Longing

Interesting, how quickly something significant could become a habit for him, dovetailing with the uneven edges of his life as if it had always been there. The thought entered Sherlock's mind as he stirred from sleep and instinctively reached out to the space beside him. Simultaneously, his senses and brain reminded him that Mycroft wasn't here. He was at home (or at work), while Sherlock was in Baker Street.

A mere four days with his brother, and it was already second nature to seek him in the semi-consciousness of sleep. They weren't natural snugglers, the two of them – not after a certain age – and during the night, each would settle into his own space. But for four days, they'd fallen asleep in each other's arms, reconnected by touch in the night, and sought the warmth of the other's skin on rising.

He was back to his usual state of not waking up to the sense of Mycroft near him. Back from four days of indulging in his brother's presence and rediscovering him all over again, uninterrupted by work, as he had time off after the Eskov operation. They'd carefully kept the sheets in the guest room rumpled, leaving Sherlock's overnighter, violin, petri dishes and worn sleepwear there too, and his toothbrush and towels in the attached bathroom. So if John, Anthea or their parents should show up at the front door without prior warning, less scrambling would be needed to make the house look like a normal one where an adult sibling was staying with another for a few days. And he had uncomplainingly helped Mycroft with household chores so that the cleaning staff who came in weekly – and the security fellow who kept an eye on them – could be asked not to turn up this week.

This moment, he missed him.

They'd spoken about this. They were both too independent and prickly to spend too many 24-hour days wrapped around each other. They would meet. Sherlock would stay over regularly. They might make occasional short trips out of London. But they couldn't live in each other's space at present. Perhaps later in life, when they no longer had such demanding or volatile jobs, when they wouldn't have to explain their living arrangements to Mummy and Daddy, when more of their enemies were dead, and fewer friends and associates were likely to take any interest in what they were up to. Perhaps.

But Sherlock missed Mycroft now. He wanted the familiar scent of his skin, the warmth of the body he'd memorised, the throaty, grumbling murmurs Mycroft sometimes made when he was dreaming and every time he woke up. He missed the rhythmic sound and movement of the rise and fall of his chest, the huffs of breath against his hair, the feeling of Mycroft's arm around his waist, the cool touch of his hand, the comforting press of his body, the taste of him. He missed waking up in the morning to the sight of Mycroft gazing at him as if he were the most beautiful thing in the world while tracing a fingertip down the bridge of his nose, the lines on his brow, the contours of his lips. He missed those moments when he might be the one to catch Mycroft still asleep, vulnerable in slumber, a furrow between his eyebrows as he plotted and schemed in his dreams to keep the kingdom and his loved ones safe.

He replayed in his mind the tenderness with which they'd made love on the second day, which was also when he'd given Mycroft a massage; the playfulness of their lovemaking on the third day; and that glorious morning of the fourth day, when Mycroft could have gone to work but decided not to, caressing Sherlock's cheek and murmuring words that Sherlock later found out were from Shakespeare's Antony to his Cleopatra: "Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch of the ranged empire fall. Here is my space."

Sherlock's physical self couldn't be just transport any more, not where Mycroft was concerned. For the first time in his adult life, he wanted, needed, the skin contact. But disguising it was essential. It was not possible for them to jump on each other anywhere, anytime. Not without losing everyone and everything important to them – careers, parents, friends, liberty, the fearful, grudging respect of society they currently enjoyed.

Well… they could abandon everything and move permanently to France. Or Belgium. Or Luxembourg. Or maybe Germany, whose laws did not appear to consider incestuous acts between consenting blood-related adults as incestuous – as long as no vaginas were involved.

No, they couldn't. London was in their blood. Even if they chose not to live in this city when they were much older, Britain – ideally, the south of England – was the environment they thrived in. This was where they belonged.

Sherlock withdrew his arm from the empty space on his narrow Baker Street bed, curled up into a ball and closed his eyes, pulling up Mycroft's scent from the rooms in his memory – what his skin smelt and felt like when it was clean after a shower, when it was sleep-warmed, when it was heated from making love, and when it was clammy with perspiration after their exertions. Mycroft would have done the same thing upon waking up today, except he had the advantage of access to the sheets and pillows Sherlock had lain on until last evening. His old self, the one that had forgotten how much Mycroft loved him, would have cynically told him that his brother would have coldly stripped off the bed linen and replaced it with a fresh set the second he had the place to himself; his current self, which loved Mycroft back with all his heart, told him he would keep those sheets in place for a while. Just a while. Because of sentiment. Which they both now knew could rule and ruin them as much as anyone else.

But this was a new day. He had work to do and clients to be (fairly) polite to. No more wallowing in his brother's physical absence.

Sherlock opened his eyes, got out of bed, went through his morning bathroom routine, and put on some clothes. His days of wandering around the flat in nothing but a bedsheet were over while Rosie was living with them, and so many people played a part in looking after her. Mrs Hudson was up and down more often than in the past; Molly would come by when she could if the Baker Street denizens were all engaged; Sarah had helped out regularly; Mummy and Daddy had sat in the flat a couple of months ago to keep an eye on Rosie on an afternoon or two; and even Lestrade had done a little bit of babysitting.

Speaking of Lestrade, the ringtone Sherlock had allocated to his number was going off right now. (To amuse himself, he'd just changed it to the "George of the Jungle" jingle and had answered "Hello, George!" every time the inspector rang during the last four days.)

"If you call me George one more time, Sherlock, I'll bar you even from cold cases," Lestrade warned, before Sherlock could utter a syllable.

"In a bright and cheerful mood this morning, are we?" Sherlock asked.

"Actually, despite my apparent grumpiness, I am in a decent mood," Lestrade admitted. "It was nice of you and Mycroft to do what I see you've done."

Sherlock knew what he meant, but didn't want to make it easy for him. "I have no idea what you're wittering on about, Gerbil."

"You know exactly what I'm referring to, you overgrown softie," Lestrade chuckled. "Arranging for a lawyer to take on Cathy Hulme's and Nellie Samuels' cases, ordering counselling therapy for them, and that official note to the remand prison to ensure Samuels gets proper medical treatment, and hospice care when nothing further can be done for her."

"Did we do that, Groundhog?"

"Yeah, Sherlock. I'm sure you two did exactly that – it has your DNA all over it, even if it was Mycroft who made the arrangements. And it really helps too that your brother sent that very nice note to the Met Commissioner to thank her for her excellent judgement in allowing you to enter the dining room that night. It's made her a bit sweeter and less likely to peel off my hide for bringing you into her presence that evening – because I can tell you that she did not appreciate you bullying her into letting you through."

"I didn't bully her, Giraffe," Sherlock growled.

"Oh, you did," Lestrade corrected him.

"Who could bully that woman of… fortified brass?"

"You almost made her deputy cry. He's not the crying sort, that man."

"I only told him the truth!"

"He didn't need to know that his beloved mother was shagging the brains out of the heating repair bloke who used to be his schoolmate."

"Didn't he?"

"Thank God Mycroft wrote him a nice letter too, or he'd probably find some way to post me to the bloody Rock of Gibraltar," Lestrade sighed. "Your brother cleans up so much of your mess after you explode onto one scene or another that he should get some kind of environmental award."

"Pffft," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Why are you calling me, Goose?"

"To tell you that you're both nicer than you make yourselves out to be."

"That sort of flattery makes no sense to me."

"And to ask if you'd be interested in a case I'm on. A man's missing from his home in Croydon. He was last seen four days ago, after his wife reported him to the police for beating her black and blue, but he hasn't shown up for work since Monday. However, he's left all his fingers behind on his kitchen cabinet, along with what we've determined are two whole other sets of fingers belonging to two other people who don't seem to be connected with the first man. No sign of any fingerless victims yet, dead or alive."

"Are the fingers fresh?"

"As fresh as you'd expect when they're three days old or thereabouts."

"Nice."

"Coming?"

"I have a client due at noon, but I think I can swing by to have a look at your appendages and still be back in time."

"I'll text you the address. You should be able to make it here in half an hour."

"See you in 30 minutes, Gibbon."

"I don't know how anyone resists your charms, Sherlock," Lestrade grumbled with heavy irony before ending the call.

Sherlock grabbed his wallet, magnifying glass, phone and other paraphernalia, then breezed downstairs and lifted his coat off the rack.

"Sherlock, don't we have a client at…" John began, poking his head round the flat's doorway with Rosie in his arms.

"I'll be back by then," he called up the stairs. "Just popping by one of Lestrade's crime scenes – lots and lots of severed fingers. You feed Watson, and I'll give you the delicious details when I get back."

"I can probably do with fewer of the 'delicious' details if they concern severed fingers, thanks!" John yelled after him.

"I'll take lots of photos!"

"No sparing me the details, then," he heard John mutter with resignation as the main door swung shut behind him.

At the crime scene, the fingers were illuminating. He wasn't required to uncover any identities as the fingertips still had their prints. But what he could swiftly deduce was that one of the extra sets of fingers belonged to an adult male who had a lot to do with horses but either wasn't very good with them, or had to handle plenty of bad-tempered ones (lots of old scars shaped consistently with the teeth of large herbivores; horsehairs and what was probably paddock sand under the nails; a fragment of leather consistent with what might be used for tack under one nail; and callouses consistent with rough handling of reins and bridles). The other extra set belonged to another adult male who had a dog and smoked like a bonfire, drank like it was going out of fashion, and regularly shot up too (even the constables could point out the nicotine stains against the decomposing flesh, but they hadn't noticed the evidence of numerous needle sticks – no medical professional would be that inept and still keep his job – so, shooting up on a regular basis while drunk off his rocker; and deep impressions of dog tooth marks on the skin over the proximal phalanges; small dog, probably a terrier). With the fingers having been separated from the bodies some time ago, Sherlock couldn't be certain, but he suspected that they had been removed post-mortem, as it seemed they hadn't been cleaned, yet showed no sign of having bled profusely.

"Not the abused wife," Sherlock murmured thoughtfully when Lestrade asked him if he had any insight into who might have done this. "She'd moved to her mother's after her husband beat her up, didn't want to go anywhere near him, finally sneaked back here when she thought he'd be at work so she could pick up the stray cat she'd been feeding that often came around the house, only to find 24 fingers and six thumbs in her kitchen. You saw her outside earlier – green about the gills. Couldn't find the cat. The animals, Lestrade – the animals are the main thing. These people haven't been nice to the quadrupeds they have access to, and someone's been watching. Since you know who the man of the house is, as well as the other two from their prints, just find one acquaintance in common who knows them well enough to be aware of how abusive they've been. The wife may not be behind this, but she could be the reason the perpetrator left the fingers here – a way of telling her 'it's all over now, sorry about the cat, but don't worry, your husband's never coming back'. The terrier is in bad shape, but has probably been rescued by the finger-amputator. The cat is dead. The horses are likely to be all right, no major or permanent injuries."

"How do you know the cat's dead?" Lestrade asked curiously.

"Down the road, unoccupied house – blue door, number 35. Smell of decay coming from near the back hedge. Not a major, in-your-face decomposition odour you'd get from a mostly-intact human body, but something smallish, half-buried. The scrawny hedge's probably not thick enough to stuff an adult person's remains under, but a cat would fit nicely. A matter of probability. Of course, there's also a chance that it's the late Mr Williamson's foot, or liver, or whatever."

"Oh Lord…" Lestrade muttered, whipping out his phone to instruct one of the constables to check for a dead cat at number 35 and make sure it wasn't a human body or body part decaying under the back hedge.

"Williamson's killer might have figured out that he'd done away with the cat, but obviously wasn't in the neighbourhood at a time when he or she could have prevented it. He or she also didn't have an opportunity to give the cat a proper burial, but might be waiting for a chance to climb into that compound to reach the corpse. Check if anyone's been spotted hovering about that end of the street in the past four days. He – I'm inclined to believe it's a he, not a she – left the fingers here because this was where he snapped. He found out about the cat's death, killed Williamson, severed the fingers because… yes, of course… Williamson strangled the cat with his bare hands – see those hairs? Left the fingers here, removed the rest of Williamson's body. Then proceeded to carry out a vendetta against two other people he'd known to be unkind to their animals, and added their fingers to the display. No bloodstains here, so Williamson's probably dead from being struck by a blunt object, or strangling, or hanging. Nothing here to hang someone from. Judging by his photo in the sitting room, big bloke, thick neck, probably not easy to choke or strangle. Try the blunt weapon theory first."

"Right. Thanks. I think," Lestrade sighed, rubbing the flat of his hand over his forehead, as if to rub away a fast-developing headache. "I don't feel very sorry for the owners of these fingers, I'm afraid. Still, we can't have vigilantes running around topping others and lopping off their appendages."

Lestrade's phone chimed. He raised his eyebrows as he glanced at the message, and he said to Sherlock. "It's your brother. Says Neil Peters – the horse guy – is a person of interest to the SIS, and I'm to inform him the moment we find his body."

A second later, Sherlock himself had a message:

Mycroft
Do Neil Peters' fingers have silica trapped under the nails?

Sherlock
Yes. Most likely paddock sand?

Mycroft
Excellent. We might just find what we're looking for.

Sherlock
Can you tell me what that is?

Mycroft
The information can't be cleared for release beyond my immediate team yet, but I will tell you when it won't compromise operations.

Before Sherlock could respond, Lestrade spoke again: "He's even here in person."

"What?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

"Your brother's outside. I don't know why it's important enough for him to show up when we don't have the body he wants yet."

Leaving the crime scene in the care of the SOCOs and one of the detective sergeants (not Donovan – she was elsewhere on the hunt for the fingerless individuals, apparently), Lestrade and Sherlock stepped outside. They found Mycroft's black Jaguar idling by the pavement, and the humans who had just emerged from it intimidating the constables with their JIC and MI6 identifications.

"Hey, Mycroft," Lestrade greeted him when he stepped out of the car as Andrew, his driver and regular bodyguard, glanced calmly about for potential danger. "You look… different today."

"Do I?" Mycroft asked the detective inspector coolly.

"Yeah, you do – you're… ah, that's it – it's the scarf – I don't think I've ever seen your neck wrapped in a scarf."

"It was a gift," Mycroft said. "From someone very important to me."

"Oh, someone important! Well, a scarf's always useful for covering up love bites!" Lestrade grinned – undoubtedly still under the warm and fuzzy influence of what he'd said to Sherlock over the phone about Mycroft being a nice person. In the next second, when he remembered just who he was talking to, and that Mycroft wasn't often nice, he hastily added: "Not that you'd need to do any covering up of love bites."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, are you implying that I would find it hard to… 'get laid', in the common parlance?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Oh God, no," Lestrade had his hands up, palms out, desperately trying to deflect the horror he had visited upon himself. "I have no doubt that someone like you could get laid at the snap of your fingers. Just… I just don't imagine it would often be a scenario whose outcome would leave you with love bites."

"So you imagine scenarios in which I have sex in a robotic and businesslike manner, with no passion whatsoever," Mycroft remarked neutrally, in a not-a-question way.

Lestrade was smart enough to know when he was digging himself a very deep grave, and quickly back-pedalled even further to save himself. "I apologise, Mycroft. I don't spend any time at all picturing sexual scenarios that involve you. Promise. Not at all. Just putting my foot squarely in my mouth – think of it as some sort of yoga exercise. So, back to business! Can we be of any help to you here?"

"I was nearby when I learnt about the identities of the people whose fingers you have in that house," Mycroft said.

Which Sherlock knew was hardly the truth. Even if the Home Office did have a major division in Croydon.

"I therefore made a small detour to emphasise how crucial it is that I should be informed the moment Neil Peters' body is located," Mycroft went on. "Anything and everything recovered from or near his person should be meticulously recorded."

"Which is what we always do," Lestrade assured him. "You didn't need to tell me that."

"And you didn't need to tell me about your sexual fantasies involving me, detective inspector," Mycroft smiled.

"Oh for pity's sake, stop flirting with each other, the two of you," Sherlock snapped. "Or get a fucking room."

This was met with a squawk (85 percent outraged, 15 percent horrified) from Lestrade, and a small hiccup-like noise from Mycroft, which Sherlock cut off with another demand: "Mycroft, why are you here?"

"To flirt with the detective inspector, of course," Mycroft snapped back at him. "And to talk to you."

"If your talk has nothing to do with this case, I'll leave you two to it," Lestrade said, backing away. "If there's anything else about the investigation, just text me – no flirting necessary."

They watched him walk back into the house, then Sherlock and Mycroft slid into the back seat of the car, shut the door, and put up the privacy screen.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked in a warmer, more curious tone once they were alone, without the possibility of being overheard or lip-read.

"I missed you," Mycroft said simply.

"I missed you too," Sherlock replied, reaching for him and pressing his face against Mycroft's cheek.

"My bed felt terribly empty last night, and this morning."

"So did mine," Sherlock confessed.

"I thought even more of you after I learnt, early this morning, that Zhu Zheng wasn't going to make it. I went to the hospital to see him just before he passed."

"Why did you do that?" Sherlock asked, drawing back a little to look at him.

"Even if he couldn't hear me, I wanted to tell him that I understood how he felt. I understand what it means to love one's sibling in such an all-consuming way that life seems pointless when you've lost that loved one, even after a quarter of a century has passed. Sherlock, if anything unfortunate happens to me, at any time – whether it's tomorrow or next year or ten years from now – I don't want you to become either directionless or warped by an obsession with revenge, or for your life to be anything less splendid than what it ought to be."

"Mycroft…"

"Live fully. That's what I want you to do. Do you hear me?"

"Are you trying to order me around again?" Sherlock asked.

"In this case, yes," Mycroft gave a small smile. "I am ordering you never to end up anything like that man I just visited in hospital today before he died. When I'm gone, don't look back."

"I'll look back as much as I please."

"People who look back have a tendency to end up being turned into pillars of salt, or losing their dead wives, or unpleasant things to that effect."

"We're not Lot's missus or Orpheus. I'll look back all I want."

"I can't stop you, but I hope that even if you insist on casting backward glances, you'll keep walking ahead. Just don't trip and fall over your future while you're keeping your eyes on your past."

"You're not in trouble, are you?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.

"Not in the slightest. Not that I know of. This isn't a disguised goodbye talk, I assure you. I wanted to say it because we don't have the safest careers, and anything could happen to us at any moment. So I want you to promise me that you will keep yourself very well and out of trouble after I'm gone, because by then, I won't be here to save you."

"I'll… do my best. But you know, if I should die before you, I fully expect you to nuke the fuckers who took me out."

Mycroft laughed, and Sherlock snorted – mostly at himself, for realising, sappily, how much he loved the sound of Mycroft's laughter.

"Free for dinner tonight?" Sherlock asked, when they'd stopped chuckling.

"Not tonight, I'm afraid."

"Working on this case?"

"It's not work, but it is an obligation. How about tomorrow evening, barring a major crisis? The day before Mummy and Daddy descend on you for the musical?"

"Tomorrow's good. Don't work yourself too hard."

"I'll shirk all the duties I can trick Anthea into taking on. As for you, don't pocket any of the fingers."

"But they're so pocketable," Sherlock pouted.

"Sherlock."

"All right. No fingers. And Anthea's not trickable, but you know that. See you tomorrow."

Mycroft was driven away in his car, and Sherlock purposely didn't watch him go, so that anyone who might be looking on would have no reason to believe their relationship wasn't still antagonistic.

He finished up at Lestrade's crime scene, then returned to Baker Street to see the client. (The case involved her daughter's vanishing fiancé – a literally vanishing fiancé, for the man was a magician who had stepped into a covered box during a rehearsal for a show, and never re-emerged, to the bafflement of his assistants and the stage hands.)

That evening, Molly had an appointment with Mrs Hudson to bake a few batches of biscuits for a hospital charity drive, and the two women said they'd be happy to keep an eye on Rosie in Mrs Hudson's flat. So Sherlock and John went out to Angelo's for dinner – the first time they'd eaten out together without Rosie for what felt like an age. A calm hour over an excellent Italian meal with no fussing baby, no serial-killing cab driver to chase, and no worrying that Sherlock had spiked the dessert.

After dinner, they walked along the cobblestoned Soho streets in the direction of Oxford Circus while looking for an available cab, so they could either travel two stops on the Tube and a take a bit of a walk, or have a more comfortable ride in a taxi if one turned up.

As they neared one of the fanciest wine bars in the area, Sherlock spotted a familiar-looking face in the window, together with another man, both nursing what looked like sparkling water. Both were looking around rather than focusing on conversation or each other. The first man was one of Mycroft's people, and the other man with him was… a person he'd seen guarding someone from the Cabinet before…

Oh. That one.

He looked further into the wine bar through the window (by now, Mycroft's man had recognised him) and spotted his brother in a cosy nook with Lady Smallwood. They were laughing about something, and she placed her right hand on top of his left – and he didn't pull away.

"It's not work, but it is an obligation." He remembered Mycroft's words to him this morning, and he really, truly wanted to just nod at his brother's security man and walk on with John.

But it didn't matter what he told himself to do. His feet wouldn't carry him along the pavement. Neither could he seem to attach any importance to the "obligation" part of Mycroft's statement as he heavily weighted the "it's not work" portion with significance. He couldn't see past her hand on Mycroft's.

"Sherlock? What's the matter?" John asked, quick to spot that their coming to a stop wasn't just because he was curious about the wine list displayed in the window. He followed the line of his eyes to the far end of the bar, and finally saw what he'd seen. "Mycroft! With… oh, wow, isn't that Lady Elizabeth Smallwood? Are they seeing each other?"

Sherlock couldn't find his voice to answer at first. He gave John a silent glance, then stared back into the bar, looked at John again, and finally summoned the words: "I'm going in."

"But we're not drinking tonight… oh… oh! Erm, no – absolutely not. Mycroft is on a date. Do not walk up to them and make trouble…" John began, trying to grab at Sherlock's arm as he strode towards the doorway. "Sherlock, come back here… Sherlock, you've just been getting along great with Mycroft – don't bloody ruin everything… damn it, you never listen to me, do you?"

By now, he was through the door and John was helplessly trailing him, trying not to make a scene. They were greeted by a sommelier, but a simple gesture of a brisk, businesslike smile and a wave of a finger in the direction of Mycroft's table communicated that they were only here to see someone they knew. Mycroft's man was getting to his feet, but Mycroft had already sensed his brother's presence and was looking up.

They locked eyes. Still, he took at least three seconds to smoothly glide his hand away from Lady Smallwood's.

"Mycroft," Sherlock greeted him in what he hoped was a neutral voice. "Lady Smallwood. We were passing by after dinner."

The flicker of Lady Smallwood's eyes towards a point just behind Sherlock told him that John was standing there, looking apologetic.

"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson," she greeted them. "Are you here to try some of the wine as well?"

"No, we just stopped to say hello," Sherlock said. "I hope your date with my brother is going well."

"How kind of you to check on us," Mycroft remarked, his face giving away nothing of his feelings.

"Sorry for interrupting your conversation," John spoke, stepping closer to the table and giving Sherlock's coat a tug. "We were on our way home, and we really must be going – the landlady's babysitting for us."

"I hope your daughter is very well, Dr Watson," Lady Smallwood smiled.

Sherlock felt worse about the fact that her smile seemed genuine.

"Rosie's doing great, thanks, Lady Smallwood!" John grinned. "Sherlock, we should make a move."

"We should. Enjoy your date."

He turned and strode out of the wine bar, leaving John to make an apologetic goodbye before hurrying after him. Casting a single backward glance through the window only showed him that Mycroft's eyes were back on Lady Smallwood, not on him, and going by what he could lip-read, his brother was saying: "… can never tell what he's up to…"

"Sherlock, what are you annoyed about?" John asked, baffled about what he'd just been dragged into.

"Nothing," he replied tersely.

"Don't… just don't make things as bad as they were between you and Mycroft again, all right? I know we agreed you shouldn't be too nice to each other in public in case anyone uses you against each other, but there's no need to drag your relationship all the way back into the deepest mire, okay? Please?"

"Sure," Sherlock growled, feeling angry with himself for feeling angry at all. Logically, he knew that whatever went on between Mycroft and Lady Smallwood was business, friendship and comradeship. Even if they were having sex, it was still just that and no more. And whatever Mycroft said about Sherlock to Lady Smallwood or anyone else was for show, to make it appear there was no change in what he and Sherlock were. He knew all that. But he seemed unable to exercise logic well when Mycroft was involved – not in the years when he'd stubbornly labelled him "fat" although he was thin as a rail, not the years when they'd fought over everything even when it made no sense, and not now when he loved him. Logic had failed him then, and was failing him now.

They managed to flag down a cab, rode back to Baker Street mostly in silence, then he went to his room, closed the door, and sat on his bed in the darkness, knowing he was sulking but not wanting to give it that undignified name. Contemplating. Considering. Wallowing. Whatever. His phone rang and chimed and beeped at some point – at several points – but he ignored it.

He didn't actively take note of how much time was passing, but he gauged that it was about two hours later when he heard Mycroft's voice in the sitting room.

"I apologise for the lateness of my visit, Mrs Hudson, John, but I must see Sherlock."

"He's still sulking in his room – over what, I haven't the foggiest," John's voice came in response.

"I don't know that your going in there won't make it worse," Mrs Hudson remarked.

"Nor do I, I'm afraid," Mycroft admitted.

"Just give it a go," John sighed. "What's the worst that could happen? He might try to snap your arm again, but you'll survive that. At least, I'll do my best to make sure you survive it."

"You didn't do anything to upset him, did you?" Mrs Hudson asked.

He didn't answer in any way that Sherlock could make out with his ears. The next thing he heard was Mycroft's soft/firm rap on his bedroom door, and his voice: "Sherlock, I'm coming in."

Somehow, Mycroft knew that he hadn't locked the door. Now, why hadn't he locked it, if he wanted to… contemplate things in isolation? Was it not precisely because he had actually hoped that Mycroft would come? Of course it was. Damn his stupid newfound sentiments.

Annoyed with himself, he wanted to say something cutting the moment the door opened, but the sight of Mycroft's familiar, slender silhouette – bloody umbrella and all, backlit by the sitting room lights – drove the point right home to his heart that he was exactly what he'd been longing to see. It made his throat clamp up at once; he couldn't speak.

Mycroft closed the door behind him, plunging them both back into the darkness of Sherlock's room, and before Sherlock could unclog his throat and summon those hard words he wished he could say, Mycroft once again employed his impeccable timing to tell him: "I'm switching on the light."

His brother pressed the wall switch, and the overhead light came on. Sherlock blinked a little after so long in the dark, but he didn't otherwise move from his position on his bed, sitting up cross-legged, back resting against the wall.

Mycroft locked the door, leaned his umbrella against the side of the wardrobe and somehow toed off his not-exactly-toe-offable shoes, then wordlessly sat on the bed beside Sherlock, his back likewise against the wall.

They didn't speak for several minutes. But Mycroft gradually leaned towards him until their shoulders were just touching, and as he kept his breathing deliberately slow, deep and steady, the rhythm of Sherlock's breaths began to synchronise with his. Mycroft used to do that for him when he was a child, agitated or upset over one thing or another – he'd sit beside him and steady his breathing this way, holding him too, if he wanted to be held (which he usually did, once he was calm).

Still without saying a word out loud, Mycroft now turned his head towards him and rested his forehead against the side of Sherlock's head. They stayed like that for another few minutes before Sherlock finally slipped his hand into Mycroft's and said softly but honestly: "I didn't think I would mind, but it seems I've just learnt that I really don't like seeing you with other people you have sex with."

"I didn't think you would mind either," Mycroft admitted. "But now that we both know you do, we should talk about this."

They kept their voices so low that John and Mrs Hudson wouldn't be able to make out the words even if they pressed their ears to the door.

"What's there to talk about?" Sherlock asked, in a near-whisper. "You and I can never be seen together in ways that you can be seen with Lady Smallwood and whomever else you fuck for diplomatic reasons, or in ways that I can be seen with John, or Molly, or anyone who sort of likes me. And for us to survive, I imagine that we need to be regularly seen with other people. It's just that I didn't expect to dislike it this much."

Mycroft, as he'd done with Sherlock before, responded by coming at it from a tangent: "At the start of my career in Six, I had my share of missions in which seducing targets, or peripheral parties, was crucial if I had any intention of returning home alive. Although Uncle Rudy very quickly moved me into roles where I had more oversight, and though I've been in a position for many years now that no longer demands my participation in such active missions, I still occasionally face diplomatic – or even undercover – situations that go very much better if I convince certain parties that I find them nothing short of irresistible. I believe you know this. But you may have forgotten, since we grew closer, that it is very much a fact of my life."

"Lady Smallwood's not a target, though. She's your ally. And what you have with her isn't just work or politics or even friendship. It's attraction as well."

"It is. Or more accurately, it was," Mycroft revealed.

Sherlock's heart beat a little faster.

"If you'd stayed for just five more minutes," Mycroft continued, "you would have seen Lady Smallwood's old flame, Alfred Carr, join us at the wine bar for the rest of the evening. They've just begun seeing each other. I wanted to meet him, because I do count Lady Smallwood as a friend now – I have, after all, learnt from my favourite sibling how important having loyal friends can be."

"She was touching your hand. You didn't pull away."

"She used to touch a lot more than just my hand."

"I don't need any further help visualising that."

"My point is that when Lady Smallwood and I touch each other's hands, it amounts to nothing in terms of romance or sex. We're both rather… detached… individuals. We don't make friends easily. So I'm one of the very few people she feels she can make any physical contact with. But that really is all there is to it."

Sherlock dipped his head and nestled it in the crook of Mycroft's neck and shoulder.

Mycroft added: "As for my other diplomatic liaisons – which, as I indicated, are luckily very few and far between these days – they're purely about work, survival and manipulation. I cannot at this stage of my life promise you that I'll be able to avoid them entirely. But I can promise that I'll do my utmost to keep them to a critical minimum."

"Tell me when they happen. I want to know."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Tell me, too, whenever you need to seduce someone while you're on a case. I know that you get yourself into tricky circumstances sometimes – witness Magnussen's personal assistant, the lovely Janine…"

"We never actually went all the way."

"Still, you did everything except taking that last step, didn't you?"

Sherlock lifted his head a little and nuzzled Mycroft's neck, murmuring: "That whole episode's in the past."

"So is the sexual aspect of my liaison with Lady Smallwood."

"Fine. But I hated it, you know, when I was leaving the bar and you didn't even look at me."

"Sherlock, I had to fight every last one of my instincts in order not to run after you, grab you, spin you around, push you against a wall, and hold you there until you believed that there was nothing going on between me and her," Mycroft admitted, with a note of pain in his voice that only Sherlock's ears could pick up.

"It would have been nice if you had."

"It would have been our ruin."

"The logical dimension of my brain knows that. The emotional dimension tells me that it would still have been nice."

"I've come after you now, haven't I?" Mycroft asked gently. "In my own way, in my own time, in a manner that won't allow the world to destroy us. This is my best public expression of running after you in the street."

"Always too lazy to do proper legwork, aren't you?" Sherlock made it both a grumbling and a teasing question.

"Guilty as charged," Mycroft confessed.

"You're really something, you know – flirting with Lestrade in the morning, holding hands with Lady Smallwood in the evening, and climbing into my bed at night. You should come with a warning label."

"I think we were both born with huge, detailed, highly complex warning labels that no one except ourselves knew how to read," Mycroft mused. "And Lestrade? Really? Was that a note of jealousy I heard in your voice this morning?"

Sherlock snorted. "Oh, please – Lestrade's straight as a stork and you know it."

"'Straight as a stork'?" Mycroft echoed disbelievingly. "What kind of an idiom is that, Sherlock Holmes?"

"If Armistead Maupin could repeatedly describe his characters as 'gay as a goose', I don't see why I can't call Lestrade 'straight as a stork'."

Mycroft laughed soundlessly into Sherlock's hair. "Good heavens, you've actually read Tales of the City?"

Indignantly, but still very softly, Sherlock asked: "Why the hell does everyone express surprise that I've read one thing or another? Do I seem illiterate? John almost wet himself laughing when I quoted something from Pride and Prejudice."

This time, a small sound of laughter did escape from Mycroft's throat. "Pride and Prejudice? Honestly, Sherlock?"

"Oh, shut up. Austen's a hilarious writer."

"She is, but really? You? Pride and Prejudice?"

"Shut up."

"All right, I'm sorry. It shouldn't be surprising. You used to read a lot, though I think you forgot a great deal of it, along with the workings of our solar system, a raft of prime ministers, and half your childhood."

"And all that you meant to me. I never want to lose you again."

"You never did. Maybe you thought you'd lost me, just as I knew I'd lost you. But I was always here for you, Sherlock."

"Don't run off with Lady Smallwood."

"Don't run off with John."

"I think we have an agreement."

"At least we've finally had a major part of the talk we never really got around to having," Mycroft sighed. "We know what our boundaries are now."

"I'll hold you to them."

"Likewise. Do you want to come back to my place tonight?"

"Better not. We can't live in each other's pockets, right?"

"Not yet. But we'll find a way in the years to come. I promise you that."

"I'll hold you to that too."

"I'd be pleased to be held to it," Mycroft said, before he tilted Sherlock's face up and kissed him long and deeply. When they finally broke apart, trying to keep their breathing under control so no one would hear them, Mycroft added: "I will be faithful to you, Sherlock, within the boundaries of what my work allows. I've loved you too long and too hopelessly to be careless with your love now."

"I'll try to remember that the next time you sleep with someone else," Sherlock said, not entirely able to keep the note of bitterness out of his voice.

"Sherlock…"

"All right, all right – I know," he sighed, forcing the logical dimensions of his brain to the fore. "We know what our jobs are like."

"I'll pick you up for dinner tomorrow – Marcini's?"

"Why not? It was kind of where we had our disastrous first date, wasn't it?"

"I believe it was."

"Go home, then."

"Goodnight, Sherlock. Sleep well."

One more kiss, then Mycroft was up, straightening his clothes, pulling on his shoes, picking up his umbrella, and stepping out of Sherlock's room. Sherlock saw him out of the flat – Mrs Hudson seemed to have gone to bed, and there was no sign of John when they left the room. But when Sherlock went back upstairs, John was there, standing by his armchair.

"John…" Sherlock began, sounding – and feeling – more uncertain than he liked.

John scrutinised Sherlock's face and looked intently into his eyes over the four-foot distance of floorboards and carpet that separated them. Then he spoke, very calmly, and in a very level voice: "I thought there was something odd about your behaviour at the wine bar – more odd than usual for you, I mean. And it's only literally just occurred to me what it was. What I saw in your face, in your eyes – it was jealousy. I didn't recognise it because it's been so long since I've seen it in you. But it was, wasn't it?"

"I don't think I should answer that."

"Fair enough. I can understand why. Then, let me try this approach: I'm not saying that anything I say is a reflection of any facts that may or may not exist, and I don't actually, at this point, want confirmation of whether they are or are not facts. Because I have a strong instinct that it's safer for me, and for you and Mycroft, that I shouldn't know. Plausible deniability… and what I don't know I can't be forced to admit to knowing… and all that. But I'm going to echo a few statements now from one of our earlier discussions."

"John…"

"That someone you mentioned to me before, who loved you in every possible way. That same someone to whom you meant the world. That person who loved you so much that you couldn't settle for anything less once you remembered how much he loved you… I only want to know one thing: Did he initiate this when you were still a child? Or a young teenager?"

"God, no," Sherlock stated emphatically. "No, no, no. Not at all. I initiated it when I was 17. He flatly rejected me. I promptly forgot. He never brought it up again. Then I remembered it all a few weeks ago, and I re-initiated contact on that level. It took a lot of persuasion, but he finally said yes."

"I see. I'm not going to say at present that it's necessarily all fine with me, but at least I know you were an adult when things developed, so I don't have to die hunting him down to try to kill him."

"John…"

"I won't judge you, Sherlock. Or him. You're both so… different… from everyone else that I suppose it makes a warped sort of sense. Just don't confirm the fact of his identity to me, and don't confirm the fact of… of anything I've said. I shouldn't know this, and for all intents and purposes, I don't know this."

"Do you loathe me now?"

John looked straight at him. "Sherlock, no. I don't loathe you, and you haven't lost me. You couldn't lose me if you tried. I only wanted to know if you were abused or taken advantage of in some way as a child that was far worse than the way I stupidly, regrettably, physically beat you up after… after you returned, and… and after Mary… I don't hate you, and I don't judge you, any more than you were compassionate enough not to hate or judge me. As I said, you're in a league of your own, the two of you. Who else would be more perfect for you?"

John turned to go back up to his room. Sherlock crossed the space between them, wrapped his arms around John from behind, and just held him. John seemed to understand everything he was trying to communicate, for he let himself be held, relaxed into Sherlock's embrace, and put his own hands over Sherlock's, gripping them firmly, reassuringly.

Then, having wordlessly said everything they needed to say to each other, they let each other go – John to his room and his child; Sherlock to his own room, and to fitful dreams of love, betrayal, trust, forgiveness, and the peculiar brand of fidelity that marked the faith between him and Mycroft.