Mycroft parked the car in precisely the spot it had been. He had, against his better judgement, taken the long way round to get home, giving Sherlock time to produce the cigarette he had managed to nick before Mycroft realized and giving himself time to bribe his brother into turning it over. There was little danger in letting Sherlock look at some of the equipment in the chem labs at school. He was certain he could keep a 13 year-old out of mischief for the specified hour allotted.
"Remember –"
"I fancied a drive because I'm now an idiot who likes driving for no reason. You fancied a package of HobNobs because you're a glutton who just couldn't wait another day for one. Mother and Father will believe this story either because they believe their sons to be idiots and gluttons, or because they are themselves idiots who will believe anything they're told."
"Well, remember the incident with the Gibraltar Campion," Mycroft said, shrugging.
A flash of a smirk, quickly smothered by a blank wall of irritation, and Sherlock reached for the doorhandle. Mycroft stepped out in time to see him making a beeline for the front door, rather than going around back as they'd discussed. He suppressed a growl of frustration, tossed the cigarette pack back into the car, and half-jogged in an attempt to keep up with his brother. He managed to catch the door just as Sherlock was moving to slam it closed.
"And that would have accomplished what, exactly?" Mycroft hissed into Sherlock's ear, easing the door against the jamb.
"I didn't do it to accomplish anything," Sherlock replied, though Mycroft noticed he, too, had modulated his voice.
They stood for just a moment in the foyer. Mycroft could feel Sherlock going through the same list of options he was: to go back out the door and go round (doubtful, given Sherlock's stubbornness); to ease past Father's door and make their way to the library, where they could conceivably pretend to have been in the house the whole time (risky, considering the amount of time they'd been gone); or to aim for the stairs and claim to have been wandering the house (safer bet, but still included the walk by Father's door). Mycroft leaned backward slightly, hoping Sherlock might actually follow his lead and turn to the door. Hoping wasn't really the right word for it. Something more akin to the fantasies of a condemned man.
Sherlock's jaw set. He took off down the hallway with strides that, while purposeful, were nearly silent. Mycroft breathed a thankful sigh and moved to follow.
"Sherlock?"
Father's voice was quiet. The kind of quiet that made the hairs on the back of Mycroft's neck stand up. The Holmes patriarch stood in the doorway to his office, arms folded, eyes hard. Sherlock had drawn up at the sound of his name, and now stood, still facing the hallway, shoulders bunched in anticipation.
Mycroft crossed the intervening space to stand between them. It was a wonder to him, he mused, how Siger Holmes could be merely a fraction of an inch taller than himself, yet manage to tower over both of them so completely.
"Sir?"
"Did I say your name?" Siger asked.
Mycroft put on his blandest smile. "We've just come back from a trip into the village. I –"
"I had an interesting phone call about 40 minutes ago," Siger said, talking over Mycroft without raising his voice.
Just after he'd left to collect Sherlock. Mycroft cut his eyes to his brother, seeing the realization dawn. The desk sergeant hadn't just been placing bets on his trips to the back room. He must have called back to be sure someone was en route to collect the thorn in his side. If Father hadn't been standing there, Mycroft would have appreciated letting Sherlock realize he'd made a miscalculation.
"It seems that a certain boy claiming to be my son was causing quite a bit of disturbance at the police station. I thought they must have been mistaken. Were they?"
Sherlock's shoulders tensed further. He was still refusing to turn to look at Siger.
"I asked you a question, Sherlock."
"No."
"No, what?"
Just do it, Sherlock, Mycroft thought, willing his brother not to make matters worse. It would already take some fancy footwork to appease Father this time, he didn't need any extra steps.
Sherlock turned to face Siger, face defiantly, imperiously set in the slightest of smirks. "No, sir. They were not mistaken. I was attempting to provide them with information regarding a murder, which is something that you should applaud. The disturbance came only because they refused to listen to solid evidence."
"The mad ideas of a teenager–"
"They're not mad ideas. They're the only logical explanation of all the facts."
"Facts you know from –"
"From what I observe. As I observe that you've made plans to return to London tonight for a meeting with Garvin – and a client, too, it would seem. You've told Mummy you'll be back, but you plan to telephone later and say you're too tired and spend the night with your mistress instead."
Siger's fingers closed around Sherlock's upper arm so suddenly Mycroft didn't have time to intercept. He'd also noticed the briefcase just inside the study door, the change to a deep blue collared shirt he wore when he needed a relaxed approach to getting a client's consent, and the John Lobb shoes that he wore when getting the same from a woman, but he'd hoped to use the knowledge to ensure their father didn't stop to bother with Sherlock. Leave it to his younger brother to squander the opportunity. Siger's face was beginning to flush as he drew Sherlock into the study, ignoring his slight stumble. Sherlock, by contrast, looked as palely cool as ever. Mycroft stepped through, mentally cursing them both in all five languages at his disposal, and eased the door closed in a smooth, gentle motion. Siger looked at him, mouth ajar as if about to protest his presence. Mycroft forestalled him with another bland, apologetic smile.
"It was my fault. I let him come along with me –"
"Don't lie to me," Siger rapped out. "I know he sneaked out of his own accord. I'd love to know how he got to town –"
"Walked."
"- and all the way to the police station without being stopped –"
"Why would people stop me? Is walking illegal now?"
"But I am perfectly aware that you had no hand in his departure," Siger finished loudly, another shade of red suffusing his neck.
"Even so," Mycroft began, forestalling Sherlock's interruption with a narrow-eyed glare. "No harm done. The desk sergeant gave him a good lecture. He's already restricted to the house for the duration of the week. Let's leave the matter, shall we?"
"Oh, yes, let's," Sherlock spat out. "Let's smooth things over, Mycroft, let's be sure the status quo doesn't change. That's what you mean, right? Never mind if something's actually wrong."
"The only thing wrong here, young man, is your persistent need to flout any authority set before you."
"No, just authority that isn't earned."
"I am your father."
"And you spend more time thinking about the next floozy you intend to bed than thinking about the welfare of your household."
Siger's hand was raised, but Mycroft stepped between his father and brother in time for the blow to be checked. The smile lines felt carved onto his face as his met his father's eyes, reminding him of the line, the bargain they'd struck nearly two years before.
"This is none of your concern, Mycroft."
"That's right, wouldn't want to suspect your perfect heir of having stood against you."
"Sherlock, shut up!" Mycroft hissed, still not breaking eye contact with his father. "Let's all just calm down for a moment. This is a simple matter. Let's not make it harder than it has to be."
"I don't have time to deal with you right now," Siger said, two beats past a comfortable reaction time, taking a step back and adjusting his cuffs. "I have business in town tonight. But rest assured, we will address this when I return."
Mycroft allowed the knot in his gut to loosen slightly and stood aside. Not a solution, but a reprieve. He would take small blessings.
"Now, Mycroft, in my absence, I'm expecting you to be sure your brother actually stays where he's supposed to. See if you can do a better job of it this time, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"He's lying, you know."
"Sherlock." Mycroft hissed.
"He's tapping his smallest two fingers against his right leg. He only does that when he's lying. In other words, he has no intention of doing anything because he knows I'm right."
Mycroft twisted his head to look at his brother, trying to will him to be silent, but Sherlock's entire body was bunched in an anger that had to have been building for weeks. He opened his mouth, but his eyes widened just a fraction before words came out. Mycroft reacted before thought. He stepped forward, checking his father's forward motion. Siger's left hand grabbed a fistful of his shirt front to push him aside, right poised to strike. Mycroft planted his feet, daring his father to try.
The raised hand connected with his cheek with a crack of flesh against flesh that drove his head to the side. The sound was nearly as unpleasant as the blow itself, Mycroft thought as he straightened up. Sherlock had gone completely still. It had been a long time since he'd seen Siger do this. Their father seemed unsure how to react to what he'd just done. Mycroft set his jaw and let the cold hatred he'd been reining in slide down his limbs and freeze the anger roiling in his chest.
"Let go of me."
Siger's grip slacked, but didn't disappear. Mycroft grabbed his wrist and pried the fingers from his shirt, thrusting the hand away. Siger did not resist.
"Sherlock, step into the hall, please," Mycroft continued in the same measured, cold tone. His brother didn't move. "Now."
For once, Sherlock didn't argue. Mycroft waited until the door had closed to speak, maintaining eye contact with Siger, who seemed to be shrinking before his eyes. He knew. He had to know that Mycroft would not hesitate to keep his end of the bargain.
"You're ruined."
"Now, Mycroft, be reasonable. Sherlock could test the patience of a saint –"
"Enjoy your evening in town. By Monday she'll know, not only that you're a married man, but also the names of the last three women. Garvin will receive an anonymous tip to check the firm's financial records. If he does not follow up on it, by the end of the week he will receive another, more specific message. I'm certain you've covered your tracks well, but even so, there are so few people who could have embezzled quite so much without attracting attention. He'll certainly be curious. How long before he narrows the list?"
"Now, Mycroft –"
"We had a deal. If you can't control your temper, I won't keep your secrets."
"I didn't hit Sherlock."
He must be truly desperate to try that defense. Mycroft allowed the tiniest of smiles. "No. If you had, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. Consider this a warning, Father, I could destroy you so completely you'd be in prison by Tuesday. For Mummy's sake, I won't do that. Yet. Don't make me reconsider my generosity."
He stepped toward the door, leaving his father looking inexplicably smaller than Mycroft had ever seen. His Adam's apple was working furiously, his face pale but sweaty.
"Mycroft –"
Mycroft turned on his heel and nodded to the desk. "You've left the brief on the Eccleston account. Garvin will be looking for you. Good evening, sir."
