The image before him is as incomprehensible as it is disturbing. Mycroft hesitates, hand on his door handle, and observed for another moment before stepping out.
Sherlock – obviously strung out, though you'd have to know the signs to be sure – standing on the wrong side of crime scene tape, talking to a DI. Even without the dark street, particularly humid summer air, and police lights still shining, the scene has all the earmarks of a hallucination. Mycroft catalogues the DI with a glance: hair prematurely turned more salt than pepper with stress – work, most likely, though there's a wedding band to consider; a two-year-old suit that he's had mended on the left leg – job injury, tussle, not gunshot – and has been clumsily or careless pressed; going by the bags under his eyes and the tightness in their corners, there's something other than work on his mind – most likely the wedding band; twitching fingers suggest a losing battle with a smoking habit. Or maybe it's just irritation because Sherlock is standing there talking so fast even Mycroft is struggling to read his lips.
He knows Sherlock has noticed the car because he doesn't react when Mycroft opens the door. The DI does, though.
"Sorry, this is a crime scene, you'll have to move on."
Mycroft smiles, continuing to move forward. "Unfortunately, I have business here."
"Business?"
"A rendezvous, to be more precise."
Sherlock scoffs. Mycroft does not reward the gesture with a look. The DI is frowning at him.
"I really think you ought to move along now."
"I'm here for my brother, Detective Inspector. I've spent the better part of three weeks trying to trace him this time, and I don't intend to leave without him."
The DI starts to ask, but casts a look between Sherlock and Mycroft, comprehension loosening the corners of his eyes. Mycroft is pleased the man seems to have command of basic reasoning skills. So many of the law enforcement community seem to have had that ability removed. He puts out his hand over the crime tape, letting his eyes trail to the body lying between the detective and Sherlock.
Face bashed in, lack of defensive wounds, chafe marks on the wrists. Unprofessional attempt to make it look like a mugging, pockets turned out. Location, number of officers swarming the scene is suggestive. And Sherlock is here. This will have been a kidnapping victim gone wrong. Victim must be someone rather influential.
"Mycroft Holmes. And you are?"
"Detective Inspector Lestrade," says the man, taking his hand warily. He's actually moved to stand between Mycroft and Sherlock, keeping the younger Holmes out of arm's reach. Bulldog stance. Sherlock doesn't normally inspire protectiveness."Funny, Sherlock never mentioned a brother."
Never. So this is not the first time Sherlock has wandered onto a crime scene on this man's watch. Mycroft lets that sink in.
"We're not in touch much," he says, casting an inquiring glance at Sherlock. Given Lestrade's reaction, he takes it to mean estrangement due to the drug use. Sherlock returns his attention to the body. "I do, however, try and keep tabs on him when I can."
An actual laugh from Sherlock this time. "That's putting it mildly. But I will go ahead and clear your mind, Lestrade. He's my brother, and as far as I know, not a suspect."
He crouches beside the body, leaning over to examine the wounds on the face and side of the head.
"Sherlock, I told you," the DI says.
He drops his focus on Mycroft to grab Sherlock's shoulder. Mycroft tenses, expecting to find Lestrade on the ground in another breath. Assaulting a metropolitan police officer – the paperwork to clean that up will be such an inconvenience. To his surprise, Sherlock lets himself be moved back to a standing position, though he jerks away from Lestrade immediately.
"If you can't pass a test right now, you don't get to examine the body, or give me advice, or tell me about how many obvious clues I'm missing. That's our deal."
Lestrade's voice is almost paternal. Neither of the Holmes brothers have pleasant associations with that tone. Why, then, is Sherlock standing there scowling at the man, rather than doing what Mycroft expects high Sherlock to do – either slam the man to the ground, or embark on a visceral deduction that will reduce the DI to an insecure jelly?
"You need me," Sherlock says coldly.
"I'll manage."
"This man was clearly struck with –"
"No, no, stop that," Lestrade says, holding up an authoritative hand. "I'll arrest you and let Anderson take you in while I finish here, if that what it takes."
"You wouldn't."
"I really would. And probably take a few photographs."
Mycroft is on the wrong side of the police tape. And utterly bewildered, a position he hasn't been in for at least two decades. The pieces are fitting together, but he's not sure he likes the picture. What hold can this detective inspector have on his brother?
"I'm not impaired. My brain is functioning perfectly well. And you let me in. Don't forget that." There is an odd mix of triumph and pleading in Sherlock's voice.
"It was dark. I couldn't see how strung out you were. You promised, Sherlock."
"Got bored."
Mycroft clears his throat. "Will someone kindly explain why I'm still standing in a moderately sized alley rather than on my way home with my brother?"
"Shut up, Mycroft." Typical Sherlock response.
Lestrade, however, takes a more polite route. "I'm sure you know that your brother has this sort of knack for noticing things other people miss." Sherlock gives Mycroft a gloating glance at this, but Mycroft ignores it. "Well, he showed up a few weeks back and helped us out of a tough spot. He's been sort of –"
"Consulting," Sherlock puts in.
" - but I told him from the start that if he's going to work with me, then he's going to be sober to do it. So, I guess the answer is: there's no reason for you to not be on your way – with your brother."
"Excellent," Mycroft says, still uneasy over the familiar way the two men address each other. Sherlock doesn't have friends, and he certainly doesn't like the metropolitan police. "Sherlock, come with me. I've got family business to discuss with you."
Lestrade raises the police tape, but Sherlock doesn't walk through. He's glaring at Mycroft through slightly-glazed eyes, the curl to his lip suggesting he's considering taking his chances with arrest. Mycroft can't quite blame him. The last rehab facility he used was patterned after a high-security prison, and Sherlock's sentence there had been long. Mycroft can't quite feel sorry about it, either. It has been over a year since the last overdose, and he's been the villain in his brother's piece longer than he can remember.
An idea strikes. He smiles lazily at Sherlock's stubborn form, and turns back to Lestrade.
"Detective Inspector, I wonder if I might take a turn at assisting you? As you can see, I am not impaired in the slightest."
Sherlock stiffens, planting his feet almost territorially. No need, as Lestrade is already shaking his head.
"It breaks about half a dozen rules letting just one civilian in here. Two is a bit more than I can vouch for."
"Oh, you needn't let me across the tape. I can tell you enough from here."
Sherlock's reaction is immediate. He steps under the police tape with a growl that tells Mycroft he understands the ploy.
"On second thoughts, I'll go. It'll be too much trouble to try to shake you off now. Good evening, Lestrade, send an email when you need me. I'll expect it by dawn."
Lestrade is staring at them both. Mycroft nods his farewell and turns, a half-step behind Sherlock, shoulders overlapping. It is a petty thing, but Mycroft can admit that he feels slightly usurped by the DI.
"Oh, and Lestrade, I'd start with the office manager and the brother," Sherlock says.
Lestrade makes a frustrated noise, but does not reply.
"Brother," Mycroft says automatically, but under his breath.
"Could just as easily have been a professional vendetta," Sherlock says, fumbling slightly with the doorhandle.
"The watch," Mycroft counters.
Sherlock flops himself onto the seat, taking up well more than half. Mycroft simply slides in alongside, using his knee to edge his brother onto his own side.
"The watch was a 30-year appreciation gift from the company. It was still on his wrist. The office manager would have taken it." Sherlock follows the train of thought with a sigh of resignation. "Of course."
Perhaps because of brotherly obligation, Mycroft makes a rare concession. "You would have gotten it."
Sherlock shrugs. "I'll get it tomorrow morning when Lestrade is at his wits' end. Well, he's there now, but he's still got a bit of bureaucratic dignity left tonight."
He sits up a bit more as the car moves forward. "Alright then, what's this family business you want to discuss?"
Mycroft hesitates. Despite the drugs, Sherlock is in a better place than he has been in years. He's reluctant to disrupt it. But he has to. Perhaps this Lestrade will be anchor enough for his brother when he gets this news. Heaven knows he won't want Mycroft.
"It's Mummy. We're going to have to put her in a home, Sherlock."
He signals for the driver to stop before Sherlock can manage to open the door, and lets him dash off into the night alone.