A/N: Skiing all weekend! So that's why this came at like midnight (I couldn't sleep anyway so it all works out.) I saw some guy on the lift with a gigantic "SHERLOCK" sticker on his board and I think that I now believe in love at first sight.
I'll probably re-edit some tomorrow but I thought I'd get this up here…
x
As of my edits: yes, friends, I added lots more!
Reasons
John waits for a little over four minutes (yes, he had been counting; anything to catch Mycroft late) before he spots an expensive-looking helicopter making its way toward the cluster of trees where he sits. The forest green, ruddy and chocolate color scheme is disrupted with silvery metal so shiny it could be brand-new and John hears the birds stop their late afternoon songs as the whoosh of air nearly knocks him over on his arse.
Mycroft was certainly as dramatic as his brother tried to be, whether it was a conscious effort on his part or not. Sherlock may have the striking personality and the little twirls in his theatrical coat, but the other Holmes has the sleek military vehicles and the upmarket suits.
John rolls his eyes at the shiny metal stairs that unfold from the underbelly of the vehicle, and hobbles up the steps while he tries to find a little, seemingly insignificant rock among the trees. It's impossible, and John sighs as he continues to climb. At least Sherlock knows how to hide. He's in a different clearing that the one Sherlock was marking as his territory, and grassy hills frame woodlands on all sides. The tall spurts of the pasture blow lazily in a faint wind and this could possibly be the best weather John has seen in years.
Figures that he's about ready to pass out. He'd never been particularly lucky.
The pleasant breeze that had been sifting through his short, sandy hair is abruptly cut off as he steps into the metal contraption. The air is stuffy and carries a faint peppermint scent, and it is cold as ice inside.
Everything is lavish red velvet and cushy chairs, questionable dials littering the walls and stale light coming from lamps along the ceiling. Maybe Mycroft is a vampire, John thinks, because he apparently is allergic to any natural light whatsoever. It explains the peculiar affixation with umbrellas, at least; though vampires are supposed to be thin, aren't they?
The man himself is seated comfortably in a high-backed chair near the wall, and John finds himself a seat directly across from him. He crosses his legs at the ankles and waits, as the man peers at him over fingertips that are joined in exactly the same way as his brother was fond of putting them.
Mycroft looks well, if a bit thicker around the middle than John remembers. It's in stark contrast to the skeletal, translucent appearance of Sherlock, though Mycroft is obviously better off at the moment. John can't help but wonder if there is some sort of cosmic system going on here; that for every fraction of a stone Mycroft gains, Sherlock is destined to lose twice that. If that was the case, they should really balance out the scale for both their sakes.
John also wonders why Mycroft felt it was necessary to escort him out in person. The two Holmes brothers were apparently "calling up old favors" but those certainly didn't stretch this far. Did they? Then again, John wouldn't really know; he and Harry weren't exactly close enough for that sort of thing anymore. Not that Sherlock and Mycroft were close at all. Quite the contrary, and that much was rather obvious.
Mycroft doesn't torture John with anything other than his calculating stare for a full two minutes and forty-eight seconds (again, John had been counting; but this time to see if there would be a new record keeper for creepy, brooding silence.) When he finally speaks, it's in his usual light and airy tone – the one that everyone with more than a couple of brain cells knows is an act.
"You are aware of our present situation, Doctor Watson, are you not?"
John gives a stiff nod of consent.
"More or less, I suppose," Mycroft comments, "but all in good time, mmh? And you think you can help my dear brother?"
John scoffs.
"More than you can."
"Sherlock continues to reject my offers of assistance…"
"Probably because you and your government mates would strap him to a table and dissect him the first chance you got," John answers.
Mycroft looks amused, a smile curling his lip as he speaks.
"We have far more willing and agreeable people for that."
John is momentarily thrown off-track.
"You – our government knows about werewo- lycanthropes?"
"And the Americans, and the Russians, everybody really," Mycroft muses. "Did you know, the Japanese have actually started hunting them? For coats and even for their unique meat. Which, incidentally, is rather stringy; wouldn't recommend it. It was a nasty feud, that… no one was very pleased…"
John doesn't know whether or not to believe him. And also doesn't know whether to recoil at the mention of people dining on werewolves or to be intrigued by the fact that, apparently, they were a popular topic among government workers. He decides to file away the information instead, for later use or to ponder over at some other time.
John shakes his head to clear it. He thinks back to the subject on hand: a meddling bastard with an umbrella and a fondness toward sweets.
"Yes, okay," he says politely, "But let me ask you something, Mycroft; why do you hound Sherlock like this, when you know he will never accept your help?"
John honestly wants to know why he's being escorted home in a posh helicopter.
"My younger brother is a self-destructive, reckless man with no proper job whatsoever, many common enemies and the ability to turn into a, for lack of a better word, magical creature. He can hardly take care of himself," Mycroft cocks his head to the side a bit, in a knowing expression. "and that leaves me to do it for him."
"You don't do a very good job," John comments.
"I do what I can."
"Like tell his entire life story to a criminal mastermind who is very publicly out to kill him?" Now John is just plain amused. Angry; and amused.
"I had hardly expected Jim Moriarty to be able to make any use of the information."
Mycroft might be slightly uncomfortable now; though it's always very hard to tell with him.
"Yeah? How'd that work out for you?" John is silent after this query. Of course, it wasn't exactly a query as much as a biting remark.
Mycroft watches mutely for another couple of minutes. John taps his foot anxiously, crossing his fingers that this dreadful trip will be over soon. All he wants to do is flop down onto his downy mattress and go to sleep, after making himself a cuppa and changing out of these dreadfully dirty clothes. Of course, he still has to call Sarah (she worries too much – it's not like they're dating anymore) and check in on Mrs. Hudson (poor thing, he had probably put her in a right state when he hadn't come home). John almost sighs aloud, almost covers his face in his hand because he really doesn't want to deal with it all.
Mycroft breaks the silence. John wishes he hadn't.
"You know, I am still prepared to offer a large compensation for-"
John cuts him off.
"Every time, every fucking time, Mycroft. Why do you expect my answer to be any different?"
The doctor had been quite baffled the first time, annoyed by the third and had unceremoniously stormed out of the room the fourth time that Mycroft had tried to bribe him into spying on his own flat mate. Goodness knows they could do with the money (hailing cabs all over London wasn't exactly inexpensive) but it was the mere gesture that usually made John turn the offer down. What made anyone believe that people could be bought out like that?
The truth, of course, was that Mycroft didn't like the idea that sentiment could be worth more than he could offer. He had seen what sentiment could do and he still has to desire to ignore it completely; maybe then it wouldn't hurt him. John doesn't know this. He just thinks Mycroft doesn't understand.
In reality, he understands all too well.
Mycroft sighs, looking down at his umbrella as he spins it almost subconsciously between his fingers. His appearance looks weathered and tired; John almost feels sorry for the man. He certainly does look exhausted, and more so than the typical uni student working two jobs in-between classes; and that's saying something. John remembers his days at college and almost shivers whenever he does – medical school wasn't particularly fun. The older Holmes brother looks worse than he had during those hard years in his 20s.
The sight of the sleek wooden handle of the umbrella must offer Mycroft some comfort, because he looks up not long after the passing of a minute.
"What I really ask you to do is leave him. Let Sherlock figure this out on his own. Your presence will put him in more danger than he is already in, and I want him to be able to walk away from this."
"How could I be a danger to Sherlock?"
Mycroft raises his eyebrows.
"He obviously cares a lot for you, and you for him. More, I think, if you both would let yourselves. But that's not my place, hmm?" John is spluttering in his seat. "Sherlock would die saving you, though, and that would be quite a waste of all the resources I have put into keeping him alive."
John is actually kind of touched at this. He doesn't know what to think actually. But this is all going into the small drawer he keeps in the deepest corner of his head so he doesn't over think and go red in the face and maybe even explode before afternoon tea. John closes the Drawer of Iffy Information, swallows, and goes back to the point that Mycroft is asking him to leave his best friend only hours after discovering his continued existence.
Mycroft seems to take John's silence as an answer rather than a small internal crisis.
"Yes. I had guessed you wouldn't leave, even if it was in Sherlock's best interests."
"No," says John, regaining his voice.
There is a very pregnant pause following this, in which Mycroft holds John's determined gaze with one of his own. He slowly allows himself an accepting smile.
"I trust you will grasp the gravity of the situation soon enough. Watch your step – I don't want you to drag Sherlock down with you if or when you fall," the older, suited man purses his lips.
"As I've said, I worry about him. Constantly."
He pulls a sleek black phone out of his pocket, fingers scrolling through what appears to be a fair amount of messages. Mycroft must not be very happy with what he sees, because his brow furrows and mouth pulls down into a grimace. He slips the phone into the pocket of his expensive suit and twirls his umbrella once again, giving the impression of a conductor waiting for his orchestra.
"Anthea," Mycroft gives a knowing smile as he says the name, "will be at Baker Street to pick you up and bring you back to my dear brother at ten tomorrow morning. Do be ready."
Mycroft gets up from his chair and swishes past John with an air of finality, silently opening the door of the helicopter. He steps down onto what John infers is solid ground; either that, or the doctor had just witnessed a suicide.
He's left to wonder how long it will be until he can sleep and how the bloody hell he'll know when to get off.
xOxOxOxOxOx
After disembarking the helicopter, Mycroft makes his way to his office. He shows his identification to the heavy-set security guard at the iron gates and talks to Reight about new regulations on the shipping of oil and the awful film coming out, Blood of Agents (unbeknownst to the public, based on a true story.) He swipes his card in the automatic, metal and bullet-proof glass doors and makes his way up the elevator.
Mycroft enters his office and peels off his jacket, hanging it on the claw-footed coat rack next to the beige sofa. He pops a peppermint humbug into his mouth, greedy fingers reaching into the crystal dish on the side table before closing the lid and striding to his desk. He sits himself primly into another of his preferably high-backed, squishy leather chairs and shuffles the papers that have found their way onto his desk since the morning.
He checks up on the (confidential) news on his government issued, technologically advanced cellphone.
After an hour or so of annoying emails and an increasingly depleted supply of peppermint humbugs, Mycroft Holmes calls Anthea to call for the helicopter again.
xOxOxOxOxOx
Sherlock is practically going mad inside his own head when Mycroft barges into the room, turning up his nose at the mess.
Sherlock lifts his head up to glare at his brother. He had made it quite clear that visits were unwelcome, had he not? For Mycroft to come striding in here as if he owned the place… well, technically, he did, but Sherlock was the one inhabiting it at the moment. He has the feeling that nobody else is very keen on doing so.
"You really can't take care of any cleaning, can you?" says Mycroft distastefully.
Sherlock gives him a look. "What do you want."
Mycroft has learned by now the correct way to deal with his brother. Straight-forward with no pauses for a companionable silence, cutting straight to the chase so they can get straight to arguing about it.
"I think you should rethink your involvement of Doctor Watson in the matters concerning your… condition."
"Give me a reason."
"I think we both know you would give up your own life (again) to save him, and I think we both know that that would leave Moriarty with no game plan and an unsatisfied thirst for entertainment. Not only would you lose your life but everyone else would be stuck with your enemy."
Mycroft is acting distant and unforgiving, like stone; because he has to be.
Sherlock just laughs. "What life? I barely have anything left, not unless I find a way around everything. Which I have spent the better part of two months doing," he says bitterly.
"To no avail," agrees Mycroft.
"I think we both like Doctor Watson, Sherlock. It'd be a shame to lose him."
Sherlock turns a cold gaze towards his brother.
"In what way are you describing John will be lost?"
Mycroft doesn't answer.
This is shit, Sherlock thinks. Maybe he really is a monster. Is he putting John in all this danger? John didn't seem perturbed but that's John…
There are a few minutes of calculating silence as Sherlock's mind frantically works to think about everything.
"You should just consider. You have a plan, and I do not want you to endanger that or the one person in London you haven't yet managed to drive away," Mycroft drawls.
Sherlock laughs again, a dry and unforgiving chuckle. "Drive away, is it? Like I 'drove away' mother, I suppose? 'I've always done things alone, this time shouldn't be any different'?"
"That's not what I said. That's ridiculous."
"You didn't need to," he says. "Get out."
"Sherlock, I have your best interests-"
"I will have John if I want to! I don't need your concern and if you try and take him from me – the only person who could possibly make this easier –" Sherlock lets the threat loom menacingly above them both.
I need him, Sherlock decides. It's selfish and half his brain is shouting curses at him tearing itself apart, but he needs someone in this darkness. Not Mycroft. Not any other lycos, either. He's putting John is so much danger, and there's no telling where this will leave them both. But fuck it, he deserves this. He deserves someone to be there for him as he slowly slips into this bright, multi-colored swirl of madness. Mycroft was making him doubt this and it's all the worse because Sherlock knows no one deserves it. He's trying to forget but Mycroft is reminding him of all the danger.
The detective's hair is standing on end now, his mysterious eyes both lined and frantic. He looks tired and manically awake at the same time, and he's not himself.
Mycroft keeps his face neutral, like a statue in a museum; a casual observer. He had adopted the expression as a child, learning to feign ignorance because he hadn't been strong enough to do anything else.
And he regrets it every day.
Mycroft just continues to look at his brother, apologies lingering on his pale lips.
"I SAID GET OUT!" Sherlock roars, springing to his feet with his back hunched protectively. If you squint, you can see a trace of fear in his bloodshot eyes.
"I am only trying to help you," Mycroft states, making no move towards the door.
"You have no right!" Sherlock practically spits. This is his fight, and his alone. Except John, because he can't stand to do it entirely by his lonesome. Never could, even when everyone had deserted him.
"If you hurt him, you will tear yourself apart and it-"
Sherlock screams; a long, guttural sound that comes from the back of his throat and tears its way through every molecule in the room. He tilts his head up towards the bare ceiling, eyes squinting in an expression of pain. His face screws up in the agony and the drawn-out, tortured scream falling from his lips turns into an eerily howl-like sound.
Sherlock falls to his knees, going quiet with his mouth still open in silent anguish; he can't scream now, his vocal chords are being ripped apart and put back together again. They will mend and then animalistic howls will escape his lips; lips that will soon be slick with blood. He scrunches himself into a tiny ball on the cold floor, hands grappling at the smooth surface as they start to morph into long, sharp claws.
Mycroft watches from the sidelines, and he can't withhold the amazement that shows on his face.
"It's progressing," he murmurs.
Sherlock's eyes roll back into his head, and he arches his silvery back while writhes in sheer, blinding pain. The bumps of his spine pop up one by one, ripping the shirt he wears and stretching his lucent skin to cover the steely bone. All of the veins in his body light up as his blood glows an unknown color with the magic that runs through it. They give off a blurred glow, as it being seen from under the far depths of the ocean.
The setting sun outside has been slowly taking away light from the room, which makes the radiance even more noticeable and bright.
All of Sherlock's nerve endings are suddenly blazing with unbearable pain, worse than they had been just seconds ago, and he gives a tormented howl with his new vocal chords. His body is wracked with twitches and feral screams as the rest of him starts to transform; limbs growing longer and chest expanding, heart beating as loud as a drum without one's rhythmic pace. His mouth lengthens into a snout that promptly curls into a snarl. Hair sprouts from every inch of his skin, as perfectly, glaringly silver as the moon that is absent from the sky.
Mycroft has the sense, then, to fling open the metal door, giving the Wolf a passage to the outside.
The thick fur that covers its body obscures the haunting lights of its glowing veins.
The Wolf's form is still and splayed out on the floor for a fraction of a second before the beast lifts his head to shriek once more; with a now fully-matured voice box. The sound echoes off the walls and is so consuming that you can almost see it in the air. The Wolf turns bulbous eyes to the steadily darkening woods outside when it finally looks round, and pounces with lightning speed out the threshold of the door. Bats fly lazily around shadowed trees that swallow up the monster, masking it in the twilight. Even after it is gone, somehow, the wails that had escaped its suffering lips remain fused with the almost empty room.
Mycroft hears the yowls of woodland animals not moments later, with sweat clinging to his brow as he stands, frozen, in the spot his baby brother had laid only minutes before.
It was getting worse, as Sherlock had feared.
xOxOxOxOxOx
Sherlock wakes up to a chilly breeze blowing its icy breath across his naked body, and a hand on his shoulder. A familiar, rough voice graces his ear.
A/N: Definitely adding & editing more later. Right now, I'm tired.
So I have exam thingies for the next two weeks. This either means hiatus or very frequent updates. Just stay tuned.
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As of my new edits: I imagined Sherlock's transformation to be a lot like George's transformation into a werewolf in Being Human (U. K.) [If you haven't ever watched that show, I STRONGLY recommend it. Something to make you want to watch it even more: Henry Knight from the Hounds of Baskerville plays George. And he's bloody amazing.]
I almost killed Mycroft, then and there, because I am a cruel person and wanted Sherlock to feel even more pain. But I didn't; maybe later. *Mwha hahahahaha*
