When he swiped his security pass through the final door and was, at last, back in the inner sanctum of his office, Mycroft felt that he could finally relax his face. For the past three hours, he'd been forcing his facial muscles into expressions of sorrow, stoicism, gratitude and everything else required in order to successfully play the role of grieving brother. As a result, he could now feel a migraine coming on. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes momentarily. If this was acting, perhaps he'd been right to bow out with Lady Bracknell after all.
If all this wasn't bad enough, he had also been forced to endure hugs, kisses and general unwanted touching from a surprising number of people who felt that bereavement gave them a right to be overly demonstrative. Some of these people he had never before set eyes on, for God's sake. He'd been as discreet as he could possibly be with the handkerchief, but the more he reflected upon it, the more he wanted to sink into a bath hot enough to remove the top layer of epidermis.
There was a sharp tap on the open door, and Anthea slipped into the room.
"You wanted an update, sir," she reminded him.
"Hm?" Mycroft replied, feeling slightly preoccupied. "Oh. Yes."
She had been keeping things ticking over for him, ensuring that there were no last-minute hitches and that everyone would be where they needed to be later that night.
"Your parents have some questions," Anthea continued, with a slight raise of the eyebrows.
"I don't doubt it," he replied, with tight smile. "You, ah, you can brief me shortly. I just need to take care of one or two things first."
His assistant nodded, then after a pause, added, "I'll bring you an aspirin."
"Thank you," Mycroft told her. "Better make it two, actually."
He sat down at his desk and reluctantly took out his phone. He had kept his word to Sherlock, and had been in intermittent contact with him during the morning; his brother's response to this was complete silence, which was only broken once Sherlock knew full well that his funeral was underway. From that point, Mycroft found himself bombarded with inane questions and demands – anything ranging from 'Who's catering the wake?' to 'I want names of everyone who isn't crying' – and eventually he had to switch off his phone altogether, something he hadn't done since about the year 2001. It was incredibly juvenile and irritating, of course, but that wasn't the only reason Mycroft had felt the need to shut him off; the truth was, the funeral was a lot more difficult than he thought it would be. Not just the play-acting and the detestable touching, but the sheer number of people who turned up for the service at the crematorium – for a man who considered himself a sociopath, and who could rightly claim the title of 'rudest man in London', Sherlock had attracted a surprising swell of mourners. The Met were out in force, and there were a couple of dozen disparate souls who were clearly former clients of his brother - he supposed that having their silly little problems solved by Sherlock must have made more of a difference to their lives than he imagined.
He had also found it far more difficult than he anticipated to converse with those who were most attached to Sherlock; to John Watson, to Detective Inspector Lestrade, and to the landlady, Mrs Hudson. The doctor seemed to be almost catatonic with grief, choosing silence to no doubt prevent some sort of horrible breakdown; at the other end of the spectrum, the landlady seemed to want to 'share', offering him a series of anecdotes that made Sherlock sound like some sort of lovable scamp, rather than the mercurial misanthrope who shot holes in her living room wall and hid drugs in her cutlery drawer. Death certainly seemed to smooth people's rough edges.
Mycroft wasn't the only one experiencing this, of course; Dr Hooper was there, too, although they kept a discreet distance from each other throughout. There was a brief exchange of words, purely for show, but Mycroft could tell that Molly was in no mood for further theatre. He supposed that some of these people were her 'friends', which he could see might cause a little…discomfort. But if people would insist on cultivating friendships…
He couldn't help but notice that Sherlock had gone quiet in the past hour, the barrage of asinine texts coming to an abrupt halt – around the time, Mycroft surmised, that Dr Hooper must have been arriving home. It seemed less likely that Sherlock had tired of his amusing little diversion, and more likely that, with the reappearance of his pathologist, the problem of his brother's boredom had been solved.
The continued radio silence, however, was not reassuring…
Congratulations, Sherlock – you are officially deceased.
He set his phone down when Anthea handed him two aspirins and set a jug of water and glass down on the desk, keeping half an eye on the screen. He found he had time to request a pot of tea and the latest intelligence reports before a response came through.
Molly isn't very happy – SH
Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at the screen.
Well, funerals will do that to you - even the bogus ones. Plus, the canapés were rather disappointing.
He thought it best to keep things light; if Sherlock was in a contemplative mood, it would be counter-productive to indulge him. There was another fairly lengthy pause because Mycroft's phone lit up again.
I think I might have been insensitive – SH
Mycroft let out a sigh, big enough that it riffled the papers on his desk. Well, this was a new one: Sherlock being concerned about how his words and actions affect other people. There was some merit in that, he conceded, but really, did he have to discover the power of self-reflection right now?
Confirmation, perhaps, that you are not cut out for this? he replied.
For what? – SH
Whatever it is you've been attempting to do.
Sherlock didn't respond, and Mycroft started to picture him in the cheerful living room of that little flat, hunched over his phone and projecting all sorts of uncharitable thoughts in his direction. The cat was probably joining in, too.
Anyway, your short exile in domesticity is shortly coming to an end.
His brother needed reminding that in a few short hours, none of this would remotely matter; that his brain would soon be engaged in something far more profitable and productive.
I can see some advantages to my current arrangement – SH
Mycroft felt another spike of alarm, and then rebuked himself for rising to his brother's bait; Sherlock was going to make this as arduous for him as possible. But still, there was a persistent niggling that wouldn't go away.
I trust you haven't done anything foolish?
Almost immediately, Sherlock replied.
No idea what you might be insinuating, but I was talking about the food. I haven't eaten so well since I left home – SH
Mycroft rolled his eyes, wearily. But as he stirred his tea and looked out of the window at the London skyline, he was starting to wonder whether he'd been wrong about something. For the past few years, he had thought of Bart's Hospital as Sherlock's 'home away from home', but while that clinical, utilitarian environment was a world away from his brother's current surroundings, there was, of course, one crucial factor in common. Sometimes, Mycroft recognised, home had little to do with bricks and mortar.
000000000000
Rather than go home, Mycroft decided to have a light dinner in his office; the working day was far from over, and he would go straight from there to the modest commercial airfield where the small prop plane would be waiting on the runaway – no flight plan filed, of course, no passenger manifest.
Cars were ready, the documentation was prepared, and there were clear skies over northern Europe; there really was very little left to do. On a chair at the other side of his office was the small, locked attaché case that he would hand to Sherlock at the airfield; false papers, currency, the SIM cards, and yet another new phone, this one with a tracking device (he hadn't yet decided whether he would share that detail with his brother). It made Mycroft think about the spy kit that he'd had as a child, probably around the time that Sherlock was born. Most boys would have discarded everything else in favour of the little plastic gun and walkie-talkie, but he had always been more taken by the replica passport, the identity card, the flimsy pretend banknotes – an innate appreciation of all of the careful preparation that goes into making a successful field operative.
And speaking of field operatives, Mycroft realised that Sherlock hadn't replied to a single one of his texts in the past hour. He wasn't too concerned, the agents stationed on Dr Hooper's street having confirmed that his brother was still in the property, but the time was swiftly approaching.
He picked up his phone.
"Don't tell me," Sherlock said, when he answered. "You've changed your mind. You're sending me to Mauritius instead."
"Not with your delicate complexion," Mycroft replied. "This is simply a friendly reminder that the car will be with you in exactly one hour."
"You always did have a strange idea of 'friendly', Mycroft," his brother replied. "Probably explains why you never had any friends."
"Sherlock-"
"I know, Mycroft," he replied, more forcefully. "And I told you. I will be ready."
"Very well," Mycroft replied. "I will see you at the point of departure."
There was a pause.
"Be honest – is it worth me packing my swimming trunks?"
Mycroft sighed.
"Not unless you want me to cancel the flight so you can swim the English Channel instead."
"Fine," Sherlock replied. "I'm going now."
"One further thing," Mycroft cut in, before Sherlock had the chance to hang up. He hadn't been planning to say anything further, but the words were out there now, and it would have felt remiss of him to stay silent. "It's vital that you make a clean break, Sherlock. They might hurt more in the first instance, but remember that they are also quicker to heal."
He was bracing himself for Sherlock to fire something back at him, but he didn't. Was he going to force Mycroft to spell it out? Make this as uncomfortable for both of them as he could?
"What I'm saying is, you must resist the temptation to make any promises," he elaborated, letting his words trail off, allowing Sherlock to apply his own interpretation.
"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft," Sherlock spat back, a little too quickly. "What kind of promises do you imagine I might be making?"
His tone told Mycroft all that he needed to know.
"I'm sure I have no idea," he replied, effecting an enigmatic air. "But with the uncertainty of everything that lies ahead, it would be detrimental to everyone for…words to be exchanged, for…hope to be given."
The conversation ended fairly abruptly at that point, as perhaps he should have expected. He called Anthea in to bring him up to speed on everything, including communication with his parents, who always needed at least two hours' warning in order to be ready to leave the house (it was astonishing how many times someone could mislay a pair of glasses and how difficult it apparently was to settle on a choice of scarf). After she'd gone, he scanned through the various texts his mother had sent throughout the day; aside from two that were basically complaints about how she hated texting, there were several enquiries about the funeral – and one further message to which he had yet to reply. He looked at it again.
We know you're against it, but we would still like to meet Molly. Perhaps once everything has blown over? Mummy x
Sometimes he wondered whether he was even truly related to these people. He knew exactly what he wanted to say in response, but he had hesitated earlier on, and he was still hesitating now. Mycroft closed his eyes, pressing a finger and thumb into the corners. There was no doubt in his mind that he would live to regret this.
Opening his eyes again, he slowly reached out a hand to his desk phone and pressed the intercom button.
"Anthea?"
"Sir?"
Mycroft paused, pursing his lips for a moment.
"I need you to dispatch another car to the same address."
"For the same time?" she asked in response.
"A quarter of an hour later," he told her. "Nine-fifteen."
000000000
Mycroft ensured that his car would arrive first. He needed to do the final briefing to the two pilots, and to speak to the operations manager at the airfield to ensure that they understood each other. By the time he had descended the metal staircase back to the small hangar, the car carrying his brother was cruising slowly into the building. It was a cold, clear night, and when Sherlock jumped out of the car, his breath was visible in the air. He was carrying a small, brown leather hold-all (Italian, expensive – rather a waste, considering), and pulled his coat around him as he walked towards Mycroft.
"Is the Duty Free closed?" he said, sniffing in the cold air. "I rather fancied a Toblerone for the journey."
"I believe the plane is well-stocked," Mycroft told him. "Well, there's a minibar at any rate."
"Hm," Sherlock replied, wrinkling his nose. "Thought you might have done better than that."
Mycroft narrowed his eyes and reached into his inside breast pocket, producing the pack of cigarettes he'd taken from his desk drawer. Sherlock was watching him as he took one and lit it, before closing the lid and holding the box out to his brother. Eyes still fixed on him, Sherlock also took out a cigarette, lit it and took a drag before cramming the rest of the pack into his travel bag. They stood side by side for a long moment, curls of smoke drifting pleasingly on the light breeze. It was, Mycroft reflected, one of the few activities they'd always been able to enjoy together without argument or the need to compete (although Sherlock had, of course, once smoked Mycroft's entire pack at the same time, just to spite him over something or other).
As they stood there, Mycroft glanced sideways at his brother. His rigid expression wasn't giving anything away, but there was something behind his eyes, something turning over in his mind. Broaching the subject, however, at such a crucial time, could only lead to places they simply didn't have the time – or, in Mycroft's case – inclination, to go.
Lights could be spotted on the runway outside, gliding closer to the hangar.
"Damn. They're early," Mycroft said flatly, extinguishing his cigarette and kicking the butt and ash underneath the car.
Sherlock sighed, and continued to smoke. A minute or so later, their parents were being helped out of the car, and making their way at surprising speed towards Sherlock. He rolled his eyes theatrically to Mycroft as their mother hurried over, a look of fond exasperation on her face.
"Oh look at you, smoking again, silly boy!" she said, wafting the air around them dramatically and gesturing for Sherlock to get rid of the offending cigarette.
Mycroft couldn't help the smile that started to stretch across his face.
"And don't think I can't smell it on you, too, Myc," their mother added, shooting him a look.
It would probably do no good to remind her that he was forty-three years old, and she no longer had the power to ground him, dock his pocket money or force him to help out at parish luncheons.
As soon as Sherlock put out the cigarette - rather unhurriedly – their mother first cupped his face in her hands, and then pulled him into a hug, which he bore with determined stiffness. Their father joined in, too, moving around to grasp Sherlock's shoulder. Mycroft stepped back, catching his brother's pained look as he did so; he had little inclination to rescue him – after all, in a matter of hours, Sherlock would be hundreds of miles away, and he would be the one left handling all matters familial.
"You look well, darling," he heard their mother say to Sherlock. "Healthy. Doesn't he, dear? Much better than when we last saw him?"
"Mm, yes. Quite," their father nodded.
She gave Sherlock a smile that Mycroft could only describe as 'conspiratorial'.
"She obviously takes good care of you," said their mother quietly, patting Sherlock's elbow. "Perhaps, when you come back, you should consider making it a permanent arrangement."
Oh lord. Mycroft had to hand it to his parents – they never gave up hope. But in light of this, he was seriously beginning to regret the decision he had taken in haste back at the office.
"You have five minutes," he told Sherlock, whom he noticed had not answered their mother, but was instead staring at the ground, his jaw set and his whole body tensed as he endured further fussing.
Mycroft stepped away, and immediately consulted his phone; he wasn't expecting any further communication, but was gravely afraid that if he lingered any longer, he might be invited to partake in some sort of 'family hug'. As it happened, he had received a text from Anthea – the driver of the third car had apparently met with some initial resistance, but was still on schedule. He glanced across the runway, but saw no sign of approaching headlights yet.
He picked up the attaché case from where he'd left it by the car, and walked back to Sherlock and his parents. His mother and father turned, and Mycroft tried to give the impression that he hadn't seen a certain 'dewiness' in both of their countenances.
"I need a word with Sherlock," he told them.
His parents exchanged a look, his father resting a hand on his mother's shoulder.
"You boys need a moment, of course," their mother nodded, wholly misinterpreting his meaning, but nevertheless giving them the necessary and desired privacy.
"What is this, colouring books for the flight?" Sherlock said, gesturing to the case.
Mycroft handed over the case, which he knew required no actual explanation. Sherlock regarded it for a moment before tugging his arms out of his coat, folding it once and thrusting the garment out to Mycroft. He looked at Sherlock questioningly.
"I'm coming back, remember?" Sherlock said, arching an eyebrow. It sounded very much like a challenge. "And if I don't, you can open a museum or something."
Mycroft slowly took the coat, watching as Sherlock picked up the attaché case.
"I hardly think I need remind you of the gravity and import of this particular operation, Sherlock," he said.
Sherlock smirked.
"Nope, but you did it anyway," he replied. He glanced over his shoulder at the plane on the runway, then turned back to face Mycroft. "See you on the flipside, blud."
And with that, Sherlock winked and turned on his heel. There was a fleeting glance towards their parents (who seemed to have accepted that there wasn't going to be a heartfelt farewell), but nothing more, as he strode purposefully out of the hangar and towards the short flight of steps leading up to the plane. Mycroft sighed. Flippancy had always been Sherlock's reaction to an unsettled mind, his attempt to throw up a shield.
He had barely had time to consider this further – was still watching the doors of the aeroplane close – when his parents were by his side. Or rather, in front of him.
"Now you listen to me, Mycroft Holmes," his mother said, fixing him with a cold stare. "We don't want to know where Sherlock is or what he's doing, but we are relying on you to do everything you can – and I mean everything – to keep your brother safe. The only thing we ask that you tell us is…is if he's dead."
Something about his mother's gaze was suddenly making the skin beneath his shirt collar itch. He resisted the urge to scratch it, to show his discomfort.
"Contrary to what you might think," he said. "I do care about Sherlock's welfare."
He could see that his mother was all set to challenge this when all three of them were distracted by beams of light piercing the darkness of the airfield. The third car was here. Both of his parents looked at him questioningly, and Mycroft wasn't sure whether he felt relief or further discomfort at this development - but it was too late now anyway.
"Myc?"
"I believe you requested this meeting," he told them, as the car came to a halt. He felt their eyes on him as he walked towards the vehicle, waiting while the driver got out and went around to open the back door.
When she stepped out, her eyes were wide, but her expression was guarded, uncertain. If it were anyone else, Mycroft would have deduced that she had dressed in a hurry, thrown together an outfit when the car unexpectedly arrived – but he had realised that this was simply her 'style', for want of a more appropriate term.
"Good evening, Dr Hooper," Mycroft said, stepping back as she nervously adjusted her coat and looked around her.
"W-what's this about?" she asked, blinking as she squared up to him. "Why did you…is Sherlock all right?"
He was saved from answering this slightly thorny question by his mother suddenly appearing at his elbow.
"Molly…is it?" she asked.
Mycroft saw the pathologist's eyes flick back to him momentarily, perhaps with some suspicion (Sherlock's influence, no doubt). Was she imagining that his septuagenarian parents, with their penchant for country tweed and comfortable shoes, were in fact dangerous enemy agents?
"Um, yes, that's…yes, I'm Molly. Sorry, do I-?"
Mycroft saw the moment that she recognised the admittedly-strong familial resemblance. Her response was to give a short, apologetic laugh.
"Oh! Hi, yes, sorry, I'm-"
"Molly," his mother smiled. "Yes, we know. We've heard."
His parents could not have been more pleased if three curly-haired children had climbed out of the car after her. Molly Hooper, Mycroft could see, was not what they expected, but perhaps exactly what they had hoped.
It was, however, about all that Mycroft could take. That feeling of unease hadn't abated. He watched his parents lead Molly Hooper away, and the introductions and conversation continue. He handed Sherlock's coat to his driver, suddenly wishing that he hadn't been quite so generous with the cigarettes (for once, his mother would have been too preoccupied to chastise him). He was just checking his pocket-watch again when his father called his name.
"Molly is going to travel back to London with us," his father said.
"It seems silly for us all to go in separate cars," his mother added. "It'll give us a bit longer, too."
Yes, that's what I'm afraid of, Mycroft thought, managing to refrain from saying it out loud. Instead…
"As you wish," he said, forcing a smile. "Dr Hooper, I would like to thank you for your service during the past few days. The British government will gladly compensate you for any inconvenience or expense."
Molly didn't immediately respond, but instead stood, frowning at him, apparently trying to fathom his meaning. He had tried to be delicate about it; he knew very well that he couldn't just hand her fifty pounds in an envelope, as he had with the two-dozen vagrants in Sherlock's employ. Besides, he wasn't clear exactly what he'd be paying her for…
"It…it wasn't a service," Molly replied eventually, still looking at him curiously. "I wanted to. I didn't expect…I mean, I don't want anything in return."
Mycroft felt perhaps he should have seen that coming. Apparently, so did his parents, as there were now three faces looking at him with incomprehension and a hint of disapproval. He cleared his throat, then gestured to the car that had arrived carrying Molly, which was closest to the hangar entrance.
"We're not waiting?" his mother asked, glancing towards the plane.
"I'll remain behind," Mycroft replied. "We may be some time waiting for clearance."
He saw all three of the others look towards the plane - rather pointlessly, given that it was positioned far too far from the hangar for them to see its occupant. With some visible reluctance, they climbed into the car, his father offering a hand first to his mother and then to Molly, apparently taking the latter by surprise (understandable - she was no doubt unaccustomed to Holmes gallantry). Mycroft spoke to the driver about the change of itinerary, then stood back as the car slowly coasted out of the hangar and back into the darkness.
The lights of the vehicle were still in sight when Mycroft felt a buzz from his phone. He reached into his pocket.
What are you doing? - SH
Naturally, his brother had been watching every second of what had played out in the hangar; Mycroft was only surprised it had taken him this long to interject. Of course, he hadn't warned Sherlock that he was going to bring Dr Hooper to the airfield, just as she hadn't known anything about it until the car arrived at her front door. But he was aware that hedidn't exactly know how to answer Sherlock's question – perhaps he would be forced to resort to honesty.
I'm not entirely sure.
A few moments passed before a reply arrived.
Thank you anyway - SH
Mycroft gave a short sniff of wry laughter – apparently, gratitude was only forthcoming when he wasn't even sure his actions had been helpful. He crossed the hangar to his car, where the driver was waiting by the open door, and was just about to step in when his phone sounded another alert.
Remember what I asked - SH
It was an ambiguous statement, but Mycroft immediately understood to what Sherlock was referring.
Safe. Protected. Above suspicion - SH
It would be easy to point out that none of this would be necessary if Sherlock had just left Dr Hooper to her tissue samples and homemade ginger cake; emotions always were his downfall, even if he couldn't see it himself. But given that his brother was about to embark on a potentially deadly assignment of indeterminate length, it seemed a little churlish to try to claim one, last intellectual victory. No less tempting, though.
Mycroft looked across at the small plane as the engines started to roar into life, the propellers grinding and spinning into a blur. If freeing Sherlock from all other distractions and concerns was going to aid this mission, it was a small price to pay. He returned to his phone and typed a response.
You have my word.
Mycroft watched as the plane started to taxi, and he remained there until it had taken flight, the tail lights turning eastwards in the direction of the coast and then disappearing completely into the blackness. Another act had come to an end; tomorrow he would turn his attention to other things. Although before he could find distraction in a promising little civil war or military coup, he would need to make it clear to his parents that this was a one-off - that they were not to attempt to befriend, adopt, or otherwise become attached to their son's pathologist. It would only end in tears, and that really wasn't his area.
