Sherlock seems to be doing well, helping out on cases with that Lestrade bloke; he'll probably be made D.I. soon, if Mycroft's intell is anything to go by. The elder Holmes flips through his report for the past month, while pleased with the results he's also worried. Work is getting hectic and if that rumored crisis crops up he's going to have to pull some people. That means Mycroft's ever watchful eye on his brother will not be as strong.
It's mid July before the foretold crisis hits, but Mycroft take solace in the fact that Sherlock's been somewhat thriving the past few months. After a chat with Lestrade he's confident that the slackened surveillance won't be a problem. Unfortunately, the elder man receives word about some unsavory dealings concerning his brother, and by August Sherlock is nowhere to be found.
There's no way Mycroft can pull himself away from work, therefore relying on his underlings to try and find his brother. While no one's really seen Sherlock, his rent is continually paid and his flat seemingly visited every so often. Those two facts the only solace Mycroft has in knowing his brother is alright; by the time Sherlock's birthday rolls around again, the oldest has had enough.
Mycroft was growing tired of having to constantly make excuses to mummy and the worry was taking its toll on him. Sherlock wasn't even answering his phone, which was clearly still functional and on. The number of messages and text Mycroft sent was bordering obsessive, but he didn't know what else to do. Everything was piling up and to make matters worse father had become ill and it was unclear what was going to happen.
Lost in thought as he left the Diogenes club after a peaceful supper, he walks the familiar and short path to his residence, as is his habit. Mycroft's mind spun through the various scenarios of what Sherlock was up to and the probability of father passing.
"Spare change," A voice asks, pulling him out of his thoughts, Mycroft ignores the beggar, surprised that the man was in his neighborhood. "Spare change?"
"No," Mycroft answers the persistent homeless parson, walking away more briskly.
"I see it how it," the man calls, "Ya fink you're too good to help ya own family, eh mate?"
At that Mycroft turns, to regard the man critically, the hood of his jumper obscuring his face. "Sherlock?" He breathes, ignoring the ridiculousness of the situation. The member of the homeless offers up a cheeky wink before taking off down the street, "SHERLOCK," Mycroft shouts after him, feeling stupid for not noticing his brother; regardless of the skillful disguise.
The insufferable prat, Mycroft thinks to himself as he stomps up the steps to his door. Joining the ranks of the homeless, for what cause… he cannot for the life of him fathom his brother's motives here. At least Sherlock's alive, though he wasn't able to tell how he was doing from the brief encounter… did he seem thinner, he puzzled as he tried to recall.
He needed a holiday, he decided as he collapsed into the arm chair in his study. Between the job, Sherlock and now the situation with his father; he felt like he was being stretched, pulled thin into many directions. In a way he envied Sherlock, sure he had his own demons; everyone does, however he never had to be the responsible one.
If father dies, there will just be more responsibility added to his plate; not like he isn't already shouldering a good deal of it. Especially since the "intervention" or whatever their father was calling it. Perhaps Sherlock's path to self discovery is a good thing, with the lack of surveillance he's been able to require he has found there's less to worry over when you don't know. Therein lies the problem, it's the not knowing that bothers him to a degree, mostly because not knowing feels like he stopped caring.
Which, rationally, he knows his ridiculous and untrue. His mind drifts lazily to the fantasy of him stepping away from his family, or just not having one to deal with. The whole illusion is always the same; he's married to a prim quiet woman who fits into his political image. It switches back and forth as to whether there are children or not depending on his mood.
On further contemplation the whole fantasy is a lot like an ad for the 1950's and involves cocktail parties and some sense of normalcy. A woman, that mummy would approve of and fit in with the family. Which in these scenarios, where Sherlock less; it was probably a buried feeling he harbored since childhood. It's silly though, he has no time for such things and even if he did he's not sure he'd know what to do with it and deleting Sherlock completely was a bit unfair. Perhaps there was something wrong with them.
Mycroft sees Sherlock again at the club, still wearing the same disguise as before. The two of them sitting in silence in the only room conversation is permitted.
"You look unwell," he informs the younger man, pouring him a small portion of brandy.
"I've been busy gathering data," Sherlock informs him taking the offered glass, "I see there's a crisis, who is it this time? Korea?"
"Father's dying," Mycroft states without preamble.
"We all are."
"This is serious Sherlock, I know your relationship with him is tumultuous, but…"
"But what Mycroft?" Sherlock snaps as if the whole thing is dull, "It's been a year and nothing... call me when he's dead." He states gravely.
"Sherlock…" the older man shakes his head weightily as he sips his drink. "Where have you been?" He changes the subject.
"London, of course."
"Joining the homeless network," he raises a brow, "I shouldn't have to remind you how dangerous that is."
"Must it always revert to that…" Sherlock huffs in frustration.
"Someone has to worry, since you obviously don't."
"You sound like mummy… Some things don't change…" he rolls his eyes.
"Mhm…" Mycroft hums, "And you sound like a child." He sighs thoughtfully, "Why are you here, Sherlock?"
"Thought I'd offer proof that I'm alive…" Sherlock lies.
"How courteous…" the brother's eye one another, "I'm not paying your rent, brother, I told you that's your responsibility," he adds seeing through the younger man, "Unless you visit father…" he starts knowing that's a lost cause, not that he'd blame him, "At least call mummy."
They're silent for a while, Sherlock contemplates to offer; a little miffed that Mycroft saw through him so clearly. "Fine, I'll call her." He concedes, scooping up his coat. "Rents due on the 2nd," he tosses back dramatically exiting the room.
"Don't disappear again Sherlock," he calls after him with as a warning, draining the dregs of his brandy.
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