Denial
"As long as you have certain desires about how it ought to be you can't see how it is."
- Ram Dass
(2 weeks later)
September
"Are you sure you do not want to take a closer look?" Lestrade enquired. "Might turn out to be more interesting than it seems." He studied the washed-out shirt of the corpse, drenched in mud from the Thames, and tried to breathe through the atrocious smell. Gulls shrieked above them. Absently, Lestrade wondered when he'd started sorting murders after their intellectual appeal.
The younger Holmes had already gathered his supplies and observed the dead man with distaste. "There's nothing interesting about a 32 year-old, slightly obese house steward who's been incapable of finding employment and lied to his wife about his daytime whereabouts so she wouldn't find out."
Lestrade stared at the corpse again, brows furrowed and lips pursed. Behind him Sherlock huffed, obviously annoyed by his lack of understanding.
"Good luck with being the bearer of bad news, thrice over, while informing his wife of the recent events."
And with that, Sherlock was gone, leaving Lestrade to stare at the river, gaze wandering up the stream until coming to rest on the distant silhouettes of towering cranes and cargo ships waiting for departure. Against the evening sun, Lestrade thought they looked rather surreal. Like distorted giants who'd risen from the ground to smother everything in their path beneath their feet.
~oOo~
Watson watched Holmes and grew accustomed to his habits. It felt strangely intimate. He watched the man work at his desk for hours and pace the wide space in front of the tall windows in his office; watched him handle negotiations or observe from the shadows. And he watched him grow quiet. Not in the literal sense since he spoke just as much, if not more, than before. But the time committed to personal discussions simply diminished while professional verbal exchanges took up more and more time. Until eventually, work was all that was left.
It almost seemed Holmes was retreating into himself further, if such a thing was even possible. But then again, perhaps physical proximity paired with mental distance had that effect on one's impression of another person.
It was six weeks before Watson had met the entire Holmes family, the younger brother being the last to cross his path. Apparently, the young man had a habit of avoiding his older brother as often as possible, even more so since the latter had taken up residence in the left wing to make room for his work. If the gossip among the servants was to be believed, they'd rather passionately disagreed upon the extension of the brother's security, ending in hateful parting words on one and silence on the other side. The elder Holmes had shown no sign of being negatively affected by the dispute, not that Watson would have expected otherwise.
'What a lively young man', the housekeeper told him, as she personally brought him his morning tea one day. Watson suspected curiosity and need for gossip had driven her to see to his needs herself. 'Always running around to solve one mystery or another.'
'And his brother, Mrs Hudson', Watson asked tentatively, gratefully accepting the offered cup and saucer, 'what does he think about his sibling's choice of occupation?'
'Hard to tell, really. It is not what he had in mind for him, I bet. But still, he carries the burden of the oldest with relief.'
'Oh,' Watson said, confused. 'How so?'
Her smile was laced with just the slightest hint of sadness. 'Could you imagine the young Holmes stuck behind a desk for the rest of his life?'
'No,' he admitted and watched her go. When it had finally cooled down enough for him to take a sip, the tea tasted stale on his tongue.
~oOo~
"Mrs Parker?" Greg asked and held up his badge to identify himself as police. The petite woman looked at it with reddened eyes, staring right through it. Behind her, Greg could hear children running down the stairs. Three, maybe four, none older than twelve. He swallowed hard, suddenly wishing he'd sent one of the constables to question her instead of insisting to go himself.
"Mrs Parker?" Greg repeated, this time to get her attention but she continued to stare at his badge with wide, unfocused eyes. It was only when he drew back his arm that she blinked and met his gaze. After dealing with so many political cases, the deep sorrow clearly visible in her eyes caught Greg off-guard. He'd almost forgotten how much people cared, how much they feared and mourned and felt.
"Yes, of course." Her empty voice echoed in the space between them. She stepped back from the threshold and motioned him to follow. He did so hesitantly, as three pairs of eyes followed him from their place on the stairs as he passed by the kitchen and entered the living room. Greg sat at the dining table across Mrs Parker, who in her distracted state, forgot to offer him tea. He was glad as he wasn't sure his stomach could handle it.
"You know already." It wasn't a question. Her eyes, the three scared children listening on the stairs said it all.
"News travel fast, Inspector. Especially bad ones."
There was no point in objecting, so Greg decided against using sentimental words. She was right after all. "When did you last see your husband, Mrs Parker?"
"Yesterday evening. We had to dismiss our housekeeper a few weeks ago and our youngest, Benjamin had been running a fever, so he went to do the shopping."
So Sherlock had been right about the monetary problems, except that Mrs Parker had indeed known about her husband's inability to find work.
Mrs Parker sniffled slightly, eyes shining with unshed tears, and wiped at her nose with a crumpled handkerchief. "He said he'd go to the fish market and insisted I needn't worry should he run late. He always hated fish so I have no idea what made him go there."
Greg's right hand which had steadily taken notes in a small leather-bound book stilled and he blinked. Once, twice. But whatever faint memory his subconscious had picked up on eluded his mind before he was able to properly grasp it.
"Your husband," Greg said instead as he absently tapped his pen against the white paper. "He was unable to find employment in his profession?"
"Yes. Times have been tough these past months as fewer people can afford a house steward. Many prefer to get by with a housekeeper and butler alone to save funds."
Sherlock's words echoed in Greg's ears as he watched her wipe treacherous tears from her delicate cheeks. 'Good luck with being the bearer bad news, thrice over…' If Sherlock was here, would he care? Or would he mercilessly demand every last bit of information until he'd solved another one of the riddles he loved so much, without a hint of sympathy or compassion? And in the end, which was better? Kindness or distance, emotion or logic? Or maybe the result was all that really mattered.
"If your husband was unemployed, how did you provide for your family?"
"Oh, though he didn't find work as house steward he wasn't unemployed," Mrs Parker objected.
'People believe the most transparent of lies if they so badly want them to be true,' Sherlock's mocking, condescending voice whispered in Greg's ear, and he couldn't contain his mouth from pulling into a small, bitter smile.
"What did he do then?"
"It was a temporary position with just enough money to scrape by until another opportunity arose."
She didn't know where the money had come from, of course she didn't. He could see her mind racing, trying desperately to avoid the truth as long as possible. It was astonishing how oblivious, how blind people could be if they chose. What a brilliant but flawed protective mechanism, doomed to fail sooner or later.
When they were done, Greg pocketed his notebook and walked back through the hall and past the three pairs of eyes following his every move. Once out the front door, he wearily turned around and bid Mrs Parker farewell. He didn't meet her eyes as he thanked her for her time, too afraid of what else he might recognise in them, and then rushed out the front yard without looking back.
~oOo~
8 years ago
"Forgive me, I keep rambling on about my life, it must be boring you by now."
It was true that Greg had divulged quite a lot about himself in the last couple of months. Words flowed easily when Mycroft was around him now and he enjoyed the liberty of voicing his thoughts, be it dreams or memories or fears, and having them accepted without judgement. Mycroft always listened intently and nodded along, sometimes offering words of encouragement or joining Greg in his laughter. It was clear the other man enjoyed his company and stories just as much as Greg did, but their roles were seldom reversed.
"Do not trouble yourself, please. I take great pleasure in knowing about your life."
"But you divulge little about yourself," Greg countered.
"My life is horrendously uneventful, I simply try to spare you."
Greg laughed, the carefree sound carrying far into the thicket around them and the treetops above. Almost immediately Mycroft joined with a light chuckle of his own. Greg thought he might burst from the pure joy in his chest.
"Different yes, but certainly not uneventful."
Mycroft smiled. "What do you want to know then?"
Greg pondered for a moment, an endless list of questions running through his head. Now that he'd permission to ask whatever he desired, picking one turned out to be challenging. He settled on one of the simpler ones to begin with. "I know you work a lot and barely manage to carve out some time for our lunch meetings. There must be something else you enjoy doing."
"I have indeed had a passion for books since my early childhood," Mycroft agreed. "There's little more calming than sitting in front of a fire with a good book in hand."
It was easy to picture it and Greg did so with ease. And he could understand it as well, although Mycroft had probably a much larger collection than him.
"A good spare-time activity, one I bet your parents encouraged."
"I remember that my mother used to read to me when I was little." He smiled softly, the memory obviously one he looked back on with fondness. The corners of Greg's mouth twitched in response. "It's one of the rare, calm memories of my childhood."
"All the more treasured, I suspect. How old were you?"
Mycroft hesitated. "Far too young." At Greg's questioning glance he added, "I'm afraid I was forced to leave my childhood behind at a rather early age."
It made sense, suddenly, in a sad, sobering way. Greg's heart gave a short, painful twist. "No child should be robbed of their childhood."
But Mycroft only shrugged. "Family tradition, I'm afraid. And at least it gave my brother the freedom to flourish." His last words where whispered, voice fading as if he'd not intending to divulge as much, but realising it was too late to turn back now.
"You have a brother, then?" Greg asked, curious. Mycroft had shared little to no information about his family and upbringing. Somehow, he'd always pictured him as an only child.
Mycroft nodded, not faltering in his stride. "Yes, although our relationship could not be described as easy."
Greg chuckled and plucked a few thin leaves from the lavender bushes as they strode past. "When is it ever? I have a sister, two years younger than me." He smiled fondly. "We never missed a chance to annoy each other. My mother was exasperated, but we finally made peace when I joined the force and she married." He hesitated briefly, then asked, "Your brother, what is his name?"
"William," Mycroft answered, a bit too fast, as if having anticipated the question. The tight lines on his forehead were smoothed out before Greg could take notice. "He's younger than me, seven years in fact."
"That's quite a gap."
"It is," Mycroft agreed, his smile not quite sincere. "We do not see eye to eye very often, never did. Unfortunate, but nothing that could be helped, I'm afraid."
"Must be the age. I bet he got spoiled," Greg teased.
Mycroft didn't meet his eye. "Yes…probably."
They strolled on in companionable silence, the sun peeking through the tree tops and lighting their path in strips of gold. The air was fresh and sweet with the smell of early blossoms and Greg could hear birds happily chirping above them. When they reached the end of the path both took the remaining steps to the lakefront and came to a stop on a small spot confined by the trees behind them and the lake ahead. It was here, sheltered from prying eyes and engulfed in their own, private green sphere, that Greg spoke again.
"Is there a Mrs Werder?" he asked, lulled into a false sense of familiarity between them by the newly shared personal information, and immediately regretted his question when he met Mycroft's startled gaze.
"I'm sorry?"
He swallowed thickly, heart suddenly beating in his throat. "Your brother, is he married?"
"No."
Silence settled between them, the unspoken question hanging heavily in the air. Greg did not ask it, and Mycroft did not answer, neither speaking a word for the remainder of their walk in fear one might give in.
Please let me know what you think. This series has turned out rather long and intricate and it'd help to know whether it makes sense outside of my head...