Destruction was never easy to watch, John mused internally, even when done for a good purpose. Like surgery, when you needed to remove infected tissue from the healthy ones, you had to cut deep and it was always painful.
Sherlock was cutting deep. Even if he only touched upon the highlights, and his descriptions were bare-bones, the effect of the accumulated information was overwhelming. The weeks and even months of living from high to high, the overdoses and the daily danger he faced, and the wrenching pain of never being at peace.
Mycroft's role, the rescues and the hospitals, the rehabs and the up-and-down cycles. Mycroft noting his attraction to crime scenes, and discreetly arranging for unofficial endorsement of the world's only consulting detective. There was a reason he was the only one.
Urged on by John, Sherlock gave very brief overviews about some of the trouble the duo had faced over the years, and how they made use of the British Government's assistance. The detective explained how he and his brother had hatched a plan to bring down Moriarty. The discreet assistance through his years spent 'dead', and the way he had personally come to rescue him.
He mentioned 'a bit of trouble with the law, it could have meant some time in exile,' and how Mycroft 'took care' of it. He carefully mentioned getting 'some assistance' in protecting Mary from those threatening her, and finding the threat. He looked at John with a gaze so filled with sorrow and remorse, that John felt compelled to squeeze his hand and whisper, "It's alright."
The elder couple didn't interrupt him once. William listened with his head lowered almost until his chest, and shook his head in dismay from time to time. Mildred clutched her handkerchief tightly, letting out some choked sobs at various points. Both of them seemed to be in slight shock, and too overwhelmed to speak.
Sherlock paused his narrative, and looked at John pleadingly. They were up to the most difficult part of all: Sherrinford. The doctor sighed, and cocked his head, considering. "I don't think there's another way," he finally said. "What happened that day, that's exactly why we're here now. This is the final piece of the puzzle."
The younger man nodded in resignation. He glossed over the 'little prank' that they played, and talked about Mycroft coming over. The doctor seemed to be thinking hard. "Tell them about the chair," he said suddenly.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, grimacing.
"You know."
"It was your idea," the detective accused.
"Yes, and we both did our parts. This is your confessional now. We can take care of mine at another time," he quirked his lips.
"It was a joke," Sherlock insisted.
"Indeed. For us. I was just thinking..." He hesitated. For some reason, he had suddenly pictured Harry in the chair, her breath smelling of alcohol, slurring her words while sobbing her heart out. "You don't really care about me, Johnny. I'm just a pain in the neck to you. He is your family. You love only him, not me!"
The analogy was ludicrous. John had always seen Mycroft as the pompous, overbearing older brother who was also the British Government, and who desperately needed to have his head deflated a bit. Spending time with his family, and getting to see him as a child who had been hurt, time and again, was forcing him to feel compassion for the man whose heart was made of ice.
"What if," John began thoughtfully, "he didn't see it that way?"
Sherlock looked bewildered, then thoughtful. Then he began a journey from which there was no turning back. He told his parents about teachingredients his brother a lesson, which was perhaps taught too well. Perhaps it reinforced his belief that he had no special significance in his brother's life, beyond calls for help. Perhaps this incident influenced the events that came afterwards.
He told his parents the story of their three children, who had met together one day on an island amidst stormy seas. How one of them was so broken, that she searched for long without knowing its meaning.
She led her brothers and the doctor through harrowing experiences, testing and deducing them with her mind, unable to use her heart. And then, one brother tried to make the other one hate him, enough so that he would find it easy to do what he had to.
The younger brother had always known, despite everything, who the older one really was. He trusted him enough to point a gun at his heart, while his target reassured him that he was doing the right thing.
At this point in the narrative, the mother of the two had heard enough. " How could you!" she cried out, anguished. "Idiot boys! Both of you! What were you thinking, Sherlock! Taking a... your own brother! My Mycroft! I don't care if you had to save the world from annihilation by nuclear attack, you should never for a moment have considered doing such a thing!"
"He asked me to," her son answered forlornly.
"And Mycroft! What was he thinking! Manipulating his little brother like that! As if you would ever do such a thing." She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "You know better than that, don't you, Sherlock?"
"Of course, Mummy," Sherlock soothed. He continued his tale, telling about the gun he pointed under his chin, which brought panicked exclamations from both parents this time. "What is it with my boys," she asked John tearfully, "playing with their lives, as if it didn't matter?"
"They'll be fine," the doctor reassured. "They are strong, both of them. And look at how much they care for each other, and look out for each other."
The detective was twisting in his chair uncomfortably. His mother's words had stung him, but John's words stung even more. Was it true? Did he ever look after his brother, like the older one did for him? He closed his eyes and receded deep into his Mind Palace.
He was unsurprised to find him waiting, right behind the metaphorical door. "Hello, brother mine," the man greeted, in his typical unflappable tone.
Sherlock looked him over, his clothes in perfect condition, his umbrella swinging casually at his side. "Am I still?" he asked quietly.
"Well, what do you think? How do you deduce the situation?" Mycroft smiled in his typical condescending way.
"I'm a bit lost. Why don't you tell me? You always guide me through my deductions."
"Ah, yes, the deductions," Mycroft drawled scornful lyrics. "Remember those games we used to play?"
"It wasn't just games," Sherlock exclaimed indignantly. "It's my Work now."
"Of course," the older one waved a hand lazily. "You do have some small talent in that area. Why do you think I even bothered to teach you?"
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Because you wanted to show off how smart you were?"
"Don't be petty. Think! Do I usually put up with random stupidity? Obviously, I appreciated your ability."
"I always wanted you to be proud of me," Sherlock told him, his voice embarrassingly small.
"Am I not?" Mycroft's voice softened considerably. "Don't I always trust you with cases? Don't I do every single thing you ask of me, including arresting my trusted colleague and friend? Doesn't that mean I believe in you?"
Sherlock was trying to process the information, which shouldn't have been difficult, as it came from his very own mind. It seemed that it was sentiment that got in the way.
"But you never tell me that," he said in a hurt voice.
"I'm sorry. You know I have a hard time expressing... sentiment. I even tell myself that it is a chemical defect to even possess it. But it's a defect I can't overcome." He paused. "Because it isn't possible. I will always care about you and believe in you, Sherlock."
"I don't need your caring. I still hate you and I want you to stay far away from me," Sherlock said belligerently.
Mycroft smiled at him mockingly. "Is that why you seek me out, even when I'm not physically present?"
"I don't even know why you're here. I can never get away from you, even in the privacy of my own mind. Do you always need to interfere?"
"Of course. Because I am concerned."
"I hate when you do that. I hate when I need you to come rescue me."
"Why, Sherlock?"
"Because I hate being in your debt."
The older man was smiling ruefully and shaking his head. "No, Sherlock. Tell me the real reason."
"Because..." Sherlock suddenly turned around and pointed to a locked room. "The answer is in there, Mycroft. Give me the key."
"No, little brother," Mycroft shook his head sadly. "You are the one with the key. Find it within your own heart."
Suddenly, they were both inside. They stood silently in the corner of the room, watching the scene in front of them.
A curly haired boy of about seven was sitting on the floor, knees pulled up, and his head resting on them. He was shaking and letting out gut-wrenching sobs.
A young teenaged boy, heavily built and with a sharp pointed nose, was gently patting the younger ones shoulders. "Please, stop this. I will help you find him. Please stop crying," he pleaded.
The younger boys head suddenly shot up, and he pointed his index finger at the older one. "You're a liar! You're not even trying!" he screamed. "Why couldn't you save him?! Why? I'm the little one, the stupid one, I can't do anything myself. You're my big brother! You should have made sure this never happened!"
"Sherlock, please, I'm doing the best I can."
"YOU DON'T EVEN CARE!" The little boy was shrieking now, wild eyed and red in the face. "You only come to rescue me after I've already fallen! Why couldn't you save me before I had to turn to drugs? Why didn't you save me so I wouldn't turn into a high functioning sociopath? Why did I have to suffer being all alone for two years? Why couldn't you save me before I got on the plane? Do you really care, Mycroft? "
The two adult versions of the brothers looked at each other. "So that's it?" Mycroft asked softly.
Sherlock looked troubled. "My young mind, it seems, believed you capable of anything. I've always looked up to and trusted you, Big Brother. And it seems that, although I knew logically that you do all you could, my heart feels let down."
Very softly, he added, "And then it wonders if you really do care."
"Do you still, brother mine?" Sherlock's voice cracked. "Why did you leave me?"
"Did I leave you? Or did you leave me?"