The Beginnings
by Iva1201
ooooo
Mycroft Holmes's office in the Diogenes Club
Two hours later
When Mycroft's new private assistant – considered exceptionally pretty by most men – MA in Politics, best in her year – recent half a year honorary internship in Strasbourg, indebted to her parents – fluent in French – attracted by women – Mycroft insisted she was being called Anthea despite it clearly not being her real name – rang at Sherlock's door and insisted the young Mr. Holmes would kindly accompany her to Mr. Mycroft Holmes in the matter of great importance, Sherlock wrongly deduced (there was always something he got wrong after all!) that his brother had another boring governmental case for him. As Lestrade clearly intended not to work with him for the moment – despite he had just solved his latest case, annoying, really – Sherlock resolved to come with the not-quite Anthea in the – highly unlikely – event his brother had something potentially interesting or at least not exceedingly boring to offer to occupy his time.
The second Sherlock crossed the threshold of Mycroft's office in the Diogenes Club, it was clear that his belief was mistaken. Mycroft evidently was angry with him and… miserable? The first emotion was fairly easy to explain – untouched tumbler of whiskey on Mycroft's table, next to it emptied glass that originally clearly contained the same liquid – Lestrade had obviously already been there, informing Mycroft that Sherlock had broken his foolish promise to them, no longer as absolutely clean as he had assured them to be and remain – not entirely unexpected, but not welcomed either. The other emotion was more difficult to decipher. Until Mycroft, his gaze now firmly set on him, the for once unguarded eyes expressing his deep disappointment, unconsciously touched the simple golden ring on his left hand.
Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief. "You are divorcing – no, not your idea, you didn't care she had a lover – she requested it. You pretend you do not mind, as long as she doesn't apply for any of the family estates or more money than your prenuptial agreement entitles her to. But it does bother you – you believe you have given her a tolerant and content home, much more than what Father offered to Mummy. Not to speak of money and position in society…"
Mycroft's frown deepened with each of his brother's words. Now he snapped: "That's quite enough, Sherlock. We are not here to discuss me and my divorce. I believe we have another serious matter to speak of."
Mycroft halted when Sherlock appeared as if he wanted to interrupt him. "Anything you want to tell me?" the older Holmes asked, his voice suddenly soft, as if Mycroft was really trying to sound unthreatening. There was also another undertone and Sherlock took a moment to analyse it – was his brother hopeful? Hopeful that Lestrade was mistaken? Hopeful that Sherlock would see the reason? Sherlock was not able to tell yet, there was not enough data.
"You have clearly spoken with Lestrade. What else is there to say?" he asked rather than to offer any information.
Mycroft observed him over steepled fingers, unconsciously mimicking his brother's favourite posture. "The truth perhaps?" he suggested mildly, trying to maintain the relative peace between them.
Sherlock scolded at him. "We were stuck on the case, I needed extra data, Lestrade was unwilling to give me access to the evidence, I obtained a comparatible sample for the experiment, I concluded the experiment, analysed the data, found the solution of the problem and informed Lestrade. Obviously, Lestrade didn't approve of my methods, refused to listen to me and paid you a visit to inform you. End of the story." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.
It was Mycroft's turn to frown now. "Despite all my attempts to make it otherwise, you still seem not able to grasp the essentials here, little brother," he said, the tone once again betraying his frustration. "I am not concerned about the number of Lestrade's solved cases, I am not even concerned about the methods you feel necessary to apply to solve those little mysteries of yours. As long as you do not overstep the law to do so – or do not do anything detrimental to your health. I think we would both agree that exactly that happened earlier today and that it would be highly advisable to avoid any repetition of such a situation."
Sherlock smirked. "How predictable of you, Mycroft. Right then, what is it that you have planned? Will you cut down on my allowance? No money for cabs, experiments and you will no longer pay my rent?"
Mycroft smiled a predatory smile of his own. "Far worse, brother dear," he said, "far worse. I am afraid that you will need to learn how to deal with your fellow human beings. I will continue to pay your rent in Central London as long as you will find yourself a flatmate to pay half of the rent – or a steady job to support your costs. And no, I shall no longer finance your equipment for experiments; you have after all access to a well equipped medical laboratory in St Bartholomew's… Have I forgotten something? Oh, yes, concerning taxis – consider them your extra costs. Should you get yourself a well-paid job, which shouldn't be a problem for you with your supreme intelligence, I am very sure you will be able to afford them. If you are not and the Detective Inspector invites you to work with him again, I am positive that you can always ride with him in his car to visit the crime scenes."
Sherlock's face darkened with each of his brother's words. "Is that all?" he sneered, turning on his heel, ready to leave.
"Almost," Mycroft said in a low voice, almost a whisper, the tone making Sherlock to unwillingly turn back to him. Mycroft was rumaging in his drawer; his back bowed slightly, his face hidden to Sherlock. "There is one more thing," the older Holmes said, straightening himself a moment later. "I will take in safekeeping the rest of your purchase from today morning." Mycroft extended his arm, palm up. "Please?"
Sherlock scolded. No, it was no good to have a brother even more intelligent than you. Somewhere deep down he supposed that Mycroft meant well, but on the surface, he burnt with rage. Nonetheless, he reached inside of his coat pocket, pulled out a box of cigarettes and handed it over to his brother. "I hope you are satisfied now," he scorned, turning once more away.
Mycroft shook his head. "Not yet, little brother. I will take also the other box, if I may."
Sherlock threw him a frown over his shoulder. Then he wordlessly reached in the inner pocket of his coat and handed Mycroft the second box of cigarettes. "I do not have any more," he said, annoyance plain in his voice.
Mycroft nodded. "I know you don't. You never buy more, after all." He smiled a bit then, his face finally softening as he took another box out of his drawer, the very thing he had looked for earlier. "Here, Sherlock, no need to suffer needlesly," he said, offering the box to his brother.
Sherlock looked at the outstratched hand. On Mycroft's palm there was a box of nicotine patches. He nodded in acceptance or perhaps even a bit of gratitude, reached for the box and was out of the office.
Mycroft watched his brother's retreating back, his fingers once more caressing the golden band on his left hand's ring finger. His whole family now, he thought regretfully, and yet his little brother wouldn't think more of him than consider him an enemy. Arch-enemy, perhaps.
His hand dropped to the table, where the two boxes of cigarettes he had just confiscated from Sherlock rested. Mycroft eyed them with disdain, then shook his head in resignation and opened the closer one of them. He pulled out a cigarette, lighted it with matches from the same drawer where his nicotine patches had resided earlier and pulled the first draw.
Seated back in his comfortable armchair, Mycroft continued to smoke, observing the white clouds of smoke above his head. He didn't think he had ever felt so lonely as today.
ooooo
A/N:
I cannot help it – Mycroft does wear a ring that reminds me the most of a wedding ring in Study in Pink. I know, I know, on his right hand, not the left one – but we will come to an explanation later in the story. (-:
Enjoyed? Then please feed the author a few reviews, starved people are not able to work well, much less write good stories. (-:
