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It must have been some exceptionally cruel joke of the universe that Mycroft should find himself having to deal with this now, of all times.
Right at the cusp of everything he'd soon become, poised to take hold of the entire country. With the work he'd put in over the course of university, the contacts he'd made, he was beginning to think he might very well be able to place himself in unofficial command of MI5 within the decade. Conceivably in as little as a few years, even, if he played his cards right. Mycroft rarely got excited by anything, but this was shaping up to leave him positively giddy.
Now, though, there was this. Right there in the bloody middle of it all was his brother. Usurping Mycroft's time and attention with a storm of drama, as usual.
Such sentiments were unfair, Mycroft knew that well enough. Obviously Sherlock hadn't meant to intrude upon his life. But where one might be technically innocent by intent, there was still the reality to deal with. And that reality now consisted of a maladjusted sixteen year old quite abruptly thrust into the sole care of a man with neither the time nor inclination to look after him.
Surely, though, Sherlock was old enough to fend for himself? He was only a few years away from legal adulthood, honestly. Didn't need someone dictating his every action. Regardless of said actions tending to be spectacularly stupid or dangerous. Like climbing a bloody building... how in hell's name had the idiot even managed such a stunt without falling to his death?
Mycroft sighed irritably as he found his gaze straying away from the report. Settled on the crumpled tailcoat in the entryway. And there lay yet another impossible dilemma. Because whilst one would have to be blind not to recognise all this poor behaviour as a bid for attention, one would also require the patience of a saint to avoid getting fed up with it. And Mycroft, with his career goals growing ever-more complex, severely lacked such patience. Wasn't sure he'd ever had it to begin with.
Perhaps he should work on building that virtue, then. Provide a steady constant in resolving whatever issues his brother might have. That would likely be the more adult path.
But then for god's sake, he was trying to read up on current international surveillance networks. Defending the strategic interests of an entire nation was about as adult a path as one might take, wasn't it? Seemed a bit more important than playing board games with his little brother, in any case. As if anyone would choose the mental health of a single teenager over the security of sixty million people, honestly.
And yet. There was still the bloody Problem. That being that no one else on the planet was willing to put up with Sherlock long enough to help him. If helping him were even possible. Which, to be fair, might be a rather debatable point.
Or perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps he was only fooling himself into believing as much. A convenient loophole to slip through, because if Mycroft had already done the most he could in giving his brother a safe haven to call home, then he'd be absolved the responsibility of dealing with anything else. Not beholden to monitoring a teenager for signs of psychosis or self-destruction or whatever else might reasonably afflict a, er... mistreated... child.
Oh good lord, but he was ridiculous. Avoiding the word even in his thoughts. Abuse. There, christ.
Such a hollow term, though. Nothing but a distant stereotype. Images of television PSAs showing some doe-eyed urchin overshadowed by a caricaturized demon of a parent. Child abuse was the sort of thing that only existed in clichéd dramas and waiting room pamphlets, shoddy government budget films made for schoolchildren. It didn't happen to anyone you knew. Certainly not one's irritating younger brother.
Some small mercy, he supposed, that he didn't know any particulars. Sherlock would sooner die than discuss the matter, and Mycroft had no desire to press things, which had resulted in a strangely comforting dearth of information. With no solid facts to work with he'd never have to take imagery of what he knew his father to be capable of and apply it to a nine year old version of his brother. Only... well, now he had, because he'd just thought it. Bollocks.
Still, in his head the child wasn't Sherlock. Just some nameless unfortunate. Couldn't be his brother, could it, because a child in such a scenario would have to be terrified, and Sherlock was always haughty, annoying, petulant... never scared. Mycroft wasn't even sure the daft idiot was capable of fright, considering his complete lack of a sense of self-preservation.
Except. Yet again with the except... he'd seen his brother and father interact countless times. Family trips and dinners, school events, concerts, a few odd educational outings. And to his great chagrin he couldn't, in hindsight, conjure up a single situation where Sherlock hadn't spent as much time as possible hovering anxiously at Mycroft's side like a second shadow.
At the time Mycroft hadn't given much thought to the behaviour beyond finding it slightly irritating. His brother was neurotic at the best of times, flatly insane at worst, and so his going inexplicably nervous on occasion hadn't seemed cause for worry. Especially since, yes, Father did tend to get a bit snippy when either of them did something he found improper or annoying. Sherlock was improper and annoying by very nature, so of course he'd prefer to keep his mouth shut and hide behind his big brother when Father was around. Didn't want to get snapped at. Understandable.
Much more understandable now than Mycroft was strictly comfortable with, knowing the truth of things. And abruptly that line of thought shot off of its own accord down a tangent; unhelpfully he found himself reminded of one of the handful of times they'd been told off over something together. A long-ago holiday in France when Sherlock had wanted to go explore a cave he'd spotted near the seashore, and Mycroft had tagged along because he wasn't particularly keen on hanging about with Grand-mère all day. Evidently they'd neglected to tell anyone where they were going. Siger, already annoyed by having to interact with Violet's relatives, hadn't reacted well upon their return.
But it had only been a lecture, honestly. Mycroft had found it all a bit dull. Yes, thank you, he understood the importance of adults knowing where you were. He was fifteen, however, which at the time had seemed very grown-up, and so it didn't seem reasonable to be so cross over his disappearing for an hour or two. (In retrospect, he now realised, Siger had most likely been concerned about possible retaliation from associates in the area – having his sons killed or abducted would doubtless pose some measure of inconvenience to the man.) Sherlock, meanwhile, had seemed downright petrified by the whole ordeal. Which in the moment Mycroft had thought rather silly. They'd just got a stern talking-to, for goodness sake, nothing to panic over.
Only now, years later, did that particular instance of melodrama make sense. And it was terrible, because in some petty, childish way, Mycroft wished it didn't. He wanted to go back to the simple explanations, back when his baby brother was just prone to overreacting, a bit melodramatic. No reason for any of it beyond a few crossed wires in his odd little brain.
Now, though... now there were reasons. And now Mycroft had years of historical evidence he was forced to re-examine. Memory after memory tainted by the reality of what must really have been going on. How his brother's inexplicable bouts of anxiety or uncharacteristic reticence almost exclusively occurred when Father was home. That in all likelihood his various overreactions hadn't been overreactions at all. That Mycroft had told him multiple times to stop being dramatic over petty transgressions that, for Sherlock, may have easily amounted to a death sentence.
It was utterly infuriating. That was the only term he could put to it. And bloody unfair. To the both of them, because Mycroft didn't want to know these things, and Sherlock shouldn't have had to live them. But lacking a functioning method of time travel they were stuck with their history. No rewinding reality.
With a heavy sigh Mycroft looked back to his intelligence report. Wasn't like him to get distracted, yet he couldn't for the life of him keep focus. Sherlock's scattershot thought processes must be contagious.
Luckily Mycroft seemed to know instinctively how to combat such an infection. Easy enough to take the entire disorganised jumble of concepts relating to his brother, mentally bundle it up into a wad of neutral apathy, and tuck the result into a quarantine zone. There, perfect. Partitioned away from everything else, he'd address it later, when he had the time to untangle the mess. Some point soon. Not now, though, obviously. Because right now he had a duty to his nation to tend to, building with it a career and a future. Vastly more important.
Turning the page on his report, he settled back into his usual state of placid disengagement.
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"A month without incident, that's all I ask," he droned tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just one. Or a week, even. Two days."
"It wasn't my fault."
Mycroft dropped his hand and fixed his brother with a flat, unimpressed look. Sherlock was glaring up at him. The boy was somehow managing to convey a sense of indignant petulance despite the large-ish wad of cloth obscuring most of the lower half of his face. Over the past few minutes a rosette of blood had begun to seep out from the centre of the fabric, growing steadily larger with each passing second, and Mycroft was doing his best to ignore a faint sense of nausea over the sight.
"It wasn't," Sherlock insisted. His voice came out muted and nasally thanks to the kerchief. "All I did was point out how his-"
"No. There. Stop precisely there," Mycroft snapped. "You pointed out some inane personal fact which had absolutely no business being stated aloud, and were punched in the face for the trouble. Can you see how one might, under such circumstances, consider the incident to be entirely your fault?"
"I didn't mean to, though." Sherlock's voice had gone a bit sulky, peevish. He'd trained a sullen glower on the far wall. "I just... said one more than I was expecting. It was supposed to stop before I got to the bit about his mum."
Mycroft rolled his eyes with a frustrated sigh. "Your speech capacity is not a separate entity from your brain, Sherlock."
"I think mine might be." Sherlock's tone was an odd mix of angry and despondent. Plainly unhappy with his own conduct. Most likely telling the truth, then; hadn't meant to start a fight, probably quite upset that he'd done so, victim once again to his own impulsivity.
Unfortunately Mycroft was in no mood to sympathise. Far too frustrated. He'd been phoned by the school at half past nine in the bloody morning with an urgent message that his brother had run off. Sherlock had made something of a habit of doing this, of course, particularly since relocating to London where he could get home and back within an hour, but he generally kept his escapades low-key enough to avoid triggering any alerts. The fact that he hadn't bothered this time had seemed to Mycroft a sure sign that something must be seriously amiss. Addled by concussion, maybe, or off doing something stupidly self-destructive. Against all logical judgement Mycroft had excused himself the second he reasonably could and hurried back to the flat. Surely he'd headed there first, always did.
In a rare moment of fallibility Mycroft had found only one of two deductions proven correct. Sherlock had indeed gone straight home. Instead of being severely injured or otherwise in some sort of significant distress, however, the boy was just sat cross-legged on the kitchen table nursing a bloodied nose. And that was it. By his own admission absolutely nothing else was wrong.
Far from being a relief the good news was utterly infuriating – Mycroft had gone to all the trouble of leaving work on the assumption that his brother wouldn't have bolted over something as minor as a nosebleed. Which meant he'd just cut short a private audience with an influential intelligence official over the 'sudden family emergency' of his little brother being an overdramatic twat. It was entirely possible he'd never get another chance at that security position now. Months of work wasted on some foolish sense of fraternal concern... ugh, this was precisely the reason key agents were screened for a lack of personal ties.
"Do you have any idea what this has done to my schedule?" he snapped. For some reason his voice came out somewhat uncharacteristically irate. Sherlock's glare sparked with a hint of wariness but quickly switched back to indignant.
"How the hell is that my fault?" He'd lowered the cloth from his face in order to speak more clearly, though the nosebleed hadn't quite stopped. A trail of crimson crept nauseatingly towards the floor.
Mycroft glared and opened his mouth to reply – explain, in excruciating detail, precisely why every single irritating thing in the world right now may well have been Sherlock's fault. His fault for getting himself into yet another childish fight, for not bothering to cover his tracks skiving off, for being a socially maladjusted delinquent, for continually intruding on Mycroft's life, for sparking this sense of leaden guilt over a justifiable level of resentment, for... god's sake, for existing. None of this would be happening if the idiot hadn't been born, would it? Or if Father had just done the logical thing and offed him in infancy.
There was no cold, rational way to explain why he'd just horrified himself by thinking that. Somewhat disconcerting, because the irrational explanation was that he'd somehow made himself ill by deeming it logical to murder a baby. Even though that really would have been the most straightforward solution. Easiest. Bloody hell now he felt worse.
But no, honestly. He... obviously he was only queasy because of the blood. That was all. Nothing but an automatic, phobic reaction, hardwired into his circuitry. Certainly had no psychological underpinning, no far-off, hazy memory of accompanying Father on a business trip and watching a man plead for his life, the flip of a knife and a slit throat, crimson pouring out like – no, stop. He was fine. Perfectly, entirely, fine.
Abruptly he took a step back, away from his brother, from all the awful mess of thoughts surrounding him. This was getting ridiculous. His mental space had somehow become a minefield of emotional detritus in response to Sherlock doing something mildly inconvenient. Why...? Stress? Frustration? Didn't matter. Had to switch it all off before he completely overreacted.
A moment passed in silence. Finally, in an almighty effort of willpower, Mycroft managed to shove the whole knot of intrusive inner turmoil straight into a mental quarantine. There, lord. Problem solved. Or avoided, at the very least, which was close enough for now. He shook his head to rid the last scraps of upset clinging like cobwebs to his brain, then checked his pocket watch. Calmly, deliberately. Back to his usual self. Nothing at all interesting had happened. Perfectly normal.
Plenty of time to make the eleven o'clock, it seemed. Have to reschedule the ten, though... perhaps next week?
When he glanced back up Sherlock was staring at him. Probably confused by the abrupt shift from angry to neutral without discernible cause. But then he should be used to that, shouldn't he, as Father regularly did the same.
"Myc...?" the boy hedged after a few seconds. A pale vestige of a glare, but most of the energy fuelling his outrage seemed to be swiftly draining.
Mycroft idly flipped his mobile out of his pocket and began composing a text to his PA as he turned to leave.
"I'll have the school notified to excuse your absence." Succinct, business-like, dismissive. Exactly as he was meant to be.
Behind him Sherlock made a noise of angry disbelief. "Wh- hey! You can't just-"
But Mycroft very much could, in fact, and was doing so. Abandoning the conflict entirely, because he hadn't the time for useless arguments sparked by teenaged stupidity, and he wasn't the type to entertain theatrics. If they couldn't remain mutually calm enough to come to a logical compromise they'd simply have to shelve the discussion.
He only got about halfway to the door before he heard Sherlock scramble off the table after him. A second later he found himself yanked nearly off balance by his brother grabbing his arm.
With only the barest hint of frigid irritation Mycroft turned back round.
"I started a fight, ran off from school, made you skip a meeting, and you're not even-?" Sherlock shook his head, frustrated, and took a halting step away. Fidgeting, distraught. His expression when he looked back up was oddly desperate. "You can't just walk away."
"No?" Mycroft asked blandly. As if proving otherwise he slipped his mobile back in his pocket and began to do just that.
"No!" Sherlock abruptly shouted. Literally shouted. Mycroft stopped and looked back, if only to turn a disapproving frown for the unnecessary volume. Sherlock, of course, didn't care in the slightest. "For god's sake, what the hell does it take to get you to care!?"
Mycroft had no immediate answer. He told himself that was deliberate, however – withholding a response simply because Sherlock had chosen to yell at him. Childish. Wasn't going to reward that sort of behaviour with an acknowledgement. No matter that the question, and the implications underlying it, came dangerously close to dragging a tangled knot of thoughts straight out of quarantine. With a deliberately unimpressed stare he turned, casual as anything, and left the room.
Sherlock didn't follow this time. In the reflection off the door of a glass cabinet Mycroft could briefly see the boy instead just standing there, stock still in the space where the kitchen met the hall. Blood had made a thin line down his chin to drip onto the crisp white of his shirt.
Shocked. He looked shocked. Or... devastated. If one were inclined to drama. Which Mycroft was not.
No, all he was inclined to for the moment was leaving as quickly as possible. Because he was running late. Or perhaps because his schedule might still be salvageable. Or because this really wasn't his problem in the first place, and he should have never left work over some foolish sense of fraternal worry.
Or, perhaps, because he didn't want to face his brother staring at him like the world had come undone.
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