" Do you really think that you 'dropping' in every other day would stop me from being... Bored?" The words were nearly spat out with contempt as the other man approached, the expression that accompanied the words fitting for the description used in the mild yet poisonous sentence uttered by him.
"No, but I thought I would enjoy watching a moderate mind stagnate for a change, instead of dull, boring ones." The visitor said, smiling serenely, as he raised his umbrella and looked at the tip, checking for any dirt.
"Go. Away." These were hissed through clenched teeth.
"Do learn to stop pushing against a wall, Sherlock. Mummy has asked me to check upon you ever so often, so here I am. Believe me, I do not exactly enjoy these little... House visits either." Mycroft said, still keeping the infuriatingly insipid smile upon his posh and high face. Sherlock, on the other hand, had something of a scowl set on his features, as he regarded his brother with cold, calculating eyes. Eyes that spoke volumes of how capable he was of actually, harming his brother just to be rid of him. As they say, if looks could kill, Mycroft would be a pile of ashes that have been scattered to the four corners of this world.
The minor official, however, was not to be outdone. He kept the calm facade, not even batting an eyelid at his brother's gaze, instead looking around the room, trying to not wrinkle his nose at the bio-hazardous waste dump that his brother seemed to call a home. At least, when John had been there, there was some semblance of order, but John had left, and along with him the little sanity and tidiness that inhabited the flat on rare occasions.
"I see that you have made good progress on your.. Sheep lung experiment." Mycroft said, attempting to make small, familial conversation with his biological brother. Ha, if only people knew. A normal conversation between the Holmes brothers (not in the presence of their parents) would generally compromise of petty name-calling( "How is the new see-food diet working out, you fat git?") , comments ( "I see that you have become slow, Sherlock."), helpful advice ( "Get lost, Mycroft."), love ("I believe you should call mummy more often. She is worried."), more name-calling (" You arrogant prat"), more brotherly love ( "A stupid person like you should not call others an idiot, Sherlock."), promises of keeping in touch (" Piss-off, Mycroft. I never want to see your smug face again") and the general chit-chat (" I have a case. Three terror cells are going to attack London. The case is too boring, so I thought it might challenge you, Sherlock." )... Similar to a normal family.
However, Mycroft noticed this time something was different. After the pleasantries were exchanged, Sherlock sat on his armchair, plucking absently at the strings of his violin, staring into the fireplace, and doing a wonderful work of ignoring the other man.
"You have not eaten for a day.." Mycroft observed, but he got no reply from the consulting detective, who merely stared, silently into the fire, as the sky outside darkened from a deep crimson to a calm, midnight blue, littered with countless glowing stars, some obscured by the pollution of the city, others shining through the barriers that separated them from the earth, and its minute inhabitants.
"Sherlock?"
"Why have you not kept a goldfish yet, Mycroft?" The question, though sharp, was asked in a soft tone, that belied it's cutting nature.
The older man took a second to formulate an answer. One, that would be fitting, yet not condescending. For, Sherlock asking him questions on such topics, that dealt with emotions, meant that he was in a dilemma of sorts over it, and however acerbic their usual exchanges were, he lost the will to be sarcastic at this unusually tender moment.
"Because I cannot." He said, finally, only to be greeted by silence. However, this silence was not the one the moody detective would keep for days on end.. This was a non-verbal encouragement for the elder Holmes to continue.
"Because, I cannot bring myself to care. Keeping a goldfish means that I will have to pay attention to them, give them time.. You know as well as me how hard it is. For both of us, to be unselfish over petty, mundane things. And loving someone, Sherlock, means that one must have a great grasp of every minuscule detail of their lover, every need catered to precisely, every emotion to be understood without saying a word. To be able to discern their mood by a flick of their eyebrow, their thoughts by the pattern of their drumming, their desires by untold words.. It is too much. Too much a burden for us to bear, and too much of a waste to invest in."
He stopped, looking at his brother, who still seemed to be lost in thought. Why ask such a question, Sherlock? Have you found someone who is willing to put up with your idiosyncrasies, bear your multitudes of boredom, wit, intelligence, and not uttering a single syllable of complaint against it? Or have you grown soft, the two years of loneliness, lack of familiar faces, and tired worry finally showing upon your psyche?
"Who is it?" He asked after a few moments, as the fireplace crackled brightly, the strings were twanged mournfully, and the hearth, unlike the heart of these two men, was warm and inviting.
There was no reply to the question, of course there was no reply. Who is it? The words were suspended between the brothers like a sheet of water, obscuring itself from both. The Holmes brothers were never said to be human. They never loved. They only admired, respected, or snubbed, never loved. In their hearts, there was only places for mummy, logic and intelligence, in that order. Anything threatening their internal world was decimated by them, quickly and without much thought by Sherlock, slowly and in measured, calculated steps by Mycroft.
Maybe if he followed every activity of Sherlock's, then he might find out. But it was obviously someone who they both knew, else Sherlock would have spoken about that person. Who did they both know?
"John is to be married, brother.."
Ah, there. The desired effect. Sherlock shifted ever so little, moving a little more away from Mycroft, not facing him, still plucking on the strings like as though he had forgotten he was doing it.
"I hope you prepared a proper Best-Mans Speech.. Make John proud, with your abilities to blend in." Mycroft prattled on, not for the sake of talking, but to gauge Sherlock's reactions.
Once he finished, he was greeted by silence again. Oh well, worth an effort. He turned to the ignored cup of tea on the little stand by his side, reaching out to put the cup to his lips when he was interrupted.
"John is leaving me."
Sighing, he took a sip, before setting the cup down again. Oh brother dear.. I told you caring is not an advantage. To care means that you give up your peace of mind, your happiness, for anothers. You sacrifice to keep the other contented, and most of the times, it goes waste.
"I have said this before.."
"So don't say it"
Ignoring the barb, Mycroft continued, unperturbed.
"All lives end, all hearts are broken.. Caring is not an-"
"-Advantage. I know, Mycroft. Yet I cannot help myself upon this matter. To care for John is, in some manners, second nature to me." Sherlock looked up at him, his multi-coloured eyes reflecting the fire-light, making the gold flecks in them glow.
"He is so vulnerable. Ordinary, yes, but unique in his composition. An army surgeon. Highly qualified, yet bemoaning the lack of thrill. On getting it, he accepts it happily, not willing to let go. Afraid that if he does, life would be bleak for him.." Sherlock turns his gaze back to the burning flames.
"And yet, you took it away." Mycroft completed, without pause. Sherlock said nothing for a few moments more, as the blaze crackled in the flat, warming its two occupants.
"Well, then. I suppose it is fair that he leave you." The 'minor' government official gave his verdict, as he took another silent sip of tea, basking in the warmth the flames had to offer against the chilly night air, outside the flat.
"I suppose too." this was said almost quietly, as if the acceptance of the fact that John, his Watson, was going to leave him and go away, to live with another woman, who he loved and cherished, was a betrayal of sorts to their friendship. And Mary? He liked Mary. She was smart, quiet, yet fun loving, charming, witty.. Everything John would have wanted. Everything Sherlock was. And yet, John decided to leave him and marry her.
Why would he do that?
Was the fact that he spent two years, running from people, hiding, pulling down networks, reputations, lives, not enough testimony of the simple, oh-so-obvious fact that Sherlock loved John, in his own ways? That he was prepared to do almost anything, anything to keep him alive, to let him live, and not die by the hands of some unknown face, a face without remorse or pity, the fact that he accepted John's girlfriend, Mary, without another word at her, that he came back from his hiatus,just to meet John again and not keep him in the dark thoughts of him being dead. Was it not proof enough? He loved John, in a manner that transcended all physical boundaries.. He thought of John as his emotional equal, his other part, the human side. While he was the mind, John was the heart. While he would take things apart, analyse every little piece, John would put things together, see a whole picture. While Sherlock would be at home in chaos, John would bring in his excessive, military style orderliness into his mind. They were so unlike, yet alike. The beacon and the conductor of light. One without another. That is what they are now, yes? John was going away, leaving Sherlock to adjust back into his old life. In six months. Six months was all he got to return to his old habits, while John had nearly three years.
He stared more into the fireplace, as though he could shoot his growing, dark anger at being left alone, so suddenly, at the flames, and burn it up, throw it away, never look at it. He hated it, the flat was too quiet, the violin being his only solace. Mrs. Hudson did keep him company sometimes, but not always, unlike John, who was ready to listen to every eager deduction that was said in child-like excitement with the patience of an old man. Nobody, nobody could be him, yet now, he had to find a replacement.
Mycroft saw it all play over his brothers face, the thoughts morphing themselves into expressions as the corners of Sherlock's lips seemed to fall downward even further, almost as if to meet his jaw. He understood why his brother felt thus.. Sherlock had acted quite similarly when their first and last pet dog was to be put down, because of old age. However, this was different.
"Sherlock, John is not Redbeard. He will return to meet you.. I can assure you as much." Mycroft said, hoping to offer some resemblance if comfort in those words. A younger, louder Sherlock had been sucked into the vortex of depression over the death of their only dog, and had not spoken to anyone for a week. Until Mycroft and mummy finally cajoled and consoled him out of it. This, Mycroft mused unhappily, was a similar sequence of the same events. Sherlock would go into a fit of silence, maybe alienate John more in an attempt to protect himself from further pain, or throw himself so deep into a case that he would not remember the existence of his own transport, let alone notice the presence (or absence) of others.
"Just.. Let him go. Do not get too involved, for your involvement into this would only make the inevitable more prolonged and painful.." Mycroft said, taking a sip of the cold tea. He would have to monitor his brother more now.. This loneliness could kill him. John could make or break his brother, and now he was shattering him into infinite little pieces, that would never be found, no matter how much one searched. He had to be protected, Mycroft thought, from the harsh realities of separation now.
Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?