December 25, 2010

There was little Mycroft hated more than the bleakness of his flat at Christmas. Not that there was anything shabby or run-down about it. On the contrary, the sleek, minimalist furnishings and state-of-the-art electronics were thrice weekly kept in a perpetual state of shine by an elderly Portugeuse woman named Marta.

She had been selected from a large pool of potential candidates for her work ethic, character, and, most importantly, discretion. Indeed, so effective was she that had it not been for the omnipresent sheen of polish covering every surface, Mycroft would have doubted whether she came in at all.

But even Marta's thorough ministering could not magically produce the sort of cozy warmth which was for so many synonymous with Christmas. Mycroft told himself it was childish to want it. No, childish was the wrong word - it implied that such a warmth had been something he'd been given as a child, or at the very least understood.

But Holmes family Christmases were cold affairs, to say the least. Mummy Holmes had so disliked the usual hustle and bustle that both children and the holidays brought that she annually threatened her two boys with no presents at all if they so much as considered popping open a Christmas cracker.

Consequently, Christmas mornings were usually spent in the silence of the formal parlor, with Sherlock in the corner busily assembling whatever contraption their mother had decided would be an appropriate distraction, and Mummy herself quietly reading the newspaper as if it were any other day. This left nothing for Mycroft to do but sit quietly by the fireplace, idly poking the ashes in the hopes of summoning a little leftover warmth into their drafty, country house.

One night, after much prompting and no small amount of alcohol, when he'd told Lestrade about these early Christmases, the Detective Inspector had accused him of cribbing this last detail from Cinderella. Mycroft had replied, a little stiffly, that he'd never read it, but was sure that any similarities were purely coincidental.

Gregory. The real reason why his flat felt colder this Christmas than it ever had before washed over him once again. In truth, he had never noticed the lack of warmth in his home or his life until Gregory Lestrade came along, bringing with him endless piles of case-files, bags of groceries, and discarded patent leather loafers. With him gone, all that had been missing in Mycroft's life was rather too apparent.

In the hopes of avoiding any more introspection than was strictly unavoidable, Mycroft had chosen to spend this Christmas in his private rooms at the Diogenes Club, with a roaring fire and as much scotch as his ulcer would allow him, in the hopes that it would drive away the lurking chill and omnipresent memories. It was there that Sherlock's phone call found him.

"Oh dear Lord," he said, automatically donning the cold flippancy he was sure Sherlock had come to expect from him, "We're not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we?"

But of course this had not been what anyone other than a Holmes would have deemed a "Christmas phone call."

So it was that the Holmes brothers spent the last few hours of what amounted to their first Christmas together in many years within the cold, stone walls of the St. Barts' morgue. Mycroft didn't mind. At least among the dead there was no pressure to feign the joyful, holiday feeling which had always escaped him, and would certainly not be found in such a year as this.

"Look at them," Sherlock said, as if reading Mycroft's mind, "They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

His thoughts leapt immediately to Lestrade, to the good man who loved him, and whom he'd pushed away. The sudden weariness that swept over him was nearly enough to prompt him to respond with the truth: yes, he did wonder. Some days, he wondered very much indeed.

But upon remembering that well-intentioned prevarications were even more essential to the so-called Christmas spirit than any amount of holly or wrapping paper, he chose to say instead, "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

These were not words of comfort, nor were they intended to be. Soothing platitudes were simply not applicable to a discussion between Holmeses. Indeed, had he attempted to provide his brother with any, Mycroft had no doubt that Sherlock would have responded with suspicion at best. Far better to play the part of the cynic - that is he hoped that he was only acting.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft," Sherlock said as he strode quietly from the room. To the casual observer, this would have seemed an appropriate, even fraternal valediction. To Mycroft, it signified trouble as surely as Sherlock's acceptance of the cigarette.

It served as a kind of code between them. To those for whom December the twenty-fifth meant warm, family feelings, a "Merry Christmas" was a pleasantry, a natural extension of inner seasonal joy. But for the two of them, for whom Christmas had always been at best commonplace, and at worst utterly grim, it signified a much darker state of affairs.

As Mycroft reflexively murmured, "And a happy New Year," to Sherlock's retreating form, he felt a sharp burst of pain from his stomach, undoubtedly the consequence of the unsettling realization that he had known all along that introducing his little brother to Irene Adler was far too dangerous a gamble, combined with the resulting guilt and worry, playing on his already aggravated ulcer.

Doing his solemn best to ignore the pulsing ache in his abdomen in favor of more pressing matters, Mycroft withdrew his phone and placed the call before his brother's long, black coat had finished sweeping around the corner. John had to be told.

"You have to stay with him, John," Mycroft said firmly. The doctor's insistence that he already had plans did not trouble him. Mycroft had no doubt whatsoever that John Watson would watch over his brother until the danger had passed. He always did.

With that taken care of, Mycroft allowed himself the luxury of slumping against the cold, stone wall of the morgue hallway and letting out a groan. He extracted a small, unmarked bottle of pills from the pocket of his overcoat and popped two of them into his mouth.

Once he had worked his way up to taking twelve to fifteen Prilosec a day, it had become clear even to Mycroft that a change in regimen was needed. His contact in MI-5 had prescribed him an experimental drug they were in the habit of using whenever one of their agents was experiencing a similar problem.

Though the new pills did bring him effective relief for the stomach pain, they also generated a whole batch of side effects, most frequently headaches, bouts of dizziness, and even more insomnia. The last Mycroft didn't mind so much - sleeping had become rather more of a hardship than waking as of late.

After deciding that spending the last hour of his Christmas on the floor of a morgue was a little too depressing even for him, Mycroft hauled himself to his feet and began to make his way back toward his rooms at the Diogenes.

It took him two blocks to realize that not only was his mobile somehow still in his hand from when he had phoned John, but there was a different contact name already displayed. It said simply G (Home). All that was left was to press "Call."

He had not spoken to Lestrade since that last late night phone call two months ago. As much as it had pained him to cut off his only remaining source of comfort, Mycroft had felt it was not appropriate to continue things after learning of Lestrade's reconciliation with his wife. He refused to compromise Lestrade's happiness for the sake of his own.

Yet standing there in the cold, watching the last minutes of another gloomy Christmas pass by, Mycroft could not bring himself to just press "Cancel." After a few seconds' consideration, he allowed himself the compromise of sending a text message instead.

But what should he say? Merry Christmas. Too generic. He erased this immediately. I miss you. He stared at the words for two full minutes before erasing them, too. However true they were, admitting it at this juncture would do neither of them any good.

Finally, Mycroft settled on, "Irene Adler dead. Possible danger night. Thought you should know. - M," hitting send before he could change his mind again. He then resumed his journey through the snow toward the imposing facade of the Diogenes.

By the time Mycroft's mobile lit up an hour later with the words, "Thanks for letting me know. Merry Christmas, My. - G," he was already passed out in the high-backed leather chair in his chambers, an empty tumbler of scotch still grasped in his fingers.