"How was the wedding?"
The look he got in return said it all. It was dark, drowning with hurt, and the pain of deep loneliness etched across the expression of the man's face.
"I presume you did not stay for the actual party, did you, brother?" Mycroft asked, casually, as he poured two glasses of Sullivan's Cove French Oak Cask, before seating himself in front of the fireplace, beside Sherlock.
Without another word, he handed Sherlock the Scotch, as he sipped his own, enjoying the deep, smoky flavours rumble and roll over his tongue, making their expensive tastes heard. That, coupled with the warm fireplace against the sudden chilly nip in the winter air made him much more comfortable than usual. He liked spring, though there was not much choice when one lived in a city like London. However, he always kept the fireplace burning, the actual kind, mind you, not the electrical ones, for he did enjoy the warm, basking, musky smell of freshly burning wood, crackling in the fire. It would have been Mycroft's ideal evening, sitting here, merely relaxing, not thinking about the world or how it was balanced atop a knife edge, any sudden movements sending it spiralling down to its doom, were it not for the fact that his younger brother was sitting here, beside him, quietly, like a large stone statue, lost deep in a contemplative thought that would extend itself into the very fine webbings of the universe, bringing out forth the various types of symphonies that each human dances to-
"Sherlock?"
The only discernable movement was from the eyes, while the rest of the transport stayed the same.
Mycroft said no more, only waited for a verbal response. To not talk, when something happened, was in some form, unlike Sherlock. The younger Holmes took great delight at every opportunity to tell his brother about what happened, especially when Mycroft was unaware about it. This scenario should have been no exception, but it was, for Sherlock seemed to have no inclination to talk.
There was no reply, for quite a while, as Sherlock took a few sips of the whiskey, his face passive as ever, no expression upon it except that of complete blankness. Something would have happened, something very deep, that made his brother so unusually pensive. It brought to mind a phrase he had once used, to try and describe his brother to John, in the most simplest terms possible. And, yet, John was unable to grasp it completely, dismissing it as a myth from one of the two enigmas in his life, before he went upstairs to the other one.
This time, however, he had an answer to the question. And though it was not pleasing, or in the least, ideal, it was a fact, a true thing about the state of Sherlock's functional but scarred mind and non-existent but torn heart.
My brother has the mind of a scientist and a philosopher. What might we deduce about his heart?
Broken.
He gazed still, at his brother, who's eyes fell upon the glass held in his nimble hands, softening at the sight of the liquid. Sherlock took a tentative sip, never the actual whiskey drinker, before resuming his eternal staring competition with the fireplace.
"I presume Dr. And Mrs. Watson know about your departure." This was asked with a quiet undercurrent to it. I hope John knows how pained you are by all this..
"No. But they would have discovered by now.." Sherlock finally rumbled from the confines of his armchair, deciding to dispense a few words upon his brother, after all. John does not know, and he will never. I will see to that.
"Well, then I suppose he would have tried contacting you to understand where you went, and to be assured of your safety." Mycroft replied, taking another sip, losing himself to the flavours yet again, the heady concoction of all his favourite things in one room, and some very dear to his frigid heart too. He looked again, silently, into the fireplace, just trying to enjoy this pure moment of conversational silence, one that need not be filled by words or unnecessary noises and sounds. One that could be enjoyed as such, without it being polluted or wreaked by other elements. The sound of silence, punctuated by the crackling of wood, and the puffs of even breaths.
I hope, brother dear, you can separate yourself from this all before it is too late. I certainly hope you have not forgotten your independent ways, Sherlock. It had helped you survive for so long, and it will help you always. I truly wish, however, that this incident does not make you shy away from all human relations, for however much we might despise them, we still need them.
"Your thoughts are murdering me with their stupidity, Mycroft. Do stop." This was uttered in an indifferent tone, that Mycroft knew was hiding something else. An inflection of the unemotional and cold attitude he was trying to potray from the outside, to the general world, to protect himself on the inside.
If you really are not affected, then why leave the party early, Sherlock? Why leave John on the day of his wedding, and return alone. And then visit me? Why would you take all this trouble?
"Well, they are still better than yours, Sherlock." Mycroft retorted, taking another small, slow sip from his glass.
"Did you dance?" He asked, after another long moment.
"No."
"Why so ever not?" This was asked with a surprised intonation. Sherlock loved dancing, and would never let up an opportunity when he would have to dance. He once even took some cases that needed him to take the role of a dancer, and, Mycroft would never admit, but his brother was wonderful in it.
After all, one of Sherlock's numerous talents were to be able to match a beat to a tune, a song to a rhythm, and to show the flow of a song in choreographed steps came almost enviously easily for Sherlock. Mycroft had admired his dancing skills greatly, and often, especially when he would dance alone, able to bring out the beauty, grace and hidden strength of a dance, along with the myriad emotions potrayed by a song, into one lithe, petite but tall body, that flew over the floor, flowed across the steps, and executed it all with the precision of a well trained marksman. Such was the calibre of his brother, and yet, when given a chance..
"I did not feel like it. Nobody else wanted to." Sherlock stated simply, stripping his shoes off so that he could pull his feet up and sit near the fireplace, wrapping one hand around his skinny knees as the other held the glass in one hand, heating the scotch a little. And at that moment, Mycroft did not see Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective for the New Scotland Yard, nay, he saw Sherlock Holmes, child prodigy, lonely but aloof, too scared to make friends or trust anybody, never giving in easily to emotions.
"Anything interesting that happened there?" Mycroft asked again, this time attempting to make conversation with his brother, to be on the more civil side, while disguising his attempt at the belittling fact that he could mot understand what happened at the wedding.
"There was an attempted murder. Nothing more." Came the curt reply.
So there was much more. Nobody died, you should have been excited, but you are not, Sherlock. Why is that? What else did you discover?
"Who did it?" He asked, simply curious about the case, along with trying to decode his brother's thoughts.
"The wedding photographer. It was connected to the 'May-Fly Man' case, as John had so eloquently put in his blog." Sherlock said, clearly still dismissive of the idea that John's blog, the one created without real art or science, constructed upon the ramblings of... Their lives, had gained more popularity than that of his own, a perfectly executed, well-worded piece of eruditive writing. If nothing else, it peeved him.
"Is that so? Well, I must see the blog then.." Mycroft commented drily, hinting at the popularity, and at the declining stature of his own brothers blogs.
Sherlock unwrapped his arm from around his legs, putting them down, standing up, and walking over to the closed window, looking out at the crisp, clear and bright night sky.
"Say it, Mycroft. Rather hear it from the mouth than be bombarded by confounded and muddled thoughts." Sherlock spat the words out again, as the bitterness of the situation took over him, much like the taste of the scotch over his tongue, coating it.
" I have nothing to say,Sherlock." He replied, quietly, taking a quick sip, as he gazed into the fireplace.
"Don't be ridiculous, you clearly do." Sherlock said, turning to face Mycroft, as he spoke, rooted to his spot by the window, but clearly itching to pace.
" You were trying to pry out how I felt about John being married, and thereby, leaving. I am completely fine, thank you for your concern, Mycroft. The fact was accepted eons ago, and I believe we both know that John's presence in my life, or absence, hereafter, has no effect whatsoever. In fact, without John, it is almost.." Lonely. It was. And most definitely not the same, but his pride would not allow him to admit such a thing, be it his arch-nemesis, or his own brother, and in this case, both. He sighed, turning to look out of the window, gazing at the serene scenery outside.
Mycroft remained absolutely quiet throughout the outburst, for outburst it was, as he looked quietly into the fireplace. After a few long, silent moments of deep contemplation, he looked up at the silhouette of his brother, framed against the night sky, the edges blurred out with the deep blue-black of the scene outside, the rest of him melting into it, save for the moonlight that illuminated his curls. He sighed at the image, knowing how his brother was melting from the inside, like molten wax, losing himself over one emotion.
Sentiment.
Sighing still, he finished his scotch, rising from his seat to admire the view once, before turning to exit the room. It had been a long day, and he was quite tired, without having to deal with Sherlock's idiosyncrasies of emotions, and his multitudes of theories, all based on philosophy.
Perhaps some other time, brother, he thought, as he left the room, walking down the moon-lit corridor, stopping for a second to gaze at the view outside. The moon was breath-taking in its simplistic beauty, making Mycroft's breath catch in his throat for a second. It was.. Beautiful. Just as ever. And untouchable.
Sherlock, however, was too wrapped in his own pensive mind to admire the beauty of the night-sky outside. It brought to mind one of the many fairy tales he had heard as a child.
Have you ever seen the moon? It is the brightest. Amongst the night sky, it sits, proud and shining, reflected light giving earth the much needed vision in the night. Surrounded by the admiring stars, it preens in the attention poured upon it like water on a river-bed. It's beauty makes many a hearts stop, and weep in wonder and amazement, it's stature gives it the glow.
And yet... It is always lonely. Why?
Because it can never have anyone close to it. To see from near the ugly marks that tear through its surface, giving it the appearance of a once beautiful courtesan, who was too proud to show her scars of ageing. The moon is a vain mistress, it never wanted to expose its weaknesses, its deformities, the dips and peaks upon it's surface. Nothing, no star ever got close enough to see the true face and nature of the noon, a broken, lonely asteroid, reflecting the light of the sun to others, always doomed to stay by itself, admired from afar, but never truly loved. Except by...
The earth. Solid, stable, ever-present. At first glance, it was just another sphere shaped rock spinning on an axis around yet another star in the vast expanse of the ever-increasing universe. On closer inspection, however, it was more than just that.
The earth held life in itself, nurturing it, feeding it, helping it grow. It brought happiness to many, saved nearly all, and is home to many a souls.. And it is little known that, before the moon was a moon, the earth had taken it into its orbit too, keeping the satellite around itself with its gravitational field.
Before the moon was a moon, the earth had accepted it as beautiful. And before Sherlock had become human, John had accepted him as his best friend.
But what purpose did that friendship serve now, other than to cause more pain? He disliked it, how it hurt him so, to think that he lost his only, true friend in this world, the one man he had come to trust above anything else. What utility did sentiment serve other than as a weakness?
Bittered by these thoughts, he turned away, but the full moon caught his eye, beckoning him to admire her as a lover would his love. And in that moment, he felt it, the little drops of ice-cold loneliness worm its way into the place where he possessed a heart, just for Johns sake, and stopping it. In that infinitesimal moment, Sherlock felt his mind harden, and his heart stutter to a stop. He had lost his final but of humanity, and this time, he will not retrieve it again.
About that time, a thought occurred to Mycroft too. One that alarmed him beyond reason, allowed him to also see Sherlock in a new light, one he had never perceived of before. The thought made him stop again, and wonder, of the future, of the things that lay ahead. Better or worse. Though deep down, he knew it would be worse.
After all, the frailty of a genius lay in it's audience, and Sherlock just lost his.
