Chapter Six: A Brother's Return
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I don't despise you for what you allowed to happen to me. I despise you because when I was released, you refused to be found and I needed you more than anything in my life. Not to mend my broken bones, Arjuro. I needed my brother to mend my broken spirit.
— Melina Marchetta, Froi of the Exiles
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There have been very few times in his life that Sherlock has seen his brother undone. Once in a rare show of anger when he'd found Sherlock in the process of inserting a needle into his vein and once in a true moment of desperation when a younger Sherlock had fallen into a frozen pond, almost beyond reach.
And now.
Sherlock stares at Mycroft from the shadows, not revealing himself yet and taking in everything his brother's appearance has to say. It's been three years since he's last seen Mycroft in person, two years since they've spoken.
His brother has aged ten in that time.
Mycroft's hands shake as he thumbs through the files on his desk (drinking heavily), his normally immaculate clothing showing signs of disrepair (uncaring of his appearance). The picture of their family taken years ago is missing from its usual place on his desk (guilt). Mycroft usually takes care to display it so the person sitting across from him can see it (sentiment). A family man, one who can surely be trusted, that picture had said (but not anymore). It is as much a part of Mycroft's image as the bespoke suits and umbrella. An image that Mycroft has apparently, for the first time in his life, given up on representing.
If Sherlock didn't know better, he'd deduce that Mycroft is grieving.
Sherlock ghosts forward, silent as a cat. In the past, he's never gotten this close to his brother without Mycroft realising; observation does run in their family, of course. This time his brother seems unaware of the presence to his side; Sherlock ponders, is he sick?
Sherlock is close enough to read the files that Mycroft is shuffling restlessly through. Reports on the men Sherlock has spent the last three years hunting, including a large dossier of Sherlock himself. Mycroft flips the folder devoted to Sebastian Moran, eyes flickering over the man's grainy surveillance photo. Hunting him had been like hunting a ghost. Sherlock had been forced to become a ghost himself in order to catch up to the man, taking two long years. His final quarry. Defeated now.
It's time to come home.
Sherlock lays a thin, dirty hand on the folder. Mycroft freezes, his eyes locked on the hand that had appeared so suddenly in his view. For a single moment, the only sound is breathing; Sherlock's is calm and unhurried, Mycroft's hitched, almost too fast.
"Subject is deceased," Sherlock says, voice scratchy. He's fallen out of the habit of speaking out loud in the last few months, and his voice sounds strange. "Legwork, Mycroft? I never thought I'd see the day."
"In matters of importance," Mycroft says, voice calmer than his expression, "I take measures to ensure they are done correctly. Why did you break contact?"
Sherlock shrugs. "It was necessary. I wasn't aware that you needed constant repetitions of my safety."
It's slight, but Sherlock catches the shiver that ghosts over Mycroft's skin.
"Yes, well. You always have been remarkably unaware of the effects of your actions upon others," he says. "You always were spoiled."
Sherlock ignores the barbed comment. "You were afraid. You believed me dead."
He isn't asking. His brother is a fantastic actor, better than Sherlock even. He's been acting his whole life, after all.
But he isn't this good.
Mycroft closes his eyes. They sit without speaking, Sherlock perched awkwardly on the side of the desk.
Finally, Mycroft speaks: "It is hard to repeat a statement so many times over such an extended period without eventually coming to believe that statement." He opens his eyes and closes the folder on Moran with a snap, coming to his feet and meeting Sherlock's gaze steadily. "Believing your own lies, however, is not the same as forgetting the truth. I am glad to see you safely home."
Sherlock stands as well, touching his brother's arm. "I'm here to stay now. My work is done."
Mycroft smiles, the expression sitting strangely on his face. "Then my work is just beginning. It's time to bring Sherlock Holmes back to life."
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AN: Edited in July, 2019.