Catching a Straw


Mycroft watches glistening raindrops running down the railing of an Underground entrance mere yards from his seat near the vast window of a French restaurant. It´s one of his favourite places for lunch, lovingly decorated to resemble a typical Parisian Bistro, the food superb. Mycroft is kept waiting, which is not something which happens to him frequently. Usually he is right on time. Whenever he chooses to strategically arrive a few minutes later, he is dealing with a subordinate or wanting to make a point. But the man he is going to meet is immensely busy and known to be late for his business meetings. Rumour has it that this certain individual has even kept Her Majesty waiting once, and Mycroft gathers that the ten minutes he is forced to observe this particular stretch of a central London road are indicating intimacy rather than pure thoughtlessness. At least he assumes they do, for the sake of his companion.

Andrew Wainwright enters the restaurant exactly ten minutes past the appointed time, as predicted, his unkempt grey hair and flying coat seemingly taking up all the space between the tiny tables. He greets Mycroft even before he has reached him, over the heads of two other customers, and heaves his heavy frame onto the fragile French chair. "Mycroft. Always a pleasure."

Mycroft, catching himself thinking the pleasure is not his, sends a polite smile back, involuntarily cocking an eyebrow. He knows the elder man does consider himself a friend of the Holmes family. Mycroft, though, has never been fond of Andrew´s joviality and lack of good manners. Were it not for his father, he would avoid any close contact with the scientist. But he has agreed to keep track of Sherlock´s work at Wainwright´s institution, and he can hardly refuse to talk to him.

"It is indeed," he replies. "I am most grateful that you could make time for our meeting."

Wainwright smiles and waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, don´t worry. I perfectly understand Edward´s motivation. He must have been more than unhappy about your younger brother´s misadventure."

Mycroft send a tight smile back, his eyes cold. "This is why we are meeting," he says. "My father has required an update on Sherlock´s progress."

Andrew leans back in his seat, his head turned sideways towards the adjoining tables, his right hand waving imperiously at a waiter who passes through towards the kitchen door. "No need to get angry, Mycroft. Your brother´s permanent disobedience is hardly a family secret anymore. He has not been very discreet about his vice himself, after all."

A jolt of anger at Andrew´s dismissive attitude shakes Mycroft, and he takes a deep breath to keep his hands steady. He and his father have done all in their power to keep Sherlock´s arrest and subsequent transfer to a rehabilitation faculty secret. Edward Holmes had confided in Andrew after a prolonged period of consideration. If anything, the Holmes family has always been apt at discretion, a talent Sherlock has made a habit of raging against. But as much as he loathes dishonesty, even he would treat delicate subjects with care.

Mycroft suppresses his fury, glad for the distraction the arrival of the waiter provides. They order, and leave their more serious topic to exchange details on the weather and London gossip. When the main course arrives, though, Mycroft, who has regained his composure, goes straight back to business.

"So, how is my brother doing?" he asks, and Andrew wipes his mouth with his napkin, leaning back with a contended sigh.

"Most excellent, their lapin du bois," he says, his eyes trailing a cab passing their window. "Ah, yes, your brother." He leans forward again. "He certainly works hard enough, and undoubtedly he is a brilliant chemist with a vast knowledge of forensics. I am very sorry to observe, though, that he is not able to concentrate on his tasks."

"What do you mean?" asks Mycroft, startled.

Andrew takes hold of his glass, playing with its stem. "He… strays. He interferes with his colleague´s research, comments on their reports. He simply doesn´t know his boundaries, and hardly anyone takes his attitude well. He even goes so far to call his colleague´s observations 'dull' and 'boring', and never tires to point out flaws in their analyses when he spots them." Andrew sighs. "Today, I called him in for a meeting, to confront him with several allegations. But he only responded that he couldn´t change how he perceives details, and that our rules and administrations are slowing him down. To be perfectly honest, Mycroft, I doubt that he will last very much longer if he doesn´t adapt. I simply cannot tolerate discord in my team. Our work is far too important to be seriously hindered by petty feuds among co-workers."

"I see." Mycroft clasps his hands, the tips of his index fingers touching his chin in a gesture of concentration. Obviously the detached quiet Sherlock has lived in after his stay in rehab has come to an end. He fleetingly wonders, not for the first time, whether providing his brother with a reputable job was a good idea, after all. The whirlwind of Sherlock´s mind has never reacted well to tedium and routine, with the single exception of his devotion to music. Mycroft wonders whether his brother uses his sharp tongue and scathing wit as a means of escaping a situation he perceives as desperate. He wonders whether a word with his brother will help at all.

He folds his napkin and places it beside his plate, ready to rise. "I am sorry I have to leave so soon, Andrew, but I need to get back to work."

Andrew grunts and waves a dismissive hand towards the table. "Matters of state, hum? Oh, that´s perfectly well with me – at least you won´t be witness when I indulge in the dessert," he replies with a twinkle, and Mycroft stands.

The elder man looks up at him, a mischievous smile gracing his lips. "Please give my regards to Sherlock. I have been rather lenient with him, out of respect for Edward, but you both know I am not known as a very patient man."

Mycroft just nods curtly, adjusts his jacket and walks away. His next meeting might even be more taxing than this one was, he muses wryly.


Smooth wood resting under his chin. The reassuring contour of the bow. Hard, narrow lines under his fingertips, no longer biting his flesh after years of practice. They are the veins of his instrument´s resonating body. Its voice fills the stale air of his tiny living room, transforming it into a whole new universe where solid things and fragile bodies have no home, only sound. Rhythm and movement are blending together, soothing the maelstrom in his mind, carrying him away from reality, to somewhere ethereal and indefinite. The calm and the storm, this is the story his violin is whispering and crying to him today, and he nearly forgets what they do signify for him. He´s perfectly lost in the moment, and all is well.

He neither hears the knock on the door, nor the door opening, but a caressing whiff of air touching his naked feet reveals his brother´s presence to him. The universe of music gone, the bow hovering over the strings and his left hand still fingering a chord, he turns his head to regard his sibling with an expression of exhausted annoyance.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" he asks, inwardly relieved that he hasn´t used today - never does in the flat in case his sibling decides to pry at him. He is not pleased to see his watchdog of a brother, never is. Part of his rejection is fuelled by guilt. For the past years he has rarely been perfectly honest with his brother. That they have shared a period of their lives when they absolutely trusted each other only contributes to his remorse. This is why he snaps, at the same time knowing that all his scathing remarks will not be enough to make his sibling shy away.

As expected, Mycroft is a statue of calm. He sweeps a pile of books from the only chair in the room and regards his surroundings. "You´ve settled in already," he states in a conversational tone, prodding the front page of a newspaper at his feet with the tip of his umbrella. There is no mockery in his voice, and yet Sherlock can´t decipher whether his brother´s remark is supposed to be more than a simple statement. His flat is in a constant state of disregard, scattered books and newspapers an indication of how little he cares about tidiness. But certainly Mycroft is not paying him a visit to comment on his sense of array, so he impatiently repeats his question.

"There is something I´d like to discuss over a cup of tea," Mycroft replies and watches sternly as Sherlock grudgingly sets the kettle on the stove and retrieves two antique cups from a surprisingly tidy box.

"Are those grandmother´s?" Mycroft can´t refrain to ask, and Sherlock nods, vanishing to the tiny kitchen. He reemerges a few minutes later, holding a tray carrying a cheap, clumsy teapot and the fragile bone china cups. As soon as it sits safely on a small table at Mycroft´s elbow, he lets himself sink to the floor, folding his legs under him. "I won´t ask you a third time," he warns, and Mycroft tells him about his encounter with Wainwright and his warning.

Sherlock is about to jump up and protest, but his brother stalls him with a raised hand. "There´s something else, and it´s more serious than your conflict with your superior," he says. "Inspector Lestrade wants to see you."

Sherlock draws his brows together, tiny wrinkles appearing at the root of his nose. "What for?" he asks. "Does he still think I am member of a drug trafficking gang?"

"You certainly carried enough to raise the suspicion," Mycroft answers in his most serious tone, reminiscent of their father, stalling Sherlock´s instantaneous protest with a quirk of his eyebrows . "Actually, he seemed rather impressed with your powers of observation. Obviously, the Yard is searching for a suspect they consider the head of the drug trafficking ring they were trying to disintegrate five months ago. Lestrade told me the raids on London´s clubs during the past five months were part of a vast intimidation scheme. You were caught right in the middle of it. Presumably, you must have told the officer something he remembered recently and regarded as important. He wants to question you. I told him you´ll go see him next Wednesday."

"So you are not just gathering information on my working life and whereabouts for father, you are responsible for my schedule, too?" Sherlock asks in a scathing tone, and Mycroft realises he might have acted a bit too rashly in assuring Lestrade of his brother´s help. Their talk had been much more intensive, though, the policeman pointing out he sensed potential in Sherlock´s observation skills, indicating that he pondered the probability of using someone with comparable talents as a consultant. Mycroft sees no reason to reveal all this to Sherlock yet, though – there are boundaries to his interfering with his brother´s life.

Sherlock draws the dressing gown he is wearing tighter around his gaunt frame, waiting for a reply. "I am not, and I don´t have any intention of acting as your secretary," Mycroft replies after a sip of tea. "He told me he will be available in the afternoon, and like to have a word. And I decided there and then it might be a good idea for you to meet him, so I didn´t text for your approval."

The elder Holmes doesn´t need to add that he considers the Yarder´s interest a chance for his brother, since they both know that Sherlock has always been intrigued by puzzles and has studied anatomy and forensics for a reason. He has never voiced his interest in crimes, but Mycroft knows that his brother considers them one of the most demanding and rewarding puzzles he would be able to solve, if only for their significance. Sherlock senses that his elder sibling might have provided him with a straw he can claw onto to escape the puddle of routine he is trapped in. For once, he is grateful for his brother´s interference. He looks up, straight into Mycroft´s eyes.

"If he insists. I´ll go," he says and to Mycroft it sounds for once not like a declaration of war, but of victory.