Prompt at the end
Shaking fingers fumbled his key once, then twice. Only when he grudgingly removed his glove did the small piece of metal find its hole. A sigh of relief escaped as he closed the door behind him.
Home. Finally.
Well, one of them. His small flat in Whitehall now felt more familiar than this sprawling house, but the place he had grown up would always be home—especially considering the younger brother that had freely acknowledged missing him. He barely turned in time to prevent Sherlock from slamming into him from behind.
"You will have to try harder than that."
Mischief answered in a faint snicker. In the months since Mycroft had moved out on his own, every visit had seen Sherlock try to tackle him on arrival. The boy would never succeed until he noted the creaky board in the hall.
"I'll get you eventually, Mycroft."
"Unlikely." One hand ruffled the boy's hair in a hello. "Are you ready for the party?"
Rapid combing used his fingers to smooth the messy locks even as Sherlock nodded. "Course! It's Christmas! Well, Advent, but still! Mother said all the children get a present, and Father said we could excuse the one sweet rule tonight because of the party. I want to try everything!"
He made no effort to restrain a low chuckle. Sherlock's sweet tooth would get him into trouble some day, but Father rounded the corner before Mycroft could say as much.
"I was beginning to wonder if your train had been delayed." A firm handshake joined his smile to reveal the delight Father would never voice. He and Mother both wished Mycroft could visit more often. "Your mother is just wrapping the last few dishes. How was the trip from London?"
"Uneventful." A moment kicked the snow from his shoes before following Father and a bouncing Sherlock toward the sitting room. "I have grown too accustomed to London cabbies."
Father's continued smile acknowledged what Mycroft did not voice—that this home distinctly lacked cabbies. He had forgotten how irritatingly chilly that December breeze could be on the road from the station.
"Mycroft!" Mother quickly fastened a towel around a plate of tarts before hurrying to plant a kiss on Mycroft's cheek. "I'm so glad you could make it, dear. It wouldn't be Christmas without both my boys."
"Sherlock would have arrived on my front step if I had failed to show," he returned, enjoying the half-feigned scowl his brother cast from behind Mother. "Which of you helped him send those letters?"
"Which letters?"
"Mycroft!"
Sherlock's yelp announced Mycroft had just revealed a secret, but while Father looked somewhat confused, Mother simply laughed.
"Neither. He sneaked out every morning to send you those. Probably spent a fair amount of his allowance in the process."
"You knew?!"
"Of course I knew. I'm your mother." One hand brushed Mycroft's shoulder on her way back to the towel-wrapped parcel on the counter, a smirk Sherlock could not see announcing just how obvious his brother's attempts at stealth had been. "Who else would you contact besides Mycroft? You sulked for nearly a week after he moved."
Sherlock's face flamed a brilliant red, though, to his credit, he did not vanish to go hide in the four-wheeler. A grumble about "learning how to do that" disappeared into one of the covered platters.
Which he carried out the back door. Mother's wide grin refused to stifle as they divided the rest of the dishes.
"He really has missed you, Mycroft, as have both of us. I do hope your work will let you return for Christmas proper. This year just won't be the same without you."
Nor would a silent day in London be anything like the bustle Sherlock created this time of year. With the holiday and his birthday only twelve days apart, Mycroft's little brother became a whirlwind of excitement starting December first. Infinite energy begged for sweets, tried to guess his presents, and fervently argued in favor of leaving the decorations up until the seventh again—all of which had factored into Mycroft speaking to his supervisor about an extra day.
Not that he would admit his surprise. "A single day is not enough to make Christmas supper, Mother. You know that. I would have to catch a train less than an hour after arriving."
"And you only made it today because tomorrow is Sunday," she finished with a sigh. "Yes, I know. That does not mean I'll stop trying, though."
She would only receive the same reply—at least until the day he knocked on the door. Sherlock saved him from having to answer, embarrassment forgotten to pepper Mycroft with questions about his flat, his work, the city, and anything else he could fit.
"Give him a chance to breathe, Sherlock," Father rumbled, amusement in his gaze. "He cannot talk as fast as a twelve-year-old on too much sugar."
"Mycroft can't talk fast at all," Sherlock returned. "You probably haven't even joined a club, have you, Mycroft? All of them encourage too much conversation."
They did, and Sherlock's teasing deduction struck truth, but Mycroft glared rather than admit as much. Father's comment explained quite a bit of Sherlock's fidgeting.
"How many biscuits did you steal before I arrived?"
"Mother didn't make any biscuits today."
The impish smirk revealed the loophole, and Mycroft rephrased.
"Then how many sweets did you steal from the kitchen?"
Sherlock snickered again but shook his head, his singsong tone purposely chosen to irritate.
"You don't need to know that."
Deduce it yourself, that challenged, and Mycroft made no effort to stifle a harrumph. Sherlock would have done better admitting a partial truth than making Mycroft announce the entire list.
"Two trifles, three tarts, a spoonful of sugar, and two mouthfuls of cake batter." The coach halted outside the manor as shock replaced teasing mischief. Sherlock had tried to eliminate the clues. "Try not to make yourself sick at supper, Sherlock. I doubt the Wainwrights factored your sweet tooth into their serving sizes."
Sherlock pulled a face at him but darted out the other side of the coach rather than voice a retort. Father shook his head.
"That boy. He spends some days completely silent and focused on a single task, while others find him seemingly everywhere at once. I have yet to discover how he can lock himself in his room, raid the kitchen, and return to that chemistry set before Cook can climb the stairs."
The old dumbwaiter behind Sherlock's wardrobe probably had something to do with it, but while he could rib Sherlock for previous "conquests," his brother would grumble at him for weeks if Mycroft prevented future ones. He would save that for after Sherlock could no longer fit down the shaft. Mr. Wainwright approached before Mycroft had to find a way to change the topic.
"Hello, Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Holmes." Mr. Wainwright shook Father's hand and nodded at Mother. His smile widened on sighting Mycroft. "Glad you could make it. We're doing a supper and mingle party, so set your dishes wherever they'll fit and grab a plate. I think the young ones are already inspecting the tree."
Naturally. He easily spotted Sherlock shoulders deep in the boughs, but Mother's further pleasantries became a question, then conversation. When the topic strayed into places and names Mycroft did not know, he excused himself to wander the room.
Greenery lined every conceivable place. From window frames to the mantle and the tree's entire corner, holly and pine provided bright, prickly contrast to the browned white of outside. Wreaths hung on every door, and mistletoe's berries set their trap in several locations. He carefully avoided those areas on his meandering path.
Family groups scattered across a variety of furniture. Some children remained near their parents. Most, like Sherlock, searched the tree for a box with a familiar name. A few played a game in the far corner. Adults mingled and laughed about a variety of things, but Mycroft had long ago lost interest in meaningless small talk. He eventually settled with his back to one wall, content to watch the crowd.
A group of young men discussed the local rugby team. Three older boys lost interest in the ornaments to play with the cards and figurines they pulled from their pockets. One family's daughter begged a small doll from her mother, which apparently served as a signal for five other girls to retrieve their dolls—and for the boys' figurines started harassing the girls' dolls. Sherlock now tried to climb the tree, fingertips stretching for a box an inch too high.
"Why if it isn't Mycroft Holmes!"
A familiar voice tore his attention from watching Sherlock use one gift to retrieve another. James Brooks stopped beside him a moment later.
"I didn't think you'd make it today, Mycroft. How is London treating you?"
"Well enough." Low tones hinted a request for James to lower his volume. The middle Brooks had always been entirely too loud. "I found a small flat close to my office, and my supervisor has indicated no problems with my work."
More significantly, Mycroft had found himself quickly becoming the one many others sought out for help, but James did not need to know that.
Not that he should concern himself with James knowing anything. A slight change in tone declared James had not even heard the reply.
"Excellent. I started working for my father this summer, and I don't know how he does it. From sunup to sundown, I swear all he talks about is numbers. I've always loved figures, but never that much. Did you know…"
Mycroft stopped listening. James had obviously not outgrown his love of his own voice, and he would not expect Mycroft to reply for at least a quarter of an hour. Half an ear followed the rambling even as he returned the bulk of his attention to the room.
Mother and Father had migrated to talk with the Fosters. Sherlock's gift sat carefully atop the pile, but the boy himself now perused the food. Several children held hands around the tree, skipping in time to a tune Mycroft could not decipher through so many conversations. A boy and girl only a few years younger than Mycroft kissed under the mistletoe, then plucked the final berry. Until Mrs. Wainwright refreshed the sprig, that door was safe to approach. Something on the dessert table smelled delicious. Mycroft would have to escape James soon to fill a plate.
He could wait a few minutes, though. A nod and murmured agreement set James on another topic.
Two young ladies watched the children play, too old to join but too young to feel welcomed with the adults. Old Mr. Tait sat in his corner, grumbling at the "young whelps making a racket." The Burnstead twins swapped names every ten minutes or so, but Tom had forgotten to cover the birthmark on his neck. Mrs. Price arrived late, as usual. Her creamy chicken soup joined the rest of the dishes to make Mycroft decide he wanted to eat, but he had just formulated a way to extract himself from James' monologue when an unexpected scent derailed his focus. That smelled like—
"Fire!"
Smoke. Flames licked the wall, the ceiling, the pile of presents, billowing smoke across the large space, and a dozen conversations joined to a single cry.
"The tree's on fire!"
"Someone get the children out!"
"Water! Buckets are in the kitchen!"
"No!" Thick smoke began filling the room as Mr. Wainwright stopped the forming bucket brigade, grief at losing his home already clearly audible over the flames. "It's too late! Everyone get out! Out! Save yourselves!"
Mycroft faintly noted the pattern shift from organization to evacuation, but his path never changed. Sherlock had cleaned his plate to continue deducing his present behind the tree.
"Sherlock!"
Flames roared his only answer. Shadowed figures rushed around him as hot smoke forced him to a crawl.
"Sherlock, where are you?!"
"Myc—"
Mother's call cut off mid-word, but he turned to follow her voice—then her coughing. By the time he found her struggling to crawl towards him, she wheezed every breath.
"Your father—has him," she promised between deep coughs. "We need to—go."
She should have escaped as soon as the warning lifted, not come after him. Mother's lungs had always been delicate, and worry over his brother shifted to fear for her. He ignored his own coughing to drape her arm over his shoulders. They had only minutes before the heat would claim the building.
And he could not find the door. Smoke obscured everything in a thick haze, wafting clouds visible in the fire's flickering light. His chest burned with every breath. Mother only grew heavier. Flames raced across the ceiling and heated the air at the ground. He felt along the wall, desperately searching for the opening.
There. Finally. He nearly fell when the wall became air, then loud calls faintly infiltrated the roar.
"Is anyone else in there?"
"This way!"
"Follow my voice!"
"Has anyone seen the Holmeses?"
"What about the Williamsons?"
"Is anyone injured?"
"Has someone gone for a doctor yet?"
"Mycroft!"
Mr. Wainwright appeared through the thick smoke. Mother's weight significantly lessened, and the older man pulled Mycroft to lean on him as well. The help let Mycroft crawl just far enough to collapse next to a frozen tree.
"Moth—"
The word broke into a painful cough. He could only watch as Wainwright rolled Mother to her back and tried to provoke a response. Shaking, yelling, pinching, all received only still silence.
"Mrs. Holmes! Mrs. Holmes! Open your eyes, Elsie!"
Nothing. Mycroft's coughing slowly stabilized to prompt a sharp spear of grief. He saw no sign of breathing.
Nor could he find a pulse. Smoke and heat had reddened her face, but Mr. Wainwright finally bowed his head. His strong hand gently landed on Mycroft's shoulder.
"I'm sorry, son."
Sorry? Part of him clung to the word, using it as a distraction from the sorrow rooting in his chest. What did sorry do? Sorry did not bring her back. Such a useless platitude would never fill the gaping hole of loss. He did not need sorry. He needed his mother.
But she was gone. She had given her life to find him, to prevent him from sacrificing himself in search of his brother.
His brother. Sherlock. Faltering movements pulled him upright, a quick squeeze of her hand pushing the rest of his grief aside for later. He needed to find his brother. And Father. Father would be heartbroken at Mother's death.
As would Sherlock. His brother had not known loss before. True loss. Of someone close. Grandmama had been too distant to do more than change their summer plans. Mycroft needed to find them.
"I think I saw your brother at the front of the house," Mr. Wainwright volunteered, grief lining his voice. He and Mother had known each other since childhood. "I imagine your father is close by."
Probably. A nod sufficed as thanks before he hurried as fast as his burning chest would allow. People mingled here and there, checking others, scavenging blankets from the stable, staring in shock. He ignored them all. Sherlock and Father would have found a place in plain sight, near enough to use the fire for warmth but far enough to avoid the smoke. He scanned the grounds more than watched where he walked.
Children huddled next to parents. Mrs. Wainwright sat wrapped in a horse blanket, shivering in the cold. Mr. Tait helped a young woman treat her husband's burns.
None appeared to notice the young boy crouched in a large patch of dirt, arms around his legs and chin on his knees. Grief mixed with overpowering worry.
"Sherlock!"
Grey eyes flicked to him, then his brother lunged to lock small arms around Mycroft's waist, nearly sending them both back to the ground. Mycroft carefully knelt as that smoke-streaked face hid in Mycroft's jacket.
"Are you injured?"
A silent negative smeared ash and snow into a strange mud.
"Have you seen Father?"
A painful hesitation, then Sherlock nodded. Once. He pointed at the house. Strangled words took two tries to become audible.
"Threw me out the window."
And had failed to follow. He did not need Sherlock to finish the account any more than Sherlock needed him to voice their mother's death. The roof collapsed to send ashy flames into the sky, and his little brother readjusted to sit completely in his lap, hollow eyes back on the burning house that had changed their world.
He doubted Christmas would interest either of them again for a while.
From Riandra: Bereaved
Well, I wasn't planning to take this route today, but what else can you do with a prompt like that?
And thank you to those who have reviewed! Each one is greatly appreciated!