Mycroft raised an elegant eyebrow as he looked down at the incoming text on his mobile phone.
Lunch? – SH
He took a deep breath and allowed his face to twitch for a moment into a smile.
2 pm, my place. - MH
The next half hour were spent in rescheduling all his appointments for the afternoon, the ever reliable Anthea doing most of the legwork for it.
Summons from Sherlock were rare and unpredictable, but when they came, Mycroft always gratefully obliged.
Sherlock sat on the comfortable arm-chair in the living room in Mycroft's house, his legs crossed, the fingertips of his folded palms absently caressing his lips.
Lunch had been an excellent three course affair prepared by Mycroft's house-keeper and the brothers had eaten in amiable silence. Both were pleased to suspend inane conversation for a while and just enjoy the meal.
Mycroft watched him as he poured out freshly brewed tea. Sherlock looked reflective but not pensive. Mycroft was loathe to interrupt his thoughts and waited patiently, watching. Sooner or later they were going to discuss the elephant in the room who went by the name of a Dr John Watson, but for now, Mycroft wanted to just savour his brother's presence.
Contrary to popular belief, the brothers were close. The mutual disdain and antipathy they exhibited in company were merely a game they had played and enjoyed playing for so long now, they had forgotten its origins. Underlying the façade of hostility though, a strong streak of affection and mutual respect ran deep. It was inviolable.
Abruptly, as if he had finished processing a thought, Sherlock eyes sought Mycroft.
"Tea?" Mycroft asked indicated by raising a cup.
"Yes, thank you," Sherlock replied, stretching his arm out to accept the cup.
Mycroft settled back in his chair and savoured appreciatively the crisp cleansing taste of his cuppa. Sherlock leaned back on his chair, arms relaxed on the arm-rests and straightened his legs, still looking reflective.
Mycroft pursed his lips, "I've been told by my sources that John Watson has been walking the streets of London today, looking like a man whose world has come to an end," he began.
"I am aware. I've had my homeless network shadowing him all day," Sherlock responded, without offering additional clarification.
"He looks like he is about to implode under the weight of depression and frustration."
Sherlock's tone was dry as he said, "He has been depressed for a long time now, Mycroft. Perhaps you have been too busy to observe."
Mycroft looked at Sherlock, locking his gaze with those exquisite cerulean eyes, "I make it my business to observe everything that impacts upon you, Sherlock. It seems to be my primary occupation in life." He paused and then added softly, deliberately, "I worry about you, constantly."
He looked up as Sherlock chuckled softly, looking back at Mycroft with eyes laced with undisguised affection, "The one constant in my life…."
Mycroft allowed the pleasure at this remark to reflect on his face. He accepted it for the rarity it was, a black-and-white compliment from the greyest man he knew.
His mind drifted to the image of his brother, love-sick and despairing as he had watched John get married and announce the pregnancy, kill someone in plain sight and with deliberation and then walk into an effective suicide mission. He had hated it. And by extension, irrational though it may be, he had come to resent John Watson.
"I had thought you were over your unfortunate lapse of judgement with all the sentiment you displayed towards him after you returned back from the dead."
"It was. I am," Sherlock's answer was brief and without a hint of defensiveness, just a statement of fact. He went on to elaborate, "It had been far too long that I had been away from home, one too many close brushes with captivity, death. The mind plays tricks. It paints unrealistically rosy pictures about the past that are not based on the facts. It deludes one into the idea that life used to be a utopia. It makes one's emotions take one a different shade." Sherlock sneered, "Sentiment. The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment."
"Indeed," agreed Mycroft and took another sip of his tea.
"So why did you invite him back to Baker Street?" he asked.
Sherlock took a sip as he pondered. He was silent as he put the cup down and then brought his fingertips back together in his hallmark thinking pose.
"It was either that or watch the John Watson I know disappear as he succumbed to his sense of worthlessness and self-pity. He was hurting."
He leaned back and looked at Mycroft and added, his tone musing, "Ordinary people make the mistake of deriving their sense of self-worth based on their life circumstances or the opinions of other, without ever reflecting on the fact that these are transient and unreliable at best. A single misfortune, a single word of derision, a single retraction of someone's good opinion and that sense of self-worth wobbles and crashes. They never seem to grasp the fact that self-esteem comes from within one's own self, not outside."
Both brothers were silent for a while, ruminating philosophically.
Mycroft spoke after some time, "How did inviting him back to Baker Street help him though? You spend less time with him than you used to. You don't invite him for cases often. He is progressively getting worse."
"An option I did consider was making advances of a romantic nature," Sherlock admitted after some time, without answering the question directly.
"It is possible that he is a closet homophobe, Sherlock," Mycroft warned him.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "One who is enamoured with me!"
"Touché," Mycroft bowed his head, conceding the point.
Sherlock leaned back till his head was lolling on the plush backrest of the arm-chair and looked up at the ceiling as he mused aloud, "I decided against that option. John is a man at war within his mind, Mycroft. He has been that since I have known him. On the one hand, there is a strong need to conform to the rules of society, to appear to be doing the 'right' thing, to be one of the group, indistinguishable and unimpeachable, normal. On the other hand, there is the craving for excitement, the unknown, the forbidden, a life that involves risk and uncertainty. I know John, I know how his mind works. A conventional romance, no matter how desired and torrid it may have been to begin with, would have lasted no more than….. eighteen months at the most."
Mycroft leaned forward resting his elbows on both his knees, keen to hear Sherlock's musings.
He had known this for a long time about Sherlock; he had always observed the world from a disconcertingly objective viewpoint. Most people stumbled along life's devious paths, unaware of more than a few feet in front of their eyes, rarely aware of where it was leading. Sherlock though could predict with unnerving accuracy the motivations, the subconscious urges, the outcomes of actions, as if he was watching from a higher vantage point and could see where the path led. He never indulged in individual judgements; that was not his aim. He sneered at all of society indiscriminately.
"I envisaged that after the completion of a nauseatingly romantic honeymoon period, the chances were high that John would grow restless. He needs titillation of the unknown, the possibility of as yet unchartered, the as yet unrevealed and potentially perilous to keep his interest. He joined medicine to pitch himself against death and to challenge himself, he joined the army for the same reason. He stuck with me for the same reason."
Sherlock stood up to pace as he talked, waving one hand, the other in his trouser pocket.
"But once I became a known quantity, the charm could not have lasted. The part of him that wants to appear normal would start looking around again for a normal relationship, his intolerance of the flaws he sees in me would be back; the mess, the lack of domesticity, the moods, the perceived inability to exhibit the usual human emotions- empathy, compassion, love. It would not take long for any liaison to disintegrate," Sherlock shrugged.
Mycroft leaned back as well, "Yes, I see."
Sherlock straightened his head to look at Mycroft, "My only regret is I should have acted sooner." He shrugged, "I thought I would play normal for once, give him a chance to realise that non-acceptance of one's basic nature was not conducive to true happiness."
He shook his head ruefully, "I'm afraid I over-estimated both his intelligence and my tolerance for what passes for normalcy among the mindless masses."
Mycroft's fingers played absently with a phantom thread on the fabric of his sofa, as he mused aloud, "You seem to have chosen a convoluted way of introducing John to, shall we say... your unconventional proclivities in matters of intimacy…"
Sherlock shrugged, "He needed to find out at some point…Besides vanilla bores me, it is tedious, repetitive, dull. It will bore John after some time too."
"And are you certain he will indulge and reciprocate?"
"Yes," the word though softly spoken sounded like an irrevocable pronouncement when it came out in that devastating baritone.
Sherlock moved towards the window and stared outside as Mycroft looked at him in contemplative silence for a while.
Mycroft was fully aware that the purpose of Sherlock's visit was to use him as a sounding board, no more. Sherlock never sought approval or advice. He always knew what he was doing and why. Even while giving Mycroft a glimpse of his thought processes, his actions were still a mystery. Mycroft had often thought that, for a person who went around proclaiming he believed in Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson had turned out to be a man of little faith. Mycroft did not make the same mistake.
"Some might call you manipulative…."
Sherlock waved an unconcerned hand, "And they would be right. But I prefer a drastic measure and a permanent solution." He gave a deep breath, "John needs to make a choice and I am helping him come down from that fence he is sitting on. To accept for good, that we belong together. Without me needing to change who I essentially am."
He turned around, "Well, I best be off."
Mycroft stood up as well and watched his brother put on his scarf and coat, quietly. As Sherlock was putting on his gloves, he said, "Just make sure that your actions don't push him off the deep end, Sherlock."
Sherlock smiled, "If he does, I will catch him." He looked up and added with emphasis, "I will not let him fall."
Turning around, he reached the door handle but halted as he heard Mycroft say, "Tell me, for a person who claims to be over his infatuation and has purged himself of sentiment, you still seem remarkably invested in John Watson. Why?"
Sherlock turned around and looked at Mycroft. He seemed to consider his answer and slowly a fond, tender smile lit up his face.
"Because he is mine. He has been mine since he walked into the laboratory at St Barts. It is time he accepted that."
He added softly as he opened the door, "I look after what is mine, Mycroft."