*The Other Side*
By: WhiteGloves
Chapter 4
"Caring is not an advantage, but when it's between us, it's somewhat like a change."
/Holmes brothers/
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The Other Side
It was a mark of how severe his condition was that even after a week Mr. Mycroft Holmes, thought by his private circles to be the most powerful man in Britain—yet still shootable— found himself confined in the four walls of his house in Pall Mall with an intravenous fluid still attached by his wrist, courtesy of the combined force of the insistent know-it-all doctor in the form of John Watson, his no-nonsense secretary who waves her efficiency at that very moment and who was currently called Sabine, and for a change—someone so obstinate to listen that he shouldn't be at the same room as he—his brother— who in Mycroft's opinion, had started to show some care in the most uncharacteristic way.
In short, nuisance.
On his own command, with wee bit of coercion, Mycroft was allowed to sit by his bed provided with a small bed tray table and most important documents on his hand. With a week of rest, he had had enough dull moments and threatened to start a war if not given what he asked for—something mind boggling and challenging. The Prime Minister and his secretaries were notified of his condition but that doesn't stop them from sending in territorial wages, terrorist sightings and the sorts. All music to Mycroft's ear. And that was how he was found that fine afternoon, inspecting one particular letter amongst many with a curt frown on his still pale face with the seal of French empire when a loud plopping sound surprised him. He shot a quick look up only to find his younger brother comfortably sitting by the single armchair facing him with the most amused look.
The older brother gave an inward sigh as he threw his head back in exasperation and gave an interjection. Why the scene was a déjà vu of his 'dream'. He had decided to call it that.
"What are you doing here?" he asked testily.
"You know how I like to watch you suffer." Sherlock smiled as he surveyed his brother with the keenest interest of a scientist observing his specimen before pausing for a bit, and went on saying, "You look terrible."
"Middle age." Mycroft said airily as he started gathering the papers on his table and piling it up completely, "You know you're not supposed to be here when I'm working."
"What work? You can barely walk—"
"I'm in recovery, not invalid."
"Then perhaps I should remind you the hair strand difference?"
Mycroft glowered at him and by the way how a twitch on Sherlock's lips threatened to break into a smile he was taking pleasure in it. And Mycroft realized in truth, that his brother was truly enjoying it. Oh great. His brother has found something to busy him with when Mycroft wanted less attention, especially with his hands on these papers. So Mycroft, with some chary reach of hand, turned the papers downward the table and place careful hands on top of it, pen on hand.
Sherlock's eyes flashed.
"Why don't you crumple and eat it? Just to make sure?" he spat tersely.
Mycroft plastered a smile on his face.
"We both know you have a knack of seeing things when you want to, Sherlock, and these papers aren't for your sightseeing."
"And we both know I won't see anything if you don't want me to."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and turned his head on the side to distract himself while Sherlock glowered on the chair.
"You really don't want me here, do you?" came the younger Holmes' casual observation, fingertips playing at the arm of the couch he was on. He watched Mycroft turn his head back in mild amusement, before the older Holmes flashed him a fake smile.
"And I thought I'm the hospitalized one with a slow functioning brain—"
"—you sure it's not because I shot you—?"
"—twice, in fact—"
"—I failed to count—"
"Oh yes, with your head all fuzzy—no Sherlock—" he shook his head when the consultant detective tried to take his turn impatiently, "—you'd shoot anyone in the vicinity with disregard if it's the Queen, for godsake—"
"—that's beside the point—" Sherlock shrugged.
"And the actual point is?"
Sherlock hesitated with the scrutinizing look Mycroft was giving him and with an uncomfortable gesture the sleuth raised his right hand to his lips, his fingers in slapdash that showed great agitation.
"Tell me why's the French ambassador sending you coded messages?" his inquiry made the older Holmes close his eyes and shake his head at his brother's sudden change of topic. "Clearly that's the emblem of the French empire and I can see his signature— it's very unique see— with the flourishing end of his 'n's and 'e' in the almost too obvious Bermann. And the address is almost jumping with that La Résidence de Fr—"
"Sherlock!" Mycroft looked in annoyance at his brother as his grasp crumpled the documents, "Keep your eyes to yourself."
"It's my business to know." Was the abrupt reply as the younger Holmes looked sideways, distracted. Then almost automatically he turned to his brother again with mouth opening and closing. He licked it with a pause and then surveyed his brother who was watching him with raised eyebrows.
"I didn't… mean it." He pressed his lips tight, eyes suddenly focusing on the linen of Mycroft's bed. There was a sudden cloud in his eyes that Mycroft couldn't help but notice. Still, Mycroft let the silence fall for he himself does not wish to break it. And so it fell. Deafeningly between the two.
"I never meant to harm you. Never."
Sherlock's voice was soft yet the full intensity of its meaning too heavy and crystal clear in the ringing silence.
Mycroft could only look at his hands holding his fountain pen and then at the outline of his IV string. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on his seat.
"I uh… I… am… sorry, brother."
Mycroft met his brother's eyes for a second, and looked away pointedly, eyes getting a little moist as he cleared his throat. His brother had refused to say another word and another most ringing silence fell between them. The most uncomfortable one if one might observe. If it was other individuals sharing this most heartfelt apology, there would have been hugging and crying. But it was not and there could not be two lesser people in the world that would do such common thing in the face of a family crisis other than the brothers present in the room.
Yet Mycroft knew his eyes glistened for a second, the hard features on his expression that he had been so used to for many years turning gentle, but it was not meant to last long.
"Then maybe next time…" he quietly said after a sigh, "I'll dodge the bullet." He shrugged and looked back with his usual placid smirk, making Sherlock smile briefly and turn his eyes on the linen again. But Mycroft wasn't done yet.
"Or maybe you can to tell me there will be no more 'next time'?" he said quite seriously, his eyes unblinking, "No more lists, no more back alleys or uninhabited houses and guns? Because you know Sherlock, no matter how much you push me away— I'll always, always be there for you. But if you plan to shoot away any illusions you see after each dosage then that might not be the case. I'm quite certain of that."
Sherlock wiped his lips with his right hand, eyes on the brother who looked beseechingly back at him.
And Sherlock gave a brief nod. It was with the slightest movement of his head, but he nodded. Making Mycroft stare and close his eyes in relief. It was an improvement. Sherlock may not always keep his word when it comes to this delicate business, but his response right now was like a ray of light; brighter than anything Mycroft had seen. Not even the one in his dream.
Raising his right hand on his heart in wonder, the older Holmes gave a satisfied sigh.
"Well, what do you know? Seems like I have a heart, after all."
The Holmes brothers exchange looks and there was a sudden awkward yet mutual atmosphere between the two.
Till Sherlock opened his mouth.
"Heart...thought you didn't have it in the first place. My bad." His evil smirk returned, making his older brother roll his eyes and put all the documents away on the briefcase while Sherlock, upon seeing his brother's movements, stood up and helped to remove the bed tray.
Mycroft shut the briefcase close and turned to his brother.
"Pass me a glass of water, will you?"
Sherlock did.
"And an extra pillow?"
Sherlock was much oblige and even helped place it behind his brother.
"How about peeling an apple, Sherlock?"
"There are no apples here—"
"Buy it."
"Don't be predictable, Mycroft!" came the usual snappish reply of the younger one, making Mycroft chuckle as he leaned his back on his extra pillow, his eyes fully only on his brother.
"You don't need to worry about me, Sherlock, you know as much as I that I am not that fragile."
"Clearly." Sherlock had remained standing beside the bed, both hands inside his pocket, eyes also lingering to his brother, "That's exactly what I've been telling myself for years and now here we are."
"It won't happen again." Mycroft assured him, his tone serious, eyes narrowing. "Now get along before you grow a beard on me."
"Nope, I'm planning to be your sore thumb today. You're expecting visitors, aren't you? The Prime Minister perhaps?" he knew by how Mycroft did not let go of his favourite pen, by how his brother kept the briefcase close by and obviously, how he checked his watch even if it was only once. He deduced the Prime Minister by the number of Secret Service personnel post outside in civilian clothes. All were telling.
Mycroft smiled. "Concerned about the country now are you?"
"Oh, who knows, I might become useful."
"Sudden interest for the Queen?"
"I have free time."
"Political intrigues under your hem now?"
"I'm used to scandals."
Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he paused, and a nerve twitched at the side of his mouth.
"It's okay, Sherlock, I'm quite safe." He said finally and smiled, making Sherlock flush the colour of red and to stand in his full height in show of pure embarrassment.
"Right." He interjected, turning his body and swaying back to his brother adding, "For your information—I wasn't worried. J-just responsible. Everybody feels that. I do have a heart, you know, unlike you." He raised his chin in the most defensive manner.
"Adding insult to injury." Mycroft smirked and watched his brother turn to his heel and headed for the door. "You'll come visit me again, won't you?" there was a hopeful tone in his voice.
Sherlock paused as he opened the door. Mycroft was so used to his brother that he was expecting quite a nasty remark—but what he got, was completely truly unexpected.
"I'll bring apples."
And closed the door after him.
Mycroft gazed at the door for quite a while, his eyes unblinking, and his expression full of wonder. Was it real? What he saw? And what he saw to come? It was like seeing his brother in a whole new light; a new Sherlock whose mouth does not snap, his attention undivided, his temper in control when dealing with his older brother because of their past resentments and disagreements? He has gone quite used to the other Sherlock whose only actions were for himself. Somebody like a stranger, indifferent to his only brother. Not that Mycroft couldn't take half of the blame; truthfully he was the one who pushed his brother to the boundary of someone who could not feel. At least, he was a major part of it.
Not thinking of what it could be, if Sherlock Holmes was somebody who cared from the beginning. Not callous, not unresponsive, and not the addict he grew up to be.
The other side of Sherlock after all things have been said and done.
Mycroft smiled to himself as he looked down his hands feeling much lighter than when he first woke up in his coma. He felt much energized, much relieved and much more... happy to be alive.
This side of Sherlock, he decided as he closed his eyes, this side wasn't bad at all.
-THE END- :)
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