Brother Mine
Smaller than a shoebox, the wooden container shaped vaguely like a pirate's chest sits in the middle of his desk. Small enough to be held between adult hands, the thing fitted effortlessly in Mycroft's long fingers. It had been passed to him by an emergency nurse after she had bagged up Sherlock's belongings on his admission to the hospital ward following his latest narcotic spree. Mycroft recognised the container instantly; an old chocolate box of his mother's Sherlock had appropriated as a child. Once covered in rampant alpine panoramas of Swiss countryside and entire mountainsides of fat, happy cows, the pictures must have worn away years ago. Of all the things his brother might have clung to during his bleak descent into a heroin-induced purgatory, an old chocolate box would not have been Mycroft's first thought. He let his fingers wrap around the box's worn corners as he closed his eyes in regret. What new demons drove his brother to this senseless self-destruction? What was Sherlock seeking?
The box wasn't locked. Mycroft had no sensation of prying as he lifted the thin metal clasp and raised the lid.
... and this one is for bravery, and this one is for me,
and everything's a dollar, in this box.
The small chest was full to the brim though not terribly heavy, suggesting its contents had bulk but little weight.
On the very top was a worn and stained passport. Creased and dirty from being crammed into various pockets both wet and dry, the gold-emblazoned maroon cover gave evidence of long and hard service. Not that he needed to look, but Mycroft flicked through the last few travel-stamped pages anyway. Norway, Marrakesh, Turkey and Senegal. He frowned at the last stamp. When had his brother ever gone to Senegal? All Sherlock's overseas jaunts were automatically logged and reported back as a matter of procedure. Peering more closely at the fading patch of ink, Mycroft relaxed. It was fake. Though why Sherlock might need a faked Senegalese entrance visa in his passport was anyone's guess.
Beneath the tattered passport was a small laminated piece of card listing numerous names and contact numbers. Scanning down the list of names, Mycroft realised they were all people whom Sherlock might approach in moments of desperation: Martha Hudson; Dr Michael Stamford ... there were several others he didn't know though he recognised the name at the end as Angelo, the restaurateur. Sherlock had not listed a single family member, a fact that made Mycroft wince. He hoped it was because they were details his brother could not possibly forget no matter how much poison he pushed into his veins.
Under the dog-eared passport was a pile of bound papers that looked like letters, creased and worn shabby with handling. Lifting the bundle into the light, Mycroft saw that they were, in fact, his letters; communications he'd sent through the family solicitors after his brother made it clear he had no interest in a closer relationship. There had been an extended period when Sherlock wanted nothing to do with anyone in the family and a drop-box had been arranged for legal communications and the cashier's cheques Mycroft had insisted on enclosing with the letters. Flicking through the eleven plain white envelopes, Mycroft closed his eyes again in unexpected remorse as he saw not one of them had ever been opened. If Sherlock had cashed the cheques, he would have been able to access a steady income to at least keep him safe and off the streets, if he'd only ... Mycroft shook his head. There was little point agonising over the past. At least the letters had been kept, treasured even, so perhaps his brother's self-imposed banishment was not quite irrevocable. But this was no place for sentiment. Yet the dread caused by Sherlock's apparent desire to do away with himself made it difficult to focus ... Mycroft felt his throat burn as he realised he might weep at his own pathos. An uncommon sensation prickled around his eyes and nose; it had been a very long time since he had wept at anything.
The pebbles, hidden under the letters and suddenly loose in the newly empty space, were the next things that caught his eye; smoothly rounded river pebbles in earth-tones of burnt yellow and marbled grey. Mycroft knew them even before his fingertips brushed their cold-soft surface. He knew these small stones intimately, their origins and significance. The pebbles were from the shallow, though broad and swiftly-flowing river that ran along the lower end of the field nearest Musgrave Hall. They'd played there as children; skimming stones and chasing small fish. The family had lived at the Hall for almost all of his childhood, until the fire, of course. Sherlock had been, what ... six, when the old place went up in flames? It was a dreadful experience for everyone to lose everything in a fire like that and his brother had never really been quite the same since that terrible night.
Mycroft closed his eyes again, recalling the upheaval of everything, how he remembered feeling as if the whole world was crashing down on their heads. And then, of course, Uncle Rudy stepped into the picture and took charge of things; arranging the move to the farmhouse, the new school. Neither he nor Sherlock had any idea what a school was even supposed to be like until then, though school turned out to be something an exercise in futility despite their parents' best efforts. Uncle Rudy took the whole family under his wing then, he was good at that. At taking charge, at handling the details. At taking care of things. Mycroft had been so relieved at the sudden peace and calm. So grateful. Sherlock, however, had retreated into himself. In hindsight, one could see it was about then that the long, slow change began, one that brought quietude and certainty to the older son, brought tedium and repression to the younger. And Sherlock had always been such a fun-loving little boy, Mycroft's mouth curved upwards at the memory. How, as a small child, Sherlock loved to play, his imagination wide and wondrous. The games had stopped after the fire.
Pushing the pebbles aside, Mycroft felt something soft and brittle stir at his fingertips, something that offered no resistance but rustled indistinctly beneath his touch. Peering into the corner of the box, Mycroft pulled out a pair of slender grey-white feathers; goose feathers made frangible by time. Feathers? Why on earth would ... and then he remembered. At age four, Sherlock had decided to classify every feather he found, determined to catalogue all of them, from every bird in the air and on the water. Specimens in various stages of disintegration had been stuck into a large paper album, where looped childish scrawl identified each individual plume with commendable taxonomic devotion. The scrapbook had gone up in flames along with the rest of the Hall, though clearly, some memories remained.
Next to the feathers was a rounded piece of metal. Bringing it into focus, Mycroft recognised the worn 1889 silver half-crown piece, complete with Victoria's profile. What was an old silver coin doing in Sherlock's box of ancient treasure? But all pirates need pieces of eight, Mykie. Sherlock could have been no more than five ... and it was so very long ago that every silver coin left in the change tray in the kitchen had suddenly vanished. It wasn't too terribly difficult to identify the culprit and Sherlock's pirated booty was swiftly replaced with edible gold-covered chocolate coins. Mycroft found himself smiling. He remembered stealing one of Captain Yellowbeard's coins to eat and the chocolate had been quite revolting. Serve him right for taking what was not his to take.
At the very bottom of the old box was a small white square of thin card. Mycroft squinted at a few faint pencilled words, though it was virtually unintelligible. Turning the card over, all the clocks in the world stopped as he realised he was looking at an ancient faded photograph of two young children playing together on a sandy beach. Instantly, Mycroft remembered that day, more than thirty years before. The summer sky had been hazy; the sun reluctant to show itself completely. There was been a persistent breeze rustling the dune grasses at the top of the beach. It had been warm without being too hot to play and the fine gold-white sand whispered through his fingers as he stopped to catch his breath. Playing hide and seek was hard work in the dunes, but it had been the best of days. There had been a semi-submerged rock pool down by the waterline and they'd discovered a small crab scuttling around the sandy bottom. Of course, Sherlock wanted to take it home and preserve the undersized crustacean in a container of formalin. They had argued and Mycroft had used his greater age and practiced argumentation to win the debate. That crab had no idea how close it had come to ending its days pickled in a Chivers' marmalade jar.
Brushing his fingertips around the inside of the old box to be sure he'd missed nothing of importance, Mycroft felt a gritty substance in the bottom corners. Upending the chest, he tipped a small quantity of fine, near-white granules into the palm of his hand. Immediately suspicious, he rubbed some of the grains between his fingertips before sniffing. But there was no scent or residue. It was more dust than anything else. Spreading the tiny pile out in the centre of his palm and holding it under the desk lamp, Mycroft felt his throat tighten in recognition as the minute particles glinted and flashed in the light. Sand. It was sand from that day on the dunes. Sherlock had kept not only the photograph but the sand itself ...
Mycroft exhaled slowly as his shoulders lost their eternal stiffness. No matter what Sherlock said he wanted, it was clear that some things, of family, of the past, still held importance for him. Perhaps this time, an extended olive-branch might not be quite so brusquely refused. Was it worth yet another effort? Mycroft returned the tiny pyramid of sand to the box, adding everything else back in on top in the correct order.
... Cuff links and hub caps, trophies and paperbacks
a tinker, a tailor, a soldier's things,
Oh, and this one is for bravery, and this one is for me
and everything's a dollar, in this box.
It would be alright. Just like Uncle Rudy, he knew what to do this time. Closing the box, Mycroft inhaled slowly before picking up his phone.
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Lyrics from Tom Waits Soldier's Things (1983) Island Music