Here´s No. 10 - enjoy!

eohippus

High Hopes

The sky is dark, heavy clouds encouraging the night to settle much sooner than it normally would on an April evening. The cobblestoned pavement of the narrow Soho street is dark and slippery with rain, the odd drenched tabloid´s page lurking for a pedestrian´s tired step. Mycroft, dropped off by his cab driver at Oxford Street, is rather unsuccessfully trying to shield himself from the heavy downpour. Every now and again, he nearly collides with fellow citizens who, like him, are attempting to regain their dignity by clutching their umbrellas or who navigate from one dry spot to the next, huddled in their coats, eyes fixed on the pavement.

Mycroft would much prefer to enter the cosy interior of his favourite French Brasserie than to step into the gloomy and slightly shabby Chinese restaurant his brother has agreed to meet him in. The dim light, treacly Chinese music and ubiquitous, cheerfully winking lucky cats are potent reminders that Sherlock has chosen this venue because he knows that his elder brother would never regard it a proper place for dinner. Mycroft suspects that Sherlock´s refusal to meet him at his flat or a more appropriate place is just another wordless confirmation of his resistance to being orchestrated. Ever since his teenage years, Sherlock had resolved to tell Mycroft of his discontent by subtle signs rather than protesting openly. It has become a secret language between them, one which their father was never able to read, one which has saved Sherlock from greater difficulties in more than one instance. Had Mycroft insisted on meeting his brother elsewhere, he might very well have jeopardised the brittle truce the brothers have formed after their last conversation, when Sherlock agreed to meet the Detective Inspector.

Mycroft smiles tightly at the small Chinese lady who directs him to his table. He hopes that his sibling will meet his part of the deal and appear. He has been strangely unavailable lately, detached and erratic, and Mycroft has been able to gather only scarce information about Sherlock´s doings. There´s one detail in particular which needs to be looked into, and Mycroft hopes they can talk reasonably about it.

Forty minutes later, Mycroft finds himself confronted with his younger brother. Sherlock, who has not bothered to use an umbrella despite the rain, has arrived dripping wet, his curls straightened out nearly to his shoulders. Despite his imperial demeanour, he looks outright miserable. His eyes are blood-shot and his features are paler than Mycroft remembers. He picks at his food, continually avoiding Mycroft´s eyes, absent-mindedly staring into the void.

Mycroft, who has finished his miso soup, points at Sherlock´s plate of stewed duck.

"You´d better finish your meal. It´s getting cold," he says, and Sherlock finally looks at him.

"You sound like Mummy," he replies, disgusted. "Ever considered that the announcement of a family dinner does nothing to spur my appetite?"

Unfazed, Mycroft meets his icy glare. "The last time you lost your appetite was in rehab, where no family members were allowed to visit."

Mycroft´s remark has the desired effect. Sherlock lets his chopsticks drop and rounds on him.

"Not everything in my life is connected to drugs," he hisses, secretly hoping that his acid tone might divert Mycroft´s attention from his appearance.

"Oh, but nearly," Mycroft replies, unimpressed. "At least until recently, if I remember correctly." He bends forward, fixing Sherlock with a stern gaze.

Sherlock glares back. He wonders whether it is paranoia or only his sense of perception telling him that Mycroft is secretly rejoicing that he is the sensible one, as he always was. He leans back, tensing. "Well, nowadays, nearly everything in my life is connected to paperwork," he replies sarcastically.

Mycroft fixes him with a stern gaze. "Speaking of which, I was wondering whether you could elaborate why Andrew is missing several samples of a very secret, very delicate substance from his labs. Probably you could tell me whether the twitching of your fingers is in any way related to this incident."

Sherlock looks at his brother, his face blank. He had taken care to decant the liquid into neutral vials and filll the numbered ones with water before he left. Obviously, security regulations in this particular part of the laboratories must be much tighter than elsewhere in the building. By his estimation, the fake samples should have been found after two weeks at the earliest.

"Are you providing me with a case?" he asks, his voice scathing.

Mycroft´s brow twitches and he smiles tersely. "The Curious Incident of the Opium-Eater in Denial?" He shakes his head. "Please, brother mine. You know exactly what I am asking."

Sherlock, who has been fiddling with one of his chopsticks, lets the tiny pieces of wood drop and spreads his hands out on the table. He sighs, his features taking on the innocent expression of a ten-year-old. "It was an experiment," he mumbles, meek. "I thought I could convince Andrew to let me work in the labs if I were able to provide him with more details on the formula of this particular substance and its effects."

Mycroft leans back, folding his arms. If he didn´t knew his brother better, he would probably fall headlong into the trap of believing him. But he knows Sherlock´s acting skills only too well. He fleetingly wonders what he could possibly have missed in the past two months, whether and how far Sherlock has already strayed from the path their father has installed for him.

"Consequently, you took some, in the assumption you could avoid talking to father," he replies. "Did it ever occur to you that arguing it is a logical course of action to take a drug is one of the first steps into addiction?"

Sherlock snarls. "You certainly don´t need to remind me of your vast knowledge of the psychology of addiction," he says, voice tinged with contempt. Inwardly, he curses his inability to stay detached. He takes a deep breath and relaxes his hands, which he has involuntarily curled into fists. When he continues, his features are neutral.

"I needed to try its effects," he says. "I needed to prove to Wainwright…"

Mycroft leans nearer, his eyes narrowing. "Please allow me to differ. I would assume the only thing you need to prove is that you are finally getting a grip on life."

Sherlock nearly jumps up at this remark, but Mycroft is quick enough to grab his forearm and stall his movement. The brother´s faces are nearly meeting over the table for a second, Mycroft´s eyes dark and determined, Sherlock´s full of fury.

"You´ll probably better explain all of this to father," Mycroft says, his voice even.

Sherlock glares back at him. "Do you actually believe he would listen?" he spits. "Do you really assume I´d encourage him to tell me, again, how useless I am? That I should thank him for having everything arranged for his black sheep of a son?" Sherlock´s voice is dangerously low. "I will never convince him to listen. It´s futile to explain anything to the great Edward Holmes, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes´ brother has watched the colour return to Sherlock´s features. He notices the lines of anger forming around his brother´s eyes and mouth, and the nervous twitch in his fingers. It is true, their father had stopped listening to his younger son a long time ago. And Sherlock, in all his stubbornness, has ever since refused to comply with his father´s wishes and ceased to be diplomatic whenever he couldn´t see the reason behind his father´s decisions. Sherlock´s dabbling with drugs has only added to destroying what small amount of trust Edward Holmes might have been willing to offer him. Consequently, he has started to form Sherlock into the son he wanted rather than wait for the son Sherlock could be to develop.

"You could be more diplomatic, you know," Mycroft can´t refrain from remarking. Sherlock only grunts and rises from his seat, abandoning the dire remains of his meal. Looming over his elder brother, stray droplets sinking into his jacket´s fabric, he stares down at him, his gaze icy.

Unfazed, Mycroft meets his eyes. "Anyway, father requires your presence for Mummy´s birthday dinner. A car will be ready on Friday evening. In the meantime, you might like to explain Wainwright why you entered the labs."

Sherlock, who has picked up one of the chopsticks, points it threateningly into Mycroft´s face. "I don´t think I´ll need to bother," he says. "The sooner Wainwright releases me from his facility, the better."

Mycroft laughs drily. "How wrong you are," he says. "Remember, Friday. Be there – I would loathe to spoil my inferior´s weekend by assigning them to a manhunt."

Sherlock nods curtly and turns his back on his brother. He doesn´t see the small wrinkle on Mycroft´s forehead, an ever so subtle sign of worry.

"Still among the living?"

Sherlock smiles. This is the first time in twelve hours that his mobile´s screen has lit up, and he is delighted to hear from Victor. They haven´t seen each other in the past three days. Knowing that he wouldn´t be able to fool his family about his state of sobriety, Sherlock has requested Victor to stay away from him for a few days, thus diminishing the incidents when he would most desperately require a hit. Nausea and a slight fever have been his companions instead, but at least he feels presentable enough to convince the whole Holmes Manor household of his unspoiled health

The past evening and night have passed like a dream. The arrival of his father´s black Jaguar. The hatefully unobtrusive humming of the limousine´s engine as it took him into Oxfordshire. The accustomed privacy the tinted windows and cushioned back seat provided, shutting out London. Mycroft´s familiar presence, oddly reassuring. His fatigue upon arrival, their early dinner with their mother, and Sherlock´s escape to the stables and his old tree house later in the evening. A secret fag shared with Morton, his father´s driver. The calming smells and sounds of his room, where he failed to fall asleep until the early morning, his skin crawling with want, his thoughts revolving around Victor.

Sherlock´s mobile chimes again, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Don´t tell me you´ve only retreated to your mind palace. In this case, you could have stayed in London."

Sherlock smiles as he types his answer. His mood is lightened considerably by the fact that Victor seems to be eagerly awaiting his return.

Victor´s reply is short and to the point: "Go fight your battle, then – and come back to me for the feast."

Sherlock is still smiling as he pockets his mobile, his hands in his trousers pockets, his eyes on the shrubs outside. It is so much easier to cope with Victor being his auxiliary. Perhaps the impending confrontation with his father might much easier to muster than he anticipated.