A/N: Thank you for the wonderful reviews. I value my esteemed readers' opinions highly. In common parlance, you make my day!
"I see you haven't learnt your lesson about taking my posessions," Mycroft said dryly, staring at Sherlock's tie.
"I needed it for an experiment," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.
"If you have concluded your 'experiment', might I be able to get my tie back?" Big Brother drawled sarcastically.
"Definitely. And my conclusion is thus; you are an idiot."
"I've assumed you have reached that conclusion a long time ago. What was it again, you're beginning to think that I'm not very clever, something like that?" There was a bite to his voice that his little brother wasn't accustomed to.
"No, not that kind of idiot. A different one. I was wearing this thing," the detective gestured, "trying to imagine myself in your place. And I reached another conclusion: I praise the Lord that I am not."
Mycroft snorted, but didn't say anything. His posture was tense, expectant, waiting for further explanation.
"I simply don't understand. How did you do it? How did you give, without receiving anything in return? How did the engine run without oil?"
Mycroft stared at him in silent contemplation. At last, he spoke. "A man has to do his duty."
"And you went far beyond that. You never got rid of your chemical defects, did you? All your preaching, and you never could practice it." Sherlock paused. "You are much worse than I thought. I saw what else you had hidden in your safe."
"You took those too. Doesn't your conscience ever bother you?" the older one asked cynically.
In response, Sherlock produced the goods: a small, worn pirate hat, and a little toy airplane. "The hat is mine. You might ask our sister if she wants the plane back. And I needed the tie, to understand what happens, when you care too much."
Mycroft swallowed, and then looked away, fingers tapping on the arm of his chair. His younger brother, who had been pacing about, abruptly sat down on the chair reserved for clients. "I've always wondered what that felt like," he mused with a small smile. "To business now, I have the letters."
He tossed two envelopes on the table. With a sigh, his older brother reached for it. He placed it carefully in the pocket of his jacket. He faced his brother again. "I imagine you're familiar with the contents."
"I didn't read it, if that's what you mean. I know that they wrote it on John's advice, and he may have coached them a bit. They were pretty...lost, I think. It was hard for them, knowing what to say, what you needed to hear."
"That, right there, is the heart of the matter," Mycroft said slowly. "I imagine there are some heartfelt apologies and declarations of affection contained therein. Yet it wasn't my parents who tried to understand what I needed. If they had just listened, just once..." he trailed off, his tboughts heading to a void that words couldn't fill.
"So that's what you wanted, all along. To be listened to," Sherlock frowned thoughtfully.
"Truthfully, you shouldn't hold out much hope for us being one happy family again, or that sort of rubbish. I am willing to give them a fair chance, if they give me one, that's all. All I ask for is to tell my story, as I experienced it. Afterwards, you will have judgements, you may call me out on my mistakes. It doesn't matter. I have always understood that I am to be held at a different standard than the rest of the family, and will be judged accordingly."
"But why?" Sherlock asked, furrow ingredients his brows. "Are you saying you're different than us, that you're special?" he asked, somewhat offended.
"Not different, I only made a different decision. When things fell apart, everyone did the same, except for me. I couldn't afford to. Someone had to be the strong one, to deal with what no one else could deal with."
"No matter what the consequences," Sherlock muttered.
"No matter," Mycroft repeated tightly.
"Even if it ended with a hole in this," Sherlock pointed at his tie, shaking his head slowly.
"Even that." The brothers exchanged a long glance.
"And even if you ended up getting on the wrong side of every sweet old lady you deal with," the younger man smirked, as he saw Mrs. Hudson carrying in a tray of teacups.
Mycroft glanced at her warily. "That too. While watching them eating out of your hands."
"I'm just that charming," Sherlock preened.
"Would you two like some tea?" the landlady asked cheerfully.
"I'm afraid I will decline the offer," the British Government said, very politely. "Although your tea is most excellent, I'm afraid that's not all that this cup contains."
While his usually loquacious landlady stood with her jaw hanging open, Sherlock roared with laughter. "He got you there, Mrs. Hudson!" he exclaimed, far too gleefully for her liking.
"I would never ruin a perfectly good brew with poison!" she exclaimed indignantly, when she finally found her tongue. "I would put it in the water, perhaps."
Placing the tray on the table, she leaned towards Mycroft and said in a low, conspirationally tone, " You know, at my age, my eyesight isn't what it used to be. I sometimes don't even see what's right in front of my eyes. Can you forgive an old lady for that?"
After a moment's contemplation, Mycroft nodded stiffly. "I understand. Do try to remember we're all on the same side over here." He jerked his head in Sherlock's direction to underscore his point.
"Mrs. Hudson, you wouldn't really poison my brother, would you?" Sherlock asked innocently. "After all, as a wise woman once said, family is all we have in the end."
Mycroft got to say his piece, in the end. He told his narrative in dry tones, detailing facts and feelings in the same manner. Despite that, or perhaps because, his story had his parents breaking down at several points. At his request, they didn't interrupt, not even to empathize, or apologize. That wasn't what Mycroft wanted, and for once, he was the Man of the Hour.
The Holmes parents and Sherlock were his audience. John had politely excused himself, saying that this wasn't his place. Few were the facts that they didn't know, but many were the details they weren't aware of.
A teenager had sacrificed his emotional wellbeing to make sure his family was safe. He had suffered silently, his sleep filled with nightmares, his days filled with concern. Yet he continued playing his role, a dutiful son, lending a shoulder for his parents to cry on. A mentor, and protector, to his younger brother, teaching him to care a little less, so there would never be another Redbeard to break his heart.
And a jailer to his sister, whom he had once adored, and still, very deep in his heart, cared for. Alone, he bore the agony of knowing the truth, and being the one to conceal it. His parents couldn't know, for the lie he told them was much kinder. His little brother needed them, and the true state of his sister would very likely destroy them.
Even worse was what his little sister would do, if he ever let a crack open in her fortress. Her own parents would be like putty in her hands, manipulated like puppets into doing her bidding. Only a young teenager and his eccentric uncle could see through her machinations, and would let no one else come close.
"I'm sorry that you grieved. I never wanted to cause you pain," he stated. His tone wasn't regretful, or pained, merely matter of fact. "If I had to do it all over again, I might have found another way. This is not a game of 'what ifs', only a story of the past."
He wasn't finished. "There is another story, that isn't mine to tell. I trust Sherlock has told you his side. I will only say this: I am, and have always been, concerned about him. Whatever our differences, I have his best interests at heart. I have always hoped you would understand that, and he would know it, too."
He paused, a wave of exhaustion passing over him. "That is all I have to say."
"That was plenty," his father remarked mildly. He got up and patted Mycroft on the shoulder. "Thank you, son. It was always hard for us to know you, when you didn't talk. Thank you for letting us in."
Mrs. Holmes was more expressive, physically and emotionally. She hugged Mycroft tearfully, and asked for forgiveness over and over again. Mycroft refrained from gritting his teeth at the overflow of sentimentality he was drowning in.
"Mummy, listen to me please," he said firmly, grateful for Lady Smallwood's coaching for dealing with this situation. "You are my parents, and I will always be your son. But right now, I need time. Perhaps you need some time too. There are some things that cannot be erased, or written over, only dealt with. And we all need time to deal with this."