The Ice Man
By Arica, Princess of Rivendell
Summary: It wasn't just Jim Moriarty that had come up with the name "Ice Man." It was something Mycroft had heard in whispers he ignored. Others called him that as if it was his call sign. It wasn't of course; but, that's what so many in the field called him. Many speculated; but none knew what had driven him to put up walls of ice. Not even Anthea. NO slash!
Disclaimer: "Sherlock" belongs to the BBC, Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I'm making no profit from this.
A/N: I've only just started watching "Sherlock" for the first time (yes, I know I'm rather late to the party) and I've only just reached the 2nd season. So if there's any inaccuracies for later seasons, please forgive them as I haven't reached there, yet. Thank you.
There is a work cited notation in this short story and it can be found on my author's page under the heading: Works Cited for "The Ice Man."
A man with short cropped brown hair wore a brown suit and white shirt while sitting in a brown leather chair in front of a fire place in his home. All in the man's home was dark except for the fire that lit the fire place on which the man's blue eyes were focused. In his hands was a small glass of whiskey.
To one whom did not know this man, it would appear as if he were relaxed; but, to anyone whom did know the man, it was clear that the man was not relaxed. For the man in the chair never relaxed.
It was one of the many reasons, the man knew, that he had long since gotten the nick name "Ice Man."
His superiors saw him as indifferent and without bias, those in his own employ believed him to be cold and calculating. His family believed that he had never had a warm feeling for them. His little brother especially believed that he had no heart; and it was this that disappointed their mother so. "For because he, Mycroft Holmes, has no heart, then I, Sherlock Holmes, shall have no heart;" had been declared one night in the sitting room as fifteen year old Sherlock had decided that he wanted to be exactly like his big brother.
Mycroft slammed his eyes shut at the onslaught of the sudden memory. Oh how he hated Moriarty tonight. That name presented so casually by The Woman whom had dared to taunt him and his little brother with the words, "Do you know what he calls you?"
Neither of them had really wanted to know but The Woman had told them anyways. Sherlock had instantly broken her code and had walked away from her as she begged and pleaded with him for her life.
Mycroft had seen the struggle in Sherlock as the younger man had turned and walked away. He had seen the pain and Mycroft had felt another piece of his heart and soul freeze over. For the one thing The Woman had failed to grasp and realize was that it wasn't just Jim Moriarty that had come up with the name "Ice Man."
It was something Mycroft had heard in whispers he ignored. Others called him that as if it was his call sign. It wasn't of course; but, that's what so many in the field called him. Many speculated; but none knew what had driven him to put up walls of ice. Not even Anthea his most trusted employee in the form of both secretary and bodyguard knew how he had become as cold as he had.
Mycroft's eyes flashed open as his fingers tightened around the glass in his hand and then he brought the glass up and downed the contents in a single gulp. He set the glass down on the table beside his chair and let his hand dangle over the edge of the arm rest while once more he stared into the fire.
It wasn't long after that though, that subconsciously, Mycroft's eyes closed, his elbows found his knees and he was leaning forward in his chair with his arms up in a less than 90 degree angle, his palms were flat against each other and his mouth was resting on this thumbs.
Mycroft could remember being three years old and watching as his governess threw away his stuffed bear while harrowing coughs tormented his body. He could remember being four and watching his governess leave while he screamed from his mother's arms for her to come back.
He was five years of age and being teased because his only friend was a girl by the name of Clarissa; it didn't help that he was capable of speaking words that weren't in the vocabulary of his classmates at that time.
He was six years old when his parents got him a pet in the form of a gold fish as an apology for not spending enough time with him. After pursuing many baby name books, he finally settled on the Spanish name, Arcelia(1); because it meant Treasure and as far as he was concerned his gold fish was his treasure. He also remembered that when he was seven years old, Arcelia died after one of the maids had knocked her tank over after being fired by his father.
His father hadn't felt like investigating what the noise was and so never left his study for the rest of the day. When he and his mother had gotten home, the poor fish had already died from suffocation. After finding the fish, he watched on from the doorway as his parents flushed it down the toilet.
He was eight years old when his maternal grandmother, whom had always had freshly made cookies ready for him to eat and an ear to listen whenever he visited, was laid to rest in the ground.
He could remember being nine years old and letting it slip to his closest friend while they were playing on the playground of the school that her parents were in the process of a divorce. Clarissa's blue eyes had welled up with tears before her head had bowed and her golden curls had covered her face like a veil. He would never be able to forget the slap that had followed. He would also never be able to forget that as he had raised his hand to his reddening cheek, she had run away.
That day he had learned that he had to be careful with what he could learn from looking at people and with whom he was speaking such things. Clarissa had never spoken a word to him after that incident.
When he was eight months shy of being ten years old, his parents had sat him down and told him that he would be moving into a room further down the hall from them because he was going to be getting a new sibling.
When Mycroft was ten years old, his baby brother entered the world. With thick dark brown curly locks and blue eyes that had flecks of green and gold mixed in. And as remarkable as his little brother's eyes were, Mycroft hadn't been prepared for the smile that graced the little baby's features as he stared up at his big brother for the very first time.
For the first time in a very long time, Mycroft had felt warmth filter into his heart where ice had already begun to build up.