*Bad blood*
by: WhiteGloves
A.N: Two chapters to go!
I wish to keep writing... I wish to keep writing.
Mycroft and Sherlock dynamic is truly a gift!
I'm so tired cause of work but just imagining them being brotherly... aww!
*badly needs sleep*
Thank you and enjoy!
Chapter 8: Brother's Keeper
[Mycroft's phone ringing]
Slender hands shot inside his black coat pocket and a ready curving of mouth as the owner answered crisply—
"Dear god, Sherlock! With all the nonstop ringing of this phone you'd think the monarchy has collapsed and needed immediate attention. Try me again and I might just pitch this one into a sink hole—you remember what happened to your phone after your last meeting in the Cabinet Office?"
"Sleeping under Thames, I imagine." Sherlock's dark voice intoned evenly, "You didn't have to throw it, by the way, just because I commented on the ginger nuts. Where are you?"
Mycroft smirked as he stood quietly on a corner of an almost empty street, under the shades of a tall tree with a bleak noon sky, wearing his dark overcoat and umbrella clutched on the other hand. "I'm in a middle of a business of which nature you need not know."
"Something more important than my phone call?"
"Guess again." Replied the older Holmes drily.
"Mmm." A pause from Sherlock's side, "Your priorities are changing, I see. Makes me wonder what speed dial I am now."
"I'm never on your speed dial, I know. I've checked." Mycroft raise both eyebrows and scanned the area without particular place to look at, then looking somewhat displeased, he turned back on the phone impatiently. "So, you want to ask something? I'm assuming you've heard your parent's side? How did it go?"
"Funny you should ask. They decided to stay in the Grand, waiting for you to meet them. You know they won't go back until they reach you." The younger Holmes paused for a while, then added, "Mum made it specifically clear you are not to remove the 'Holmes' from your name or so help her she would find you even if she needed to announce herself to the queen."
Mycroft fell silent, mind clearly remembering the mother who he had believed all his life to be his. She must be devastated to learn the truth had been unveiled, but Mycroft understood her position more than anyone so there really was no need to prolong the drama clearly done out of kindness. But how ironic that a man such as he who was the center of all information across the country was also—unbelievably—a victim to a classic tale straight from one of the novels of Charles Dickens. An orphan, indeed.
"You make it sound like I'm avoiding them." Mycroft replied airily, pointing his umbrella on the lines of the bricked street as a way to untangle whatever was on his subconscious that which was under his grand mind palace. "Which I am not, no matter how many times I tried to push them in your hands whenever they come here for a visit."
Sherlock sounded relieved for some reason. "Please. People avoid you, not the other way around."
"For their own good, but then the Holmes Family had always been different than your average civilians, and that's a compliment." Mycroft sighed. "So, what do you want? I'm assuming they've told you about how they acquired me…?"
"That's one way to put it." Sherlock sounded disapproving, but tried to collect his tone into a serious one. "I need to talk to you personally about this, and then both of us are going to meet our parents— where are you anyway?"
"I can't postpone this business of mine, Sherlock and I'm afraid I will be occupied till tomorrow evening so if it can't wait till then—"
"Fine." Sherlock grumbled. "You know about him, don't you? You remember? Victor?"
Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on the tip of his umbrella which was as dark as his shoes…
Oh, does he remember…
A young and quite bulky Mycroft wearing gray long sleeves and black trousers came out from the back door of the house carrying a blue medicine kit with eyes scanning the backyard of his Musgrave home. It was the middle of the day with the sky covered with dull clouds, yet he had to crinkle his eyes as he looked around, not used to the light of the day as he much preferred the peace of his room and company of his books. He had to come out today though for he had a duty of care for his parents were both out and there were younger children to look out for in the house. The Musgrave backyard was wide and spacious with nothing but lavish green field that turns dry gold during the summer with bits of broken wall ruins surrounding a made-up stone graveyard by their ancestors. Dividing the backyard's territory was a waist high stone wall with a closed wooden gate in the middle. It separated the yard from the road and the adjacent forest. Mycroft never had preference for the outdoors and the forest would often trigger his allergies. Not that it matters when he was on duty. Bless his home for the few minutes that his younger brother was unattended and Mycroft knew it was a risk he couldn't take, especially that day when they had a sudden visitor.
Laughter filled his ears in the next second and the next thing, he watched intently as the two boys emerged wildly from the green meadows, wearing their silly pirate hats atop their bobbing heads. Sherlock's shirt was already untucked, his hair disheveled from running too much while on his hand wield what Mycroft observed to be poor attempt of wooden scraps of swords. Sherlock was yelling something incoherent with fits of giggles to his comrade, his dark curls disappearing in the tall grasses while after him with his own brown curls was their regular visitor of Sherlock's age, Victor Trevor. The two had been playing since that afternoon after Sherlock's playmate had been dropped once again without a second warning like phone calls. It was courtesy to do so, but Mycroft supposed there were just adults like that. Mycroft was not overly concern with having the boy around since he was a good fuse for Sherlock and often he left Victor alone, but today was different. Today was something 'strange' and when something odd caught his attention, it was quite difficult to ignore it as the strength of his mind, his curiosity was still overpowering. It was worst when he was just a toddler—everything surrounding him was just getting sucked into his vortex like brain.
Now, Mycroft was not aware of the arrangements with his parents, being typically locked inside his room, reading, but he could read the atmosphere between his parents whenever Victor was around like an elephant was in the room. He guessed they pitied him but did not want to show it in front of the child. Being generous in their nature, he knew his parents were doing the gesture out of kindness too. Mycroft would have asked, but he never really fancied getting involved in other people's personal business and if there was anything he needed to know, he was sure his mother would tell him. Besides, if anything could keep up with the lightning that was his younger brother, Mycroft could attest it was never going to be himself but a younger, much functional creature in the form of Victor Trevor.
Mycroft was internally satisfied to have him around to serve that childish purpose. Sherlock needed that.
But Victor, in Mycroft's conjecture, had poor example of parents for who would leave a seven-year-old child on his own? He supposed it was something ordinary to this age, of children growing up independent from their parents at a young age—for starters—Sherlock was now left under his care because their parents received a word of an old friend's passing. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had to leave early that morning so Mycroft was left in charge and was the one who received Victor from the young woman who brought him to the Holmes' doorstep.
'Strange' was Mycroft's initial thought as he remembered the woman who thanked him and left without another word while Victor ran inside, already calling for Sherlock. It was the first time Mycroft had seen a guardian of Victor face to face, but she didn't appear connected to the boy at all. Normally, he would have shrugged it and minded his own business for he had learnt to be cautious in meddling with other people's affairs— he had quite a fiasco when he was merely four years old as he reduced one of their house-keeper into tears when he tactlessly told her that her husband was seeing another man, something he deduced easily from her handkerchief. But today with Victor was different. Not different with his usual glum expression only lightening up when he's with Sherlock or anything, but there were bruises on his tiny arms.
And as strange as it could be, the guardian didn't even clean it. What sort of irresponsible adult was that? Not to care for a child? Then reasons came to him, but he had no energy to prove them. Maybe that was just how life was for other people.
So, Mycroft feeling deeply affronted for he had been taking care of his own siblings devotedly, followed the two boys outside carrying the medical kit after making brief conclusions he wished to clarify with his parents later. He saw Sherlock disappear beyond the gravestones but was just in time to see Victor appear from the field as he tried to race with Sherlock. Mycroft could still see the red gashes on the boy's arm and pursed his lips disapprovingly. Quietly, he called Victor loud enough for the boy to glance in his direction. Mycroft beckoned him to come closer, all the while walking towards a stone table under one of the beech trees near the house. Surprisingly, the little boy bid his command and was with him by the table just as Mycroft was opening the medical kit Victor was curiously looking at as he knelt on one of the round stone seats.
The two looked each other in the eye with Mycroft sighing in the end.
"Doesn't it hurt?" he asked flatly as he spread out a disinfectant, gauzes and cottons. He raised his eyes quietly at the boy who shook his head with eyes round at the disinfectant as if knowing its effect, a hand protectively wrapping on his injured arm. Mycroft sat on the stone seat and gave Victor a heavy look. "Come here. I can't let you run around with bruised arms like that."
"I don't wanna." The little boy shook his head, stepping down a little but stopping with one look from Mycroft. He pressed his lips and muttered uncertainly. "It's going to hurt."
"Oh, it will." Mycroft saw no reason to lie. The boy paled a little, making the older Holmes blink and added a little more gently, "Well... just a little, yes. But you're a man, aren't you? You can take a little more pain as it is. Won't you?"
"Redbeard? What's going on?"
Mycroft and Victor glanced around to where the voice was coming from and watched Sherlock jog towards them with eyes wide and full of interest. Upon seeing his little friend, Mycroft saw Victor's little shoulder relax. Taking the opportunity, Mycroft—who had not done any heavy lifting in his lifetime since the day he carried Sherlock when he was a baby— placed both hands under the boy's arms and raised him onto the table. Sherlock was as surprised as Victor who found himself facing Mycroft with his short legs dangling by the table.
"See, Sherlock's watching. You can do this." Mycroft said without removing his eyes from Victor as his hands busily worked on the antiseptic and cotton. He saw Victor half glanced at Sherlock who was now leaning on the table, his knees on the stone seat with concentration on his brother and friend's activity. Mycroft waited till the little boy to give the tiniest nod, and then proceeded on cleaning his wounded arm.
Victor's free hand jumped right at the sleeve of Mycroft's shirt at the first contact of the cold cotton. Sherlock blinked.
"It's okay." Mycroft whispered, eyes intent on the red gash as with his precise hand, he cleansed it without wasting any drop, "It'll be over soon. Hang tight." Victor's eyes glued on him, gasping now and then at every dab on his skin, until the very end of the work and that was fine because he didn't wriggle much. By the time the older Holmes was done and satisfied with the protective gauze on the boy's arm, he didn't expect to find an odd pair of eyes staring at him fixedly, nor did he expect Victor to clinging on his wrist when the older Holmes stood up after telling them they could go and continue playing. Mycroft looked down and there was the boy behind him, clinging like a…well, child.
"You're fine now. Go on." He encouraged the boy, feeling not much encouraged at the sudden twinkle on Victor's eyes—the twinkle he would often see on Sherlock whenever they have their little deduction games Sherlock usually find awestruck. Victor's big round eyes spoke it all. Mycroft had to sigh as he stared down at the tiny hand on his wrist again. He did read a book about pliers but the flesh is just too delicate… he might just cause an injury.
Sherlock was frowning at the way Victor was clinging to his brother.
"What are you doing, Redbeard?" came Sherlock's somewhat annoyed tone, rounding on the table and stopping on the other side of his friend, "My brother detests physical contact. Let him go and let's play."
But Victor refused to budge as he slid his feet down the ground, and grabbed a handful of the older Holmes' trousers. That surprised Mycroft as he blinked at the tiny boy, then his eyes travelled towards Sherlock who was now pouting for some reason as he stared from Victor to Mycroft. The older Holmes shook his head as his brother's line of thinking crossed his own—of how Sherlock must've thought his brother was taking away his only playmate.
"I'm going to read—you don't want to be stuck inside the house, right, Redbeard?" using the boy's name ought to have some gentle effect, Mycroft surmised. But Victor was not to be easily fooled.
"I like reading too. I have books in my room too."
Mycroft realized his patience was getting tried and was just about to tell Sherlock to come and take Victor when his younger brother, who had been watching them, burst out from his pursed lips—
"That's my brother, Redbeard! Let him go!"
Sherlock grabbed a handful of Mycroft's trousers possessively too. The older Holmes raised an eyebrow despite the sudden revelation of his brother's affection. Sternly, he told them, "Are you both going to play nicely or do I have to be cross and turn beastly like mum?"
The boys looked at each other and giggled. Both releasing their hold, the two ran together towards the field again, leaving Mycroft staring in wonder at his younger brother. There was a warm feeling at the pit of his chest that was making him feel strangely positive. He wondered about that. Sighing, he turned around and was almost by the door when a loud crash filled the air mixed with a blast of horn—an impact of a vehicle crashing somewhere on the other side of the building but too close—damn too close. Mycroft paused to collect his startled heart, but then his head snapped behind him to where he remembered Sherlock and Victor were heading minutes ago—to the wooden back gate that was supposed to be securely closed now hanging open—
The medical kit on his hands fell on the ground. Mycroft felt that cold feeling covered his entire being. That must be what other people call, 'shock'. He always thought it was merely a state of mind, but he didn't think his mind could create such vivid horrifying images that could make all the hair on his skin stand on end. Then he realized that yes, with an exact mind like his, he could picture out any scenario without actually seeing them—and it was worst, much worst for it was causing his heart to pound in a dangerous rate by just imagining his little brother was in anyway involved—
Someday he's going to have to learn to control that or bless him, it'll be the death of him!
Before he knew it, he was running with nothing in mind except his little brother—why on earth would Sherlock go out when he specifically told him a number of times to never—because on the other side of the door was the road—
His feet brought him outside, to where his eyes fell on an old red truck with its colors fading. Its front had crashed on the other side of the road, smashing its front on a cracked wall with the air surrounding it now filled with smoke. The door on the driver's seat was already open with a middle-aged man waving his hand to clear the air off his face. But Mycroft wasn't paying attention to him anymore as he saw the boys and ran to them, his familiar hands catching Sherlock by the shoulders for his younger brother was standing by the side of the road with Victor right behind him.
Mycroft pulled the boy in his arms and embraced him tight, seemingly letting his pounding heart know that Sherlock was alright. Thank heavens…
"M—croft! Stop it, you're squeezing me!" Sherlock complained just as Mycroft got to his feet, his expression dark enough to render his little brother silent. Victor stood just behind his friend, obviously frightened with what he was witnessing.
"Why did you both go outside?!" the older Holmes demanded curtly, "You know the rules—"
"But she threw the map you gave me through the window!"
Mycroft stopped dead, his eyes staring at Sherlock's finger pointing towards their house' upper floor rooms. He didn't have to look where. He could perfectly remember the position of each of the building in the neighborhood, much more with his own household. He knew exactly where his younger brother was pointing and knew even who he meant by 'she'. There was only one. Straightening, Mycroft slowly looked up to the second floor of the house, to the now closed window with its curtain parted. From there, he could just see her silhouette. Mycroft stared at her with a wrenching feeling on his gut. He was just by her door an hour ago, asking if she wanted to read with him…
"Hey!" barked someone angrily and the older Holmes' attention was diverted to the driver who had just pulled a long, ruined parchment paper stuck by his windshield and by the looks of it, Mycroft already know the story. Added with the man's reddening face, he knew it was going to be a conversation not for young children to hear. Mycroft's lips thinned with displeasure. Quietly, he nodded at the man to give him a second, before ushering the two boys to the open gate, instructing them to go inside the house and wash their hands.
They bid him without question and Mycroft shut the gate close, before turning around with a deep heavy sigh and walked towards the driver with as much as his own indignation on his shoulder. The man nearly crushed his brother and his little friend— at least one of them should be properly outraged!
Minutes later, Sherlock and Victor both had wiped their hands on the clean towel by the kitchen and had decided to take their seats by the dining table. Quietly, the two waited for a few more minutes, before Victor looked back towards the door as if trying to see if he could see what was happening outside.
"It's okay," Sherlock found himself saying as he blinked at his nervous companion, "My brother will fix it."
Victor nodded avidly. "Your brother is amazing, Sherlock. He didn't even look afraid of the old man."
Sherlock cocked his head on the side. "My brother has too much sense of responsibility when he is in charge, so he would not allow himself to show any weakness."
"But you always said he was very lazy. He doesn't even come outside to play but today he has taken care of everything, even my arm, see?" he raised his covered arm with eyes shining. The younger Holmes looked thoughtful.
"You're right. It's weird for my brother to be so energetic. But you know, there is no one more reliable or responsible as him. He will fix this. He will keep us safe, he's my brother." Sherlock looked quite proud exactly as Mycroft came in from the door. Judging from the smug look on his face, he heard the whole conversation. The older Holmes walked inside the kitchen and ruffled Sherlock's hair affectionately. Victor eagerly stood up beside Mycroft and the older Holmes who saw him come, fairly raised his hand too and ruffled the brown-haired boy's hair. Sherlock's annoyance must have shown on his face again for Mycroft stopped being hands-on and pressed both his lips tight.
Then from his pockets he took out Sherlock's pirate map and handed it to him, sternly saying, "We don't jump on the streets for maps, Sherlock, do you understand? Or I'll tell mum."
Sherlock's ashen face slowly nodded as he closed his hands on the parchment. Victor was still looking up at Mycroft in full admiration and Mycroft just had to return his look with a wiggle of his brows. There was something about the boys that day that had Mycroft thinking if he should often come with them outside, especially both of them were both hazard zones. He could bring his book along… and then maybe she could come too. He could persuade her.
Mycroft looked up the ceiling to where he knew her room would be, wondering worriedly if she was aware of what she nearly caused. From her window she would be able to see any approaching vehicle on the road at the same time watch the boys trudge on the backyard… but… no. She couldn't have.
There was a sudden tug on his right sleeves again and there was Victor. Mycroft finally gave him an awkward smile. Victor smiled too, an innocent smile… unknown to Mycroft, it was to be one of the last smiles the little boy would leave him and would hunt, even with memories so buried it would always be at the top of his most disturbing dreams as two weeks later, Victor disappeared forever.
"Do you remember him? Do you know?" came Sherlock's voice again from the mobile phone as all of this played in Mycroft's mind triggered by the consulting detective's questions. Memories of the past long suppressed in the recesses of his mind that resurfaces whenever the boy's name was mentioned came pouring in like a dam had been opened to overwhelm him. Sherlock asked if he remembers Redbeard…in another interpretation here— if he knows now their real connection. Mycroft would have chuckled if not for the lump on his throat. How could he forget that boy? The boy whom he spent months and months searching for, with his tiny appreciative smile embedded in Mycroft's head? The little boy he desperately wanted to find not only because of Sherlock's decline, but also because he was looking after the boy when he was under the Musgrave roof. That was why Mycroft hated the past tense— it reminds him of unnecessary things he never had control from his childhood. It reminds him of that boy, and that tragedy, and his own helplessness, but furthermore, it reminded him with what he never really forgot from the beginning.
He was never good with forgetting…
And the irony that the boy was actually a blood relative of his, Mycroft had known since he read the file. He closed his eyes as Victor flooded his vision once more, but no matter what it was that he felt then, it had come to past. Victor was gone and Eurus was nowhere in better place. Wrath? There was none. Resentment? It was impossible to find that in his icy heart. What was done was done and punishment had been served. It was still all his fault…
"Mycroft!" Sherlock's voice raised from the other end, almost alarming and filled with what Mycroft wondered if concern or guilt. He decided to put the ever-hyperactive man at ease. With a soundless inhale, the older Holmes considered a moment before speaking again.
"Yes, I know. His name was on the file… middle child. Three years Seth's senior. Eight on mine, almost your age." He offered this quite sufficiently without breaking a sweat. Everything was normal. Everything was purely information. "The boy was uncared for… you remember our mother was unstable after my abduction or… well, she was never right, and Victor suffered her neglect. Seth does not seem aware of him as the boy was taken by another guardian—"
"Your infamous father?" Sherlock inquired heavily that had Mycroft smiling.
"Yes. But he was never any better. I supposed he never saw the boy in person too."
"Was that why Victor was always at our home?" Sherlock sounded appalled, "His own mother didn't even know he exists?"
"That's why both of us were in your home." Mycroft pointed out while Sherlock breathed on the other end only. Mycroft could understand him. Typical Sherlock to be very sympathetic. But Mycroft didn't need that. There was no point in stressing over the past… he still hated that past. "Though, the reason I'm sent over to yours was different to his. He was merely discarded because she was unable to recover from the shock of losing a child."
"The same reason no one ever raised concern on his disappearance?" Sherlock asked sharply, everything making sense now that a child disappearing didn't make it on any newspaper. The consulting detective thought it was all because of their Uncle's power but there seemed to be other stories to tell. "Victor was an abandoned child."
Mycroft became silent for a moment, until he whispered, "Yes… nothing really changed from his file."
He looked over to his black car parked a couple of steps behind him, his attention shifting on the sidewalk again as memories continued rushing out. Uncle Rudi was the one who took care of Victor's matter back then. Mycroft was only a teenaged boy but reliable enough. Still, he didn't know what became of Victor's guardian. He never saw them visit, never saw them question the household... It was just, as is. Only Uncle Rudi was giving developments whenever he came around. Mycroft would have raised concern over this, but then his younger brother began to change and his attention was diverted to the poor suffering child.
But something happened to Sherlock then that involved both Eurus and Victor. Mycroft tried all his might to help Sherlock recover but the boy could not be persuaded no matter how many times he tried to reach him. He won't eat, he won't sleep. He was just… there and Mycroft's heart ached for him. It was his fault that Victor was lost… Mycroft believed that. He had a duty of care to all of them.
Until one day, Sherlock began functioning like nothing happened. He began to talk and eat, he began to play albeit quite morosely. If not a tad darker for a small boy. But there was no mention of Eurus. Or Victor.
Not even Sherlock's affinity and fondness of Mycroft—even that was lost— for by repressing the memories of Eurus and Victor, Sherlock inadvertently lost his memories of Mycroft's affection. And what was left was Mycroft being Mycroft after experiencing and understanding the threat that was in Sherlock's every step, took initiative to guide and monitor the only family member left under his care. Had to harden his heart for the position he would soon take over after realizing what Uncle Rudi had done. There was no other way.
To find that Victor, this boy was an actual younger brother of his did not make anything better. He still failed him, like he failed the first time when Eurus snatched him right under their noses. It was still his fault.
Mycroft had glimpsed his file when it was his turn in the office, fearing any family members of the boy who might have motives to retaliate and realized Victor was already an orphan with no trace of origin from the orphanage. Mycroft indeed found it curious, but he stopped the search there as long as no one would come looking for what happened to the boy… how truly… ironic.
It was still his fault. He closed his eyes slowly, then found himself staring up at someone standing on the other side of the street. Mycroft raised his chin and narrowed his eyes as his appointment came closer.
"Sherlock, you remember I gave you Victor's file not long ago after Sherrinford. I thought you would have done your homework and locate his next of kin even if my records said it was futile."
"I'm already talking to one." Sherlock said without a beat.
Mycroft's eyes hardened. It felt like a knife just cut through an internal organ of his. "Well… you are. What now?"
Silence fell on the other side again and the older Holmes could just hear the consulting detective breathing on his ear.
A pair of boots stopped just right in front of the British Government Head. Mycroft met his eyes as he slowly lowered the phone. "Hang up, now, brothermine…"
"Mycroft—!"
"Is there any point asking you to leave me alone?" Seth Adams said as Mycroft put his phone in the pocket of his pants, his hand staying there quietly, eyebrows raising up to his hairline while Adams gloated at him, "I didn't even ask you to come."
"But you called me and as undesirable it is to you, my brother—" Mycroft saw Seth's eyes flashed dangerously, even the steps he took closer seemed threatening but the older Holmes stood his ground, "I'm the only one who can help you."
"You're also the reason my friend's in this mess to begin with." Adams said scathingly.
"It's a fault on both sides," Mycroft replied sternly, "now if you could just let go of that jack knife you've been thumbing in your jacket pocket, that would be great. I have my own means of protection, brother—"
"What, an umbrella?" Adams uttered with a pointed look at the only object in Mycroft's hands. The British Government Head tried his best not to look offended and did great with the pressing of his lips. "And stop calling me your brother—we only share the same mother!"
"Be that as it may—a half-brother is still entitled to a certain percentage of my concern." Mycroft firmly put both hands on his umbrella as Seth continued keeping a hand inside his jacket, "You called. I came. That's how I normally function and if you could only get over yourself— if we could both put our difference aside—you'll find how efficient I truly am in helping you sort… delicate business, even the most impossible."
Adams gave Mycroft a strange look with a lopsided smirk appearing on his lips, "Your fake brother did say you were really at the top. I thought you work as secretary in some department by how prissy you look, I never bothered. Didn't want you looking down on me. In fact, I didn't feel like I needed you at all."
"Until now." Mycroft corrected with an even fake smile that didn't reached his eyes, automatically disappearing as his eyes turned serious, "It is not my business to dwell on how others see me, I don't go about living on the expense of others' perspective. Now, we have to focus on our common goal and that is to find Charlie Kemp who has escaped his prison because of a carelessness in our part and whose life, by your own confirmation, is in danger."
"Well, what can I expect? The government never really does anything right." There was a gleam on Adam's eyes that made Mycroft give him a narrowed look and slightly nodded.
"Depends on what you understand as right. But I need Charlie Kemp as well. I can't risk him falling to their hands when he knows certain information that must not be released to the public—or known enemies. I need him found."
"You mean dead or alive?" Adams sourly added, "Charlie will die if he shows himself in that gathering. We've all been called by the Hellbanianz leaders and it's going to be a mob because of your doing. You had half the group's notorious players arrested! Now their taking it all on us— strangers, locals, merchants, birdman from everywhere in one single hall, all to find the router. The rat. Everyone connected to that group have to be there and Charlie will have to be because he's on the list of suspected people. If the connections don't show up, they die the next day."
"Well, isn't t easier for you to just surrender me if I am to make an appearance?" Mycroft said offhandedly. "That would be quite a scenario."
"I'm not asking you to go." Adams said bluntly with a frown, "You'd only be a liability."
The older Holmes looked so taken aback that Adams had to blink and frown at the same time. Does this boy know no manners…? Mycroft struggled with the idea that he was helpless.
"I said I need help, not decoy." Adams pointed out as Mycroft tilted his head, watching Seth curiously who continued, "I'll be the one to go if your men can't find him till midnight. We need to find him before he goes there, but if he does turn up then I'll help him escape. You can keep him imprisoned or change his name—if you're really that powerful then help him. You helped me last time with the coppers, but if you can't help me in this one—"
"You doubt me?" Mycroft cocked an eyebrow, his experience in wading-ins for his other brother nearly at the tip of his tongue, but as ever, he was self-deprecating when it comes to his international activities, "What makes you think I can't help you extract him?"
"I have a feeling it's more than extraction you're about to do. You might send a whole army there." Adams said in a matter-of-fact tone which to his amusement, Mycroft never denied, "But it's like entering a war zone of street gangsters. Taking them all out will be easy with an army but there will be a war. I have friends there—kids who will be there, underage, barely school juniors—you telling me you're also going to risk their lives too?"
"You said it's a war zone." It was Mycroft's turn to say this in a matter-of-fact tone, his expression dead pan, "Wars don't pick with age or gender. It just destroys. Death is inevitable. It comes to us all." Silence fell between the two with only sounds of passing vehicles. Adams was giving his half-brother a critical look.
"What did you say you need Charlie for? Is it because he knows your name? Has he seen your face?"
"No," Mycroft shook his head, standing a little straighter with eyes venturing lower, before meeting Seth's eyes again, "it's not my face he has seen. Some careless idiot just happens to strut in his face that could cause damage if he's captured. I can't just leave it be."
"Careless idiot?" Seth Adams raised his chin and nodded across the street, "Someone like that?"
Mycroft looked over his shoulder to where his half-brother was pointing and saw, to his exasperation, a man in his thick blue coat, stepped down the cab alone and was now heading towards their direction with a grave expression on his face. His dark eyes were glinting mad and if Mycroft didn't know any better, he could swear he could read the line of thought from his face—one that says disaster was aboard. Shutting his eyes close, he then felt Sherlock drop beside him with their shoulder blades bumping and it was all the older Holmes could do not to raise his umbrella and start thwacking on his head.
"Sherlock." He muttered ominously, eyes opening as he glanced at the consulting detective whose grin was from ear to ear.
"Hello, chaps, sorry I'm fashionably late." He said conversationally while Adams gave him a disgruntled look, remembering the last time they came face to face. Signs of dispute rose high in the air the moment Mycroft's eyes fell on Sherlock who ignored him for a moment, giving full attention to Adams who was looking neither surprised nor happy.
"You told him to come?" he shot at the older Holmes sullenly.
"I didn't invite him." Mycroft shook his head unenthusiastically, his shoulders sagging.
"Invite, summoned, told, stalked—they're all the same." Sherlock was still smiling creepily, not leaving Mycroft's side as he watched Seth Adams full in the eyes, "Came here to check on my brother. Didn't want him getting attacked again, you see. Just planning ahead to keep him safe." He winked at Seth who was looking thoroughly infuriated as the consulting detective never did shut up. Breathing in the end, Sherlock went on, "So what did I miss?"
"Nothing you need to know about." Seth gave the consulting detective a dirty look while the younger Holmes's eyes widened mockingly.
"Too bad—I'm the world's number one detective— it's my business to know what others withhold from me. And oh look—I'm guessing it's about a large gathering of London's most notorious drug dealers at midnight." He smiled again, making Adams glaring at him one last time. The older Holmes felt the tension between the two and couldn't help his own impatience rising up.
"Enough. Sherlock, there's nothing to discuss anymore—" Mycroft began, to find Sherlock upon him in an instant.
"Great, then it's time to go." Sherlock turned to him pointedly. "You're coming with me."
There was no time to reply as the consulting detective strode towards Mycroft's sedan and opened the backdoor. Beckoning the older Holmes to step inside, Mycroft stared at the younger Holmes with an incredulous look on his face. He stood his ground for a moment, full of disbelief at being ordered around, before he half turned to Seth who was mostly scowling at the detective. What on earth has gone in Sherlock's head? Mycroft looked back at Sherlock who remained waiting by the car door. Adams jammed both hands deep in his jacket pocket, making Mycroft watch his movements warily with Sherlock frowning too; obviously he had deduced the weapon hidden underneath the clothing.
Seconds passed, Seth only exchange glances with Mycroft, and then he turned and walked away.
Sherlock followed his back with his eyes before averting his eyes to Mycroft who was giving him a strange look. The consulting detective pointed at the car again. Realizing it was useless to resist, the older Holmes gave a final sigh and slid inside the car grudgingly.
"You're being ridiculous." He whispered as Sherlock slid next to him. "Proper insane."
"I'm trying to protect you." Sherlock said squarely as the car began moving with Mycroft bidding it to go to his underground office. Hearing this, the British Government Head rolled his eyes.
"Protect me from what, Sherlock? Doing my job?"
"You're going through a heart break; your judgment could be clouded." Explained the detective to the gaping older Holmes who felt it necessary to scratch his ears in case he heard wrong—heart what?
"What are you rambling about?" he demanded, wondering what level his normally low blood pressure was now.
The dark-haired detective's jaw tightened with eyes transfixed at the back of the car seat in front. Then calmly, Sherlock Holmes began with as much reason as he could, "He's your real brother, Mycroft. I know how easily you can be moved when your siblings call for help." Sherlock turned and caught Mycroft staring at him straight in the eyes, "Cause there's no one more reliable or responsible as you are. Believe me, I know."
Mycroft pulled his eyes to the front, his jaw clenching and feeling his pulse out of its normal beat.
"You remember?" he asked in the ringing silence that fell, recalling from a very distant memory of two children talking sincerely by a dining table about him and how his normal functioning heart fluttered affectionately for the boy. Mycroft felt the need to inhale deeply.
"I remember." Sherlock confirmed with a sigh. "Ever since the well…"
The older Holmes nodded, eyes reflecting the disappearing view on the car mirror. "Mmm… I often wondered…" He could remember it like it was yesterday. The overflowing affection from a little boy who only wanted to be a pirate and have his big brother around. They were good memories that were sadly taken away from Sherlock, but Mycroft remember them very well, even on his own.
"About Victor…" Sherlock started but Mycroft slightly shook his head.
"Not now…" he whispered quietly. "Please…"
Sherlock lowered his gaze and then suddenly continued with a stronger, much clearer voice that truly belonged to the dynamic younger Holmes, "Okay... about Seth Adams then. I know you'd want to help him but he could be setting you up in a trap that's why you can't go."
"How did you know what we were discussing anyway?" Mycroft asked sharply, "Did you have me bugged?"
"No. I've been on the trail of Hellbanianz's movements, okay?" the younger Holmes replied crossly, "There could only be one reason why he'd approach you without murdering you first and that's by acting the victim. That's how you lay a trap. You know it's a trap and you still look willing to jump in! What—just because he's your brother?"
There was an awkward pause as the older Holmes glared pointedly at Sherlock—who realized for what it was worth—that Mycroft had been jumping in to save him every time without asking how high. The consulting detective looked away and cleared his throat, not wishing to say anything about the matter, but obviously keen to keep the close distance between them. After a moment, Mycroft suppressed a sigh and shook his head.
"Whatever you're thinking, Sherlock, it turns out, it's not me who needs protecting. He didn't even want me there, just a helping hand to Charlie Kemp."
"I already said it." Sherlock said grimaced at his older brother, "Trap. There are so many ways to get to Kemp—he's escaped then? You're not the type to let him go. Losing your touch, are we? Going to need you MOD man back?" the younger Holmes grinned slyly. Just that Mycroft knows what he was doing.
"Quiet, Sherlock." Mycroft glanced at him sideways, "Your obsession with this case has turned alarmingly out of control. In any case, you're not going there. You're the main reason half their men have been arrested and not to mention a famous sleuth in London to boot. You think they wouldn't recognize you? Besides, Seth may have not decided yet if he wants to sell me out, but when it comes to you, I'm pretty sure he'll only be too happy to comply with his master. So no, you're not going."
Sherlock blinked, then shrank back to the car seat whispering, "It's going to be a dull night for both of us then."
Fifteen minutes later, two pair of feet are seen walking in the dark hallway leading to Mycroft Holmes underground office. It was already past six when they arrived at the spot and Mycroft had to make a few phone calls to his men for the hunt of Charlie Kemp, whom—he explained to Sherlock even though the detective seemed perfectly aware— was believed to be the traitor and might possibly die that night.
The older Holmes was walking quietly ahead, his back straight and shoulders balanced while Sherlock kept up the rear. The consulting detective kept a close eye to his older brother as they slowly approach his personal work space.
"Are you going to leave this to the Secret Service?" Sherlock couldn't help but ask, their footsteps echoing in the silent hall. He tried to fall in the step of the British Government Head but Mycroft was taking the space in the middle to allow anyone to be on his level; typical attitude of a megalomaniac as Sherlock observed.
"With you breathing on my neck, I might just send you."
"Why not?" Sherlock was serious.
"I don't quite trust Seth when it comes to you yet." Mycroft confessed plainly.
"I don't trust him when it comes to you at all." Sherlock retorted evenly, an answer that made Mycroft half glanced in his direction when they reached his office door. Taking the key from his coat pocket, he turned to face the younger Holmes and throw him a narrowed look.
"I'm becoming very suspicious of you, brothermine. What is it that you have under your sleeves?"
He opened the office door and stepped inside, Sherlock staying outside longer before following the older Holmes suit and stopping right behind him where Mycroft had stopped partly by the door. Looking around, Sherlock was unsurprised to see his parents seated by Mycroft's receiving chairs. They stood slowly when they saw the brothers enter with Mycroft staring at them with his face robbed of any expression.
"Mycroft…" Mrs. Holmes began, which somewhat made Mycroft step involuntarily backwards, before he felt Sherlocks' palm pressing at the middle of his back, urging him to go forward. Mycroft pressed his lips closed and allowed his arms to fall on each of his sides. To Sherlock, he said—
"I've been wondering why you've been cajoling me this entire time… you've been talking about trap a lot. I should have known you're setting me up into one… just like most of our Christmas dinners." He sighed. That stung Sherlock more than he let on as he blinked and then frowned.
"I'm not your enemy, Mycroft." He said with his hand crawling to his brother's left shoulder and gripping him tight, "I only want to help you. This is something we should talk about as family."
"You don't say?" Mycroft gave him a piercing look, "And while we're having our 'family' chat, where would you go? I don't think you plan on staying longer here at all."
"I'll do what I can for Charlie Kemp, my network will be all around scouring every corners of London street. You stay here and try to keep the peace, I don't think mum's quite happy with you shutting them out." He nodded at Mrs. Holmes who was staring at the older Holmes with her sharp eyes unblinking.
Mycroft could just feel her stare behind him. He glared at Sherlock.
"If you think this is the best option at this critical moment, Sherlock—"
"Best option?" the consulting detective's eyebrows furrowed together. "Of course. If it will keep you safe."
Mycroft shook his head, one last flash in his eyes appearing, "Jesus… this is all John, isn't it? He's got you doing this ridiculous—"
"No." Sherlock assured him and the light in his eyes spoke volume of his sincerity. "This is me not leaving you alone."
The two stared hard at each other, till finally, the older Holmes withdrew. With one last look from Sherlock who nodded at his parents, the younger Holmes was gone, leaving Mycroft feeling trapped as he slowly turned to the parents who had taken care of him for number of years despite knowing that he wasn't really their child… all because they were kind.
That's probably where Sherlock got that natural trait.
Fortunately, Mycroft had a different mix of blood on his own. This cold blood he had gotten from his birth father—the man who made it possible for his eldest son to be sent to the Holmes family, only because of an experiment— or the man's personal quirk—who knows— but Mycroft knew his father lacked that certain quality most humans thrive to achieve. A heart.
For what kind of man couldn't even say to his child 'I am your father?' despite the many chances of them together?
Right… Uncle Rudi?
Turning to the Holmes, Mycroft closed his heart and heaved a very heavy sigh as he walked pass them onto his table. Reaching just beneath the table, he raised his eyes at Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and saw they were waiting for him to speak first. He did, but not after he tapped the red button under his table and all the lights in the office turned red, followed by warning alarms.
That was when he said the three words amidst the chaos. He hoped they would forgive him someday.
"I am sorry."
-To Be Continued-
