A/N: So, this is my first serious dabble into a fandom beyond HP, a 'finding-my-feet' excersise more than anything. Having watched Series Two of Serlock for the fiftieth time, I finally decided I couldn't resist any longer. This is going to be a several part series starting Pre-Canon (because that's what I do best) and going through to Post-Reichenbach :)
Chapter One:
What You Might Call a Difficult Relationship.
Mycroft Holmes was far from impressed. Having left the remnants of his family behind in Hertfordshire three and a half years ago in order to pursue a career in parliamentary tea-making, he had thought that this sort of nonsense would have remained behind with them. He had left the second it had been prudent to do so, as much to escape the complications of family – particularly those caused by his younger brother – as to find a foothold in the British Government. Mycroft prided himself in his patient disposition; God knows it hadn't been easy being cast into the role of negotiator between the hopelessly tactless Sherlock and their widowed father, but Mycroft had recognised very early on the futility of a lost temper and had always worked hard to maintain at least the illusion of absolute control and self-discipline.
Sherlock- who was Mycroft's junior of seven years- on the other hand, had no such concerns; he demanded an infinite amount of patience from everyone with whom he came into contact and everyone tired very quickly of giving it to him. The Holmes patriarch, unfortunately, was particularly intolerant of his youngest's peculiarities, possessing next to no patience at all, even in the most accommodating of circumstances and at a complete loss to understand how his late wife could find their youngest so endearing. And so, after their mother had passed away six years ago, Mycroft had taken the role of Sherlock's defender upon himself, which involved attempting to teach him how normal people were supposed to behave, steering them both around their father's impossible constitution and yet still encouraging Sherlock's insatiable thirst for knowledge, just as their mother had done. Not that Sherlock appreciated Mycroft's efforts in the slightest – if anything, he seemed to relish conflict and actively sought out trouble in the most tedious of places – but at least Mycroft felt that he had done his duty and obeyed their mother's wishes as best he could.
But this was too much. This strained even Mycroft's perfectly assembled patience. To be called out of work for a telephone call informing him of… Well, suffice it to say, his little brother should not be expecting to get away with this without an earful. Not that he had any idea what he would say to Sherlock or what was an appropriate way to handle the situation or what to do in the aftermath…
Mycroft sighed deeply, half wishing that he was a smoker, and rubbed his forehead- the initial stages of what promised to be a particularly bad migraine encroaching threateningly.
On the grounds of personal health, both mental and physical, he had been sorely tempted to dismiss the phone call out of hand; Sherlock was not and should not be his responsibility. If he was old enough to do stupid things on this scale, he was old enough to deal with the consequences on his own.
Insufferable child…
Patent leather shoes, polished within an inch of their lives, paced up and down the room as Mycroft's frustration mounted, hands clasped together behind his back, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Only Sherlock had the power to ferret out this side of him, this side which he worked so damned hard to repress, and Mycroft despised him for it.
And yet, infuriatingly, he could not simply dismiss the fact that Sherlock was, and would always remain, his baby brother and, as his mother had impressed upon him thirteen years ago, it was his duty tomind him.
Let it be known that Mycroft Holmes was never one to shirk his duties, no matter how odious the task.
With another sigh, even deeper than the last, he popped two ibuprofen from the packet he always kept in the inside pocket of his jacket, swallowed them dry and retrieved his coat, gloves and umbrella from the coat hook before leaving his office in search of 221 Baker Street.
A pair of size seven black leather school shoes kicked rhythmically against the dark wooden legs of the high-backed chintz chair in which their owner was sitting, slouched and scowling. The kicking the chair was receiving, however, was nothing compared to the one Sherlock Holmes was inflicting upon himself mentally.
"Stupid stupid stupid…" he muttered in time with his feet, a heavy frown set into his dark features. Of course this outcome was inevitable. If he'd just taken ten seconds to think…
Sherlock's irritation climaxed in a particularly vicious blow to the chair.
"Hey, no need for that!"
The boy's scowl deepened even further as he directed it towards the woman who had just bustled in carrying a tea tray. His captor. She smiled pleasantly, pointedly ignoring the death stares she was receiving, as she poured tea into a delicately patterned cup and placed it on the side table by his chair. Sherlock eyed the biscuit tin with an equal dislike, determined this time to resist temptation, more to prove a point to himself than anything else.
"It's for the best you know, dear," the woman twittered, settling down with the biscuit tin in the opposite chair, arranging her skirts around her. "Your poor mother must be going out of her mind! I know I would if my boys were running around London with those sorts of people, getting up to God knows what… Not that I have anything against them, mind, lovely men, but not the company I would want impressionable young boys to keep. Teach you all sorts of bad habits…"
Sherlock turned away, not even pretending to listen. His eyes and thoughts wandered out the window, watching the people and cars pass by; scarves tied up tight in defence against the December wind, windscreen wipers erratic. In the tiniest recesses of his mind, Sherlock Holmes was glad not to be out there. Next time, he would definitely wait until the weather was more amicable.
The sight of a familiar black umbrella caught his eye further up the street forcing a myriad of emotions to spring up unexpectedly, all of which were told to bugger off immediately. Sherlock sat up and watched the umbrella progress down the road, considering what part to act once the doorbell rang.
The woman was still chattering. It didn't matter that he hadn't uttered a word since she had brought him here yesterday evening, she talked more than enough for the both of them. Perhaps she would keep twittering at the door so he'd have time to slip away. The bathroom window would be the best option. But, even as he considered it, Sherlock knew that this particular game was over. Not that he was going to go easily…
On the steps of the house, the black umbrella collapsed to reveal its carrier; a tall, well-dressed young man with hair the exact colour of Sherlock's own, if a little more sparse..An angular face regarded the front door for a moment, a slight frown of mild disapproval creasing his brow, before tightening his lips and raising a hand to the doorbell.
The woman started as the bell rang shrilly through the house, almost dropping her cup as she jumped to her feet with a little, "Oh!" and hurried to answer the door.
In her absence, Sherlock leaned forward, plastered a gaudy smile on his face and rapped on the glass, waving enthusiastically to the newcomer. He was ignored, save for the slight quirk of an eyebrow. The smile vanished and was replaced by a scowl, even darker than the one that had preceded it and Sherlock slumped back down in his seat, folding his arms tightly across his chest, as he waited.
"Come in, come in. Go through and I'll get the tea on."
Mycroft's cool gaze swept languidly about the dark hallway as he followed Mrs Hudson through into the heart of the house, discarding his umbrella by the door at her request. The walls were too close together for his liking, making him feel almost claustrophobic. A hand wandered idly to his tie, as though to loosen it, but Mycroft caught himself in time and forced it down by his side. Composure was crucial when it came to dealing with Sherlock.
Mrs Hudson gestured vaguely to a doorway before hurrying further down the hall, presumably to where the kitchen was. Mycroft removed his gloves finger by finger as he followed her direction and stepped unhurriedly over the threshold, grey eyes sweeping disdainfully across the chintz-filled room. The large bay window which looked out over the usually bustling London street from which he had just come flooded the room with soft pale light, warmed by the beige covered bulbs hanging from the ceiling. It was from the armchair in this alcove that his mother's piercing blue eyes glared up at him beneath a dark frown. Not a warm welcome, to say the least. Sherlock had always carried a particularly gaunt look about him through years of refusing to adhere to a particular eating pattern and having an even less regular sleeping one, but as Mycroft's grey eyes swept critically over him now, he looked positively ill. Whether it was through his own doing or otherwise was yet to be established.
With an arched eyebrow, Mycroft crossed the length of the room, throwing the leather gloves carelessly down on the glass-topped coffee table as he passed it, a force of habit more than anything else. He stood above Sherlock, poised to grab should the boy decide to run.
But Sherlock showed signs of neither a desire to escape nor provide a rationale of any kind without prompt.
Folding his arms across his chest, Mycroft looked down his nose to meet his brother's stare squarely. "An explanation, Sherlock, if you please."
A sullen silence, with just a hint of petulance, was the only answer he received.
His already diminished patience thinning, Mycroft shifted his weight onto his other foot, long fingers flexing with impatience. "I did not leave work prematurely and travel half way across London to be ignored," he said tightly. "An explanation. Now."
Unmoved by his brother's annoyance, Sherlock's blue eyes narrowed. Then, tersely, "I didn't ask you to come."
It took Mycroft a remarkable quantity of self-restraint to resist the urge to slap the insufferable boy. He was beginning to feel quite drained.
"You are intolerable," he informed Sherlock quietly. Then, as an infuriating smirk crossed his brother's lips, "I presume Father has no idea that you're here?"
The smirk faltered but did not disappear entirely. Pulling his legs up beneath him, Sherlock shrugged, "I don't suppose so, unless school's told him." The intensity of his gaze strengthened, becoming almost challenging as he added, "I don't expect anyone cares much anyhow."
A wealth of remarks ranging from the snide to the sympathetic presenting themselves to Mycroft as responses. Dismissing them all as inappropriate, he instead selected the most prudent question, "Why?"
The shrug was repeated. "Bored."
"Bored?" The extent of Sherlock Holmes' arrogance caused incredulity to even Mycroft. "Boredom is no reason for such erratic behaviour, as we have discussed many times before. Too many times, Sherlock."
Sherlock scowled. "I don't see why not. It seems as good a reason as any to me. I thought you would understand..." The note of sardonic resentment did not escape unnoticed.
"Just because I understand it," said Mycroft stiffly, "does not mean that I endorse your behaviour. You are still required to function in normal society in a normal manner. If I can do it, you can do it," he continued abruptly as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, "Otherwise you will find yourself in a juvenile detention centre before your fourteenth birthday. And I will put you there myself."
Hatred flared up like a magnesium spark in Sherlock's eyes. "Well, why don't you just stick me in there now and have done with it? At least then you can stop pretending to feel any semblance of responsibility-"
"Stop being obtuse, Sherlock, it doesn't suit you," Mycroft cut in smoothly, forcing back the pang of hurt that his brother's words had caused. Sherlock was only doing it for effect; it had always been his way, knowing precisely where to aim in an argument for maximum impact. Ultimately meaningless, of course. And yet, somehow this time felt minutely different... As though there was some significance in Sherlock's accusation. Mycroft stood a little straighter, shifting his weight to his other foot. "If that had been the case, I would not be here now."
"I didn't ask you to come," Sherlock repeated coldly. "I was fine until she started interfering."
"And how did she know to contact me if you had no desire for me to come?"
It was a rhetorical question and one that Sherlock had hoped would not surface. His pale complexion coloured slightly as he turned his face away from his brother. "I didn't ask her to. I didn't tell her anything."
"I know." Mycroft's tone had softened ever so slightly. "She went through your pockets whilst you were sleeping and found my address."
"Coincidence," said Sherlock with a dismissive toss of his head. "I forgot to empty my pockets before I left."
A sceptical eyebrow was raised. "You had the foresight to remove anything bearing your name and the name of your school and yet you didn't think to get rid of something with an address on it? Forgive me if I am not convinced..."
"What's your point, Mycroft?" Sherlock snarled; defensiveness had finally made him snap. "I don't need you. Leave me alone!"
Experience had gifted Mycroft the ability to see through his brother's subtext, but by god he didn't make it easy! Mycroft was half tempted to call Sherlock's bluff and walk away then and there.
"For god sake, Sherlock-"
"Here we go, a nice pot of tea!" The sudden arrival of their host put an abrupt end to the brothers' bickering. Sherlock slouched back in his seat broodingly as Mycroft turned towards Mrs Hudson with a pleasant smile, accepting the delicate china cup and saucer with a murmur of thanks.
The two adults settled down in adjacent chairs and sipped tea, the air of resentment radiating from the young boy converting into unbearable awkwardness. As their conversation over the phone earlier had been short and to the point, Mycroft still had a hundred and one questions that needed answering. He certainly wasn't going to get them from Sherlock and protocol dictated that it would be discourteous to talk about him as though he wasn't there. But then, with the ridiculous mood the brat was in, Mycroft felt that circumstance really gave him no alternative.
"I must apologise for any inconvenience that my baby brother has caused you," he said to Mrs Hudson, leaning forward to set his cup down on the coffee table. "He has never been particularly adept at taking others into consideration when embarking on his little adventures."
Mrs Hudson batted his apologies away as though they were a gnat. "Don't be silly, it's been no inconvenience really. We couldn't have him running around London by himself when there are people worrying about him, could we? I have boys myself, Mr Holmes, so I know the anxiety your mother must feeling not knowing where-"
Unable to bear the prolonged mention of his mother, decorum was abandoned as Mycroft interrupted her stiffly, "Our mother is dead, Mrs Hudson."
There was probably something more practical that could have been said but at the time it had seemed the only thing suitable.
The predictable awkward silence followed this declaration, then the conventional, "Oh I am sorry, dear, I had no idea. That's terrible! You poor boys!"
Mycroft winced inwardly. Why their mother's death meant endless patronisation, no matter how old they were, was beyond him.
He coughed and shifted in his seat. "Yes, well, it was...it was a long time ago now."
"But one can never really recover from the loss of a parent," Mrs Hudson persisted sincerely, "Especially at such an impressionable age." She nodded her head meaningfully towards Sherlock, whose loud surliness had quietened dramatically since the painful shift in topic.
Mycroft knew that she was right; Sherlock had only been seven and the sudden loss of the only person to encourage his eccentricities was something he had never fully come to terms with. Mycroft had always tried to take over his mother's role in regards to Sherlock as best he could, not simply out of a sense of duty but a genuine affection he rarely felt for other people. However, a conflicting desire for some semblance of normality meant that it was never quite enough. It had been easier before he had left home for university, when he had been actively able to watch out for his brother and give him the attention that Sherlock was so desperate for. Since departing, there hadn't been a day that had passed when Mycroft hadn't felt guilty for leaving Sherlock on his own, predominantly caused by the barrage of unhappy phone calls that had accompanied his first year at Oxford.
The phone calls were better than the bitter silence that came with the second and third.
"Yes, well," now was not the time for this discussion and Mycroft was keen to move the conversation on to something a little more tangible, "we manage. Life goes on, as they say."
"Your father must've had a terrible time of it," Mrs Hudson continued absently, apparently unaware of the shift in mood. "Still, grief brings people together, doesn't it? I expect you've all become very close."
There was absolutely no advantage to be gained in correcting her, so Mycroft simply nodded and reached out a hand for a chocolate digestive. "So how exactly did my wayward brother come into your possession?"
"Well, it just sort of happened really," Mrs Hudson said vaguely, as though it were the most normal thing in the world to find strange boys roaming wild in the streets. "I do the Greenwich soup kitchen on Thursdays-"
'Greenwich! It's a miracle he's still alive!'
"-keeps me busy when David's away. He's in Africa at the moment, you know, although for the life of me I couldn't tell you exactly why..." A contemplative frown creased her brow and her voice tapered off as she pondered this momentarily. "Anyway," a shake of her head brought Mrs Hudson back to the point, "I was passing out soup to the usual lot, leek and potato I think it was, when I noticed this one following after Daniel and William. They aren't bad fellows, as far as that lot go, but they're no company for young boys and he didn't look as though he belonged there, as some of them do, so I thought I'd offer my assistance. Everyone seemed quite happy with the suggestion, even..." she turned suddenly to Sherlock, "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I still don't know your name, dear."
Sherlock ignored her, leaving Mycroft, mortified by his brother's appalling manners, to answer for him. "This is Sherlock and I am ashamed to admit that he is always like this."
"We all have our funny little ways," said Mrs Hudson charitably. "Anyhow, he came willingly enough. I suppose it was due to the cold more than anything. Not that I'd generally approve of following a stranger unquestioningly, but under the circumstances I thought it would be safer than the streets."
Mycroft nodded approvingly. "Indeed."
"When I came across your address, Mr Holmes, I assumed that Sherlock had been looking to find you and had got lost on his way. Although given his response to your appearance..."
"No one can ever hope to know what goes through my brother's head, and I am no exception to this rule," Mycroft informed her gently. "However, you may be assured that you did right by contacting me, despite Sherlock's purported denial of the fact."
"It is a peculiar age," agreed Mrs Hudson with feeling. "My boys were just the same, always running about here and there. I could never keep track of them! Still can't really..."
"Some sort of realignment of the circumstances will hopefully help," Mycroft sighed, giving his head another rub; the thought of the countless conversations that were sure to follow made his temple throb. "Well then," he slapped his hands onto his knees and rose purposefully. "Thank you very much for the tea, Mrs Hudson, and for safeguarding my brother. Once again, I can only apologise on his behalf for the inconvenience caused."
Niceties were exchanged, although with much more sincerity than Mycroft was generally accustomed to; Mrs Hudson shook his hand warmly and seemed genuinely insulted when he tried to offer money in exchange for her help. She scurried into the hall and returned quickly with Sherlock's coat, still damp from the previous day's rain, and a small card which she pressed into the younger Holmes' hand with clandestine whisper, "In case you happen to run away to these parts again."
Sherlock accepted it, as mute as ever. His manner had shifted from sullen to suspicious, although the way his long fingers curled around the small piece of cardboard containing an address and telephone number momentarily betrayed his appreciation of the gesture.
Then his blue eyes flicked to his brother, who was putting on his gloves with an unconvincing amount of concentration. "Where are you taking me?"
If either Mycroft or Mrs Hudson had been surprised by Sherlock's sudden vocalisation, neither showed it.
"I am taking you to my flat for the time being," Mycroft replied languidly, attention never shifting from his hands. "I think after this particular ordeal, a period of quiet is in order, don't you think?"
Relief softened Sherlock's sharp features and he stood, shrugging on his coat as he did so and slipping Mrs Hudson's card safely into the pocket beside the envelop bearing Mycroft's address.
It was still raining when the Holmes brothers stepped out of 221 Baker Street, very cold, wet rain which managed to find its way into all the annoying little crevasses that normal rain would avoid.
Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat in a useless effort to ward it off as Mycroft deployed his faithful umbrella and they set off down the street side by side.
Aware of the drips running down Sherlock's nose out of the corner of his eye and knowing that the boy would rather die than admit to wanting shelter himself, Mycroft reached across and dragged a protesting Sherlock under the cover of the umbrella, putting a long arm around his shoulders and drawing him close. For practicality's sake, of course.
They walked like this for the length of several streets, footsteps in perfect synchronicity, harmonising and realigning themselves with each other before normal relations between the brothers were restored and a certain tranquillity had wrapped itself around the confines of the umbrella.
"I did come looking for you," Sherlock said, unprompted, on the corner of Dorset Street and Manchester Street.
"I know."
It had always been this way; sentiment in itself was a waste of time, but if carried out when doing something else simultaneously, it was just about permissible.
"It had seemed like a good idea until I got off the train."
"And then?"
"And then it didn't."
They stopped to let a stream of black cabs wash past, followed by a particularly drenched looking cyclist. Once they had passed, Mycroft steered Sherlock across the road before continuing their conversation.
"You should've rung me as soon as you had arrived." It was almost an admonishment.
"I wasn't sure that you'd want me here," said Sherlock quietly, watching the paving slabs disappear beneath his feet. "I thought you'd be too busy."
"I came today."
"I didn't expect you to."
"So you decided that it was safer not to ask the question than to risk an undesirable answer?"
Mycroft felt Sherlock nod by his side, shoulder tensing slightly beneath his touch.
"My reluctance to return home is no reflection on you, Sherlock," he murmured, glancing sideways at his brother who was looking stoically ahead. "You do know that, don't you?"
For a moment, Sherlock did not respond and Mycroft feared that the resentful silence would kill the first chance of a real conversation they had had in a long time. Then, flatly, "She told you to look after me."
It was like a blow to the back of the head – unexpected and unwarranted. Mycroft winced. "I do look after you," he all but snapped. "Look at where we are right now."
"You left me."
"I did not leave you, I went to university."
"You wouldn't come back."
"I have a life."
They had stopped by this point and they stood, in the middle of the street, facing each other. Thank god for the rain, at least there was no audience.
The reproachful glare had returned to Sherlock's blue eyes. "I need you and you don't care." The statement was given with such conviction that it was clear he believed it wholeheartedly.
Mycroft surveyed him down his long nose, determining the most appropriate response to such an accusation. "You are being irrational," he responded flatly. "You do not need me, you are not dependent and you know perfectly well that if you were in any sort of real trouble-" considering Sherlock's love for all things maverick, the emphasis on 'real' was necessary, "-I would be there in minutes. Why you insist upon this ridiculous line of dispute is beyond me..."
"I do need you!" Sherlock persisted furiously. "I feel like I am going out of my mind! I told you, I ran away because I was bored and when you're there I don't get bored!"
"I do not exist solely for your entertainment, Sherlock! You have got to learn to function as a normal human being. I admit, I had hoped my absence would force you to conform, at least out of necessity if not desire." Mycroft sighed and held out his arm to Sherlock, indicating that they should keep walking. They boy allowed it to slip around his shoulders without protest and they resumed their journey at a slightly slower pace than before. "If I had come back," Mycroft continued, "I fear it would only have encouraged your eccentricities."
"You're exactly the same..."
"Precisely."
Sherlock scuffed the toes of his shoes against the concrete pavement. "Why do you want me to pretend to be like everyone else? I don't see what could be so good about it."
"It makes life easier."
"Easy is unbearable. I don't know how you can stand it."
Mycroft's lips curled into a smile, amused by the passion in Sherlock's voice. "I suppose that is the difference between us."
"I suppose." There was a definite lilt of disappointment.
"Perhaps if you tried harder to fit in, you wouldn't clash so frequently with Father or your teachers or-"
"Or everybody. Yes, I know. That isn't the problem. I don't care whether they like me or not but they are all so repetitively tedious, it makes me want to bash my head against a brick wall."
"I have a feeling that that would be counter-productive."
"At least it would make the boredom stop."
"Melodrama is not an attractive attribute. You employ it far too often for it to be effective."
"I don't care," replied Sherlock petulantly. "It's true."
"Indeed. Ah, here we are."
They had stopped in front of a building in a street of about thirty identical ones, red-brick and unassuming with black doors and brass numbers. Mycroft rummaged in his breast pocket, pulled out a key and let them into number twenty-two, ushering Sherlock ahead of him as he dismantled his umbrella and shook off as much of the rain as possible.
Mycroft's flat was not at all what Sherlock had been expecting. In fact, he had assumed that the term 'flat' was being applied in the very loosest sense of the word, in a more 'penthouse' sort of way, whereas- in actuality- it was, genuinely, a flat and one made up of only the most basic of living requirements. Containing nothing that was not absolutely essential, which happened to include corridors and hallways- everything was connected to the small living room, even the front door. Sherlock estimated that the whole area added up to less floor space than their drawing room at home. It was with a critical eye that Sherlock now surveyed his brother's sparse lodgings; the same eye, in fact, with which Mycroft had assessed 221 Baker Street. It was a habit more than a judgement, as very little could live up to the expectation which came with growing up on their Hertfordshire estate. As Sherlock looked around him, the rift between Mycroft and their father was as plain to see as if it had been written in red paint upon the wall; if he had swallowed his pride and accepted the financial support he had been offered upon turning eighteen, Mycroft could've afforded something much more in keeping with the quality of lifestyle that they had been taught to become accustomed to, rather than settling for this pokey little bedsit. There was nothing to give any indication of Mycroft's life before London; there were no books or pictures or trinkets of sentimentality of any kind, only piles upon piles of newspapers stacked in convenient places as sort of make-shift side tables
Sherlock smiled to himself; it was all the evidence he needed to know that his brother had been telling him the truth when he had said that his absence was nothing to do with him.
It was strangely reassuring, he thought as he unbuttoned his coat, to find the respect he had once felt for Mycroft returning for more warranted reasons rather than simply because he was his older brother. There was even a certain amount of admiration there this time round. All Mycroft's share of their mother's will had been put towards paying off his students debts- theoretically unnecessary, but essential for the sake of ethics - leaving him with nothing that could be considered 'money-to-play-with'. Sherlock was impressed; as a Holmes himself, he knew that frugality was not something that would have come naturally and that it must've been a particularly hard discipline to master. Sherlock wondered idly if he would have the diligence to follow Mycroft's example when the time came. It was certainly an attractive thought theoretically...
Having attended to the essential task of sticking the kettle on, Mycroft took a minute as the water was boiling to observe Sherlock from the kitchen counter as the boy sniffed around his flat like a terrier exploring new territory. As far as properties in Central London went, it was neither one end nor the other; living as an impoverished student for three years had worn away the edge of Mycroft's natural fastidiousness. He did, however, have certain requirements which he would not, under any circumstance, do without – a bath (for when the world became too much), a television (for his Countdown addiction) and a second bedroom.
It was into this second bedroom that Sherlock had now wandered, evidently confused by its presence as it certainly did not fit into the conclusion he had deduced from the rest of the flat. It wasn't a large room; in fact it was less than half the size of Mycroft's own, containing only a single bed and a small desk, but was not being utilized as anything other than a spare bedroom, not even as storage. To Sherlock, for there to be such wasted space did not seem logical.
"I suppose you'll be going back to work soon?" he said tentatively, swinging around the door frame between the living room and kitchen in time to see his brother spooning sugar into two striped mugs.
Mycroft's grey eyes flicked briefly towards him. "No."
"Oh."
"Hang your coat up, Sherlock. Don't just leave it on the sofa like that."
Mind too busy to protest, Sherlock obeyed, standing on tiptoe in order to reach the row of hooks placed conveniently by the front door. Having refused to ever take a day off, either in sickness or holiday, Sherlock was not surprised that Mycroft felt no qualms about doing so now, from a practical position – he must be owed at least a month's worth of leave. What did surprise him, however, was that he would choose to do so for his benefit. A niggle of guilt suggested that, perhaps, Sherlock's condemnation of his brother had been a mite unjust. Perhaps an apology? Sherlock dismissed that particular train of thought quickly, deciding that that would be taking the niggle just a bit too far.
Compromising with himself just as Mycroft appeared holding the two mugs, he said awkwardly, "I like your flat."
The compliment sounded clumsy to both their ears, but Sherlock's meaning was plain.
Mycroft smiled and pressed one of the mugs into his brother's hands. "It's convenient."
"When're you going to tell everyone you've found me?"
They sat down, side by side, on the corduroy sofa – the only piece of soft furnishing that Mycroft owned – their legs drawn up beneath them in a mirror image of each other.
"No one seems to have made a fuss so far," said Mycroft with a spark of Sherlock's own mischief. "I think we can afford a couple of days before real life needs to catch up with us."
"Do you think," Sherlock suggested slowly, looking sideways at Mycroft, "that, for those couple of days, we could just be normal?"
Mycroft looked highly amused. "I thought you despised normality?"
"I do. I mean you-and-me normal, like we used to be before normal became abnormal."
It was a strangely configured request but it made perfect sense to Mycroft. Although their own private ordinariness had been precisely what he had been trying to steer clear of, at that moment it seemed unavoidable and even desirable. Whilst it would aid Sherlock's interaction with other people, Mycroft was beginning to wonder whether perhaps that was not as crucial as he had first thought. Perhaps the persistent pursuit of the ordinary was causing more complications that it was helping. Perhaps, for the time being, it would do them both good to sink back into the old, familiar ground that their mother had furrowed for them and stick two fingers up at the rest of the world.
Cake was purchased, Countdown switched on and the brothers bickered relentlessly about who had achieved each solution first. Truth be told, it was, more often than not, Mycroft; although Sherlock persistently maintained that he had most definitely thought it first, even if he hadn't said it. Sometimes Mycroft humoured him, as the Law of the Older Siblingdictates, but such instances were few and far between; rightful victory was not something he was happy to relinquish, especially to Sherlock.
They also attempted to sit through an episode of Midsummer Murders – another of Mycroft's more guilty pleasures – but Sherlock became so incensed by the ridiculousness of the whole scenario that they gave up after fifteen minutes and promptly turned over to something less offensive to the younger Holmes' relentlessly analytical brain. Even Sherlock couldn't find fault in Master Chef.
As the evening wore on, they ordered Chinese- with only minimal grumbling from Sherlock, for appearance's sake more than anything - attempted and failed to eat with chopsticks and finally dozed in front of Four Weddings and a Funeral. The atmosphere was hazy with mutual contentment; they lay in disarray at opposite ends of the sofa, lazily digging the other in the ribs with their toes every now and then. It was not the usual image one conjures when thinking of the Holmes brothers but, as Sherlock had said, it was their own sort of ordinary and it suited them perfectly.
A thought occurred suddenly to Mycroft after the second wedding. He nudged Sherlock with a foot. "Why now? You've been complaining about being bored for years, what's different?"
Sherlock hesitated, the question knotting his stomach despite its inevitability. Then, very softly, "They want me to have therapy. Father and school. They say I need fixing."
Mycroft pushed himself up, frowning deeply down the length of the sofa. "What? Why?"
"So I can learn to 'relate to other people'," the sneer in the boy's voice was audible, although not quite enough to mask the hint of worry. "Apparently I have psychopathic tendencies."
Mycroft observed his brother, troubled not by this new information but by the fact that Sherlock actually seemed to be bothered by it. As far as he was aware, Sherlock had never given much thought to what other people thought about him before. They had never been what anyone would call normal, the two of them, but it was something that they had always been aware of, something that had always been encouraged by their mother before she had died. It was that particular lesson she had impressed upon Mycroft as something to nurture – a gift, rather than a disability – and encouraged, particularly in Sherlock who had never been as self-confident as his brother.
A cold sense of failure rushed through Mycroft as their mother's eyes searched his own, wordlessly seeking reassurance. It had taken long enough, but finally they had arrived at the point; this was why Sherlock had come; looking for confirmation that he wasn't a freak. Mycroft was acutely aware that he was not saying anything, that his silence was, at that moment, being interpreted in the worst possible way.
He coughed, trying to dislodge whatever it was that was trapping his thoughts inside his head. Finally, stiffly, "You do not have so-called 'psychopathic tendencies'", he told Sherlock with the same bluntness he would've used had he been asked if two plus two equalled five. "Just because you choose not to lower yourself to form relationships with people who do not deserve it, does not mean that you are unable to do so." 'Look at us,' he was about to say, but that seemed like a bad example. "People fear what they cannot understand; it is their problem, not yours." Feeling Sherlock watching him with increasing scepticism, Mycroft sighed and leaned forwards, long fingers knotting together as he tried to explain. "Look, we are the same, you and I, and no one has ever suggested that I have psychopathic tendencies. The only difference between us is that it suits me to get along with people in a way that, apparently, does not suit you. That is all. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you, Sherlock."
Narrowed blue eyes searched Mycroft's face, suspicious of the sudden passion his explanation had kindled in his usually placid brother. "You have obviously given this subject a lot of thought," suggested Sherlock frostily.
Mycroft's expression hardened under the implication. "In the sense that your behaviour has always concerned me, yes of course I have given the matter a great deal of deliberation. However," he cut in as Sherlock scoffed triumphantly, "as I said, I believe whatever social problems you possess are entirely self-inflicted. If you were truly bothered by it, you would take action to remedy the situation. As you clearly have no desire to do so, you must remain confident in your decision and not allow others to force you to doubt yourself." Mycroft glanced over at the television screen, onto which the film credits had now appeared, and threw up his hands with an exclamation of despair. "Oh, for God's sake!"
"Stop complaining," Sherlock grumbled, settling back into the comfy corner of the sofa, secretly pleased by his brother's assurances. "You'd have fallen asleep before the end anyway."
This earned him another dig in the ribs. "Shut up."
Under normal circumstances, Sherlock was a wretch when it came to 'bed-time', no matter what time that actually happened to be, rivalling even the brattiest of toddlers. This, however, could in no way be considered 'normal circumstances'. Mycroft had never intended to even broach the subject, expecting instead to just slope off when tiredness overcame him and let Sherlock do his own thing. There had been too many fights that day for such a trivial one to be worth it. It came as a surprise, therefore, when – unprompted – Sherlock slid gracelessly from the sofa and dragged himself into the spare room without a word. Mycroft watched with slight puzzlement from where he lay unceremoniously sprawled, although he hadn't the energy to follow his brother. Presumably, several nights' sleeping rough was taking its toll on the normally nocturnal Sherlock.
"My? Sherlock's disembodied voice carried through the open doorway.
"Mmm?"
"What is this room for?"
Mycroft closed his eyes wearily, covering them with one arm. "I'd've thought that was obvious." He would never admit in so many words that he had been prepared for this sort of situation to arise for the last three and a half years. If he really cared, the boy could work it out for himself reasonably effortlessly.
Sherlock's curly head peered around the doorframe, forehead furrowed in thought. Then, as though he had reached some sort of satisfying conclusion, "Ah." And the head disappeared again, the door shutting in his wake. "Good night!"
"Good night, Sherlock."
Mycroft considered hauling himself into his own bed, but that entailed exertion, which was something he detested even during the best hours of the day. It was hard enough just to raise a hand to loosen his tie, so he decided it was probably for the best to resign himself to a night on the sofa. Besides, he reasoned, fluffing his cushion, if sofas were not meant to be slept on, they shouldn't have made them so comfortable. He listened vaguely to the sound of Sherlock settling down just a hundred or so metres away; in a peculiar way, Mycroft found that having his brother there relaxed him in a way he had not felt since leaving Hertfordshire. He had assumed the low-level anxiety was caused by new responsibilities and becoming independent but now, he realised, it was much more basic than that.
Mycroft let out a long sigh, one that felt like it had been held in for years; he'd always known that the extra fifty pounds a week would be worth it in the end.