This is the final post of this work and so after almost 8 years and more than 264,000 words of being a WIP, Sui Generis is complete! There were many times that I truly never thought I'd see the day...
From the bottom of my heart I would like to express my appreciation to everyone who has given kudos, commented, helped me hash out plot points, offered expertise as an advisor on more technical aspects of the story, shared your creativity in the form of art and/or ficlets, and most of all - been my readers! This has been one of the most profoundly satisfying creative endeavors of my life, and I have all of you to thank. I hadn't written a word since COVID started because with everything that's going on my creatively has been nonexistent, but thinking about all of you inspired and motivated me to finally finish this work. It's just a brief epilogue, but it's the final piece of the whole. So again, thank you all! The Adlock Yacht will definitely sail forever in my heart.
Epilogue
Mycroft Holmes, despite all his powers of observation and a preternatural grasp of how events might unfold given a set of criteria, could've never predicted where he'd be standing presently as of just two months before.
It was early afternoon and he wasn't in the boardroom at some undisclosed location, he wasn't in his office or bunker, he wasn't at Diogenes, and he wasn't even in his rarely-used home. He was outside. Not out in proper nature – God forbid – but still out-of-doors, in a park. The only time he frequented parks was to attend the odd clandestine meeting in St James that were a matter of course in his field, and even those were rare; his attendance at this sort of event was unprecedented.
"He's behaving quite well today, wouldn't you say, sir?" his assistant asked, not lifting her eyes from her mobile, and Mycroft glanced over at his nephew, who was sitting up in his grandmother's arms and smacking his hands in an applause-like motion, to his own apparent fascination.
The small party in Kensington Gardens looked like an entirely normal first-birthday celebration with its mix of chatting adults, table of drinks and refreshments, bright balloons and gifts, and of course, requisite birthday boy. By all accounts it was – Lydia Holmes had ensured that. It was as if she'd even willed the weather to fall in line with her vision of her grandson's fete – the chill of early spring had thawed into a temperate late March, and the daffodils and crocuses under the park trees were entering into their full thrall of bloom, along with the planted flowers behind neat rows of hedges. It would've taken an eye as observant as a Holmes brother, Irene Adler, or one Ms Mary Morstan to notice the perimeter of overly-attentive gardeners, nannies with closed prams, and joggers, and they were all guests of said party.
"Yes," Mycroft said distractedly, his eyes itching from the pollen in the air, "though from what I've seen the child is quite—you weren't referring to Nero," he finished on the same breath, her meaning clicking halfway through his answer.
She glanced up from her screen, her expression blank but her eyes sparkling with humour.
He gave a nod, then raised his eyebrows. "Difficult to misbehave when you're father of the guest of honour."
"I seem to recall you mentioning him missing quite a few of his own birthdays with your family."
"Well. That was before," Mycroft said, then turned his gaze on his younger brother. Things had certainly changed – what encompassed 'family' for Sherlock, for one.
Speaking of his brother he noticed that Sherlock was standing off to the side of the party, alone for the first time that afternoon, and with an internal groan of resignation decided he may as well instigate contact. They hadn't spoken since the day Mycroft had awoken in hospital, and in part it was because Sherlock had vanished from London (though it wasn't exactly difficult to ascertain where he'd gone), but mainly it had been deliberate avoidance. Awkwardness had hung between them since their mutually-degrading exchange of sentiment, and he felt he ought to clear the air.
"Looks like everything's come up tickety-boo, hasn't it?" Mycroft said as he sidled up to his brother. "You've managed to get sorted it all out."
"Tickety-boo?" Sherlock repeated, turning to him with a look that was a blend of incredulity and scorn. Ah, finally a token of the familiar in all of this.
Mycroft had to admit he hadn't struck quite the right note with that attempt, but he made a show of sniffing in slight indignation.
"Oh I'm sorry, would you rather I say something like, 'Now just don't go bollocksing it all up'?"
"God no, that's far worse. And I'm not going to 'bollocks it up'," Sherlock shot back under his breath, before joining Mycroft in plastering a placid smile on his face as their mother walked by with Nero. She shot them a look of suspicion, but didn't stop.
"I might have to reconsider joining this conversation, what's this about bollocks?" an amused voice said from behind them.
"Yes, I imagine you've had enough of those to last you a lifetime," Mycroft murmured in a faux-sympathetic tone, as Irene came to stand on the other side of Sherlock.
"You know," she said, "I usually take someone's need to project misunderstanding and distaste about what a dominatrix does as a sign that he or she is in fact extremely and intimately aware of it. And in many ways you do strike me as a textbook client. But in your case, Mycroft, shall I give you the benefit of the doubt that it's genuine ignorance?"
She looked up at him with wide, guileless eyes, and he glowered back at her. He was unsure of which was more appalling – being perceived as an enthusiastic client of dominatrices, or the accusation of being ignorant on some matter. Unable to summon a retort of any kind, he conceded the point to her by blinking first. Irene smiled, and he could hear her thoughts as if she'd voiced them aloud: It was good to establish early the correct dynamics in a working relationship.
Sherlock had slid his eyes over to Irene in appreciation and she was now meeting his look with interest, and Mycroft had the sudden realisation that he was very much a third wheel. It was a strange sensation; he'd experienced it to some degree when Sherlock had met John, but this was something else. This was the camaraderie Sherlock felt with John blended with the intellectual understanding the brothers shared, and then lit on fire, and he had no wish to insinuate himself.
He cleared his throat and turned away, leaving them to each other. God knew how they could still be so under each other's spell after over a week of uninterrupted company, but that was hardly his department.
He moved several steps away under the guise of checking his mobile – not that either of them was paying him any mind – and began to check messages despite usually deferring that task to Andrea.
There was a note from his colleague Lady Smallwood requesting a meeting with the new asset since said asset "was in town," and the corner of his mouth raised a fracture in appreciation. He hadn't mentioned anything about Irene Adler being in London in his briefings over the past week about the ostensible 'long con' he'd been conducting, but then, at his tier of government he hardly had a monopoly on omniscience.
In the week since his release from hospital, he'd presented his 'findings' to his colleagues, in a detached yet undeniably self-assured manner, and it was actually convenient that Sherlock was out of the picture so that he couldn't do anything to contradict or controvert Mycroft's version of events in any way.
Andrea had been instrumental in manufacturing support for the story; she had created a timeline via a digital trail in their system, and though she hadn't written his office's software she had consulted, and she was one of its main administrators. She'd entered geolocation, communication, log, and recorded data, backing out without leaving a trace, so that it looked as if Mycroft had been tracking and recording everything in an official albeit confidential capacity. Thanks to Andrea's diligence and ingenuity, the findings had been accepted without fuss, and Mycroft had even been commended. Irene was not only safe from the British government, but also enfolded within its protection once again, and in a much more sustainable way.
"You don't have to do that," the voice of his brother broke through his thoughts, genuinely startling Mycroft. He was so used to being the brother who reached out...
"Do what, precisely?" he asked, turning with one eyebrow raised.
"You know," Sherlock said quietly, and Mycroft paused before acceding by tilting his head: attempting to smooth things over after the awkwardness of their conversation at Mycroft's hospital bedside.
"You've done enough. I'm grateful, Mycroft."
Ah, and now he was referring to the matter which had just been on his mind: the way he had created the means by which Irene Adler could come back to life and legitimacy.
"Oh let's please not start with all of that again. I didn't do it for you."
"Of course not," Sherlock agreed, the sarcasm in his voice subtle but evident.
"Given her particular skillset, I'd be remiss not to employ her. You must agree."
"As a matter of fact, I do."
At that they fell into companionable silence, though both set brothers' eyes drifted over to the woman in question. She was standing with Mary, watching with rapt interest as Mary spoke low and fast. The two were apart and alone, the blonde and brunette heads drawn together, and they seemed to be having a sober, serious conversation, then suddenly Mary made a sharp, violent motion, making Mycroft blink and draw his head back ever so slightly. Mary was demonstrating how to garrote someone. But when she looked back into Irene's eyes to check if she'd followed Irene only nodded thoughtfully, and appeared to ask a follow-up question. Mary nodded in return and indicated at a place on her own throat as she explained something, apparently to clarify a question of anatomy. He glanced sidelong at Sherlock to see his reaction to that, but his brother's face was almost inscrutable. Almost – Mycroft was uniquely skilled at being able to read his brother (though perhaps no longer so 'uniquely,' since that Irene Adler had come into their lives), and he could decipher his thoughts.
Irene and Mary had their own world now, and it came with dangers and thrills that Sherlock could not share or in some cases even know, and yet instead of responding with jealousy and territoriality Mycroft could discern in his brother pride, sentiment, and affection – not just for Irene, but for Mary too.
Mycroft wasn't burdened with sentimental attachment to either woman, but he certainly shared Sherlock's admiration for them both.
Something else caught his attention in the periphery of his vision, and he turned his head to see Nero, who was crawling towards the tail end of streamers that had come undone and fluttered down to the ground. There was a gleam of intense focus in his eyes that was so like his father's that it was as if Mycroft had fallen back in time and was looking at his brother as an infant. He could still so clearly remember Sherlock at that age.
The contrasts of the vignettes to his right and to his left amused him: his brother's present life, in a nutshell.
"I suppose I should interact with the boy at some point today," he remarked. "If we're to proliferate the rumour he's my son."
"You are his uncle, Mycroft. You might consider that reason enough."
Mycroft's didn't give any sign of acknowledgement, but in truth he found he rather did want to spend time with the child, even without some threat to the boy's life compelling him to do so. He was tempted to blame it on brain trauma from his gunshot injury, even if only to himself, but he knew it wasn't that simple.
Suddenly a great hue and cry arose: Nero had clambered to his feet and was now taking unsteady yet determined steps towards the bright strips of paper lying on the grass.
Mycroft turned instinctively towards Sherlock, but to his surprise his brother looked unfazed.
"Yes. It happened for the first time three days ago. I was there."
Sherlock had stated this as if it were simple fact, but Mycroft could hear sentiment infused into the words. Even beneath his neutral expression he saw the joy and pride his brother felt at having experienced this significant benchmark in his child's development, and moreover than he had been able to do so with The Woman. Sherlock didn't elaborate, and Mycroft could only chalk this up to be yet something else that was between the two of them – well, three of them: this new family.
Then Sherlock left him to stride towards his son, and as he did so his face broke into a smile that transformed his features. Now it was Sherlock who resembled Nero, who was grinning with great self-satisfaction about the crumpled ends of streamer sticking out from the chubby clutch of his hands.
"Sir," Andrea came up to him as the hubbub around his nephew distracted the rest of the party. "Lady Smallwood has requested—"
"Yes, I saw," he interrupted, and she looked up with surprise.
"Do go ahead and arrange it."
She raised her eyebrows at him, and he couldn't blame her. Even two months ago he might have dismissed Lady Smallwood's professional overtures, but recent developments had shifted his views in certain fundamental ways. Some things hadn't changed – he was still the British Government, de facto – but every government had its allies. It wasn't compulsory and it may not even be strategically preferable to operate as a solo actor. He had never considered the concept in any serious way before, had never run a mental cost-benefit analysis on the efficacy of collaborating with others. In short, for all his brilliance and perhaps due to all his brilliance, the notion had never occurred to him. But now...
Sherlock and Irene – each of them sui generis and formidable in his and her own right – had become much more powerful when they had joined forces. They would have failed if not for their cooperation, Mycroft was certain of it, which begged the question: would any of Mycroft's few yet keenly-felt failures have been avoided had he forged such alliances? He disliked thinking about those rare mistakes, except when evaluating what lessons he might glean from them. Perhaps this was one.
As Andrea blinked away her astonishment and bent her head to her phone to do as instructed, Mycroft took in a deep breath, then turned his attention back to the small social gathering in front of him. Standing separate yet being part of the whole was almost pleasant, and upon consideration, the sun did feel rather nice upon the worsted wool of his suit.
~The End~
That's a wrap, folks. Your thoughts and comments would be amazing to hear!
For two brief vignettes that also took place at Nero's first birthday party (just not involving Mycroft), check out my Tumblr - username francesca-wayland. And if we're not already friends on there I'd love for you to add me! If you like Adlock, which I'm assuming you do if you're reading this, there's lots more content to be found there :)
I hope everyone is remaining safe and well. Til I post again - adieu!
