Hi- this is my first go at a multi-chapter fic! I am hoping to study Mycroft's character through scenes (possibly) in his past, and also with key events in seasons 1 & 2. So, this might seem a little odd, not being in strict chronological order (just a heads up :) ). I hope I can make it clear what time frame it is set in, but I will leave a note if it's potentially ambiguous!
The kidlock chapters may be slightly AU, but hey, artistic license OK?
Disclaimer: all characters belong to AC Doyle & the moff (BBC), I (will have) lifted some of the dialogue from scenes in the series, no copyright infringement intended :)
To Mycroft Holmes, his father was God. In his impressionable, limited (remarkable though it was), 7-year-old mind, there was only one ruler. One man who seemed to be able to control the whole world with the tilt of his head or a flick of his finger. His estimations of the man were not very far off either. Power, prestige, knowledge: Mr Holmes very nearly had it all. Mycroft liked to watch him at work sometimes, hidden away in a cranny of his office where nobody could disturb his private awe. Men and women came and went from that room, all well-dressed and larger than life. Most, if not all, had hard eyes that seemed to drill right through you, speaking of rigid authority. But none had eyes with quite the same intensity as Mycroft's father. Cold and blue and hard as diamonds, they drilled through the rock of those who met them, bending them like reeds to his will. To Mycroft there seemed no finer art than this manipulation, as an observer, he absorbed the elegance and subtleties of it, spiced with the delicious rush of power. Although he could not fully comprehend his father's role, there was no doubt in his mind that he wanted to emulate it, someday.
His obscure hiding place was only discovered once.
The meeting that night seemed to stand out clearer in his memories than any other. A full moon glowed eerily among the wispy clouds. The office was half frozen in the chill of winter; Mycroft had to curl in a tight ball to escape the cold that gnawed at his toes. The man was small, but his face was like stone and his eyes blazed in anger like fireballs. He marched into the room like a bull terrier. Short, but deadly.
"You will be stopped, Holmes, I will not let you get away with this Thompson affair," the small man spat like the Devil, size no matter to his menace.
"I think you'll find, Chandler, that you most certainly will," Mr Holmes almost whispered, his voice smooth like a serpent, venom lacing every word, "life is short, is it not? Why waste … the time you have left… troubling me?" Fire met ice in a fizzling, bubbling collision that almost made Mycroft recoil.
The implication was not lost on the small man. Chandler gave an almost imperceptible start, narrowing those blazing eyes. "Death does not frighten me, your threats are nothing, hear that? Nothing!"
Mr Holmes laughed at this, a rich, ominous rumbling like an impending avalanche that echoed around the icy office. A wide-eyed Mycroft frantically tried to sort this new piece of information. Death. An ending to all things. To him it only happened in stories, never in real life. It was nothing to fear, in reality. But now real fear was now writing its cold, hard self in the stark lines on Chandler's face, belying his adamant suggestions. Death was real, at least to this man. Mycroft gave a tiny gasp, barely audible, as he watched the small man crumble. But it was enough noise to evoke a faint twitch in his father's expression. He had been sprung.
"Think carefully, Chandler, I will contact you in the morning," said his father in tones ringing of finality.
The door shut with a resounding snap and Mr Holmes whirled around, marching straight to Mycroft's hiding place. Mortified, and feeling so terribly exposed, the boy gazed up at the figure bearing down on him. No words were said, but the look was enough to chill Mycroft's heart, freezing his limbs where he sat, scrunched into a tiny ball. He began to stammer at his father, desperately searching for some kind of way to explain, but it seemed as if his brain was frozen. Frustration at himself curled his toes, until finally he said the first thing that came into his head. He blurted, in that brutally honest way that children have, as if he could somehow break the ice-cold silence with his little voice.
"Th-That man, thought you were going to kill him. He was afraid. But you didn't care."
It wasn't a question.
Mr Holmes' face did not soften, exactly, but the cold daggers pinning Mycroft in place seemed to loosen their grip by the smallest amount. Crouching down in front of his son, the man glared into his face, testing, calculating. Mycroft felt as if he were some specimen, being dissected under a microscope. It was like his father had his young soul, open like a book, and was reading every part of who he was. It was the first time since his unremembered infancy that Mycroft could remember his father looking at him, really seeing him. Cold, blue steel met young, shiny orbs. Like an uncut gem. Unrefined, but with potential, oh so much potential.
"All lives end," Mr Holmes said softly, and suddenly, "all hearts are broken. Caring… is not an advantage."
Please review! I am open to all opinions, and would love suggestions on how to improve! x
