"My Cup of Tea"
Chapter 3
It was half past ten when Mycroft decided to stroll around the large garden that spread behind the large building that was the Diogenes Club as he realized the weather was rather kind for a September night. As he gathered his belongings, including his cherished umbrella which he took along with him out of precaution – the weather in England is rather changeable – he hummed a cheery song, and even though his happiness was queer to him, he felt as if he was unstoppable.
Mycroft had been right. He hadn't been able to distinguish the light rainfall that fell from the skies slowly as he had sat at his desk, but even more surprising, he didn't seem to mind. He didn't even bother to use his umbrella as he let the small drops of water fall onto him, slowly dripping off his nose.
What made Mycroft even gladder was seeing a full moon hanging above the trees on his right sight. He was quite fond of the moon, and sometimes he could even appreciate stars, and when some odd occurrence came to happen, such as a solar eclipse or whatever those things were called, he often found himself staring out of his window. The moon illuminated the whole backyard, which proudly showed off its beauty. If only Mycroft hadn't heard those damned footsteps.
They were slow footsteps, the footsteps of perhaps a man who was also out to wander, or perhaps even a man who was lost in his thought. But Mycroft immediately knew better: he knew those footsteps, he'd recognize them anywhere.
"Sherlock," he said, his tone demanding, dignified as it always was, "how nice of you to come."
"Brother," was Sherlock's simple greeting.
"Come now," said Mycroft, his tone cynically offended, "aren't you supposed to be glad to see me? I presume you haven't seen much familiar faces the last couple of months – years, even."
Sherlock replied, "I suppose you should feel mutual?"
"Who says I don't?" asked Mycroft, as he turned to his brother. He was startled at what he saw. The man had always been slender but he looked even more sunken than ever before. The skin hung over his high cheekbones lightly. He was pale in the moonlight: horrifyingly pale. And there was no sign of a smile whatsoever. Mycroft wondered for a moment whether his brother had even smiled the last years of his life – whether he ever would again. "I must say, Sherlock, you look horrible."
"And I must say that you've got fatter," said Sherlock, as he sucked in all the air he could, most annoyed. Mycroft and he never had a good relationship and seeing how easily Mycroft seemed to handle this, Sherlock once again felt disappointed. Again, just like he'd been when he'd met Lestrade. Silently he cursed himself.
"Now brother!" said Mycroft excitedly as he saw the look in Sherlock's eyes, "Disappointed, are we? I should've known. You've always been quite the attention seeker. What did you expect me to do? Cry? Hug you? Dear me."
Sherlock didn't trust himself to reply. He pressed his lips together tightly as he stared in front of him.
"We both can't deny this, Sherlock. We both aren't the – how to say – affectionate types, are we now?" Mycroft huffed as he saw how Sherlock's disappointed expression turned into solemn annoyance, "But I must add that I am glad to see you again. And before you ask, of course I knew." Mycroft grinned proudly.
"How did you?"
"Brother's instinct, I'd say," replied Mycroft and winked at his brother. "I knew you weren't dead. I knew you aren't a fraud. But also, I know that Moriarty isn't dead either, and I also know that he's been looking for you."
"I am actually most certain that I won't be bothered by Moriarty anymore," replied Sherlock as he shrugged easily. "And I knew he was alive, however he did it. If I could manage to stay alive, he could too."
"Clever presumption," said Mycroft with a smug smile on his face, "as I could've expected."
"Oh, please," Sherlock pretended to be flattered and showed Mycroft the fakest smile possible. "Now, dear brother, I must say that of course I am disappointed. But of course we all know what a fool you can be," Sherlock showed a genuine smile as he told his brother, "Indeed I am disappointed, but I am not a teenage girl, I don't need you to show me your affection. You know, while I have been hunting Moriarty's men in America, I had some time to think. To wonder. And I came to one concluding question." Slowly, the smug smile on Mycroft's face disappeared, "How could you? How could you betray your own brother?"
Mycroft didn't reply. Mycroft also knew he didn't have to reply. So he stared at the moon and tried to fathom that he could see that round planet even though it was so many miles away. And he didn't bother to say anything, for he knew Sherlock. He knew Sherlock could answer the question himself. Mycroft slipped his hands into his pockets and turned to his brother, and he said, both because he wanted to know and to subtly change the subject, "Does he know yet?"
"No," replied Sherlock, and this time it was his turn to keep staring at the big round moon in front of them.
"You know he is hurt, don't you?" Mycroft told Sherlock, and kept staring at his brother who refused to look back at him. "I have been watching him, just in case – you never know. He was your best friend, Sherlock, and one that is most certainly one to keep. Now, if you are willing to take my advice-" Sherlock wanted to make some sarcastic comment but Mycroft cut him off easily, "-make him your priority. He needs you more than anyone, he needs to know you're alive."
"I know," Sherlock replied with a stubborn expression on his face like a child who had to say sorry to whom he had just stole their sandwich from, "that doesn't mean that I am going to."
"Oh, believe me," said Mycroft, once again a smile appeared on his face, "you are going to. And maybe you don't want to-" Sherlock turned to Mycroft, his expression unbelieving, an expression Mycroft hadn't yet seen before, "-but I'll make you."
"You won't," said Sherlock.
"Oh yes, I will," replied Mycroft.
Sherlock looked at his brother as he slowly shook his head. "You know, Mycroft, stop interfering in my life. Did I ever meddle in all your governmental business? Your secret relationship?"
Now it was Mycroft's turn to show one of the expressions he didn't often show, an unbelieving frown appeared on his face. "I have never, ever tried to interfere because I knew that you wouldn't very much appreciate it," Mycroft's expression turned startled at the just told phrase, "and what am I getting back? Alright, Mycroft, I get it. I can't change you. But trust me, you will lose your friends if you're going to spy on them, even I know that."
And without even a good-bye, Sherlock turned around and disappeared into the night, and Mycroft stood disbelievingly, staring at the darkness wherein Sherlock had disappeared, trying to distinguish his brother's slender figure but being unable to. He licked his lips and sighed deeply, telling himself to pull himself together for Christ's sake, and started moving towards the Diogenes Club, getting ready to depart.
The picture of Mycroft's horrified, dubious look was proudly burned onto Sherlock's retina. He enjoyed the look on his brother's face over and over again and Sherlock made the mental note never to delete it. Perhaps he'd frame it and give it a special place in his gallery of favourite expressions, wherein already hung the photograph of Jim Moriarty proffering how he'd look when Sherlock would shoot him in the pool that one night, and of John's expression of when he found an exposed brain in the fridge. He loved all the pictures and cherished them, and he most certainly new that this new picture would be a crown jewel in his collection. He slipped his hands into his pockets as Mycroft had done earlier.
But one thing Sherlock couldn't get out of his head. It was what Mycroft had said about John. About how John needed Sherlock most of all people. And Sherlock of course new it, and he hated that he knew it, and he despised himself greatly for leaving John alone. But he didn't have a choice.
But it kept following him. Sherlock could even hear Mycroft's voice, nagging, "Sherlock, just go to him – Sherlock, you need to go and see him – Sherlock, make him your priority."
And eventually, it drove Sherlock mad. Half an hour ago he had decided to walk to Molly's apartment but changed his mind drastically. He stopped a taxi, which stopped in front of him immediately after he'd yelled for one, and when he had made himself comfortable in a chair, and had pulled himself together, he told the driver to go to 221b Baker Street.
A/N: I don't know when I'll be able to write so I've decided to update two chapters tonight. I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a review!
