The Calibre of Caring
Sherlock presses his face into the rough fabric of the throw pillow, squeezes his eyes closed.
The footfalls that are coming closer towards the sitting room prove that their owner is lazy, but intelligent. The stride signifies hesitance, but yet the footfalls are layered in purpose. It is an odd combination. Sherlock does not want to deduce it.
The sitting room door creaks open. The force behind the push to the door shows further hesitance. The door would have just swung open noisily if the person pushing it had been at ease. But it is pushed open slow enough to make the hinges creak and Sherlock wants to sigh.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock doesn't look up, doesn't move and barely breathes, ignoring how the pillow is uncomfortable and more cramped than the one he is used to at Baker Street.
Oh, Baker Street...
"Sherlock, you need to eat."
Sherlock stretches his legs out with an obnoxious yawn, shuffling onto his back to look towards the man standing in the doorway. The lack of a cotton, button-down shirt, overlayed with a jumper, blue jeans, and brown loafers signify that it is not John. The overabundance of three piece suit, tie, and umbrella signify that it is Mycroft.
"Go away, Mycroft."
"Don't be petulant; you need to eat," Mycroft replies, sounding annoyed.
"Don't be stupid; I said I don't want to," Sherlock retorts.
"And you have been saying that for the past three and a half days. It's time to carry on. You have places that you need to be, Sherlock, need I remind you?"
Sherlock sighs, drawing his arm over his eyes. "I don't want dinner, Mycroft. Leave me alone."
"It isn't a matter of desire. Get up and have a cup of tea, at the least."
Sherlock doesn't move, although his arm falls lazily off the sofa. He doesn't work to move it, just turns his head slightly to stare somewhat blankly at the nicotine patches sticking to his pale skin.
"You need to stay hydrated, if you refuse to eat, Sherlock," Mycroft says firmly. "Or you're going to have more problems than worrying about where you're going to find another Stradivarius for such a low cost."
"I am hydrated, Mycroft. I am perfectly hydrated. Go away."
"Dare I explain how I know that you aren't?"
"You have no intellectual prowess. Please refrain from making it seem like you do," Sherlock says absently, closing his eyes.
"If I recall, Miss Hooper and I were the two outstanding reasons that you are here, alive, refusing to move away from my sofa."
"I was standing at the window a little while ago."
"Sherlock..."
Sherlock sighs and pushes him into a sitting position. He knows that Mycroft is correct: Sherlock is dehydrated. He knows how he deduced that, too: Sherlock hasn't moved from the sitting room for the past nine hours and thirty-seven minutes. Not for the toilet, not for a cup of tea, and definitely not for anything as nauseating as dinner. His stomach's queasy and he knows that eating will end with vomiting. He isn't even sure about the drinking, but he really doesn't want to push it.
"Mourning is fine. Being in denial isn't," Mycroft says.
"I am not in denial," Sherlock replies automatically."And I'm certainly not mourning."
"Not talking, not eating, barely sleeping. If your violin was here, Sherlock, you would be playing sad music. This is the epitome of the only mourning you do."
Sherlock doesn't reply, only gets to his feet and shuffles tiredly to the window again. He pretends that he doesn't notice Mycroft's gaze boring a hole into the back of his head.
"Like I said, mourning is fine. But you can't expect to stare out the window and wait for John to come home, because this is my home, not yours, and it is certainly not John's."
"I know," Sherlock retorts, flashing a glare at his brother. Mycroft just gives him that disgustingly condescending look in reply and Sherlock sighs. "I know. I always know."
"Knowing, they say, is half the battle," Mycroft comments.
"No," Sherlock says quietly, looking at the window, "knowing is the battle."
"Yes, well," Mycroft says, and Sherlock can practically hear him looking at his watch, "you're not beneficial to anyone if you keep standing around, moping."
Sherlock looks away from the window, shivering slightly. "I'm not moping. I'm just-"
"You're miserable. Stop being miserable and try to be more proactive about getting back to your grieving doctor."
Sherlock glares halfheartedly, but he again know that Mycroft is right.
"I told him it was a magic trick," Sherlock says, drawing his new dressing gown close as he stride for the door. "On the rooftop, I mean."
"And you honestly think that he's going to remember that, after watching you plunge to your death before his eyes?" Mycroft asks, falling into step next to him.
Sherlock sighs. "Not really. I wish he would observe, though. I tried to teach him."
"This isn't jujitsu, Sherlock. You can't teach someone intelligence. And you can't expect someone to remember something as trivial as you saying 'magic trick' when you're saying goodbye for the final time."
Sherlock yawns widely, fluffing his hair absently. "Yes, well, it wasn't for the final time, now was it?"
"He doesn't know that."
"Not yet," Sherlock stresses.
"Not yet," Mycroft echoes as he follows his brother into the dining room.
So, I'm not sure if I believe if Mycroft was in on Sherlock's death, but for the sake of this story, I'm saying so. I'm trusting the canon until we know for sure (even though I have serious doubts if he was involved. I mean, Molly Hooper wasn't in the canon, so...). I just wanted to write some Mycroft/Sherlock brother-fluff that isn't terribly out of character.
I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!