Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock.
Author's notes: This fic was written for the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge (10: Missing Scenes). I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes. Spoilers for season 3 ahead.
Enjoy!
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An Abundance of Idiots
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Mycroft Holmes didn't like other people. He'd quite early in his life found out that he didn't understand them most of the time and certainly had no interest in learning to. Even his parents seemed to have come from a completely different species, and he sometimes wondered in earnest whether they actually were related, or whether someone had confused bassinets in the hospital after he'd been born.
He was seven years old when his parents told him he was going to get a brother. He had expressed disappointment, even anger, which Mummy and Daddy didn't take too serious- he was bound to be jealous, after all, it'd all sort itself out once the baby had arrived.
They weren't so wrong about that. Mycroft was never going to admit it to anyone, but after the infant had lost the slightly shrivelled look of a newborn, the older boy found himself strangely curious about it. He did refer to his brother as "it" for quite a while, since he wasn't entirely comfortable with calling him "Sherlock" or even "he" when he rather looked like a mouse pup, something his parents simply wouldn't understand.
There was however one thing Mycroft did appreciate about the baby: it wasn't its own fault that it was stupid, not yet. He'd see about that once Sherlock had learned to talk.
As time went on, Mycroft couldn't help himself- he did begin to care for the little boy that his brother was growing into. He even felt affection for him, something which took him by surprise.
He had given away all his stuffed toys to charity when he was six, telling his dad that he didn't need them anymore since he was old enough to be comforted verbally should the need arise. He knew there weren't any monsters or ghosts, and he wasn't scared by the books he was reading at the time even if they did have pirates and other dangerous people in them. They weren't real, after all. Real danger came from accidents, for example, or being clumsy or, as often seemed the case with literally everyone else, too stupid.
Mycroft was aware that little Sherlock didn't know all that yet, so he took it onto himself to make sure his brother'd learn. He tried to keep the toddler from harm, and later taught the little boy how to read and how to avoid falling into the pond, for example.
Unfortunately, Sherlock seemed as stupid as the rest of the world. Mycroft had begun to compare other people with fish, as they reminded him of the slow opening and closing of a fish's mouth, the vacant expression, the non-comprehension he thought he saw every time he visited an aquarium.
Oddly enough, Sherlock was rather entertaining nevertheless, and Mycroft was fond of him, even though he called him an idiot just to spite him. He still couldn't subdue a feeling of relief when, by the time his brother had begun school, it turned out that Sherlock in fact was intelligent, remarkably more so than his fellow pupils even, proving that he was smart as well.
31 years later, Mycroft sometimes thought nothing had changed. He was still feeling as though he was surrounded by fish, and the only exception he had had, namely his brother, had been absent for the past two years. Much to Mycroft's surprise, Sherlock had been sufficient (if not equal) to his own intellectual abilities, providing an occasional respite from the usual tediousness Mycroft had to deal with on a daily basis. At least as long as Sherlock wasn't taking drugs, something Mycroft had never understood- why would anyone put their mental facilities at risk when they did have the chance to stand out?
And now this. He sighed, glancing at Sherlock. The younger man had fallen asleep, hunched in on himself even under the thick blanket, worn out by the past few days and also the weeks before his capture.
Mycroft regarded the pale face and felt his throat constrict, a most unpleasant sensation. It had been utterly disconcerting, to say the least, to witness his brother being interrogated by a mindless brute. Mycroft had used a well-practiced technique to distance himself from the situation emotionally in order to be able to keep up the pretence.
He had kept his tone light and his body relaxed, focusing on all the things which angered him about his brother. Which probably wasn't wise, since anger was as strong an emotion as love, but it did help him. He wasn't ashamed that he even felt the tiniest bit of satisfaction- the lesson for Sherlock to be learned here was to never perform even slightly below par- he really shouldn't have allowed himself to be caught- and to call your brother once in a while because he might be able to help you.
To be honest, this rather smug notion was later drowned out when Mycroft had released Sherlock from the chains which had been holding him. He had so far thought his brother was acting a little, as he practically always did. In this case however, Mycroft had overestimated Sherlock's stamina; the detective's legs simply gave out under him while his arms fell to his sides uselessly. Reflex had Mycroft catching his brother, after which he had slowly lowered him to the ground. Sherlock had groaned in dismay and probably pain, unable to speak or move for the time being. Even though time was at the essence, Mycroft hadn't considered it wise to hurry things and had simply stayed there, on the dirty, cold ground, with Sherlock in his arms.
Who was so exhausted that he didn't even wake up once they reached the waiting helicopter. Mycroft gently shook Sherlock's probably aching shoulder. The reaction was a violent one, as the detective shot up from his nap wide-eyed and groggy, batting Mycroft's hand away. When he recognized his brother and recalled what had happened, he immediately reigned himself in, putting on a rather blank expression.
They didn't talk much on the flight to the airport and not at all on the flight home. Sherlock mainly slept; he only woke up once and asked for water and painkillers. His injuries had been seen to as soon as they had reached the Gulfstream jet Mycroft had had waiting for them.
The older Holmes was glad to be able to get out of the dreadful clothes which his undercover task had him required to wear, though he found he couldn't focus on the paper work he had brought along. He simply couldn't stop staring at Sherlock, who was mostly oblivious to the world. He looked dreadful, of course, not having shaved or had a haircut yet, but still- Mycroft was glad to see him, to have him back.
He thought of this precise moment nearly a year later. Which in itself was remarkable, since he, contrary to his usual mental acuity, found it difficult to think straight. His telephone had woken him up in the middle of the night, and when he had seen the caller ID, John Watson, he had known something was wrong.
The words one of the surgeons had used were still floating around in his mind: heart stopped... unable to resuscitate him... miracle.
He'd have dismissed it as nonsense, the term "miracle" being nothing but sentiment, of course, but now he wasn't so certain anymore. He had made the doctor explain it very carefully, minutely, and it did seem impossible. Yet Sherlock was still alive, breathing (if not entirely on his own yet) and palpable. Mycroft had checked, just to be sure. He still didn't believe in ghosts, but since Sherlock all but looked like one, he simply had had to touch him, to make sure his skin was warm, that his body was a solid presence and not merely an illusion, a spectre as his brother would probably have put it.
It was then, by his brother's hospital bed in the early hours of the day, that Mycroft Holmes felt like an idiot for the first time in his life. He had taken Sherlock for granted even during his absence, even while he was being helpless and beaten. He had watched it happen, something which made him flush with shame now. Sherlock had been wrong, since Mycroft certainly hadn't enjoyed it, but he should indeed have intervened much earlier. Back then, he had been convinced that Sherlock didn't really need his help, and it had been interesting to see how exactly his brother was going to get out of it. It had been like a game, and now it seemed ridiculous.
He had let Sherlock fool him, had forgotten that the man who his brother was now still had traces of the small child in him somewhere, hadn't actually lost his vulnerability.
Mycroft tightly closed his eyes for a moment: all lives end, he had told Sherlock not too long ago, all hearts are broken. What a fool he'd been. It did make such a tremendous difference if one's own heart was concerned.
He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock again: this was not only as far from a game as possible, it also was completely beyond his control. With no small amount of surprise, he realized that his eyes were wet. His hand was trembling ever so slightly when he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. He had just wiped his eyes with it when he heard footsteps approaching; John. Mycroft was almost glad about the distraction, not bothering to hide what he'd been doing.
"All right?" John asked, in the clipped tone he usually adopted when his mind was occupied with something, as though he dutifully took in the world around him no matter what but had only a small section of his brain to spare for it while the other parts did the temporarily more important work.
"I'm fine," Mycroft replied softly, and John hummed in understanding. Neither of them needed explaining. John's eyes were red-rimmed as well, he'd obviously been talking to his wife just now; his emotions were still raw and visible on the surface.
Silently, both of them stared at the unconscious man in the hospital bed, and their thoughts weren't too different from each other's. How quickly the parameters of life could change, Mycroft mused, how easily priorities shifted; things which had been important suddenly became insignificant and vice versa. He had a meeting with the Prime Minister scheduled in the morning, but he couldn't care less whether it'd be on or not. His gaze strayed over Sherlock's still figure, and his shoulders felt so much heavier than they usually did, even though he was carrying such a lot of responsibility all the time. Goes to show just how tremendous a fool you've been, he told himself. Feeling so mighty and powerful, yet you've allowed the one person who's personally important to you to slip from your grasp.
He glanced at John, who looked stricken, was probably berating himself that he hadn't been able to prevent this.
If Mycroft was completely honest with himself, he'd been jealous of John, who'd managed to connect with Sherlock so instantly; he had become Sherlock's best friend seemingly effortless. Of course, it couldn't have been that easy, but the fact remained that the doctor was by far the person who was closest to Sherlock. And yet Mycroft found he was glad John was there, which did apply to the general situation as well as this particular one. It meant that his brother hadn't been so alone anymore, and he wasn't going to be in the future. A pang of pain made itself known, adding to the anxious knot in Mycroft's stomach: Sherlock hadn't woken up, after all, and he didn't seem out of danger yet, judging from John's sorrowful expression.
Mycroft gripped the safety rail again, noting that John's hand was covering Sherlock's, providing comfort for either of them from the looks of it, as it seemed that the doctor also needed to touch his friend to reassure himself he was still with them, despite the machines telling them he was.
"He'd laugh," John said unexpectedly, immediately trailing off. Probably unaware he had said it out loud.
Mycroft looked down on his own hands: even now, it seemed unlikely that Sherlock'd want him here at all. Holding his hand therefore was out of the question. Still, Mycroft caught himself at wishing he could, even though it was nothing but sentiment, certainly.
"I'm not prepared to say goodbye to him," he announced, as suddenly as John had spoken just a minute earlier; for a moment, they looked at each other, then turned their gazes away. John was swallowing a few times, nodding in unspoken agreement.
Apparently, keeping vigil over a loved one provided a space in which established conversational conventions didn't necessarily apply, Mycroft thought, surprised by how much easier it made things. John seemed less like a goldfish to him, which was a considerable advantage of communicating on such a different level.
The doctor had asked about their parents earlier, but Mycroft couldn't bear the notion of telling them what had happened. He was vaguely aware that they, too, should be able to say goodbye if it came to the worst, but somehow, the thought was so inconceivable that he had simply postponed the decision altogether.
Coward, he could hear Sherlock's voice in his head and involuntarily smiled. Astonishingly, his smile turned into a grimace and his eyes were moist again all of a sudden, causing him to close them tightly once more because dissolving into tears was not going to help his brother. There was in fact nothing at all he could do.
Still grappling with his composure, he blindly felt for Sherlock's hand, because no matter whether he wanted to admit it or not, even he was unable to stop things from happening, and if his brother was not going to survive the night, Mycroft was at least going to be able to tell their parents that he'd been there with Sherlock.
Neither he nor John moved away from the bed in the following few hours, and Mycroft, who still didn't really like other people, was utterly relieved not to be the only person who was watching over his brother.
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The End
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