"Moriarty wanted to destroy Sherlock, and you gave him the perfect ammunition."
"Why didn't you intervene sooner?"
"I hate you, Mycroft!"
"You know what he calls you? The iceman."
"You are the worst brother anyone could have the misfortune of having."
"You useless bastard!"
Mycroft drank his scotch as he gazed at the blazing fire. His brother has been back in London for two months now. Everything was back to normal, he still received various glares from politicians, and whispers flew as he passed. Normal.
He was alone in his house; the staff was given the week off. He didn't have a meeting scheduled for at least two more days, which was a miracle in itself. He wanted to work though. He wanted the distraction, the exhaustion that would have him collapsing at the end of the week.
Mycroft Holmes was one of the most influential people in the world. He made himself indispensable and invisible. When the time comes, he would receive no honor, no title, and no recognition for everything he did. He would never receive the thank you of the family of the men he helped save nor the praises of the people who he protected in a daily basis. Despite those facts, he would be remembered as the Iceman who may as well have murdered his brother. The Iceman who ordered the deaths of people, including civilians, for the sake of the majority.
Contrary to popular belief he did have emotions. He did have a conscience. People expected him to make the hard choices, things that would make any man sick. He did it anyway because if he didn't lives would be ruined.
Sherlock jumped for the three most important people to him. He survive two years alone, wiping Moriarty's web as Mycroft sat in his safe desk, worrying. Seeing his brother being beaten almost made him sick, he wanted to beat the Serbian himself but in order to rescue his brother, he needed to climb the ranks and watch the baby brother he strove to protect be beaten mercilessly.
He finished his scotch, chastising himself for losing focus. He walked to his room. He removed his jacket and cufflinks in order to fold his sleeves up to his elbows, the action rewarded him with the sight of old scars criss-crossing on his arms. He removed his tie and waistcoat. Leaving him with his crisp white shirt and black trousers. He sighed as he put the articles on his bed before proceeding to his private bathroom.
He grabbed a gleaming scalpel, hidden within a hidden compartment on his bathroom before locking the door.
He swallowed thickly as he gazed at his phone. He developed this habit a while back. He waited for a call. He always waited for a call, he never understood why. Whether he wanted someone to intervene or for someone to just be there. He never knew if he wanted a call from his brother, his parents, Anthea, or even the bloody PM.
He sat down by the sink. Mycroft Holmes does not cry. Mycroft Holmes does not have emotions. Mycroft Holmes is not important to anyone. He does not have any purpose but to serve the crown. He believed the mantra like a Christian to a bible.
He sighed as the call he was waiting from whoever it is never came. He bit his lip as he remembered the operations he led, all the lives that he took, all the hate he faced every day.
During his earlier years, he was stupid enough to cut near the wrist. It was visible and people saw it. After the horrible emotional confrontation and various threats of visits to counsellors, he made sure that no one saw his scars again.
He cut a few centimeters down the elbow. The blood flowing out and he felt his guilt, his burdens flow out with them. He made another one and sighed as the tension on his shoulders vanished. He tried with the other arm, the more the blood flowed, the more he forgot about his troubles.
"It's all your fault!"
"How can you order such a thing?"
"I wish Moriarty targeted you instead."
His eyes snapped open as his thoughts and memories collided with each other. Tears unknowingly fell from his eyes. He convinced himself that he was not suicidal; one Holmes suicide was enough as it is, but he didn't mind dying. Maybe it would all be for the best. He won't get in the way; he won't be able to ruin the lives of the people around him.
The logical part of his brain slapped himself. Caring is not an advantage, he murmured to himself. So what if he's alone? So what if his brother hated him?
He cut again and again and again. Soon he was covered in blood and as he begun feeling light-headed, he treated his arms. No need for careless accidents now.
"What do you want now?"
"Good morning as well, brother dear, Dr. Watson."
He could hardly say his brother's and his flat mate's names. He put his best fake smile as he stood by the fireplace. Umbrella in his hand.
"Tea?" John asked. "If it isn't any trouble." he smiled at the doctor.
John went to the kitchen and fixed some tea as Sherlock tuned his violin.
"What do you want? The sooner you state your business, the sooner you can leave."
"Must I have a reason for visiting my brother?"
"Subtlety does not become you."
"I was merely dropping by to check on you." he said. It wasn't too far from the truth. He wanted to see his brother in his flat again before heading off to another meeting.
"Mycroft!" his brother snapped as he sat down John's chair. As impatient as always.
"Here's your tea." John said curtly. Mycroft smiled his thanks and drank the tea, letting it calm him and warm him. The doctor's tea could work miracles. He sighed after a long sip and made sure not to reveal any emotions to his brother.
"How's the diet?"
"Fine." he said.
"Gaining weight again I see. And you were doing so good." his brother sneered. Mycroft was not an idiot. He knew his brother wanted to rile him up in order for him to leave.
"A little childish don't you think?" he asked as he sipped his tea.
"Feeling lonely aren't we? Is cake good company?" his brother's jibes were getting to him but he would never let him hear it.
"Really, brother-mine?" he asked in a cool voice devoid of any emotion. John could see tension building."So, what brings you here, Mycroft?"
He almost forgot John was still in the room.
"Merely a social visit. Nothing to worry about." he honestly didn't know why exactly.
"Really? You could send one of your minions to check on Sherlock. Not to mention all the cameras probably in the flat." he never bugged his brother's flat; he only spied on them via street cams and CCTVs. Not that the pair would believe him.
"Better to make sure personally." he gave a fake smile. Blue eyes hiding the pain brimming in them. He finished his tea with a sigh.
"Here let me take that."
"John, I insis-"
His sleeve fell for only a fraction but the doctor spotted his old scars. So did his brother. He cursed under his breath as he flinched away from the doctor's touch.
John tried to grasp Mycroft's wrist but he flinched away.
"What is that?"
Mycroft looked at John then his brother with a raised eyebrow.
His heart was beating loudly but he put on his mask of non-chalance and merely raised an eyebrow at the two.
"Despite my brother's insistence, doctor, I am not bound to my desk. There are a number of things that could go wrong with meetings with high officials and sometimes, even a man that holds a minor position to the government, such as me, can be targeted."
He wasn't lying to them. His old scars were over-lapped by wounds from abductions. Terrorists really need to have their own cuffs so he could avoid the bite of a rope and the occasional shackle he heard from various individuals. He mentally shook his head in order to stay on track.
John gave him his beat 'doctor-glare' and he gave an amused smile. "You have no idea how loose my security is. And you cannot imagine how imaginative some people are."
As cliché as it sounds, he was saved by a ringing of his phone. He looked at the caller ID and sighed. "Sorry I have to take this, it has been wonderful. I hope you have a lovely day." he said as he went down the flat, answering his phone. "Hello? Yes, it wasn't an-"
As soon as they heard the door close John faced Sherlock. "Did your brother always have those?"
"I believe so. I can't remember. Stop worrying!" Sherlock rolled his eyes at John.
"My brother is not infallible John. Believe it or not, he has chinks in his armor as well."
"Right. Breakfast?"
Mycroft nearly sighed in relief after the call was over. He sat on his car on the way to some meeting, grateful that his associate had the perfect timing. His arms itched but he ignored them. It was time for work.
Anthea tapped at her phone as she walked towards her employer's office. "Sir, one of the MP's scheduled a meeting for you in one hour. Shall I cancel?"
She noticed the tell-tale signs of a headache manifesting itself upon Mycroft and she knew more than anyone that his headaches were worse than anyone's.
"Nonsense, my dear. Everything is fine."
"If you're sure sir."
She walked over to his desk and he looked up briefly to see a steaming cup of coffee. He smiled at her retreating form.
It was one of the rare nights that Mycroft can sleep early. Unfortunately, this night he was plagued with nightmares. He relived his brother's addiction, his failures, and the hateful gazes of people.
"You ruin everything."
"You don't deserve to live."
"You are a failure!"
He gasped awake. He found no relief in the realization that it was all a nightmare. He rushed to the bathroom with his scalpel and cut.
He hated himself. Hated that he was a failure. Hated that he was hurting himself so much.
He removed his shirt and saw the various scars that littered his chest and stomach, most self-inflicted.
He wove the scalpel with precision and without remorse. No one cared. Why should he?
As the tears subsided he was left as a crimson mess. Dizzy but still functioning.
Not once did his phone ring.
"Didn't you know? Before his brother returned they said that he helped the detective stage the murders. Provided the body in fact."
"I heard he worked as an agent once. Slaughtered a town once too."
"Bollocks! Him? His just another suit!"
The whispers reached his ears and no doubt Anthea as well. She no doubt was glaring at the people who dare whisper against Mycroft Holmes but he could care less. Apart from the unlikely rumors, they were laced with truth. The message was simple; he was a monster, a cruel vile monster that helped the world continue to spin.
After weeks of exhausting work, endless meetings and useless people, he was back home. Alone as always.
He was in another black mood. A 'danger night' if you will. He went to the bathroom and held the scalpel like an old friend. Then again, perhaps it was his only friend. Nobody seemed to want to talk to him, the scalpel helped him forget and ease his burdens, if only a little. He tried drowning them with alcohol but lately, this seemed more appropriate. He caused people pain, it's just right to have some for himself right? After all he was a failure of a brother, a cruel manipulative bastard, and a downright monster.
He informed his brother's circle of friends whenever Sherlock would likely have one of his self-destructive episodes. He wanted to have someone inform anyone that he has his black moods. That he might do something stupid to himself. He didn't want the scalpel in his hand, he never did, he wanted someone to hold his hand and say he should stop.
He cursed himself for being selfish. Who would bother with him?
He glanced at his phone, willing it to ring. But it didn't.
Mycroft gazed at the mirror on his office. He had large bags under his eyes, he lost weight, and he was pale. Not to mention his arms were absolutely giving him hell. He sighed at his appearance and proceeded to go outside and visit his brother. He had a case for him.
"How's the diet?"
Sherlock asked, not bothering to look at his brother. "Fine. Now if you don't mind, I have a case for you."
"Boring."
"Sherlock! We-" John stormed in just in time to see Mycroft sit down on the couch.
"What happened to you?"
"A long tiring week. Now, Frederick Wright-"
"Dull!"
He wasn't lying about the long week. He hardly had any sleep, what he had was filled with nightmares, he barely had anything to eat, and he was positively miserable. He could practically see himself try and tug for his logic to return.
"Stop being a brat an-"
"Oh stop it already. You could solve that one without even leaving your office." Sherlock glanced up and saw his brother's haggard form. His eyes raked over him, rarely did his brother show this much tiredness. He deduced that he had several meetings abroad, he hardly slept a wink and he has lost weight. He would deduce more were it not for the folder that was hit on his head by his annoyed brother. How immature.
"Remind me again, who is the older one?"
"Stop this foolishness. I have had a rather tiring week and-"
"Has it never occurred to you that I may be tired as well? All the cases I solve could wear me down, never mind the criminals after my head." irritation laced his voice as he addressed his brother. Mycroft glared at him and he glared back. John avoided the confrontation and decided to check on Mrs. Hudson.
"Ah yes, solving scandals and murders after all is quite tiring. Perhaps you would like to solve global problems instead?"
"I am not a puppet-master like you. I prefer meeting my enemies head on."
"And that went quite well, didn't it."
"Let's not forget whose fault it was in the first place." that stung. Really it did. Sherlock saw the hurt and guilt in his brother's steel gaze before it was hidden away. He felt guilty but he shrugged it off. Why should he feel guilty?
"It's always my fault, isn't it?" Mycroft said in a soft voice. Almost as if he was contemplating something.
"When was it not? You ruin everything."
"I suppose you blame me for the drugs as well?" his body began a coup with his mind and he can't stop himself, masochistic bastard that he was. Sherlock was preoccupied and didn't see the storm brewing in his brother.
"It was your fault after all. After ignoring me for so many years, you just thought that everything would be alright? I was alone! Not that you would know anything about that!"
Mycroft swallowed as his brother went to a full-blown rant.
"You never had friends, Mycroft. And because of you, I nearly lost mine." That was low. But it didn't mean he didn't deserve it.
"Sometimes, I wish that Moriarty went for you instead. I wished it was you who took the fall." his brother's words were almost a whisper. He was absolutely certain that Sherlock did not mean to say it. It was so silent he barely heard it but he might as well just have shouted it. The effect would have been the same.
"Me too." he said as Sherlock went back to his senses. "What?" he asked. "What do you mean?" he smiled ruefully at his confused brother. His chest tightened but he took the folder away and walked away.
"Nothing to concern yourself with, Sherlock."
Mycroft stood on his bathroom in the night, staring at his scar riddled body. Why did he hurt himself? He was lost and he wanted to be found. He wanted someone to notice but they never did.
His brother was right, he was lonely. John was right, it was his entire fault. Mrs. Hudson had been right; family is what they had in the end. Too bad Mycroft could be dead anyways and no one would care. Not even his 'family'.
He traced a pattern with his scalpel.
He was envious of Sherlock. Despite being a self-diagnosed sociopath, he had a circle of friends ready to support him. Mycroft had the perfect manners, the perfect attitude, one would think he would have tons of friends yet he was alone. Why was that?
Blood dripped down the white tiled-floor and he felt the sting of the scalpel but ignored it. He wanted to forget.
His phone lay forgotten on his bed.
Sherlock has been thinking recently. Their current case was almost done and he felt something...wrong. John said it must have been nerves but since his brother's last visit a few days ago, he couldn't shake the feeling that he missed something.
He had to go to Mycroft though. It was for the case, mind you, he was not checking up on his brother.
"Are you sure we should do this? We could just ring him. Or wait till morning!"
John said as they broke into his brother's house. Security will know who they are so no worries.
"We need to finish the case now! Mycroft won't even need to rise from his bed!"
They searched the flat but he was not there. They nearly gave up until they happened upon his brother's bathroom.
A few days after his last visit to Sherlock's, Mycroft is yet to have a good night's sleep. He was confused and dazed but still hurt. He still felt the crushing loneliness.
As he got home, he removed his jacket, waistcoat and tie. He rolled up his sleeves and as he blinked away the tears, he sat on the floor with the scalpel in his hands. He cut on his left arm, not caring if he went too low. He wanted to feel the pain, to feel anything but the crushing, suffocating, loneliness. Physical pain is better that emotional pain. He moved to his right arm and slashed. He watched the crimson liquid pool beneath him. He tastes the salt of his tears as he cried.
The attack he launched saved millions of lives but took hundreds for it. He remembered a little girl's eyes look at him as he sent her father to jail. He remembered the blue eyes of his brother gaze at him with so much hatred after the fall.
He remembered the ginger boy sat upon a swing, trying to comprehend why he was different, trying to make sense of his thoughts as his head began hurting. He remembered the boy turn into a teenager, proper and polite but hating every second of his existence.
He still loathed his existence. Without him, so many lives would be better.
He felt light-headed but he couldn't be bothered to get up. He was in the merciless hands of his memories and guilt.
"Where were you when I needed you, brother?"
"You sold your own brother!?"
"Mister Holmes, the attack was successful. Congratulations, sir."
"Why did you have to ruin everything, you freak?"
"I hate you! Stop trying to run MY life!"
He could see black tinting his vision but he felt no panic, maybe it was for the best. Everything would be ok soon. His parents could stop worrying about him; his superiors could stop worrying that one of his plans might backfire. John didn't have to face someone who sold his best friend to the wolves. Sherlock would have his wish to be rid of the stupid, annoying, rubbish, big brother he had. Mycroft would finally be able to let go. It was all win on his mind.
Alarm bells rang in his head. Warning him of the danger. He pulled out his phone, deciding whether to call 999 or not. He saw that Sherlock tried to call him. He received two missed calls after that from John. Five from Anthea. He probably missed a meeting.
Perhaps he should call 999? People seemed to care.
"But do they really?" he whispered as he was almost unconscious.
Of course not.
"Mycroft! Hiding wo- MYCROFT!" Sherlock yelled at the sight. His brother was pale and was covered in blood, a scalpel nearby. It wasn't hard to deduce what happened.
"Jesus! I'll call 999 try to stop the bleeding." John said as he dashed out for a telephone on Mycroft's bedside.
"Mycroft, wake up. Come on, Mycroft!"
Sherlock took his scarf and pressed it to one of his brother's arms. "John! I need help here!" he tried to stop the bleeding of both his arms.
"Sh'lck?" his brother mumbled.
"Of course it's me, you idiot. How can you be so careless?"
"m'sry... 'cident" Mycroft slurred.
"Stay awake, Mycroft!"
"Why bo'er? M'lost"
Sherlock deduced that it was the blood loss talking. What was taking John so long?
"You're not lost. Everything's okay now. I found you. Better let than never, right?"
Mycroft's lip lifted and for a moment, Sherlock could have sworn he saw the clarity and awareness appear on his brother's blue-dulling- eyes and maybe have saw happiness in them. Then, Mycroft closed them, hid the blue gems away from his greedy brother, and fell limp in Sherlock's arms.
"Brother!"
Sherlock sat at the waiting room of a hospital he already forgot the name. Blood covered him and his hands shook. He found his brother, but it was too late. Why did he not notice the signs? The doctors made it clear that Mycroft had scars all over his body from years of self-harm.
John looked at his best friend with concern. Having witnessed your brother dying, would rock you to the core. He knows of Sherlock's belief that his brother would always be the constant in his life. He blamed himself for not noticing. He asked about the bloody scars a few weeks ago! He should have known.
The doctor went out the room, with a brief "You can go in now" they practically ran inside. The pleasure of having power to influence the rules of the hospital.
Mycroft looked pale. The transfusions were not enough to make him look like his old self but that was expected. Sherlock remembered the panic he felt as Mycroft went limp on his arms and the pain he felt as his brother flat lined in the ambulance.
He remembered all the times Mycroft held a vigil for days on end for him. He remembered the weariness and absolute exhaustion on his brother's eyes. He saw the pain and hurt Mycroft tried to conceal.
Looking back on their previous conversations, it was so obvious that Mycroft was hiding something.
John put a hand on his shoulder before going out to get coffee. They will be both staying here for awhile.
"Mycroft?" he said in a soft voice.
"I'm sorry for all the things I said before. I don't hate you-" he choked as he remembered that the last thing Mycroft could remember would be that of Sherlock saying something he didn't think through. Something he didn't mean.
"I'm so sorry Mye. I don't hate you. I didn't mean all those things. Please tell me it's not too late? Please."
He took his brother's pale, cold hand and brought it to his lips.
"Wake up, Mye. Please don't leave me."
Sherlock tightened his grasp of his brother. He was startled and his eyes widened and he gasped. He pushed the button to call the doctors.
"Mycroft!"