Hello again.
Dear Anagogia, this is for you. It took me four years, but here you are, finally. I hope you like it.
So, as you might have guessed, this story was inspired by, is based on and was made possible by a prompt from Anagogia, who's been very kind, and very supportive, and very patient during all this time it took me to write something for her prompt. ('Something' meaning: an AU post His Last Vow in which there is no video from Moriarty and in which Sherlock leaves for his exile, only to find, once he returns, that everyone has moved on without him.)
So, beware of allusions to torture, violence and blood, and beware of angst.
As always, I don't own anything (not even the idea, this time).
The title was inspired by Mumford & Sons and their song Hopeless Wanderer.
This is the first chapter of thirty-something; it's short, but it's only the prologue. Enjoy.
AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME
PART 1
Mycroft I – Prologue
When the phone call finally came, it was in the middle of the night, closer to morning than to midnight. Mycroft Holmes was still awake, seated in one of the armchairs in his private study. A half-empty glass of scotch sat on the sidetable next to him. Files – the latest reports about the current situation in the Middle East – were held loosely in his hands; his attention, however, was elsewhere.
The sound of his ringtone cut through the silence of the study in his mansion, and Mycroft raised his gaze from where it had been resting on the glass of scotch and the bottle next to it.
His private mobile phone. Ringing. In the middle of the night.
There was, as Mycroft was perfectly aware, only one person that could be responsible for this phone call, and only one scenario that would necessitate this nightly call. The phone rang for the second time, but still Mycroft did not move to reach for it.
A matter of time, he had told himself again and again since that very moment seven weeks and two days ago, it had only been a matter of time. A matter of time.
The phone chimed for the third time. Mycroft closed his eyes. His fingers, it seemed, had clenched around the sheets of paper in his hands of their own volition, all but crumpled the report he had intended to leaf through tonight. The fact that he had been expecting this very phone call for seven weeks and two days did not, apparently, make answering it easier.
A matter of time, he told himself again, and reached for his mobile. "Yes?" he inquired. His gaze, he noticed with a certain sense of detachment, had returned to his glass of scotch.
"Sir," his personal assistant's quiet voice addressed him, "it's your brother."
And Mycroft Holmes closed his eyes again, took a deep breath, and remembered with sudden, shocking clarity why one should never let one's heart rule one's head, why caring was most definitely not an advantage, and why he had dreaded this very moment ever since his brother had failed to check in at the appointed time exactly seven weeks and two days ago. Or, quite possibly, as he had to concede, since the very day Sherlock had been born.
"Sir?" Anthea repeated.
With his free hand, Mycroft took his glass, raised it to his lips and drained it, before curtly informing his personal assistant: "I'm on my way."
Thank you for reading. (Oh, and, by the way: the next chapter will be longer - and will, I hope, follow shortly.)