AUTHOR'S NOTE:
So I started writing this a few weeks ago, then got stuck, and I finally managed to get it finished.
WARNINGS!
PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE HEED THESE WARNINGS BECAUSE THERE MAY BE TRIGGERS!
- CUTTING /self harm (biggest warning)
- Angst
- Unrequited love
- Mycroft being big brotherly...kind of
- Sherlock realizing he has feelings
My headcanon for after John and Mary's wedding is that Mycroft went to Baker Street to check up on Sherlock. Danger night. I think Sherlock would have probably turned more towards drugs than cutting, but since there are so many stories of Sherlock and drugs I wanted to try something a little different (and I wanted him clear headed to have a conversation with Mycroft).
Just the Holmes boys talking, nothing hot or smutty, sorry. I can't believe this is my 4th Sherlock fanfic already, I've never written this much for any other fandoms I've been in but Sherlock just begs for filler and headcanon fics.
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NOT INVOLVED
The air was unusually cool for a night in August. Sherlock wrapped his coat a little tighter around himself as he walked along the sidewalk, ignoring the chatter of those that walked past him. So many people, submerged in their own little worlds, with their mindless troubles of daily life, laughing at stupid things, working at useless jobs, wasting their time on the most tedious tasks. Usually, Sherlock would scoff at the absurdity, but tonight, he tuned it all out as he briskly headed towards Baker Street. The feeling that had slowly settled into his stomach as the day drew to an end felt foreign to him, and he could feel himself starting to panic as it grew. He had carefully schooled his expression during the wedding, but now that he was alone and under the cover of darkness he felt his mouth draw down into a tight frown.
What was this feeling?
Why does it feel so unpleasant?
Where had it come from?
The man ran a frustrated hand through his hair, grimacing as he felt all the products he had used to tame his curls. He wrinkled his nose, knowing that the faint scent of perfume probably clung to him still. A shower, he desperately needed to shower and wash away this armour he had put on for today's battlefield. Initially he had had no intention of attending the wedding at all. Even with all of Mrs. Hudson and Mary's attempts to beg, coax and blackmail him to come, he had stood firm. But then John had joined them with an ace up his sleeve, asking him to be the best man. Sherlock still can't shake that feeling of shock and disbelief that someone in this world, much less someone like John, had deemed him worthy of the title of best friend. He remembered when he had broken the news to Mycroft. The man had reacted with much eye rolling and sarcasm.
Friends never did hold much weight for Mycroft, and Sherlock had learned from his big brother, holding others at arm's length in a belief that that was the best thing to do. He had had no reason to doubt his philosophy until he had met John, John who had whirl winded into his life, chased after a cab through the streets of London with him and then shot a man to save Sherlock all within the span of 24 hours after their first meeting. John who had chided him about not eating, not sleeping, nagged at him to stop the cigarettes and most of all, put an end to his sometimes need to turn to something a little stronger. Sherlock wasn't sure when, but somewhere along the way he had gotten used to having the man there. Always a step behind, watching his back. Always appearing out of nowhere right when Sherlock was too near the edge, pulling him to safety. Always around, sometimes to the point of getting underfoot and then they'd bicker and argue, like a married couple Mrs. Hudson had remarked on more than one occasion, causing John to sputter indignantly.
After his two year absence he had assumed everything would just go back to the way they were. Back to Baker Street, back to tea and biscuits, back to romanticized blogs, and back to a way of life that Sherlock had, for the first time in his life, found comfortable. But time had changed things, and Sherlock found himself thrown when Mycroft revealed that John was no longer at Baker Street. He had gone back to an empty flat, with only memories and whispers in the air to remind him of their time together. John had moved on, and for once Sherlock had been faced with a situation he didn't expect. He had thought time would stand still, maybe freeze in his absence. He had selfishly thought his place in John's mind would keep the man from seeking a replacement. But looking back he couldn't help but shake his head at how foolish he had been. Of course John would move on, why wouldn't he? The world never ended with the life of one person. The sun still came out, the Earth still rotated, and someone like John would have had no trouble finding others to take his place. Perhaps not quite as brilliant and interesting, but they offered him things in life that Sherlock never could.
Sherlock paused as 221B came into view. He paused, eyes scanning the area out of habit, checking to make sure it was safe. No hidden shadows lurking in the alleys, no hooded figure seemingly waiting for his arrival. Sherlock shoved his hands into his coat pockets and slowly walked forward. He bet John didn't have to worry about that kind of thing now that he was safely starting a new life with Mary. Assassins gunning for their death, blackmail and threats showing up on their doorstep, none of that would be part of John's new life. A wife, and now a baby on the way, whatever John said about none of this changing his relationship with Sherlock, the detective knew better. Everything would be changed. Now John's life wasn't his alone. He couldn't dive headlong into danger without a spare thought because he had people waiting for him to come home. Besides, Sherlock wouldn't allow it either. A case here and there to keep his life interesting, sure, but no longer would Sherlock be inclined to include him on high risk cases. He had a vow to keep.
The door seemed unusually heavy when Sherlock pushed it open. The darkness that greeted him seemed darker than usual. The quietness was almost suffocating and Sherlock slammed the door behind him, just to hear something besides the thoughts in his head. He walked up the stairs one at a time, remembering all the times he and John had come bounding in, flying up those same steps, adrenaline pumping from solving a case. Mrs. Hudson would always come up after, scolding them for the noise, but she'd always have a pot of tea with her with biscuits.
Once inside the sitting room, Sherlock quickly turned on all the lights. It was too dark. The darkness was dangerous. It led to dangerous things, dangerous thoughts. He needed to see, needed to see the armchairs, the sofa, the mess on the table, the dishes in the sink, his microscope in the kitchen, things he can use to ground himself in reality and not let his mind run out of control. Sherlock shed his coat and scarf, tossing them over the back of one of the chairs. He took off his tuxedo jacket next, loosening the tie as he walked to his bedroom and threw it all carelessly on his bed. He doubt he'd ever need to wear it again considering he had no intentions of ever attending another wedding. Quickly he changed out of the stiff, formal clothes and into his silk dressing gown, sighing in relief as layer after layer of his facade was removed. A soft buzzing startled him and it took him a moment to realize it was his phone. Who could be calling him now? Quickly, he pawed through the pile of clothes he had just shed, scrambling to find the device. He couldn't help the sigh of exasperation as he read the message.
/Sherlock, where'd you go? Mary wants to have a dance with you. - JW/
Good grief. And just when he thought it was all over. He had hoped no one would notice him slipping away with so many people there, mostly half intoxicated, trying to dance the night away to the loud music. Sherlock ran the excuses he could use through his mind, but settled on something between a truth and a lie.
/Home. Cases. - SH/
He did have a lot of cases to go through. Ever since he had agreed to help with the wedding he had been neglecting his blog, and his inbox was now overflowing with requests for him. Most of them he was sure he could solve within minutes, but there're probably a few in there that are interesting enough to hold his attention for a while.
His phone buzzed again.
/What? Tonight? Mary's going to be so disappointed. She says you owe her a dance. - JW/
Sherlock couldn't help the slight tilt of his lips. He could imagine Mary with her exaggerated expression of disappointment. He liked Mary, he really did. The woman had a quick wit and could read others, not as well as Sherlock of course, but to a formidable extent. Unlike John's previous girlfriends, Mary never seemed to make John choose between Sherlock and her, and whatever barbs Sherlock dished out to her when they had initially been introduced she had shot back with just as much enthusiasm. She seemed more amused by his insults than anything else. Sherlock didn't miss the look of relief John had sported when Sherlock had settled into a comfortable friendship with Mary. Sherlock never gave much thought to emotions like love, he knew it was a mere chemical reaction in the brain and he could see no usefulness for it in his life. He had seen people supposedly in love, foolish decisions are made in its name, irrationality explained by it, logic tossed out the window in honour of it, and Sherlock shuddered to think why anyone would willingly submit themselves to such a horror. But if John had to fall in love, Sherlock was glad it was with someone whom he could stand to be in the same room with.
Another buzz on his phone followed by another message. Apparently he had taken too long to answer.
/Need any help with the cases? - JW/
Sherlock suppressed his urge to sigh. Like he would tear John away from his own wedding night for a case. Quickly his fingers flew over the screen, typing a reply.
/No. Help unnecessary. Easily handled. Enjoy the night, and your se.../
Sherlock frowned and hurriedly erased the last two letters, John had forbidden him to use the term 'sex holiday' in reference to the honeymoon, even though that was clearly what it was. He tried again.
/No. Help unnecessary. Easily handled. Enjoy the night, and your honeymoon. - SH/
Phone still in hand, Sherlock headed to the bathroom for his shower. It had taken a lot of self-restraint not to let his mouth run off during the wedding. So many people, so many observations, so many deductions. Cheating husbands, lying wives, alcoholic parents, junkie kids, and there they all mingled, in their shiny new outfits, laughing and plastering on this smile as if every single one of them were the picture of perfection. Sherlock yearned to peel away their masks, but he knew he couldn't, not at John's wedding, he had to see it through smoothly, and he bit his tongue to do so.
He undressed and tossed away the nicotine patches he had plastered on his arm to help him get through the day, not caring if they made it into the garbage can. They were like a blessing and a curse all in one. They calmed his thoughts, but made him jittery. Several times he caught himself fidgeting, fingers tapping away on the table or on his thigh, his eyes darting around even faster than usual. He was afraid John would catch on and ask him about it, but luckily the man had been too preoccupied to notice.
Just as Sherlock's hand reach for the shower tap his phone buzzed again.
/Yes, thank you. Thank you, Sherlock. Good night. -JW/
Sherlock put the phone on the rack in the bathroom and turned on the water. He turned the knob until the water was hot, just short of scalding. He needed a hot shower to loosen his muscles. Thank you. John's thank you seemed loaded with meaning, but he was too tired now to try and decipher them. Well, at least it showed he hadn't messed anything up. For a moment during the speech he had noticed everyone crying. He had panicked, crying was never a good sign, but John had reassured him that it was OK. Apparently crying at weddings was common? Sherlock rubbed the heel of his hands against his eyes, emotions were too complicated. He hated dealing with them. It was so much easier to drown himself in the cold calculations of science and reason. Those he could understand. There were correct answers and incorrect answers, nothing in between, no grey area. He hated grey areas. Grey areas never made sense. Stepping under the hot spray, Sherlock let his mind focus on the water, letting it wash away the grime from the battlefield.
It was thirty minutes later when Sherlock finally stepped out from the bathroom. His hair was towel dried, already drying into their natural curls, his dressing gown hanging open to reveal his usual sleeping t-shirt and sweat pants. He felt refreshed, and exhausted. His skin was glowing red instead of its usual paleness, the water's temperature had caused his blood vessels to expand in an attempt to release heat. He slipped the phone into the pocket of his dressing gown and headed to the sitting room where he promptly flopped down on the sofa, stretching out along its length like a cat. It was quiet, so quiet. The clock revealed that it was now in the early hours of the morning, even the traffic outside had slowed to an occasional car passing by. Sherlock's eyes traced the shapes and shadows the light caused on the ceiling, his mind going over the day in minute detail. Important information was store away, unimportant things deleted. He steepled his hands under his chin, and noticed the slight tremor in them.
Oh balls.
He briefly considered grabbing another nicotine patch to calm the tremors, but that seemed so...dull now. His mind searched for ways to calm himself - alcohol? No, alcohol only made him stupid. Besides, he was a light weight, as Lestrade so gleefully pointed out after John's stag night. He didn't need Mrs. Hudson coming home to find him in a pool of his own vomit. Cigarettes? Sherlock sighed. John had made him toss out all his cigarettes, and he had been relying on the patches, so now he was pretty sure there were none left in the apartment. Drugs were out too, John had made him get rid of that even before the cigarettes, and Sherlock really didn't feel like trudging to that horrid part of the city to get more right now. The lithe man grumbled in frustration, he needed to just numb his mind for a while, needed something to keep his mind occupied aside from weddings, John, and the empty apartment. He flipped onto his stomach and buried his face in one of the cushions, wrapping his long arms around it. But it proved a mistake. With his eyes closed against the cushion the events of the day flashed before his eyes like a slide show. Turning his head to the side Sherlock peeked one eye open from beneath his messy curls, glancing around the room. He could read. Boring. Check his blog? Dull. Do an experiment? Tedious. Message...message who? Sherlock realized suddenly that everyone he knew, aside from Mycroft, would still be at the wedding, and Sherlock was not in the mood for his brother at all. Everyone. A coldness gripped him and Sherlock curled his body on the sofa, pulling his knees up to his chest. Did he really have no one? But why would that bother him? It's never bothered him before. In fact, he had prided himself on being above all the messiness of human relations. He didn't need anyone. He had no need for anyone. After all, there has never been a record of someone dying from lack of human relations. It was unnecessary. But that didn't explain this unpleasant lump in his throat when he drew up the memory of seeing John and Mary dancing away, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade swaying to the music, laughing, talking, clearly having a good time, and compared it to the eerie stillness of the room he was in.
Angry at his mind for its inability to stop thinking, Sherlock jerked himself up and off the sofa. Maybe some tea would help?
He stomped to the kitchen and banged around the cupboards, looking for the kettle and whatever else he needed for tea. Cups, tea bags, he had no idea what kind of tea it was but at this point he didn't even care. With the kettle on the stove and the tea bag in the cup, Sherlock busied himself with some mindless cleaning to occupy his time. Empty beakers went in the box, test tubes that need cleaning in the sink, quick wipe of the table with a tissue, contrary to what most people seemed to believe he actually kept his experiment area fairly clean after all he couldn't risk cross contamination. He picked up a box of unused slides and reached up to slide them onto a shelf when his foot slipped on the floor. With an undignified yelp Sherlock's arms reached out to stead himself, dropping the entire box on the floor. The crash sounded thunderous in the quietness, several of the broken slides falling out of the box. Sherlock grimaced. Blasted. Looks like he'll have to put in an order for more tomorrow. Or help himself to some from Bart's. Shaking his head Sherlock stooped to clean up the mess.
A stinging pain across the palm of his hand alerted him that picking up broken glass with bare hands was probably not the brightest idea he had ever had. The piece he had picked up had a jagged edge that he had absently allowed to slit across his flesh. A vague part of his mind rationalized that he should get it cleaned but his eyes were transfixed on the thin line, reddening by the second, against his pale skin. Slowly, small bubbles of blood broke through the surface where the glass had actually managed to break skin. Sherlock was no stranger to blood, he had seen lots of it at crime scenes and used it in experiments, but rarely had it seemed so fascinating.
A shrill whistle pierced the air and Sherlock hurried to turn off the stove. He tossed the useless slides into the trash bin and poured the water into the waiting tea cup. Settling down at the kitchen table, he continued to study his newest injury. The line was so thin, but even then Sherlock could feel it as the sting dulled to a constant throbbing. Sherlock's eyes strayed to the trash bin. If one line was a dull throb...how would two feel? Three? Four? Five? Without pause Sherlock walked back to the trash bin and pulled out one of the broken slides, the sharpest one he could find. He examined it under the light like examining a specimen, yes. This was sharp enough to break skin with just some slight pressure.
Sherlock rolled back the sleeves to his dressing gown and checked his arms. So pale, John used to say it was because Sherlock so rarely went out unless it was for a case, and even then he was always in a suit or his Belstaff. He had tried to get Sherlock out more, claiming that the paleness was a sign of bad health, to which Sherlock had promptly scoffed and told him how ludicrous he was being. Well, now that paleness should be quite a marvellous canvas for a splash of red.
He felt his heart thumping in his chest as he pressed the cold glass against the warm flesh just below the bend of his elbow. The flesh was particularly sensitive and pale here. A thin layer of skin was all that prevented the warm liquid that ran through his veins from spilling to the surface.
/Stop this, Sherlock./
Sherlock felt his hand twitch as John's voice scolded in his mind. No, John would not approve of this. Definitely not.
But John wasn't here anymore.
With renewed determination, Sherlock pressed the jagged edge just a bit deeper, feeling the pinpoint sting as the hardness forced soft tissues to give way.
/Sherlock, you know better./
Again, the stern voice broke through Sherlock's concentration and his hand eased up on the pressure.
/Dammit John, / Sherlock bickered with the voice in his mind. /Go away, go back to your happy little married life and leave me alone already./
Sherlock waited as the seconds ticked by. No more voices. Satisfied, he turned back to his task.
This time, Sherlock acted quickly. He didn't want more distractions. A flood of adrenaline pumped into his system as he pressed down hard on the glass, feeling it tear through the flesh with satisfaction. Before the pain had a chance to settle in, Sherlock pulled the jagged edge clear across, watching as he tore apart the skin that protected the flesh beneath.
A second ticked by.
Then another.
The line turned pink.
Blood swelled to the surface and bubbled over the top layer of skin.
The bubbles welled up in size, one merging with another as the liquid started pouring forth from the opening. At the edges of the cut they gathered, pooling before sliding down his arm. Sherlock reached for a tissue and dabbed at the trail, not wanting it to get on the floor and making a mess. Blood was always so difficult to clean. He kept watching, mesmerized, wondering how deep the cut was and how long the blood will flow before it began to clot. He really should grab his timer and see.
Instead, Sherlock gripped his weapon of choice for the evening once more and made another clean cut, faster this time, more practiced, directly below the previous one. He gritted his teeth. The dragging of the glass as it cut open the flesh was the most painful part, the kind of stinging pain that made one suck in their breath and flinch. But that was quickly followed by a sense of triumph and, yes, relief. Must be the endorphins kicking in, the body's natural pain killers.
Sherlock marvelled as the lines of red merged along his skin, painting it red. Quite a lovely colour, he must admit. He could smell the light coppery tang and without thinking he dipped a finger in it, smearing the blood and bringing it to his lips. The taste was strong, stronger than he's ever tasted it before. He had, of course, tasted blood from split lips and other injuries, but he has never purposely placed blood directly into his mouth for the purpose of tasting it. It was slightly overwhelming, and he wrinkled his nose and how powerful it was.
Before he had a chance to re-position the glass a third time, he heard the front door downstairs open then slam shut. Hazily, he wondered if Mrs. Hudson was home, but no, the footsteps as they made their way up the stairs were not hers. They were heavy, powerful, the steps of a man, a man who's used to getting his way in the world.
Quickly, Sherlock dropped the broken slide and yanked out a handful of tissues from the box on the table, pressing them to his new injuries. Some of the blood had already dried on his skin and he cursed as mere rubbing didn't clean them away. He hurried to the sink, knowing that the intruder was getting closer to his flat. He ran the water and set his arm under the stream, hissing slightly as the cold liquid splashed over his open wounds, washing away flakes of blood. Just as Sherlock turned off the tap and dabbed his arm dry with the mass of tissues, he heard the footsteps come to a halt, directly at the entrance to the kitchen. With a long and dramatic sigh, Sherlock feigned nonchalance as he chucked the now wet tissues into the garbage and pulled down his dressing gown's sleeve in one move, turning to face his uninvited visitor.
"Normally people knock."
A raised eyebrow.
"One would hardly call any of this, normal, brother mine."
Sherlock bristled at the condescending tone. He quickly cast an eye over the kitchen table, trying to see if he had left any evidence of what he was doing prior to being interrupted. The slide he had dropped was on the floor, he caught a glimpse of one of its corners peeking out from under the table and silently hoped the other man wouldn't notice. As if trying to direct attention away from the scene of a crime, Sherlock breezed out of the kitchen quickly, brushing past his guest into the living room. He pursed his lips and added a raised eyebrow for effect as he levelled innocently confused eyes at the other, feigning ignorance.
"Any of what? What are you doing here?"
The man sighed and hooked the handle of his umbrella on the doorknob, casually settling himself down in the chair that John usually occupied. Sherlock's lips twitched slightly at that but he refrained from commenting.
"I could ask you the same thing. What happened to...mingling? Or did you grow bored of dealing with the common masses?"
Sherlock settled himself down in his own chair, facing the other and crossed his legs dramatically. He leaned back, interlinking his fingers and settled them in his lap.
"I finished my duties as the best man. There was no further need for my presence."
The older man hm-ed as his eyes looked Sherlock over. He settled on the younger man's left arm and Sherlock didn't miss the minute narrowing of those all-knowing eyes. God how he hated them, Sherlock could never hide anything from them when they were kids.
"Mycroft, why are you here?"
Sherlock kept his voice steady, hoping the question would distract his brother.
Mycroft took his time answering. He could see the tiredness behind Sherlock's facade and knew today's battlefield had proved as difficult as any his younger brother had faced. More so, possibly, considering the role he had to play. He had tried to warn Sherlock so many times about the dangers of allowing his emotions to run his head. People like himself and Sherlock were simply not meant for the mundane interactions of ordinary humans, but it appears the younger Holmes had tossed his warnings to the wayside. He only knew too well that Sherlock's self proclamation to be a sociopath was a mere shield for the man to hide behind. Most people hears the word sociopath and immediately jerk back, and Sherlock took almost a gleeful joy in seeing the slight fear that creeps into their eyes. But John hadn't been scared off so easily, and now Sherlock's suffering the consequences for letting someone breach his shield.
"Checking to see if you're still not involved."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"It's astounding that the British government is so free these days. Don't you have some...criminal ring to destroy? Government to overthrow?"
Mycroft ignored the sarcastic daggers Sherlock tossed his way, crossing his legs and propping an elbow up on the chair's arm so that he could lean his head on his hand.
"Roll up your sleeves, Sherlock."
Immediately, the curly haired man bristled. He practically snarled at his older brother, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest.
"What nonsense is this? You can't just order me around."
Mycroft's gaze was like ice as he pierced through Sherlock's defenses.
"Sleeves, Sherlock. Now."
Stubbornly, Sherlock stayed silent as a staring match ensued between the siblings. Sherlock knew Mycroft couldn't physically force him to do anything since he had always had the upper hand when it came to physical prowess, but Mycroft had his own bag of tricks he could resort to when it came to Sherlock.
Calmly, Mycroft steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, regarding his brother over them. Sherlock didn't have too many weak spots to press, but there's one that always worked.
"Either you roll up your sleeves, Sherlock Holmes, or Scotland Yard will be receiving an anonymous tip supplying information regarding the identity of the shooter of a certain cabbie."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Blasted Mycroft.
"Crude, Mycroft., resorting to blackmail."
The older man shrugged.
"I hardly require your approval, brother mine. It would be an utter shame if the newlywed had to spend his honeymoon locked behind bars, wouldn't it?"
With an irritated growl, Sherlock yanked up the dressing gown's loose sleeves, bunching them up near the shoulders. The two red lines stood out clearly against his skin, tinging pink at the edges. They had started to bleed again after Sherlock had washed them, and the silk sleeves had managed to smudge the thick liquid creating a morbid painting of sorts.
Pretending not to even notice, Sherlock met Mycroft's eyes with defiance and rested his now bare arms on the arms of his chair, careful not to let the blood touch the leather surface.
In his mind, Mycroft sighed. Not involved indeed. His eyes flickered over the injuries, noting with some relief that they were superficial. By his calculations they should heal within a week and although the scar would remain for longer, they posed no actual threat to Sherlock's health. He cringed a bit at the messiness on his brother's arm, Mycroft hated messes, any kind of messes, which was why he used to find Sherlock's organized chaos such a headache to deal with back when they were kids.
"Self harm instead of drugs this time. You do have such a knack for self destruction."
His voice never wavered although his eyes kept flicking between Sherlock's face and his arm.
"Must I really confiscate all sharp objects in this dump of a flat now?"
Never one to miss making Mycroft squirm, Sherlock took the index finger of his right hand and ran it over one of the cuts, flinching minutely when the salt on his skin made contact with the raw flesh causing it to burn. He kept his eyes on Mycroft, however, and smirked when he saw his older brother grimace.
"Hardly possible, Mycroft, even for you."
Mycroft turned his head away, glancing over the flat. Now that John's gone Sherlock had allowed his mess to take over every flat surface. Piles of books on the desk, papers and files on the chairs, coffee table hidden under notes, and on the wall there was still plastered wedding arrangements and reminders.
"Seeing as you're so obviously not involved, I suppose that had nothing to do with the wedding? Just a whimsical experiment you wanted to try on yourself?"
"Whim implies a lack of purpose. I never do anything without purpose, Mycroft."
"Oh yes, then do enlighten me on the purpose to your actions."
"Calculation of the speed and quantity of endorphin release as relative to injury size."
Mycroft scoffed in disbelief.
"Oh Sherlock, I doubt your body's measly supply of endorphin will supply you with the numbing high you're hoping to achieve."
"Who says I was looking for a high? I told you, it was an experiment."
Mycroft pushed himself out of the chair and strode over to the wall. He regarded Sherlock's hurried scribbles on the papers, noting the meticulous diagrams of the wedding hall, along with statistics and information on guests and wedding plans. He didn't look at Sherlock when he spoke again, but he kept his voice low, almost sympathetic.
"Organizing a stag party, helping with wedding arrangements, agreeing to attend a wedding, accepting the position of best man, delivering a speech that left the audience in tears. Sherlock, what compelled you to agree to any of those?"
Sherlock eyed his brother's back. Not being able to see the man's expression, Sherlock was left to deduce what he can from voice alone. He noted that his brother's usual biting remarks had lost some of its edge, and it seemed he genuinely wanted Sherlock to answer the question.
He thought over his bother's observations. What had compelled him to be put into those situations? None of them were circumstances he could usually tolerate, much less actively participate in.
"...He asked me...it was important to him."
Mycroft withheld his sigh. An answer he had already expected, although he wasn't sure if Sherlock had realized it before now.
"And...?"
"And...it was important to me...because it was important to him..."
Mycroft nodded. Sherlock's voice was beginning to colour with realization.
"Therefore...?"
"Therefore...I did everything I was supposed to...to make him happy..."
Mycroft felt his heart wrench. Oh Sherlock.
"Because...?"
"Because...because it's important to me...to see him happy..."
Mycroft reached out and pulled a mock wedding photo of John and Mary off the wall. The happy couple.
"Because...?"
"Because...because I...him..."
Sherlock's voice was a mere whisper and Mycroft heard it trail off. He was afraid to turn around, afraid to see what kind of expression Sherlock would have now that he's finally realized. He studied John in the photo, this man, this one man had managed to take his younger brother's entire world apart. Mycroft carefully folded the photo, hiding Mary from view so that only John remained. He then re-taped the folded photo to the wall, directly beside a photo of Sherlock in his best man tuxedo so that John and Sherlock were side by side.
Never did Mycroft imagine Sherlock would befriend someone so…ordinary. He should have known upon his first meeting with John Watson, should have trusted his instincts to get the man away from Sherlock. But he had helped to keep Sherlock clean and in line, curbing the younger man's often wild tendencies. For a while it had appeared that his presence in Sherlock's life had a positive impact on the often erratic detective, until Sherlock had let feelings overrule his brain. Mycroft had already sensed it when Sherlock came to him asking for help to fake his suicide in order to protect John from Moriarty. Sherlock never sought to protect anyone, he never saw a need to do so. John was the first one and Mycroft had frankly been quite shocked that in such a short amount of time the ex-soldier had managed to make his presence such a large part of Sherlock's life.
He thought maybe after two years away Sherlock would come back clear headed and back on his A game, but it appears he had been dead wrong this time. Two years absence had only strengthened Sherlock's attachment to John, his guilt over deceiving the man about his death blurring his judgement. He tried to warn Sherlock several times, but his brother had stubbornly insisted that he was 'not involved' each time, choosing to keep himself in denial.
Mycroft studied his handiwork, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. The two names seemed to roll off the tongue as a pair. It was odd saying one without the other.
"You…what him, Sherlock? Why is it so important to you that John Watson is happy?"
Mycroft prodded. No more denial. No more running.
Silence stretched and Mycroft half turned, glancing out the corner of his eyes at his brother. Sherlock hadn't moved from his chair, but now his hands were clasped together in a fist under his chin. His eyes nervously darted around, as if following invisible lines only he could see.
Deciding to leave Sherlock to his thoughts for the moment, Mycroft pulled out the handkerchief from his suit pocket and headed to the kitchen. He ran the tap until the water turned lukewarm before soaking the soft fabric and squeezing out the excess water. Briskly, he walked back to the chair he occupied before and sat down, holding out one hand expectantly.
Sherlock stared at his open hand in puzzlement before he realized what Mycroft intended to do. His eyes widened comically in disbelief as he stared at his older brother like the man had lost his mind.
An impatient sigh fell from Mycroft's lips and he leaned forward, reaching across the gap between them to grab hold of Sherlock's injured arm. He half expected his younger sibling to jerk away, knowing that Sherlock loathed being touched especially by him, but grudgingly Sherlock kept still, watching hawkishly as Mycroft ran the wet handkerchief gently over his cuts.
"You didn't answer, Sherlock. Why is it so important to you that John Watson is happy?"
Mycroft repeated his question as he cleaned the wounds carefully. He could feel muscles tense and tight under his fingers, knowing that Sherlock was consciously holding himself still with effort.
Sherlock rubbed the heel of his free hand against his eyes.
"Because…because he cares if I'm happy."
"And are you happy? Are these the results of your happiness?"
Mycroft asked looking pointedly at the cuts.
Sherlock frowned hard, furrowing his brows.
"I am happy for him, Mycroft. Stop implying otherwise. He loves Mary, and Mary loves him. They're going to have a family together, something he's always wanted. Why wouldn't I be happy for him?"
Mycroft took out a bottle of hand sanitizer and squeezed some onto his still damp handkerchief. The faint smell of alcohol permeated their senses. Slowly, he dabbed at the cuts, knowing the alcohol would sting. Sherlock hissed as the cool liquid burned. Stupid OCD brother and his stupid hand sanitizers.
"That doesn't answer the question, Sherlock. Are you happy? When you saw them together today, when you heard them make vows to each other, when you watched them waltz to your composition, was it happiness you felt? When you think that right now, they are still together, right this moment, he is with her and he will always be with her from now on, is that joy you feel?"
"Good grief, Mycroft. We're not going to sit around and talk about 'feelings' now are we? Please do spare me."
Sherlock attempted to cut through Mycroft's words quickly as he felt his chest tighten at the imagery his brother painted. That definitely was not happiness he was feeling, no. This feeling was painful, it hurt, and suddenly the thought of a quiet, empty flat with only him here felt suffocating.
"No…no there's no need for any talk. I think your actions are loud and clear."
This time, Sherlock did jerk his arm out of Mycroft's grasp. He pulled his feet up onto his seat, wrapping his arms around his bent legs, looking for all the world like a sulky child.
"Stop analyzing me. I'm not an experiment. If you're quite done here, then leave already. I'm sure you have better things to do than irritate me."
Mycroft didn't bother trying to recapture Sherlock's arm. Instead he tossed his handkerchief onto the small side table and leaned back into the cushions of the chair.
"And what are you planning to do once I leave, Sherlock?"
"Scrub every surface you touched with disinfectant."
"Very amusing, if only it were so easy to get you to clean anything."
"Oh for heaven's sake, Mycroft. I'm not going to shoot up or kill myself or whatever other gruesome scenario you have cooked up, much as it may please you to see me self destruct. It was just a wedding, not the bloody apocalypse. You said it yourself, that's what people do, they get married, it happens every day."
Mycroft brushed his hands over his pants, brushing off some imaginary dust particles.
"Indeed, and yet never have you felt the need to physically harm yourself over that fact prior to today."
"Hm. 'Caring is not an advantage', wasn't that what you said? Did I just provide you with the final proof for that? "
"Well that depends, Sherlock. Do you care, for John Watson?"
Sherlock kept silent. His gut screamed at him to refute his brother's question. No, NO, Sherlock Holmes did NOT care because caring is a weakness, caring blurs judgement, caring is illogical, irrational, caring is...human. Sherlock Holmes cannot be a mere human. He had to be more.
Mycroft read Sherlock's silence easily. His eyes were deadly serious as he pinned his younger brother to his seat with them.
"Have you...fallen...for John Watson, Sherlock Holmes?"
Sherlock watched Mycroft's eyes, trying to find answers in them. His older brother always had the answers, always. His older brother was always a step ahead, leaving him to play catch up. His older brother had to know, he must know, but this time, Sherlock found no answers from Mycroft's eyes.
Fallen...has he fallen for John? What did that even mean?
He feared when John was in danger.
He worried when John was unhappy.
He felt comfort when John told him nonsense to calm him down.
He felt safe when John followed him into battle.
He felt anger when anyone upset John.
He felt happy when John was happy.
To see John happy and safe, how far was he willing to go?
"Sherlock..."
Mycroft's soft and incredulous voice pulled the conflicted man from his racing thoughts back to the present. His brother was staring at him, eyes wide in shock. Sherlock wondered what could catch Mycroft so off guard when something warm and wet fell from his eyes. Confused, Sherlock instinctively looked up at the ceiling, was there a hole in the roof? But it's not raining outside. He swiped a finger at the wetness now on his cheek. Definitely warm, not rain water. Sherlock blinked and felt more of the wetness falling. Slightly panicked, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and pulled them away to check. Wet. The source was his eyes. But that would mean...
Oh god...
Flustered and still slightly in denial, Sherlock jumped up, catching a quick glance of himself in the mirror over the fireplace. Yes, his eyes were definitely red. He let out a dramatically loud sigh, attempting to wipe at his cheeks without appearing to do so deliberately. He hurried past Mycroft to the kitchen, muttering about needing tea.
Mycroft seemed frozen to his chair. Did he just see...? He could count on one hand the number of times he had seen his younger brother in tears. Good grief. It looks like he's sunk in deeper than even Mycroft had realized. All the older Holmes could do was sit and stare at the empty seat that Sherlock had vacated, the image of a minute ago imprinted in his mind. One minute Sherlock had been calm, defiant even, and then suddenly his eyes had reddened followed by the tears. It was most odd, Sherlock's expression hadn't changed at all, and only after the first drops fell did he seem to even notice.
It kind of felt like Mycroft was watching a bad romance film, granted all romance films made the man cringe, but this one seemed particularly awful. A self-proclaimed sociopath in love with a married and self-proclaimed straight man. Delightful. Mycroft wished for once he wasn't so skilled at calculating the outcomes of situations because right now, none of the conclusions he came to were favourable. Oh Sherlock.
A teacup on a saucer was placed on the side table beside his chair and Mycroft glanced over. Sherlock took his own cup and stood by the window, looking out into the street.
"For earlier."
The only explanation the younger Holmes offered for his rare display of hospitality towards Mycroft.
Wordlessly Mycroft accepted the offering and sipped the freshly brewed beverage. Hm, not up to the standards Mycroft's used to, but it'll have to do.
"Sherlock...if caring is not an advantage, love is an outright weakness."
Sherlock shook his head and turned to lean his back against the window.
"A dangerous disadvantage, not necessarily a weakness."
"Dangerous indeed."
The words were clipped and Mycroft eyed Sherlock's now covered arm. Dangerous enough to cause bloodshed it appears.
"You don't tell anyone, Mycroft. Not a word."
The older man heard the unspoken emphasis loud and clear, 'Don't tell anyone, especially not John'. Mycroft swirled the tea a bit in the cup, watching it swell dangerously close to the rim.
"This is not to happen again, Sherlock. Using these methods to shield yourself is unacceptable."
Sherlock hm-ed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with his brother. He finished off his tea and set the cup down on the desk where John used to keep his laptop. Without further comment he walked over to the sofa and let himself fall onto it, facing away from Mycroft. He pushed a cushion under his head and pulled up his knees to his chest to wrap his arms around them.
"See yourself out."
No further words exchanged between the two brothers. Mycroft didn't move form his place on the chair, simply crossed his legs once more. He kept his younger brother's figure in the corner of his eye, noting when Sherlock's breathing evened out signalling that the man had fallen asleep. Even then, Mycroft didn't move. He waited until the morning dawn started to break over the horizon before he finally stood up and quietly exited the flat.
When Sherlock finally awoke the next day, the only sign that his brother had been there at all was an empty tea cup.
Thanks for reading!