Mycroft Holmes sat alone at the head of the table, neglecting to eat.
Not that there was any shortage of food on the table in front of him – his place was laid with a roast duck, vegetable dumplings, quail eggs, and various pies, among other assorted goods.
Sherlock had joked once, when they were much younger, that Mycroft ate better than the Queen herself. "I do, and it's a good thing," he had responded. "Perhaps if I eat enough for the both of us, my dear younger brother will not starve."
Even back then, Sherlock had refused to take care of himself.
Mycroft sighed, troubled by the memory. He pushed the plate of duck away, for once not hungry.
A serving boy rushed in, quick as a beetle. "Is the food not to your liking, sir?"
Mycroft gave the boy a polite smile. It wasn't his fault his employer was not hungry, after all. "The food is perfectly adequate, thank you."
The boy eyed the duck. "Shall I fetch another bird for you, sir?"
"No, I believe that I'll forego my supper tonight."
"As you wish, Mister Holmes."
The boy scuttled out of the room once more, eager to perform his job and perform it quickly.
Mycroft frowned. They were scared of him. From the serving boys to the Queen, every last person was terrified of Mycroft Holmes.
Everyone except Sherlock.
And Sherlock… Sherlock hated him.
Mycroft allowed himself a half second of grief, then stood, brushing imaginary crumbs of food he hadn't eaten from his suit jacket.
He walked briskly from the room, and found himself turning toward the courtyard. The sun was just setting as he entered the yard, sweeping past the elegant cream pillars of the portico.
He strode to the covered bench in the center, and sat to one side, his chin in his hand. He should be in the library, he knew – Mycroft Holmes strove to keep to a precise schedule. However, today Sherlock was in the library.
And Sherlock…
Mycroft shook his head, and closed his eyes.
The look his little brother had given him, upon waking from his drug-induced sleep that morning…
It was the most terrible face Sherlock had ever made.
The detective had given him scathing looks before; of course he had. There had never been any true animosity between them, though. Any anger Sherlock displayed was generally feigned. It was all part of an intricate game the two geniuses played.
The look on his face this morning, on the other hand… it had been a look of pure hatred.
Mycroft breathed deeply through his nostrils. The most difficult part, he reflected, was that for once, Sherlock was perfectly justified in how he felt.
It was not directly Mycroft's fault that Sherlock was sequestered from John Watson for the time being, but he could easily see how Sherlock thought that his temporary house arrest was overkill. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to reveal his continued existence to his old flatmate. He understood the consequences that would have, of course he did, but Sherlock had always been one to act first and address consequences later.
It had been the drug, the soporific in the tea, which had broken the camel's back. Mycroft grimaced.
It had been years ago, but all the same, the memory bit sharp as a dagger. Sherlock had been twenty, Mycroft twenty-eight, when the younger Holmes had overdosed on cocaine for the first time.
Mycroft finally had the opportunity to put his younger brother in rehab – or so he had thought. Sherlock, stubborn as ever, had run from the hospital once he had woken. He had hopped from drug den to dingy drug den, until Mycroft caught up to him six months later.
It had been a soporific in the tea then, too, which had enabled Mycroft to sedate Sherlock long enough to deposit him safely into a locked room in the older man's estate.
I only wanted to keep you safe. Those were the words that graced the note Sherlock had found upon his bedside table the day after his brother had caught him. On the day the detective left the estate, Mycroft had entered the room seeking solace. Instead, he found a pile of ashes and a cigarette lighter in the place the note had lain.
Sherlock had hated his older brother for drugging him then, and he hated him for it now.
Still, it had to be done. If he had let Sherlock continue to work without sleeping, his baby brother would have turned into a fast train careening around a sharp corner. Mycroft was determined not to let him derail himself again. He had pulled Sherlock back into society once twenty years ago, and gods be damned if he wouldn't do it again.
All the same, it hurt terribly.
Mycroft stood suddenly, and walked briskly back the way he came, through the portico, and into his estate. He swept past a maid who, if she had seen the droplet of water running down her employer's cheek, at least had the good grace not to comment upon it.
Mycroft made it back to his own apartment, entered, and slammed the door behind him. He sank to his knees at the foot of his bed, and sat on the floor, choking back more tears.
I only did it because I love you, Sherlock.
Why, then, did it feel as though he was betraying his brother?
The curtains were open. Outside, the stars were beginning to twinkle among the wisps of clouds leftover from the day.
Another minute, Mycroft thought, just one more minute and he would get up and stop this foolish nonsense. Yet, a full five minutes had passed before he was able to fully stifle his tears. He stood stiffly, rubbing the moisture from his face with the heels of his hands. His eyes were swollen, he knew. He would have to rinse them with cold water before the video conference with the Cabinet later tonight.
"Sentiment, brother mine," a soft voice floated from the dark corner between the window and the bed.
Mycroft froze, and took a moment to hastily gather his scattered thoughts.
Sherlock peeled himself from his hiding place, and moved quiet as a cat to stand next to his older brother. Mycroft turned his face to the side, hoping to preserve at least some small amount of dignity.
"It is unfortunate that you had to witness that display. My apologies." His voice was the color and texture of rough gravel.
"It seems to me we apologize too much for acting like regular human beings," Sherlock replied in a neutral tone.
"You're meant to be studying Moriarty's web, not spying on your allies."
"Call it practice for the job ahead of me. Care for a smoke?"
"Those things will kill you."
"I wish them the best of luck, as it seems I'm already dead."
Mycroft huffed a dry laugh, and followed his brother out onto the small balcony. He accepted the proffered cigarette, lit it with his own lighter, and inhaled gratefully. The night air was cool, but not cold.
"How go your studies?" he asked the younger man, politely.
"Well enough. I should be ready to fly to Bulgaria in two day's time."
"Bulgaria." Mycroft puffed a cloud of smoke into the sky. "I hear the food is better than in London."
"The food everywhere is better than the food in London."
Mycroft laughed again, dry and brittle, and regarded his brother.
"Good heavens, are you still crying?" Sherlock was looking at him with a baffled expression. Mycroft frowned, and touched his cheek. Sure enough, his fingers met with dampness.
"Apologies, brother mine," he said softly, and reached into his jacket pocket for his handkerchief. He dabbed delicately under his eyes.
Sherlock looked uncomfortable for a moment, before seeming to come to a decision. He took the handkerchief from Mycroft's hand and dropped it, letting it flutter to the ground one floor below them.
"Sherlock, what are you-" Mycroft was cut off abruptly as cold, pale fingers brushed against his cheek.
"Returning a favor," Sherlock murmured in response, as he caressed his brother's face. He unabashedly took the half-smoked cigarette from Mycroft's mouth, tossed it onto the concrete, and snubbed it out with his shoe. With his other arm he pulled Mycroft into a clumsy, awkward hug. The elder Holmes furrowed his brow in confusion, but dared not say a word.
Sherlock was tall and lanky, it was true, but Mycroft matched him in height, and Sherlock's warm breath brushed over his neck in a way that was not unpleasant.
"I do not hate you, brother mine," he said, voice almost at a whisper. "But do not think that you can change my ways with a cup of tea and a soft word."
Mycroft drew in a shuddering breath.
I am strong. I am England.
I will not cry.
"What I do, I do for your protection."
I will not cry.
"What you do is well appreciated. But despite your efforts, you will not save me from myself."
I will not cry.
"I know."
Mycroft Holmes sobbed into his younger brother's shoulder.
Sherlock was gracious enough not to coddle him with soft words or gentle touches. He simply stood there, holding his brother as the tears dripped from the end of Mycroft's nose onto Sherlock's shirt.
Mycroft at one point tried to pull away, but Sherlock, a step ahead, pulled him back. He placed a gentle hand on Mycroft's temple. "The universe cannot turn us into gods, Mycroft," he muttered softly. "We can only function so far as our humanity allows."
Mycroft forced himself to breathe.
"I cannot allow your humanity to take you from me," he said brokenly.
Sherlock's hand stroked backward from Mycroft's temple, coming to rest on the back of his head.
"Don't you think cheating death twice is asking a bit much from the universe?"
Mycroft buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's collarbone. "Do you think it will come to that?"
Sherlock's silence was all the answer he needed.
He soaked in his brother's presence for a bit longer, continuing to take deep, calming breaths. After a time, he pulled back. Sherlock let him.
"Apologies, brother," he said, looking down.
"For what?"
Mycroft smirked halfheartedly, and turned his face upward to gaze at the stars.
"A pity you snuffed out that cigarette."
"Would you like another?"
"No, no, one is plenty."
They gazed at the night sky together, falling into a comfortable silence.
Some time much later, Mycroft walked back into his apartment without a word. He might as well go to bed; by this time he had surely missed his video conference. Sherlock followed him. The older brother sat on the edge of the bed, removing his shoes.
Sherlock did the same, mirroring Mycroft's movements.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"
His younger brother made no reply, but finished removing his shoes and sprawled across Mycroft's bed, still clothed.
"Sherlock."
"Just this once?"
Mycroft opened his mouth, and closed it once more.
Their parents had been caring enough, but as boys, Sherlock and Mycroft had relied on each other for comfort, rather than their mother or father. Sherlock especially, who had been plagued by nightmares until he was eight, would often find himself in his older brother's bed in the wee hours of the morning.
Just this once, he would always say. And Mycroft had let him stay, every time, holding him and shielding him from whatever nightmares came his way.
That, however, had been thirty years ago, when they were still children.
"Sherlock, I am a forty-six year old man."
"And?"
"You are a thirty-eight year old man."
"And?"
Mycroft regarded his younger brother. Sherlock's eyes shone in the moonlight. "There are entire laws written about two males sleeping together in this country. And those males not being blood relatives."
"And?"
Mycroft sighed, and finished unlacing his second shoe. He stood up, and began to move away from the bed.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, sounding uneasy for the first time.
"Unlike my uncivilized younger brother, I subscribe to the benefits of wearing nightclothes."
"Ah." Sherlock relaxed back into the duvet. He stretched lithe and cat-like, unfazed by Mycroft's subtle dig at his apparel.
Mycroft collected his pyjamas from the wardrobe, moved into the bathroom, changed, and moved out again. Sherlock was curled up in the middle of his bed, perfectly relaxed but still alert.
"You'll need to move over if you want to stay."
Sherlock obliged willingly. Mycroft lay down a bit awkwardly and faced his younger brother.
"This is absurd," he declared after a few moments.
"Just this once," Sherlock said again.
Mycroft laughed genuinely. "I can't believe you still remember, after all these years."
"I don't often forget."
"That you don't, brother mine," Mycroft agreed quietly, before the two lapsed into silence once more. Moonlight washed over the two of them from the window.
Tentatively, Sherlock placed a hand on Mycroft's arm.
"You don't mind, truly?"
Mycroft sighed. "No, Sherlock. Gods help me, I don't."
He could feel his younger brother's smirk in the darkness, as Sherlock pulled closer. Mycroft rolled onto his back, allowing Sherlock to pillow his head upon his shoulder.
In two days, Sherlock would fly to Bulgaria, to begin a journey that might very well be the death of him. In two days, Mycroft risked losing all that he had worked so incredibly hard to keep.
Mycroft squeezed Sherlock tighter to him.
"Just this once, baby brother."
"Just this once."