A/N: Hi, all! I hope you had a great summer. I know I did. It was so super busy, I had family from out of state stay for several weeks and went camping (got myself really burned, but not as bad as the rest of the people I went with did). But I'm back on the writing and should get this last chapter up soon. I haven't finished the Mycroft/Lestrade story yet, but I don't mind releasing that as WIP.
Just a quick poll for you all, my sister showed me some great Asian dramas while she was in town and spurred the idea for a fusion on one of them. So the question is what was your view on Victor Trevor prior to season 4. You know, before he was canonically a child.
1- An old lover of Sherlock's who was a good person but went astray (IE the drugs)
2- An old lover of Sherlock but took advantage of him and was ultimately a bad guy
3- Just a friend of Sherlock's that turned him to drugs and was awful
4- Just a friend of Sherlock's that was a good guy and didn't have anything to do with the drug addiction
I have written Victor as one of these at some point in my long and varied fanfic career and really don't have a preference on where he can fit in the story. Plus I can come up with canon characters or OCs to fit the remaining slots.
And thank you for all the lovely support on this story. I appreciate it. Honestly. I'll be continuing to write under the same username over at AO3.
Enjoy some Holmes brothers bonding!
Sherlock came down the stairs from putting Watson to bed to find his brother in John's chair. He rolled his eyes and strolled past Mycroft to the kitchen.
"You are aware that a romantic relationship requires the consent of both people, yes?" he snarked over his shoulder.
"The more the fool you, then," Mycroft sighed bitterly.
Sherlock brought out the tea tray a few minutes later and said, setting it down, "Are you still trying to convince yourself that you are above other humans?"
"I am not lonely, Sherlock," Mycroft bit out as he took the cup and saucer from him.
"And how would you know?" Sherlock asked, pouring tea for himself. He sat down gingerly across from his brother and blew gently on the hot surface.
"I'm not going to discuss this with you," Mycroft snapped.
"Then with whom? Mummy? Father? A therapist?" Sherlock asked, with a tilt of his head.
Mycroft set down his tea hard on the table next to him. "I swear, Sherlock if you continue down this path, I'll send you to Azerbaijan."
"At least John and I will be in the same place," Sherlock teased.
Mycroft ran his hands over his face in frustration. "Why are you so hellbent on this delusion that I need companionship?"
"Because I've seen the way you look at DCI Lestrade," Sherlock murmured, before taking a sip of his tea.
"I beg your pardon!" Mycroft protested, leaping to his feet.
"Oh, do sit down," Sherlock barked. "It's bad enough that you're taller than me, no need to flaunt it.
"I don't flaunt my height," Mycroft sneered. He tugged at his waistcoat and strolled for the door.
"You nearly fainted, Mycroft," Sherlock said, standing up. "Twice. I just think that if you had someone around to remind you to sleep once in while, you'd be all the better for it is all."
Mycroft turned around slowly. "I merely miscalculated. I don't need a minder. And I most certainly do not need this silly holiday!"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and then counted on his fingers. "John, Anthea, several of your superiors...all think otherwise. Just take the damn holiday."
Mycroft returned to his seat and thumped his umbrella in front of him. "What the hell I am supposed to do for four weeks?"
"You like Kent," Sherlock said. "I assume that's where you're going."
Mycroft shook his head. "Not far enough away from London according to Anthea."
Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "Oh?"
"Apparently she's taking your good doctor's pronouncements very seriously and thinks Kent is too close to be considered a proper holiday." Mycroft sniffed disdainfully.
Sherlock smothered a chuckle in his robe sleeve. "Afraid you'll come running back to work too soon?" He batted his eyelashes innocently.
"Clearly." Mycroft turned his head with a sneer.
Sherlock took up his tea again and had another sip. "My clever John."
Mycroft looked at him sidelong before rolling his eyes. "Why you debase yourself with that man is beyond me."
"Because he makes me happy," Sherlock said softly. "So incredibly happy."
Mycroft turned to face him. "But we have seen far too well the dangers of marrying below our intelligence close hand."
Sherlock scoffed. "Our father may not be genius level intelligent, but he isn't stupid. And neither is John."
"John is a doctor, our father writes pulp fiction!" Mycroft roared leaping to his feet again. This time he paced the floor between the two chairs instead of heading for the door. "He could have been a famous author in literally any genre, and he chose to publish under a nom de plume, writing trashy detective fiction."
"He has won many awards for his 'trashy detective fiction,' as you are well aware."
"Under the pseudonym Robert Malchovy, not as Siger Holmes," Mycroft hissed.
"Because he didn't want his father to find out he was writing, and by the time he had met our mother he was already famous under that pseudonym, and then it became easier to continue to write under Robert Malchovy. He still had the family fortune to fall back on if the writing ever dried up. But it hasn't." Sherlock shook his head.
"It's demeaning."
Sherlock started laughing.
"I beg your pardon!"
"Mycroft, I've been to your house, remember?"
Mycroft frowned. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"I've seen the books you don't keep in your library," Sherlock said smugly.
"How dare you! That's private!" Mycroft stormed up to Sherlock, but he rose to met him.
"I didn't have to see our father's books on the shelves in your room to know you're a fan of detective fiction and horror films, My," Sherlock murmured, using his old nickname for his older brother. "You have loved that stuff since we were children. I thought you stopped, but when I was convalescing at our parent's place, Father had gotten his author's copy of his latest book and mournfully mentioned that he would love to give it to you signed, if you would have accepted it." Sherlock pressed forward as he spoke until Mycroft's knees hit the back of John's chair and he was forced to sit down.
"I never understood why you felt the need to hide that part of you in the first place, a lot of people like that sort of thing," Sherlock said as he returned to his chair and flopped gracelessly over one of the arms.
"Not people like me," Mycroft muttered bitterly.
"Even geniuses can have hobbies," Sherlock replied.
"Like murder?" Mycroft asked pointedly.
Sherlock grinned. "That is a less socially acceptable hobby, it's true. But at least I'm on the solving side and not the committing side."
"Praise God for that," Mycroft said, rolling his eyes skyward.
"You're missing the point," Sherlock said. "It's not just about the hobbies, it's about being who you are. You can be a happily married gay man who likes noir and horror books and films and still be Britain's premier strategist and political mind."
Mycroft leaned back and looked up, sighing deeply. "If my enemies are willing to use you for leverage, what do you think would happen to any partner I had?"
"Same thing as any politician or diplomat's spouse, I'd imagine," Sherlock murmured. "A vast a majority of time? Nothing. We got targeted by maniacs because I am in the public eye. Moriarty, Magnusson, Smith, Gruner. All of them went after us because of my notoriety that came with solving large scale crimes. If I had stuck to small-time cases, we would have been ignored."
"And who put you in the path of those larger cases?"
"Perhaps one or two of them, but there were seemingly small cases that turned out bigger than at first glance," Sherlock argued.
Mycroft closed his eyes.
"I'm not asking to make a change overnight," Sherlock went on. "Go on your holiday. Decide what you want to do with your life. Because you do have to change or it will kill you."
Mycroft opened his eyes and looked his brother over. "You actually mean that."
"Of course I do," Sherlock growled. "Despite our somewhat tumultuous relationship, I do want to see you happy."
Mycroft sighed. "You win."
Sherlock grinned. "Excellent! Mummy was telling me, well droning on really, about how they recently went up to Ravenglass to prepare it for the summer holidays. I'm sure they'd let you stay."
Mycroft blinked in confusion. "Ravenglass?"
"Unless you were planning on leaving the country?" Sherlock asked innocently.
"Absolutely not!" Mycroft bellowed. "I need to be close if the need arises." He got his feet again and strode over to Sherlock. He leaned over him, placing his hands on both armrests. "You are up to something, I can tell."
Sherlock shoved him back. "Yes, plotting to make sure my brother lives to fifty. Can't make any promises after that, though." He whirled Mycroft around and began pushing him toward the door.
"If I find out that you really are up to something, I won't send you to Azerbaijan, I'll send you to outer Mongolia," Mycroft insisted, gathering up his coat and umbrella as he was rudely shoved out of the flat.
"Yes, yes," Sherlock mocked. "It's very lovely in the spring."
Mycroft stopped dead in his tracks as he realized what he had just said. He turned around to Sherlock. "I'm sorry, I forgot."
Sherlock blinked a moment.
"Oh."
He waved it off. "Mycroft, it's fine. It's been two years."
"I know how hard it was for you being away from everything you've ever known and everyone you have ever loved," Mycroft whispered, pain scratching at the back of his throat. "And then I go putting my foot on that torment, like you were merely on holiday."
"Honest, My–" Sherlock began.
"No, it was deeply insensitive of me," Mycroft interrupted. "And though that was two years ago, the pain which Gruner had put all three of us through bringing up my past for his sick little game is far more recent a scar."
Sherlock took a deep breath. "But we made it out alive and that's what really matters."
Mycroft looked down at his feet. "I failed. If it wasn't for you figuring out the game, I shudder to think about what would have happened to you..." He hunched his shoulders and brought a hand to his face as he let out a heart-rending sob.
Sherlock hugged his brother and held on tight as Mycroft let out all the pent up emotions that he had smothered in the wake of their ordeal.
Suddenly there was a cough behind them, and Sherlock raised his head.
There was John, leaning against the door frame, looking a tad sheepish. "Sorry to interrupt, but I really need to use the loo and you're kinda in the way."
Mycroft turned around to see that they were indeed blocking the entrance to the flat. And then he started laughing.
John was confused, but Sherlock was pleased.
Mycroft wiped away a happy tear as he gasped for breath. "I'm sorry. Everything seemed so ridiculous just then."
"I hear that," John said as he slipped past him into the flat. "You decided where you're going to go for your holiday?"
Mycroft smiled. "Yes, actually. My family has a small summer cottage in the Lake District that I haven't been to in awhile. It's such lovely country."
John smiled. "Sounds like it. Never been, if I'm honest."
"You should, perhaps for your honeymoon," Mycroft said with a wink.
John coughed. "I'm sorry, what?"
Mycroft just shook his head. "I think I will enjoy this holiday after all."
John and Sherlock shared a glance and smiled secretively.
"I'm pretty sure you will," Sherlock replied with a grin.
"Good day," Mycroft said and made his way out on to the pavement. He looked up at the sky and smiled.
He could take whatever the world threw at him. He was Mycroft Holmes, after all.
As soon as Mycroft closed the door to the street, John sent a quick message.
-Mike
Lake District
JHW