ITLE: It Takes a Village
CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Ten: My Uncle, the British Government
RATING: T (language, content)
A/N: Yes I totally made up the name at the beginning. Mycroft tells his mother that Mycroft is the name she gave him, so it's his first. Then I just threw two other more common names in the middle. Sorry if you hate it. If you can't tell, I'm following a bit of a pattern with this story and names. Not every chapter is like this, obviously. Here's a little Mycroft for you. Just a snippet. More to come. Some protective Mycroft too will be seen.
Please read and review, many thanks.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.
Chapter Ten: My Uncle, the British Government
Mycroft Benjamin Anthony Holmes always imagined he would be a lot of things.
He spent his childhood imagining that his little brother was inferior and an "idiot", even if he never would admit how much he cared for and desired to protect his younger sibling. It was only after meeting other children did the elder Holmes realize that compared to average people, Sherlock was a genius. And Mycroft, well, Mycroft was something else entirely. It wasn't a necessarily traumatic adjustment. He was still above his brother and the rest of the world, and that quite suited the boy.
He knew from the start that he could utilize his advanced intelligence in order to propel him even farther upward and onward.
While Sherlock was bullied for his rather large brain, but mostly large mouth that came attached, Mycroft approached his gifts at a different angle. The elder Holmes never had to concern himself with childhood chastisement. He practically ran his school. Bullies worked for him instead of working him over.
His ideas of power and control only expanded from there. From school leadership all the way up to a top secret place of authority in the British government,
There were three things in the world Mycroft Holmes cared about.
He never thought anything or anyone else would ever break into that circle.
It was one of the very few things that he would prove himself wrong on when Mycroft Benjamin Anthony Holmes became something else entirely from anything he had been before. Something he had never, not once, even dreamed of becoming.
An uncle.
Uncle.
Well, not by biological standards, of course. Sherlock wasn't going to be making children anytime soon.
He always thought such sentimental titles to be tedious really. But, nonetheless, the child had taken it upon herself to deem him worthy of the endearing term. Peculiar really. How a solitary word, two meaningless syllables, one title, could change a man.
At first, he took the position in the child's life as a formality. She was the daughter of John Watson. And John Watson was the best friend of Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes was the one thing Mycroft cared for the most. The protect Sherlock, he would protect the child. It was logical.
And yet, over time, that word started shifting into a new song.
Uncle.
Him, Mycroft Holmes, an uncle.
And eventually the word had a whole new meaning.
Honor, pride, and yes, a smidgen of fear. Okay, so maybe a jetliner of fear. But it was a different kind of fear. Not dread at sentiment. Perturbation for the safety of the child. Of the sanity and wellbeing of his baby brother in relation to said child. A fear he was not akin to.
Being afraid was not something British government man Mycroft Holmes readily admitted to. He didn't talk about the day Sherlock shot Magnussen. He didn't let on to his little brother when he was actually, secretly, truly fearful for his life during a case.
There were times, though, when true terror tore through the pompous and powerful walls.
Times like now.
When that daughter of his brother's best friend he had held so much horror over her birth, was, when taking the balance of probability into account, most likely no longer alive.
When he felt pathetically powerless in the face of such devastation and destruction.
When the man he had swore to protect his brother from, was now threatening them all.
It's intriguing, Mycroft thought, and quite appalling, how life or death situations can spark such sentiment and nostalgia.
"I want answers, Mycroft!" Sherlock let his first crash down on the desk.
"I told you, I have people looking into -"
"I don't care about your people," Sherlock spat. "What have you found?"
"We cannot locate him, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, as if bored by the conversation, and the tragedy behind it. "Myself, or my people. Not even you. You know this. He doesn't want to be found."
"I don't care what he wants! I want him dead!"
"Stop acting so childish, brother," Mycroft folded his hands and leaned forward. "Losing yourself now is not going to help matters."
"Nothing is going to help," Sherlock snapped. "He drugged Mary."
"And you've drugged John," Mycroft pointed out with a smirk.
"You think this funny? This isn't a game, Mycroft."
"Sherlock, you know I don't play games."
"Then don't start now," Sherlock's voice was dangerous. "He drugged her. He induced labor! Why? Why? What's the point? A few weeks earlier, that would be logical. But the child was far enough along in the third trimester with a 96% survival rate. Why not at 24 weeks, where this is only 50% change of survival? Why not before then? Why not just kill the baby, or Mary? What is his purpose in all this?
"You know very well that sometimes this man doesn't, in fact, always have a purpose," Mycroft leaned back in his chair.
"'Some men just want to watch the world burn'," Sherlock mumbled.
"What was that?" Myrcroft arched a single eyebrow.
"Just some quote from a rubbish film John made me watch with him." Sherlock spoke as though in far away thought. "I found one of the characters rather - relatable - to him." Suddenly, Sherlock sprang from his chair and began pacing. "He wants to watch things burn, alright. Bombs, explosions, the fire on Baker Street. To watch me dance. Dance in the flames. I'm the target here. Not her! Not John! He's using them against me - again!"
"This won't end here," Mycroft said seriously.
"I know," Sherlock bowed his head.
"You're going to have to protect them now," Mycroft warned sternly.
"I know," Sherlock repeated and then let slip a rueful smile. "I am the godfather, after all."
"You, a godfather," Mycroft grinned haughtily, "who would have guessed. Our parents will be so proud. Mummy still so wants grandchildren, you know."
"Well then," Sherlock spun toward the door on one heel, "better get on that, brother."
And without another word, Sherlock disappeared from the room as quickly as he had burst into into not thirty minutes earlier.
As the door closed, Mycroft's stiff shoulders slumped. His features faltered and then fell. Placing his head in his hands, he released a slow sigh.
He had been correct, of course. They would never find him. Not again.
He had been presumed dead for two years. Even after Sherlock's rise from the grave and return to the public eye, he had remained hidden. Over a year later, the madman finally decided to make his presence known.
But that was it.
A mass media interruption.
And then silence.
A laugh in the face of all those who oppose him.
And a warning.
Of course he wouldn't strike right away. He would wait. Let his prey worry and fret and chase their tails searching for an invisible man. Let them sweat. Wait until they've worked themselves insane. And then quite possibly even longer. Maybe pounce when they were most fearful, or delay his attack until they were comfortable. Apart from all the predictable, boring goldfish of the world, James Moriarty wasn't one of them. He was entirely unpredictable. Changeable.
Terrifying.
And how did he make his first move?
By hiring someone to slip into Baker Street, drug a very pregnant Mary Watson, and induce labor. Oh, and then simultaneously setting off a bomb across the street.
Well, he certainly liked the unique and the dramatics.
Not exactly subtle.
But nothing earth shattering like they had been expecting.
So, there was one thing for certain at least when it came to Moriarty and his oh so "changeable" ways.
This was only the beginning.