Another friday another chapter! This is a long one as well...i just can't stop sometimes, and i had to end it before i planned to!
Anyway, i hope you enjoy!
TW: mention of suicide, mention of abuse
"Well, Mycroft, I suppose there is nothing else for me to say expect to offer you my congratulations." A stiff-lipped Lady Elizabeth Smallwood says as she sits across from Mycroft in his office, the mahogany desk separating them, but in no way blocking the waves of embarrassment that are coming off of Mycroft's associate. After being woken in the middle of the night due to the disruption in the system, Lady Smallwood had realized with horror the abuse that Moriarty had taken against the government and turned up, red-faced, at Mycroft's door this morning to offer him her thanks for stopping this threat.
"You are too kind, Elizabeth." Mycroft says, giving her the smuggest smile he can hope to conjure. Really, Mycroft shouldn't be feeling so arrogant that he had stopped the threat against the country, one because surely the government, his workplace, should be humiliated that it had even been sensitive to such an attack, and secondly because he knows that his brother was the actual person responsible for stopping the code. It feels oh so good, however, to be receiving praise from his superiors.
"Your brother also deserves my thanks." Lady Smallwood says, fiddling with the rings on her fingers. "And apologies, again, to both him and you, that we were not able to provide you with the resources to catalyse his discovery and retrieval earlier."
"Yes, well, it seems that was due to one James Moriarty, so not exactly your fault." Mycroft says graciously, although his tone speaks volumes of his real opinion: Moriarty shouldn't have been able to do that, you should have noticed his meddling. But, he should have, too.
"I assume you have everything under control, Mycroft?" Lady Smallwood asks.
Mycroft nods, "Yes, I do. Baker Street remains a crime scene, as does the other House. Officers are currently searching for the remains of Sebastian Moran and Ani Gabriele Rosamund Aella, although due to the circumstances of their deaths, this task is proving to be quite difficult. Hopefully proceedings will be quite swift now that we do have our resources back under our wing, and Scotland Yard is helping too."
"Right. Gregory Lestrade. Appears he did not recognise the mole in his team, either." Lady Smallwood says in a childish tone, as if she and Greg are fighting for the last biscuit on a plate. Mycroft is quite unsure as to why she has put on this tone. He frowns.
"Quite true, Gregory should have noticed. However, Gregory also took a bullet to the arm because he wanted to go out of his way to help my brother, so one could argue he's been rather distracted."
"Was it because he wanted to help your brother, though, or was it because he wanted to help you?"
Mycroft's frown deepens until the skin between his eyebrows resembles the Grand Canyon. "I am not quite sure what you mean, Elizabeth. Your tone is…. unsettling."
"I didn't know you swayed that way, Mycroft." Lady Smallwood says sharply.
"What way? Is there a way?" Mycroft asks.
Before Lady Smallwood can spit any more vitriol, there is a knock at the door, and in walks their subject matter: Gregory Lestrade.
"Oh, sorry Mycroft, I didn't realise you had company." He says. There are deep bags underneath his eyes, and he still holds a takeaway coffee cup from the morning's commute over to Mycroft's. Whether he has forgotten he is holding it, or he is trying to drain the last bit of coffee that he possibly can from it, who can tell?
"No matter, I shall take my leave of you." Lady Smallwood stands and smooths down her skirt, cheeks pinched. The atmosphere in the room is, if Mycroft were poetic enough to describe it as such, frosty. "Congratulations, once again." She nods and leaves, not once looking at Greg. After her exit, Greg looks to Mycroft looking baffled. Mycroft shrugs.
"So, all the moles have been arrested and detained, probably to be locked up and to not see the light of day for a long time. If ever." Greg says with a huff, stepping further into the room.
"Excellent." Says Mycroft, with a lightness to his tone Greg has not heard in many weeks. Years.
"You're very chipper today." He observes, and Mycroft leans back smugly in his desk chair, placing both hands on his stomach.
"Well, Gregory, we have managed to stop a criminal mastermind that has been plaguing me for years. As well as that, we also stopped his hideous threat to the country."
"You mean Sherlock stopped it?" Greg says with a smirk.
"Not solely, but yes, I admit my brother is the one to thank." Mycroft concedes, with a slight turn up of his nose. He leans forward in the chair, putting his elbows on the desk. Greg frowns. "Thank god it didn't go the other way."
Greg comes around the desk, throwing his coffee cup onto its surface as he places a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. The muscle beneath is tense and knotted. The cracks in Mycroft's façade are evident to Greg now. "Myc…It's alright for you to admit just how worried you were."
Mycroft breathes through his nose, eyes focussing solely on the desk-top. "I despised how much I could not control. It was embarrassing. To think that my brother almost died because I lost control of the situation-"
"Myc, come on. We've been through this. You cannot control everything, no matter how hard you try. And you did try, didn't you? Your hardest?"
Mycroft shrugs. "Of course."
Greg nods, thinking they have gotten somewhere, but then Mycroft mutters, "I cannot bear that my hardest was not good enough. It doesn't seem logical to me. It doesn-"
Greg stops him before he can lose himself in a spiral of self-doubt and existential hate of how unpredictable life is, and grabs Mycroft by the shoulders, forcibly pulling him around in his chair to face Greg. Mycroft sighs but does not resist as Greg quickly pecks him on the lips and tells him, firmly, to "Stop."
"Have you seen Sherlock yet today?" Greg asks, hitching one hip onto the side of Mycroft's desk. Mycroft shakes his head.
"No. When I got in Anthea told me he and John were sleeping." It had been nearing six in the morning when the aftermath of the Moriarty situation had been dealt with, and even then, officers and agents combined were still working away at both crimes scenes: Baker Street and the House. According to the witnesses they'd interviewed, a man dressed in pyjamas had been hiding behind a silver car when the house had suddenly gone up in smoke and fire. They had tried to get him ambulance, but all he had done was steal someone's pen to write on some paper, and then driven off in the silver car. Appearance descriptions told Mycroft this was his brother.
Those qualified to were now searching the remains of the House for the remains of two certain people; Mycroft was unsure what they would find. Luckily, Sherlock's speeding through the streets of London had alerted the Police to his presence, and so the extra officers who had chased him to Baker Street had also been used last night to speed up the process of extracting Moriarty's moles from the various institutions. Sally had been surprised, to say the least, to discover the man who had sat next to her at their workplace had been working against them.
"How do you think he is? Sherlock? After…." Greg trailed off, unable to find the words to explain the whole ordeal of the night.
Mycroft shrugged, "I am not sure even Sherlock could tell you that."
"Then perhaps John could?" Greg jokes, even if it falls a little sour.
Mycroft lets out a huff that just about classifies as a laugh, "Quite. I think he knows my brother better than Sherlock knows himself."
"Actually, I do need to speak with Sherlock…" Greg changes subject. "Well, I don't need to speak with him, but we do need that paper he had with the codes on it. For evidence, you see."
"Ah, of course." Mycroft says, and sits up in his chair. "I'll go and see if he's awake. You sit down, Gregory."
Greg moves into Mycroft's chair, instead of the guest chair that Mycroft has gestured to. He smirks, "You could just call me 'Greg', Myc?"
Mycroft raises his eyebrows. "I prefer Gregory. Anyway, I'll save use of your nickname for the bedroom, I think. Sexually, you understand."
Greg's cheeks flame red, and he hopes more than anything that no one is right outside the door. "As you wish."
Mycroft nods, and with that he leaves a squirming and rather flustered Greg sat in his chair.
When Sherlock wakes, it with a jolt, as if he has been electrocuted. He scrambles to get up, leaning on his elbows. Beside him, John is stirring, a little frown marring his brow. Sherlock's heart is beating as if he has just run a marathon, and his breathing mirrors it. He can also feel sweat on his brow, and his feet certainly ache as if he's run a long distance. Why does he hurt so much? And why does he feel as if he has just woken from a nightmare?
Suddenly everything comes back to him, and Sherlock cannot hold back the gasp that comes out of his mouth. John mutters his name, and then touches his arm, encouraging him to lie back on the bed. Sherlock does, allowing John to pull the covers over his body, but all the while his brain is playing out the same mantra: they're dead, they're dead, they're dead…
They cannot be dead. It does not seem possible that those two men can be dead. For, how does one kill the devil?
"Sherlock, shhh." John says sleepily, as if he can read his thoughts. Sherlock settles his face against John's sternum, and breathes in John's scent to calm himself. His brain is going at break-neck, like a train out of control that reminds Sherlock of the old-Hollywood films his parents used to watch, with the steam engines going at full speed, the billowing clouds of steam rising, thick and full like candyfloss. Sherlock used to be fascinated by the automotive, but now he cringes and pushes his face harder into John's chest as he tries to get the train to come to a stop.
"John…." He feels so ashamed to have to ask this, but if he doesn't confirm it with John his brain is going to run off the rails. "Are they really gone?"
John pulls him tighter against himself. "Yes. They are."
Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath. Okay. John says they are, then they are. Full stop. The end of it. There is still a niggling fear, though.
They lay there in the quiet of the room for a while, with only the occasional bird song and creak of the floorboards downstairs to disturb the silence. Sherlock is drifting off again when there is a knock at the door. John makes a grunting noise and says "wha-?", jumping at the rude awakening. Sherlock looks up as the door slowly edges open, a blue eye peeking in. Mycroft.
"Apologies." His brother says, softer than Sherlock has ever heard him. "I was not sure whether you two would be awake."
"Ugh, Mycroft." John groans, stretching against Sherlock's side.
"I am in need of something. For evidence. That piece of paper?"
"Couldn't it wait?" John says grumpily, politeness forgotten in the face of sleep.
"No." Mycroft says, deadpan.
Sherlock forces his limbs to move, and the moment his feet touch the ground the sizzling pain in them flares up until it is burning. He is sure Mycroft notices, as the man's gaze travels up and down his body. Sherlock gives up, and remains sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling his feet up. "It's in the dressing gown pocket."
"Ah." Mycroft says. He looks around. "And where is that?"
"Oh," Sherlock said, and a red flush comes to his cheek in embarrassment. His brain is still sluggish from sleep, still exhausted from the night before. Perhaps a cup of tea would help? He looks around for the dressing gown, but cannot see it from the bed. He glances behind him, and is startled to see John is, in fact, wearing his dressing gown. Sherlock thinks back to last night; he must have fallen asleep before John, as he doesn't remember the man putting it no. He reaches over John and fumbles in the pockets, eventually pulling out the now creased and crinkled paper. He passes it to Mycroft, who pockets it in his suit.
"I would say that this was clever of you, solving this, but I think that the truth is Moriarty was a bit too cock sure of himself, thinking you would never see the code, and therefore never work it out." Mycroft observes.
Sherlock shrugs. "The numbers worked almost like a nickname for the actual code, which could work like a virus. It would have been too tedious for Moriarty to put in all the 18's, therefore he left them out. There was much more going on beneath the surface than what I did."
Mycroft sighs, knowing his brother is putting himself down, but, not wishing to embarrassing him further by bringing the matter up, he leaves it be.
"Would you like me to get you breakfast?" He asks, and Sherlock raises his eyebrows. Mycroft realises his mistake. "Not me, personally, but I shall ask for it to be made for you?"
Sherlock glances to John, who holds up a thumbs up before dropping his hand to the bed. Sherlock does not care much for food, his stomach going into knots. Mycroft nods, his eyes squinting at his brother, and it unsettles Sherlock. "Might I ask after your health this morning, brother?"
Sherlock shifts a bit on the bed. What must his brother be thinking? After Moriarty's cruel words last night, with the gun pressed to Sherlock's temple, the most bitter pill to swallow being that all his words were true, Sherlock feels humiliated. What he will do when he has to leave this room and face the others who were in that room, Sally Donovan, god, he does not know. He would not have cared in the past, would have taken it in his stride, but the fragile confidence he had built up in his sessions with Doctor Laurens has suffered many blows. Sherlock jumps as he suddenly remembers the therapist.
"Mycroft! Doctor Laurens!"
Mycroft looks surprised at the change of subject, but speaks nonetheless. "Oh yes, Doctor Laurens. That, I certainly did not see coming, and I apologise for it."
Sherlock nods. "I understand."
"She made it back to her home last night. Gregory sent some of his less competent officers to check up on her. She is shaken, but no harm has been done towards her family. She is also feeling extremely guilty, and I think would like the chance to apologise to you at some point."
Sherlock shakes his head, "She doesn't need to do that. It wasn't her fault; Moran is very…. forceful. Was." Sherlock corrects himself, shaking his head.
Mycroft nods once, looking solemn. "Yes. Of course. Still, I think it might put her mind at rest. She has been sworn to secrecy about all of this, although I am assuming you don't want her as your therapist anymore?"
Sherlock cringes; he can barely stand to think about therapists or working to feel better at this moment, he is so tired that all he wants is to curl up in bed with John for millennia.
"Sherlock?" His brother presses. Sherlock feels John's hand come to rest over his own, and he sucks in a breath before replying with a raspy "No."
"Alright." Mycroft says, "I will consult the list of recommendations I have as soon as I am able, and we can begin-"
"Mycroft, please stop." Sherlock says, looking down at the carpeted floor. His brother pulls up short, and his mouth closes with an audible clap. If Sherlock's gaze was not on the floor, he would notice John shake his head at Mycroft, and mouth 'leave it'.
"I shall leave you to rest, Sherlock. We will discuss this at a later date."
Mycroft steps out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. The moment it does, the tension in Sherlock's shoulders releases and they slump down heavily. "Sherlock…", John encourages him to lie back on the bed, and he does, sinking into the other man's embrace.
"I don't want to think of any of that now, John." Sherlock explains. "I don't know what to do."
"I understand. Sometimes, all you feel like doing is sleeping when life seems to be offering you nothing but more and more questions without answers. But, Mycroft is just trying his best to be…well, I suppose this is his way of showing brotherly affection." John says with a huff.
"I would like to…to pick my own therapist." Sherlock says. "If I am to have one."
"You do not have to have one." John reasons, "But, as your partner, and as a doctor, I would recommend you do seek some help from a professional. But, do it for yourself wholly this time, yes? Don't just agree to do it for me, like last time."
Sherlock stomach clenches up, and although John's tone is light and joking he still feels a rise of self-hatred taint his thoughts like poison. "Sorry."
John tightens his hold on Sherlock. "I didn't mean for it to make you feel guilty. I just want you to be clear that that's not how things like this work. You have to do it for yourself, because you know you want to get better."
"What if I want to do it for the both of us?" Sherlock asks, turning a little to look John in the eyes.
John shrugs, and then gives Sherlock a beaming smile. "I think that could work."
Mycroft has just descended the stairs when Anthea is walking towards him from the direction of the front door. "Mr Magnussen is here, Sir."
Mycroft smiles, his mouth bunching up into an uncanny resemblance of the Cheshire Cat. "Oh, I am going to enjoy this. Very good, Anthea, bring him through to my office."
Anthea nods and turns back on herself. Mycroft turns towards his office, fixing his tie; the talk with his brother had alerted him to the worries he has already had placed in his hard-drive of a brain: Sherlock is most certainly in denial that Moran and Moriarty are dead, and must be feeling incredibly shaken up from the ordeal of the previous night and the five years previous. Mycroft wants to help, but it seems his therapists will do Sherlock no good. Never before has Mycroft felt so helpless. Still, he will get his victories from somewhere, and Charles Augustus Magnussen will be a resounding defeat.
Greg is still waiting in his office, feet propped up on his desk and eyes closed. Mycroft slams his door and Greg startles, almost falling out of the desk chair, wincing and grabbing his wounded arm as he jars it.
"That is mahogany. I would ask you please to remove your feet from its surface." Mycroft says, staring pointedly at the desk.
Greg sighs and rolls his eyes, but removes his feet nonetheless. "Blimey Mycroft, does the door really need that much force behind it to be closed?"
"No, but apparently these measures must come into effect when you keep forgetting not to put your feet on my mahogany desk." Mycroft says, as he pulls out the piece of paper and hands it to Greg.
"Thanks." The other man says, digging around in his pocket until he finds an evidence bag. He drops the paper into it and closes the bag up. "Mind if I send one of my officers' round to pick this up? I'd rather stay here with you for a little bit."
"By all means, but we have work to do, Greg. This isn't a soiree."
Greg, once again, rolls his eyes. "Yes, I know, but it does make sense for me to work with you on this, doesn't it? It would be nice to work with my boyfriend." He teases.
Mycroft makes a noise of disgust. "Please, do not call me your boyfriend. Neither of us are boys. If you must use a term of sentiment to describe my connection to you, then perhaps something a little more mature?"
Greg raises an eyebrow. "Lovebug, then? My chunky bunny? Pumpkin-pie?"
"Gregory, please." Mycroft complains. "I am neither an insect, a rabbit or a fruit. Nor am I chunky."
"I'm teasing, Myc." Greg says, sighing. He pulls out his phone, summoning an officer with a few taps at the screen. A knock at the door follows swiftly after, and Mycroft stands up taller.
"Out of my seat Gregory, please. Magnussen is here, and I am so looking forward to being self-righteous."
Greg chuckles and moves out the chair, standing behind it as Mycroft settles into it again. "Enter!" Mycroft calls after he has settled, and the door opens and in walks Charles Augustus Magnussen.
"Good morning, Mr Holmes. I trust you had an eventful night?" Magnussen asks, voice smarmy.
"You are quite right, Mr Magnussen. Please, do take a seat." Mycroft holds out an indicating hand to the chair facing towards his desk. Magnussen sits down stiffly as Anthea closes the door behind him.
"And Detective Inspector Lestrade is here, too. My, my, aren't you two close?" Magnussen drawls. Greg smiles down at him.
"I think, perhaps, that is why we have been such an effective team." He replies. "We know how to work together and cooperate with each other without having to be blackmailed."
Mycroft can barely supress the smile breaking out on his face. Magnussen raises his eyebrows. "Such a clever little pet you have." He says to Mycroft.
"You sound like Moriarty." The other man remarks.
"Well, yes, he does tend to rub off on people. Like a sour aftertaste." Magnussen says, lip curling. There is a pregnant silence in which Magnussen intends to say something, but doesn't seem to be able to get the words past his lips. He bits them as he works up the courage, and Mycroft and Greg stare directly at him, enjoying the display of humiliation. "In fact, I would like to give you my thanks," Magnussen finally spits out. "for freeing me of that pest. The damage he did to my business has left me in need to search for new…well," He lets out a breathy laugh, "I suppose you could call them 'journalists', after he killed my last ones. Blackmail is a dirty business, as I well know. It was foolish of me to get caught up in it."
"Would you have gone ahead with it if Moriarty had won? Shaming my good name?" Mycroft asks, with an eyebrow raised.
Magnussen winces. "I wouldn't say no…. but, I wouldn't say yes, either."
"Oh, how vague." Mycroft complains.
"Well I can't go putting all my eggs in one basket now, can I?" Magnussen says with a slimy grin. "I have one question for you, just for my own reassurance, you understand?"
"Yes?"
"Where is Janine? That woman might have been irritating but one could only admire her power."
"Really? She seemed pretty powerless when faced with her brother's suicide?" Mycroft debates.
"I think we all were." Magnussen reasons.
Mycroft hums in conceding agreement, "Janine is in the custody of the British Government. She will remain there for quite some time."
"Do make sure she doesn't escape." Magnussen says patronisingly.
Mycroft smiles at him, as if they are both in on a joke, but really, they are stabbing at each other with metaphorical daggers, trying to disarm each other.
"Is your brother around? I have brought him a token of my thanks. A present, one might say." Magnussen says, sitting up a little now that the embarrassment of thanking Mycroft is over.
Mycroft squints his eyes. "What present?"
"Oh, just a little appreciation of my thanks. Your assistant is already checking it for any possible threats." Magnussen says, rolling his eyes.
Mycroft still looks wary, and he presses a button on his desk. Within a minute, in which there is an awkward, hostile silence, Anthea appears at the door, eyebrows raised in expectation of instruction. "Mr Magnussen says he has a present for Sherlock?"
Anthea's eye light up in uncharacteristic excitement. "He does Sir! Would you like me to fetch him and Doctor Watson for you?"
"I'll go." Says Greg says, hedging his way out of the room. He is obviously desperate to get away from the awkward silences.
"Oh, Anthea, before I forget again, could you tell our cook to fetch John and Sherlock some breakfast? Thank you." Mycroft says.
"Of course, Sir. I will have one of the security men bring the present in for Sherlock."
"Tell him to put it in the sitting room." Mycroft says. Anthea nods and leaves the room. Mycroft stands, as does Magnussen, and the both men share a look for a moment. Mycroft knows at this point he should thank the newspaper tycoon for his generosity, but he simply cannot bring himself to do so.
As the two men exit the office to head to the lounge, there is a knock at the door, and Mycroft sighs, knowing he will have to answer it. He simply hates when people turn up unexpected, and he is of course rather wary of who it might be, but there is security on the door, and they would be aware of anyone who is a threat; their attention to detail has been heightened since the revelations of Moriarty's last night. He pulls the door open, and is quite embarrassed to see Sergeant Sally Donovan stood there; of course, Greg had summoned an officer, she is not unexpected at all. However, that does not mean he has to be particularly pleasant to her, after how she has treated his brother in the past.
"Come in, Sergeant." He says, and she nods, looking uncomfortable.
Mycroft turns as he leads her into the house, and feels a stab of guilt in his stomach as he sees Greg descending the stairs and right behind him, supported by John, his brother, looking weary and confused. A glaze of shame covers his eyes, however, when he sees not only Magnussen watching his painful descent, but also Sally Donovan. John does not look best pleased.
"Mr Holmes." Magnussen says, addressing Sherlock as the party reach the bottom of the stairs. "Apologies for this sudden invitation, but I have a token of thanks I wish to give you."
Sherlock swallows and nods, not looking anyone in the eye. Mycroft heart clenches.
"Sir!" Donovan says suddenly, obviously desperate to get away. "The evidence you had for me?"
Greg startles. "Oh, Sally! Yes!" He fumbles around in his pocket and pulls out the evidence bag. He hands it to his deputy with a nod, and she takes it, placing it in her own pocket. She then stands there awkwardly for a moment, before her gaze finally rises to look at Sherlock, as she has most likely been wanting to do this entire time. She opens her mouth and closes it a few times, like a fish, before she starts, "Holmes, I-"
"Thank you, Sergeant Donovan!" Mycroft says, and all but pushes her through the door before she can say anything else, slamming it in her face. John and Greg look appalled, but it is worth it for the grateful look his brother shoots him. The implication behind her sudden need to placate Sherlock sits heavily in the room, like an unpleasant odour, an odour that reeks of Moriarty's embarrassing words against Sherlock, who now stands here, defenceless against the fact that everyone knows what this odour means. What Sherlock was put through.
"The present, Mr Magnussen?" Mycroft asks, breaking the silence.
"Yes, of course." Magnussen says, and the group follow Mycroft as he leads them through to the sitting room, John supporting a tentative Sherlock on his injured feet. Inside, they discover Anthea and a burly security guard, carefully propping up a wrapped rectangular package against the wall by the fireplace, which is unlit. The confusion between everyone is palpable, except for Magnussen who is looking expectantly at the package. Mycroft has a small frown between his brow as he tries to figure out what it is. John despairs what he might be like at Christmas.
Beside him, Sherlock almost vibrates with tension. John is trying to support the man the best he can; he does not want Sherlock to put too much pressure on his wounded feet.
"Please, Mr Holmes." Mr Magnussen says, addressing Sherlock. "Open it. I guarantee, you will find it to your liking."
Mycroft is still looking at Magnussen with trepidation as Sherlock edges forward towards the present. He looks incredibly uncomfortable with all eyes on him. Mycroft nods to Anthea and his security man and they both leave, Anthea looking a little reluctant; she, too, is desperate to see this present.
Sherlock crouches down, eventually dropping onto his knees in order to begin undoing the paper covering. His body hides most of the present from the others as he undoes it, John peering around his shoulder. When the item is finally unwrapped, Sherlock lets out a gasp.
"What? What is it?" John cannot help but ask.
Sherlock looks to Magnussen in disbelief before his head whips back around to the present. "Is it real?"
"Oh yes." Magnussen nods. "One hundred percent the genuine thing."
Sherlock leans back a bit, to take the whole item in, and then, finally, does the rest of the room get a good look at it.
John is not an art expert, but even he recognises this painting. It is rather famous, and its meaning to Sherlock must make this gift surprisingly sentimental, seeing as the gift-giver is in no way close to him at all. "Is that a Monet?" He asks.
Magnussen nods, but it is Sherlock who replies, "'Impression, Sunrise.'"
The painting is beautiful; John can barely think of words that could describe the painting, seeing as one could simply look at the painting to see its beauty.
"How on earth did you get a hold of this?" Mycroft asks, looking as surprised as John has ever seen him.
Magnussen shrugs. "Oh, it was in my private collection."
"I…I…. Thank you." Sherlock eventually stutters, looking as if he has just been blown away by a strong wind he is so shocked.
"You are most welcome." Magnussen nods. "Mr Holmes, I must take my leave of you if you are finished with me?" He asks Mycroft, who nods, and leads him back through to the hall, leaving behind a gaping Sherlock.
"I must thank you for that gift, Magnussen. My brother will appreciate it more than you can know." Mycroft concedes.
Magnussen nods. "It seemed fitting. I assure you, also, that I will keep as much as this from my papers until the memory of James Moriarty is far behind us. I think it would be far too embarrassing for all of us for this to leak into the press. I will see what I can do with my fellow tycoons, as well."
Mycroft smiles, a rare thankful smile. "I thank you. I believe from now on we should work closely together in order to keep this as hush as we possibly can, Charles."
Magnussen, too, smiles. "Quite. Good bye, Mycroft. I will keep in touch." He leaves through the front door, head held high, and a much more agreeable man in Mycroft's eyes.
Mycroft wanders back to the living room to watch as his brother's eyes trace the brushstrokes and the care taken with the Monet. Wherever Sherlock goes next, be it Baker Street, possibly, then extra care will have to be taken of this present. Mycroft will make sure of it.
Greg gives him a wide smile as he returns, and the both of them watch as Sherlock inspects the painting in awe. John crouches next to him, hand lightly on Sherlock's back, supporting him, sharing Sherlock's excitement.
Sherlock is the man who Mycroft's owes the success of taking down James Moriarty to, and he is also his little brother, the man Mycroft has tried to protect, and has failed on many occasions. Now, though, Mycroft is sure he will do everything he can to see harm never comes to Sherlock again.
Hope you enjoyed! Please leave a review! I know that the Sunrise painting is actually in a Monet museum but for the sake of this story...it's Sherlock's now!
There will definitely be one more chapter after this, and then an epilogue as well :)
See you next time!
TheBritishBourbon x