Mycroft waited in the sitting room, stroking his fingers idly over the emblem on the envelope on the arm of his chair. The sweltering heat from the roaring fire was starting to make him sweat. He knew his brother would be late; trying to avoid the inevitable. He didn't expect the Constable would allow him, but then again Sherlock was a very persuasive person when he wanted to be.
It made very little sense to him that a man of Gregory's age and grandeur would bother with such a morose little child. It wasn't that Mycroft believed Sherlock didn't deserve a companion (of sorts); quite the contrary, Sherlock should have a friend, perhaps even a lover, just not this Gregory Lestrade person. Their relationship was founded on some sort of sick perversion. From personal experience Mycroft knew this wasn't the proper way to build the foundations for a solid and healthy adult relationship.
He was convinced Sherlock would never grow up. He cared nothing for the consequences of his action especially when his actions hurt others. If he wasn't directly affected then he wasn't bothered. If Sherlock refused to be an adult then he shouldn't be allowed to be in an adult relationship. It was as simple as that.
However, Gregory Lestrade couldn't be done away with completely. Sherlock would have emotional ties to him for years to come. He knew all too well from Sherlock's manic obsession with Harry Havill. It was quite possible the boy had even loved him.
The thought disgusted Mycroft to no ends. Even the mere thought of Harry touching Sherlock made his blood boil. He had used Sherlock's emotions against him, took advantage of the defenceless boy, and Mycroft allowed it to happen. He should have known on that cold winter's afternoon when Sherlock had gone searching the woods for him. All things came to a head when he heard Sherlock's voice cry out, "I'm not Mycroft!"
Mycroft swallowed his anger and placed the memory in a special place, deep in the recesses of his mind to be drawn upon later when the time was right.
Never forget what could happen, what has happened. History will not repeat itself.
There was a knock on the door and Mycroft let out a heavy sigh.
Why must the police knock like they are trying to burst through the door?
He opened the door to see Sherlock's face with Gregory behind him, preventing his escape. Sherlock had put up a fight. Sherlock's buttons were misaligned, off by one button. Gregory had to force Sherlock into clothing. No wonder they were late. Mycroft noticed the claw mark that was visible on Gregory's collarbone, right next to his throat. It was a serious fight.
"Merry Christmas, Mycroft," Gregory said, clearing his throat at the end. He was hoarse from yelling. Mycroft looked to Sherlock who wasn't concealing his hatred for Mycroft. Sherlock didn't have an ounce of remorse for lashing out at his... boyfriend. Mycroft cringed at the thought.
He narrowed his gaze in on Gregory's bottom lip that was split on one side, "Gregory if you would wait in the dining room, I'd like a word with my brother, outside," Mycroft grabbed Sherlock by the elbow and dragged him outside. He slammed the door shut.
Before Mycroft could even think his hand acted on its own accord; he delivered a smart backhanded smack across Sherlock's face. Sherlock recoiled from the blow but turned to look Mycroft directly in the eye. Mycroft searched his eyes for some sign of humanity.
"If you lay so much as a finger on that man again-" Mycroft started.
"It was an accident," Sherlock's face changed abruptly and he let out a shuddered breath.
"And when Sebastian nearly bashed your head in, was that an accident as well?"
Sherlock's bottom jaw quivered slightly, "I didn't mean to."
Mycroft clenched his jaw tight, "You lash out at everyone that tries to help you. Like a hound with his foot caught in fox a trap. Do you know what happens to dogs that bite the hand that feeds them?" Mycroft shook his head, "I knew this was the man you would turn into," Sherlock looked at the ground, "What were you thinking, Sherlock? He's a policeman."
Sherlock wasn't defending himself and Mycroft had him backed into a corner. The damage was light: a scratch, a split lip, maybe a bruise or two. Sherlock should be arguing his case. Mycroft could see Sherlock understood what he did was wrong. He threw a tantrum, somebody got hurt, and that made him sad. This was a major breakthrough. He cared, actually cared, that he'd done something wrong.
"What happened?" Mycroft asked, straightening up to look down on his brother.
"We had a row, he was trying to drag me out the door, and I... lashed out. It was all over in under a minute."
"Have you apologised?" Mycroft asked and Sherlock nodded, "I would say I didn't mean to strike you, but we both know that isn't the case," Mycroft said plainly, "You deserve it, for all the pain you have put us through," Sherlock licked his teeth and nodded in thought, "Come inside, dinner is on the table."
Sherlock walked inside and Gregory pulled out a chair for him. He looked at Sherlock with such sadness in his eyes. No person deserved to be at the mercy of Sherlock Holmes. Gregory was delusional if he thought Sherlock would change and mental if he loved Sherlock for the man he was.
Mycroft took a seat at the head of the table and started uncovering the dishes. Gregory seemed relieved to see the carved roast.
"Hungry?" Mycroft ventured.
"You would not believe what my sister tried to feed us last night," he said conversationally, "This is a gift from God in comparison. Ever heard of Tofurkey?"
"Tofu, turkey?" Mycroft grimaced.
"Wouldn't feed it to a dog," Gregory patted Sherlock on the back, "And Sherlock ate every bite."
A startled laugh escaped Mycroft. He couldn't help it. He saw the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitch into a fleeting smirk in response.
Sherlock felt too sick to eat. An overwhelming guilt consumed him. He'd hurt Lestrade in an attempt to avoid dinner at Mycroft's. Now they were enjoying themselves at Sherlock's expense. Sherlock didn't want to let his guard down but part of him wanted to crawl under the table and disappear. He couldn't look at Lestrade without noticing what he'd accidentally done to him.
Mycroft's slap only added insult to injury. Sherlock wasn't a monster like Sebastian but his brother had compared the two like they were interchangeable. He was not Sebastian. He didn't deliberately hurt Lestrade. Still, the comparison hurt.
When it came time to exchange gifts, everyone was far more relaxed, including Sherlock. He had eaten some bread to settle his stomach and had half a glass of wine.
Mycroft handed over the violin case and Sherlock felt his fingers tingling as his hands hovered over the beautiful instrument. He could remember the look on his mother's face when she gave him the violin. She looked at him with anticipation and excitement. She feared deeply that he wouldn't like it.
When his mother handed it to him, Sherlock opened the case and immediately plucked at the strings. The violin sang for him and Sherlock loved its sound. It was rich and hollow. His mother was elated. Within thirty minutes Sherlock had learned to pluck a very simplified version of 'Mary Had a Little Lamb'. Sherlock played pizzicato until his brother showed him how to hold the bow and really make the instrument sing.
He played what sounded good and refused to take lessons. His brother had given him staff paper to write his compositions and tried on several occasions to teach him how to read and write music, but it never stuck. He'd hack and saw away until he'd created something that sounded like it did in his mind. Mycroft wanted him to learn to play properly but Sherlock never saw the point of being a part of an orchestra. He was a soloist in every sense of the word.
Sherlock set the violin case aside and silently thanked his brother.
"I have a gift for you as well, Gregory," Mycroft handed him a small box, about the size of a matchbox. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. Lestrade slid open the gift box to reveal a key.
"I'm sorry, I can't accept this," he handed the key back.
"You sold yours so my brother would have a place to stay. It's the least I can do."
"I can't," he let out a sigh.
"It's a gift, take it," Mycroft held out the key.
"Just take it," Sherlock said with an air of defeat, "Cab fare is getting expensive," Lestrade looked at the key with uncertainty and ended up taking it.
"Thank you," Lestrade handed Mycroft his gift, "It's from both of us."
"It's from him," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. His brother chuckled softly. He opened the box and looked at it with surprise.
"This is... some gift," he said looking the pocket-watch over.
"It was Sherlock's idea," Lestrade laughed. Mycroft furrowed his brows and looked over the silver watch; he ran his thumb across its case. He removed his father's pocket watch from his waist coat and turned it over in his left hand. Mycroft stood and placed the new watch into his pocket. He gripped the old one tightly in his hand.
He strode over to the window with purpose, opened it, letting in a gush of frigid air and launched his father's watch out the window and into the street. Lestrade looked on in shock. Sherlock smirked. Mycroft regained his composure, shut the window, and returned to his seat.
"Thank you, Sherlock."
Sherlock saw his father's black and white portrait on the mantle glaring at him. Even in a photograph void of colour, one could see his piercing tiger's eyes. Siger, the name suited him. He looked over to his mother's portrait to see her Mona Lisa smile and kind eyes. She was every bit as sweet and soothing as her name, Violet.
His father ruined her. Sherlock hated how much he resembled his father. He wanted to purge him completely but every time he looked in the mirror he saw him.
Lestrade excused himself to use the facilities and Mycroft took the chance to give Sherlock his last present. Sherlock looked over the envelope and ran his thumb over the seal.
"When is it for?" Sherlock's hand shook slightly and he felt his stomach turn over.
"January."
"Will he get the post?"
"I'm certain of it," Mycroft's lips made a thin line.
"Gregson is leading the interview then?" Sherlock asked, nervously licking his lips. Mycroft nodded, "He'll see that Lestrade is best fit for the position."
"He is the deciding factor."
"And if he falls through?" Sherlock asked with an air of cynicism.
"He won't."
"And the Superintendent?"
"He's been transferred."
"Where to? The Bermuda Triangle?" Sherlock scoffed.
"Sherlock, this is best, for both of you," Mycroft said, looking pointedly at the letter.
"You think I won't do it."
"I'd like to believe otherwise."
"I'll do it," Sherlock said, staring fixatedly into his brother's eyes.
"This Gregory, he must mean something to you."
"No," Sherlock said shortly, "He means everything to me."