The sound of church bells rang through the sweat-laden air as he awoke. Slowly, head pounding, Sherlock rolled over onto his side and tried to get a sense of where he was. Sleeping on… floor… light coming through—ceiling?… needles… on ground—how many?—some new, some old… the bells, it's Sunday, how many days?… two?… two and a half, yes… as he gripped his aching head, struggling to remember what had led to this. The drugs were no surprise—indeed, for months now he had spent mornings waking to used needles on the ground and angry red track marks on his arm. What surprised him was his isolation upon waking.
He last remembered shooting up in an alley with an old friend, or as close of a friend one could be when their only shared qualities included pickpocketing and a debilitating addiction to opioids. It was a bad night; he remembered how his companion goaded him into shooting up more and more, laughing about their "last night on earth" and going out with a bang. It was all nonsense to Sherlock's ears, but he liked the idea of more drugs— more, more, why does he keep doing this? —and so he'd laughed along with his friend as he used up the remainder of his stash.
He groaned into his hands. He took all of it. He couldn't even focus on the fact that doing so could have killed him; all he could think was— idiot! That was supposed to last you this whole week at least! As his mind raced, trying to work out how he would get his next hit, he studied his surroundings.
That was the most perplexing thing. He had a bad night—a very bad night which stretched into a new day—and this very nearly guaranteed a visit from his dear older brother, accompanied by a lecture on "responsibility" and "time to grow up" and "severely disappointed, really, Sherlock," and "you're killing yourself!"
Even when Mycroft couldn't deign to show himself after a nightly binge, Sherlock could count on seeing some evidence of one of his brother's lackeys intervening on his behalf. Water bottles sitting in their package, food stored in a cooler, a blanket strewn across his body with a note affixed to it that read: Call me - M.
This morning, there was no overbearing brother to be seen. No notes, no amenities, no evidence that a careful hand had swept through his sweat-soaked brow within the past few hours. Sherlock tried not to think about why that bothered him.
Slowly, Sherlock stood up. His pack sat on top of a pile of debris. Stumbling towards it, he reached inside and found his mobile—dead. Wonderful.
Later, sitting in a cafe booth with a cup of coffee, Sherlock plugged in his phone.
As it turned on, several vibrations clued Sherlock in to the fact that he had missed a few calls during his period of indiscretion—not really that surprising given the length of his absence. Sure enough, he had several missed calls and a text from Mycroft. The text was of his brother's standard fare: Pick up your phone! Curiously, Sherlock's parents also rang him a few times after Mycroft. Perhaps his brother was hoping a guilt trip from their mother would be more effective than his own. Sherlock dialled his voicemail and lazily brought his mobile to his ear.
The first message was from Mycroft and initially, Sherlock thought it was the typical message from his brother.
"Sherlock, answer me, I know you're there! Dammit, Sherlock. Pick up—you have to— Sherlock, please—"
It was at this plea that Sherlock began to feel a tightening in his stomach. Anger, frustration and concern were customary in Mycroft's messages.
This message was not a standard one. Anger was present in his brother's tone, but something overshadowed this emotion, and the frenetic way in which Mycroft spoke was anything but typical.
"Please, please answer your phone," Mycroft was breathing heavily and after a few shaky breaths, muttered, "Call me," before hanging up.
Sherlock followed his mobile's directions to save the recording, ignoring the fact that his hand was a bit unsteady, then moved on to the next message.
This message was much more stern than the first. "Sherlock," the older brother paused to take a deep breath, "Whatever degeneracy you've managed to get up to today, I would appreciate you stepping away for just one moment in order to call me."
Were it not for the shaky voice and the uneven breathing, Sherlock would have assumed this was the usual plea from Mycroft; a last-ditch attempt to speak sense into his younger brother and to implore him not to throw his life away. However, the emotion that Mycroft's voice betrayed was so out-of-character that Sherlock could feel anxiety well up within him.
Sherlock gave himself a moment to gather his wits before he moved on to the next and final recording. This one was from his mother.
"Sherlock, love, please call me as soon as you get this. It's very important. Mycroft is fine, he's with your father and I. I love you, dear."
His older brother's presence in their parents' home and the lack of accusation in his mother's message cemented three things in Sherlock's mind.
That the series of calls and texts he received were not an attempt to intervene on his drug habit.
That he was about to receive some terrible news.
That he wouldn't rest until he found out exactly what that terrible news was.
Suddenly chilly, Sherlock wrapped his coat more snugly around himself. Pulling up his parent's number, he hesitated only a moment before dialling. After two rings, his mother answered. "Hello?"
"It's me, mummy."
"Oh Sherlock," he heard her throat well up with emotion, "Why haven't you called sooner? Oh Lord, Nadia and the children, they…"
...
...
...
...
It was after Sherlock's worst night that his older brother finally delivered his ultimatum.
"Check into rehab, get clean, and I'll let you see her."
Sherlock, still shaky from his earlier bout of vomiting, narrowed his eyes and turned up to face Mycroft. "Is that really the best bit of motivation you have—a visit with an infant? As if her parentage matters at all to me." He wiped a bit of spit from his mouth.
Looming over Sherlock's hospital bedside, Mycroft gave a short nod. "If that's how you feel. Rest assured I will never allow you anywhere near my child as long as you remain this way."
"Well then, it seems I've stumbled across a wonderful insurance policy against interacting with idiots and their offspring. Thank you, brother dear."
Mycroft sighed shortly through his nose before turning and leaving the room.
Laying back against his pillow, Sherlock brought his fingers together and rested them on his lap.
Rehab was not nearly as bad as Sherlock had imagined. It was several weeks suffering through the worst withdrawal symptoms and most terrible mood swings, all with the aid of simpletons whose attempts at cheering him on only served to further his constant headache. But it wasn't as bad as he expected.
In the end he finished the program, was released upon promise of returning for follow-up visits in the near future, and exited the building to see one of a black car sitting outside with the engine running. With a huff and a roll of the eyes, Sherlock opened the backside door and shuffled in beside his brother.
"Welcome back to society, brother-dear," Mycroft said with a smirk, "Enjoyed your vacation, did you?"
"Oh, yes, it was much preferable to being with current company." Sherlock retorted without giving his brother a glance.
"I'm sure it was…" Mycroft distractedly replied as he sat back in his seat. There was a pause as the two listened to the car rumble along the road.
"Well!" Mycroft barked, "In any case, mummy will be pleased to hear that her golden child is well enough to give out biting witticisms once more. She has been a nightmare to deal with, you know."
"Indeed, I'm sure phoning her a few times was nearly as bad as my weeks of incredible pain and terrible sickness. I'm glad we can bond over the experience."
"You must call her, Sherlock, she's been at it for days now."
"Do so for me, would you? Tell her I'm alive, in one piece, that sort of thing."
"You will do so yourself! You can't keep relying on me as if you were a child."
"And yet, you continue to treat me as such," Sherlock turned towards his brother. "Speaking of children, when may I see yours? Because as I recall, your home is due west, and we are heading south of there, and I would so dearly love to see my little niece."
Mycroft face grew pale and he drew his brows together. "I… was led to believe you wanted nothing to do with her," he began.
"You said so yourself, if I checked in and got sober I could meet her. I've met your requirements and now I would like you to hold up your end of the bargain."
"I—"
"Good Lord, were you always this slow? Take me to your house so that I may dote on your dear little daughter, won't you?" Sherlock shifted his weight so he could face his brother more fully.
It took a moment for Mycroft to don a neutral expression.
They shared a look for a few seconds. Then Mycroft exhaled through his nose and nodded shortly. With a tap on the back of the chauffeur's partition, he gave his driver their new destination, and the brothers sat in silence for the remainder of the trip.
The entrance to Mycroft's home was just as unsuited for children as Sherlock remembered. It was nearly spotless, with regal, antique furniture that a small child could easily ruin. Not for the first time, Sherlock wondered what possessed Mycroft and his wife to disrupt their lives by becoming parents. Sherlock might not have known much about child rearing, but he was aware of the toll an infant's hectic schedule can bring to a household. With Mycroft and Nadia's already stressful and busy careers, squeezing children into the mix seemed foolishness to Sherlock.
Yet for the past few months Mycroft seemed as unflustered and calm as Sherlock had ever seen him. With every meeting—be it for friendly check-ups or terse interventions—Sherlock had begun to sense a new distance from his brother. It was unspoken between them, but both men knew what it was; Mycroft finally had something to care for that was more precious to him than his younger brother. All his life, no matter how far Sherlock was willing to fall, he could always rely upon his brother to catch him—until the birth of his niece. Now Mycroft had something new and his alone; something uncomplicated and important that had yet to disappoint him.
Sherlock tried not to explore how he felt about this.
Together, the pair travelled upstairs to just outside the nursery. The door was open a crack, and, after giving a light knock, Mycroft pushed it open and stepped in while his brother stood beneath the doorway. The nanny, a plump young woman in a rocking chair, looked up from her corner of the room. She continued to rock slightly as she spoke to Mycroft in a hushed voice. As his brother replied quietly, Sherlock took a moment to glance throughout the room.
Just like the rest of the house, the nursery was tidy and attractive. Unlike much of the house, with its dark stained wood walls and matching furniture, this room was bright and nearly cheerful, with large windows that let in light and a coat of white paint that brightened it further. The rocking chair, dresser and cot were also painted white, and a soft pink floor rug was complemented by a coral and grey quilt slung over the cot rail. It still seemed unsuited for children, but the contrast from the rest of the house made it clear to Sherlock that his brother had put a lot of attention and care into this room.
And then the nanny shuffled past Sherlock, who swivelled his head back toward the rocking chair to see his overbearing, insufferable, powerful big brother seated and gently cradling a small bundle in his arms.
There she was, then. Sherlock walked towards the pair, noting Mycroft's gentle expression with no small sense of wonder. But then Mycroft glanced toward his brother and Sherlock saw something he had missed earlier: cautiousness. This irked Sherlock slightly, but he refused to comment on it and instead drew nearer to get a look at his niece.
She appeared no different than other babies. Two closed eyes, a nose, and a slightly parted mouth. She had a light dusting of dark hair, and appeared to have all her fingers and toes. She was, of course, a few months on from being a newborn, so Sherlock had no concept of how much she might have grown since then, but she seemed so very small to him. He couldn't really see much of either of her parents by her features, other than a slightly tannish complexion that she could have only received from her mother. She was otherwise completely unremarkable.
"Would you like to hold her?" Mycroft interrupted his thoughts with this hushed query.
Giving a short nod, Sherlock stepped aside to allow his brother room to stand up. He then sat down in the chair and held out his arms as Mycroft guided him on how to hold her properly.
And then he was cradling her gently and looking at her face, sneaking a finger through her closed fist to feel her soft skin. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to feel some sort of instant connection to her, because he didn't. She was simply a baby. A currently peaceful and inoffensive baby, though he doubted she would be for long. It wasn't as if he felt apathy towards her, either—there was definitely some sort of innate understanding that this was something to be protected and provided for—but he was unsure of its origin. It could have simply been some sort of instinct, the human desire to preserve the species, or a leftover from what little societal rules he had absorbed. He wasn't sure that he would have felt differently were it anyone else's child in his arms.
But when Sherlock glanced up, he saw his older brother smiling at the sight of them, a warmth in his eyes that seemed to contradict the stoic, powerful man Mycroft had always been.
And Sherlock wondered at this.
It became part of their routine. Several times a week Sherlock would visit, often unannounced, and the two brothers would sit together in silence while one held or watched the baby. There was always a strange sense of peace during these visits. Both brothers were much more subdued, and what little conversation they did have was rarely held with animosity. They didn't bicker at all while in the baby's presence, in fact. That didn't mean that Sherlock wasn't annoyed with his brother, though.
Mycroft was almost always present during these visits. Sherlock knew how important his older brother's work was to both the nation and to Mycroft. It seemed a testament to how much he loved his daughter that he would leave in the middle of the day, cancelling meetings and rescheduling negotiations, simply in order to sit with her and his younger brother.
Of course, Sherlock knew the real motivating factor for Mycroft was not love, but fear. Fear that his little brother would hurt his precious child.
They never commented on it, but Sherlock felt the sting of this.
A few times, when Mycroft evidently had done all he could to get away from his work, Sherlock would arrive to find Nadia in his place. Though the two of them were never close, Sherlock didn't mind these days simply because her distrust wasn't rooted in years of repeated failures and disappointments.
Nadia didn't often have time to spend with her daughter. As Sherlock understood it, one of the early compromises his brother and sister-in-law made before their daughter was born was that Mycroft would take a step back from business travel so that his wife could continue to build her career. It was an easy decision, as Mycroft detested field work and Nadia loved it, and a stable household and consistent schedule were very important to a child. But as a result, Nadia was away from home much more frequently than she would have liked, as evidenced by her guilty doting on her baby whenever Sherlock was around the two of them.
And then one time, both Mycroft and Nadia were together when Sherlock came to visit. Mycroft had actually seemed a bit annoyed at his brother's arrival. "The baby's asleep, Sherlock."
"No matter, I can wait for her down here." Sherlock plopped himself on the leather sofa and stretched his legs across the cushions. "Fetch me some tea, would you?"
Mycroft's mouth twitched as if he was only just holding back a curt retort. With a brief sigh, Nadia replied, "I'll get it." She faced her husband and mouthed something—Sherlock could only make out the movement of her jaw from his angle. Then she was off, and Mycroft exhaled deeply as he sat on a chair opposite his brother, rubbing his forehead in agitation.
"Lover's quarrel?" mocked Sherlock.
In a stunning recreation of his teenage self, Mycroft rolled his eyes and huffed. The reminder of a younger, hormone-addled Mycroft made something click in Sherlock's mind.
"Oh my… I've interrupted your afternoon delight, haven't I?"
Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please be quiet, Sherlock."
A grin spread across Sherlock's face. "I didn't realise you were so human, brother mine."
"My daughter might have clued you in to that."
"As did 10 years of living across from your room." Sherlock continued to smile. "Well, don't let me keep you. I can keep myself entertained for a bit. After all, it would take, what, ten minutes?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes again, but this time there was a smirk playing upon his lips. "Hardly."
"Hm, five minutes, then?"
Mycroft shook his head and said, "You really ought to learn to bite your tongue, Sherlock," but there was a glint of humour in his eyes as he did so.
Then Nadia returned, kettle and cups in hand. "I wish we had more time to relax, but Lord knows how long she'll be asleep. Finish quickly, then, no dawdling!"
And she raised her eyebrows at the sight of the two brothers barely stifling their giggles.
Of course, the days trudged on. Sherlock was told that the biggest challenge to his sobriety would be the everyday reminders, and this he found to be accurate. He would cut through an alley only to remember that he had shot up behind the dumpster there, or turn a corner to see one of his old drug buddies thumbing a cigarette with shaky hands. More troubling than the reminders of his old habits was the daily tedium that had led to him becoming addicted in the first place. Without the drugs to cloud his mind, Sherlock found it increasingly difficult to deal with others' inanity and his own overactive brain.
It was a few months before he finally gave in to the temptation.
Unlike his last bout with the habit, Sherlock was much more careful. He strayed far from the dingy places he used to haunt, didn't shoot up on any old street corner, kept himself and his equipment tidy, and didn't go overboard on the amount. Most importantly, he found ways to keep it from Mycroft. Never going near any CCTV cameras, avoiding any suspicious vehicle or person he thought could have been one of Mycroft's agents—it was utterly exhausting to try and hide it, but it was preferable to the humiliation he would suffer if his brother found out about his relapse.
He still visited Mycroft and his niece, and the respite that these visits used to give him was now tainted with anxiety, afraid his all-seeing brother would notice that he had hidden his track marks beneath his sleeves.
Of course, Mycroft did notice a change in his brother. Sherlock wasn't sure how much he had caught on until one day, when Mycroft finally spoke.
"It must be difficult, making such a drastic change."
Sherlock, still rocking the baby to sleep in his arms, tried to calm his suddenly racing heartbeat. Mycroft continued. "I imagine that you must go to great lengths to avoid anything that might trigger… memories." He paused, likely waiting for his brother to respond, and when Sherlock remained quiet he spoke again. "I… struggle with a certain sort of addiction, and can… appreciate how difficult it is to overcome."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows—his brother's lifelong struggle with overeating and the resulting body image issues it caused had never been discussed casually between the two—usually, it was Sherlock who brought it up as a means to hurt and aggravate his brother. The fact that Mycroft was bringing it up himself, potentially opening himself up to be mocked by his brother, spoke to how serious he was.
Sherlock's eyes flickered briefly to his brother, then darted quickly away. He had never seen such a look of open concern on Mycroft's face.
"If you are struggling, brother, please… know that I am here if you need me."
It took fifteen minutes for the guilt churning in Sherlock's stomach to cease.
Sherlock supposed it was inevitable. One day he realised he hadn't been to his brother's house in over two weeks. With a sudden lurch, he bolted upright and headed west. It was suspicious, his not coming, and why hadn't he thought of that sooner? Of course, it was because he had steadily spent fewer and fewer moments sober, and his moments of clarity were mostly spent looking for a way to get his next hit.
Either way, he was stupid to not have seen to coming to visit at least once within the past few days. It would be obvious to his brother very soon what he was up to unless he could continue to act like nothing had changed.
So he jogged quickly up Mycroft's front steps, and tried for the front door—locked. This wasn't unusual, as Mycroft had been trying to get him to be polite and knocklike a respectable member of society . Of course, knocking now would only raise suspicion, so he did as always and picked the lock, deactivated the alarm system and stepped through the doorway.
Sherlock wrung his hands together as he walked through, trying to get them to stop shaking. Mycroft didn't greet him on the first floor, so he must have been with the baby. Something felt off, but he ignored it, and carefully climbed the stairs, grinning at the idea of sneaking up on his brother. The door to the nursery was open slightly, and Sherlock counted to three before roughly pushing it open and stumbling through. He blinked when he realised Mycroft wasn't here, either.
But the baby was, and Sherlock's entrance must have woken her from a nap. She started to fuss, which agitated Sherlock as it would definitely interfere with his sneaking! So he picked her up to sooth her, but of course she decided this was even more upsetting and began to cry. Fearful of being caught, Sherlock rocked her back and forth in his arms, and when that didn't work he tried sitting and bouncing her lightly on his knee. But she only began to cry louder, and something was forming in his mind that told him that this was bad and he shouldn't have come here, though he wasn't sure why. Finally, he tried covering her mouth, attempting to muffle her cries.
And then Mycroft walked in.
And Sherlock was finally able to place why he shouldn't have come here— the drugs he had taken not one hour ago, that he was still clearly high, and the pyjamas Mycroft was wearing which clued him into the fact that it wasn't the middle of the day but that it had to be very, very early in the morning.
And by the time he realised where his hand was, Mycroft was already on top of him and yanking his arms away, ripping the baby from Sherlock and holding her tightly across his chest as she gasped for breath and sobbed.
Even high out of his mind, he couldn't miss the utter betrayal in Mycroft's eyes.
For a moment, both brothers simply stared at each other, breathing heavily and in shock over what had just transpired. Before he could stop himself, Sherlock began to speak. "Mycroft, I'm… I don't..." he trailed off. For all his quick wit, there was nothing he could say that would make this all right.
With this, Mycroft seemed to snap out of his stupor. The shock on his face was replaced with pure, undisguised anger. "Get the hell out of my house." He continued to clutch his daughter as she wailed. "Do not make me repeat myself."
And for the first time since they were children, Sherlock immediately and without question did as his big brother said.
Sherlock hadn't heard from his brother in over a month, and, if he were honest, had expected never to hear from him again. So when he woke from a drug-induced haze and saw Mycroft standing over him, he thought he was simply imagining things and rolled over.
A nudge from Mycroft's umbrella spoke otherwise.
"Time to wake up, brother-mine."
After that, things carried on in much the same way they always did. Since there was no longer any reason to hide his habit, Sherlock went back to his old haunts, knowing Mycroft was watching him. On a bad night, he could expect his brother to arrive and lecture him, or for an agent to drag him to a shop where he could eat and maybe get some sense drilled into him.
He didn't try to visit Mycroft in his home again.
The months wore on. Sherlock tried to be careful about how much he took at once, but just like before, he grew sloppy.
Almost a year after his initial relapse, he woke up to a medic shining a flashlight in his eyes. Waving off the man, Sherlock struggled to sit up and blindly reached for a handhold. He found the arm of a person behind him, grasping it tightly as he was guided upright.
The expensive-feeling material of the man's jacket and the way he gently held him up was all Sherlock needed to work out his identity.
"Come to witness my demise, brother?" Sherlock's comment would have been stronger were he not rasping from his dry throat.
"No, as usual, I've come to keep you from actively killing yourself." Mycroft replied sharply. One arm was still loosely wrapped around his younger brother's waist, but Sherlock took care of that quickly by twisting around and elbowing him.
"Well, it seems that you've done your sacred duty." Sherlock rolled his shoulders and tried to mimic the look of someone who hadn't just nearly overdosed. "You may leave."
"Dammit, Sherlock, you can't keep doing this!"
"It's my own life, and I'll do with it whatever I damn well please!" Sherlock yelled back. "Stop trying to control me!"
"I am doing so for your own good!"
"For my own good or for yours? Made a promise to mummy that you'd keep me safe and you just can't let her know that you've failed to do so, now can you?"
"Can't you just take me at my word? Look what you've become, Sherlock! You're wasting all your talent, your money, your future for some minutes of medicated respite! Is this really worth all that?"
"Come off it, Mycroft. It's your reputation on the line here, because the great and powerful Mycroft Holmes can't have a junkie lowlife for a brother."
"Contrary to what you might believe, the habits of my little brother don't factor much into how my colleagues view me, and even so, that doesn't matter to me. Isn't caring about the well-being of a member of my family reason enough for you?"
" Family!" Sherlock spat, "You do cherish that, don't you? Your own perfect little unit to control and manipulate the way you see fit. How it must vex you that there is one person whom you cannot keep under your thumb at all times."
"What do you want from me, Sherlock? To relax and sit back as you induce yourself into an early grave?"
"Why, yes, I would very much appreciate that."
"Well that's not going to happen!" Mycroft snapped. Then he paused to compose himself before continuing. "I don't know what more I can do. What would it take for you to stop this, brother?"
Sherlock thought before answering, speaking carefully. "You once gave me… a reason to get clean," he glanced at Mycroft before looking at the wall. "I would be amenable to that reason being… reinstated." He chanced another look at Mycroft and watched as his brother's eyes narrowed.
"No." Mycroft spoke quickly, "No. You are correct in that you would have to get clean first, but it is going to take more than another stint in rehab before I will allow that again." He was firm, eyes locked on his brother, and Sherlock knew that, for the moment, there would be no arguing.
So he nodded shortly, picked up his mobile, and grabbed a bottle of water from his brother's outstretched hands. "I'm sure you'll be in touch," he sneered, and with a dramatic swish of his coat, he walked away into the night.
Two days later, he received a phone call from his mother.
"Dear, your father and I will be visiting Mycroft and Nadia this weekend and wanted to know if you would be available as well."
"No, mummy, I'm afraid I'm terribly busy." He put out his cigarette, with the illogical notion that she might be able to tell he was smoking from over the phone. "Delicate experiments and such."
"Oh Sherlock," his mother whined, "You always find a reason to duck out from under us whenever we're in London. Couldn't you allow us to see you just once? Visit your new flat?"
His flat, provided for by Mycroft, was surprisingly clean and free from anything that might overly concern his mother. Of course, this was because he rarely spent any time there, spending more nights in alleyways or abandoned buildings than his own immaculate bed.
"Come now, mummy. I'm certain being with your grandchild will be preferable to being in my company. I wouldn't wish to drag you away."
"We would love to see you as well!" she sounded hopeful over the phone. "Perhaps you can join us to visit your brother? Have you been to see the baby yet?"
"I assure you that Mycroft would not be pleased to see me in his home or near his child. He has made that abundantly clear."
"Oh… well, Mikey has always liked things done in his particular way," she began, "I am sure that if you showed yourself to be respectful of his rules, and your father and I vouched for you, he would be comfortable with allowing you to visit. I can't imagine that he would wish to keep you from your nephew forever."
"My niece, mummy, and I do believe he does."
"So he only keeps you from Caroline, then? Not from Edward?"
"Edward?"
"Perhaps he is just being overly protective of her? Fathers can be a bit irrational when it comes to their daughters — heaven knows my own father never let me do half the things that he did my brothers — "
"Who is Edward?"
"What do you mean?"
"Considering the only Edward I know died when I was eight, I have no idea to whom you're referring."
"Your nephew, dear. I know you sometimes have difficulty caring about 'trifling details' like names, but come now!"
Sherlock frowned. "I don't have a nephew."
"How could you have already forgotten? He was just born last week!"
"Last week?" Sherlock's mind began to race
He heard his mother sigh over the phone. "Dear, if you are…" she trailed off before starting again, "I know Mycroft spares us much of the details of your… habit... but I expect that when we come up there you will attempt to put yourself to rights. So that you will remember our visit at the very least!"
"Of… of course." Sherlock replied. Then his mother bid farewell, and he hung up his mobile.
For several long moments, Sherlock stood, dazed.
Mycroft hadn't told him they'd had another baby.
Mycroft hadn't even told him Nadia was pregnant.
Sherlock tried to recount all the times his brother had seen him this past year, all the opportunities he might have had to deduce this. There had to have been some sort of clue, something he had missed.
But then, even if there were, it didn't change the fact that Mycroft didn't tell him outright. Didn't trust him with the information.
It was the clearest picture he had ever received on how lowly his brother's opinion of him was.
And Sherlock Holmes, aloof and aggressive and without a care for anyone other than himself, had to fight to keep the moisture from his eyes.
In the end, he never did get to meet his nephew.
...
...
...
The ride to his parent's estate took far longer than normal, first because Sherlock still needed to replenish his stash before he made the journey, then because he had to acquire his own means of transportation. It was a bad sign if Mycroft was too distressed to remember that he could easily orchestrate Sherlock's getting there. Never mind the fact that Mycroft hadn't even thought to send someone to search for his brother while he was busy doped out of his mind.
It was an accident, is what he had been told by his mother. A lorry had run a red light and hit Nadia's car while she was out with the children. A simple, tragic explanation.
Sherlock knew better. He had headed towards Westminster, intent on breaking into Mycroft's office to find out what really happened, but there was no need; Anthea had met him at the door, case file in her outstretched hand.
"I'm truly sorry," she had said, as if she cared how he was feeling (they had never been more than civil towards each other) and as if he was broken up about the event (he didn't know what he felt). Sherlock had snatched the file without comment and read it on the ride home.
Nadia, still on maternity leave, had taken Edward for his one-month checkup, bringing Caroline along instead of opting for a sitter. Their driver picked them up and dropped them off without incident. At some point during the appointment, the car was hijacked (though they haven't found the body of the driver, so there's still some speculation as to whether he was involved). They don't know what happened when Nadia entered the car — she had her service pistol on hand and has never before hesitated to use it. The obvious conclusion is that the children were threatened, so she cooperated with the kidnappers instead of risking their safety.
At 11:42, Mycroft sent a quick text to Nadia asking how the appointment went. At 12:15, he tried calling her. At 12:18, he requested Anthea get him the location of his wife.
By 3:58, after sending out multiple search parties, filing the paperwork to suspend and investigate Nadia's security team, and cancelling two meetings with high-powered officials, Mycroft had finally received a GPS signal from his wife's car.
The car was empty by the time agents converged on the vehicle. The search party spread to the surrounding area. One earring, a small silver hoop, was spotted just inside an old mill building. Further inside, its mate was found just beside a creaky floorboard. Nadia's trail led them to discover a series of tunnels just beneath the floor, and after some quick reassigning of duties, a few of the men ventured through it.
At 4:45, loud shots were heard echoing through the tunnels. The men rushed through different channels in the tunnel trying to find the sound's origin.
At 4:47, the shots stopped.
At 4:50, a door was discovered and battered open.
Inside the doorway lay the bodies of three masked men, Nadia, and both her children.
From what they found in the room — a video camera, a satellite phone and a signal scrambler—it seemed the kidnappers had intended to contact someone. The prevailing theory is that they had planned on negotiating a trade for the release of one international crime lord or another. As it was, the criminals were not overly bright—they may have managed the kidnapping, but their trail was sloppy and they clearly hadn't thought through their entire plan, given that Mycroft's team was just minutes behind them.
Not that it did any good.
The rest was pieced together from the video camera on site, which had been running for about ten minutes before the rescue team entered. Sherlock hadn't watched the footage. He didn't know if Mycroft had seen it. Anthea would have likely tried to prevent it, but few could stop Mycroft when he was determined to have his way.
Based on a transcript of the events on file, the kidnappers had turned on the camera as they prepared to make their list of demands. The youngest of the three had taken hold of a wriggling Caroline, pulled out Nadia's confiscated pistol and held it to the child's head as he began his speech.
There wasn't much information in the transcript, certainly not enough to deduce the kidnapper by his looks the way Sherlock traditionally would. But he could picture it; a young man, taking the initiative in order to impress his fellow gangsters. Inexperienced, eager, full of nervous energy and poor trigger discipline.
He had only spoken a few words when Caroline managed to bite him.
Sherlock remembered Caroline—her attempts to crawl, her dislike of carrots, her bright smile.
The gun went off and Nadia had screamed, said something unintelligible mixed with several "oh god's" and managed to wrestle out of the grip of the man holding her down. She grappled with another assailant, grabbed his sidearm and fired at the young man.
Chaos ensued in the small room, both men firing on her and ducking for cover. The transcript marked the shots fired— 7, 8, 9— and noted that the man who snagged Nadia's pistol from his dead friend was clearly not familiar with weapons and ill-prepared to fight. One of his poorly-aimed shots had managed to clip his associate and hit Edward.
In the end, all occupants were dead in under two minutes.
Sherlock felt lead weight in his abdomen as he read the autopsy report—Nadia's corpse was riddled with bullets. The last to collapse, she had somehow stayed conscious until she was confident the men were dead.
Sherlock knew that Mycroft had already read the report. Even if Anthea had managed to keep him from seeing the tape, there was no way she could keep him from this. Mycroft had a right to read it, even. The thought didn't do much to settle his stomach.
As the car rolled up to the front of his childhood home, Sherlock saw his mother waving him down from the front steps.
"Oh Sherlock! You look absolutely wretched! Are you shivering? You should have worn a warmer coat!"
"Hello to you too, mummy."
"Oh, come in, come in!" she grasped his arm, fussing over his thin frame as she ushered him into the house.
Sherlock hadn't been to his parents' home since the Christmas before last. His mother had been beside herself because Mycroft had decided to spend the holiday with his in-laws ("Our first Christmas as grandparents and he can't even give us the courtesy of a phone call!") and she spent the day moping around the house. Her attitude had been one of the motivating factors in keeping Sherlock from visiting the next year—the other was that he was unsure of where he stood with Mycroft. At the time, he had a feeling that Mycroft would change plans last-minute and ditch Christmas with their parents if it meant keeping Sherlock from the baby.
"Sherlock," a deep voice said from the parlour, "Good to see you, lad." Sherlock's father clapped both hands on his son's shoulders. He looked old , Sherlock thought, aged faster than he ought to have done in such a short time.
"Your brother's in his room," his mother chimed from the hallway where she was hanging up Sherlock's coat. "You should let him know you're here." Her tone indicated that this was not merely a suggestion.
Still, Sherlock opened his mouth to argue. His father, though, squeezed his shoulders gently and gave him a look that was so sad, and Sherlock felt whatever he was going to say slip through his tongue.
"Fine." He said as he turned around.
This was going to go just fine.
In his childhood bedroom, Mycroft was sat at the end of his bed with his laptop in front of him. He didn't look up as Sherlock entered but continued typing rapidly. Sherlock stood just inside the doorway for a moment before speaking. "I've arrived, brother-mine."
"Yes, yes, I can see that," Mycroft said without moving his eyes from his computer.
Sherlock wasn't sure how to proceed, but decided he'd rather be here than in the foyer with his overbearing mother. So he continued into the bedroom and let his eyes wander over his brother's old domain.
It was strange being here after so many years. Sherlock remembered when he was small, how this room used to hold some sort of magical quality, as the sacred space of his idolised big brother. He recalled many nights where he would choose a book from the bookshelf, begging Mycroft to read to him, and how Mycroft would do so, sitting the pair in front of the window to get the best light. He remembered how Mycroft would let him sleep here after a nightmare, or when Sherlock would do something "a bit not good" and Mycroft would bring him in here to quietly explain why.
He remembered how he would pretend that Mycroft's bedroom was an island, rife with buried treasure, and how Mycroft would play along as the pair made complicated maps that would lead them to the loot hidden beneath his bed.
He remembered how, as they grew older, Mycroft would retreat here by himself. How his pleas to his big brother would be met with an offer to play "next time," and the accompanying apologetic smiles would eventually turn to aggravated sighs. How some days Sherlock would pound on the door to be let in, all while Mycroft shouted to be left alone. How Sherlock would sneak in, whenever Mycroft was away, and look through his things in order to find some explanation for why his big brother wasn't so fun anymore.
He recalled the night before Mycroft left for university, coming in here and talking to his brother for a while, feeling suddenly as if nothing had happened and that they had not spent the last few years growing steadily apart. How Mycroft had smiled and said that he hoped Sherlock would write to him, and how Sherlock had nodded and promised he would. Then Mycroft had announced he was tired and needed his rest for the next day. And it was as if a spell had been broken and Sherlock left with the feeling that this was the last time he would ever truly know his big brother.
"DAMN IT!"
Sherlock jumped at the sound and turned in time to see Mycroft slam his computer shut and whip it back against his pillow. "The bloody MP's office is full of pure imbeciles. It's a wonder this entire nation doesn't burn to the ground."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows without comment. Mycroft glared up at his brother with fury in his eyes. "What , Sherlock? Come to comfort me? To sit and talk about myfeelings? " He shook his head roughly, "I've no interest in bearing all to you or to mummy or to anyone."
Sherlock was mildly alarmed at Mycroft's behaviour, but tried to be careful with his response. "Nonsense, brother-dear. Let us not pretend that I would ever wish to share a heart-to-heart. I simply wish to know if you are… all right…" Sherlock's voice faltered as he reached the end of this statement.
"All right?" Mycroft let out a few huffs of breath that Sherlock supposed would be considered a chuckle in another circumstance. "What an absolutely ridiculous question! All right? Hah! No, I am not all right nor do I expect to ever be again."
He stood up quickly, nearly knocking into Sherlock, and began to pace. "I've tried to reason how things might have been different, how this outcome could have—could have changed. A pointless endeavour, really, and yet..." His breathing was growing uneven, "I keep… thinking that the past day must be a nightmare, that this could never… a-and of course I-I know it's not… but if it's not then I… don't know what to… t-to do…" Mycroft began to shake.
Sherlock still didn't know how to respond, so he simply stood and watched as his brother brought the heels of his palms to his eyes and held them there. For a moment, the only sound in the room was that of Mycroft's deep, shaky breaths as he tried to get a handle on his emotions.
And then with a shout, Mycroft grabbed the bookshelf and tore it to the ground.
Then he was on the ground and hastily ripping pages out of the fallen books, and Sherlock had to grab at Mycroft's arms to keep him from destroying all of his belongings.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it, DAMN IT!"
Sherlock continued to hold Mycroft until he finally quit struggling. With his arms released, Mycroft sat still and continued to breath heavily, this time interspersed with shuddering gasps. Then he shoved Sherlock back roughly before heading out of the room and slamming the door behind him.
For a few moments, Sherlock worked to remember what his day had been like before all this.
Then he numbly set about to cleaning up his brother's mess.
Sherlock wished he hadn't come here.
He had never thought his family particularly engaging company, and in these circumstances they were even more dull. His mother trudged around the house intermittently weeping. When his father wasn't comforting his wife, he was in the garden tending the plants or in the kitchen making meals that no one would eat.
Mycroft mostly kept to his room, except on occasions when he had to travel to front of the house for mobile service.
There was something isolating about being so detached from the sense of grief that permeated the house.
It seemed Mycroft's assistant was taking on the lion's share of the funeral arrangements, with some sporadic input from her boss. This was what their father had told him, anyway. Sherlock wasn't sure how much Mycroft was involving himself in this, since whenever he had seen his brother he had been working on other government-related items.
There was no press coverage of Nadia and the children's deaths. Given the gruesome method of murder and the age of the victims, Sherlock didn't have to be a genius to understand why no nosey reporters had caught wind of the news. Even his parents were unaware of the true cause of death, though Sherlock supposed he was glad for that.
The plan was to travel back to London, where the funeral was to be held the day after their arrival. Sherlock had always found funerals to be a dull affair, particularly because it meant being around many people with volatile emotions. He had contemplated begging off the service several times, and though he was currently resolved to go, he wasn't sure if he would decide otherwise once the day arrived.
These were the thoughts running through Sherlock's head the morning before their trip, when he and his father were sat at the kitchen table, a full English breakfast untouched and cooling before them. His father was never much of a conversationalist; in most of Sherlock's childhood memories he was in the background, cheerily if exasperatedly allowing his wife to speak on his behalf. With Mrs. Holmes fitfully resting in their bed and Mycroft continuing to isolate himself, Sherlock's father seemed anxious to fill the silence.
"You know, I used to do much of the cooking early on in our marriage."
Sherlock sipped his tea and didn't bother to reply. As he expected, his father continued as if his son was giving him rapt attention.
"Back then, she was quite busy with her book and teaching, and I was eager to please her, so I would take on a bit of the household chores. I know it may not sound like much, but it was quite revolutionary for the time!" He chuckled. "Of course, she took over with those once your brother was born."
He gave a sad smile as he continued. "Your mother had always wanted a brood of children, you see. Her own Von Trapp family of geniuses and scientists and creatives—she had always dreamed of that. For years and years after Mikey was born, we tried for more—and a few times they did take—but then we would lose them in the end. It hurt terribly, every single time. And then when your si—" and his voice caught in his throat, and he paused to compose himself. "It is unimaginable, that pain. You cannot understand it unless you've experienced it."
And the elder Holmes shook his head slightly as he stared with sadness into his tea.
"Your poor, poor brother."
Loath as he was to be attending the funeral, Sherlock was glad to return to London. He was tired of relegating himself to getting high in the bathroom in the early hours of the morning and carefully disposing of any evidence of his having done so.
He was very much looking forward to being back in his city, and when they stopped in front of his flat, Sherlock had every intention of dashing off in search of his dealer as soon as the car drove away. So when he turned around and saw his family gathering their things from the boot of the car, he was quite alarmed.
"What are you doing?"
"We talked about this, dear." His mother sighed.
"No we didn't."
"Yes, we did—we'll be staying with you until after the service."
"I don't have the room—why don't you stay with Mycroft?"
"Mikey's staying here too, Sherlock."
"What?" Sherlock whipped his head toward his brother, who had the decency to look annoyed with the situation as well.
"I've already explained, mummy…" Mycroft began weakly.
"Nonsense!" Mrs. Holmes waved him off as she handed her suitcase to her husband. "We'll stick together as a family, Mikey shouldn't be in that great big house right now." She looked sadly towards her eldest. "It would be rather difficult for him, I should think."
Mycroft looked like he wanted to argue, but clenched his fists and drew his mouth in a tight line instead. Given that Mycroft and his mother bickered over far lesser offences, Sherlock could only presume that there was some truth to her statement.
Reluctantly, Sherlock unlocked the door and guided his family into his flat.
That night, Sherlock laid awake on his couch. After a brief spat with his mother about sleeping arrangements, his parents retired to rest on his bed while Mycroft was in the spare room.
He really did want to sleep. He wasn't tired, but he knew if he didn't rest now then tomorrow would be particularly exhausting to deal with. The anxious feeling in his limbs continued, however, and his mind continued to wander as he stared at his ceiling. There was one thing he knew that could calm him enough so he could sleep…
The door to the spare room swung open and Sherlock sat up enough to see his brother stumble into the kitchen. Mycroft didn't acknowledge his brother, and he seemed to blindly reach for a clean glass and fill it with water from the kitchen faucet. In the low light of the moon, Sherlock could just make out beads of sweat rolling down Mycroft's temple as he shakily swallowed large gulps of water. A nightmare, then. Typical—bravery was not something Sherlock associated with his brother since they were children, and given the past week—well, Sherlock wasn't too surprised.
Breathing heavily, Mycroft clenched his eyes tightly, as if trying to rid himself of whatever images he had just witnessed. Annoyed at having been ignored for so long, Sherlock decided to speak.
"Bad dream, brother-dear?"
Mycroft's eyes opened slowly, still not looking at his brother, but Sherlock knew he heard the comment.
"I hope you haven't wet the bed. You don't still do that, do you?" Sherlock jabbed, but even he knew there was little heat behind it.
Mycroft continued to ignore him, although a quiet sigh let Sherlock know of his disapproval.
Sherlock clenched and unclenched his fists, biting back the normally snide remarks he would make. No, he didn't want to do that, not right now. He searched for something polite and kind to say.
"I've heard…" he cleared his throat and tried again, "I've heard it said that it's helpful to talk through a nightmare. Would you like to talk about it?" Sherlock fought the instinct to cringe at his phrasing.
This finally caught Mycroft's attention, and he looked up to stare Sherlock in the eyes.
Sherlock wasn't always aware whenever he made things awkward, but he knew instantly that this was one of those times. Still, he held his brother's gaze long enough for Mycroft to determine his sincerity.
Mycroft opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally shaking his head. Then he walked forward and sat in the armchair by the sofa.
For a while, the two brothers sat together in silence.
After a bit, Mycroft smirked. "Do you recall the night you decided to camp in the lounge?"
"Lord," Sherlock groaned, "what a terrible idea that was."
"Experiencing the 'wilds of the outdoors,' like a true adventurer. Of course, you were too afraid to actually camp outdoors. How adventurous."
"Your memory is failing in your old age, dear brother," Sherlock replied, "I camped in the lounge because Mummy wouldn't let me sleep outside."
"Ah well, as I remember it, you were frightened—insisted on keeping the lights on. What was it that scared you, brother?"
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Some—figure or something I saw in the dark of the corridor. A trick of the mind, of course, but even I was a child at one point." He refused to admit that he had also heard something—a voice, whispering soft enough that he couldn't make out the words.
"Yes, I believe you managed half an hour after that before you went to my room. Don't think I slept at all once you did."
Sherlock grimaced and said nothing.
Mycroft continued, "Earlier that day we got in a fight, do you remember?"
Sherlock shifted in his seat, "I… I can't recall." He did, though only in vague terms—something to do with playing a game, and how Mycroft had refused—a typical argument at that time in his life.
"No matter. You tore the pages out of my book by the end of it. Such a rotten child."
"Well, when you've a rotten big brother as your example—" Mycroft raised a hand to silence Sherlock.
"Yes, I wasn't perfect either. The reason I couldn't sleep that night—well, it wasn't because you hogged the bed."
He leaned back into the chair and crossed one leg over the other. "I was terribly cross with you for ruining my book. It wasn't the first time you'd wrecked something of mine of course, but it had been deliberate. You were looking to bother me by it. I refused to give you the satisfaction of a reaction." He paused for a moment, then locked eyes with his brother. "The book did, however, give me an idea."
"You…" Sherlock started, " You were the figure in the hall. Of course! And the whispers were you, obvious. How did I miss…?" And Sherlock didn't finish his thought aloud, but he knew how he had missed it: because back then he had trusted his big brother above all else.
Mycroft smiled lightly. "I am the smart one, after all. I confess that it was quite satisfying to see the look on your face," he shifted his face toward the floor, "It was childish of me, but then I suppose we were all children once."
Then Mycroft turned back to face Sherlock. "I had only meant to tease you, really. When you came into my room that night, terrified, I felt… horrible. And, well… it was guilt that kept me up that night."
There was another pause, then Mycroft braced both hands on his knees and pushed off the chair. Sherlock could see his eyes shift back to the tired, lost look they had been exhibiting for days.
"Goodnight, Sherlock." Then he slowly made his way back to his room.
Forty minutes later, Sherlock crept out the door and onto the streets.
An incessant ringing noise brought Sherlock back to the present.
He fumbled for his mobile, bringing it to his face to squint at the screen. His bleary eyes refused to focus on the name, so he answered and brought it to his ear.
"You're supposed to be at the funeral."
Anthea. Though she wouldn't have been his first guess, he wasn't wholly surprised to hear from her. Mycroft's assistant had never been particularly fond of Sherlock; getting high and abandoning Mycroft would certainly not do much to endear her further to him. Of course, Sherlock was rarely keen to endear himself to others anyway.
"Oh my, is that today?" He frowned when the hoarseness in his voice didn't give his sarcasm the bite he wanted.
"I've sent a car round to get you. You will get in, you will clean yourself up, and you will arrive here before the service begins." Her tone was stern, and clearly brokered no arguments.
"Hm," Sherlock pondered, "and what if I don't get in and simply walk away?"
"Then you will be forced into the car and brought to my flat, where I will personally scrub you down with steel wool and boiled water until every inch of your skin is flayed open and you are rendered unable to do more than moan in the pew as you sit for the duration of the service."
Sherlock was mildly impressed—her voice remained as calm and steady as ever through her entire diatribe. Try as he might, he had yet to get Anthea to lose her temper with him.
"Well, I don't believe I would like that very much." He stood up and stretched. "Very well! I will be waiting for your car."
"It's already outside." With that, Anthea ended the call.
Sherlock had a feeling that she wasn't giving idle threats, so he wobbled outside towards the waiting car. Once inside, he felt the itchy sense of anxiety well up in him once more. He really, really didn't want to face this right now.
Had he timed this better, he might have thought to shoot up just before the service, but it was too late. Showing up high to the funeral of his sister-in-law and her children would likely have been among Sherlock's worst breaches of societal decency.
Once he arrived, Sherlock hurriedly shuffled towards the front of the building where his family were likely to be seated. He scanned the room briefly, deducing the identities of the attendees. Most of the occupants were a mix of government dignitaries and other colleagues of Mycroft and Nadia. As he expected, there was no one whom Sherlock could identify as a 'friend' of the couple—the guests were appropriately stoic, but no more than necessary. In fact, only a handful of guests seemed to be genuinely grieving: a group in the very front which he could only assume was Nadia's family, and the plump nanny who had spent so much time with his brother's children. He didn't see Anthea, but knew she had to be here as well.
As soon as he spotted his parents, Sherlock shuffled in beside them. He was immediately glad for the buffer of his father that kept his mother from striking him.
"Where have you been? We were worried sick!" She looked from Sherlock, to her husband, to her eldest son who sat to the beside her.
Mycroft didn't even look up.
Before Sherlock could reply to his mother or attempt to rouse his brother, the service had begun. Suddenly Sherlock longed, desperately, for another hit, if simply to absolve himself of the gnawing, stifling feeling that permeated the room. Still, with Anthea's threat and his mother's fury looming, he felt it safer to stay for a while.
So he sat and listened to the priest speak—mildly surprised that his brother had opted for a religious service, given what he knew of Mycroft's beliefs. It was likely then that he did so for Nadia's sake, or perhaps that of her family. Sherlock hadn't known her well enough to be sure.
And wasn't that just pathetic— how Sherlock had barely known his sister-in-law and had spent so little time with his niece and had never even met his nephew? He never attempted to become close to Nadia during her life, and was barred from getting to know Caroline and Edward at all. The consequences of this led him to where he was in that moment—in a room full of strangers, for the funeral of strangers, sitting with his family yet feeling like an outsider.
And there was his brother, staring blankly ahead and wringing his hands together—not even attempting to be the facsimile of the powerful man Sherlock had once idolised—and Sherlock couldn't take it anymore, Anthea and his parents be damned.
When the organ signalled for the first hymn, Sherlock stood and rushed out of the building.
Sherlock's memory of that night was foggy, but not as much as he would have liked.
He remembered finding his dealer and purchasing a hefty sum of heroin.
He remembered shooting up in a squat house, sighing deeply and closing his eyes as the familiar warmth ran through him.
He could not remember how long he sat there, basking in the euphoria and the quiet of his mind. When he opened his eyes, the sun had set.
He remembered it taking him an embarrassingly long time to realise that the warmth beneath his body was that of another person cradling him in their arms. Even coming down from his high, he had the presence of mind to realise that the only person this could be was Mycroft.
He remembered how he had purposely refused to move or acknowledge his brother, mentally planning on staying there until he felt like his legs could support him. Then he heard a sharp intake of breath, and couldn't stop himself from slowly turning his head toward the sound.
Sherlock could remember the last time he had seen his brother cry—back when Mycroft was barely a teenager and just beginning to pull away from his younger brother. This was nothing like that time. Here, mouth open and lips quivering, Mycroft was clearly attempting and failing to hold back heaving sobs. Fat tears rolled down his chin, and every time it seemed he was beginning to compose himself, a shuddering breath and a rough vocalisation would send him spiralling back into his misery.
Stunned by what he was witnessing, Sherlock remembered doing what came naturally to him in regards to Mycroft. He closed his eyes, gently turned his head away, and tried his best to ignore the stifled gasps from above.
That moment, more than any, he wished he could forget.
It was months before he saw his brother again.
Without the familial obligations to ground him, Sherlock continued to indulge in his typical routine. Mycroft still arranged that Sherlock was cared for, still left him angry voicemails and frustrated text messages, still threatened to force his brother into rehab. The in-person visits ceased. The one time Sherlock's annoyance at this culminated in his visiting Mycroft's office, he was denied at the door.
"Mr. Holmes doesn't wish to see you." Anthea continued typing on her phone without looking at him.
"Nonsense," Sherlock snorted, "he thinks that in allowing me to see him under my own terms, he would lose the upper hand. My brother cannot stand for anything to be outside his control, least of all myself."
"Whatever his reasoning, I will not allow you into his office." She moved to the exit and swung the door open for him.
Sherlock briefly contemplated ignoring her and breaking into Mycroft's office anyway.
"Don't even try." Anthea finally looked away from her phone and locked eyes with Sherlock. "It's time for you to leave."
Sherlock was no coward, but nor was he an idiot, and ignoring the cold dredge of fear that slipped down his spine at her order would be moronic on his part. He walked out of the building with what little dignity he could muster.
It happened like this.
When Sherlock didn't have enough to money to pay his dealer, he had to think quickly. He knew that pilfering drugs off the man was the only way he could satisfy his current itch. He also knew that doing so meant he was burning bridges with this man; that he would have to find a new dealer and continually avoid this one for his own safety. It was an easy decision.
He was halfway around the corner when he heard a shout.
Then he was running.
He could tell his dealer was just a few blocks behind him based on the echo of the man's shouts. He continued running, listening for the hard slaps of the man's shoes on pavement. His heart rate was elevated, his breathing grew erratic, and he began to curse himself for every skipped meal and all-nighter—if ever there was a reason to care for his 'transport,' here he had found it.
With his heart pounding in his ears, he could no longer judge the distance between himself and his dealer by sound alone. So he chanced a look behind him.
And slammed into the side of a car door.
He fell bonelessly to the ground, and before he could register pain the other man was on top of him. Sherlock was too dazed to defend himself as he felt the first few punches connect. It took another slam to the ground for him to recognise what was happening and finally swing a fist back.
And god, he had to be at least mildly concussed because suddenly he felt more hands on him, grabbing at his arms and pulling him away from his assailant.
There were voices shouting and his vision was double but he managed to make out the sight of the man who had him pinned—grey hair, ruffled suit, and— oh, the car, it was a police vehicle. Before Sherlock knew it a second car was arriving with blue lights flashing, and he and his dealer were manhandled into handcuffs and then separate vehicles.
The greying officer later spoke to him, asked if he needed medical assistance, uncuffed him and began a pat-down. And Sherlock knew he must have hit his head hard because it didn't even occur to him to hide the heroin that he had just pocketed. So when the officer found what he expected, Sherlock was re-cuffed and guided back into the car.
"Alright mate," the older officer said when he and his partner re-entered the car, "how you doin' back there?"
"Perfectly peachy," Sherlock deadpanned.
It seemed the man was in good humour, because he simply chuckled back at Sherlock. "We're gonna make a quick stop by the urgent care 'round the block—get you checked out. You rammed into us pretty hard back there. Rotten timing of us, that was."
Sherlock snorted. Rotten timing indeed...
Sherlock knew something was off when one of the officers stepped out of the room to answer an urgent message over his mobile. He could hear the man's muffled irritation as his voice raised from the other side of the door. There was a long moment of silence, and after speaking shortly, he reentered the room. He seemed to be stunned.
"Greg, we have… we've been assigned elsewhere."
"What?" the greying officer sat up, "in the middle of a booking?"
"There will be no booking," the man looked sickly pale, "as far as the law is concerned, Sherlock Holmes was never arrested tonight."
"Who in the hell is giving these orders?!" Greg snarled, "no one has the authority to—"
"It comes from high up, mate, higher than the NSY... h-higher than the entire British fleet."
"But why? " Greg spun around, gesturing at Sherlock, "who the hell is this guy, then?"
"Look, I don't know, Greg, but we have got to go."
Greg looked stunned. He spun around a few times, as if trying to find some sort of clue in the room as to what was happening. "I—" he locked eyes with his partner, who gave him a nod. With confusion etched into his face, Greg went to Sherlock and uncuffed him. "I… you... You're free to go, Mr. Holmes." He stepped back and gave his partner a glance before continuing. "Um… will you—will you need a cab somewhere?"
Sherlock waved him off. "No, I have a feeling those arrangements have already been made."
Sure enough, a black car with tinted windows greeted him outside the building.
Anthea didn't acknowledge Sherlock when he shuffled in beside her. Grateful for the silence, Sherlock rubbed at his sore head and closed his eyes. He must have dozed off, because they stopped more suddenly than he anticipated.
He did a double take when he looked out the window.
Eyes wide, he swivelled his head back towards Anthea just in time to see the blinding light of her phone's camera.
"Oh, that's bloody brilliant ," she said, smiling down at her mobile as she thumbed over the screen. "The 'shocked stupid' expression is a good look for you. Think I'll make this my background."
She glanced up at him, grin growing wider. "Close your mouth, you'll catch flies like that."
Outside the car, Sherlock stared up at his brother's home. It was illogical to still feel unwelcome—after all, his ban had never really been from Mycroft's house. But there was still a sense of wrongness, knowing that this visit wouldn't include the quiet snores of an infant and the companionable silence between brothers.
The inside was very much as Sherlock remembered. Still cold, still regal in a way. Light shone from under the door to Mycroft's home office. Instead of heading there, Sherlock slowly crept up the staircase and made his way down the hall.
The accent colours were different from before. Light blues had replaced the warm pinks he remembered. A toy chest rested against one of the walls and a bookshelf against another. The rocking chair was no longer a pristine white—crayon markings, somewhat worn in a failed attempt to remove them, decorated the seat. The evidence of just how much time had passed since Sherlock was here was everywhere.
With his head pounding, Sherlock left the room and headed back downstairs.
"Glad you decided to drop by, brother." Mycroft said from where he sat at his desk. He seemed a bit more worn than was typical, but then Sherlock didn't really know what was 'typical' of his brother anymore. Sherlock gingerly slumped into the seat across from Mycroft, silently eyeing his brother for any signs of distress. Eventually his headache was too aggravating to ignore.
"Head bothering you?" Mycroft's tone was teasing. "Hm, yes, you did have a nasty run-in with a former friend tonight, didn't you?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and removed his hand from his forehead. "I had a run-in with a police car, and don't think I don't know who sent it."
"I've no idea to what you're referring." Mycroft said through his smirk. Something about this enraged Sherlock. He stood up quickly and grabbed his brother by the collar, surprising the both of them.
"What's your game, Mycroft?" Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth, "you keep me at arm's length for months, and suddenly you're orchestrating my capture and dragging me to your house for a friendly chat? "
"I—" Mycroft cleared his throat, "I was… angry. With you. For leaving in the middle of the service, for going back on the drugs. I needed time… I'm sorry."
"No, that's not it." Sherlock dropped Mycroft's collar and stood back to look him over thoroughly.
"It's the truth, Sherlock."
"If that's the case, what's changed? Ever since the funeral, you have been avoiding me in person. You want me to get clean, you realised your previous interventions did little to stop me. Ignoring the issue did nothing either, so you went for something in the middle. Hands-off, but keeping involved enough so I wouldn't accidentally hurt myself.
"Tonight, though, you've decided to forgo this tactic entirely. You meddled by nearly getting me arrested, you brought me to your home, and now—you haven't even fully formulated your plan. You—you're thinking of forcing me into rehab, or locking me in one of your rooms so I can't escape—anything to get me off the streets. Why now?"
Sherlock had expected anger from Mycroft, but instead his brother just looked on at him sadly. Mycroft opened his mouth, once, closed it again. "Really, Sherlock," His tone shifted from teasing to exasperated, "I thought your skills in deduction had improved."
"You want me to deduce your reasoning? Fine." He stepped back and eyed his brother over carefully. Mycroft shifted and looked distinctly uncomfortable.
"Your shirt is wrinkled," Sherlock began, "not so much that the average person should care, but you've always held yourself to a higher standard. Your nails—a bit less trim than you usually like. You've also not been sleeping well, based on the redness of your eyes. Probably still having nightmares. In any case, neglecting hygiene and losing sleep can be signs of depression. Not really a surprising response to one's becoming a childless widower in a day." Mycroft winced at Sherlock's words but didn't stop him from continuing.
"You hate when you cannot control things, least of all yourself, and you hate having an audience to your indiscretions. So being in an emotionally volatile state is… difficult. You didn't want me to see you this way." Sherlock began pacing the small space in front of Mycroft's desk. "But something changed, and you decided that bringing me here was worth whatever humiliation it would cost you." He spun back around to face Mycroft. "So I ask you again. Why now? "
The brothers stared each other down for a moment. Then Mycroft swallowed and took a deep breath.
"I… I cannot..." Whatever composure Mycroft had acquired was quickly eradicated as he stumbled over his words, "I used to be—feared. Respected. I was known for being empirical, for… for not getting too caught up in sentiment to do my job." He avoided Sherlock's gaze. "I could compartmentalise my emotion when needed. Or at least I… I thought I could." He paused, and Sherlock suddenly had the odd notion that this was a dream, because Mycroft's lip never trembled.
"I haven't gone a day without sentiment getting in the way, now," Mycroft said, throat rough, "I can't stop feeling this way, it's—it's suffocating. Some say it's hard tostart caring, but it's the stopping that's truly impossible. I just want to stop—feeling this. Caring. I wish—I wish I never unlocked this sentiment within me, it is—it's damn near impossible to live with."
Mycroft clammed up again, still avoiding his younger brother's gaze. Sherlock tried to interpret further. "You're still grieving."
"No," Mycroft barked out, half-laugh, half-sob, "I mean, you're right, I'm still grieving, but this isn't about that."
Sherlock began pacing again. "You cared about them, and you are upset that you still care, because… because caring is a disadvantage. Moreover, caring now is pointless, when there is no longer a body or person to care for anyway. It's illogical. And doing something so illogical must kill you." He could feel he was getting close.
"You pushed me away because you were trying to learn how to live without being reliant on sentiment. But in your words, it's difficult to stop caring once you've begun. You were stuck— " and Sherlock stopped suddenly.
He knew the rules of deduction, he could see where the evidence was pointing, but it made no sense.
"You were—" he began hesitantly, "you said it's nearly impossible to live with. Tonight, you..." and Sherlock felt foolish saying it, felt foolish for even considering it, but he still had to get it out, "you were thinking of—of ending it."
Mycroft's silence was all the confirmation Sherlock needed.
"How… how close were you to…" He hated when people minced words or spoke in euphemisms, and here he was doing the same thing.
"It was merely a theoretical notion, I assure you."
Sherlock wasn't sure he was properly processing this new information. "Was it the first time the idea crossed you?"
Mycroft actually looked thoughtful. "I suppose it was the first time I seriously dwelled on it."
Sherlock searched for a reply but was at a loss for words.
Mycroft smiled sadly, looking at his hands. "As I said, it's easier to go through life without getting… attached to a person. Less dangerous. Nadia was... unexpected. She weaved her way into my life, and without her, w-without the kids," and his voice trembled again, "I don't remember how I used to live without them."
He took a deep breath before continuing. "Tonight, I had a lapse of judgement. But still… I do believe that this defect of sentiment and emotion is something I'm stuck with. I can think of a hundred reasons why, logically, I should continue to live. None seem to matter. The only reason I found was one of sentiment." Mycroft locked eyes with his brother.
Sherlock knew what was about to be said, knew that it would change everything. He tried to stop his brother from saying it, but Mycroft was ahead of him.
"Your life is not your own, do you hear me? As long as I have breath, you cannot die. "
That night, the two brothers stayed up late, just talking between each other in a way reminiscent of the night before Mycroft went to university.
Sherlock would check into rehab the next morning. It would not be his last time, but it would be what he privately termed the "defining time;" his first earnest quest for sobriety.
Life would return to its usual stasis. Mycroft would harass Sherlock about his health, finding proper work, and calling their mother. Sherlock would ignore most of his brother's pleas. Sherlock would harass Mycroft about his weight, his looks, and his overbearing personality. Mycroft would ignore most of his brother's insults.
Sherlock would eventually find (mostly) honest work, would gain friends in his landlady and a handful of colleagues, and would find a flatmate who would eventually come to know him even better than Mycroft.
He would wonder if they would grieve at his funeral.
He would eventually stand on the roof of St. Bart's and finally understand what his brother had meant about the dangers of sentiment.
Worth it, he would think as he jumped, and hoped that Mycroft would one day feel the same.