1984

by misterywryter

'"Do you remember writing in your diary," he said, "that it did not matter whether I was a friend or an enemy, since I was at least a person who understood you and could be talked to? You were right. I enjoy talking to you. Your mind appeals to me. It resembles my own mind except that you happen to be insane.' Big brother wasn't always watching.

1984

1: 1977

'The end was contained in the beginning.'

- George Orwell

Mycroft is initially disapproving when Mummy tells him that there will be a new baby in the house very soon. "I don't understand how this could have happened," he says, fixing his mother with a disappointed stare.

Daddy laughs kindly – he may not be very bright, but he is always kind – and starts to explain what happens 'when a Mummy and a Daddy love each other very much'.

Mycroft interrupts him with an impatient sigh. "I'm well aware that despite your advanced age, you and Mummy continue to have regular intercourse. The only thing I fail to understand is why you didn't use protection. You have only yourselves to blame and frankly, I find it hard to believe that you could be so careless."

Daddy seems rather bewildered; Mummy takes over and patiently explains to her seven-year-old son that she and Daddy are having the new baby on purpose.

This comes as a blow to Mycroft. He looks down so that Mummy can't see the expression on his face. "Why?" he asks, quietly.

Mummy hesitates for a moment. Mycroft interprets this as confirmation of his fears (he is not yet adept at reading microexpressions, and besides, meeting Mummy's eyes is currently impossible without Mummy seeing the tears in his). "I think I understand," he whispers. "You see me as a prototype. A practice run to perfect your parenting skills." He lets out a shaky breath. "Will I have to go to boarding school when the child is born, or may I continue to live here?"

"Oh, Mikey," Mummy says, sadly. "As if we would ever do a thing like that."

Mycroft peers up at them, his vision slightly blurred and partially obscured by the auburn curls falling in his eyes. Both his parents look upset, Daddy especially. Daddy steps forward and kneels down to make eye contact; Mycroft pulls himself together quickly, blinking the tears away before Daddy can see them. He holds his head high, determined to face this crisis with dignity. He is, after all, a Holmes.

"Mycroft," Daddy begins – unlike Mummy, he respects his son's dislike for the ridiculous contraction of his given name - "Mummy and I love you, and we'll love you just the same when the new baby comes. Your little brother or sister will be yours as much as ours, and he or she will love you too."

Mycroft ponders this. "Like Columbus?" Columbus is the family pet, a goldfish. The analogy seems suspect; he's reasonably sure that Columbus is incapable of feeling complex emotions. Daddy, however, looks pleased.

"Yes, like Columbus."

Mycroft is unimpressed with both his father's weak attempts at placation, and his utter failure to recognise obvious sarcasm.

"Will we be keeping the infant in a tank?"

Daddy appears confused; he laughs uncertainly and looks to Mummy for help, as is the norm. Mummy, on the other hand, is smiling, and says nothing. Daddy tries again.

"What I mean is, the baby is an addition to the family, not a replacement for you."

"Which still implies that I'm inadequate."

"No, dear." Mummy has finally decided to weigh in on the discussion, it seems. Daddy gets up and steps back, looking relieved. "Mikey, let me explain in a way you'll understand."

"By all means."

"You understand the function of expontential growth?"

"Of course I do."

"Of course you do, dear. Let x represent the amount of love Mummy and Daddy are capable of feeling for their child – or chidren. In this instance r is a positive growth rate, and t of course represents time. What's missing from the equation, Mikey?"

He grasps it instantly. "One. It's one plus r."

"Exactly! And the baby makes one, doesn't it?"

Mycroft isn't convinced that mathematics works the way Mummy seems to think it does, but he gets the point. "You're saying that as our family size increases, your love grows exponentially, so your love for me will remain constant, even when the new baby comes?"

Mummy beams at him. "Not quite, dear. When the baby comes we'll love you even more. And continue to love you, and the baby, and however many more children we might have, at an ever-increasing positive rate of growth. Are you happier now?"

Mycroft contemplates. "I'm not sure the equation really works in the way you're describing. In what sense is the baby a constant added to the growth rate? He or she won't be a constant. The baby's contribution to the equation is an unknown variable."

"It was an analogy, dear, not a proof."

"Not an exact analogy."

"Close enough?"

"I suppose so," he concedes, after introspecting. "However, I have one more question."

Mummy looks a little harassed. "What is it, dear?"

"What happens if there's a Malthusiasn catastrophe?"

xxxxxx

2: 1984

"There were things, your own acts, from which you could not recover. Something was killed in your breast; burnt out, cauterized out.'

- George Orwell

"Come and play, Mikey!"

"No. And don't call me 'Mikey.'"

"But it's sunny outside!" Sherlock whines.

Mycroft stares over the top of his book at his little brother. At first, it had annoyed him when Sherlock fast became the favourite of relatives and family friends alike. He is an engaging child, with his constant prattle, mischievous blue-green eyes and tumbling dark curls – unlike Mycroft, who is socially awkward, somewhat overweight, and to add insult to injury, there's the issue of his hair. Years of prep and day school have taught him the predictive effect of these three variables on popularity. He intends to dye his hair a nice safe brown before starting at his new boarding school next term, even though it will make Mother furious. It's that or go on a diet, and Mycroft is not yet prepared to make that kind of sacrifice, not when there's chocolate fudge gateau in the fridge.

Despite the quirk of genetics which has made Sherlock so adorable, while Mycroft has had to struggle on with being introverted, chubby, and ginger, Mycroft ceased to resent his brother when Sherlock failed to say his first word until he was six months old. By this time, it was no longer feasible to ignore the fact that the poor child was mentally challenged. It is marginally possible, Mycroft admits to himself, that Sherlock's choice of first word ('Mike!') contributed to the dissipation of his jealousy.

He regards the sweet-natured idiot now with decided fondness – a fondness which does not stretch, however, to being dragged outside and made to run about in the fresh air when there are books to be read.

"I'm reading," he tells Sherlock, adding, because he is not entirely certain that the seven-year-old understands what that means, "see? This is a book, and I'm reading it, so I can't come outside."

"You could bring the book outside," says Sherlock, slowly, in the same tone Mycroft occasionally uses when Father is being particularly dim about something. For a moment he wonders whether his brother's intelligence is due a reassessment, then dismisses the thought wearily when Sherlock continues, "...and we can play pirates!"

"I don't want to play pirates, Sherlock. Can't we play something inside?" It seems a reasonable compromise.

"Like what?"

"Chess."

"Boring."

"Chess is not boring, Sherlock."

"Yes it is." There is simply no hope for the boy, Mycroft sighs to himself.

"I want to play something outside," the child witters on, stubbornly.

"No."

"We don't have to play, then. Just come outside. Walk Redbeard with me."

"No." Walking a dog – especially such a flagrantly ginger-coloured dog – is a frank affront to his dignity. People have been known to shout things.

"We can sit in the tree house and tell ghost stories. You can tell me that one about the east wind again if you want."

Mycroft is sorely tempted, but the fact remains that the treehouse is – well, in a tree.

Climbing trees is even less acceptable than dog-walking. "No. I want to finish my book. Go away, little brother."

"You said you'd play with me in the house!" Sherlock's lower lip is quivering in a most exasperating manner.

"You forfeited that option by continuing to suggest stupid ideas. Go away."

Sherlock pouts, and Mycroft feels a twinge of guilt. He is supposed to be in locos parentis, after all; Mother and Father are at some kind of appalling amateur theatrical event for the day. "All right," he relents, "we shall compromise. Do you know what that means?"

"No, Mikey. I'm an idiot, remember?"

"It means that we each make a concession towards – wait a moment. Are you feigning excessive stupidity in order to mock me?"

Sherlock drops his gaze to his feet in contrition. "Yes," he admits.

"Well, stop it. And stop calling me 'Mikey'."

"Will you come outside if I do?"

Mycroft sighs. "Let me finish this chapter, and I will. Go and play with Redbeard until then."

Sherlock rushes beaming from the room. The curious warm glow Mycroft feels is, of course, merely relief at being rid of the infuriating little nit for a few minutes. He returns to his book, listening with half an ear to the cacophony of sound which commences the moment his brother is out of doors. Sherlock is laughing and and shouting something about splicing mainbraces. Fine. Mycroft turns a page. Sherlock is now shrieking excitedly about climbing into the crow's nest to spot enemy sails. Whatever makes him happy. Mycroft turns another page.

There is a scream followed by a thud, and another, shriller scream. Redbeard, most uncharacteristically, begins to howl.

Mycroft leaps to his feet, dropping his book. Part of the game, he thinks. It's just part of the game he's playing. For a moment he is frozen to the spot, unable to move. Then Sherlock screams again, half a sob this time, and the spell is broken. He races into the garden at a pace his hectoring schoolfellows would never have credited.

His little brother is huddled on the ground beneath the treehouse, cradling his left arm against his small, trembling body. The arm appears to be broken. A similarly damaged tree branch lies next to him. Redbeard is no longer howling; he is gently licking Sherlock's pale, tearstained cheek.

Mycroft takes in the scene for a moment in silence. Then he goes back inside the house and calls for an ambulance.

Sherlock is lying in a hospital bed, looking smaller and more vulnerable than the indefatiguable child has ever seemed before. His eyes are closed. His dark curls cling damply to his head. His face is still terribly pale.

Mother and Father, sitting on either side of the cold white bed, are quite upset.

"How could this have happened?" Mother wonders, smoothing Sherlock's hair.

"I told you." Mycroft keeps his voice even, his face expressionless. "He fell out of a tree."

"You were supposed to be watching him." Mycroft has never seen Mother this angry before. She doesn't raise her voice, or even turn to look at him; still, he can sense her fury. "Why weren't you watching him, Mycroft?"

"I was r-reading," he stammers. He has never stammered in his life before. "But I could hear him, Mother."

She whips around; her eyes bore into his. "Yes, you heard him. You listened to him screaming as he fell eight feet to the ground and broke his arm, because you thought a book was more important than your little brother's safety. It could have been his neck which was broken, and then you would have had his death on your conscience. Do you understand that? Look at him - my poor sweet boy."

Daddy murmurs something; it may be a defence of his older son, but Mycroft can't make it out.

"I'm sorry, Mummy," he whispers. "Truly. It won't happen again."

She turns away from him. "I don't know if I can trust you with him again. You're a very irresponsible boy. Don't you realise that when I ask you to watch over your brother, I mean all the time? Not just when you feel like it?"

For the first time since he learned to talk, fourteen-year-old Mycroft Holmes can think of absolutely nothing to say for himself. He manages a small, bewildered, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

It is Sherlock himself who intercedes on his brother's behalf. He opens his eyes, blinking in the harsh artificial light, and mumbles in a sleepy little voice, "don't shout at Mikey, Mummy. Not when he's crying."

And Mother, who has kept the promise of the exponential growth equation admirably (though Mycroft is still unconvinced of the maths), relents and forgives her humbled older son. He brushes his own tears away, in order to better withstand hers as she embraces him. Curiously – as Mycroft will reflect, years later – it is through his mother's forgiveness, not her anger, that he fully understands the import of this most critical lesson of his young life.

From that moment, Sherlock Holmes' big brother will always be watching.

xxxxxx

3: 1996

'The choice for mankind lies between freedom and happiness and for the great bulk of mankind, happiness is better.''

- George Orwell, 1984

Sherlock is lying in a hospital bed. His sweaty curls cling damply to his head; his face is sallow, the skin tinged greenish-blue. Mummy, agitated, is pacing up and down the small, spotless room.

"How could this happen?" she demands of her older son.

Mycroft, weak from his latest stretch of self-imposed starvation and exhausted from three nights without sleep, simply shakes his head. "I cannot watch him twenty-four hours a day, Mother. I am only one person, and it simply isn't practical. My work..."

"...is more important to you than your brother's well-being?"

"No, of course not." Mycroft tries for the same masterful tone he has found so effective in manipulating certain idiot politicians who have no concept of how to comport themselves in public. It has no effect at all on Mummy. "He refused to let me in last time I visited," Mycroft attempts to explain, wearily. "He accused me of smothering him. Intefering in his life. He told me in no uncertain terms to leave him alone."

"So you did." Mummy's face is white with anger. "And he took an overdose."

Mycroft narrowly manages to avoid pounding his fist on the bedside cabinet in frustration. "He did not take an overdose. Not intentionally, at least. He had been drinking with others from his college, he was experimenting with recreational drugs – it was an accident."

"You know all this, and yet couldn't do anything to prevent it?"

"I didn't find out until afterwards." The man who had arrested Sherlock and his companions during a drug raid on a dingy Soho bar - a detective sergeant, married, no children, distant French heritage, kind eyes - had explained the situation as he saw it. It seemed likely that no charges would be pressed against Sherlock, who had been rushed to hospital after collapsing in the police station. A harassed-looking doctor (unmarried, gay, one small dog, occasional smoker) had filled in the rest.

"But still," Mummy presses, unmollified, "you must have realised that something was going on!"

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. His stupid, exasperating, impossible, beloved little brother is going to be the death of him. Mummy simply can't understand that Mycroft is unable to be in multiple places at once. He frequently works sixteen hour days in the press office at Downing Street.

For the last few days he has been particularly distracted by a rather overwhelming job offer he is looking for a way to decline. He is increasingly unable to tolerate the level of mental energy, the absurd socialising his current job entails, let alone the much more demanding requirements of this new 'opportunity.' He has already made his decision – to leave London entirely, get a doctorate in mathematics at Oxford (Cambridge, his undergraduate alma mater, has too many unfortunate associations), become a don and spend the rest of his life hiding in college rooms. Bliss.

"Mummy, you must understand," he tries again, somewhat desperately. "I cannot keep an eye on him every minute of every day, especially not when he refuses even to let me into his flat. It just isn't feasible."

She meets his determined gaze with one of her own. "Then find a way to make it feasible, dear."

Leaving his parents to fret over his unconscious brother, Mycroft goes to the Diogenes Club – of which he has recently become a member – and spends an hour in its wonderfully soothing atmosphere. When he is sufficiently mentally prepared, he travels to Vauxhall Cross, to a building which looks like it was built from lego by an angry child. A pleasant woman – widowed, recently paid off mortgage, fondness for collecting China cats – shows him up to an office on the sixth floor. There is a nice view of the Thames, but Mycroft does not see it; not this time. In this room, a man Mycroft will only ever know as 'C' shakes his hand and welcomes him on board.

Mycroft estimates it will take six to twelve months to reach a sufficient level of security clearance for his purposes. On the way back to the tube station, he takes out his phone and makes a call to DS Greg Lestrade at New Scotland Yard.

In the hospital, Sherlock remains – as far as Mycroft can tell – unconscious and unaware. Mummy and Daddy are getting coffee in the canteen. Once the bustling nurse – married, two children, no pets, husband overseas – has departed, Mycroft leans in close to whisper in his brother's oblivious ear.

"I'll respect your need for independence, Sherlock, but don't think for a second that I have forgotten the vow I made when we were children. You may not be aware of my presence, but I will be watching – constantly. So do be sure to take care of yourself, brother mine."

xxxxxx

4: 2014

'"Do you remember writing in your diary," he said, "that it did not matter whether I was a friend or an enemy, since I was at least a person who understood you and could be talked to? You were right. I enjoy talking to you. Your mind appeals to me. It resembles my own mind except that you happen to be insane.'

- George Orwell

The man who calls himself 'Moriarty' has celebrated his apparent resurrection by setting fires – both metaphorical and literal – all over the city. Mycroft, of course, is responsible for putting them out. In the last few months, food and sleep have become distant memories. He is run ragged, beyond exhausted; what disturbs him most, however, is that Sherlock has gone off the grid.

A necessary evil – in order to take down 'Moriarty', they must understand how he has managed to hide himself so completely that even Mycroft's vast resources have been unable to track him. Not only that – given the surgically-targeted pattern of his little 'practical jokes', Moriarty must somehow be aware of Mycroft's every move. Poetic judgement or not, it unnerves him more than he cares to admit that a volatile sociopath should be able to spy on him with impunity, from the shadows.

If Moriarty can do it, Mycroft's little brother had declared with typical self-aggrandisement, so of course can Sherlock Holmes. And John Watson, he had added as an afterthought. Both of them had disappeared more effectively than Mycroft could had predicted, and while playing this kind of game against his brother was uniquely stimulating, it did not change the fact that two months without any kind of contact had left Mycroft deeply unsettled. Even during Sherlock's 'hiatus' (as John called it), when he had been legally dead, Mycroft had received more regular intelligence about him than that.

Recent events have therefore taken more of a toll on Mycroft than he is used to. His immune system has rebelled against continual mistreatment, plaguing him with colds and – currently – an unpleasant bout of flu. He is shivering when he unlocks the door of the small flat he keeps above the Diogenes Club.

Despite the distraction of a chest which feels as though an elephant is standing on it, Mycroft realises something iss off before the key has even turned fully in the lock. He opens the door slowly and cautiously, though he is certain that whoever has been in his flat is no longer there. This is no ambush. His uninvited, recently-departed guest is someone known to him.

He flicks on the light, illuminating the small living room. Nothing out of place. His visitor has been careful to cover his tracks. Through to the kitchen – and there it is, on the table. A bowl of vegetable soup – still hot – a pot of green tea, also hot, and a rather revolting fluffy orange blanket.

Permitting himself a small smile, Mycroft picks up the note resting against the teapot. A sheet of A5 paper torn from a Red and Black spiral-bound notebook, written on with a new blue Parker ballpoint pen. The note is unsigned. It reads:

You may not be aware of my presence, but I will be watching – constantly. So do be sure to take care of yourself, brother mine.

Mycroft folds the note and places it carefully in his jacket pocket. Then, sitting alone at his kitchen table, he eats the soup, drinks the tea; finally, he goes to bed – making sure to take the hideous blanket with him.

After all, little brother is watching.