Mycroft Holmes was sitting in his armchair at home. Outside the rain was falling again. Just a dreary London January. If he'd been one for poetic thought, it might be similar to his current state of mind. Something like being lost in the rain without an umbrella. He was in a melancholy mood and didn't know what to do. It wasn't a feeling he was familiar with.
There was a crackling fire, and he was dressed down from his usual three-piece suit. An empty cup of tea sat on a table nearby and he was otherwise shifting his gaze between the empty chair in front of him and the warmth that blazed from the fireplace.
In his hand was his mobile phone. The device was just casually being turned over and over slowly between his fingers as he dwelled on his thoughtful somber mood.
Less than a week previous, they'd received the news that Moriarty was back. Not alive, but back. And Sherlock had been on the case since that day. He'd figure it out, it was only a matter of time. Mycroft had faith in his brother's abilities when they were channelled in a right and healthy direction. Sherlock's success was Mycroft's success. Always.
No matter how Sherlock acted or what he did. Mycroft loved his little brother. But with love came heartbreak. He knew that too well.
He wanted to send the text, as he did every year. The words on the text didn't matter, they never did. But it was an acknowledgment of his brother's life. Of life where Mycroft had feared there wouldn't be. How many times had Mycroft feared that Sherlock would die? Too many to count, or perhaps more accurately, more than he wanted to count. Whether from overdose or errant bullet or case gone wrong, death was never too far away from Sherlock Holmes. He was sure he'd never be able to see his little brother in a casket. It wouldn't just hurt, it would break him.
Pressure point. Weakness. Illogical sentiment. Mycroft's rules didn't apply where Sherlock was concerned.
Today the birthday message did matter. After the painful experience that was the last time they spoke and the tense parting on the airplane after Sherlock's near overdose, Mycroft wanted to make this one count.
Mycroft had been hurt, there was not a question there. He'd never make up for the past, it seemed. And Sherlock saw fit to remind him that he didn't want to be cared about. But that doesn't mean he couldn't try.
He typed up the message very quickly and pressed send before he changed his mind.
Happy Birthday, little brother. -M
Mycroft put the phone down on the table next to his empty tea cup and kept his eyes on the flickering flame. His thoughts were distant, wandering, as if he could solve the world's problems in a night of thought.
Long minutes later and much to his surprise, there was a chime and then another as the message alert sounded twice. And his long fingers reached for the device again. He almost smiled upon reading it. Almost. Instead he breathed in a deep breath of relief and closed his eyes, listening to the patter of rain over the world around him.
You're getting sentimental in your old age. -S
Thank you. -S