(( Here we are again! I was a bit uncertain as to when to do a Mrs. Hudson chapter, because her character's so difficult to write! But I'm rather pleased with how this one came out, so I decided to put it up. Thanks everyone for all of your feedback, it really does mean a lot! Leave a review if you'd like, but if not, just enjoy the story!))
As soon as Inspector Lestrade had told Mycroft that his brother was, indeed, alive, and what's more, explained how he did it, Mycroft immediately requested that he leave. No hard feelings, Mycroft promised him – indeed, Mycroft owed Lestrade quite a bit, and would he be so inclined to meet for tea on next Wednesday? All of this was offered with Mycroft's eyes still red, and his hands still shaking.
It was a temporary lapse of composure, and it would not happen again.
Of that, Mycroft swore to himself.
It was just all so not good. Mycroft Holmes planned the world according to his schedule, and it went accordingly. Every single person did what he thought they would do, and nothing went haywire. Only his brother had managed to upset such a system and complicate things. Nobody else was intelligent enough. Perhaps that was why Mycroft did care for his brother – in complicating his life, he provided mental challenges for Mycroft. It was a headache, perhaps, but Mycroft lived for what he did.
After all, without it, he was, as Inspector Lestrade said, just a man who lived alone.
He immediately regretted his outburst in front of Lestrade. Of course he was fond of the man. Lestrade was always sincere, always obvious, always authoritative in his methods. The man had turned out to be an unlikely source of comfort for Mycroft, because he was grieving in a way he thought he wouldn't grieve. He was grieving normally, for the first time in his life. Guilt and worry both stabbed at his heart, and Mycroft would have given anything for it to stop. How did normal people live with such violent emotions?
Regardless.
Now, there were things to do. Once Lestrade had left, he leaned forward and steepled his fingers in front of him, running them over his face. The emotions soon went away. Nothing had changed. Sherlock had fooled him. Mycroft was more intelligent than his brother in so many damn ways, but Sherlock had such a fondness for childish little tricks.
A text would likely suffice. Mycroft had no nervousness in his demeanor. He trusted those like Inspector Lestrade. If he had a dozen more like him in the NSY, then he would be a good whit less worried about the establishment. Besides, he thought to himself, Lestrade didn't have the intelligence to lie to him.
Brother. M
There. Simple, personal, to the point. Now there was only to wait. While Mycroft waited for the text, he put himself together again. A change of the suit, a text to Anthea to make sure that Lestrade's superiors weren't debating upon a sacking, and the putting away of the cognac. There would be no more of that. It was positively plebeian, for God's sake.
For all of Mycroft's composure, he still jumped a good mile when he heard the small ring from his mobile.
You're growing slow. SH
Oh.
Oh.
Oh, thank God. If Mycroft had been a less composed man, he would have broken down crying once more. Sherlock, his brother, was alive. Alive and not dead. He hadn't killed himself.
Perhaps he wouldn't have been so distraught if he hadn't been Mycroft's brother. A thousand memories had run through his head over the past few weeks, both the young innocent ones – Sherlock, on his bum in the middle of a mud patch, bawling his eyes out because he'd gotten stung by a bee - to the ones that still entered the elder Holmes's dream at night – A damn call from the rehabilitation center, saying that Sherlock had managed to swindle in a lethal dose of cocaine and-
No. If he were to help Sherlock in any capacity, he would have to shove those sentimental memories aside. It wasn't difficult. Mycroft had been doing it, in one way or another, all of his life.
My mind has been otherwise preoccupied. Taking into account, of course, that this isn't some stunt for John to marvel and gawk at, what is this all for? M
Of course Mycroft had an idea, after Greg had explained it to him. Sherlock had finally become sentimental. Sacrificing himself, more or less, for the people that he loved. He could only be thankful that Sherlock had figured out a 'Plan B', so to speak, rather than just jumping off the building outright. Would he have, if he knew he were going to die? Really and truly die?
Mycroft didn't know.
All will be revealed in due time. In the meantime, Mycroft, would you look after someone for me? I imagine he'll be quite distraught at my death, and I must confess, his absence is proving more difficult for my thought process than I had initially predicted. My mind would be much set at ease if you watched him. SH
It was, quite possibly, the longest conversation he had ever had with Sherlock Holmes over text. Sherlock, then, was lonely. He did, every once in a while. It was Sherlock Holmes's fatal flaw: love. It didn't occur often for him, but when it did, it hit the detective with such a magnitude and passion that he could do little else but stare at the object of his emotion.
Of course. I will alert you if John suffers from anything serious. M
Thank you. SH
I apologise for any difficulties my death has caused. SH
You cause difficulties with every action you do, Sherlock. In the end, this is no different. Do stay safe. M
That was about as fraternal as Mycroft would stoop. When they had been younger, he had been overbearing, sentimental, and that was why Sherlock detested him. He did not respond to him. Now, with the iciness and the distance, Sherlock would respond.
Once he had gotten himself ready, he made his way for 221 Baker Street.
It was a rainy and drizzly day in London. By the time he had reached the flat, he had instituted surveillance on a Ms. Hooper, an Inspector Lestrade, Sergeant Donovan, Technician Anderson, and soon, Ms. Hudson and a Dr. Watson.
There was a mild bit of surprise in his face as Mrs. Hudson opened the door instead of John Watson.
"Oh! Mycroft, what a surprise. How…nice of you to visit, dearie." Mrs. Hudson offered to him insincerely, glancing him over. Perhaps she was judging how Mycroft hadn't been present at Sherlock's funeral. Perhaps she merely remembered past difficulties. Or, perhaps, she was still grieving.
His eyes flicked over her regardless. It was an unconscious action, but from it, he could gleam more for her than Sherlock ever could. John had slept in her flat three nights out of the week this week, she had been making most of his meals, she had called her sister three times, her hip was acting up again, she had visited Sherlock's grave, she was grieving over him still.
"My apologies for such a rude intrusion, Mrs. Hudson." Mycroft spoke with the politeness needed by a politician, even offering her a polite smile. "I was merely wondering if I may come in. I had a few matters to discuss with Dr. Watson. Would he happen to be in?"
From there, he could see a war of emotion on Mrs. Hudson's face. Part of her, for whatever reason, wanted to send Mycroft away outright. Part of her was motherly to her core and wanted to let him in for a scone and a cuppa. And there was an all-too familiar look in her face that said she wanted to break down or blow up, that the stress was becoming too much for her, as well.
"He…he's out right now, but I'm sure he'll be back within the hour. I've just made biscuits. You may as well stay in and wait for him. Have you eaten? You're looking thin." Mrs. Hudson chastised him as Mycroft made his way inside the flat. He hadn't ever been in Mrs. Hudson's part of the building before, but he agreed willingly. If he was going to be keeping surveillance on both her and John, then they should at least be on speaking terms. Even if they were on opposite sides of the spectrum.
As he made his way through her flat, he was struck by how many pictures he saw there. Mycroft's home was mercifully void of such sentiments, aside from a few lapses – there was an old Holmes family photo in the foyer, and in the more private parts of his house, where he dared not let any politicians in, there were even one or two of Sherlock. Perhaps even Dr. Watson made his way in.
Mrs. Hudson seemed to glorify in photos. There were ones of her sister, who appeared to be quite a well-traveled and exciting woman. There were ones of Dr. Watson. Most of the shots were candid, and thus contained John looking up in surprise from reading the newspaper, tapping away on the laptop, making tea. Inspector Lestrade was pictured infrequently, as was Ms. Hooper.
Most of all, he was surprised and a bit taken aback at the pictures of Sherlock there. There were ones from when he was younger (and still a cocaine addict, given the shadows under his eyes), but there were a great many more from recently. There was Sherlock with the damnable deerstalker. Him, leaning over case files while John talked at his side. Sleeping on the sofa. With his laboratory equipment on. Speaking with Lestrade. On the phone.
It struck him that Mrs. Hudson was treating Sherlock like he was her son. It wasn't dissimilar from a proud parent, sticking photos of their beloved child all over their wall. Even after his death, she hadn't removed them. Mycroft found himself looking over all of them far long than it was necessary, and eventually Mrs. Hudson appeared in the hall again.
"Oh, you're looking at my photos. When the hip gets too bad, I can't much go out. Sherlock and John are wonderful about it, the little loves. Now that Sherlock's gone, I might have to take some of these down. Too many memories. The look in John's eyes when he sees them…oh, dear." Mrs. Hudson murmured as she stood next to him, and Mycroft was stunned by how easily she mentioned Sherlock's death. Lestrade needed to be prodded, and he, himself, couldn't mention it easily.
"I see. It is rather kind of you to take Dr. Watson into account. I realise that this is not an easy experience for anyone." Mycroft soothed, tearing his eyes away from the photos. He didn't like them. Sometimes it was easy to think of his brother as a child, yet, one who merely wanted an audience to gawk upon his genius. These photos rounded him out a bit more, made him seem more of a human. A human who cared about John Watson and who slept on occasion and who drooled a little bit when he slept. It was a realization that he had tried to stamp out since he had left for University, all those years ago. It was so easy to objectify his younger brother, to paint him as a child, as someone who needed to be protected and shunned.
"Well, no, it isn't, but we have to help each other any way we can. Poor John's been in a daze for the past two weeks. He talks, of course, but…well, I expect you'll see." Mrs. Hudson chirped as she made her way into her small kitchen. As she did so, she put one hand up to her hip. It was troubling her again. Mycroft wanted to offer to help – after all, he knew people. He suspected she would doubt his sincerity, so he did not offer.
Mycroft sat in a chair and unbuttoned his jacket, staring at the quaint building. Of course he had run a quick background check on the woman, ever since he learned that she was going to be his brother's landlady. It was completely clean. Her husband had been a rather nasty piece of work, however, and Mycroft was secretly pleased that he was no longer living. "And how have you been coping, Mrs. Hudson?"
Mrs. Hudson twitched a bit as he asked the question, and then she merely started to bustle about the kitchen. Mycroft had raised a hand to offer to help, but she seemed to be a woman on a mission. The woman seemed born to be a mother, but Mycroft didn't know if she had any children. Pity if she didn't. "About as well as anyone else, Mycroft. It was just…a shock, you know. He seemed so happy. Maybe not with this…this Moriarty business he had on. That Moriarty wasn't good for him, you know. He got…odd around him. Not like his usual cases." Mrs. Hudson hesitated in her speech, unsure of how to proceed again. She said the next few words a bit louder than usual, almost as if in a burst of inspiration. "Determined, maybe. More so than his other cases. Like…like not being able to solve the thing would be the utter end of him. John and I tried to sit him down, tell him to take a break, but…especially towards the end, he just wouldn't. I imagine it was because he was thinking of…oh, I'm sorry, dearie…" Mrs. Hudson had started to tear up, and she reached for a tissue to dab delicately at her eyes. "It's just so hard to imagine him that way. I can't stand saying that he…he did that to himself. He seemed the last person in the world…then again, I suppose that's what they always say, isn't it?"
Mycroft offered her a tight-lipped smile and reached over to tap her hand reassuringly. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson. It is completely understandable. Grief is always a fickle thing, and one most bear it to one's own. May I inquire as to how Dr. Watson's doing?"
Mrs. Hudson seemed to take the change of subject gratefully as she put a few biscuits and a mug of tea in front of Mycroft.
Mycroft's damned diet.
He didn't take any. Of course he was sticking to it yet. In his younger years, he had found himself hideously overweight, and sent to rectify that immediately. Even now, he was uncertain about his appearance, but he had neither the time or sentimentality needed to obsess over it.
"John's been doing…I don't know. It's always so hard to tell with him. He's a soldier to his very core, I think. He'll come down for dinner with me once in a while. Can't get up the energy to cook. It's so hard on his poor leg, Mycroft, but he snaps at me if I tell him to use his cane. Sometimes I'll just go up there, and he's…sitting, just staring at all the little knick-knacks Sherlock's ferreted away. It's not healthy, Mycroft. Heaven strike down the person who says that I think he should move out, but…he can't keep looking around and see Sherlock at every corner."
In that moment, Mycroft felt a bit of kinship with the old woman.
Of course they were both grieving over Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft was grieving over a younger brother, although he hated to admit that he was. Mrs. Hudson was grieving over a son, but she had to keep it together for the man living upstairs. And, at the end, they both had to take care of other people before they took care of themselves. Again, Mycroft's hand went to cover her own, and Mrs. Hudson went to dab at her eyes again.
Oh, Mycroft would have killed for a mother like Mrs. Hudson when he was growing up. So much would have changed.
"Mrs. Hudson, I understand. I'm trying to help Dr. Watson get through this difficult time. It is never easy when a loved one dies." Now Mycroft was detaching himself from the situation. Offering meaningless soothing phrases. Mrs. Hudson seemed to accept them anyway, nodding her head up and down. "Thank you for helping him so. I have no doubt that he would be completely inconsolable if you had not tended to him. For that, Mrs. Hudson, you have my thanks."
Mrs. Hudson smiled at him then, pushing the plate of biscuits over to him. "Perhaps you're not as odd as I thought, Mycroft. Eat a biscuit. You're looking thin."
He wasn't positive when the decision to tell her came about. Perhaps it was her keen earnestness to help that made him, perhaps it was the desperate need to find another ally. Lestrade was a fantastic gentleman, but he didn't have the motherliness John needed to get through this all. Perhaps it was their shared purpose. Perhaps it was the way she put John before herself. Or perhaps Mycroft Holmes was just going mad.
Regardless, he took a biscuit and looked at her, offering the mumbled confession during chews.
