Chapter 26: Mrs Hudson Makes Nice Scones

Mycroft's apartment was formal. That was the only word I could think of that could hold a light to it. Before entering, I'd reassured Sherlock and John that, yes, I will be fine, yes, Mycroft would be in, yes, I texted him, no, of course he won't kill me, Sherlock, and I will be informing your brother that you hold him in such high regard. Get that scowl off your face. 'Yes, mother'. Now go to your crime scene. 'Yes, mother'. John, be quiet.

It had an certain... air to it. The entire place felt as though it was important in some way, as though there was something completely and utterly crucial to everything contained within it. I wasn't sure how this was communicated using beige, whites and dark browns with marble counter-tops and dark wooden furniture and a bookshelf covered in the types of books you'd expect to see in a university library but the message was received very clearly: whoever this room belonged to was important.

"Mycroft?" I called out tentatively, holding my uninjured arm with my one in the sling and standing by the doorway awkwardly.

"In here, Kayla," umbrella-boy called from behind a door. Weaving my way through the furniture, I opened the door I'd heard the voice come from and found myself in a decidedly more comfortable-looking room than the previous one. Mycroft himself was seated in a plush arm-chair and seemed to be somewhat swallowed by the upholstery. He looked comfortable, though, so I sat in the one left free and smiled as I sank in.

I looked over the older Holmes brother, my forehead creasing and my smile fading slightly as I did so. He looked, if possible, even more tired than he had been the last time I'd seen him. His hair appeared to be wearing thin, still most likely due to stress, and he'd lost more weight. He looked... fragile.

"What are we going to do with you, umbrella-boy?"

Mycroft smiled self-deprecatingly and shrugged. "Give me a holiday, I would imagine. Either that, or find some way to replicate a small part of my intellect to put in the minds of the buffoons I work with. Either would do."

I gave a short laugh. "Are they that bad?"

"Unfortunately. It's like working with multiple versions of Sherlock, though without the intellect and less wit than not-so-subtle manipulation. I'm sorry about your situation with Miss Excelon, by the way – there was not much I could do about it, I'm afraid."

I waved a hand, brushing away the apology. "It's fine. Made me appreciate Mrs Hudson's baking all the more."

"She does make rather good scones. I must ask the recipe some time."

"I'll have her make a batch for you if you promise to eat them all," I said warily, eyeing his thinning figure. Mycroft frowned, tugging at his white dress shirt. I raised an eyebrow and he relented.

"I wouldn't want to... offend her," he said, smiling again.

"This is Sherlock's landlady we're talking about, Umbrella-boy," I reminded him, eliciting a slight chuckle. Quite literally a chuckle, distinctly different to John's giggle.

We sat in a relatively comfortable silence – well, it wasn't borne of any lack of knowledge, nor out of any awkwardness or disagreement, so I supposed it was rather comfortable, as far as silence went – as I looked around the room. Mycroft's apartment was in upstate London, most probably due to his minor position in the government – he'd be expected to live relatively well and having a more sophisticated apartment would give him more authority than he would have if he lived closer to Baker Street. And I somehow doubted that Sherlock would want him to be that close.

As my reason for coming came into the forefront of my mind, I shifted uncomfortably, the silence becoming stifling. I had no idea how I would phrase my queries. I wanted to know if he knew (even the phrasing was ridiculous) about... that. Being. Without alerting him to the fact if I was incorrect about the hidden meaning in his statements at the hospital.

"I believe," Mycroft began, startling me out of my pondering and anxieties, "that you are about to ask me whether or not I know about your status as a – as you call yourselves – Being. Please take this topic starter as a hint that I do."

I slumped into my chair, my wings falling through. Thank the heavens that I had someone I could rely on. "How did you come by this information?"

"Colleagues," Mycroft replied, somewhat amused. I nodded in realisation – the queen, or whoever was in charge these days, was aware of our existence; it was a requirement that the ruler of the kingdoms be informed of our, well, Being, so as to not be alarmed if we were ever required to associate ourselves with them. Well, not so much alarmed as to not be entirely against working with us.

Now was the difficult part. Infinitely difficult, almost unbearably so but I was drowning in the knowledge. At least if he knew I would have a chance of treading water, even if I would never be able to reach land. It would be a respite from the chaos that had been running through my borrowed life since the shooting.

"Then I feel it is my duty to inform you of something."

Mycroft's face became all but unreadable, mentally preparing for the worst. Because why would I tell him anything if it didn't have something to do with Sherlock?

"Sherlock," his face became stone and ice and pain because I was shaking, drawing in on myself and what news would be so bad that this would happen to me, "is a-" my voice caught in my throat and I swallowed around the lump that had formed there because this was his baby brother this was Sherlock how could I do this-

But I didn't have to. Mycroft knew enough to deduce what I'd say next and the information was enough to cause his silence for what felt like eternity. I sat there fiddling with my fingers, intertwining them over and over again, and staring at nothing. In my peripheral vision, Mycroft shifted in his seat and opened his mouth to ask another question.

"How long? I mean- does he remember?"

I answered the questions in order. "As far as I can determine, since the first time he overdosed. No, he- he remembers nothing." My voice got quieter and I cursed my fragility before rationalising that this was my big brother I had lost, I was allowed to be a little bit broken.

Mycroft swore softly, knowing enough about us to know that Sherlock would probably never remember himself and knowing that he had died when he overdosed - something that, despite him still existing here and his current alive state, the older Holmes brother would never forgive himself for.

I could pinpoint the exact time the question arrived in Umbrella-Boy's mind but would never be able to describe how. "Did you know him?"

"Yes." I drew everything in tight, hugging my legs to my body and curling my wing tips around my hips in solace. "He was- is my brother."

Mycroft blinked. Pursed his lips. Relaxed his face again. Smiled and it was so false that he appeared, to me, to be splitting with his mouth as the seam. "It must have been difficult. Losing him."

I ignored the question. "He's still your brother, Mycroft. I'd say you have an idea of what it feels like."

"Is he older or younger than you?" Mycroft asked after a pause, noticeably in present tense. I smiled.

"Older. Best big brother anyone could ask for, aside from you." Mycroft pulled a face, obviously recounting all of his 'failures' internally. I knew that face. I'd seen it on my brother.

"Still a pain, I would suppose," Mycroft mused. I nodded, grinning at a memory of one of our prank wars - I'd attached his hand to one of the brooms until he had cleaned all the confetti from my room.

We talked for what seemed like hours and I found myself telling Mycroft next to everything. Everything being information on Jim - I couldn't risk it, couldn't risk Mycroft. Next to being everything but that - our status, how Sherlock had fallen, how my memory of Above was patchy at best. How things were slowly but surely coming back to me. And while we hadn't had time nor information to come up with a battle plan regarding Sherlock, we decided on a few insurances.

If Sherlock was to ever find out about either myself or him, the whole truth would come out. Not all at once and not just from me but he would be told. If he ever found out. If.

Edit: 25.2.16

This chapter used to have an author's note regarding exams and assessments. It still does, except I am reminiscing about a time when I thought two assessments was a lot to handle. *stares sadly at my two incomplete assessments and my exam revision notes* You, dear readers, are all beautiful and lovely, and I hope you fare well.

- Little