1995- Part Two
"Detective Sergeant Lestrade, I am grateful for your role in bringing my brother into the police station. Am I right to assume that he has not been charged, nor is he likely to be, with any offence regarding that barroom accident?"
Lestrade eyed the immaculately turned out figure in front of him. In contrast, he felt rumpled and wrinkled after a day and a night in his own clothes. It was 5 am and a time when very few people were impressive. He had to admit, however, that the young man in front of him was probably the exception that proved the rule. He was almost two inches taller than Greg, and held himself with poise and confidence than seemed at odds with his youth. Thinning chestnut hair, cleanly shaven (I must look a mess with a 24 hours' worth of stubble) and waiting patiently for the DS to respond.
"If you are his brother, then you can tell us his real name."
"Of course. I am Mycroft Holmes, and his name is Sherlock."
Lestrade thought briefly about parents who have little sense when it comes to naming their children.
"So, how did you know that we were holding him here?" Lestrade tried to sound stern, but was afraid that it probably came out more tired than intimidating.
"It's my job to notice these things, Detective Sergeant." He handed over an ID, which Greg read, and then looked up again suddenly at the young man. "Oh? So you just happened to be looking at a database search of images and spotted his photo going by?"
The elder Holmes' eyes narrowed a bit. With a brittle smile, he answered, "It's a simple exercise to set up an image alert on one of our surveillance networks; it's done all the time. And, he has been missing for six months, without the police being able to find him. The Missing Persons teams are so overstretched, don't you think? "
Lestrade wondered how an autistic teenager could be allowed to go missing for as long as six months. "Had a falling out with the parents, did he?"
"Our parents are dead, as he probably told you. I am his legal guardian, a fact which I am positive he would not have mentioned. He is classified as a vulnerable young person, if you were not aware of that fact."
"Actually, I figured it out, which is why I brought him in. That and the fact that he was high on drugs at the time."
There was a sigh in reply. "That fact was not included in the police report of the incident."
Now it was Lestrade's turn to sigh, as he gestured to the ID in his hand. "I suppose this entitles you to read such a file without my permission?"
"Yes, it does. And I am going to suggest that it is time we stop this discussion and that you allow me to collect my brother and take him home." This was delivered in a clipped tone of voice that belied his age, and spoken with an authority that was used to being obeyed. He collected his ID from the DI's hand.
Lestrade started to feel a bit sorry for the young lad in the interrogation room. "What makes you think he wants to do that?"
"I no longer care what he wants, Detective Sergeant. It's what he needs that motivates me. And that will include a substantial period of time in a rehab clinic, where some of his 'issues' will be dealt with properly through medical and psychiatric supervision."
He's a cold fish. Mind you. I expect in that job of his it is an occupational hazard. And he found himself wondering how he would have managed to be responsible for his nephew when the same age as the man now standing in front of him. Suddenly, he found himself feeling a bit more sympathy for both of the Holmes brothers, neither of which was probably suited to having to deal with each other the way these two clearly had to.
Greg sighed again, rubbed his tired eyes, and said "OK, I give up. I'll take you to him. You'll have to sign paperwork so Social Services don't go ballistic when they show up in a couple of hours to discover he's gone."
oOo
As Mycroft walked into the interrogation room, Greg was watching through the mirrored window. He felt some compassion for the lad, as well as gratitude for saving him the embarrassment of declaring an accident as a homicide. And, he admitted to some curiosity about their encounter.
The younger brother did not look up, or even move to acknowledge that someone had entered the room. He still sat with his head buried in his arms, his knees tucked up on the chair.
"Sherlock."
There was no reply.
"There are questions that need answers, but now is not the time or place to do this, Sherlock. Come home with me now, and we will discuss in private what happens next."
This provoked a snort of derision. "Want to bet?" He raised his head, but looked straight at the window rather than his brother, as if he knew that Greg was watching. "He sounds oh so reasonable, doesn't he, Detective Sergeant? It's a good act. The moment we are out of the door, he will take me straight to an institution- all ostensibly in my very 'best interests', he will assure you. There I will be deprived of my liberty, and force-fed drugs that will be designed to eliminate any hope of being who and what I am. Such is his ..brotherly love."
"Stop this, Sherlock. I am not the enemy here. This...escapade... of yours has got to stop. Just look at yourself." And Greg saw the elder brother looking intently at the younger, who still refused to make eye contact.
The youth's face was blank, unreadable. "Go away, Mycroft, and leave me alone."
"You know I can't do that. I am not prepared to have you spend another night on the streets, indulging your drug habit, and the despicable practices that are required to sustain their expense. You are better than this, Sherlock."
That made the boy look up in anger. "Who says? I don't care at all what you think, or what anyone thinks of me. Just piss off, leave me alone. I'm fine on my own."
Mycroft and Sherlock locked eyes for the first time. The older one just said softy "You know I can't do that, because you're not 'fine'."
"What do you know about it, brother? You haven't the foggiest idea what is good for me. You weren't there when he locked me up the first time, but you're going to do it again. Like Father, like son. I can tell you now it won't work, but you don't give a damn what I think. Never have, never will. I'm just an embarrassment, a genetic tie that has no real meaning. If you do let me go, I swear no one will know who I am, it won't come back on you. Your reputation won't be damaged, I promise."
Mycroft stood unmoved and unmovable. His silence was answer enough.
The youth's shoulders slumped in defeat. "I'm so tired of all this; Mycroft, just let me be, please?"
"No. This is not open to negotiation, Sherlock. You know that. Bow to the inevitable."
The boy's grey green eyes had filled with tears, and a few spilled over to trace down those cheekbones. There was a tremor in his voice as he said quietly, "You'll be the death of me, Mycroft."
Watching, Greg's reaction surprised him. He felt the boy's distress, and wondered how his brother's arrival could so effectively derail all the cocky self confidence that Sherlock had shown at the crime scene. There is a history here between these two that I don't get. I'm not sure I like it, either.
Mycroft closed the distance between him and Sherlock and reached down, taking both of the bony wrists in a firm grip. "Enough of that now, we've leaving." He pulled his brother to his feet and led him out the door of the interrogation room.
Back in the corridor, the DI watched the two Holmes brothers leave the station. Greg realised that there wasn't a thing he could do to stop it from happening. But, that didn't mean he didn't worry about it.
