"Here be dragons."
Mycroft Holmes froze as the familiar words echoed against the painted cement walls-his own words, now turned against him.
A slight tremble moved through Mycroft's slim body, and he pressed his lips together against the unexpected brush with the emotions that he normally kept so carefully in check… tucked away, in their place, like the ever-present handkerchief folded to perfection in his lapel. With some effort, he forced his feet to move forward again and to approach the far end of the jail cell.
The pause in his steps did not escape the hyper-attentive awareness of the other man. Lying down with his back to his older brother, his face turned towards the wall, Sherlock Holmes picked up his head and gave it a slight tilt in Mycroft's direction.
"Is that a moment of regret that I hear?" Sherlock asked in a monotone.
With some effort, Sherlock managed to turn over on the narrow bunk, lower his stockinged feet over the edge and pull himself upright into a sitting position. The movement would have been no mean feat for the average person, given the white jacket that restrained his arms and tied them to his body, but Sherlock achieved it in one smooth, flowing motion. His dark hair hung over his forehead in a messy cascade of damp, tight curls. His pale skin had become somewhat blotchy from the lack of proper circulation, and coated in a thin layer of sweat due to the straightjacket's uncomfortable warmth. Dark circles hung below his heavy-lidded eyes.
Mycroft stopped walking and remained several feet away. He blinked.
"Sherlock," he said in a soft, almost apologetic tone, "at no point will I tolerate the insinuation that you killed a man on my orders, or even at my suggestion. This was by your hand and your hand only. I won't stand for it. I will not."
"Oh, come now! I didn't kill a man," Sherlock corrected him.
The sudden, angry and energetic tone of his brother's voice, so different from the monosyllabic, empty voice which he'd used since being taken into police custody, gave Mycroft a mild sense of relief, and his tense facial expression relaxed a bit. By contrast, Sherlock's face took on a fiercer, more determined look.
"I killed the lowest life form that this planet has to offer," Sherlock continued. "I took the life of a creature that utilized a mind, perhaps greater than my own, to corrupt and to kill based on nothing more than the proliferation of rumors and suspicion. Charles Augustus Magnussen will cause no more harm now." He paused. "And yes, you are off the hook. What I did, I did of my own free will." Sherlock let out a slight chuckle. "There. That should be enough of a legal statement to include in my case. I do hope you will write that statement down on my behalf, for the benefit of the court." He squirmed a bit. "I'd do it for you, but I'm a bit incapacitated at the moment."
Mycroft gave a sharp shake of his head. "Brother, you have crossed a line that I cannot bring you back from. You have committed murder. This is no time to be funny. Can you, for one moment, recognize the serious consequences of your decision?"
"You speak as if I don't fully understand the nature of my crime," he admonished his brother in careful tones. "I do. In fact, in this one desperate act, I have sacrificed everything that I have ever worked for, every relationship that I have ever engaged myself in, and all that I was taught about right and wrong-all to do what had to be done, and what no one else had the reserve to do. Not even you."
Sherlock paused, then glared at Mycroft with flat gray eyes and suddenly surged forward.
"Iceman!" he hissed in a loud, vicious manner, his mouth an ugly, downturned slash.
It took all of Mycroft's reserve not to flinch as Sherlock launched himself off the jail cell cot and dropped to his knees on the concrete floor, narrowing the distance between the two of them to less than a meter. The single word echoed and then faded, and silence descended on the room once again as the two men studied one another. Mycroft shuddered again and Sherlock's face cleared, then took on an expression of satisfaction as he struggled to regain his seat on the cot.
"You felt fear there, for a moment. Didn't you?" he inquired.
"I did," Mycroft replied with obvious discomfort.
"Good. Then perhaps now you can stop believing the cruel statements of others. You are not without emotion, Mycroft. Indeed, this latest turn of events should have proved that quite soundly."
Mycroft drew one unsteady hand across his forehead and cleared his throat.
"You should know that your blood work came back clean. No alcohol. No trace of narcotics. No illegal drugs whatsoever."
"As I told you it would." Sherlock glanced down at himself. "So is this your only attempt to help my situation? To delay? To have the authorities question my mental state and restrain me for observation?" He hummed and looked down at himself. "A straight jacket. I think that next Christmas, we should get them for the whole family. Perhaps not for Father. He's always been more the jumper type. Usually something of a loud color and with an animal on it."
"He was into the 'ugly sweater' phenomenon before anyone," Mycroft agreed.
Sherlock released a slight chuckle, then turned earnest eyes on Mycroft. "You know I've not gone mad-not temporarily, in some post-traumatic breakdown, as you maintained-but I've played the part for you. True, this has not been a pleasant experience on my psyche, but it has not broken me. It does not take a madman to kill. Perfect, stone-cold sanity works much better."
"Ask any murderer such as yourself, eh?"
Sherlock gave the equivalent of a shrug through the jacket and looked away.
Mycroft paused. "Are you all right?"
Likewise, Sherlock paused. "No, I can't say that I am."
He stared past Mycroft at the closed cell door.
"Magnussen haunts me," he muttered. "Not his face, not his voice, but his movements. His smile, his gestures, his profile in the lights of the helicopter as I put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. The vibration of the recoil. The way his head moved as the bullet hit him. The way his useless body collapsed onto the patio... he haunts me because he died too easily."
"Far too easily than he deserved, perhaps? In your opinion," he added. "Not mine, of course. It would be inappropriate for someone in my position to insinuate such a thing."
Sherlock gave a desperate glance up to his brother. "Mycroft, don't you get it? I understand firsthand how it's done now. Killing. It's no longer just an academic exercise and speculation. I understand how… how effortlessly I can snuff out a man's life. And it is a knowledge that wounds me deeply. You saw how quickly and easily it all came together for me."
Mycroft swallowed but said nothing."
"You were there," Sherlock continued. "In the helicopter, telling us to stand away from him. That was when Magnussen said to me, 'No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr. Holmes.' Then your voice rang in my ears again... but I didn't hear your voice echo out of a speaker across the grounds to say 'stand away.' I heard us, in front of our parent's cottage, smoking and talking casually of how I think of myself as a dragonslayer. And I knew then that I could finally embrace what I am, and use it." He paused. "I am a highly-functioning sociopath. That is what I am, and it is what I have always been. Can't you see it?"
"I see it, Sherlock," he whispered. "I've always seen it. And it terrifies me. It terrifies me for you, and for what you must have to live with from this day forward."
Mycroft adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, then tugged at his jacket sleeves.
"You should know that your situation is rather up in the air right now. The seriousness of your crime is offset somewhat by the fact that Magnussen's own reputation has been publicly revealed to be extremely odious. I think you have your former fiancée, Janine, to thank for that. It's amazing how much bad press Magnussen received, and merely an hour after the news of his death was announced."
"Revenge has strange forms," Sherlock murmured.
"You were crying," Mycroft interrupted abruptly. "After you shot Magnussen. That is not a sociopath's response. Nor was it for show, to gain sympathy. I've witnessed enough individuals use lies and tears to manipulate others, and I know the difference. So how do you explain your reaction?"
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut asMycroft knelt down and put two fingers under Sherlock's chin, then tilted his head up and studied his sweat-streaked face.
"You've been crying. Here, alone. With no one to impress and no one to influence."
Still, Sherlock refused to open his eyes. "You think I can't feel regret?" he asked through clenched teeth.
"Oh, I think you can, but regret for what? For whom? Not for yourself. Self-pity has never been your style. Perhaps for not ending Magnussen's life sooner, when no one was watching? Or is it regret for Watson, who witnessed your transformation from white knight to tarnished warrior?"
"You." Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "It is for you."
Mycroft released him and hooked one hand over his brother's bent knee. "Bringing a character like Billy Wiggins to an intimate family gathering was showing your hand, little brother."
He nodded. "You mentioned the punch that Billy had prepared as we had our cigarettes, and that was the first clue that you suspected something. I also knew when I left the cottage, you weren't fully drugged. Our parents' breathing was low and steady, but yours was forced. You'd had enough to drink at Christmas dinner to notice its effects, but not to give into it."
A quick smile flitted across Mycroft's face before he smoothed out his expression again.
"I endangered your career with the British government-" Sherlock began.
"The laptop you stole from me was empty, Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted. "Or damned near. I never carry any more information with me than I need, and no more than I'm ever willing to lose. To do so would indicate a gross dereliction of national security procedures on my part. It simply would not do, to leave a laptop full of secrets about. I only needed the GPS to lead me right to you and to Magnussen. There was no threat of an information leak. If anything, I deceived you. I only had to wait for your helicopter to leave before calling my own. This was all seen beforehand. Therefore, you have no need to weep for my supposed deception."
"Yes, I do." A soft look eased into Sherlock's gaze, and Mycroft grew silent and looked away.
"When we spoke, you steered me away from the undercover job that would have taken my life in six month's time. You said, 'Your loss would break my heart' and 'Merry Christmas.' I didn't wish you a Merry Christmas in return. Yet those were the last two words that I said to Magnussen, just before I destroyed that masterful brain of his with a single bullet."
Mycroft pulled his lips in and stood up. He turned his back as Sherlock's voice caught in his throat.
"And now I've done it, haven't I?" Regret and sadness choked the words into an almost unrecognizable jumble. "You've lost me. And I've lost everything."
"We shall see."
"Our parents." Sherlock's voice became clearer as he regained control. "They'll forgive me, as parents do. Watson was right beside me, and he knows what we were up against, so he and Mary will understand. But you?"
Mycroft took a few steps towards the cell door, then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. Their gazes locked.
"I saw the horror of it in your face, Mycroft. I see it now. I have broken your heart."
"No," he said softly as he turned back around. "But for the first time in your life, Sherlock, you have taken a step in a direction to where I cannot help you. For the sake of my own situation, I must keep my distance. I must put the British government ahead of my family."
"I understand."
Mycroft's eyes shut tight against the quiet, calm response of his brother.
"That's the hell of it. I know you do. All too well." His eyelids snapped up and he stared at his brother again, and one pointed finger raised in protest. "But don't you dare… don't you ever dare to presume to KNOW MY MIND!"
The reverberations of the unexpected shout caused Sherlock to tremble and hunch his shoulders. Mycroft slowly lowered his hand.
"I want to make it all go away," Mycroft said in a faint voice. "To carry you out of here in my arms, as when you were a boy. To take you far away from here. But I can't, and that is my own fault. I knew you had Magnussen on your radar. I knew of your meeting with him, and the deal you struck. I brought his death with my inactions just as surely as you did with Watson's gun. Had I put you first instead of my notions of what was good for the country, I could have kept you from this. But I did not. So, you see? You haven't broken my heart, dear brother. I have done it to myself."
Mycroft lifted a hand and pounded on the metal cell door with his fist. A few moments later, a guard came and unlocked the door. As the door swung open, Mycroft turned and looked at Sherlock again-the perfect picture of composure and propriety.
"I'll keep you informed of how the proceedings go," he said in a light, breezy tone. His face showed none of the sentiment nor the emotion that it had only a brief time before. "Your observation should end in a few hours, and then you'll be taken back to a regular holding cell. Pray, don't act up again. The straightjacket they strapped you in was a warning. I'm sure the guards will be much less cooperative next time that you try to outwit them. Happy New Year, Sherlock," he called as he stepped into the hallway.
"Happy New Year, Mycroft," came the faint reply.
The cell door clanged shut with a metallic echo, and Sherlock Holmes lay back down on the prison cot, his face to the wall, and his eyes filled with tears.