really not made this an easy fix, Sherlock."
Sherlock's empty expression shifts to something halfway between disbelief and disgust. Good, the more emotion the better right now.
"You're letting me get away with murder," he utters flatly.
Mycroft quirks a thin smile. "Haven't I always?"
They stare each other down for a few seconds. Sherlock begins to look annoyed, perhaps even a bit exasperated, which is perfectly fine with Mycroft. He, on the other hand, maintains a bland lack of concern. A deliberately nonchalant attitude which appears to be having the intended effect of thoroughly confusing his brother.
"You... don't care at all," Sherlock soon remarks, tone again dull and lifeless, but at least audible this time. And slightly bewildered.
Mycroft draws a long-suffering breath and glances up to the ceiling as if wondering why on earth he puts up with such nonsense. In truth he's simply relieved his brother's speaking.
"Not an advantage, Brother Mine."
He refuses to acknowledge the knot of worry and fear and disbelief and for god's sake Sherlock what have you done, what in hell's name have you done still lodged in his chest. All of that idiocy can wait. No place for it now – one of them has to remain calm and rational if they're to have a chance of resolving this situation with any degree of grace. And as Sherlock's not been calm nor rational a day in his life, the responsibility, as always, falls to Mycroft.
Sherlock seems to be having trouble deciding how to respond. That, or perhaps his mind's waging war on him again. Either way Mycroft allows a full half-minute to pass by before he takes it upon himself to fill the silence.
"So," he starts in a crisp, matter-of-fact tone, and leans his elbows on the table to steeple his fingers. Doesn't try to maintain any sort of forced eye contact with Sherlock. Holding a locked gaze can far too easily unsettle the boy, especially in such a heightened state of anxiety. Whatever one can do to minimise fear at this point, really – can't afford a panic attack. Wasting time with medical intervention would be far too inconvenient.
"My chief concern, of course," Mycroft continues, not caring if he's failed to provide context. Sherlock's capable of bridging any gaps. "Will be in maintaining the integrity of my position. I cannot, under any circumstances, be accused of accessory to murder."
"So let me rot," Sherlock mutters darkly. Mycroft shoots him an extremely disapproving frown, hopes the slight note of relief isn't too apparent. Back to melodrama, are they? Not quite as broken as he seems.
But Sherlock glances up to him, then, catching the frown. And rather than his usual reaction of indifference he seems to involuntarily flick his gaze away and down, a slight curl of the shoulders, looking rather like a hedgehog. Avoidance technique.
Mycroft tries to keep from worrying. He really does. It's just an old habit, he tells himself. Sherlock used to do that every time Mycroft so much as hinted at being cross with him. Perfectly normal. No matter that he hasn't cared, and thus hasn't done the defensive recoil, in well over twenty years. Nor that his defaulting back to it now could point to any number of...
Quickly he gives himself a mental shake. No, shut up, for god's sake. This is the entire point of being able to switch off his capacity to empathise. Without compassion there's no becoming concerned. Lack of personal concern means no illogical choices, no stupid risks. And he can't take risks here. He needs to keep all his wits about him in order to mend this absurd debacle in a timely manner. Worrying about Sherlock's mental state isn't going to help anything.
Choosing not to worry about his brother may be a lost cause, however. Because disregarding the daft child hasn't ever truly worked, has it? No matter how illogical it may be to waste time on him. And that's never made a shred of sense, really. That he bloody cares so much.
Frowning, he abandons his attempt to not unnerve Sherlock and instead stares the boy straight in the face. Searching, scanning for something, anything, that might tell him why on earth he's so emotionally invested. Why he's willing to put so much of his future on the line, possibly even be arrested, for the sake of one overemotional little moron. This is his final chance to change his mind, after all; the last moment where it'll be easy to wash his hands of the situation. Get up, walk away, let the authorities take over. His brother will spend the rest of his days in a prison cell and Mycroft's various political plans will carry on unmolested. Safest option by far.
Sherlock, as expected, quickly becomes disconcerted under his brother's pointed focus. After a few silent seconds of being stared at, however, he does something entirely different.
He glares.
In his eyes there's suddenly a clear, unspoken question of what the hell are you looking at? A warning to back off, as if he has any capacity whatsoever to defend himself whilst handcuffed to a chair. It's a ridiculous, audacious reaction. And one which sits at absolute perfect odds to everything else – tearstained face, ashen skin, wrists tightly bound. The fool's traumatised, exhausted, in poor health and physically restrained, yet he'll still meet unwelcome scrutiny with an indignant glare.
And that, Mycroft supposes, would be the root of it all.
Because here sits his pea-brained baby brother, too full of himself to feign humble, prone to impulsive acts with no thought for plans or consequences, saddled with such a strong sense of irrational empathy that he weeps over the death of a psychopath. And the vital fact, obvious at the core of it all, is that Sherlock is everything Mycroft isn't.
Therein lies his ultimate value. Fire to balance ice. Without Sherlock's startling capacity to carry that absurd flame of defiance with him through even the bleakest of circumstances, there would be nothing stopping Mycroft frosting over completely. He'd become a glacial automaton, devoid of life or purpose.
Sherlock's tendency to provide a constant source of insanity, drama, and complication comprises, though one hates to admit it, a very large portion of the drive behind Mycroft's having bothered to amass such political influence in the first place. He doesn't need to be in control of the entirety of the British government, does he? Not really. Could very easily run his schemes from a dark corner somewhere, never getting involved. But he's gone to the trouble of becoming a key international figure anyway. And part of that is likely hubris, amusement in manipulating the masses, any number of personal motivations... but an equal part, perhaps even the largest one, is that holding near-ubiquitous power makes it easier to protect Sherlock. Keeping his brother safe has thus become both a goal and a necessity. A never-ending pursuit of the impossible.
The depth of Mycroft's thoughts must be beginning to show on his face, as Sherlock's glare seems to have morphed into a vaguely perplexed, wary look. Trying to figure out what on earth his brother's mulling over, whether it has anything to do with him, if he should be concerned or not. And, ah... he must have assumed the worst rather quickly, because he's on guard now. Waiting for the verdict.
There won't exactly be one, of course. More a series of orders. But before they get to that Mycroft wonders if he might try to explain a few things. May as well take advantage of his brother being a literal captive audience – hopefully he'll never have occasion to see such a thing again.
"Sherlock," he starts blandly. Maintains a casual tone, no need to be dramatic. Sherlock eyes him warily. "It's come to mind just now, and I think you may be interested to know, that over the course of your life I have spent nearly twice the GDP of most African nations simply attempting to keep you in one piece. On top of that I've sat idle in countless hospital rooms, attended profoundly dull school disciplinary meetings, orchestrated the removal of several members of government, and, most recently, infiltrated a Serbian paramilitary compound. All in the name of keeping you safe." A pause to gauge how Sherlock's reacting to this – extremely nonplussed. Well, better than nothing. "Your mere existence, then, represents a significant expenditure of time and resources on my part." He raises a brow and leans back in his seat. "And that is an investment I have no intention of letting go to waste."
Sherlock makes a noise that might have been a scoff if not for the distinct note of defeat.
"You've chosen a very poor venture," he mutters.
Mycroft fixes him with the sort of look one might give a particularly obtuse child.
"No, Sherlock, I haven't."
The boy glances back up, meets his brother's unimpressed stare. They sit in stalemate for a moment.
Then abruptly Sherlock's expression switches from a sort of blank confusion to exasperated anger. He doesn't bother speaking; the message is clear enough without words. Oh for god's sake don't make me deal with you being sentimental on top of everything else.
Mycroft quirks an apologetic smile. He allows a small pause, just to relish Sherlock being irritated with him, then obligingly changes the topic.
"There will, of course, be calls for your incarceration," he continues smoothly, as if they'd been speaking of dry strategy all along. "No politician in his right mind is going to risk an accusation of leniency towards murder, regardless of the victim's infamy."
He stops for a brief moment. Making sure he's truly considered all options, exhausted everything. Is this is truly all they have? Just the single workable plan... a second later he breathes a tired sigh and frowns at his brother. Ugh, this is all going to be such a tremendous bother.
Sherlock just watches him silently, waiting for the rest. Under the washed-out lighting of the interrogation room he looks a bit like a sallow corpse. Fitting, Mycroft supposes, considering his fate.
"Fortunately for you, I am willing to throw sanity to the wind and argue for your release."
"... you're going to argue me out of prison," Sherlock repeats in an unimpressed monotone. "That's your plan."
Mycroft smiles benignly. "More or less."
Despite beginning to sag in exhaustion Sherlock manages to look supremely irritated by the lack of appreciable information. Mycroft deigns to take pity on him.
"Obviously my success hinges on proving your relative worth to the nation," he elaborates. "As luck would have it you happen to be both world-famous and an incredibly effective spy – two conditions, I might point out, which are entirely contradictory – and as such it will be a simple matter to convince Lady Smallwood to waive traditional punitive measures. We shan't be able to keep you in any common prison without sparking a riot, after all. At that point I'll suggest MI6 deployment as an alternative punishment, and have you assigned to the job in Eastern Europe."
"The fatal one," Sherlock remarks in disbelief.
Mycroft rolls his eyes. Good lord, he may as well be speaking to a dog.
"Yes of course the fatal one, don't be dense."
It takes a second or two more, but at long last the cogs seem to kick to life in his brother's head. Mycroft can practically watch the boy's thought process: Catching on to the implied outcome, running through all the consequences of a second faked death, instinctive urge to object to the idea of never seeing his friends or home again, realisation that his only other option is life in prison, brief distress over that fact, a hasty attempt to figure some way out of the mess, coming up with nothing, quick flash of desperate anger... and then, finally, dull resignation.
"If it's any consolation," Mycroft adds, for some reason feeling as if he should make an attempt at comfort. "I may be able to arrange a farewell of sorts."
Sherlock doesn't seem to be listening. He's fallen back to staring at the table, bleak and unhappy.
"There's no other way?" he eventually asks in a low mutter.
Mycroft watches the boy for a few quiet seconds, noting how the life in him – or what little of it their conversation had managed to elicit, at any rate – seems to be swiftly draining away. As if he'd honestly been expecting to somehow return to his old life after a stunt like this.
"You did kill a man, Sherlock," he reminds his brother as gently as he's capable. "One doesn't generally come away from that scot free."
Sherlock huffs a small, vaguely bitter noise. "You did."
"Different circumstances, Brother Mine."
An interminable minute or so of silence drags past. Just as Mycroft's beginning to contemplate leaving, let his brother work through whatever mental anguish on his own, Sherlock speaks.
"... how do you not care?"
Mycroft furrows his brow. What sort of ridiculous question is that?
"Charles Magnussen was not a man I particularly admired," he drawls anyway, lifting a brow. Obvious, isn't it? But Sherlock glances up with a frown, and, ah... perhaps he's implying a different issue? "Or," Mycroft amends, "if you're referring to the inconvenience of safeguarding both my career and your life under threat of a murder charge, I'd remind you that my passing judgement on the matter would be somewhat hypocritical."
"Not what I meant," Sherlock mutters, a bitter note to his tone over the oblique mention of an incident he clearly still hasn't forgiven his brother for. Well, no matter, Mycroft's never felt need for a pardon. Still, though, he finds himself confused. What else could he-?
"It never bothers you at all," Sherlock continues quietly, "that you traded his life for mine?"
Ah. That's what he's on about. Mycroft doesn't quite manage to stop a look of soft, apologetic pity stealing over his features.
"No."
Sherlock's looking for an elaboration, but there's nothing more to add. No amount of advice can teach an innate ability, Mycroft's skill at switching off emotion. One either can or they can't – and Sherlock, as they've seen time and time again, cannot. Never has, and likely never will.
Silence trickles past for a few moments more. Finally Sherlock huffs a hollow, despairing sigh, and with a sense of dull finality lets himself sag until his head comes to rest with a quiet thunk on the table in front of him. Given up all hope. Just waiting to die again.
A thousand possible comments flicker through Mycroft's mind. Reassurances, sarcasm, a question or a joke... but none of them sit right. Perhaps, at this point, there really are no words. He rises to his feet instead. Nothing more to be accomplished here – they have their plan, Sherlock understands his fate. All that's left is to set things in motion.
It seems... wrong, though, somehow, to just leave. Shouldn't care at all really, should he? He's Mycroft Holmes, after all. Master of cold, compassionless logic. Doesn't fall victim to trifling fancies of emotion, the weakness of lesser beings.
Yet he looks down on the miserable form of his brother, and, with the only visible aspects being tangled curls and a rumpled shirt, finds in his mind's eye the image changing.
A little boy being melodramatic over violin practise; an older child hiding his face as if blocking out the world will make it go away; a teenager sulking because his brother confiscated his cigs again; a university student crashing hard off cocaine, begging to just be left alone...
He hesitates, then breathes a quiet sigh. In a gentle motion he lifts a hand and places it briefly on his brother's shoulder.
It's only an instant, that single point of contact. Then he steps away.